The search to find a home of my own began in summer 2O2O. I had been stealthily, prophetically walking around neighborhoods in Hercules, CA, for several years by that point. Despite having lived 2/3 of my adult life out of state (in New York and Washington state) the Bay Area had always called me back...to reconnect with family; to recenter after adventures and years away.
San Francisco Bay is a part of my origin story... the place my bones took shape. Something about being born and bred here, adjacent to the Pacific ocean and the wilderness of the coastal redwoods, beckons one to "sit down and stay awhile." The beautiful diversity of experience; to be in wine country, at the beach, surrounded by forest, or in the desert, in just over an hour, is a temptation too good to resist.
Brilliant fall leaves drift to the ground under the gaze of direct sunlight and cool breezes this October morning. One of plenty reasons to want to bundle down and get cozy in such a place.
The search to find what would become my home wasn't an easy one, however. First of all, it began in the San Francisco Bay Area, the most expensive metropolitan area in the United States. Next, there was the seller's market, bringing with it the folks who appeared seemingly out of nowhere with pockets full of cash, ready to top the best offer by 50K. Skyrocketing interest rates presented an even greater challenge. Multiple factors caused me to redirect my search to Seattle, Washington, before the pattern I had experienced in the Bay Area emerged in the Puget Sound area as well. It became clear that there was only so much I could do to bring about the reality of my house. As is the case with many other aspects of life, I would learn to wait for the right timing. I put my desire on hold, and continued to live my life. I asked for an advancement to match the promotion in my career. I adopted a puppy and named her Waffles. I poured into my neighbors and the community beginning to form again at church.
Two years, two real estate agents, and several offers in from the time I had begun looking, I stumbled across a listing on a real estate sight which peaked my interest. It had "lighthouse" in the name, and the fact that I had stumbled across it two years previously and loved the neighborhood stuck out to me as I perused the listing online. I contacted my agent and asked that he set up a time for us to view the property.
The day we headed out to see the condo was a dark and cloudy one, and the apartment was gloomy. "We can do better than this," my estate agent said. I took his word for it, deferring to his expertise of the market. Yet, as soon as we had settled back into the car, Waffles started to repeatedly bark to be let out. Something about her fervor stood out to me. I called my agent on his cell.
"Hey, are you still here?" I asked. "Waffles started losing it as soon as we climbed into the car. I think I want to take another look."
He chuckled, "I'm still here, checking emails. I can come let you in. "
Upon closer inspection, the living room was perfectly to my liking, its walls painted a lovely shade of gray, the perfect contrast to its dark hardwood floors. The bathroom and galley kitchen had the textured gray flooring I really loved, and modern appliances to boot. The master was spacious, the guest bedroom cozy, and there was a perfectly sized patio, safe for little Waffles to play on. Not to mention the unit was surrounded by a forest of redwood trees, adjacent to the Napa River.
Yes, my new location places me just a bit further from the community I am building post pandemic at church. Yes, it's a bridge away from family and a little further from the local haunts. I have not yet landed a schedule of what my weekly rhythms look like. But it is mine, my very own home, adjacent to trees and water. A welcome space 20 minutes from Napa and 40 minutes from the city. A place where friends and family will come eat and laugh. A place where my little puppy and I can cuddle and rest and invite love in. A place that's all my own.
"A House of my Own" by Sandra Cisneros
"Not a flat. Not an apartment in back. Not a man’s house. Not a daddy’s. A house all my own. With my porch and my pillow, my pretty purple petunias. My books and my stories. My two shoes waiting beside the bed. Nobody to shake a stick at. Nobody’s garbage to pick up after. Only a house as quiet as snow, a space for myself to go, clean as paper before the poem."
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