January 6, 2019
On a gray, rainy day in the hills of Sebastopol, I’m so grateful for my little cottage. Grateful for the fire in the fireplace, grateful for the good health to enjoy my country life. Grateful to have a home for my books, plants, family photos, and Buddhist altar. Grateful to live in northern California and in a country with such freedom and abundance. And I’m surprised that I’m still here.
In my house, that is. Not my body, though there will be a time to leave both before too long.
I’ve been renting this little place for 33 years, half of my lifetime. I never intended to be a renter for my entire adult life, and I never intended to stay here for so long. It just kinda happened. I wish I owned the place, because by now I’d own it free and clear and would have equity and with it greater financial security. And I would have installed hookups for a washer and dryer. Going to a laundromat several miles away for 33 years gets old. But it’s a small price to pay for living in paradise.
It’s mostly peaceful and quiet here, and the neighborhood is gorgeous. Redwoods, oaks, vineyards, apple orchards, and a goat farm. In the summer there are blackberries, apples, and pears, and in the winter, persimmons and lemons. In the morning I often enjoy sunrise over a sea of fog in the valley below. From my ridgetop perch I can see Mt. St. Helena and the hills and valleys of the wine country. Like Thoreau at Walden Pond, I don’t own any property legally, but I own it visually. So because I appreciate all that I can see, I’m a very rich man.
I’m well aware that I live far better than most of humanity. I’ve seen people living and dying on the streets of Delhi, and living in poverty in the slums of Bombay, Mexico City, and Cairo. And I felt terrible for many of my friends who lost their homes in last year’s wine country wildfires. It just goes to show that, renter or homeowner, rich or poor, life is transient, and there is no true security in the physical realm.
But there is appreciation. And I appreciate my humble two-room cottage. It reminds me of the huts once built as summer cabins in the mountains of Ireland. These stone dwellings were built by farmers to live in during the summer months when they would graze their cattle in the high meadows. Called booley houses, they were sometimes the setting for nighttime storytelling, music, and songs. And sometimes they were said to shelter raparees, or outlaws hiding out from English oppressors.
I’m not an outlaw raparee, but I do like to sing and dance by myself at night on occasion. And I sit at my computer and tell stories to whoever might be reading this blog. So life is very good in my booley house. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and I don’t know how long I’ll continue to enjoy excellent health. But for now, I’m filled with wonder at my good fortune.
David Wigginton 