Let's Make a Forest

 

Lately, different friends have been talking about “getting the hell out of dodge.” People my age — late forties to early fifties — talk about moving out of Seattle. “It’s too dirty,” they say, “it’s gotten too big; it’s like San Francisco now.”

I take it hard when someone I know and love, someone who has become part of my community, wants to move away. “What about me?” I think to myself. “What about us? What we’ve created, built, sustained for all these years?”

I love my friends. I love my neighborhood and my neighbors. Last night my across-the-street neighbor called to ask me to keep an eye on her house because her husband’s wallet had been stolen. Someone had made a bunch of charges on his credit card. Her husband was going out of town and she was worried about being alone and a stranger having her address. “I know it’s ridiculous,” she said, “but I just want you to know.” I looked across the street before I went to bed and this morning I texted her to make sure all was well.

I love to share a cup of flour or borrow an egg from my neighbors. I love to walk down the street and clip parsley from my friend’s garden when I run out. I love watching the seasonal birds that rest on the wires outside my kitchen window. I love to watch my lilac bloom every year and see the new trees and plants neighbors plant every spring; I look forward to watching them grow year after year.

And the kids! I love to watch them grow up— seeing new parents emerge with their newborns in Baby Bjorns, then strollers, then walking them to preschool. Before I know it I’m watching the kids catch the bus on their own, eventually driving their parents’ cars to soccer practice and parties.

It’s true. Seattle has changed a lot. Housing rates are unfathomable for most home buyers. I was so relieved when a close friend of mine miraculously found a house she could afford within the city limits last week. The other option would have been for her to move to a county a car ride and ferry crossing away. And then she’d be gone, one of the lost ones.

My therapist says I am deeply loyal. That’s true. I hate to lose a friend. I hold on and fight till the bitter end. Whether a physical move out of town or an emotional break-up, I don’t accept it easily when a friend wants to move on. It feels like a waste, money down the drain. Why work hard to create something and then just walk away? 

Every week I bring my elderly neighbors a meal. There are three of them — one couple and one single man. I check in and see how they are faring. And every week I am amazed by these older neighbors — pillars of endurance and strength. All three of them are in their nineties. “I want to be like them,” I think to myself when I see them. I want to be an elder in my neighborhood, holding the history that lives here. They have been here almost as long as some of the trees that tower over the houses on our block.

I understand that there are many reasons to leave one’s home. Financial is only one reason. Another is that people change and grow; their needs and desires change. Some people have been biding their time in the city until they can retire and move to the country. I understand. I get it. But it still hurts my heart. I don’t want anyone to leave ever. “Stay close,” I want to say, “let’s not change anything. Let’s grow old together. Let’s feed our deep roots with the images of the life growing all around us.”

Last week while walking my dog I came upon three elderly women from the block up the hill from me. They were standing on a corner in front of one of their homes chatting. They waved me over so they could say hello to my dog. We introduced ourselves and the women shared with me that all three have lived in this neighborhood for over fifty years. They knew each other so well; they were old, familiar friends. They stood in the sun chatting casually but they inhabited the space powerfully, like old-growth Fir trees deep in the forest.

That’s what I want. I want to grow into an old tree with my friends and my community around me. I want to be as comfortable and familiar as the three elderly women up the street, so known to each other that they communicate like the mycelial network in the old-growth forests.

I know I am a dreamer. People will move on. I may move on one day too. Maybe when my daughter grows up and moves to another city far away I will feel called to her. If she has a family maybe my roots will not be strong enough to hold me here and I will want to create new ones closer to the ones she is laying down. 

But for now, I am committed to being here. I feel at home in this place— calm, grounded, and at peace. I want to keep growing my roots here. And I want all the other trees to stay close too. Together we make a beautiful forest.