Looking for a job at 62 seems more daunting than I had imagined it would be given last year’s premature flurry of success. Maybe 61 appealed; but that round, even number, a click to the south, repels.
But I persist. I drive to Lodi for sand to level the pavers in front of my house; then spend an hour online looking at not-for-profit hiring websites. I stand on Pattie’s lawn chatting about the tree-trimming, life at Delta Bay, and the vagaries of daily existence as middle-aged women. Then I spend another hour online. The car takes its swoop around Brannan Island errand after errand as I build my existence and spend my budget thin. But the river keeps shimmering along the winding road, and my heart rises with the evening breeze.
I see a smattering of budding leaves on the weeping willow. Apparently spring nears. I strain to hear the drone of a small plane overhead. Messages continue to pour into my inbox — people who exclaim, I saw you and your tiny house on the news! Their enthusiasm draws a smile to my face. I scroll through their words, then click on WorkForGood and begin the search again. Somebody wants me. They await my query, sitting in their office, a cooling cup of coffee at hand, a frown on their brow and an empty desk nearby.
Amazingly, I have no trouble sleeping in California. The sun sets. The air cools. I read for an hour or two and when my eyelids cannot remain open, I snuggle under the velour blankets and surrender to dreams. I awaken at six as I have always done, but now, closer to the western edge, I see the sunrise with a lighter spirit.
My friends tell me, you’ve done the right thing, you’re where you should be. In the glitter of morning, I find no grounds on which to challenge their assessment.
It’s the seventeenth day of the fiftieth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.