In Limbo

Fog has descended upon us, a thick shroud of cloud. Everything is still and mysterious, waiting and weighted with unspoken secrets. The day will unfold in its own time.

A wise friend told me long ago that a key skill for survival is learning to live with ambiguity. We cannot expect clarity and resolution, nor can we elude the constant collision of contradictory realities. In any case, I’m stuck in a zone of ambiguity right now, and I’m trying to sit patiently inside of it. We had finally arrived at the difficult decision to sell our home and relocate, and I was not braced for this anticlimactic limbo that has followed. A thing like this can take a long time, and there’s no way to hurry it or orchestrate it. It’s a waiting game, I guess.

Meanwhile, I have begun to understand that we are selling not a house, but a world, and a way of life. It yields many wonders and blessings every single day, but it demands a lot as well, and it does not let go easily. I still don’t know who I will be when I am not here, but maybe I will be here, literally, until I die, and in that case, the question need never be answered.

So while waiting, I am simply being present, surrendering, and noticing. There are now six turtles living in the pond by the creek at the edge of the road––a little family. It’s hard to explain how delighted I feel whenever I catch a glimpse of them, sunning on the rocks, their heads held high, or splashing into the water and swimming away like shimmering, plump mermaids. I’m also rendered giddy by the three-syllable call of the numerous quail, who always seem alarmed, fretting and fussing, their topknots like question marks above their heads. Or the heavy, voluptuous grapefruit dropping from the tree and rolling toward the rustic perimeter gate beyond which skirt cattle, coyote, and recently glimpsed, a lion. Yesterday I watched a king snake making s-curves in the driveway, an extravagantly beautiful creature with a bright yellow marking near its head.

And there I go, tediously talking about this place again, wondering now if I should mention the creekside sycamores, the shapes of the hills, the triangle of ocean visible in the distance––or even, at times, the sense of refuge from the looming apocalypse.

Wendell Berry said it well: “There are no unsacred places. There are only sacred places and desecrated places.” Here is a place that has eluded desecration.

Last night, we had dinner at our neighbor’s house, which means we put a package of pasta, some blueberries, and a container of ice cream in a canvas bag, and we walked a little way along the canyon road that parallels the creek. We looked up as we passed the noble lion oak, patted two friendly excited dogs, and entered our friends’ modest, welcoming home. There was champagne, salad fresh from their garden, the smells of garlic and spices and olive oil, the murmur of conversation and laughter. They walked us home later, as is our tradition, and I have never seen the Milky Way so bright, a snowy path into the universe, and dazzling stars pierced the black sky around, and we were awash in light.  

So it isn’t a terrible ambiguity after all. Maybe limbo, in fact, is a way of being infinite.