“That’s wonderful,” I hear him say, with all of the enthusiasm that a women in labor might express towards sex. Lydia was raised as the middle daughter in a German household, a daughter who was born just ahead of the only son. A daughter who is rising in the hierarchy of the male dominated Rotary world. A daughter who continues to challenge the conventional wisdom. As we say, first you walk to the edge of the earth, then you drop off.

Not so long ago, at a party held for us on the eve of our departure, some of our friends demanded an explanation for our “crazy” behavior. After all, in violation of accepted American principles, we were giving away or throwing away perfectly good worldly possessions…furniture, computers, TV’s, music systems, nearly everything, it seemed to them.

“All life is sorrow,” I said, borrowing from the perennial philosophy, “and this sorrow is caused by desiring something that the universe is not prepared to give us. We see perfection in our mate, we wish for perfect health for our loved ones, and we desire the world to treat us fairly. When life does not see fit to provide us with these things that we desire, then sorrow comes to rest within our hearts.”

“And so it is with our remaining safe at home, secure in the bosom of our friends and in the narrower confines of our familiar community. We wish to remain, and we see that this desire will be the cause of sorrow. Time demands change, so now we must travel down new paths.”

I was startled to see a lot of tears on the upturned faces. One person rushed from the room. (However, I later learned that she needed to go to the bathroom.)

We are running our business from a telephone and a desk in office space we have borrowed from Sandy and Tony; we depend upon the love and kindness of our friends for our shelter. The reason for this upheaval in our lives is that we are faced with a task that demands all of our resources, and we haven’t the energy to maintain a house that is nothing more than an expensive warehouse. We feel like we felt way back when we were living on our boat and life seemed more meaningful. Flaws in this reasoning will no doubt occur to us as time passes.

Has some terrible disaster overtaken us?

Yes, according to Lydia’s family.

A couple of years ago I was sitting out on our tile patio behind our adobe cottage on top of a rock ridge in the California foothills. I was eating breakfast and watching two blue jays fighting over the sunflower seed in the bird feeder. Lydia was inside talking on the phone. This was not unusual. The phone rings all the time in our household business—one reason to seriously reconsider putting your home and your business in the same place. Lydia walks out onto the terrace with a funny expression on her face. If your over fifty, you know the expression, the kind of expression your teacher used to get when she told you to crawl under the desk and hide your eyes just in case a nuclear bomb was dropped outside the window.

“George wants me to interview for the District Governor’s job,” she says.

“You’ll do it, of course,” I say. “It’ll be the opportunity of a lifetime.”

There is joy shining in her eyes. She ducks back in the house and I hear her pick up the phone and tell George, “I’ll be there.” Four words that change our lives.

I feel the dog’s big paws shake the bed, and I pry open my eyes. I am lying on my right side facing the window. Dawn’s light filters through the narrow blinds like an unwelcome searchlight, and all I can make out is the black shadow of Burt’s head peering at me over the edge of the pillow. He sneezes in my face.

I reach out from under the covers and scratch behind his ears and feel his rough tongue on my hand.

“You want to go outside?” I whisper. He gives me his special snort and bounces up and down a couple of times on the side of the bed.

I swing my feet out from under the blanket and sit up on the edge of the bed. The oscillating fan sweeps around for another pass, and the cold mountain air chills my bare knees. My watch tells me that it six A.M., August 22, 1997. California days are hot this time of year, but the nights get cold two thousand feet above the Sacramento Valley. Burt licks my foot. Where are those socks?

I feel around the chair by the side of the bed and find yesterday’s shirt and a wrinkled pair of slacks. A guest should be at least partially clad before wandering around the house.

Revise that. I’ve been made part of the family. The dog has decided this. I am content. Once Burt’s harness is secured, I open the back door and he bolts through the opening into the back yard. I know how he feels. I bolt through the partially opened bathroom door down the short hallway and stub my toe on the spring doorstop.

“Thor….rm.” So much for silence. Burt sneezes again.