At the Beach House

In early February of this year of the pandemic, I went to Austin for a writing conference. There, I had my own hotel room. It was a small con, and I didn’t know many people. Add that to the fact that I’m naturally an introvert, I ended up spending a lot of time in the hotel room by myself. That’s normal for me. I read a whole book. Room service brought me exactly the food I wanted, like the magic that room service is. 

I do regret a few things about that weekend, though. 

First, I regret that I spent time with the cool kids, and my brain let me reach for a joint that blew (ha!) almost two years of sobriety. (I won’t rehash (ha x 2!) that incident here – you already read about it if you’re a Patreon member. But very quickly, weed was never my big problem, and I do still use cannabis for migraines. But I don’t use substances for mental escape/mood regulation anymore, and resetting my sobriety date was a big blow.) 

Second, I simply regret that I spent time socializing at all at that conference. If you’d told me that that weekend would be the last time I’d have a space all to myself for almost a year, I wouldn’t have left the room except to do the teaching I was contractually obligated to do. 

No, screw that, I might have just barricaded myself into my room and pretended I only spoke French if they pounded on my door. 

I came home from that trip three hundred and eighteen days ago. I counted. 

I haven’t been alone since then, except for the rare hour or two when my wife goes grocery shopping. 

When Lala and I got married and moved in together, we had one condition on a house: It had to have three bedrooms, one for us, one for her office, and one for mine. We both don’t just like to be alone, we need it. To make that happen, we bought a tiny bungalow in a rough part of town, but we got those three small rooms. 

Pre-Covid-19, she worked out of the house most days. That gave me enough quiet time. I had weekly band practice that left her alone for long hours, and I left the house often at night, going to meetings and seeing friends. 

Not now. 

Now she’s always an irritated yell away. (I saw a tweet recently that said something like “Marriage is yelling What across the house for the rest of your life.”) 

I also know we’re not unique in not having alone time. It seems like the world of people I love is split neatly into two factions—the single people who would do almost anything (except risk death, sensibly) for a few minutes of full-body contact, and people who aren’t single who’ve been cheek by jowl for almost a year now. We don’t have kids. We’ve been in our bubble, alone, and honestly, it’s been good overall. We’re incredibly privileged—I already worked from home, and her transition to working from home was easy. 

Also, I love her. I’m in love with her. She’s sexy and fun even when she thinks she’s not, and she’s my person and I’m hers. 

Honestly, the fact that we’ve done so well is a big reason we’re moving. Now we know we can go long, long periods of time with no one but each other, without either of us going for the jugular or even a superficial vein. 

And still. The fact that we haven’t had a blow-out-someone-leaves-the-house-crying fight in this last year is purely a product of me not drinking anymore, I know it. I know that I love her more than I ever have. And I also know that she bugs me more than she ever has, too. I’m one hundred percent positive she feels the same way about me. 

But now, right this very second? 

I’m in a borrowed beach house on the coast that belongs to one of my best friends. 

Yesterday, while I was tramping along the cliff edge, watching a storm roll in, I realized (again) that no matter how much I love my lovies and desire to be near them, I need alone time to hear what my soul wants to tell me. 

That sounds pretentious and hippy at the same time (two great tastes that taste great together) but I mean it. 

On my three-hour drive to Sea Ranch yesterday, I listened to Mary Karr talking to Tim Ferris about writing, sobriety, and happiness. She talked about being raised an ardent atheist, but how she’s come to pray in sobriety, because it just…works? She mentioned she listens to her Leanings, which I saw in my head with a capital L. On a bad afternoon, instead of killing herself because she’s such a wreck, she’ll have a Leaning that says, “Make a sandwich. Make the biggest sandwich you can and then eat it.” 

That’s what I use quiet time for. To hear the Leanings of my spirit. To catch the whisper of the Knowing that rises from deep within me, from a place right next door to that place where I’ll house that recommended sandwich. 

Until Sunday, I’m listening to the Leanings. I’ll write when I want to. Read when I want to. Eat what I’m moved to eat even if that’s four bowls of cereal, followed by two red velvet cupcakes, followed by a salad as big as my head. 

There’s no right way of doing it, and much more importantly, perhaps, there’s no wrong way. Sometimes the Leaning tells me to play no-spend poker on my iPad for a while. Sometimes it tells me to knit and watch the Crown. Sometimes it tells me to sit and write with the end goal of helping someone else someday. 

The Leaning reassures me, helps me to answer the insistent voice that shrieks “Who do you think you are, to deserve this?” 

I can freely admit I don’t deserve to spend quiet time at a beach house. Yesterday, I sat on the edge of the world in my sparkle boots and thought exactly that. The storm was whipping up the waves, sending spray twenty feet into the air. The sound was deafening. 

I didn’t fit in—I was so small, on a rock, on the edge of a country I don’t really understand. How did I deserve to sit right there, just when, when so many are… are not able to do the same thing. 

The truth is: I don’t deserve it. 

And at the same time, I do. 

I am the waves. I’m the wind. Someday I’ll return to those things, my particles and energy splitting and dissolving and moving elsewhere. 

Therefore, I belong everywhere. 

I do deserve to be here. I deserve to be exactly who I am. 

I am, frankly, a goddamn miracle. 

And so are you. You deserve to be here. To take up all the space you need. To close the door when you need to, whether that’s physically or mentally, to make room for yourself. 

You deserve to make your art, to name a dream of many and move toward it. 

You belong here. You’re a goddamn miracle, too.