Summer’s always on her way out, always somewhere else to be—at this altitude especially. She likes the lowlands, the deserts and swamps. The days get shorter and shorter, and we keep asking, “didn’t you just get here?”
Sometimes we ask ourselves that. Didn’t we just get here?
But this week marks four years since we arrived in this valley of few. Four summers, four winters. We set out on a big adventure in 2019, driving through the West, to find a place that felt like home. I’ve talked a lot about what we were looking for, but less about why we were looking, why leaving felt like the right decision. Maybe the only decision.
The first reason was the usual one: we couldn’t afford where we were. We knew our landlord would one day sell the strange old cabins he and we called home, and we knew he wouldn’t sell them to us. We knew because we asked if he was interested in a special arrangement, a sweetheart deal, and he was not. We don’t live there anymore.
The second reason was practical: if we were going to have a kid, we wanted a feral one. We wanted “come home at dark”. We wanted a bus. We wanted space. We wanted quiet. We wanted to stop running from wildfires. We wanted to stop sitting in traffic. We wanted to never check the AQI.
The third reason was instinctual: we needed to. We lived in the Santa Monica Mountains. In our free time, we rode our bikes as high as those mountains went, and it simply wasn’t high enough. We needed to get higher. We needed to get out. In those small cabins in those small mountains, Ben and I became versions of ourselves we had not previously known. After his 15 years in the city, and my goldilocksing of North America, we grew new sprouts on those steep cliffs. We always knew we needed bigger pots, different nutrients, but we didn’t know how badly until we tried.
We used to have a succulent on our deck in Topanga. It was a beautiful plant with red leaves, and it was one of the few we took with us to Colorado. After a few months in its new home with its new schedule, the entire thing turned green. For years, we thought the plant was meant to be red. It was growing, albeit slowly, and it never sagged or drooped. It seemed happy, and it was happy enough, but with a new life, it transformed. It has never turned red again.
That is what moving here has done to us as well. And now that we know, we don’t want to ever turn red again. Now that we know what we need to grow and to bloom, what way is there but green?
When I was thinking about what to write about this week, I turned to the Tarot for inspiration. I pulled the Six of Wands reversed, a card that asks you to think about your own definition of success, to really question what success even is.
There’s no arguing that American Dream SuccessTM includes buying a house. In that way, we meet the benchmark. But are we successful?
Part of what drove me to this life, to this valley, was a drive to redefine success for myself. I wanted to remove myself, physically, from the path I was on. Inevitably, my definition of success came from my youth, from the adults around me who described what success could and would look like. I had a standard issue American red cup suggestion: straight As, varsity sports, class president, valedictorian, college, health insurance, government jobs, company loyalty, home ownership, two cars, two kids, a family pet, a garage, a yard, and social security.
I plowed ahead, doing my best on variations of a theme, right until company loyalty. I am never going to make more money if I don’t get a different job. I was 25, and I was right. I am never going to find love until I try someone different. I was 29, and I was right. I am never going to enjoy my work unless I start working for myself. I was 33, and I was right. I am never going to break out of these routines until I force myself out of them. I was 35, and I was right.
My parents are visiting me this week, and my dad and I were talking about our definitions of success on a walk. I told him that, for me, I’ll know I’m really successful when I can adopt as many animals as I feel called to and can rest easy that I’ll always have the means to address any problems they have or problems they create.
I could feel him side-eyeing me, his curious daughter.
It’s a bit of a lie, that definition of success. It’s certainly one facet of it, but I’m not immune to wanting to be known, to leave a legacy. I obviously want to sell a book and have it be a success while ignoring the fact that I already know I won’t consider myself a success unless I continue to have success.
That is the real problem, that success is a well you empty. It does not refill on its own, and if you do not do the work of refilling, then it is simply a hole in the ground filled with aspirations and dreams. Success, then, is muscle tone. If you could once lift 250 lbs, but not anymore, then what do you have?
Well, you have a need to redefine what success is, mostly.
And so the card asked: what is your definition of success?
A slow cup in the morning, a copious pour of half n’ half.
A good, strong back, unburdened by mere time.
Hot water, hot springs, hot tub, hot bath. Hot enough to frighten a man.
Rain.
A rocking chair, ample and balanced, on its way with a slight jut of the chin.
That place where no one can find you, in the home, in the yard, on the block, on the roof. Where you can be a ghost in the day, catching your breath outside of time.
Someone to call. And someone else if they don’t answer.
Cats. Plural, of course.
A good amount of light, both natural and otherwise. Sunlight, fairy lights, soft light, candlelight, moonlight, starlight, night light.
Stacks of books. So many books they don’t fit where the books fit, and instead grow like stalagmites from the floorboards.
Spices. Like the books, these should struggle to be held in any one spot, flourishing across the kitchen like a mushroom patch.
“I’m hiking that morning. How about the next day?”
Rain barrels.
Linen sheets.
A dog that burrows in the linen sheets.
A quilt that is warm when you wrap it around you and does not need to be warmed by you first.
Cheese.
Cheese curds.
Cheesecake!
Cheese curds from the farmers’ market that is near your house where you know the patrons and the participants and there is never a need to hesitate at a price for things you don’t need like flowers and strange flours because you have enough to have more than enough, this time and every time.
A relationship with the animals in your neighborhood, domestic and otherwise.
A keyboard with just the right amount of pressure to the keys, the right clickity clack to keep you coming back.
A monthly massage.
Lemonade.
Wood. Wood everywhere.
“My treat!”
Very good layers for very inclement weather.
Heat seaters.
Wait, seat heaters.
Whatever heat seaters are.
Really good cocoa.
Really good produce.
Really good people.
A pebble ice maker.
And sure, a best-selling book, a sold-out class, and a good open rate.
I was listening to a podcast the other day and one of the hosts posited a question about consumption: if no one would ever know you had it, would you still want it?
If that is the list of success, then yes. I still want it.
So am I successful?
Mostly. And my leaves grow greener by the day.
Shangrilogs is taking a summer break. I’ll be back in a few weeks! Paid subscriptions will be paused during my time off.
In case you missed it:
This is the perfect example of the kind of writing I love the most... words that make me appreciate what I already have more deeply instead of making me feel like I need or lack something.
Yes to all of this. Now I'm getting curious about my own list (which would also no doubt breed a fatherly side-eye).
Happy break! Breathe in that high mountain air for those of us down below.