A Foundation in Need of Retrofit

Ginny Contento
Sep 4, 2018 · 16 min read

I

There it was…. OUR place to stay these two next nights — the most amazing structure I’d ever seen at the sage and worldy age of seven. They called it the Water-Tower House, a contrast to the more conventionally charming cottages there at the Heritage House, just a short walk through the woods to the north coast beach cliffs near Mendocino. From the outside this tiny building was a narrow three-story cottage with water-tower framing built on top just for effect. Sided with dark wooden shingles, the front faced out with the two floors of glossy windows. My father parked our black Pontiac in the shaded carport, above which boasted a wooden deck with pillowed patio furniture and an umbrella. From the carport we entered the house’s dark laundry room, and up the stairs and into the kitchen and open living area, we filed up, my following behind everyone with my stuffed brown dog in arms. The deck held the last of the day’s sun right outside the sliding glass doors. Dividing the kitchen and living area wound a metal circular staircase up to the third floor loft where my parents would sleep. My older sister,Tory, and I were assigned the poofy sofas in the living room.

After hauling up the Samsonites, Mom and Tory, in their usual hurry for adventure, urged Dad to take advantage of the waning light for us to catch the sun’s disappearance over the ocean’s horizon. I pretended to be too tired to go, as I secretly wasn’t ready to leave this magical house, as if in doing so, the adults might decide there’d been some kind of mistake and our family would have to go stay somewhere else. Within minutes they were out the door to go see something that I thought couldn’t possibly compete with just sitting in this amazing little house. Breathing in the silence and charm, I scooted myself back onto the sofa. This was exactly how Jeannie on “I Dream of Jeannie” must feel when inside the refuge of her cozy bottle. Inside there, everything is safe, quiet, her “happy place.” In an instant, this little house would come to my mind for decades.

As I looked all around me, I imagined how romantic it would be to be sitting here with Bill Bixby from “My Favorite Martian” at my side. In fact, in those days I remember thinking how romantic it would be to be ANYWHERE with Bill Bixby here at my side. He and I would be hugging a lot and holding hands. In his gentle, buttery voice he’d be telling me how special I was, as I would to him. He’d have his arm around me and we’d be talking of this and that, maybe eat some Oreos together. I’d be on my very best grown-up behavior, not just licking the sugary cream off the cookies and tossing them onto the floor of the coat closet, like I usually did at home. In fact, this cozy house was exactly where he and I could live together happily ever after. He’d regularly pick me up at after school, and the other girls would gawk in envy, assuming I was so much more grown up than them.

Throughout my life, I wouldn’t class myself as especially “gifted” at much of anything, but my obsessive romanticism started extremely early in life, making me wonder if one can qualify as a Prodigy of Romantic Fantasy. Starting with dashing little Paolo Vescia in preschool, Billy Abbott in kindergarten and then Phillip Dworsky in first grade, and on and on, my heart was consistently lazar-focused on someone male, my idealized image of him jet-fueled by my not ever having spent any significant time in his company, and thus, to be honest, not really knowing him at all. Not that anyone ever reciprocated my obsessive admiration, and that was lucky, because I wouldn’t have known what to do if they had. But my having an imaginary doting boyfriend was definitely a constant theme throughout my growing up. Here in Mendocino I was in this dreamily romantic house with Bill Bixby sitting here on the sofa next to me. I could not have been more thrilled.

However, though I may well have classed as a Child Prodigy of Romantic Fantasy, I’m not going to lie to you. This flair did not transfer into real life adulthood. In fact, by my late forties, while I’m not proud to lay claim to this, I had become a Leading Expert on What Not to Do.

II

“I think that’s the last of it… Could you carry this box down to the car for me?” he asks.

He has back problems. Since we first met over six and half years ago, I always carry his stuff. Off the table I lift up a box with the pile of expensive suits laying over it, suits that hardly got worn during the last five.

We walk towards the front door of the condominium, but he stops and knocks on my son’s door before entering. I strain to not remember our very first first outing with my son, then only six years old, and how were walking through a Eucalyptus tree grove, out to the tide pools. While the two of them held hands, Oliver kept looking up at him admiringly, and as we went around a curve in the trail, he glanced down at Ollie and then turned to tenderly meet and hold my gaze. I strain to not remember those summer Sunday dinners in the back garden at my parents’ house, his telling story after story that had us all ultimately choking with laughter. I strain to not remember the time when I was borrowing his new car and transporting Oliver’s hamster, and somehow the hamster had yanked part of the seatbelt in through the cage bars and had chewed right through it. All he did was laugh. Wouldn’t even entertain my offer to get the seatbelt replaced.

“See ya, buddy..” he says. “Hey, you take care of yourself…”

“Yeah, you too,” I hear my thirteen-year old son say from inside the room.

Coming back out into the hallway, he gently closes the door. He’s looking straight at me. I’m not looking back.

The elevator whispers as it carries us down. He interrupts, asking, “Are you ok with what I said to him? I mean, I just don’t know what you’re supposed to say …”

I’m studying a spot where the paint long ago got chipped off the metal door, leaving a deep scratch. The elevator comes to its gentle stop, the door sliding sideways.

“How the hell should I know???” I say, leaning in to open the heavy wooden door with more force than I’d intended. My vision blurs over and my throat is starting to harden and ache. Blinking helps to steady my focus.

None of the neighbors are down here in the garage. Nobody’s unloading groceries from a car trunk or dumping out recyclables. The silence echoes.

He unlocks and opens the passenger side door, the only space left in our one car, now brimming with his belongings.

In the meetings with Karen, the mediator we’d hired, I told him to please take the car…. in fact, take anything … just please go away. And take all the reasons why you can’t find a job while I’m working two — or why you refuse to take a class or volunteer somewhere — or for Christ’s sake, even help around the house. And take all those reasons why you’ll only take pills… and more and more and more of them. The medicine cabinet can’t even hold all the different bottles anymore.

And the denial , the broken promises, all the lies? — to me, to the doctors? to yourself?…Please, oh please,, take all of those, too…

I place the box on the seat. The suits he never wore as a lawyer, all neatly folded on top. I gently shut the car door.

I’m done.

“So I guess that’s it….” he says standing there. He tries hugging me one last time. I reciprocate his inexhaustible politeness with a pat on his back. I pull away.

His gaze searches mine. Looking at the car, I say, “You take care…” My lips are pursed and I’m blinking more quickly. I notice the ivy needs trimming. And who forgot to roll up the hose over there?

I step aside as the car backs up and halts. The decrepit garage door grinds away, slowly rolling itself up. These last seconds seem to lag on for more than they should. But then the car lurches forward and glides out into the summer glare, disappearing, its hum trailing far behind. Somewhere in the distance a large dog is barking. A gardener is wielding a leaf blower. Wind chimes tinkle a brief breezy lullaby. A bird’s chirp seems to hope to land on someone’s appreciative ear.

Still staring into the blurry brightness, I hear myself saying out loud with a sudden knowing that startles me, “I WILL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN…”

I walk towards the lobby and push the button that shuts the garage door. I watch it roll down. My fingertips wipe off my cheeks and then rub wet mascara stains onto my jeans. Now I can see better.

In the elevator, going back upstairs, I realize that this is the deep sigh that I’ve been waiting to release for years.

It’s over.

At long last, my son and I can begin to look forward to the rest of our lives, and learn to take care of ourselves again.

III

This period of my life I refer to as my Annus Horribilis. Compounded with my father’s death just weeks before, my reaching near burnout in my teaching job, and now my facing yet now the THIRD failed significant relationship of my life, it was time for One Big Fat Time Out. I was certain that without a complete inner realignment and retrofit, a complete inventory of what this gargantuan mess was trying to teach me, I would be signing up for just more of the same. Clearly, whatever I had been doing was not working. Once — bad luck; twice — a coincidence; but three times? Friends, we got a trend.

On impulse I quit my job, sought out a therapist, and signed up for a variety of continuing-ed classes. Over the next year I also attended all kinds of personal growth workshops and retreats. I read books that pulled me to them. I basked in the luxury of being home when my son walked in the door at the end of the day. I finally got to attend PTA meetings at his school and started putting together the faces of his classmates that he’d talk about with those of their parents. After beginning to attend the Insight Meditation Center near our house, I then started a daily meditation practice that I believe to this day might well have saved my life, pivoting me onto a much happier, more wholesome life course.

Though I’d walked our dogs passed the Insight Meditation Center in our neighborhood the proverbial million times, I never had felt drawn to explore what it had to offer. Though I had some familiarity with meditation and its benefits from the occasional retreats I had attended over the years, at that time I had no daily practice. But once I quit my teaching job, one of my primary interests was learning more about the application of mindfulness practice in the classroom. I googled “experts on mindfulness practice in education,” expecting to come upon the names of experts in far away places — and what was the first name that popped up? Gil Fronsdal at the Insight Meditation Center in Redwood City, California, a four-block walk from our home.

The first time I attended a Sunday morning sitting, I remember walking into the spacious, wood-floored room, attentive to watching what others were doing. Some people stepped in very slow and deliberate walking mediation back and forth along the far wall. Other people filed in, mostly in silence, removed their shoes, tucking them into cubbies along the wall before proceeding into the carpeted meditation hall. Some people would grab a pillow (a zafu) to sit on, but in the meditation hall, most people sat in the chairs. I’d guess there were 100, maybe 150 people now in attendance, ages ranging mostly from 30-something to some very elderly people. The high vaulted ceilings and windows bathed the space with light. Up at the front of the room stood a small platform less than a foot tall. Upon that a pillow.

I settle into a chair in a row along a wall and heard the final three chimes, the “last call” to everyone into community silence. I closed my eyes, curious about what to expect. After a few minutes, I heard the sound of a door opening, I cracked open my eyes just enough to watch the teacher come out of a side door and settle onto the pillow on the small platform at the head of the room.

For 45 minutes the large group held intimate silence, apart from the occasional cough, clearing of throat, muffled sneeze or shift in sitting position. By then I knew enough about meditation to focus my attention on my slowing, deepening breath — and to be prepared for how extremely challenging this is to do, my mind repeatedly boarding a runaway train of thought, not even realizing I’d been swept away until that original thought had lead to countless of other free associations. At the instant of realization that my mind had wandered, I also knew enough to bring my attention back to my breath with the gentleness of teaching a puppy to sit and stay. Again and again and again. And yet again. Ten years later, I can’t say it’s that much easier.

At last the teacher gently struck the vibrating bowl, the echo fell away into the depths of my chest. My fellow meditators and I opened our eyes. A strange intimacy had been cultivated in the group over that 45 minutes. It felt the most natural thing in the world to exchange appreciative glances with those around me.

Gil, the teacher, adjusted his tiny microphone and in his soft-spoken, deeply relaxed voice he tested the sound before beginning his talk. Very short-haired, slim and simply dressed, with spectacles, he was someone you would easily pass by on the street and not notice.

That Sunday began a twice weekly visit to the center that lasted over three years. Over those years I would learn that Gil was anything but “ordinary.” Indeed, because of him, I began to learn how each of us is anything but ordinary. Thanks to Gil’s initial instruction, I started a daily meditation practice that I’ve maintained now for ten years, as necessary to my inner hygiene as showering and brushing my teeth is to the outer. Settling into this level of inner peace every morning, gradually letting the turbulence of my mind settle down like the silt in cloudy water does in a glass, I’ve gotten better at seeing my life more clearly, better at hearing the voice of my deepest intuition and better at making choices. Through the dharma talks given by Gil and guest teachers, I could recognize that for most of my life, I had been looking for a refuge outside myself, that “happy place” much like the inside of the bottle on “I Dream of Jeannie.” Now in my late forties I was learning that this refuge had actually been here inside all along.

Such corrective realizations I continue to make. Of course, I’ll be honest: I still have bad days.. But considering that I used to have bad years, my odds have improved dramatically.

During that time, I also briefly dated a couple of guys whom I could quickly see were not were right for me. Indeed, at last I seemed to be learning….

Learning what? Principally, my “picker was broken.” Somehow in following my heart over the years, I missed so many of the common sense lessons that friends of mine seemed to have naturally gotten early on, leading to long and happy marriages. For some reason, based on earlier experiences, I had reached conclusions, made decisions and created beliefs that unconsciously drew me to men who were not good for me — and in turn, surely I was not good for them either. One thing I admit I actually loved about dating in my late forties was getting freed from any illusions around a man’s “potential.” Unlike when I was in my twenties, or even thirties, now at midlife, I could confidently give up all hope. A relationship with man in middle age is strictly an As Is Purchase.

What else did I learn through all the meditation, dharma talks, reading, inventory of my mistakes and workshops…..? 1) If a guy says he doesn’t deserve you — take his word for it. 2) If a guy can’t hold a job, take care of his own stuff or finances or health, graciously allow someone else to rescue him from himself. 3) If a guy has trouble maintaining close friends through the years, his prospects for maintaining an intimate relationship are probably as equally limited.

I practiced being a more gracious receiver, not just a giver. I learned to simply drop my oars if the man isn’t also rowing the boat. I had to deliberately give myself permission to be happy. I learned to value the power of femininity, and notice where I’d been devaluing it as a weakness, consequently toning down my inner radiance, a birth right to every woman. I also had a lot to learn about healthy masculinity. I grew closer to my female friends, while learning how painful, lonely and confusing it can be to be a man in this society. I learned to regard the good fortune I had growing up with deep gratitude, instead of punishing myself with guilt for having been spared the terrifying or sickening childhoods that so many other people somehow survive. I came to understand how this guilt had compelled me to take on other people’s unhappiness to fix, especially that of troubled men. Finally, I could own my inability to fit into the high pressure/ never-enough/ sleep-deprived/ jittery life of Silicon Valley, even if it is the Greatest Place on Earth. Consequently, I could then give myself permission to celebrate my worth without striving to be the BEST at something. And that also meant admitting my exhaustion with all the people surrounding me whose frantic lives were focused precisely on reaching that lofty distinction.

IV

“The quieter you become, the more you can hear.” — Ram Dass

During the months when I was beginning to date again, I had a dream that I was attending a picnic at Foothill Park, up in the Palo Alto hills, a place my mother had often taken my sister and me when we were children. At this picnic, as an adult my present age, I found myself in a conversation with a man who looked a lot like Steve Jobs, with glasses, but he wasn’t exactly Steve Jobs. He was taller. He invited me to break away from the picnic crowd to go on a walk where we could talk without interruption. As I walked alongside him, the hillsides thick in fresh green grasses, I reflected on how I’d never imagined myself to have anything remotely in common with someone so accomplished in the high tech world. Honest? People like this had always intimidated me…. I’d never even taken high school chemistry or physics. And yet in this dream, in this man’s company, I felt so at ease. When this character and I made a turn on the trail, he gently took me into his arms and kissed me.

That’s when I woke up.

V

One evening while away traveling, I was checking my e-mail to discover I’d been contacted by someone through chemistry.com, a dating website that I had subscribed to and let expire weeks before. In order to read the e-mail, I had to renew my membership, a chance I’m now surprised I took. The message from NotYourTypical Engineer read “I’ve been reading your profile, and when I read the part about what you are looking for in a man, I think it might be me.”

Soon after, Paul and I met up in a bookstore in Mountain View. The books we’d pull off the shelves sparked easy conversation. I noticed how I had to look up at him as he was clearly as tall as his profile description had indicated. We then took a meandering walk through the downtown, pausing to comment on shop window displays. We made each other laugh, and I remember noting how easy it was to be around him. Then as we were strolling down the sidewalk, he pulled out a small case out of his pocket, and slipped on a pair of glasses to read something. I glanced over at him and then stopped suddenly. He turned to see why I had come to a sudden halt.

“Hey! You’re the guy in my dream!” I cried.

It’s now almost seven years that we’ve been together.

VI

Paul and I plan to drive down to the Bay Area this spring to see friends and family. I entertained the idea of our driving down the Oregon coast into California, making a night’s stop in Mendocino. Now at 56 years old, I could surprise Paul with a splurge in the Water Tower House, that trophy of romantic get-aways when I was a child. Nearly a half century after that first visit, I could stay there with my real life Bill Bixby. I’d even pick up some Oreos for us to eat together there.

The phone number to the Heritage House was easy enough to find on the Internet. I could feel my heart beating as the phone rang. Then the voice of a young woman answered, energetic, upbeat, polished.

“…About 50 years ago, I stayed there at Heritage House as a child with my family,” I attempted to explain, mindful how limited a stranger’s interest would be in my nostalgia. “We stayed in this really sweet and amazing place that I think was called the Water Tower House? … I was wondering if I maybe could make a reservation for it for this coming spring…”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, mam — I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s still there, but unfortunately, about ten years ago, they found some damage to the foundation. It was determined structurally unsound… It’s been abandoned for years now. But could I perhaps interest you in another of our luxury cottages…?”

No, no, thank you. Thank you so much for your time. I’m so sorry to hear that. Maybe for another trip in the future. Thank you again. Thank you so much. Thank you. Bye bye.

I looked at my cell phone screen and pressed the red button to disconnect.

Damn. I was too late.

One of the other new retrofits that I’ve made over the last ten years includes searching for the doors of invitation when things don’t turn out as I had planned. I’ve become much more surrendered, much more trusting where Life wants to lead me when it seems to refuse to give me what I think I want. In fact, when I’ve made that leap of faith, more often than not, I’ve been baffled by how things eventually turn out even better than what I had envisioned.

So now for this upcoming spring trip, I playfully imagine Paul and me camping out of our mini-van, a comfy mattress and sleeping bag in the back. Late at night when the camp fire is dying down to glowing embers and the stars and moon glow bright against the infinite, silent black above, we’ll crawl into the van, and get all cozy and warm inside, dog curled up at our feet….

That’s what I’m now envisioning. But then again, who knows? Something even better might happen.

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