Floating in the air over the dense thick grass of a lawn between a thicket of trees and a few farm sheds and cabins.
A hammock in the background that is almost as tempting, an invitation to loaf, snooze, to fall upwards while laying back, high into the blue skies and the clots of cream fluff clouds drifting lazily by.
I adore a good tire swing.
This was one of the better ones I have seen.
If not the best.
The swing was rigged from a line of rope strung between two trees, not from a tree specifically, so it drifted back and forth on this kind of clothes line, swinging in loopy circles and ovals.
I did not go for a ride on the swing.
Though I was sorely tempted.
I could feel it in my body, the desire to climb in, push myself up into the air and drift through the warm breezes ruffling through the trees.
It was such a pretty day.
Sunny and warm.
Not typical San Francisco weather.
Then again.
I wasn’t in San Francisco.
I was outside of a small town to the south of Half Moon Bay called San Gregorio.
San Gregorio is tiny.
Population 214.
There’s a general store and a post office.
And then just beautiful rolling mountains.
It’s close to the coast so the drive in was gorgeous and breathtaking.
I am always so stunned when I get to drive down the One, it’s just such a tremendous gift to live next to such beauty.
I am in awe of the Pacific ocean, the sunlight, the green mountains, the twisty curving roads.
The family I work for have friends staying in San Gregorio and they were moving back to Finland, so there was a drive to meet them for lunch at the Air BnB they were staying at.
On a goat farm.
Yes.
I got to go hang out with some kids, not just the ones I work for.
It was precious and sweet, and the sound of the baby laughing in my arms as the goats crowded around me melted my heart.
I love animals.
And I am good with them.
I am not afraid of them or of getting messy, though for a minute I was like, damn it man, had I known we were going to a goat farm I would have dressed differently.
Especially knowing that where we were going was warmer.
Ha.
I was all in black, black leggings, black therapy dress, black, black, black, and the dress is long-sleeved.
It’s a super comfy, but professional little jersey dress I got from the Gap last year when I started seeing clients, it works for nannying and with a simple switch out from my nanny shoes to my “therapy shoes” I feel like I can be very professionally attired to see my clients in the evenings after I finish my nanny shift.
Though perhaps a great outfit for in the city, not necessarily the best for a goat farm.
Three times I had to take the hem out of the mouth of a goat.
It made me laugh though.
And after the week I have had up in my head about the whole 90 days to move thing it was a relief.
Sidebar.
Phone call message from the Tenant’s Union confirmed that my landlady does not have just cause to ask me to move out. I got the message while I was in transition from nannying to my internship, so I missed the call, but the woman left me a lengthy message addressing all the points I had brought up and she confirmed that legally my landlady does not have the right to ask me to move out.
She encouraged me to get my copy of the Tenant’s Union handbook when I go into my drop in session tomorrow, and that I was protected despite not being on a lease and living in an illegal unit.
That was a relief to hear and also a bit like, ok, here we go, this is really happening, what do I need to do next.
I spent some time talking out loud in the car on my way home, how would I say it, would I write it down, would I ask another person to be there with me, what would happen, I could tell I was getting scared, I don’t like conflict, but also that really I just need to take the emotional bit out of it and be business like.
I have rights, here they are, make counter offer.
Done.
And of course, more will be revealed tomorrow when I sit down with the counselor and see exactly what my rights are.
No need to have the conversation before I have all the information.
Anyway.
Like I said.
A relief to be outside, in the fresh air, in the sun, getting to play with the children and push my oldest charge on the tire swing.
He had trepidations at first, but I had a feeling that once he had a ride he would fall in love with it like I did when I was his age.
And he did.
It was the sweetest thing to watch the simple pleasure on his face as he floated through the air up high, against the bright green of the trees.
Such joy.
It filled me up.
There was a house in Wisconsin that we lived at briefly in all our transitions from here to there (I told my therapist how hard it was to separate this thing happening with the notice to move out with the shame and fear and running away in the middle of the night my mom did on more than one occasion to avoid getting evicted by the police for not paying rent. I am not my mother, I have paid and I’m not doing anything wrong, but that voice inside that insisted, you’ve been bad and now you’re being punished, took a whole lot of talk to calm down) when my mother had moved us cross-country from California to Wisconsin where she had grown up, in Lodi, a small town 30 ish miles to the North of Madison in Columbia County.
I don’t remember the house very well, we were only there for a brief time, I think she was crashing with friends on the couch until we moved into a small apartment in Baraboo, but I do remember the tire swing.
It was my savior.
This succor from the trauma of running away in the middle of the night, the constant moving, the constant uprooting, the wondering where I was going to sleep next, if it would be safe, was there anywhere that was safe?
The tire swing.
It was safe.
Although it was exciting to go high, really, I just like being held secure in the middle of the tire, arms wrapped around it, swaying back and forth in slow swoops and circles, staring up into the leaves of the old oak tree that it hung from.
I was in that swing every day until we moved.
I can still feel the rope in my hands and smell the faint rubber smell of the tire and see the smooth patch around the rope where many small hands had worn the treads smooth.
My childhood was not one I would wish upon another, but it was mine and to say that there never was joy in it would be a lie.
I was a happy kid when I was allowed to be happy.
I was happy in that swing.
And I was happy pushing my sweet little boy charge in the tire at the goat farm for his first time ever, quiet and sure that he would be as safely held as I was.
The light dappled down over me and the warm smell of hay arose in my nose and I let my eyes close for a moment as I pushed his small weight towards the sky, remembering again and again that I am loved, safe, and perfectly held.
Now.
And.
Always.
Auntiebubba 