With the decision to leave Dragon’s Lair — and the forest, and Guerneville itself — comes the inevitable backlash. It’s only with certain locals, each of whom have their own reasons for reacting to our pending departure. With some, there’s genuine regret, a sadness and a sense that they’ll really miss us. We felt bad when we told Kimmie and Marcy at Food For Humans, who reacted sweetly, with entreaties not to go.

With others, there’s a sense that we’re abandoning them, or that there’s something weak about us, that they had a hunch all along we weren’t cut out for country life. I suppose the latter is true, but after seven years, I think we can honestly say: We gave it our best shot.

Our pal Anne, who lives in Bodega, sent us her Yuletide greeting and joked — I know it was a joke — that we were “quitters.” But the truth is that BKS and I both went though significant changes, individually and together, in the time we’ve lived here, and now it’s time to do something with what I’ve learned about myself. I have witnessed the birth of my own true center, discovered deeper meaning of my work, asked for and received my first mentors, lived through the death of my mom, found an inner peace and resourcefulness and connection to spirit (for lack of a better word) that I didn’t have when we moved up here.

I have been inside a cocoon, and now I’m emerging.

Parallel to this, as a first-time homeowner, I’ve found I love working on a house; and, just like my own personal development, I’ve focused almost 100 percent on working on Dragon’s Lair’s interior. Finally, I get it: For seven years, it’s been all about introspection.

And the truth is that in some ways I have never fit in here. Guerneville’s roughest edges have never really smoothed for me, and my love of city life — its cultural diversity, its food and music and bracing hustle and bustle — hasn’t dimmed a bit. I need a balance, I realize, but my true self lives and thrives in the urban epicenter.

In my life, I’ve tried to move intuitively: go where I needed to at the right time. In 2000, it was into the redwoods, to a pugnacious little river town whose extreme beauty continues to clash against its proud lawlessness. I’ll miss this place, and many of the people in it. But in the end I have to take care of myself.

There was a moment yesterday — our power had been out for 36 hours [eventually it would be 138], KCBS had just reported PG&E wouldn’t be repairing “remote areas” ’til Tuesday, the generator had broken, the folks who were supposed to fix the generator hadn’t shown up or called back, the propane was running low, the damp wood my wife had used to build a weak little fire in the fireplace had almost run out, we had no water and no working toilets, the food was going bad in the fridge, the roads to the house were blocked with fallen trees and downed wires, and BKS and I were bickering over whether or not to buy a 50-cent newspaper for kindling — when the dream officially ended for us.

————

Later, after the roads reopened, we drove down to buy storm supplies at the local market. The cashier saw our sullen faces, and heard our story.

“Well, that’s why we live here!” she said perkily.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Lived here,” we thought, in unison. “Lived.”

When you move to the country, no one tells you that nature will get between you and important events in your life. This morning, BKS and I had planned to drive to Oakland, where our dear friend Ron Carter’s wake was happening. But we awoke to a terrible winter storm, one of the worst in two years: The power was out; the redwoods were swaying like beach grasses; and rain was seeping in under the doors.

Still, we got into motion — shaving, eating breakfast, thinking about what to wear to a friend’s funeral. But we had the radio on, and minute by minute the meteorology got worse: hurricane-force winds, flooding, downed power lines, falling trees.

In good weather, Oakland is normally a two-hour drive away. Today looked more like four, and required us to travel through a lot of country to get there — along tree-lined roads and over bridges (windy ones, this morning) and roadways everyone was telling us to avoid. In the end, we thought: What would Ronnie want? Which was to take care of ourselves, stay home, light a candle in his memory, and elect to separate ourselves from friends and family who were there grieving for him.

It’s a common dilemma. Dragon’s Lair’s isolation can be invigorating, delicious on a summer Sunday morning with only the birds and a cup of coffee. But when real life happens, and we find ourselves so far removed from it, both BKS and I feel as though we’re missing the details that make for a fulfilling human existence.

It wasn’t just the outbound trip that made us cancel our plans. Flood stage for the Guerneville Bridge is 32 feet, and at this moment they were predicting 29 feet by early Saturday morning. That can change, quickly, and the last thing we’d want after braving the weather madness today would be not to be able to get back home again tonight.

So we made some calls and stayed put.

We chose to live here, knowing we would miss some stuff. What we didn’t count on was that we would miss your memorial service, Ron — besides missing your bright blue eyes and sweet, generous being. We loved you a lot. Our absence today says nothing of how much you meant to us. While others gather in your honor, we’ll be thinking of you, here at home, battened down against the storm.

Today, as I do nearly every day of the year, I went down to the P.O. to pick up our mail. Inside the box, in addition to the magazines and bills and fliers, was a yellow slip that read “YOU HAVE EXCESSIVE MAIL.”

I stood in line for a while until I got to Nick, who works the right-hand window. He’s a nice enough guy, if not super conversational. I handed him the slip.

Nick came back with a HUGE bale of mail — as much mail as we accumulate in two weeks, all rubber-banded together.

“What’s this?” I said, flipping through the stack while Nick filed the slip in a box.

“Oh, that must’ve been from your vacation stop,” he said casually. “Didn’t you guys go to Canada?”

We’d been to Canada in June. “Nnnnoooo, we haven’t been on vacation,” I said, looking closer at the postmarks on the envelopes in the bundle. Most were more than a month old, and among them I noticed several checks I’d been anxiously awaiting, and many, many bills. More than a month old.

“I come in here every day,” I said to Nick, my thermostat rising. “And most of these postmarks are from November. How come I’m just getting this stuff now?”

Nick looked uncomfortable, standing there in his blue shirt and pants.

“Let me talk to the postmaster,” I said, and he could tell from the gleam in my eye that I wasn’t kidding around.

See, there are ways to do things, and then there is the River way to do things. Around here, a jeweler doesn’t wait for you to explain how your watch is broken, he tells you — before you’ve slid it off your wrist. The company that installs your wood stove has to come to the house three times (and offer many angry excuses over the phone) before it’s proofed against the rain. Video stores carry the least-popular (read: cheapest) videos and DVDs — and the rare find is usually scratched or breaks during playback. Walk into a hardware store and ask for a plumb-bob, and two different employees look at you as though you’re speaking Martian. Restaurant orders usually arrive wrong, and usually much later than you’d hope. The exceptions, of course, prove the rule: a “River” attitude is synonymous with shoddy, lackadaisical, and unapologetically Provincial.

The P.O.’s fuck-up was merely the latest in a long line of fuck-ups they and others in town are famous for, and the net result of their “holding” our mail for no evident reason has been: six late bills, each of which took at least two calls apiece to manage, and four late charges. I’ll fight the charges, of course, but if they stick, I know who I’ll stick them to — and who’ll tell probably tell ME where to stick them myself.

In Guerneville, the locals remember you went to Canada, but they can’t seem to figure out how to put mail into Box 742.

Today, in a fit of agrarian domesticity, I buried a 50-foot length of downspout pipe and cleared a patch of Scotch broom that cascades down the property from the bird feeders. Both tasks took a couple of hours, and during that time my only companions were a raven (who brawwwked calmly from high in a redwood) and a Pileated woodpecker (who seems to have decided to spend the winter on our land) calling and hammering away somewhere down the hill. I uncovered a few fat centipedes and accidentally mutilated a baby newt.

It was gloriously silent. A stormy sky hovered a foot above the treetops, the rain predicted and imminent all afternoon. I was sweating, so I pulled off my flannel jacket, digging and mattock-ing in just my T-shirt and muddy Carhartts, the dew point so low (high?) that I was actually steaming. I liked it. Poison oak lay everywhere, of course, but afterwards I took a hot shower, scrubbing myself down with Tecnu and hoping for the best.

I’m clearly feeling both pangs of regret for our decision to leave Dragon’s Lair and denial that by next year, in all likelihood, some human other than me will be out here working the land. The thought rattles through my head: Are we #$%& crazy to give this up? For seven years I’ve made plans, improved, installed skylights, painted, split wood, hung lights — hell, we even put in a Mørso. When I walk around on the land, as I did today, its beauty and silence and buffering space feels so liberating — I worry that I’ll never again own such a property.

But that’s just my fear talking. I came to Dragon’s Lair to transform, and that’s exactly what I’ve done. In the past seven years I have gotten married, lost Mom, redefined my relationship to my family, found the first threads of my spiritual understanding, joined MKP and become an initiated man, seen my work sold (and killed!) by everyone from the skinniest literary magazines to the New York Times. BKS has been shepherding her own transformation, and now — clearly — the next chapter of our adventure together needs to unfold in Los Angeles. Between us, we will manifest something even better.

But on a day like today, my heart aches at the thought of leaving this amazing place. I pulled the last broom stalk out by the roots at precisely the moment the rain began, a sweet hissing on the oak and hazel leaves that filled the forest. I hosed off the tools and came inside for a Tecnu antidote. We may be leaving soon, but until then I’m determined to enjoy as many of these moments as I can.

In no particular order, here’s what I’ll miss about Guerneville (the town):

• the crew at Food For Humans, our local organic grocery store: the Martins: Marcy, Celeste, Paul, Skylar, Gabe; Kimmie!; Nik, Mega-N, Tara, Danielle, Kenny, and the rest
• Tim, world’s greatest UPS man
• the goofy “Parade of Lights” every holiday season
• related to this, the cheerful twinkling downtown in December
• the rodeo parade — cameltoe alert!
• bears!
• Coffee Bazaar, despite its horrible bathrooms
• Andorno’s pizza, despite its uncomfortable seating
• Stumptown Nursery, despite its plagued plants
• the Robertsons, Mary and Frank, for their awesome attitude
• our neighbors: Sandie and Helen; Paul and Rob; BobPamMatt; Sabrina and Mr. Sophie; Crazy Ken; Clark; Amanda and Gary
• Gina and Tracy at the Crow’s Nest — we’ll miss you!
• Frances and Sherry (yo, James!) and River Reader Books, RIP
• Herman Hernandez, always smiling
• my doppelganger, Patrick Pennington, wherever he is
• Dan and Susan and their cool kids
• Mike Tuggle, poet laureate and brother Sadge
• the sound of Fifes — er, sorry, Dawn Ranch Lodge, whatever — rocking on gay weekends
• KGGV — amateurish but essential
• Justin at the Parcel Store, Dick at Up the River, George at Guerneville Graphics
• Jen “Traveling” Wilburn, cutest mom in town
• the Rio: theater-in-the-(half)-round
• Peter Zweig, Stephanie and Paul (and Ulee!) at Praxis, Gary Getchell, and anyone else trying to make this place prettier, architecturally speaking
• the RRR and Rainbow, for making the place more tolerable, alcoholically speaking

More soon…

Last week I planted two big bags of daffodil bulbs on the property, 80 thumb-sized capsules of spring optimism running in a rough scatter from the top of the driveway down to our front door. The act was a gamble, since our soil is brutally clay-ful, our sun spotty, and Dragon’s Lair’s wee acreage overrun by critters who would love nothing more than to snack on 80 fresh subterranean treats.

But I didn’t do it for the deer or the squirrels. I did it for me, and it was worth it. I went to work before dusk, armed with a trencher and a spade and a muddy pair of gloves. The very first chunk of my shovel unearthed a piece of garbage — some sort of plastic box — which seemed oddly symbolic. There I was, trying as always to improve this land, and the first thing that came back at me was trash. No matter. I chucked it and kept plugging away, six inches deep, crumpling the heavy dirt over each bulb after I planted so it had a ghost of a chance of survival. When it got dark I hosed off the tools and prayed for rain.

The irony of all this is that we’ve decided to leave Guerneville, these woods, this land. Yes, you read it here first: We’re leaving — sooner than later. BKS’s work is taking off in L.A., and with our heightened struggle to maintain two households (the lower priority) and a happy marriage (the higher), we’ve made the decision to go.

We don’t know when. Soon. Definitely by this time next year, and quite possibly by summertime. I don’t even know if we’ll be here to witness any daffodils that come up in the spring.

Thus will this blog — which I’ve brutally neglected lately, my apologies — become something entirely new: Rather than a chronicle of our life here, it will study us as we head out of town, towards a place as different from the Russian River as the sun is the moon.

Part of me is in a panic. Part of me knows this is our best decision possible. Part of me feels an ache for everything these woods have come to mean to me; part of me wants to get the hell out of this place as fast as I possibly can.

I’ll try to articulate this in coming blogs.

It’s worth asking: Why plant daffodils if we’re moving out? To which I say: Why not? Every spring for the past seven years, their sunny cameos along the local roads and trails have made me feel cheerful and positive. Why not offer that to Dragon’s Lair’s next owners?

The follow-up the post below is that last week we finally installed a tiny wood stove into the office, a Morsø 1440 convection model. It’s just the ticket to a toasty workspace, lower PG&E bills, and a way to reduce Mt. McKindling towering outside the office door. With its installation, I join many generations of writers who work by the warmth of a fire, and have used its associations to greater or lesser artistic success.

It’s a ritual I’m not accustomed to yet: waking up early, while BKS is still asleep, coming out here to the office to kindle and light the stove while my tea is brewing. By the time I’m back, cereal eaten, paper read, the Morsø is warming the room. There’s a metaphor here, too: The office has always been chilly, which is great in the summer months but uninspiring in winter. Now, after 20 minutes or so, it feels warm and hospitable — and with any luck will allow my ideas will flow as easily as the warm air does around the room.

I just came across this poem by Yeats:

When You are Old
When you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

All summer I busted my ass, splitting thick rounds from the four oaks we felled on the property, victims of Sudden Oak Death. Now I have a mountain of firewood, a monolith of logs. I call it Mount McKindling.

Even if I weren’t a writer, splitting wood is rich in metaphor. Like so much in the world, it’s a matter of looking for the opportunity, the cracks, and using the right tools to work with the grain of the wood. Otherwise any effort is useless. Like life’s opportunities, some chunks want to open for the splitter, revealing their beauty with a satisfying, instantaneous CRACK. Others refuse to budge, no matter how much I pound and swear and smash my thumb. Weirdly, I had to learn to commune with the wood, to do with it what it wanted done, rather than imposing my will upon it.

There were moments late this summer, bashing at a knotted log, furious, sweating, swatting away mosquitoes, that I felt my whole effort was in vain. I was good at ignoring the big picture, the big pile towering before me — my successes — and instead concentrating on the one god-damned piece I couldn’t split. How is that like your life? we ask in MKP. Well, Exactly. I’m so adept at focusing on what I don’t do well that I routinely forget that I excel at certain things — writing and splitting wood among them. The pile reminds me.

I’m trying to get better at acknowledging that: stopping in those moments when, speaking metaphorically, I’m battling a piece of wood but forgetting to look at the woodpile.

Last week the PD announced that Sonoma County real estate prices have dropped again, down 4.1 percent for the year, with houses selling more slowly in July than they have in 30 previous months. That much is obvious in our neighborhood, more than 20 houses are currently up for sale. If you’re looking for property bargains, Guerneville and its surrounding towns are a virtual garage sale.

BKS and I aren’t going anywhere — even if things were booming, we aren’t yet ready to move — but the news takes a healthy bite out of the equity we’ve built up by living in the woods for seven years.

Still, is that why I moved here? To make money? Because if it was, there are plenty of less-stressful (and, outside the Bay Area, many less-profitable) opportunties than real estate investment. Or did I have something else in mind — some sort of spiritual, psychological, logistical, artistic, crazy or unformed plan?

The short answer is that, like BKS, I moved here because I was sick of fighting the city and wanted to stake my own patch of green. I admit it: I romanticized about rural life; I liked the river’s politics, the cost of a starter home. I liked its gay-friendliness, child-free as we were. I loved the towering trees, the lush fern canyons. I loved watching deer and bobcats out my office window. Too, Guerneville wasn’t too far from the city if things went awry. So, with my wife, I gambled.

What has happened since then is that I’ve entered a time in my life of intense transition and self-questioning, and to be living in the deep silence of the redwoods is exactly where I need to be right now. The peacefulness and solitude, while it can drive me batty at times, allows me to ask and answer my personal queries with a minimum of distraction. My career is changing; my place in the universe becoming clear; my path is opening up. I’m figuring out who the hell I am.

The truth is that any grand scheme I have for myself, my career or my spiritual pursuits, are subject to the larger whims and plans of the universe. All I know today is that I was drawn here for some reason, and that my personal and creative work have flourished. Sure, I could have written the next Great American Novel or become the next Dave Pelzer. Or not. I am on my own path. I am opening into unoccupied space. Right now I can see only one or two steps ahead of me, and for now the view from here is nothing but trees.