What better place than here? What better time than now?

Optional soundtrack:

The Neighborhood - Sweater Weather

Aloe Blacc - Wake Me Up

I am 31 years old, about to be 32. Married for 6 years, no kids. I like to think I have reasonable decision-making skills, although I can be reckless at times. I don’t enjoy working hard inherently, but I will do whatever it takes for the ideals I believe in and for the people who are dear to me.

My point is, I don’t think I’m too abnormal. Yet my wife and I are giving up everything in Wheaton, IL to move to San Diego so we can be a part of a Theosophical monastery. That’s a thing people do, right?

I’m not supposed to tell people in the midwest this, but San Diego has perfect weather.  Which is something you can’t really appreciate unless you’ve been living in the same cold state your entire life. I think 5 years ago I cracked.  I was working a night-shift security job then, in the exact middle of a frigid frozen winter, when 4 a.m. happened.  I was sitting in my shack, all six by four feet of it, and then stepped out to go pee or something like that.  Then I hated winter.  It happened all at once.  Before I stepped out, I didn’t hate winter; after, I scorned it permanently.

There is no cold like four a.m. cold, and no solitude like being the only person to a warehouse in the middle of a field solitude.

That was also the year that I read a lot, wrote a book, and learned a great deal about Gnosticism.  So much so that, being a cynical Catholic, I decided that I in fact was then a Gnostic.  But that’s completely tangential to my point, I was talking about weather.  

There are two seasons in San Diego, as I’ve discovered: Summer, and Summer that you can wear sweaters in. I think I like sweater Summer best, simply because it happens at the same time of year that Winter would take place in the real world.  Also you can go to the beach and lay in the sand.  Fellow beach goers are even more into their own thing to wonder why you are weeping for joy into a beach towel.  And, still yet, you can use the towel to muffle your joyful crying over how there’s another way to live, and that you don’t ever have to go back to that 4 a.m. place, frozen in the middle of a field.

In all honesty though, as I can see, on the horizon, my exodus from Illinois drawing near I am filled with what I consider peculiar feelings for me.  Even though I am travelling to one of the most halcyon places I could imagine, a Theosophical monastery in the mountains of San Diego, I feel a heavy feeling in my chest.

It’s not the feeling of sadness or loss.  It is more like an understanding that I am sacrificing something dear to me, for a great opportunity to be of service.  It is fitting in a way, since the monastery is in the Paracelsian order.  Paracelsus is the western father of alchemy, and much of the external studies of alchemy are based on the ideal of exchanging one thing for a different thing.  Much like how energy is never lost in the universe, it only changes form.

Right now, as I’m considering the past and the future, and trying to learn to be more mindful in the present, I should just be living in the moment considering the whirlwind of stuff that I have to plan and that has to happen.  But I keep coming back to a question.  “Of what good is Theosophy?”

This is an un-Theosophical question by nature, because the study of Theosophy is a very personal one.  And the good of Theosophy is inherent.  It is like asking what good is the Way?  What people do with it and what good it is, are as far from each other (to put it in Mark Twain’s words) as the difference between the lightning bug and the lightning.

And yet Theosophy is also what I am devoting my life to, ever more deeply, by moving to San Diego. Of what good is Theosophy? Everything, to me anyway.

I’d like to tell a story about how my wife, Amber, and I potentially found our new place of residence in our future town.  Like all things, this could be found through Craigslist.

Many people in the Midwest tell us how expensive everything is in California, including rent.  Not so if you don’t stay in the city.  For some reason no one wants to live in the Eastern mountains even though it only has a 45 minute drive to the city.  We found several potential places, but one was special because it was cheap and closer to the monastery where we plan to be much of the time.

As I was talking to the guy on the phone about it, he asked me questions such as, “Do you drink or smoke?”

“I do not do either,” I said.

“Okay, do you know where we are?”

I said, “Yes, Jamul.”

“Yes, but do you know we are in the mountains?  It’s almost an hour from San Diego.  Some people don’t realize this until after they are out here.”

“I assure you.  I have friends in Dulzura about 20 minutes away.  I want to be in the mountains.”

He said, “Oh, okay.  Are you a vegetarian?”

I said, “I am.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding unsure.

“Is that a problem?”

“Well, we are a working 10-acre farm.  We raise llamas, goats, horses, rabbits, chickens, and we also have cattle which we sell for beef.”

Pause.

He said, “Is that going to be a problem?”  

Before I could answer completely he continued, “You see we had this one tenant who said it would be okay with her even though she was a vegetarian.  Then one day she snapped.  She tried to buy all of our cattle so we couldn’t take it to slaughter.  Then she started yelling at all our dogs whenever they would bark at the squirrels.  We had to kick her out.”

After I finished laughing at his explanation, I tried to respond, “That won’t be a prob….”

“You see, our cows are our pets until they are slaughtered.  We treat them humanely and they can graze.  They have names and we treat them well.  But this is a working farm and that’s the reality.”

I interjected, “I’m not that kind of vegetarian. I was a cook. I even prepare meat for my friends sometimes.  I assure you I’ll be cool about it.”

“Okay.  I think we’ve got a place for you guys if you want it, just talk to my wife about it later.”

I said, “Great!  Because it actually sounds like a wonderful place!”

On Amber and my consideration on whether moving to San Diego is something we’d like to do, we felt the universe was sending us signs, nudging us toward the decision.  Small ones, mind you, but things we took as signs.  Amber called the farm later, and I asked her how the conversation went.

Amber told me, “First she asked if we were sure we knew where they were."

I said, “Yeah, that happened to me too.”

Amber continued, “I told her we had friends in Dulzura.  She asked me where, and I told her they were on Mother Grundy Trail.  Then the lady said that they were also on Mother Grundy, and that road lead off their property up to a monastery, but the road is chained off.”

We looked at google maps satellite view.  Even though this farm was in Jamul and the monastery is in Dulzura, there was a clear path leading from one to the other.  Mountain neighbors just don’t have the same proximity as what we are used to, I guess.

“Who has the key to the chain lock?” I asked.  Amber said she didn’t know.

“Still,” I said, “That is oddly convenient.  If the monastery has the key, it’s a straight shot.  Sounds like we should live at that farm!”

Do I actually believe signs work that way? I would never pretend to be any authority on that. However they do have llamas.  And you can bet, dollars to donuts, that I am going to name at least one of them Lama Llama, and request daily advice in exchange for apples.