Nothing Earth-Shattering

What happens when a friend shows up and nothing extraordinary occurs

Sometimes it’s just an ordinary week with ordinary things happening. A respite between earth-shattering revelations, latent ideas that need uncovering, or emotional moments of loss that need witnessing. Sometimes it’s just a weeklong visit from your friend who happens to be your AA sponsor and simple, loving time spent doing whatever comes to mind.

Krista arrived last week and we got to work. On the agenda: make mosaic tables out of her grandmother’s china and visit Tahoe for a couple of days—and coffee. Lots of coffee. I can’t believe how much coffee.

Krista is a practical, down-to-earth Oregonian. She drives a motorcycle, works full-time as an accountant and sponsors six women in AA. She supports her teenage niece, her brother who is recovering from a brain injury, and her adult son who is coming out of a rough patch (his twin sister is launched and doing well). When she sits down, she knits. Fancy china is not in her wheelhouse.

She unloaded the boxes while I set up the tables in the art studio. The pieces she pulled out were gorgeous—deep red and cream with ornate flowers along the edges and serene images of houses along rivers and in nature at the center. Several different designs depending on the piece. I could not imagine smashing them. Krista was adamant that she wasn't keeping them anymore. They took up too much space and she never used them, but she wanted a memory of them. I suggested we embed four plates into each table with a smaller plate at the center, then surround them with smashed pieces of stone tile. We set them up, mudded them down, and stood back. The china stayed intact, held in place by all the beautiful mess around it.

The next morning was a visit to Baked in Amador—my favorite breakfast spot in the area. Sourdough pancakes, the best vanilla latte I have ever had, and a Volcano loaf with full cloves of garlic and jalapeño massaged into the dough to take home. Every time I walk in there, I am greeted by the staff now. It feels good to be known a little.

The Tahoe adventure started the next day. We had our coffee and hit the road. Krista inherited a Worldmark timeshare when her dad died—not a gift, more like inherited debt—and when we checked in and attempted to simply walk to our suite, a man materialized out of nowhere and wrangled us to a desk where a woman with very severely drawn-on eyebrows and uncanny valley lip-liner kept whispering about value and opportunity and how we needed to sign up for a sales pitch breakfast (not her words, my informed interpretation). We kept saying no. She kept whispering. It was annoying in the way that only someone trying to sell you something you absolutely don’t want can be annoying. Can someone explain to me why bullying is a sales tactic? We extracted ourselves and left that energy at the door.

We stopped at a local bookstore/coffee shop and got a vanilla latte in the most ingenious lidless to-go cup I've ever held—one seamless piece, the rim folded inward into a small concave spout you could actually drink from without spilling a drop. Why isn’t everyone doing this?

Krista got lost in the card section and came away with enough cards for a year. As it turns out she writes at least one card to someone every day—she might make it through the next month with her haul.

Dinner was tapas at a restaurant that doubled as a theatre billing itself as "South Lake Tahoe's premier magic and comedy destination, featuring world-class magicians from around the globe." The tapas were great and we tried bison for the first time—it's gamey. The in-house magician, Robert Hall, performed a new show called "Inevitable" involving Rubik's cubes, mathy magic, dictionaries, playing cards, and lots of audience participation—including a drunken woman who announced her need to pee every time she stood up and a deeply skeptical 8-year-old girl. He handled both with skill. Highly cheesy, genuinely fun.

There were the early bedtimes. No apologies. Just two women in their sixties choosing sleep like it was a radical act. It kind of was.

As I mentioned, Krista knits. Always. If she’s sitting, her hands are moving. The fingerless rainbow striped gloves she made me arrived in the mail a while back. I’ve been wearing them every day when I sit outside for my morning practice. When she showed up at my door, she had a matching hat she’d made for me. And while she was here—right here, in this little house in Fiddletown—she knitted me a scarf to complete the set. Piece by piece, visit by visit, she’s been making me something to wear. I don’t know why that fills up my heart so much, but it does.

Here’s the thing about living alone in a place with 187 people. You choose it. You love it. And it costs you something you don’t always name out loud. Humans need touch. We need the particular warmth of someone who knows us showing up at the door or meeting us in a coffee shop and wrapping their arms around us. Shadow is fabulous—genuinely, extraordinarily fabulous—but she is a cat and there are limits.

Having Krista here reminded me of what I’m building toward out on this land. Not just retreats for strangers, but a life with room in it for people who know me. People who make things with me. People who will say no with me to the eyebrow lady and enjoy some sourdough, multiple lattes, and cheesy performances.

Nothing earth-shattering happened this week. Everything that matters did.

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Tuesday March 3rd, 10th, or 17th: 4:30PM PT / 7:30PM ET

Drop-in rate: $25/session.