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Moving on, yet again

Julie Fanselow

I opened the door to my new place last spring and heard a noise I hadn’t heard when I looked at the apartment. Maybe it’s the bathroom fan upstairs, the property manager said. But it wasn’t; it was my brand-new refrigerator, and I’d soon learn that it runs loudly and long, more than half of every hour. This wouldn’t be a problem in a big house, but in a studio apartment with my bed about 10 feet away, it wasn’t good. This was especially dispiriting since I’d just moved from an apartment I really liked for two years until the rattle and hum of a new generator at the nearby light rail construction project kicked in to keep me awake at night.

The fridge was the only serious noise issue for a while, until new folks moved into the apartment above mine last summer. Whether due to work schedules or insomnia, they were often up all night. After being jolted awake by the agitator of a washing machine at 3 a.m. a few times within a week — their laundry stack was right above my bed — I wrote a note asking them not to do laundry in the wee hours. Happily, they stopped, but even their normal walking-around noises in the cheaply built structure were enough to interfere with a good night’s rest.

With my lease expiring in early March and a rent increase coming, I decided late last year to see if I could find a new place. I realized that come 2022, I’d be eligible to apply for an “affordable” apartment in a 61+ community since I turn that age this year. I visited one a few blocks from me, where they offered a big discount and a free month. The apartment was far from perfect in its layout, but it seemed quiet, and its well-below-market price was a steal. I got the extensive paperwork together just before Christmas so the manager could submit the application right after the holidays.

It was a mirage. By the last week of January, my application seemed mired in a black hole of bureaucracy, and I was nearing the date when I need to give notice at my current apartment, so I started looking elsewhere. After losing out on one apartment I liked, I knew I’d need to act quickly if I saw another one I wanted. (To prevent discrimination, Seattle has a law that a landlord must rent to the first qualified tenant who applies.)

I also decided to look beyond Craigslist to see what might be flying under the radar. That’s how, on a neighborhood walk last Thursday, I saw a building I hadn’t noticed before, with a sign out front for a local property management company. There was no indication an apartment was becoming available, but I checked the company’s website on Friday morning and saw a listing for a one-bedroom unit at a good price. I immediately asked for a showing, I liked what I saw, I went online to apply Friday night, and by Tuesday morning, I heard that it was mine.

My seventh kitchen in a decade.

Things happen — or they don’t — for a reason. Although the idea of a cheap-apartment-for-life at the senior place was enticing, I was born restless. I definitely hope to spend at least two years, maybe even three, at this new address. But after that, with the pandemic firmly behind us, perhaps I’ll finally pursue my long-held dream of putting what little I own in a small storage unit and traveling for a year or two.

Although I’m not an astrology buff, I spotted my January horoscope from the cheeky Free Will Astrology column. “You will receive substantial assistance from life whenever you work on the intention to clarify and define the specific longings that are most essential to you,” it said. For now, my biggest longing is to end a year of sleep deprivation. “Peace and tranquility,” my dad used to say whenever my brother and I asked him what he wanted for his birthday or for Christmas. We’d laugh and laugh, but now I get it — and hopefully, I’ll have it.

Remember ‘slow’?

Julie Fanselow

As a city dweller, you learn to walk defensively. That’s why I saw her glance to her left — but not to her right — before she turned out of the medical center parking lot, her right hand on the steering wheel, a big yellow bowl with a spoon balanced in her left. (It was about 7:45 a.m. Breakfast cereal, maybe?) She never saw me, but happily I saw her, so I’m here to write this.

The Seattle Times reported yesterday that traffic levels have rebounded to near-normal levels statewide. I remember how I wished last spring that cars might stay parked a lot more once we returned to “normal.” No such luck. Even though the kids are home from school for the summer and many people are still working remotely, most of us have reasons to drive somewhere. I get it; I actually drove to my walk this morning (since it was in my old neighborhood and I needed to get gas and groceries afterward), and I’ll be driving to a campsite later this weekend to beat the 100-degree-plus heat forecast for Seattle.

Still, I’d like to put in a few words for mindfulness, for taking a few minutes to enjoy breakfast at home, for savoring every sunrise and sunset, and for going slow when you have the opportunity. As the hardest part of the pandemic ends, maybe we can pretend we still have all the time in the world.

Thanks for reading Surely Joy. Enjoy a couple of songs from The Head and the Heart, recorded in 2011 at Doe Bay in the San Juan Islands.

Happiness as a choice

Julie Fanselow

“You always seem so happy,” my ballpark colleague says to me. “Are you always so happy?”

I’m a bit thrown by such an existential question, this change-up amid the usual between-innings banter. I agree that this is true, and I mumble something about having a hopeful orientation. Orientation is one way to put it, though perhaps not the most elegant. I wish I’d replied with my favorite quote, “Joy is the happiness that doesn’t depend on what happens.” (Thanks as always, Br. David Steindl-Rast.) Yet there’s little reason to overthink my reply, in the moment or in hindsight.

Am I happy? Why yes, I am. It beats the alternative.

Mixed emotions are human, and June 19 is a day that will forever bring mixed emotions for me. I mostly feel joy for the birth 65 years ago today of a man whom I had the great luck to love over the last five years of his life—though of course that joy remains tinged with regret that he is no longer here. I may have a longer essay (or two) to write someday about Tom’s last few months and the anguish I felt after he was gone.

I can’t say I was happy during those hard months. But looking back three years, I guess I was joyful even amid the depths of that anguish. Scratch that: I know I was joyful, because that’s how we survive the worst things that life and death throw our way. Joy is also how we recognize the glimmers of goodness that are always glinting in our peripheral vision—for example, people who recognize our happiness because they themselves have chosen the gift of seeing life through an optimistic lens.

(As an aside, today is the first official Juneteenth, and that brings more mixed emotions: We should celebrate how far we’ve come as a country that we can now recognize the end of slavery with a federal holiday. No, this doesn’t right all the wrongs that centuries of human bondage have wrought in our country. The work for representation and reparations will continue. But can we make it joyful, generous, perhaps even playful work? Can we curb the tribalism and bickering, escape the confines of our identity silos, and give each other some room to breathe and grow?)

(Putting my soapbox away …)

I’m uncharacteristically rambling here, so I’ll stop, but after two months without a post, I wanted to check in. Life is good: I have just the right amount of work, I’m grateful for my family and friends, I’m enjoying my new-again neighborhood, and I’m plotting all kinds of adventures for this summer and beyond. It’s a beautiful life—and yes, a happy one. I’m joyfully greeting this season of sun and light and a return to the world, and I wish that for you, too. Thanks for reading Surely Joy.

A few words about the music for this post: Last night, I went to my first live music show in about 18 months, at my fave music club. Here’s a 10-year-old radio listener lounge version of a song LeRoy Bell and His Only Friends played last night, “Everything About You.” And a few days ago, I saw the glorious, raucous, sexy “In the Heights” at my favorite movie theater. The first eight minutes are below. Enjoy!