The Kitchen Window

I’m twenty-six years old. Hand-sewn, red and white checkered curtains adorn the kitchen window. A tablecloth in the same fabric covers the kitchen table. Even though I don’t like to sew, I make simple things to feel self-reliant. Our wooden house in Felton, California is painted forest green. It matches the dark-green leaves of the large redwood trees that surround the home. I am the mother of two boys, ages one and three. I spend time at the kitchen sink that sits underneath the window. Here, I wash fresh-picked blackberries, fill the kettle with water for tea made with fresh mint leaves and honey. I wash dishes and sticky fingers. The window looks out to the forest where trees are tall. They cover the sun and shade our small, fenced yard. In the dampness, sunlight slivers in slants through the trees. 

I like this window, its view, and our tiny home in the woods. I’m young and naïve and believe my life will forever follow this pleasant path.

I’m thirty-years old. My kitchen window is plain. I don’t remember the color of the curtains, but I remember the view. I can see Mount Shasta, watch as the light changes the colors of the mountain. At sunrise, the snow-covered peak is the color of salmon—soft shades of oranges and pinks. By noon, the white snow contrasts sharply against a crisp blue sky. Sunsets are often magenta, but no two days are alike. We live in a single-wide trailer on a friend’s ranch. I am the mother of three children, two sons and a daughter, ages seven, five, and three. I am at the kitchen sink that sits under the window where I wash fresh vegetables from the garden. Fill the kettle with water for coffee. I grind beans, pour two tablespoons of fresh grounds into a filter that tops a ceramic mug. Watch out the window as my children play in the yard making houses out of sticks and leaves.

The view out the window enchants me with this mountain that is ever changing as the sunrises, sunsets and seasons change. Later, I will snowshoe and backpack on Mount Shasta. I will learn mountaineering skills and cross-country ski at the mountain’s base. But I don’t know that yet. 

I’m thirty-two years old. There is no kitchen window over my kitchen sink, but light from the large living room windows that reach the ceiling brighten the room. The house is an A-frame that looks over the Feather River canyon in Paradise. At the canyon’s base is the river. I hike down to a flume with my three children, ages nine, seven, and five. We find translucent-red newts and pretty rocks. 

Here, we learn that my oldest son has cirrhosis of the liver. His belly is taut and swollen.  I’m terrified as my son vomits coffee-ground-looking blood. He could die. At fourteen, he will receive a liver transplant that will save him. After that, I will divorce my children’s’ father. These are the years I lean on mountains for sustenance, as my increasing anxiety is only tamed by extreme physical activity. I backpack, cross-country ski, and rock climb in places like Mount Shasta, Mount Lassen, the Trinity Alps. Eventually, I work as a backcountry guide in the High Sierra. My body is lean and strong, but my mental health is shattered. Life in the mountains holds me together. 

My children grow, finish high school. My oldest son’s liver transplant has been a success. He is stable. My divorce completed, I return to college, then move away from Paradise to live off-grid in the Tahoe National Forest with my second husband where I work full-time and travel three-hours round trip to graduate school to get my teaching credential. 

 I’m forty-nine years old. My kitchen window is trimmed in colored bottles with green, blue, and brown hues that illuminate in sun light. The window looks out over thirty-acres where horses run and cattle graze. Flowers and vegetable gardens grow on every side of our modular home in the high desert at 5,000 feet where sage brush and junipers grow. In the distance is a view of Mount Shasta. Here, I teach high school English. When off work, I load and stack hay bales, split and stack wood. We hike and kayak in the nearby mountains. I am manic—hyper energetic and agitated. My children are now adults, but my sons struggle with depression and drug use. 

At the end of each self-imposed exhausting day, washing dishes calms me. I gaze out the kitchen window, watch the horses make their evening run. The horses are paints—their coats in colors of red, brown, white, black, and tan. Long mains and tails fly. I hear their hooves as they hit the ground. Watch the sunset splash an amber glow across the wide-open sky.

 I’m seventy-one years old. My life has slowed dramatically. At sixty, diagnosed with Epstein Barr disease and chronic fatigue syndrome, I retire from teaching due to my disability. Xanax now lowers the anxiety that I once tamed through physical exertion. We move back to the Sierra to be closer to family.

I’ve had my right hip replaced, and the left hip will be next. Without cartilage, my bones ache. Still, I walk through the forest daily, a slow trudge with walking sticks, grateful to be outside amongst the trees on the skinny trails I have created with the dogs on our ten-acre property.

My kitchen window in our off-grid trailer looks out to cedars and pines. Madrones and oaks. I watch as our three dogs run freely, kicking up red dust and pine needles as they romp. A green-glittery hummingbird sips nectar from a bottle I hang from a tree. In another tree, a large, paper mâché wasps’ nest hums. Angry, red welts on my arms are proof of their presence.

I reflect on how pain and contentment entwine. The Paradise house where my family had lived, burned down in the 2018 Camp Fire. After four years of transient living, my sons are back on the property. A house was generously built by a grant through government agencies and nonprofits. Both my sons have been off street drugs for years now. My daughter is married; she is a teacher and curriculum writer. Two granddaughters brighten my life.

No longer the naïve twenty-six-year-old, I navigate the messy moments of life with resilience. I watch through the window as sunset fades to twilight without fear of darkness, willing to walk the unknown path as it unfurls.

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