I guess I had it all wrong. My thinking was that I had already gone through empty nest syndrome after my youngest went off to college last year. But evidently, there was more to come.

My second daughter moved out when she went to college, but then returned to live on our property, bringing her fiancé with her. A wedding, a baby, and a divorce followed over the next six years. I loved having my family around. It was the best of both worlds. We could be together anytime we wanted while still living in separate dwellings. But now, my daughter and four-year-old grandson have moved “down the hill” to be closer to the conveniences of city life — I guess. And while it may seem like a good move on their part, it’s like torture to me.

In fact, to be honest, it feels downright wrong. Five generations of our family have lived here in the canyon, and for better or worse, this sense of family and community feels absolutely right. I know that in this day and age, our youngsters are expected to flex their wings and go out on their own. But in other cultures, this is not the norm. It could be considered abandonment. In the old days, extended families lived together, with the elders helping to care for the youngsters while the parents went out to work. That whole scenario helped promote cohesion, love, trust, and respect throughout the group — crossing generations. However, these days, if one of our grown children fails to launch, it’s determined to be a negative thing. Either the parents didn’t do their job right or there’s something wrong with the young adult.

But I’m not really speaking of this scenario. I’m referring more to the matter of choice. My idea is that raising kids in a multi-generational family is a much more viable option than attempting to exist in a vacuum — with society’s whims exerting their pressures and without there being a safety net to fall back on. This is true for any one of the group. We all know that it takes a village to successfully raise our young. The goal is to help them reach a place where they can be successful in relationships, be able to provide for their own families…. In essence, to be loving, caring, and contributing members of our society.

Speaking of family groups, we’ve been seeing a group of deer in our area. Sometimes as many as seven. Somehow, I’d like to see our families stick together more as a group — like those deer. Sharing food, cooperating with labor, and recreating together can bring more genuine meaning to these activities. There are just two of us left in the canyon these days, my husband and me. Gardening and growing goodies to share feels a bit empty without my offspring here to share it with. Yes, I know. I’m obsessing over what most people would consider “No Big Deal.” But to me, it feels like a huge loss.

When I lay in bed at night fighting insomnia, the hooting of the owls sends me a mixed message. I feel comforted and grateful to be living in this rural canyon surrounded by the wild sounds of the night. But they also bring a melancholy mood, reminding me of how lonely it can feel here at times. Nevertheless, I realize that I will adjust, eventually, and regroup my inner calm. It’s just that this period of adjustment is not very comfortable. I wasn’t prepared for it.

It’s like the surprise rain we got back in August. It poured down while the lightning struck and the thunder roared. I sat out on the front porch, yelling into the deluge, harmonizing with the rolls of thunder. It felt wonderful. But that unexpected treat of restoring moisture to the earth also created ruinous ruts in the road and front yard. We’ll have to bring out shovels the next time it comes. Having these tools ready can come in handy when the unexpected happens. Such as when half your family moves away. So, here’s to the owls, who remind us how isolated, yet how connected we all are to everything around us.

I started my walk just as the dawning light was beginning to descend into the canyon. The crisp, clear air filled my lungs as we ascended through the sagebrush and newly sprouted green grass. The breathtaking views over Kimball Valley, out toward Cuyamaca and the surrounding ridges never cease to inspire me. Even though I was kind of in a hurry I decided to sit down on a rock, just for a minute. I closed my eyes in silent meditation and immediately got a message from my late mother and grandmother. You see, ten years after the Cedar Fire I’m rebuilding Bamoo’s (my grandma’s) house and mulling over appropriate paint colors. I knew I wanted a shade of dirt, but what? They seemed to tell me that the house ought to be the color of the clay in the clay pit. I opened my eyes. Okay. I don’t have much time, but I better go collect a sample now. I climbed over some boulders and bush-whacked up to the clay pit. Luckily, I had a paper towel in my jacket pocket, so I scooped up fistfuls of the dark red clay into the paper and wrapped it. About 50 feet down the rabbit trail, I stopped when they seemed to indicate that the color of the trim might lie at my feet. I pulled out my last napkin and grabbed a handful of the dark brown, almost black dirt mixed with dead lilac leaves. I was excited. Mission accomplished! My dilemma of color decisions was settled.

On my first lap up the canyon this morning I had to stop momentarily to soak in the view. It was barely light enough to see where I was running, but the clear, dawning sky allowed the mountain ridges to stand in stark relief against it. Every tree, rock or indentation was intensely vivid without the sunshine to diffuse the light and spread a wash of brightness over everything. Pre-dawn feels magical to me. It’s my favorite time of day. The owls are still hooting to each other across the valley and I’m ever so fortunate to be here, right now, with them.

Today, I’m substitute teaching at MVA, the local, part-time public school for the home-schoolers. It’s one of my favorite places to work as these kids are, for the most part, allowed the freedom and the time to explore things more at their own pace. Today is a half day, and when I get back home I will tutor another home-schooler in reading, writing, and arithmetic. Last year, we covered all the multiplication tables through the twelves and he now knows them by heart. He writes wonderful, imaginative stories, practices the vanishing art of cursive writing. and we work on fun science together.

Last week we picked up five new chickens from one of my Dance Centre students. My son Chance and my five-year-old grandson Ian came with me to help capture our new feathered friends. Once we got home, it was quite dark, which made it much easier to treat the chickens for potential mites or other nuisances. We each had a job. Ian held the door of the pet carrier closed. Chance held each bird while I smeared Vaseline and tea tree oil on their legs. Then my husband Kent dusted them with diatomaceous earth. The sleepy heads barely knew what was being done to them. Now, at last, we’re getting plenty of eggs to feed our family.

Construction has officially begun on my grandmother’s Cedar Fire rebuild. A week ago Monday, we had the big cement pour. I had tried to convince my daughter Kali to let Ian skip school to watch this exciting event. He’s one of those little boys who could watch big trucks and tractors all day long. What’s he going to remember from whatever he did at school on that Monday anyway? The images of big cement trucks finagling their way in the dirt road and up to the construction site, along with the pumper engine pushing the gushing gray sludge out the huge snake-like hose, requiring massive strength from the guy holding the end of the serpent, is probably more likely to stick with him.