The Triangle House

September 2020

It was the fourth day of vacation but I woke up before 7am as usual. My friends were still sleeping off a few bottles of prosecco and a midnight walk on the beach. Each summer, we’d rent a different place on Plum Island, one of New England’s best kept summer vacation secrets, on a long-term mission to discover THE perfect beach house. 

We may have found it this time. It sat on a little strip of land between the Atlantic Ocean and a tidal basin. We could walk across the road and over the dunes to the beach or sit on the deck and watch the sunset over the marsh. We had no agenda except for long days in the sun and elaborate cheese plates in the evenings. It was a dreamy contrast to the daily toil of a muggy summer in Cambridge.  

I quietly dressed for a run and smeared on some SPF 30. The sun was still low in the sky but it was nearly 80 degrees as I headed out at a relaxed pace. Instead of taking the long straight shot into town, I chose to wind my way through the snarl of little island roads lined with beachy cottages. Soon I was in the zone and drenched in sweat. I hit a sharp bend in the road. The glare of the sun was in my eyes as I came around the corner, but I could still make out the tall peak of a roof. As I got closer, the entire giant, bright green A-frame, speckled with skylights, came into view. 

Hello, what’s this? I thought. My pace slowed to a shuffle. This house looked nothing like its neighbors. It was literally a triangle sitting on stilts so high there was room to tuck a car underneath. I stopped, forgetting about running. The front was bright white. Flanked by windows, a sliding glass door opened up to a wide deck stretching across the entire bottom of the triangle. A tiny deck was nestled up at the triangle’s peak. A spiral staircase peeked out from behind the house. I poked around the side. There was another set of decks in the back! 

And there was a For Sale sign.

This is it, I thought. I will buy this house and live here, steps from the beach. I will be at peace. So at peace. I won’t mind the long commute to the city. I will gladly give up the convenience of cheap late night Lyft rides and my favorite Greek restaurant around one corner and Trader Joe’s around the other and will lead a peaceful quiet life here and appreciate the beauty and meditate and be satisfied. 

My body was buzzing. I ran extra fast back to our rental to google the listing. It was a little too expensive and a little too quirky to be practical. It was a triangle after all. Could I live in a house with no right angles? Would I bump my head? So maybe not *this* house, but another. Something serious had clicked when I laid eyes on that soaring green roof and its accompanying For Sale sign: I do not want to live in the city anymore. 

But was I allowed to move out of the city? I was 36 and single. You’re supposed to live in the city at least until you get married. It was my job, my duty, my station in life to live where the biggest dating pool was until I had a ring. This is what I had assumed was true since I was 22. Those were the rules! It never occurred to me to imagine otherwise.

But that also felt over. I was so single. I’d been on a million first and second and sometimes third dates that went nowhere. I’ve heard, “You’re great but I’ve also been seeing someone else...” so many times it seemed improbable that they were all telling the truth. The dates that did grow into relationships were never quite right. There was a boyfriend who broke my heart when I was 30. A few years later, another one who would have broken my heart if I hadn't been secretly expecting him to disappoint me all along. 

I kept trudging along in my search for the right partner because I believed that’s when your legitimate adult life really starts. I had a career, money to rent a beach house, and now I just had to find the relationship and life would be happening! But dating was more work than fun, more disappointment than excitement. Men made me feel so tired. 

I felt far behind my friends who had gotten married years before —- some of their kids were almost 10! I was never going to catch up. But did I even want to catch up now?

New questions were gnawing at me:  What kind of life do I want to live right now? Am I willing to deny myself that life as punishment for the partner not showing up when I thought he should?

Staying in the city for the possibility of a good date now seemed ludicrous.

Not to mention, the city was loud and crowded. My landlords were lovely people but they lived upstairs and their kids had a drum set. I had no outdoor space and I couldn’t see the sky from my apartment. I was paying a premium to live in a place where I was no longer taking advantage of all the things that made it great. Like going out to hear some indie band play in a tiny dive bar on a Tuesday night or spending evenings with the regulars at the restaurant within stumbling distance of my apartment where the bartenders provided bottomless glasses of sauvignon blanc. 

But if I moved up to a beach town mostly inhabited by families, would that mean officially giving up on dating? Moving to a small town and falling in love with the local carpenter only happens in the Louise Miller novels I secretly like to read. Or maybe there would be a divorced dad scene to lean into and that wouldn’t be so bad. And it’s not like I was going on many dates in the city anymore -- what exactly would I be giving up?

I floated the idea to my parents. They loved it. I met with my financial guy. He said buying a home made sense. I scrolled through real estate listings, which felt infinitely more productive than scrolling through Tinder. I soon found a realtor who was far more responsive and attentive to my needs than any boyfriend had ever been.

I wanted something small, but not too small. A driveway and no upstairs neighbors required. A porch, a yard. I knew a place right on the beach wasn’t quite affordable or practical, and I didn’t want to be right in the center of town either. I needed some space.

I had started to clean out my closets in anticipation of moving. Big weekend plans now meant driving up north for a showing or an open house, then taking a walk on the beach or cruising through the shops in town and imagining I was already living up there.

Inventory was limited. Months passed. I started to get nervous. Nothing felt right. I was seeing the same listings over and over again. The initial thrill of scrolling MLS was fading. I wondered if I was being too picky. Maybe I’d have better luck if I expanded my search, could settle for a nearby town instead of the exact spot I had my heart set on.

Then one Saturday morning in January something new popped up: an open house in my price range - the next day. The address was a pretty road I’d driven down countless times before and thought, What if I could live in one of these houses?

I arrived 24 hours later and took a deep breath. The house was not a triangle. It was a red rectangle with a deck overlooking a big yard and a maple tree. I walked in and knew this place was different from the others I’d seen. A living room that managed to be cozy and airy at the same time invited me in. It flowed around to a simple country kitchen with white cabinets and black countertops. The stunning view of the yard and the trees and the sky through a sliding glass door welcomed me home. I was flooded with feelings of familiarity, comfort, ease. Like I’d been there before, like I’ve been there all along. THIS was it.

Eight weeks later, I moved in.

I anticipated a period of adjustment. I thought I’d leave work and get on the train headed for my old apartment by accident, but I never did. I was dazzled by a newfound sense of space and freedom. Even going to the grocery store was easier. You didn’t have to fight to get around town. I let myself sink into a more simple, relaxed pace. When a neighbor rushed over to introduce herself and exclaimed, “Oh yes, we heard it was a SINGLE WOMAN moving in!” as if I were an exotic animal, it still felt great. 

But the move didn’t completely transform my life the way I first imagined it would that day I spotted the triangle house. Of course I was not content to just meditate my days away. I felt relief, but deep down I still wasn’t giving myself credit. If I’m doing it alone, does it count? Is my life valid? I was enjoying my new home and life, but I had a nagging sense that my freedom was some sort of consolation prize. Sure I get all this, but it’s a trade off for the partner & family I don’t have. 

It is a constant practice to put my attention towards cultivating a life and a way of being that honors what feels true for me even if, especially if, it veers away from the conventional path my younger self had set sights on. I have weeks where I feel powerful and in my groove and I have weeks where I feel unmoored and uncertain. 

When I moved in, I decided to let most of my backyard grow in and transform it into a meadow of wildflowers. I don’t love big lawns. They are boring to look at, boring to mow, and don’t contribute much to the environment. But expanses of tall grasses and flowers are vital to creating a vibrant habitat:  they protect animals and insects from predators, from the heat, from the cold, and provide nourishment. And a meadow is pretty. This is a slow project that will take years to accomplish, far messier than a landscaped garden. So far, it’s welcomed in bumblebees and birds and rabbits. There are butterflies now and occasionally deer wander through and graze. Last summer fireflies showed up. I’m pretty sure my next door neighbor with the perfect lawn is mildly horrified.

I spent my early adulthood searching for a sense of security and groundedness - which I thought I would only find through coupled life. But instead I found this home. It’s where I can thrive in my independence. It’s my shelter when storms of insecurity blow through. I can choose to let the right person in if he knocks on my door. But no matter who is or isn’t in my life, I belong here. I can look out over the deck and watch my meadow as it sleeps in the winter and awakens in the spring. I can’t predict what each summer will produce, but I am continually delighted by the new flowers that pop up and surprise me.