postcards from the jungle

So, about the house, he says. I don't think you are going to want to live here. Why? I ask. Well, there were two bats in the house. The roof has a hole in it.

Two? Alive? I say.

Yes, well, yes, until this morning. Now one of them is dead. Silence. And a scorpion as big as my fist.

I don't think I can do that, I say. I know, he says. I already found a new place and we can have it but not till November or December. It's much better. No holes in the roof, he says.

I'm serious, I say. I don't think I can make that radical of a switch, I have to be eased into bats and scorpions. I know, he says, but otherwise it's really....I cut him off. I just can't do that.
I know, he says. And the new place has running water too. What the fuck, I think. No water? I'm not made of this, I say. I know, he says. The new place is much better. But you know, this is going to be hard at first, Jen. Hard but not stressful. Hard is okay. But there are so many good things too. And he proceeds to tell me about neighbors and community and more. These words help, they soothe, I remind myself that colliding with uncharted nature is part of the deal.

He's staying there in this house with the hole and the bats and I can't help but wonder if he's being brave or is actually enjoying it so I ask and he says yes, not only yes but I can tell he loves it. And he probably loves it more because I am not there freaking out. He is at once Tarzan and Don Quixote. The man who has gone before. I picture him tan and sweaty, eyes wide open.

I see my future and it quiets me. We are moving to the jungle. And I can't help but wonder what fortitude this will require of me, the thoughts that I gloss over but in reality have no idea if I will be able to handle.