The snorkeling goggles have been playing musical chairs (too small, already have a pair, etc, etc), and most recently have been renting a corner of the counter at work, waiting to go home to a younger kid.
But thank goodness for the delays of real life: today Pat put them on.
That’s all. That’s it. You had to be there. He didn’t do anything funny or say anything in particular. He just wore a pair of child’s snorkeling goggles and it was the best thing I saw all day.
To mince the garlic and slather the steak in last year’s tomato butter (forgotten in the freezer but still so damn good!).
To have no white wine and so deglaze the pan with a nice dry cider (brewed just down the road in Duluth), and then to drink the rest of it with dinner.
To add Gouda in thin shavings, hunks of an heirloom tomato sawed off without regard for looks, and top it all with a few small basil leaves, plucked from the bouquet in the glass jar where the stalks have recently started to put out roots.
Then good conversation twice over, a good book, and at last giving up the day a few minutes after it turned into tomorrow.
I made a list of what I miss today, and it made room to take a breath, be Here.
I discovered, in the archeological dig that is my relationship with myself, that I don’t feel at home in my life yet. That it feels like I’ve moved to a foreign country and nothing has settled into its groove, or at least nothing in the kitchen.
And that was good, too.
Understanding and having a Beginning-Middle-End can be addictive, but it also drops an anchor: Ohhhh! That’s what’s going on under the surface! And then the brain space that was being used on trying to figure out what felt off is freed up and everything snaps into sharper focus and the worlds within me all line up for a moment, like some multi-planetary eclipse, before continuing on their independent orbits once again.
Of course I miss some things. Of course I am not settled into well-worn grooves in this house after three-and-a-half months, nine months after asking for a divorce and moving out.
But Glennon Doyle says, “We can do hard things,” and this isn’t even a hard thing– it’s just a new thing. And I’m meeting it and getting to know it and seeing how we fit each other, just like with everything– and everyone– else.
I baked a squash and washed all the dishes. Listened to a little romantic accordion on a Café Paris playlist before returning to the combination of quiet and conversation.
The house was warm and smelled cozy. The kitchen still awaits such a facelift, such a rearranging to match what I see in my mind. But it’s a good home, and a good feeling to be at home here; to wash the floor and wipe the counters and fluff the pillows not for anyone else but myself. And then to share it, now and then, from excess, from ease, from the place where I am right now.
Sleeping on the deck, futon mattress pulled off the frame, plenty of blankets piled up against the chill of the September night, bright stars high above (but feeling close and friendly).
The moments when the whole body is open and feeling everything– joy, delight, wonder, fatigue, warmth, cold– feel holy. Being one being, all the too-often-independent parts merged together, and then expanding that connection and permeation to the whole night sky, to the animal-vegetable-mineral companions until there is only Now, only This, only Us– that’s Home.
Oh my god, it was so fun– to have that bounce and depth and rhythm. To be three instead of two, which does some kind of magical math equation to the sense of potential and possibility. To be not perfect together. To drink beer (even if mine was only metaphorical). To make plans for more songs just by me singing a verse and then Ben jumping in with the slappiest bass lines.
I swear we were having fun, even though Jon and Ben seem to be laser beaming each other in this photo.
And I can’t wait to add the fourth and final member to join us soon and see what Big Bangs happen in the universe then!
I sat by the lake on the East Bay then lounged. Then became, like the line of water and sky, more and more horizontal; like the rocks, nearly silent; like the water, far more than the calm surface.
(Reader, I mean that I slept, cheek pressed againsty arm, very possibly snoring for any passing tourist to hear, with my belly pressing against sun-warmed pebbles. But I also mean all of that about the merging and communion and deep water ecosystem).
This time of year feels like Summer and not Summer: there’s the desire to do it all… and to be still and quiet and begin to slow down, calibrating already for the drop on temperatures, the blush in the leaves, the ripening of rosehips and apples, the dropping of first blossoms and then seeds.