I made a list of what I miss today, and itade 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 orbital 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.
A blanket in the yard, a wandering cat, sun and breeze, and some messing around on the parlor guitar, trying out different combinations and feeling how they might be the chorus on the new song scrawled on wide ruled paper a handful of pages back.
It dropped me gently back into myself, bridged the day’s ebbs and flows the way sound without words magically does, and it felt so good to participate, to create, not just consume.
After a friendly dinner of locally caught herring and on-sale red potatoes, we put together my bed frame.
There’s a lot of peace in not minding a mattress on the floor (especially when it’s on a cheery rug), but there’s also always a tipping point of stagnation, of well, this is my life that just doesn’t support flow or growth or expansion.
So I asked for help from someone who actually said “I wish this was my full-time job” and wasn’t being sarcastic: there was, I posit, the same satisfaction as putting together a Lego kit (though it increased exponentially once we went to get some power tools, ignoring the explicit instructions not to use them and thus saving ourselves an hour at least).
And not only did I end up with a cuter bedroom (and a hideout for the cat, lone socks, and as-yet-unformed dust bunnies), I got to do a thing that could have felt sad and insecure and sharp and criticized but instead felt safe and steady and a little fun and goofy.
When we were nearly done we took a break and had red wine and chocolate cake, and if you ask me, this is the best thing about being an adult and having to do it all yourself: having someone lovely to do it with.