Wheeee!!
You know it’s time to make a move when you think more of the new house than of the old… Lately - just this morning, actually - my mind has been on this site instead of the other one, so I decided to just make the plunge and hope my faithful readers will dive in with me. It’s more fun to dive en masse, though undoubtedly more painful what with all the bumping up against each other on the way down. Dr. Peck said that the real reason you get married is for the friction. He wasn’t being sarcastic, either; he meant that our whole purpose in life is to grow, to evolve, and nothing helps you do that more than living with one person for a hundred years. I think the same thing applies to other relationships, too. If you find people to love, and who love you back - weird as they may be, shoving up against your weirdness: a congruence of like-minded weirdnesses - then you’re good to go. Or good to grow. Same thing.
I feel very, very happy today. I got a lot of painting done yesterday; in fact, after I’m finished here I’m going to start researching my next masterpiece. The paint on my little leotard-girl’s face needs to dry a tad more before I add details, which gives me the opportunity to start another painting in the meantime. It’s important to stay in the flow, I’m finding; otherwise, I stagnate and get afraid to pick things up again. That’s kind of where I am with my book. Boy, you are probably as sick of hearing about that book as I am of mentioning it. It’s just that… I guess… I see it as my poor, stunted baby; the one I keep in the closet with the Christmas decorations, alive but barely, a precious little somebody I want to acknowledge but don’t have the time to nurse. That was a really stupid analogy, which may make you glad I’m not writing. Truth be told, I will get to it some day. I’m pretty certain of the schedule, as certain as I can be when God tells me to go ahead and make my plans, but let him guide my steps. I think I’ll be ready when Torie gets in school.
Scott’s been given another job lead, one that pays three dollars more an hour. I’ll let you know how it pans out, hopefully within the next couple days. He’s looking up. So am I. I keep thinking of that recipe for happiness I found a few months ago: Something to do, someone to love, something to look forward to…. Again, all those things are in place. The Something To Look Forward To was looking a little dicey there for awhile, but it’s back in spades. Not that I can explain why, rationally… My spirit feels it. When my spirit’s looking up, everything’s spicy and juicy and sparkly. It’s only when you spend at least as much time in the dark that those things mean so much.
You know what I keep thinking about? Seeing the Pacific in July, when we go to Oregon for our visit. I was daydreaming about it this morning, imagining the constant hush-hush-hush of the waves pushing against the shore; intermittent salty cries of gulls; wet, gritty sand squelched up between my toes…. There’s no way I’ll be able to adequately drink it in to last me another couple years but I’m going to try. When I die, I’m putting in for a place at the beach, I don’t care where, only the craggier and wilder the better. I don’t go to the beach to frolic in the waves. I go to walk, and to stand staring at the horizon. Besides, the last few days I’ve been eating dessert, a no-no for me the past year and a half, so I’m anticipating being far too fat for a bathing suit anyway. Anne Lamott - my new literary friend - affectionately and forgivingly calls her thighs “the little aunties” and has worked hard on befriending them in her 40s. I need to do the same. I’ll be 41 this year, and I find it terribly unfair that I’m turning 41 in an age where 41 is the new 21. Know what I mean? I’m expected - at this stage in life - to look like I’m barely out of my teens, thanks to all the aging stars who have access to liposuction and the snippety-snipping of questionable parts. When our moms were 41, they could look 41, right moms? Now they - in their 60s and 70s - have to look 40. God, help us. We’re not going insane; we packed up and moved to the funny farm years ago.
Believe it or not, I’ve been cooking the last week, every night. Homemade, grilled hamburgers last night, to celebrate the soldiers. Of course, I called OUR personal soldier too late in the day to invite him for dinner; he had already made plans. I forget that Van is our son first, an independent adult second, when he spends most of his time being independent. There was poignant regret in his voice when he said, “If you’d called me earlier…” I wanted to reach through the phone and shake him by the lapels and say, “How am I supposed to know you care?” and then hug him fiercely. I guess it’s up to me to remember - on his behalf - that he wants us to be here at home longing for him - which we are - but not act like it when he’s around. Van still loves us, but Scott and I realized we’re at the point in our relationship with him that we have to earn the right to be heard, to be visited, to be valued. It’s not a given, and it’s a mistake to think so. So, we build the remainder of our lives together as best we can, adjusting to our changing family, negotiating shaky ground none of us has trod before. Life is not static, and sometimes it’s hard to keep your arms open to receive when they’re flailing about. You know, it’s a good thing people tend to get married and have children when they’re completely and utterly ignorant of what it all entails.
Time to go and take care of the bidness of the day. You know, I wrote “bidness” to be (albeit pathetically) funny, but the day does “bid” to us, doesn’t it? It does to me… The times I’m happiest are when I can empty myself of everything around me - behind and before - and abide, just in the moment. Say, “Thank you God, for this moment, this beautiful second, to be alive…” To experience, as May Sarton wrote, “Open time, with no obligations except toward the inner world and what is going on there.” To find yourself in your inner world is to experience timelessness. It’s pretty cool. Love to you all! xoxo
