"In 6 months you won't recognize yourself...."

This is a time of stock-taking.  I just had a birthday, and I'm starting my 55th year. I could conceivably retire at the end of it.  And there are other landmarks.... A year ago I had just left Portland and was starting a new job in a new place. 6 months ago I had just left D and was starting a new life in a new home.  At that nadir, T told me "In 6 months you won't recognize yourself."  He meant to be encouraging, of course, but since I couldn't believe it, it just gave me another yardstick for failure.  "Oh shit, in 6 months I have to be all better?!  I'll never manage it."

So, here I am, 6 months later, 1 year later, 10 years later (since I met D), 54 years later....and where am I?

From T's perspective, he was absolutely right. I am light years away from that self.  I am paying off debts and I've simplified my life. I'm taking care of business, I've started saving money.  I'm losing weight, I'm gaining health and energy and friends.  I'm no longer sobbing at random moments. I don't fall apart when I have to deal with things.  I find myself singing and laughing and skipping on occasion.  I look forward to spending evenings alone.  While I still am not sleeping well, I'm no longer a danger to myself driving home late at night.  Yes, compared to my December self, I am not recognizable.

Compared to a year ago, the change is even more dramatic.  I've gone from a partially-employed married woman living in a 2-story farmhouse in Portland Oregon, to a fully-employed divorced woman living in a 350-square foot casita in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  In a year's time I've moved into 4 different homes.  I've traveled through 7 states.  I've gone on 5 weekend or week-long trips. I've gone on too many day trips to count.  I've hosted 3 guests. I've learned a new job and system and I've worked on one 6-month project (in 17 branches) and managed 2 branches.  I've joined one orchestra and one choir. I've volunteered at the Balloon Fiesta.  I've hiked 7 trails in the Sandias and 3 in the Petroglyph National Monument, and 3 in the Bosque.  I've made 15 friends to do things with and many more friendly contacts.  To sum up, I've made a life here.

It's quite a list of change, mostly gains.  The losses?  Savings, pets, possessions, friends, and a marriage. Quick to say, but agonizingly long to feel those things dropping away, to realize that they were never coming back.  I've made a life here, but I am still grieving (oh how I'm grieving) the life I've given up.  One year ago I was living in my own home, with my husband and pets and friends and books and....10 years ago I met D and.... 31 years ago I graduated from college and moved from Illinois to Oregon. In each move, I added things.  I had a rich (even, as my friend E says, baroque) life.  This past year, it has all contracted.  From 30-year friendships to 6-month friendships.  From a houseful of stuff to a casita-ful.  From a staff of 30 to a staff of 4.  From 25-guest parties to single guests.  From a yard full of raspberry canes and a deck full of veggies and herbs to a single tomato plant.

So, here I am. taking stock.  The organizational me wants to figure out where I go from here.  The critical me wants to assess the change:  have I learned anything from this past year?  am I growing?  do I like the person I am right now?  do I like the life I'm living?  The whiny me wants to lament what I've lost, the optimistic me wants to glory in the accomplishments (hence all those numbers:  is it measurable?  doable? Hell yeah, and that makes it real, right?)

Last weekend I was walking the labyrinth at Ghost Ranch, thinking about the last time I was there with D and K and E.  E was limping with his horrible back problem.  I was thinking about my future:  trying to figure out what I was going to do if none of the interviews panned out.  D was delighting in being there with me and our friends.  Now I was alone, walking the familiar curves, looking at the red, ochre, yellow, and beige cliffs, with the bright blue sky behind, listening to the brake-squeal vocalizing of the burro (is that really a living creature?)  I found my throat tightening with tears.  I missed D.  I didn't know what wisdom I wanted to receive from this process.  I sat in the middle, waiting for something to come to me.  Instead, a group of women appeared, talking loudly, braying with laughter.  Two of them walked the labyrinth, the other two sat on the bench, whispering and giggling explosively.  I felt attacked:  I couldn't think, I couldn't enter into a quiet space, I couldn't let go.  When they left the tears spilled out and I gasped with the sobs I had been suppressing.

No, I'm not done with this grieving process.  6 months have passed, and I have a good and productive life, but it's not the life I want, and I'm still missing the life I had.

So, here I am.  And maybe that's enough for now.