I learn they gutted
My 1893 house.
I feel gutted too.
It was 101 years old when I bought it. The style was "Rural Vernacular," which I gather means a farmhouse that's been added to and surrounded by a neighborhood. That, at least, was its history. I once looked it up in the old City Directories. In the 1890s, houses were not indexed by address, but by owner. My old home's address was "2 blocks n. of Section Line Rd," and the residents were a family with a Dutch-sounding name (Vanderhoven?). One was a seamstress, which used to be code for prostitute, but in this case was the real deal. Her brothers seemed to swap ownership, and most of the family worked at the same place, a plumber outfitter, a few miles away near the river, I believe.
All this research is in a folder in a Portland basement, and my memory is clearly at fault, but I remember when my elderly next-door neighbor came inside and told me what it used to be. My downstairs office was her aunt's sewing room. The central room/dining area/entry was the living room: they sat on a bench to the side of the fireplace. The fireplace was now bricked up, and one of my antique wardrobes filled the space that used to hold the warm bench. The large opening to the living room used to hold a door, and the living room was the special sitting room for guests. The downstairs bath was the back porch, off the kitchen pantry. The back deck off the kitchen covered the sidewalk from her house next door: she came up that walk every day to visit her aunt and uncles. Upstairs, the large open skylighted room was the main bedroom, and the alcove with the washing machine used to hold a dresser. There was a hallway to the front room, which used to be divided into her uncle's bedroom and a storage room. The stairway was just as steep, but it was enclosed, with a curtain of beads at the bottom that they used to swing on.
100 years later, the house was pictured in a book of historic houses. Because of various remodels, it was not on any historic register: the value was that it added to the historic character of the neighborhood. Now that neighborhood is barely recognizable. When I visited 2 summers ago, 3 years after I moved to Albuquerque, funky old Division Street was lined with steel and glass high rises, and one of the new storefronts housed a specialty ice cream store with trendsters lined up for half a block to get weird ice cream. (It actually was pretty good, but no ice cream is worth a 30 minute wait.) I was comforted by the fact that the street was also full of nude bike riders: at least some of Portland's weirdness was still going strong.
I acquired the house from friends: it used to be C's party house, but he rented it out to some younger friends when he moved in with AB. It became a Reed house, and I spent many happy Sundays enjoying brunch and crosswords and companionship. It became my house through a series of friendship-based events. AB was driving me and my seriously ill cat home from a homeopathic vet. The vet had done a psychic hair test and informed me that Yo-cat had leukemia and I was sobbing while I stroked my cat. As her stress-loosened fur swirled around my hand, AB searched for a conversational distraction...."I don't know what C is going to do with that house, now that R is moving out (she was the principal renter)." I gulped through my tears, "He should sell it to me." I wasn't serious: I was happy in my converted milk barn, and I didn't want the responsibility of home-ownership.
One hour later, I received a call from R: "C says you could have the house for $100K." Huh? "Oh, and he says there's no way Yo-cat has leukemia." That call was followed by another, this time from C: "I called my vet friend in St. Louis, and YO-CAT DOES NOT HAVE LEUKEMIA! And I'd love to sell my house to you."
My loan was $74K, and I pulled another $6K from savings, for the deal of the century. C put down vapor barrier in the area under the house, AB painted the trim, and I received dispensation regarding the cedar shake siding: they didn't make me paint it. One fine April day, a caravan of friends with cars and trucks descended upon my milk barn home and transported my possessions to my urban farmhouse home. I paid my workers with scones, coffee, and raspberries scavenged from my new yard as they carried my things up the walk. E stayed to put away my kitchen things, V took charge of the library, M set up stereo and music. By the end of the day, I was moved in and soaking in M and Ws hot tub: they now only lived a mile away.
In the course of the next 17 years, I hosted annual pumpkin carving parties, Christmas cookie baking parties (all the best parties happen in the kitchen), Superbowl parties. When Grandma turned 80, I took over the Thanksgiving dinners. One weekend much later, I kicked D out and invited woman friends to a detox weekend, complete with massage and cleansing foods. Housemates came and went. So did pets: Bunji and Yo-Cat were both buried in the yard. In summer and fall I harvested raspberries and walnuts from my jungle yard. In winter I made wreaths from the red-brown dogwood cuttings. In spring I cut pussy willows and filled vases around the house. I gathered greens and lemony-tasting sorrel from the yard for an Easter omelet. For every holiday and season, the house provided space and inspiration for celebration and love.
And, I made my own changes to the house, refinishing floors, moving doors, adding attic space and closets, releasing a hidden skylight, and opening up the tiny upstairs room, changing it into a library. The big remodel was the new addition, which took out the hawthorne that the cats used to climb to get onto the porch roof and into my bedroom window. It also took out the daphne and the hydrangea, but it added a wonderful family/guest room, with a wood-burning fireplace, wall bed, reclaimed-wood kitchen bar, and tiled shower. The stained-glass window from the old Woodstock Library was imbedded above the fireplace, with a light behind it. The room was comfortable, filled with music, art, and light. When I lost my PSU job, it paid for itself as an Airbnb room.
Friends were also incorporated. B's mother took my grandmother's quilt scraps and crafted quilts that graced the guest room. AB's water colors and oils, and AC's prints and my own photographs filled the walls. L's roses brightened the jungle garden. When I thought I'd have to lose my house, MC wrote a check for $4K to keep me afloat. I found a house-mate and finally realized my dream to change the shed into a guest room. It had previously morphed from carpenter's shop to printshop to artist's studio, to garden shed, but in my last few months I slept under the skylights, watched the sun rise and illuminate the flower-filled garden, and listened to the rain on the roof. I was happy in that new space, despite the financial uncertainty, nightmare house-mate, and eroding marriage.
As the house changed, so did the neighborhood. Indigine closed, but other restaurants opened. Nature's had a place just a few blocks away. The neighborhood remained a tad bit funky, with middle-aged hippies, original residents, and gentrifying yuppies making fairly gentle incursions. New businesses were careful to use the shells of old buildings and homes, and the thrift stores did a thriving business. The nearby park was leash free, and I walked and biked around, visiting friends and heritage trees and local coffee shops.
In other words, I had a home. And now it's gone. But....
At least the friends
And memories have remained.
For the time being.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Saturday, October 22, 2016
Monday, April 6, 2015
Two poems
Spring Declaration
They line the road, stark and graceful,
Black or silver against a hazy blue sky.
Outlined in green, their shadows curve along the adobe.
I did not see this yesterday.
When did this happen?
It seems this is the day the tree sap rose up, saying,
"Let the leaves burst open their tight buds and rejoice in the sun.
I will course through their veins, the heart of spring will beat
As I slowly climb the trunk."
Or perhaps this is the day I finally opened my eyes.
The change is swift: one must be vigilant to catch
That soft subtle moment between winter and spring.
If I listen carefully, I too can hear the sap.
A Farewell
On Easter morning, I write to my friends:
"Meet me at the Kosmos, we'll listen to Pergolesi and rejoice."
Silence, both expected and deserved. It is a last-minute thought,
Born of a conjunction of time and space. Here am I, there is the music.
I write out of my lethargy: if they say "yes," I'll have to go.
They do not say yes, and I find my concert in the Bosque,
In the call and response of the birds' sweet and liquid warbles.
But then I come home to the message, heart-stopping, unexpected, and undeserved.
She had died four days before, on April 1st.
Cruel fool, senseless prankster: why did you come?
I am not angry, I cannot rail against the unfairness, the wrongness.
All I can see is those deep-set bright eagle's eyes, the hawk nose, the salt-and pepper crest.
Is this what the ravens have been telling me?
I have been too complacent.
I thought I had all the time in the world
To grow a nascent friendship.
I forgot that every moment is precious, never to be retrieved.
As I drive home, I see the electronic road signs:
"Watch for pedestrians...Pilgrims on the road,"
And again, "Watch for Walkers."
Shall I park my car, walk down that ramp, make my pilgrimage to the Sanctuario?
Whom would I petition, and how?
The sandstone cliffs gleam ochre and red in the late afternoon light.
I watch the raven soar,
And I can't help myself. I smile.
They line the road, stark and graceful,
Black or silver against a hazy blue sky.
Outlined in green, their shadows curve along the adobe.
I did not see this yesterday.
When did this happen?
It seems this is the day the tree sap rose up, saying,
"Let the leaves burst open their tight buds and rejoice in the sun.
I will course through their veins, the heart of spring will beat
As I slowly climb the trunk."
Or perhaps this is the day I finally opened my eyes.
The change is swift: one must be vigilant to catch
That soft subtle moment between winter and spring.
If I listen carefully, I too can hear the sap.
A Farewell
On Easter morning, I write to my friends:
"Meet me at the Kosmos, we'll listen to Pergolesi and rejoice."
Silence, both expected and deserved. It is a last-minute thought,
Born of a conjunction of time and space. Here am I, there is the music.
I write out of my lethargy: if they say "yes," I'll have to go.
They do not say yes, and I find my concert in the Bosque,
In the call and response of the birds' sweet and liquid warbles.
But then I come home to the message, heart-stopping, unexpected, and undeserved.
She had died four days before, on April 1st.
Cruel fool, senseless prankster: why did you come?
I am not angry, I cannot rail against the unfairness, the wrongness.
All I can see is those deep-set bright eagle's eyes, the hawk nose, the salt-and pepper crest.
Is this what the ravens have been telling me?
I have been too complacent.
I thought I had all the time in the world
To grow a nascent friendship.
I forgot that every moment is precious, never to be retrieved.
As I drive home, I see the electronic road signs:
"Watch for pedestrians...Pilgrims on the road,"
And again, "Watch for Walkers."
Shall I park my car, walk down that ramp, make my pilgrimage to the Sanctuario?
Whom would I petition, and how?
The sandstone cliffs gleam ochre and red in the late afternoon light.
I watch the raven soar,
And I can't help myself. I smile.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
2014: healing, endings, and beginnings
Last year I did my year-in-review by pulling the first lines from each month's blog. This year I cannot do that: I didn't blog in November because I was taking the NaNoWriMo challenge (hey, I won!) and I was prepping to leave Cerrillos and Wit's End for the new job in Taos. I was finding my replacement and looking for a home. I didn't blog in December because I was finishing up concerts and packing and planning for holidays. And, basically, the muse was gone for the time being. I was too busy living, and not able to put my energy to contemplation.
Today, however, I am doing some retrospecting. I used the Facebook apps to create a status/photo update and realized afresh how rich my life is with travel, friends, family and the beauty that surrounds us all. After years of focusing on stress, in 2014 I could focus on the small wonders of each day. And each day inspired photographs and haiku. I didn't post all of them, but I could see the change in emotion; as the year got older, I became more serene.
The typical day started slowly: doing the crossword and drinking good coffee while watching clouds float above the mountains and birds perch in tree tops. E would read the NYT and share the headlines or ask questions about them. I have an image from the early months: we are outside, facing west, the sun shining over our shoulders. She reaches for her toast and smiles at me: "This is the life," she says.
I have other images too, mostly from our various journeys and errands. We are in Albuquerque, driving past the yellow cottonwoods in the Rio Grande as she gasps in wonder, "I'm in heaven!" We're going down Goldmine road, watching the cloud shadows on the Cerrillos hills and singing "White Coral Bells" and other old fashioned rounds. "Do you have music in your head?" she asks. We pass the park in Santa Fe where she remembers sitting with both her daughter and her favorite caregiver. We sit at a table outside Echo gelato, the small bright orange and yellow cups filled with our chosen frozen concoction. We take the tiny plastic shovels, carefully spooning small tastes. I share my stracciatella, and she says she'll get that next time. We're walking along the Cerrillos Hills State Park trail towards the overlook: she is mesmerized by the plaque depicting the animals, illustrated by local schoolchildren. She finds the lion outlined in the cliffs across the valley, its mouth open in a yawn. (While I could recognize her cloud images, I never saw that lion.) We're at San Marcos Cafe, watching the peacocks pecking in their enclosure or walking past the windows. She says, "they don't have ducks?" and "soon it'll be time for a fire." She loves the cinnamon rolls, so we share an order of that and an order of Eggs Benedict.
There are so many moments. She hated the electronic keyboard that we had on loan, but I coaxed her into accompanying me for some singing. On our regular walks, we would stop to look at the arroyo: "Do you suppose it will ever fill with water?" The bird seed drew out foxes at dusk, and she pondered about them: "Where do they live?" The flowers made her catch her breath: "Oh I hope E will be able to see them!" E is never far from her mind or her conversation. "When will she be back?"
Then there are the lost moments. I never wrote down the way she would mis-hear me, but we laughed at each piece of delightful confusion. I never found out why she was crying that night in bed, but I held her until it stopped. I never learned Spanish from her, never took her to the Atomic Museum or Los Alamos or Bandelier. She only came to a few of my concerts, and I only went to church with her a few times: those were usually when the respite caregivers were on duty and I was visiting friends in ABQ or rehearsing or playing concerts. And much of each day was spent in separate worlds, she reading Liz Gilbert or the biography of Oppenheimer or a history of New Mexico, me tutoring, writing to friends, editing photos. Those moments are gone now, and I miss them.
But, she is there: laughing, perseverating, forgetting, and loving. I sit by her chair and put my head on her knee, and she strokes my hair. "I'm going to miss you so much," she says, and I reply, "I'm going to miss you too." We make plans for visits, and I know that this is something I need to do, and I hope she will become resigned to the change. However, deep inside, where I am ashamed to acknowledge it, I hope she doesn't like the new caregiver TOO much: I am jealous, even though I'm the deserter, I'm the one moving on. She has taught me so much about aging gracefully, about living fully. We both have experienced loss, but we both know how to recognize and share joy in the midst of that.
I was so lucky to have this time of healing. I don't know how to thank her, and the other Co-op members, and the people in my musical organizations, and my hiking buddies, and friends and lovers, and family. They have made up a huge net that has held me, bobbing up and down after the fall, inches above the water. I lie face down, looking into the depths, and I see they are filled with light and color amidst the sharp coral rocks and tunnels that threatened to trap and drown me. I turn over on my back and look at the clouds that sail by. I don't do anything for a very long time, but gradually, as I bob gently, I close my eyes and surrender to the peace.
And now, I have found my healing, and it's time to climb out of the net and swim to shore.
Thank you, E.
Today, however, I am doing some retrospecting. I used the Facebook apps to create a status/photo update and realized afresh how rich my life is with travel, friends, family and the beauty that surrounds us all. After years of focusing on stress, in 2014 I could focus on the small wonders of each day. And each day inspired photographs and haiku. I didn't post all of them, but I could see the change in emotion; as the year got older, I became more serene.
The typical day started slowly: doing the crossword and drinking good coffee while watching clouds float above the mountains and birds perch in tree tops. E would read the NYT and share the headlines or ask questions about them. I have an image from the early months: we are outside, facing west, the sun shining over our shoulders. She reaches for her toast and smiles at me: "This is the life," she says.
I have other images too, mostly from our various journeys and errands. We are in Albuquerque, driving past the yellow cottonwoods in the Rio Grande as she gasps in wonder, "I'm in heaven!" We're going down Goldmine road, watching the cloud shadows on the Cerrillos hills and singing "White Coral Bells" and other old fashioned rounds. "Do you have music in your head?" she asks. We pass the park in Santa Fe where she remembers sitting with both her daughter and her favorite caregiver. We sit at a table outside Echo gelato, the small bright orange and yellow cups filled with our chosen frozen concoction. We take the tiny plastic shovels, carefully spooning small tastes. I share my stracciatella, and she says she'll get that next time. We're walking along the Cerrillos Hills State Park trail towards the overlook: she is mesmerized by the plaque depicting the animals, illustrated by local schoolchildren. She finds the lion outlined in the cliffs across the valley, its mouth open in a yawn. (While I could recognize her cloud images, I never saw that lion.) We're at San Marcos Cafe, watching the peacocks pecking in their enclosure or walking past the windows. She says, "they don't have ducks?" and "soon it'll be time for a fire." She loves the cinnamon rolls, so we share an order of that and an order of Eggs Benedict.
There are so many moments. She hated the electronic keyboard that we had on loan, but I coaxed her into accompanying me for some singing. On our regular walks, we would stop to look at the arroyo: "Do you suppose it will ever fill with water?" The bird seed drew out foxes at dusk, and she pondered about them: "Where do they live?" The flowers made her catch her breath: "Oh I hope E will be able to see them!" E is never far from her mind or her conversation. "When will she be back?"
Then there are the lost moments. I never wrote down the way she would mis-hear me, but we laughed at each piece of delightful confusion. I never found out why she was crying that night in bed, but I held her until it stopped. I never learned Spanish from her, never took her to the Atomic Museum or Los Alamos or Bandelier. She only came to a few of my concerts, and I only went to church with her a few times: those were usually when the respite caregivers were on duty and I was visiting friends in ABQ or rehearsing or playing concerts. And much of each day was spent in separate worlds, she reading Liz Gilbert or the biography of Oppenheimer or a history of New Mexico, me tutoring, writing to friends, editing photos. Those moments are gone now, and I miss them.
But, she is there: laughing, perseverating, forgetting, and loving. I sit by her chair and put my head on her knee, and she strokes my hair. "I'm going to miss you so much," she says, and I reply, "I'm going to miss you too." We make plans for visits, and I know that this is something I need to do, and I hope she will become resigned to the change. However, deep inside, where I am ashamed to acknowledge it, I hope she doesn't like the new caregiver TOO much: I am jealous, even though I'm the deserter, I'm the one moving on. She has taught me so much about aging gracefully, about living fully. We both have experienced loss, but we both know how to recognize and share joy in the midst of that.
I was so lucky to have this time of healing. I don't know how to thank her, and the other Co-op members, and the people in my musical organizations, and my hiking buddies, and friends and lovers, and family. They have made up a huge net that has held me, bobbing up and down after the fall, inches above the water. I lie face down, looking into the depths, and I see they are filled with light and color amidst the sharp coral rocks and tunnels that threatened to trap and drown me. I turn over on my back and look at the clouds that sail by. I don't do anything for a very long time, but gradually, as I bob gently, I close my eyes and surrender to the peace.
And now, I have found my healing, and it's time to climb out of the net and swim to shore.
Thank you, E.
Monday, May 26, 2014
The advantages of independence
Yesterday I posted this haiku to Facebook:
Stood up once again,
I vow: Give no more chances;
And then my ex calls.
It was an interesting concatenation of events. I'd had a pleasant and soothing evening with G: he cooked a low-carb meal (stuffed cabbage soup, yummmmm) and we watched Catching Fire on Amazon. (Okay, so that was not soothing. Wow, Katniss does a lot of screaming.) The next morning I met up with M at The Source for coffee and chat, followed by her introduction to the Intentional Focused Mediation (AKA drumming) which I have been attending on last Sundays (see previous blog post.) I had planned to stop by to see S (at his request) afterwards. However, on my way to M's house, he texted that he'd made other plans with people who were more important to him, but I was totally welcome to join them (tossing me the bone after standing me up.) I said, never mind, I'll go to Los Golondrinas for the Fiber Arts Festival. Then I felt a rush of anger and texted, "so, I guess there's no point in making plans with you," and he got all back-pedally and reproachful, "I'm trying to open a dialog can't you meet me halfway?" and offered me the further bone of lunch before they took off, and maybe they'd just go tomorrow instead. He wanted to see me, he said.
I went into meditation, mollified for the nonce. There were only 3 of us (and M, who meditated sans drum), and I decided that my intention was to let go of anger and to bring more focus. The latter is my usual intention: I still feel scattered and my thoughts still go to defaults that derail me from growing. It's probably my life-long work, to move past the thoughts and behaviors that are not in my best interests.
In the past few sessions, I have mainly provided underpinning for other people; I do find myself immersed in the sound, but my observing mind is looking at how the sounds change with the energies that other people bring. This session was less cerebral. I found myself pounding out the beat, loudly and intensely, and I could feel the anger that I had thought resolved, growing with each stroke. I was carrying on a mental conversation with S, and then I became aware of the deep hurt, and tears started leaking.
They say anger is a secondary emotion, and I got through to the primary one.
S has been making a practise of snubbing me since December. I had planned to return his house key and write the friendship off: clearly he didn't know how to maintain a friendship after intimacy was past. But he called to discuss what had happened, and it seemed that we both understood how to proceed: he wants serendipity, but he needs to let me know I matter. I hadn't seen him since February, and I said it was up to him to initiate a get-together. So, he did, and then he snubbed me again. AND he put it back on me, saying that I hadn't actually verified that I was coming by.
I don't know why he is being contradictory with words and actions, but I do know it's not working for me. I need to stop expecting the words to actually mean something, and to pay attention to how the actions affect me. I talked with M after the drumming, and she shared a memory of doing just the same thing to some friends of hers: they would make plans, something better would come up, and she would suggest they join in the new plans. The underlying reality was that she just didn't want to see those friends, but she felt like she had to offer them a place in return for standing them up. Yes, that's just what it felt like. Clearly, S does not care that it's been months since we got together; his script is that he cares about me, but the reality is that he doesn't really want to see me.
In some ways, T's method of abruptly dropping the friendship is preferable. At least there is no contradiction to puzzle through, and the hurt is clear and up front.
M said, why don't you focus on the new friends who love you and appreciate you? V said, the next time you feel tempted to couple up, remember the advantages of independence. And they are both right. So, I texted that I was going to the Fiber Arts Festival, I missed him but didn't want to be a problem, and I was sure we would catch up some time. He texted back, sounds good. I could FEEL the relief in that short message: I'm off the hook, he's thinking, I'm not the one who ultimately canceled, I don't need to feel guilty.
Yeah, whatever.
The festival was not that enthralling, but I really enjoyed walking around the living history museum that is Los Golondrinas. Now I know where to go when I miss green grass and the sound of running water.
I was still feeling a little raw, though. And, when I got back to the car, I checked my phone and found the e-mail from D, asking me to Skype with him. It seems that life has a way of hitting you in the solar plexus and then, as you're doubling up, hitting your head back. The real question is, why did I agree?
He's doing better, fiscally, and that is improving his mood. I'm glad for him, and I'm actually glad I talked with him. The blaming attitude is still in evidence, and I don't feel the yearning for the lost relationship when that reality is in my face. So, it's actually helpful to talk with him. But I still curled up in a ball and cried afterwards.
Why do I keep connecting with these people? Why do I court hurt? Why do I say yes when they say please?
Why do I keep connecting with these people? Why do I court hurt? Why do I say yes when they say please?
I'm learning how to enjoy my independence. The process is opening up new abilities. However, it seems that I cannot put my own wishes and needs first, yet. I tried, after leaving D, and S said that one of the things he liked about me was that I was clear about my needs. But, then, that was the very thing he became repelled by: he saw my clear statement of needs as pressure. And I, rightfully, saw his response as rejection. So, I find it difficult to continue to insist on what is best for me.
And, knowing the pain of rejections, I find it difficult to reject in turn. I think the reason I respond when D or S ask for my attention is that I can't stop caring. And I believe they care too. But, I also can't stop being hurt by them. The reality is that some relationships are toxic. Some start out being healing and helpful and then turn toxic. I can appreciate them: they all are layers to my life and paths to further relationships. They all have a reason for being there, even if I'm damned if I can figure out what that reason might be.
Perhaps the reason is to teach me the difference between caring for others and caring for myself.
And, knowing the pain of rejections, I find it difficult to reject in turn. I think the reason I respond when D or S ask for my attention is that I can't stop caring. And I believe they care too. But, I also can't stop being hurt by them. The reality is that some relationships are toxic. Some start out being healing and helpful and then turn toxic. I can appreciate them: they all are layers to my life and paths to further relationships. They all have a reason for being there, even if I'm damned if I can figure out what that reason might be.
Perhaps the reason is to teach me the difference between caring for others and caring for myself.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Musings on Friendship
Last Sunday, E and I visited the First Unitarian Church in Santa Fe. The service was about friendship. I was delighted to see Munro Sickafoose, from PDX. He's the intern minister, and he gave the children's sermon. Friends were compared to various vegetables. The kids pulled vegetables out of a huge basket, to the accompanying descriptions: eggplants are elegant and beautiful, Jerusalem artichokes are quirky and funny. I wouldn't say an onion is complex, myself, but you get the picture.
We sang "Lean on Me." The readings included the ever-popular "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet." There was nothing earth shattering about any of it, but it fit my current thoughts very well. E found the service lively and the congregation welcoming, but the sermon a bit long and repetitive. I would agree with that, but I spent most of the time knitting and thinking, so the sermon was a reasonable counterpoint for me.
I'm curious about the human need to codify things, and I'm also intrigued by the theory that we are genetically coded for friendship. The minister put friendship in four layered categories: public (those people we keep running into at concerts and dog parks and libraries); social (those people with whom we make dates or to whom we gravitate during large gatherings); personal (those who listen to us kvetch and know some of our deep secrets); intimate (those with whom we build a life, share tears, share silence.) While we need all of these to create community, and we need community to live a meaningful life, we cannot manage more than a few intimate or personal friends in a lifetime, and people move from one category to the other as we grow and change.
As I said, this was nothing earth-shaking, but I found myself thinking about my current situation. E and I are both isolated from our long-term friends, and we are both coming to terms with that. The difference is that she is 98 and I am 54. She is mourning the loss of her community, but she is not really looking to build a new one here. The cooperative and some people at church will probably suffice. I, on the other hand, am still mourning the loss of Portland friendships, and now I have left my new Albuquerque friends. In addition, I am trying to figure out just what my friendship was with D, and where I go from there, and I am still trying to maintain connections with my musical and personal/intimate friends.
When I began this gig, the initial idea was to pretend I'm on a retreat or a journey: I'm living up in these hills, learning the geography, becoming acquainted with flora and fauna, taking things slowly. I spend the morning practicing tai chi chih, doing the crossword, drinking coffee. I plan to spend the afternoon practicing, drawing, writing, learning Spanish, walking, reading, doing the creative and soul-building things I have not had time to do, healing from the past 10 years of loss and difficulty. I tell myself I haven't lost my friends, I'm just on a private adventure, and I'll get back to them later.
That's all very well, but there's that darn genetic coding to contend with. I need people. I need to feel needed. I miss seeing and talking and cooking and hugging and sleeping with my friends. I miss Monday morning yoga with M, Sunday hikes with G, duets and trios with C and M, UCC choir with A, early morning walks with J, the occasional sleepover with S and N, lunch with T. And that's just the Albuquerque contingent. There are the Scrabble games with M, the dinner parties, the walks and hikes, the trips, the wine-tasting, the plays and movies, the yoga at B's, the family gatherings, the music, the work, the knitting group....so many friendships built up through the years, so many activities. All fading in memory.
So, I've been brooding. And then I listened to the sermon and I thought, yes, it's okay that my friendships are moving from more intimate and personal to social to maybe just memories. It's what happens in life. It's not physically possible to maintain tight connections with all the wonderful people who have crossed my path.
It is, however, possible to pick up where you left off, as I discovered a few weeks ago, when 3 of my advisee group from college came for a visit. B was the only person whom I have seen regularly: we have traveled together several times since our first big Europe trip after we graduated, and we see each other regularly when I visit my family at Christmas. She writes excellent long letters, shares her photographs and her thoughts, and responds to mine. I was not surprised to feel connected with her. It was different with G and C. I haven't seen them in 30+ years, and the letters and phone calls have been spotty to say the least. And yet....there they were. Lovable, quirky, fun, caring, trustworthy. Friends.
There was a lot to catch up on, but that's different from re-learning the friendship.
So....old friends. They are a treasure. They cannot be replaced; and, it seems, they cannot be lost.
But, they also aren't here. And I'm back to where I was before. Brooding, lonely. Mourning my lost friends and activities. Envious that they are continuing to build their friendships without me. Wondering what life holds for me in this next adventure. Wondering if these fledgling friendships will stand the test of time. Hoping so, but doubting it. T, for example....we met a year ago, and he rapidly moved up the friendship ladder from social to personal to intimate for a short time. Then he quickly ran back down the ladder....personal, then social, now...absent. He was there when I really needed someone, and I think I'll always love him for that. I don't need him now, but I miss him, and I don't know why he left. Where does that fit in the friendship category?
It's hard to not take the loss of a friendship personally. I always wonder what I did to drive a friend away. Currently it's obvious: I've physically left friends old and friends new, and I have not maintained the virtual connection. But that doesn't cover all the losses. In my past, I assumed that the closer people got, the more likely they were to find out how very unlovable and irritating and just plain burdensome I am. And, just when I felt comfortable enough to say, "this is a friend, this is a lover, this is a trusted other," the gods (bored angels, if you will) would hear it and take the friend away. I still have that fear niggling in the background. I am afraid to ask for time or caring, afraid that I will appear needy. I'm still a twelve-year-old, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the loss, prepared for it, but always hurt when it comes.
Simultaneously, the rationale mind is chiding me: this is not a personal thing. The Other has his/her own demons, problems, needs. You have very little to do with his/her decisions and actions. Your job is to be a friend to yourself, to grow, to become a trustworthy, likable person. Loss comes with the territory, and not everyone you need will need you back. In fact neediness is not something to foster on either side.
That being said, I realize one reason why I miss D. He was the only person whose need for me was boundless, who would never leave. It wasn't good for either of us, of course, and I'm not even sure he liked me, but he certainly cared. Oh how he cared. And for the first time, I was the one doing the leaving.
I thought about this the other day, and then the whole concept was brought into sharp focus when my friend S lost his ex-wife. She was his D: needy, charismatic, demanding. "If you really loved me you would...." But she was also his best friend, the love of his life. They never stopped communicating after the divorce, and he fully expected to be there for all the important passages of of her life. So, her sudden death in another country left him full of guilt and grief. He wasn't there. It was not right.
How does one let one's friends know they matter? How does one maintain connections through separate lives, duties, and distances? How does one continue to grow friendships while fostering the old ones? How does one grieve the loss of a friend without feeling guilty about the sins of omission and commission?
I listened to S talk, held him while he cried, cried with him. I didn't have any wisdom or emotional salve for his grief. I was present, and that was enough. And that's when I finally come to recognize why I am still brooding about D, and about my absent friends. I cannot be present for them, and I want to be.
That day he woke up
In a world that did not have
His best friend in it.
We sang "Lean on Me." The readings included the ever-popular "A stranger is a friend you haven't met yet." There was nothing earth shattering about any of it, but it fit my current thoughts very well. E found the service lively and the congregation welcoming, but the sermon a bit long and repetitive. I would agree with that, but I spent most of the time knitting and thinking, so the sermon was a reasonable counterpoint for me.
I'm curious about the human need to codify things, and I'm also intrigued by the theory that we are genetically coded for friendship. The minister put friendship in four layered categories: public (those people we keep running into at concerts and dog parks and libraries); social (those people with whom we make dates or to whom we gravitate during large gatherings); personal (those who listen to us kvetch and know some of our deep secrets); intimate (those with whom we build a life, share tears, share silence.) While we need all of these to create community, and we need community to live a meaningful life, we cannot manage more than a few intimate or personal friends in a lifetime, and people move from one category to the other as we grow and change.
As I said, this was nothing earth-shaking, but I found myself thinking about my current situation. E and I are both isolated from our long-term friends, and we are both coming to terms with that. The difference is that she is 98 and I am 54. She is mourning the loss of her community, but she is not really looking to build a new one here. The cooperative and some people at church will probably suffice. I, on the other hand, am still mourning the loss of Portland friendships, and now I have left my new Albuquerque friends. In addition, I am trying to figure out just what my friendship was with D, and where I go from there, and I am still trying to maintain connections with my musical and personal/intimate friends.
When I began this gig, the initial idea was to pretend I'm on a retreat or a journey: I'm living up in these hills, learning the geography, becoming acquainted with flora and fauna, taking things slowly. I spend the morning practicing tai chi chih, doing the crossword, drinking coffee. I plan to spend the afternoon practicing, drawing, writing, learning Spanish, walking, reading, doing the creative and soul-building things I have not had time to do, healing from the past 10 years of loss and difficulty. I tell myself I haven't lost my friends, I'm just on a private adventure, and I'll get back to them later.
That's all very well, but there's that darn genetic coding to contend with. I need people. I need to feel needed. I miss seeing and talking and cooking and hugging and sleeping with my friends. I miss Monday morning yoga with M, Sunday hikes with G, duets and trios with C and M, UCC choir with A, early morning walks with J, the occasional sleepover with S and N, lunch with T. And that's just the Albuquerque contingent. There are the Scrabble games with M, the dinner parties, the walks and hikes, the trips, the wine-tasting, the plays and movies, the yoga at B's, the family gatherings, the music, the work, the knitting group....so many friendships built up through the years, so many activities. All fading in memory.
So, I've been brooding. And then I listened to the sermon and I thought, yes, it's okay that my friendships are moving from more intimate and personal to social to maybe just memories. It's what happens in life. It's not physically possible to maintain tight connections with all the wonderful people who have crossed my path.
It is, however, possible to pick up where you left off, as I discovered a few weeks ago, when 3 of my advisee group from college came for a visit. B was the only person whom I have seen regularly: we have traveled together several times since our first big Europe trip after we graduated, and we see each other regularly when I visit my family at Christmas. She writes excellent long letters, shares her photographs and her thoughts, and responds to mine. I was not surprised to feel connected with her. It was different with G and C. I haven't seen them in 30+ years, and the letters and phone calls have been spotty to say the least. And yet....there they were. Lovable, quirky, fun, caring, trustworthy. Friends.
There was a lot to catch up on, but that's different from re-learning the friendship.
So....old friends. They are a treasure. They cannot be replaced; and, it seems, they cannot be lost.
But, they also aren't here. And I'm back to where I was before. Brooding, lonely. Mourning my lost friends and activities. Envious that they are continuing to build their friendships without me. Wondering what life holds for me in this next adventure. Wondering if these fledgling friendships will stand the test of time. Hoping so, but doubting it. T, for example....we met a year ago, and he rapidly moved up the friendship ladder from social to personal to intimate for a short time. Then he quickly ran back down the ladder....personal, then social, now...absent. He was there when I really needed someone, and I think I'll always love him for that. I don't need him now, but I miss him, and I don't know why he left. Where does that fit in the friendship category?
It's hard to not take the loss of a friendship personally. I always wonder what I did to drive a friend away. Currently it's obvious: I've physically left friends old and friends new, and I have not maintained the virtual connection. But that doesn't cover all the losses. In my past, I assumed that the closer people got, the more likely they were to find out how very unlovable and irritating and just plain burdensome I am. And, just when I felt comfortable enough to say, "this is a friend, this is a lover, this is a trusted other," the gods (bored angels, if you will) would hear it and take the friend away. I still have that fear niggling in the background. I am afraid to ask for time or caring, afraid that I will appear needy. I'm still a twelve-year-old, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the loss, prepared for it, but always hurt when it comes.
Simultaneously, the rationale mind is chiding me: this is not a personal thing. The Other has his/her own demons, problems, needs. You have very little to do with his/her decisions and actions. Your job is to be a friend to yourself, to grow, to become a trustworthy, likable person. Loss comes with the territory, and not everyone you need will need you back. In fact neediness is not something to foster on either side.
That being said, I realize one reason why I miss D. He was the only person whose need for me was boundless, who would never leave. It wasn't good for either of us, of course, and I'm not even sure he liked me, but he certainly cared. Oh how he cared. And for the first time, I was the one doing the leaving.
I thought about this the other day, and then the whole concept was brought into sharp focus when my friend S lost his ex-wife. She was his D: needy, charismatic, demanding. "If you really loved me you would...." But she was also his best friend, the love of his life. They never stopped communicating after the divorce, and he fully expected to be there for all the important passages of of her life. So, her sudden death in another country left him full of guilt and grief. He wasn't there. It was not right.
How does one let one's friends know they matter? How does one maintain connections through separate lives, duties, and distances? How does one continue to grow friendships while fostering the old ones? How does one grieve the loss of a friend without feeling guilty about the sins of omission and commission?
I listened to S talk, held him while he cried, cried with him. I didn't have any wisdom or emotional salve for his grief. I was present, and that was enough. And that's when I finally come to recognize why I am still brooding about D, and about my absent friends. I cannot be present for them, and I want to be.
That day he woke up
In a world that did not have
His best friend in it.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
"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.
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.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Moving on
About a year ago, I wrote a blog about downsizing and loss. In August, I wrote about loss in general. In fact, much of the past year I have been contemplating the gradual erosion of my life. And here I sit, at 4 am, unable to sleep, treading that familiar ground yet again. A bronchial cough woke me up, and, in between bouts, I am thinking about finances, health, next steps.
Most of what I presaged last March has come to pass. I've lost most of my possessions and savings, my marriage, and my sweet dog. I am in the process of figuring out how best to jettison my house. And yet, the grief of the past year is missing. Yes, I sobbed throughout the divorce mediation. And I sobbed when I learned about D's collapse. And I cry in my weekly therapy sessions. But behind all of that emotion is...emptiness. And maybe relief. And maybe, just maybe, the stirrings of hope.
I'm not sure.
I do know that loss of stuff is no longer part of the grief. As part of the mediation, I took the inventory of possessions and labelled them: D, K, and M. (M stands for marital possessions.) D initialed the stuff he plans to retrieve, now that he's back in Portland, and I faxed the result to my property managers. In looking over the inventory, I realized that, for the most part, I haven't missed any of it. There is some Grandma furniture that I'd like to cherish, there are boxes of pictures and letters and financial doings that I should go through. But otherwise....?
Last week my managers sent me 2 boxes of clothes, which are a welcome addition, and another small box of craft stuff. Much more remains, along with books, dishes, CDs, and Christmas decorations. All are nice to have, all give me joy, but if I never saw them again, I'd be okay. In fact, that would be a painless way to deal with it: just walk away.
Really? Have I reached that point?
Last year I was wandering around the house, agonizing over what was going in the downsizing estate sale. A few months later, I flung things in boxes, preparatory to moving here. At the time, I was thinking in terms of "what do we need for the next 6 months." So, the tough decisions were set aside. It was very Scarlett O'Hara: I'll think about that tomorrow (or in this case, 6 months of tomorrows.)
Now I find that, for the most part, my hasty decisions were as valid as the decisions I agonized over. In both cases, precious things were lost, precious things were kept, precious things were stored. And the same goes for unimportant things: while I tossed and sold a lot, I also boxed up paperclips for god's sake, scraps of wrapping paper for origami, jewelry bits to be reused.... and now that I've left D, I still have too much stuff: my 350 sq ft are crammed with linens, clothes, dishes, papers, books, furniture. I am not yet traveling light. And I want to.
But the real issue, of course, is how to lighten the emotional load. All this preoccupation with stuff is a distraction from the job at hand. It's easy to talk about moving on, traveling light, but what does that really mean?
After the divorce was final, I wrote a haiku:
So, how do I pay homage to the past 10 years and look towards the next 30 years? How do I jettison my tears, guilt, sadness? How do I store memories? and how do I take joy and hope and regain my bright, serene, creative self? How do I move on?
My friends and family and therapist are all advising me. It's contradictory. Most people see the last 10 years as a waste: I lost the self that they loved, while trying to maintain a partnership that drained me financially and emotionally, alienated my friends and family, and eroded my self-confidence and self-esteem. I get that point of view. But it's not the whole story. Clearly, I would not have spent 10 years on something that gave me nothing. There were joys experienced, lessons learned, friends made. I did not stop creating, making music, or feeding my soul. Those 10 years are part of me, and I need to acknowledge them, grieve over what I lost, and take what I gained.
D is not the demon of the piece. He is the man I fell in love with after my father died. He got me through that tough time, and he loves me and thinks me beautiful and talented. He is proud of my accomplishments. He is a good man. But, as E once said, he was a lousy husband. The power imbalance led to escalating emotional abuse, and I had given all I had to give. No one, not even D, blames me for leaving, for giving up. In the final analysis, I don't blame myself.
But the process? the process is driving everyone crazy. I wallow in grief, in guilt: What could I have done differently, why wasn't I strong enough, what is D going to do, why couldn't I be there for him and his sister? I whine: I've lost everything. I curl up in a fetal position. I cry. I can't make decisions, I don't follow through. I express my loneliness. I express my neediness. I cry some more. I don't know what I want to do with my life, and I cry about that. I don't have the confidence to start something new. I worry about debts, about stuff. I worry about self-care and self-talk. I worry about alienating my friends and family even more. I worry about being a burden.
One friend thinks the guilt is useless and self-destructive and I need to Just Stop. Another says, "pffft, feelings don't work that way. And you've raised whining to an art form. Your friends need to deal with it." Some friends think I'm an idiot for dreaming of eventually being friends with D again. The current estrangement should be permanent. Wish him well and move on. Others think that I will, in time, need to renew contact, for closure if nothing else. My therapist tells me to acknowledge the feelings, accept where I am: it's okay that I don't know what I want. But....do something about that negative self-talk.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog. What is really behind all this emotional flailing? That's what I need to find, in order to move on. Am I truly empty? Have I lost the ability to really feel, am I just going through the motions, running on my default whiny behaviors? What do I really want, where is my joy, where is the me that people want me to retrieve? I truly don't know, I don't recognize that woman they are describing. I don't believe the future is limitless.
But I want to believe it. I know that I have all the tools to do amazing things with the next 30 years, and the freedom to pursue those adventures. If I want to.
Most of what I presaged last March has come to pass. I've lost most of my possessions and savings, my marriage, and my sweet dog. I am in the process of figuring out how best to jettison my house. And yet, the grief of the past year is missing. Yes, I sobbed throughout the divorce mediation. And I sobbed when I learned about D's collapse. And I cry in my weekly therapy sessions. But behind all of that emotion is...emptiness. And maybe relief. And maybe, just maybe, the stirrings of hope.
I'm not sure.
I do know that loss of stuff is no longer part of the grief. As part of the mediation, I took the inventory of possessions and labelled them: D, K, and M. (M stands for marital possessions.) D initialed the stuff he plans to retrieve, now that he's back in Portland, and I faxed the result to my property managers. In looking over the inventory, I realized that, for the most part, I haven't missed any of it. There is some Grandma furniture that I'd like to cherish, there are boxes of pictures and letters and financial doings that I should go through. But otherwise....?
Last week my managers sent me 2 boxes of clothes, which are a welcome addition, and another small box of craft stuff. Much more remains, along with books, dishes, CDs, and Christmas decorations. All are nice to have, all give me joy, but if I never saw them again, I'd be okay. In fact, that would be a painless way to deal with it: just walk away.
Really? Have I reached that point?
Last year I was wandering around the house, agonizing over what was going in the downsizing estate sale. A few months later, I flung things in boxes, preparatory to moving here. At the time, I was thinking in terms of "what do we need for the next 6 months." So, the tough decisions were set aside. It was very Scarlett O'Hara: I'll think about that tomorrow (or in this case, 6 months of tomorrows.)
Now I find that, for the most part, my hasty decisions were as valid as the decisions I agonized over. In both cases, precious things were lost, precious things were kept, precious things were stored. And the same goes for unimportant things: while I tossed and sold a lot, I also boxed up paperclips for god's sake, scraps of wrapping paper for origami, jewelry bits to be reused.... and now that I've left D, I still have too much stuff: my 350 sq ft are crammed with linens, clothes, dishes, papers, books, furniture. I am not yet traveling light. And I want to.
But the real issue, of course, is how to lighten the emotional load. All this preoccupation with stuff is a distraction from the job at hand. It's easy to talk about moving on, traveling light, but what does that really mean?
After the divorce was final, I wrote a haiku:
Loss is emptiness.
It should be weightless. But no:
Tears have gravity.
So, how do I pay homage to the past 10 years and look towards the next 30 years? How do I jettison my tears, guilt, sadness? How do I store memories? and how do I take joy and hope and regain my bright, serene, creative self? How do I move on?
My friends and family and therapist are all advising me. It's contradictory. Most people see the last 10 years as a waste: I lost the self that they loved, while trying to maintain a partnership that drained me financially and emotionally, alienated my friends and family, and eroded my self-confidence and self-esteem. I get that point of view. But it's not the whole story. Clearly, I would not have spent 10 years on something that gave me nothing. There were joys experienced, lessons learned, friends made. I did not stop creating, making music, or feeding my soul. Those 10 years are part of me, and I need to acknowledge them, grieve over what I lost, and take what I gained.
D is not the demon of the piece. He is the man I fell in love with after my father died. He got me through that tough time, and he loves me and thinks me beautiful and talented. He is proud of my accomplishments. He is a good man. But, as E once said, he was a lousy husband. The power imbalance led to escalating emotional abuse, and I had given all I had to give. No one, not even D, blames me for leaving, for giving up. In the final analysis, I don't blame myself.
But the process? the process is driving everyone crazy. I wallow in grief, in guilt: What could I have done differently, why wasn't I strong enough, what is D going to do, why couldn't I be there for him and his sister? I whine: I've lost everything. I curl up in a fetal position. I cry. I can't make decisions, I don't follow through. I express my loneliness. I express my neediness. I cry some more. I don't know what I want to do with my life, and I cry about that. I don't have the confidence to start something new. I worry about debts, about stuff. I worry about self-care and self-talk. I worry about alienating my friends and family even more. I worry about being a burden.
One friend thinks the guilt is useless and self-destructive and I need to Just Stop. Another says, "pffft, feelings don't work that way. And you've raised whining to an art form. Your friends need to deal with it." Some friends think I'm an idiot for dreaming of eventually being friends with D again. The current estrangement should be permanent. Wish him well and move on. Others think that I will, in time, need to renew contact, for closure if nothing else. My therapist tells me to acknowledge the feelings, accept where I am: it's okay that I don't know what I want. But....do something about that negative self-talk.
Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog. What is really behind all this emotional flailing? That's what I need to find, in order to move on. Am I truly empty? Have I lost the ability to really feel, am I just going through the motions, running on my default whiny behaviors? What do I really want, where is my joy, where is the me that people want me to retrieve? I truly don't know, I don't recognize that woman they are describing. I don't believe the future is limitless.
But I want to believe it. I know that I have all the tools to do amazing things with the next 30 years, and the freedom to pursue those adventures. If I want to.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Loneliness
Two days after my last post, the one about Change....I left D.
It's been a month of more changes than I can count, more stress than I thought possible, and more grief than I expected.
I don't want to think about all that right now. The poor choices of the last 10 years, the financial and personal loss, the ongoing drama in disconnecting, the pain of hurting the man I love, the loss of self-respect, the relinquishing of power, the second-guessing....it's all too much.
So, here I sit, in my cozy little casita, listening to the birds who are cheeping in the bushes and complaining about the cold and the dusting of snow on the ground (yes, I'm anthropomorphizing.) I have an excellent landlord, a retired librarian who let me use her oven last week to bake Julecaga and rolls. There is art on the walls, there are books on the shelves, there is coffee in my cup. I just finished skyping with H and S and eating breakfast, and this afternoon I go to T's for a cookie baking party: she got the idea from me and ran with it, and I'm so happy to have a little holiday baking in my future. I'll be bringing the potatoes I mashed last night, and I'll make lefse. Ostensibly, life is good, I'm productive, and I'm doing things that bring me joy.
In fact, I have too muich to do: practising for the upcoming concerts, knitting for Christmas gifts, reading, writing, making decorations, sending cards, getting a new driver's license, managing my budget. And work.
This is how I lived 10 years ago: lots of activity, lots of friends. I didn't feel lonely very often. I liked having my home to myself to recoup from the busy days. Ostensibly an extrovert, I have introvert tendencies: being with people can energize me, but it often saps me intead, and I need the space and solitude. When I first left D, my grief was buried by an immense relief: I no longer have to deal with him, I can come home to a peaceful home, I can do things the way I want to without recrimination, I don't have to compromise a damn thing.
So I thought.
But, yesterday I was sad, sad, sad. I wanted to call D. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to plan an outing with him. I wanted to hold him. I was lonely.
I can handle the days, of course. There is work, there is business to take care of. The nights, though...they are tough. My current branch assignment is very quiet: very few customer interactions, only 3 people to manage, the building maintenance is done by the site where the library is located. I don't come home exhausted by the demands of the day, and I need activity to offset the brooding.
I don't have TV to watch numbly while I knit, and I don't want to anyway. I can practise, of course. And read. But they both require serenity and focus outside of myself. I am too restless to settle down to anything. I can do some baking and fudge making, but the kitchenette does limit that, and I'm not hungry. I have to bring anything I make to other people.
Yes, I can call my friends. But I don't want to overburden them, especially the new, local ones. And I don't like talking on the phone. Yes, I can Skype. But in the end, I'm alone, when I'm used to having someone there. Yes, it was someone I fought with, yes, it was someone who belittled me, who used me up. But, it was a connection, however toxic.
Yesterday I called my Mom during my lunch break, and we talked about loneliness. She shared what she went through after Dad died, and she encouraged me to pick up the pieces and look for another man. Uh, no. I don't want that, I never did. I still don't know why I gave up 40 years of single bliss for 10 years of....what was it? Companionship, caring, being needed? I have years to figure that out.
But in the here and now, I have to figure out who I want to be, how I want to put the meaning back into my life. It seems I am not put here to take care of another person. I gather I am here to learn some sort of lesson, to grow in some way, to make a difference somehow. And that is fine for the big picture.
It doesn't do much for the lonely evenings.
It's been a month of more changes than I can count, more stress than I thought possible, and more grief than I expected.
I don't want to think about all that right now. The poor choices of the last 10 years, the financial and personal loss, the ongoing drama in disconnecting, the pain of hurting the man I love, the loss of self-respect, the relinquishing of power, the second-guessing....it's all too much.
So, here I sit, in my cozy little casita, listening to the birds who are cheeping in the bushes and complaining about the cold and the dusting of snow on the ground (yes, I'm anthropomorphizing.) I have an excellent landlord, a retired librarian who let me use her oven last week to bake Julecaga and rolls. There is art on the walls, there are books on the shelves, there is coffee in my cup. I just finished skyping with H and S and eating breakfast, and this afternoon I go to T's for a cookie baking party: she got the idea from me and ran with it, and I'm so happy to have a little holiday baking in my future. I'll be bringing the potatoes I mashed last night, and I'll make lefse. Ostensibly, life is good, I'm productive, and I'm doing things that bring me joy.
In fact, I have too muich to do: practising for the upcoming concerts, knitting for Christmas gifts, reading, writing, making decorations, sending cards, getting a new driver's license, managing my budget. And work.
This is how I lived 10 years ago: lots of activity, lots of friends. I didn't feel lonely very often. I liked having my home to myself to recoup from the busy days. Ostensibly an extrovert, I have introvert tendencies: being with people can energize me, but it often saps me intead, and I need the space and solitude. When I first left D, my grief was buried by an immense relief: I no longer have to deal with him, I can come home to a peaceful home, I can do things the way I want to without recrimination, I don't have to compromise a damn thing.
So I thought.
But, yesterday I was sad, sad, sad. I wanted to call D. I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to plan an outing with him. I wanted to hold him. I was lonely.
I can handle the days, of course. There is work, there is business to take care of. The nights, though...they are tough. My current branch assignment is very quiet: very few customer interactions, only 3 people to manage, the building maintenance is done by the site where the library is located. I don't come home exhausted by the demands of the day, and I need activity to offset the brooding.
I don't have TV to watch numbly while I knit, and I don't want to anyway. I can practise, of course. And read. But they both require serenity and focus outside of myself. I am too restless to settle down to anything. I can do some baking and fudge making, but the kitchenette does limit that, and I'm not hungry. I have to bring anything I make to other people.
Yes, I can call my friends. But I don't want to overburden them, especially the new, local ones. And I don't like talking on the phone. Yes, I can Skype. But in the end, I'm alone, when I'm used to having someone there. Yes, it was someone I fought with, yes, it was someone who belittled me, who used me up. But, it was a connection, however toxic.
Yesterday I called my Mom during my lunch break, and we talked about loneliness. She shared what she went through after Dad died, and she encouraged me to pick up the pieces and look for another man. Uh, no. I don't want that, I never did. I still don't know why I gave up 40 years of single bliss for 10 years of....what was it? Companionship, caring, being needed? I have years to figure that out.
But in the here and now, I have to figure out who I want to be, how I want to put the meaning back into my life. It seems I am not put here to take care of another person. I gather I am here to learn some sort of lesson, to grow in some way, to make a difference somehow. And that is fine for the big picture.
It doesn't do much for the lonely evenings.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Loss
Our weekends are falling into a pattern. On Saturday, D does errands and enjoys the pool and the apartment, while I work my 5th day. That night we stay up late, together, watching movies or reading or going out for dinner. Sunday, we have a semi-leisurely breakfast time, go to the 9:30 UU service, and plan our afternoon drive. Often that drive includes pulling over to check out open houses. We are nowhere near ready to move, financially or organizationally, but we are looking.
Two weeks ago I added some Skype sessions to the mix. It has been difficult to find time and focus to talk to friends or write to them, so it was a nice change. I caught E at home with the visiting grand-kids and was introduced to Stripes and Spot (fuzzy, medium-sized stuffed animals, tiger and giraffe respectively.) The laptop ran out of juice 27 minutes into the talk, and I plugged it back in at the office. Then, as I was typing an apology to E, my cousin came online. We had a brief chat, and he showed me the view from his new apartment window, overlooking the Olympic park.
He has it rough.
So, I was content. I was connecting with loved ones, and I was comfortable, if broke. Then, I went to church, and a clearly distraught minister came to the pulpit to announce, with forced calm, "This week we lost a child." A 14-year-old boy had died in an Arizona plane crash, along with his best friend and his friend's father. He and his family were involved church members, and apparently loving and lovely people. The pilot was an ex-Olympian, so it was on the news, and we'd heard about it.
Of course, I didn't know any of them, but both D and I started crying during the meditation and prayer. It's a universal grief, the loss of the brightest and best, the loss of a future. D of course was thinking of his son, but what was I thinking of? I was thinking how every day the newspapers and news stations tell us of loss, and every day we say, oh, that's too bad. And sometimes we think, "He was so young," or "What a tragedy," but we don't grieve, we don't sorrow. We are distanced, we don't know the people, we don't care.
I find myself thinking about loss a lot. I am facing the loss of a beloved home, and I have lost many friends and some family in the past several years, not to mention beloved pets. I have lost my source of livelihood and many sources of joy. And I have lost my self-confidence and self-respect, not to mention my serenity.
How much of this is in my control? And does it help to think about it, to worry about future loss, to grieve past loss? Is there anything that I can reasonably do to safeguard what I have left?
I was talking with my Mom the other day, and we are in similar places, trying to build new lives in new homes. While we are both giving up a lot of Stuff, that's not the real problem. We can focus on the frustrations and barriers to moving on, but the biggest barrier is the fear of loss.
We have no control over the fact of loss. It's a given that we come into the world with nothing but ourselves, and we leave that way, too. It's a given that, if you love, you will grieve. In fact, I want to grieve. I don't want to let something precious go without a thought, without a tear, and I want to have precious things in my life.
Which brings me back to the real loss. The other day a friend, possibly an ex-friend, wrote that she didn't understand what happened to the creative, bright, productive person she once knew. She misses that woman, and I do too. I think that finding her again might be something in my control, if she ever existed. Right now, it's hard to remember her, and that's the biggest loss of all.
Two weeks ago I added some Skype sessions to the mix. It has been difficult to find time and focus to talk to friends or write to them, so it was a nice change. I caught E at home with the visiting grand-kids and was introduced to Stripes and Spot (fuzzy, medium-sized stuffed animals, tiger and giraffe respectively.) The laptop ran out of juice 27 minutes into the talk, and I plugged it back in at the office. Then, as I was typing an apology to E, my cousin came online. We had a brief chat, and he showed me the view from his new apartment window, overlooking the Olympic park.
He has it rough.
So, I was content. I was connecting with loved ones, and I was comfortable, if broke. Then, I went to church, and a clearly distraught minister came to the pulpit to announce, with forced calm, "This week we lost a child." A 14-year-old boy had died in an Arizona plane crash, along with his best friend and his friend's father. He and his family were involved church members, and apparently loving and lovely people. The pilot was an ex-Olympian, so it was on the news, and we'd heard about it.
Of course, I didn't know any of them, but both D and I started crying during the meditation and prayer. It's a universal grief, the loss of the brightest and best, the loss of a future. D of course was thinking of his son, but what was I thinking of? I was thinking how every day the newspapers and news stations tell us of loss, and every day we say, oh, that's too bad. And sometimes we think, "He was so young," or "What a tragedy," but we don't grieve, we don't sorrow. We are distanced, we don't know the people, we don't care.
I find myself thinking about loss a lot. I am facing the loss of a beloved home, and I have lost many friends and some family in the past several years, not to mention beloved pets. I have lost my source of livelihood and many sources of joy. And I have lost my self-confidence and self-respect, not to mention my serenity.
How much of this is in my control? And does it help to think about it, to worry about future loss, to grieve past loss? Is there anything that I can reasonably do to safeguard what I have left?
I was talking with my Mom the other day, and we are in similar places, trying to build new lives in new homes. While we are both giving up a lot of Stuff, that's not the real problem. We can focus on the frustrations and barriers to moving on, but the biggest barrier is the fear of loss.
We have no control over the fact of loss. It's a given that we come into the world with nothing but ourselves, and we leave that way, too. It's a given that, if you love, you will grieve. In fact, I want to grieve. I don't want to let something precious go without a thought, without a tear, and I want to have precious things in my life.
Which brings me back to the real loss. The other day a friend, possibly an ex-friend, wrote that she didn't understand what happened to the creative, bright, productive person she once knew. She misses that woman, and I do too. I think that finding her again might be something in my control, if she ever existed. Right now, it's hard to remember her, and that's the biggest loss of all.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
"What do you want to do with this?"
Two months ago I received a statement from my 401K. Since I left MCL in April, 2009, I have had access to that money. It halved in value during the recession, and I also had been using it to cover D's debts, my tripled mortgage, and a joint lifestyle that was beyond my means. In the past year the trickle of funds became a hemorrhage. Now, it's almost gone.
I'm still unemployed and so is D. My unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year. While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.
I face the truth: I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.
To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home. I cannot face the latter yet. Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else. I decide on more radical measures. Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me: I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental, and downsize my possessions.
I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends. Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years? It's theirs. Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets? Bring 'em on. Etc.
The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers. I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice. I feel loved. I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in. I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions. I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done. Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively. Or so I hope.
I begin a modest remodel to create a viable living space so I can continue to live in my home. I locate a renter for the upstairs. The revised plan is to live in the downstairs, sleep in the newly refurbished shed, and share the kitchen with the renter. The downstairs bathroom now has a shower.
The downsize is a bigger problem. D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind. We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional. For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold. She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions. We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."
From the start it's a nightmare. There is so much. I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff. We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes. I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms. D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell. It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears. I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.
Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality. I am doing more than selling off possessions. I am jettisoning my life. I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader. Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level. I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps. I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece. Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories. Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them. Do I really want to trash my life?
I cannot be totally ruthless: I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs. Some day I will have to cull these as well. But 90% of the rest must go now. My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.
The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes. It's a little schizophrenic: in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep. In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep. D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale. He says, "What do you want to do with this?" I say, "Put in the sale." He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass, cord to lost electronic item)?" I say, "That's up to the professional." He says, "What do you want to do with this?"
I snap. I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables, I don't want to determine which is which. I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position. But, then I discover my expired passport. If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route. Now, I'm trapped in the U.S. Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband. I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"
It's down to zero hour. I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale. D has stopped saying, "But we might use this." He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done. I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes. I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented. I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it. I know this should not be in the sale. But there is so much else. Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables? Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold? I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)
Now I am up in Port Angeles, staying with cousins while hordes of strangers tramp through my house, my life, and my memories, devaluing it all in the interest of getting a good deal or a quick sale. I have been trying to not think about it, and my worry over Carbon makes that easy. Her laryngeal paralysis kicks in during times of stress, excessive heat, or excitement, and she spent the entire drive up here panting without cessation, sides heaving, laboring after oxygen. I don't know which stressor is coming in to play, but I am facing the fact that yet another loss is imminent. I sit with my arms around my sweet old dog, sobbing. I don't know which loss I am weeping for, but I do know that grief will not disappear with my things.
I'm still unemployed and so is D. My unemployment runs out in June, and the vacation rental apartment is bringing in half what it did last year. While I have cut travel and entertainment expenses by two-thirds, my mortgage cannot be reduced and I am paying over $600 a month in health insurance.
I face the truth: I can no longer afford my home or my lifestyle.
To stave off foreclosure, I either need to find a new source of income or sell my home. I cannot face the latter yet. Since the job search is looking bleaker every day, I have to find income somewhere else. I decide on more radical measures. Although I've reduced my living expenses as far as I can and still remain married, I have one more option available to me: I will rent my home, live in the vacation studio rental, and downsize my possessions.
I start planning the downsize. Step 1 is a heads' up to family and friends. Is there anything in my possession that they have coveted or treasured over the past few years? It's theirs. Do they know of anyone looking for a nice home, complete with live-in landlords and pets? Bring 'em on. Etc.
The support comes pouring in. I receive names of potential house-mates and professional estate sale managers. I get offers of help, a breathtaking gift of money, affirmations, condolences, and advice. I feel loved. I close my eyes to the emotional reality of this process, and I dive in. I tell myself that this is what I've needed for years, a chance to de-clutter and get out from under my possessions. I have let the sheer mass of things and responsibilities overwhelm me, and nothing gets done. Now I will be able to find what's left and spend my time productively. Or so I hope.
 |
| The Master Shedroom |
The downsize is a bigger problem. D is a hoarder, and I am not far behind. We realize that we cannot face the choices inherent in managing a moving sale, and I cut a deal with an estate sale professional. For 35% of the take, she will take care of everything. We painfully decide which rooms will be off-limits during the sale and which large pieces of furniture will be sold. She begins contacting dealers and valuing our possessions. We start the even more painful process of deciding about the "little stuff."
From the start it's a nightmare. There is so much. I have lived here close to 20 years, Dave close to 7. The remodel is still happening, and that slows down the process of moving stuff. We start piling things up, but I really don't want to handle it all twice, nor to live out of boxes. I want to go through the house, choose what to keep, and put it all away in the non-sale rooms. D wants to go through and decide what to toss, and what to sell. It's a radical difference in mind-set, and our discussions are accompanied by bouts of frustration, anger, hysteria, screaming, and tears. I won't say who provided which, but I do start making plans to be gone during the sale itself.
Although I am adamantly not answering D's constant question, "What do you want to do with this?" I cannot escape the reality. I am doing more than selling off possessions. I am jettisoning my life. I have been a musician, artist, craftsman, traveler, reader. Soon I will no longer have the means to be any of these things, or at least not at the previous level. I am selling sheet music and CDs, instruments, darkroom equipment, frames, yarn, craft supplies, paper for origami, junk for "found-object" art, material and scraps, books, luggage, maps. I have also been a friend, lover, daughter, sister, niece. Everywhere I look I see gifts and memorabilia from these beloved people. Soon I will only have my memories. Some of these things are worth real money, some only carry emotional value, but all are worth more than any price the professional will put on them. Do I really want to trash my life?
I cannot be totally ruthless: I put snapshots and letters into boxes which I stash in the attic and under the stairs. Some day I will have to cull these as well. But 90% of the rest must go now. My wall space, closets, drawers, and table tops are going away, and I cannot store all the art, dishes, and clothing.
The last two weeks have been spent walking from room to room, sitting at dressers, piling things into bags and boxes. It's a little schizophrenic: in the rooms dedicated to the sale, I am bagging and tagging things I want to keep. In the rooms that will be off-limits, I am bagging and tagging things I cannot keep. D keeps forgetting which process goes with which room, and then he keeps forgetting that the stuff I'm leaving in drawers or stacking on surfaces is going into the sale. He says, "What do you want to do with this?" I say, "Put in the sale." He says, "Who would buy that (paperclip, broken glass, cord to lost electronic item)?" I say, "That's up to the professional." He says, "What do you want to do with this?"
I snap. I don't want to do anything with "this." I don't want to sell my memories. I don't want to sell junk, I don't want to sell valuables, I don't want to determine which is which. I want to pack a small bag and walk away, move in with my cousin in London, curl up in a fetal position. But, then I discover my expired passport. If I had snapped two weeks earlier, I could have taken that escape route. Now, I'm trapped in the U.S. Besides, I don't really want to leave my husband. I just want him to stop asking me, "What do you want to do with this?"
It's down to zero hour. I have stopped talking about why we are doing this, why we need to let the professional do her job, why we cannot keep taking things back out of the sale. D has stopped saying, "But we might use this." He snatches up one last pile of games he cannot bear to lose, and finally he's done. I wander around the rooms, looking for the mates to 4 shoes. I cannot find them, and I hope they have not been swallowed up by the bags that are in the dumpster I've rented. I do find D's "Rogowski box," a handcrafted wooden piece of art, given to him for his first wedding, and I rescue it. I know this should not be in the sale. But there is so much else. Did anything else inadvertently make its way to the sale tables? Conversely, is there anything else in the off-limits room that could be sold? I decide that this way lies madness, and I limp down the stairs (I tweaked my knee shoving heavy boxes with my foot.)
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