I am in the middle of vacating a home. This particular room, though now empty of things, contains multitudes:
My sister sleeping on a futon while my niece slobbers on the TV screen with her hands as she steadies her newly-walking self.
Emily and I crying while we watch "Wuthering Heights."
Painting the room cathedral gray.
Making it my very first studio, my me-only space to read and write.
Sitting staring out the window, watching Joel garden. Separate togetherness.
One drunken night when we newly discovered, and filmed me dancing to, an ABC song.
Slowing morphing it into a room for a baby.
The first time Joel put Bowie in her crib, 3 months after she was born, and ready to move out of the bassinet right next to our bed.
Nursing Bowie in the early morning hours, staring out at the dead-but-always-fruiting pear tree (oh
how I will miss that tree).
Sister back for a visit, sleeping on a mattress on the floor after a drunken Madonna concert.
Bowie moving out of this room into her big girl room - me reoccupying it eagerly.
Kelly, setting up shop in here even though it's way too small for a big working table. Just because we wanted to be in the same room, working. Separate togetherness.
The great book purge of 2015, when I decided that I was done with the men of antiquity dominating the shelves.
Standing outside the closed doorway for countless amounts of cumulative minutes, listening to Bowie cry. Should I go in? Should I stay out? Motherhood's eternal question.
KJK picking up my camera to snap a beautiful moment as I fed Bowie - me so grateful someone captured it.
House guests sleeping on a variety of makeshift bed combinations - Jackie and the kids sardined in,
in-laws during the first days of Bowie's life, my mom lots of times, friends and family always.
And that afternoon light. Oh the afternoon light.
So many mantras scribbled on paper and posted as reminders. Many revelatory tarot pulls. Tons of the deepest yoga breaths.
Smudging for the eradication of cancer, for the clearing of toxicity, for the fragrant cleansing.
All in the smallest room of the house... a room of my very own.
How do you know your own thoughts? Do they come to you freely or do they fight for your time? Do you hear them when you are occupied elsewhere with dishes or watering plants, are you in conversation with yourself when you look at the sky or when you drive home? When you hear them, are you sure they are your own?
I spend a lot of time reflecting, which is important to me. But I also don't usually talk about those thoughts or write them out. I am in my head, often stuck there unless I can either do yoga, go to therapy, or write. Especially write.
These activities keep me from spinning out - or at least help me spin out with intention.
I was doing luminary sessions with the this ball of light (seriously, five sessions have shifted me in ways I never knew possible), but even a "therapy" session isn't exactly spending time with myself - with my voice alone. Writing has always been this for me. Not nature, not long walks, not staring at the ocean - those all help, but my thoughts run too fast and too free for me to hear them well. And that's fine. Not all thoughts are meant to be pinned down - and many will flee for fear of capture.
But when the thoughts that want to be unpacked come along, the best treatment I can give them is writing. However, like any writer, I absolutely abhor doing it. And yet I ache for it at the same time, the simplicity of purging on page, of making my mind slow to match the pace of my hand.
On Sunday, I opened my journal to write and realized how long it had been since I had written anything for myself. There are many good and valid reasons for that, but I also realized that when I am disconnected with writing, I'm also disconnected from the conduit to myself.
Things change so fast. This time last week, I was happily plodding along in the day-to-day, thinking about my upcoming trips to Mexico and Hawaii (both happening in April!).
Then Friday afternoon, we put in an offer on a house - our 6th offer. Our search for a house has spanned the last 1.5 years, and frankly - I'm detached from the whole thing. Later that evening, during our family viewing of "The Lego Movie," I looked down at my phone and saw that the house status was moved to pending. This has happened before, so I told Joel, "Oh, this went pending. Too bad."
But then our realtor called Joel. While still on the phone, Joel threw me an animated thumbs up that looked sarcastic. But then he got off the phone and told me the news; we'd won the bid. Surprised and a bit in shock, we resumed our movie. We spent the weekend in a little bubble of bliss - peacefully looking at Pinterest boards for new furniture and casually plotting out the house to see what could fit where, what projects needed doing, etc. I wasn't stressed, though I was still in disbelief. I think I still am.
But Monday hit hard. Calls to escrow companies, transferring monies...just a lot of little details coming at me. In the meantime, I have to think about packing and saying goodbye to this beautiful house - which will be a significant source of grief. Plus, our April plans haven't changed. We very well may be signing papers in Maui. Who are we and what have we done to ourselves?
When will we move? How will we tell our landlord? Will I take my raspberry bush? Are the old bookshelves coming with us? Should we sell the old bar tables? Will the couch fit in the new place? Where will the paintings go? When the heck am I supposed to pack? Will we still buy a new mattress? How will the cat adjust? Should we retire the bedroom set neither of us really like? What will the utility bill be at the new place? What will it be like to drive Bowie to school from there? Are we in over our heads?
To keep myself from choking on the excitement, anxiety, and to-do lists - I've decided to journal every day in April. Nothing fancy, nothing profound. Even if it's just lists and lists. I don't want to lose myself in this process and be so caught up that I can't enjoy it.
As I sat on my yoga mat this morning, like every morning, trying to invite my monkey brain to rest, I wondered - if I can slow down for just even 5-10 minutes per day to observe - will there be uncovered richness in these details? What could I learn about myself? What if I didn't try to slog through it through but instead gave myself permission to thrive amidst the chaos?
A mantra has been ringing in my ears since my coworker shared it with me last week,"Don't do more. Resist less."
There is no right way to be Candace in April of 2017. There is no planning myself out of this mess. It's time to be. It's time to resist less.
I have no idea what it looks like to stop resisting. None.
I'll let you know.
As I type this, one of my best gals is on a plane to Atlanta with her son in tow (literally. she's 7-months pregnant). I've prolonged the goodbye as much as possible, but last night - as the girls toasted her and assured her that she's going to be a fabulous mother and that we'll help her as much as we can - and more as she assured us that she's coming back - it became official. So here's my tribute to the time I've known D.
With my own sister and niece gone, with Kelly having moved, and now Devon...and with more family moving away in the next year (Brian, Jenn and Olive are moving to California and and Tim and Julie are moving to North Carolina this summer), I am beginning to feel like it must be something I've done.
The cosmos sure has a funny way of teaching me to love.
The theme of losing has been prevalent and deeply sad for me of late. It seems that as we learn to love without expectation or fear, the more we practice letting go and accepting other people's decisions for their lives. In the most childish way, I want my kin's decisions to center around being close to me...but in my wise-ish parts, I understand and truly desire that they do what is best for themselves and their families. But God...it's so damn hard. I'm quite tired of it and frankly, don't know how much more I can handle.
I want a relationally lucrative life.
This feels impossible when staring down so much loss.
I'm determined to claim the gain.
In other news, I am trying to drink less.
So pretty much things are depressing as hell around here.
I have been disappointed all day. The saint and I are feeling the crunch of time as it threatens to smoooosh us. We have to move by October 1, but as yet, we have not solidified a residence for ourselves. On Sunday, he and I went into Seattle and found the most perfect home. Location was stellar, the place was gorgeous and spacious, the backyard brimming with tomatoes, and the aesthetic was just completely suited to our taste. Unfortunately, we didn't get to it fast enough. If we had only arrived 1 hour earlier, we would currently be toasting to our fortuitous find.
But I've learned something about how I grieve...how it's changed in the last few years (along with everything else in my head). Before, I would have completely guarded myself with cynicism towards "getting my hopes up." I think the general idea behind this theory is that if you don't want it too much, then when it doesn't work out, the disappointment is less. Only it never worked. I was always disappointed whether or not I pinned my hopes on the outcome.
So these last few years, I've decided to hope. Hope against all ration and reason (withing reality, of course. I am still ME after all...analytical, rational etc)...hope despite the hidden pain it might bring to do so.
Am I so very disappointed today because I hoped so much? I don't think so. I am so very sad because I didn't get what I wanted. I will grieve it (banana splits help. limoncello cocktails help.) I will allow myself to be very blue; I will refuse to kick myself in the backside for hoping too much. What's so great about guarding oneself from disappointment anyway? It can, like every other emotion (shadowy or brilliant) bring incredible depth of soul, richness of thought, awareness of self.
In the end, I hope.
For discovery.
For fascination.
For myself.
For you.
For kindness.
For change.
For stillness.
For a flipping wondiferous house.
groceries arrive at doorstep
5 boxes packed
artichokes and pbr
power outage while trying to catch up on LOST
journaling by candlelight
[saturday]
hair in bandanna
10 boxes packed new book purchased at recommendation of sister
child's birthday party captured on camera
"true blood" marathon
[sunday]
sleeping way in
spinach, feta, cherry tomato scramble with mimosa and croissant
the big lebowski
finishing packing the kitchen
downloading podcasts from NPR for road-trip (I LOVE "This American Life")
perfect timing to receive a much-needed letter
release to share with a few the great load of living
Here's to the Leaning Tower of Change.
It's moving week.
We're all treading water in a pool of diffidence and adventure.
It's a great little cocktail
for feeling alive.
Small Monday Confession:
Does anyone else look forward to it? Even just a little?
Tonight this place feels foreign.
Also, I have a bad attitude about it.
I keep thinking that I should be settled or at least headed that way,
That my routines should be set in stone
Or that I can reach for the measuring cup and actually know where it is.
Then I remember that I've been here only just over a week.
That until my books have a home, I will feel
Uprooted
The only thing that feels at home are elemental.
The alchemy of my soul.
Fire.
Joel.
Food.
As for the rest,
In this place I am a tourist.
I'll be sure to let you know when I aquire the language
And acclimate to this culture shock.
My brain is bursting at the seams. We have completed the move about 90%, but only about 20% of the unpacking. I have been disconnected from the internet for roughly 2.5 days, and though it's been nice, it only adds to the general feeling of ODDITY that encompasses my description of this new life. In a conversation today with my friend, I described it thus:
I love it when I am at the house. I hate it when I leave the house.
Except for while at my new local coffee shop, which to some might be called Joel's parents house, but I see internet and coffee (and lunch, and rubs, and free bananas) and normalcy.
And that's the worst part of moving. After you do all of this physically and emotionally draining work, you just want to go home and noodle on your couch. Well, there will be no noodling on your couch when you couch is buried in the living room and no where near your disconnected media center (which is missing a monitor and speakers anyway). So I come to the closest home I know and try to find myself again here, among you.
My attendance will for sure be sporadic at best in the next few weeks, but I'll be sure to return to keep you abreast of Musings of a Melancholic - country style.
