The crazy days are upon us. House partially packed (but not nearly enough). A big red X on the calendar for when Zack and I will relocate to our rental in Garrison, leaving our furniture and most of our belongings behind. We’ll be in hangtime for two weeks, waiting for the closings, the movings, the paper-signings and then the sweet relief of being home in a home we don’t know at all.
I’m floating on a jetstream of adrenalin and hope, a magic carpet woven slowly and carefully in these years of grief, believing I would find my way out. And then slowly, one step at a time, I am.
I feel so much dropping away, mostly my sense of weakness and frailty. I have new legs, literally, as I’ve just started greetings each morning with a walk/run, which brings tears to my eyes because I’ve missed it so much. But I just. Wasn’t. Able. to do it for so long. I could not take care of myself. It was another piece of too much to do when life was so scary and loss was so near.
I feel bright, alert, and these flawless summer days—no humidity, rampant sunshine—are adding to my sense of everything being just right.
How is it that the move is so tied to my movement away from all I’ve lost? It’s surprising to live it so potently.
The woman I was when I bought this apartment — bowed by my divorce, terrified about being a single mother, driven to succeed at my job as my only way to prove my worth to myself — is gone. I feel like my sleek and shiny DVF has been replaced by a relaxed Eileen Fisher. I’m more floaty, more easy, more natural. Still intense: that’s my hallmark, it will never go away, and for that I am glad. But maybe, just maybe, I’ve learned not to turn the intensity on myself and light the match. Maybe.
In my new gardens (and yes, there will be plenty of pictures soon), I will walk every morning and sing a silent prayer to my parents. I will name all the blooms—names they taught me—and imagine what I will plant there next. My son and I will walk outside the fence around our house (protecting the gardens from the deer), down to the boggy creek. We will hunt for frogs and toads, and throw rocks into the water until we get bored, which always takes longer than you’d think. I will commute to work on a train that rides along the glorious Hudson River, a body of water whose width and depth and age bring me a profound sense of rightness and peace, a reminder that I am temporary, as are my concerns. But my love and pleasure of the moment, of the world, of the days, is eternal in its way.
I will drop to my knees and weep, then meditate, in my little room set up just for meditation, a luxury that means more to me than I can express. I will sit quietly with my eyes closed and feel the world do its work around me: birds, leaves in the trees, the occasional car on the gravel road. The richness of the silence here will feed my soul.
I have so much gratitude, directed nowhere in particular. I feel so grateful to get to live this life, to get to survive heartbreak, to walk away from a scarred canyon and enter the woods. To live and to learn and to love, all such wonderful gifts, gifts that can be hard to see in the noise and bustle of getting from Here to There in NYC. At least for me they are.
I am walking into my own private Namaste. I don’t kid myself that everything will be rosy and swell, but I do know my heart and my soul will be more at peace. And with that as my foundation, my son and I can begin again and build ourselves a lovely little life embraced by nature and a small community of folks we can call friends. I will feel closer to the idea of life that matters most to me, and that is: pay attention, give thanks, be loved.
Eight days until the journey begins! Though this journey is many, many, many years—and many tears—in the making.