Grateful

Yesterday, JT and I made a trip west to San Diego.  We’re hanging out with family and later in the week I will see my college roommate.  It’s lovely to see my nephews and San Diego is straight up splendid.  

Most of all I am grateful for my ability to go places and do things; to move with ease.  For a woman who started the year barely able to walk 100 yards (and that in pain), I feel relatively invincible now.  This trip is about my goals for the post-surgery part of my year - getting past my fears of physical limits and re-learning the ability to like my body - but most of all this trip is about having fun and reminding myself that people love me in all my human frailty.  

That’s happy!

Still Paying the Toll

The past two years have been hard.  JT’s post-graduation struggle, T’s departure, my father’s death, and then the disability and pain of my wonky hip…..  Each event was separate but they added up.  The break-up with T came just as my son was finding his equilibrium and at first the freedom from the daily anxiety of an unhappy and angry partner was a relief.  I was just beginning to come to terms with all that the break-up meant when my father died.  That was unexpected and knocked me for a loop.  Six months later, before I really found my footing in the face of the losses I had experienced, my hip gave out on me.  Six months of increasing pain and anxiety followed.  

I’m four months post-surgery and finally feeling that I have found my footing.   As I do that, some of the loss that I didn’t have time to fully grieve is now demanding its due.  I feel it most when I’ve had a hard day at work and on weekends.  Some nights it would be nice to have a partner who made supper and is there to help me talk through the struggles of my day. Weekends on my own aren’t quite hard or sad - I like being alone - but they are different from the life I had with T and I find they go better if I make plans.  

This summer, I feel as if I’m finally finding my way forward.  Slotted in among my usual chores, I plan activities for my weekends - enjoyable things like going to the farmers market, time at a local coffee house, finding a new-to-me park for walks, cooking supper for friends, taking up a new hobby (I’m learning how to embroider!).  I like the life I’ve built for myself but sometimes I miss having a companion.  I long for an excuse to dress up and go out.  I wish that someone would notice me and tell me that I look nice.  Mostly, I try not to linger on the losses or the sense that I am alone.  Some days that’s easier than others.

One Year

It’s been one year to-the-date since T left.  In all fairness, it should not be expressed in that way — she left in anger on the 6th of November but in the clear light of the next day, it was the right decision for both of us.  On that day, our break-up became mutual.  I thought so at the time; one year later, a lot has changed but not my feeling that our relationship had reached its end.  I have missed her and, perhaps even more than that, I’ve worried about her.  In January, when I finally tried to convey that sentiment to her, I was firmly rebuffed.  We’ve had no contact since those terse texts.  In that exchange, I offered to talk and apologized for not being able to love her in the way that she needed.  She thanked me but had no other response; no apology or expression toward me of any sort.  That was it.  So our relationship of 11 years ended in a whimper. 

I’ve since had plenty of time to reflect on our years together.  But it’s a one-sided story and I’ve little idea how she thinks of our time together.  I’ve wondered - often - if she ever loved me.  I think that reflection comes from the hardships of the pandemic and our last year together.  I hope that’s true; there was a period when I was deeply in love with her and I thought she felt the same way.  I can only speak for myself, but as I think back on our last few years together, it feels that I spent an inordinate amount of my energy trying to manage her mercurial moods and inexplicable anger; to look after her in the way that she needed.  I recognize that my efforts failed, but I did try.  When things between us were at their most difficult, I would console myself with the notion that when I really needed her, she would be there for me.  I don’t know if I believed that as much as I hoped it would true.  But if the Summer of 2022 revealed anything to me, it was the falseness of that hope.  And by the time of her blow up in November - on my birthday, of all days -  I was simply spent.  The next few weeks brought me a strange sense of peace, followed by a whole lot of regret.  Now, a year later, peace is the more dominant sentiment.  Of course it’s tinged with regret; 11 years together is a long time.  I am not yet accustomed to thinking about my long-term future without a whole lot of uncertainty, a feeling that makes me anxious.  

In the last year, I have had the time - and space - to actually look after myself, an art I mostly lost in the blur of our last few years together.  I am not lonely on my own, though I’m a little scared of growing old by myself and being a burden on JT.  I’m sad; really, really sad that I could never find someone to love me as I am.  This is the second time a relationship that I believed was my forever life plan has failed.  Though the differences in my reactions are telling, in the harder moments, this second failure makes me believe that there is something gravely wrong with me.  Those feelings can run rampant far too easily.  So mostly I square my chin, dismiss these feelings of inadequacy, and remind myself of my better qualities.  I’m kind and funny; loyal and true.  Amazing, smart, and worthy.  Stylish and charming.  Beautiful.  And certainly deserving of better than I was receiving in the life I had with T.  One year out, I don’t know if I entirely believe these things, but I want to believe them.  That has to count for something.  

Seeking Clarity

There is a line in the Indigo Girls’ song “Closer to Fine” that has always spoken to me.  It’s both a comfort and a reminder that I should not give in to my fears: “…Darkness has a call that’s insatiable and lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.”  I’ve thought of these lines a lot lately.

Since last November, I’ve spent a lot of weekends on my own.  At first, there was the novelty of a weekend with no obligation to anyone but myself.  That was freeing, especially as I realized that a house without tension was a really nice place to be; a truly comforting home.  I renewed my joy in hosting people for supper.  Come Spring, some of the novelty of these solitary weekends had worn off and I realized that I needed to make plans for weekends on my own.  With Summer and its relaxed pace on the horizon, I knew I was at risk for the solitary weekends to become opportunities to reflect less on the pleasures of life on my own and more on what I’ve lost.  Down that path lies a sadness that can’t change the past and won’t help my future.  Planning and organization were the remedy. So making weekend plans and to-do lists became my companion. 

I go for a walk in my favorite park.  I schedule a long read and have an extra cup (or two!) of coffee.  I’ve made time to write.  I work on craft projects.  This Summer, I’ve taken a few hours every other weekend for a pedicure and manicure, which I find immensely relaxing in the moment and deeply pleasing afterward. I take the time to make new and familiar recipes, set the table, and savor the food I’ve prepared.  In the evening, I watch some TV and enjoy the ability to choose a show that I like.  In this way, I’m finding my way forward, one to-do item at a time.  

An Independent Woman

 In our last year together, T and I faced some home improvement challenges that we did not handle well as a couple.  My sense at the time - and even more so now - is that in both circumstances she was weirdly unreasonable.  I never said that to her because it would not have helped things in the moment.  Though I held my tongue, in both cases, she was mighty angry with me anyway.  It proved a can’t-win-for-losing-proposition.

 I thought of these challenges on Tuesday afternoon, when I popped into the basement and discovered that my water heater had dumped a whole bunch of water on the floor.  A cursory feel below the tank revealed that it had sprung a leak.  I have a service contract on home appliances like the water heater and I called the repair service.  They came out that night to confirm what was already clear:  I need a new hot water heater.  I made arrangements for installation the next day.  Then I reported on the situation to a couple of friends and prepared to finish out the evening. 

I did all this confidently, in full command of the facts, and by myself.  I was organized and decisive and grateful that there was no one to doubt me or raise barriers to the obviously simple solution at hand.  Because that’s the thing about me: I am capable and independent and I know it.  I ask for help when I need it; I do not doubt what I know to be true and I don’t dilly-dally around because that makes an already- challenging circumstance harder.  That was what made the last two home improvement repairs with T so difficult: she made everything much harder than it needed to be, doubting my judgement in the absence of any valid reason to do so.

Once the repairman left on Tuesday evening,  I made myself a delicious late-night BLT supper (it’s Jersey tomato season, after all) and texted my sister that the hot water heater and I had a good run together.  ”14 years,” I texted, “longer than any adult relationship I’ve ever had.”  She gave the appropriate "ha, ha" response.

I know there is something sad about that claim - it’s no secret that in my darker moments I wonder if it’s something wrong with me that explains why both of my long term relationships have failed.  I sometimes fear that my independence is something that partners find threatening.  But there is also this:  I am damn good at looking after myself.  I always have been and over the years I’ve gotten better at it because I’ve had to do so.  While I wouldn't mind someone taking care of me every once in a while, I suspect that is not in the cards for me.  So I recognize the blessing my independence has proven to be.  I don't apologize for it and I never will.  

Monthly Book Report: American Wife by Curtis Sittenfeld

 

I have had this book on my to-be-read list forever and when I spied it at the Library a few weeks back, I impulsively brought it home.  I am so glad that I finally sat down to read it.  Though I’ve read her essays and heard her on "This American Life" on many occasions, I’ve never read any of Sittenfeld’s fiction.  Based on this book, I’ll be back for more. 

American Wife is the story of Alice, a middle class young woman from Wisconsin who marries the son of a political family and finds herself thrust in the limelight of American politics.  Alice is not naive when she meets Charlie Blackwell - quite the reverse.  She’s single and in her early 30s, happy with her life as a librarian, not sure if she’ll ever fall in love, and not willing to settle into a relationship without love just to be a married woman.  Given that the title of the novel includes the word “wife”, the reader knows how things will work out for Alice and Charlie, so I was surprised I found the story so powerful.  

It’s in Alice’s thoughts about her life before her marriage that the novel really spoke to me.  Though she is in her early 30s when she and Charlie meet, and I am in my mid-50s, I could see myself in Alice’s fulfilling life as a single woman.  As I sort out my life here, in this space that I never expected to be, I’ve found enormous satisfaction in my ability to be true to what I want and what I need.  It feels like a really long time since I have been able to do that.  I find comfort in this place, both because it is comfortable and because I think that’s where life will land me in the end.  I am not the sort of person too long for an outcome that is not likely to be available to me.  It’s not always easy - most of my friendships are with people who are comfortably (and, I think, happily) married.  I’m often the only single woman in a group of people.  That can be really hard.  I especially miss a companion with whom I can talk about the small concerns of my world; in that circumstance is where I experience my greatest sense of being solitary.  

In the novel, there’s a scene early in her relationship with Charlie when they are at the grocery store in line to buy food for a meal they will make together and a now-coupled Alice sees her single self in the woman behind her in line.  She’s glad to be with Charlie but not in a way that makes her feel sorry for the single woman.  Instead, Sittenfeld’s Alice thinks, “It’s good on the other side, but it’s good on your side, too.  Enjoy it there. The loneliness is harder, and the loneliness is the biggest part; but some things are easier.” 

For a generally outgoing and bold person, I’m surprisingly private in other ways, so I am rarely lonely.  But I knew what Alice meant.  When you aren’t part of a couple you have a protective shell of sorts; you have to or your sense of vulnerability could overwhelm you.  It’s not loneliness, per se, but it can feel lonely.  The compensation is that there is also plenty of space to be true to yourself in a way that is an incredible comfort.  I think that Alice understood that and I liked her very much for it.

Summer Days

Our Summer started off rather cool in June and only heated up at the start of July.  The heat was briefly blistering before rains set in to keep lawns green.  It’s pretty hot and humid this week but I’ve not yet tired of the ease of Summer weather, which allows me to slip outside without worry.  The days seem relaxing as they fade into one another.  I thought about the pace of Summer as I enjoyed the shade at Colonial Park the other day. 

We’ve reached the point when Summer Break is halfway over and I’ve begun to think about the return to school in September.  It’s far enough away that I know there is still time to enjoy the relaxed pace of sunny Summer days.  But it’s also close enough that I’ve begun to regret that Summer will come to a halt.  It’s been a really nice Summer, far more relaxing than last Summer and filled with the promise of a busy but happy Fall to come.  The familiar gardens and paths of Colonial Park have provided me with plenty of pleasant strolls and more than a few quiet moments in the shade.  I am grateful for this Summer and I want to say it out loud; to mark my gratitude.  As I stroll the rose garden and smell the flowers I often feel at peace and that's awfully nice.  

They Are All My Fingers

There is a story about my high school graduation that my mom loves to tell.  In my small town, the district superintendent, a man beloved by the community, joined the stage to shake the hands with all the graduates.  I accepted my diploma but forgot to shake his hand and walked right off the stage with my diploma.  My mom was horrified but Dr. Buchanan graciously excused my action, telling my mom, “she had places to go, Carol.”  

Tellingly, I don’t remember forgetting to shake his hand.  What I do remember is the red dress I proudly wore to graduation.  It was a dress my mom didn’t care for;  I’d had to assert myself to have and wear it.  I loved it and felt bold and new in it.  It was a sign of things to come.  

After graduation, I used some of my graduation gift money to buy myself a ring that I designed.  I choose a large - more than two carat - emerald cut blue topaz and had it plainly set in gold, with a traditional presentation.  It was big and bold and I loved it.  At the time, I was 17 years old and determined to start my next chapter of life no longer afraid to take up space and be myself.  I think that people who knew me in high school would perhaps be surprised by that idea as I was often outspoken in those days.  But my boldly presented self was not always accompanied by steady internal confidence.  That ring, which I wore on my left middle finger, was a talisman to remind me to step forward and be myself without apology.  It served that purpose very well. I wore it for years.  

I quit wearing it when JT’s other mother surprised me with an art deco antique ring set with gold and platinum that I wore on my left hand ring finger.  It wasn’t nearly as bold as the blue topaz but it represented both a new chapter and a more genuinely confident me.  Beyond that, it was a sign that I was loved.  I adored it.  The topaz went to my jewelry box where it stayed.  I would sometimes try it on and admire it, but I didn’t wear it very often.  

When JT’s other mother and I broke up, I put aside the antique ring and my left ring finger went without a ring.  It was a hard transition as that empty finger made me feel like the whole world knew I was unwanted and alone. I toyed with wearing the topaz again.  But by then, I liked silver better than gold and over the years, I acquired some silver rings that I wore on my fingers, placing them on whatever finger I wanted, including my left ring finger.  A few years after we met, T and I bought matching sterling silver rings that we each wore on our left ring finger.  By then, I had discovered that I liked to have a ring on my left ring finger.  It was a quiet signal to the world that I was loved; that I belonged to someone.  

When that turned out not to be true, I took off the ring that T had given me.  I briefly considered letting my left ring finger sit empty.  I am not married - I never have been - and nor am I loved by another person in the way that constitutes a commitment.  But an empty ring finger on my 55 year old hand didn’t sit right with me.  I chose some of my stacking rings and wore them instead.  That had the effect of making my status as a part of a couple no one’s business but mine.  It’s not easy to be a single woman in a coupled world, a fact I know all too well.  The rings I've worn on my left ring finger since last November are about me; as I claim myself to love. People could make whatever assumptions they liked.  I knew my truth.  

Daily, I would open my jewelry box and see my blue topaz.  It always made me smile and, even if I didn’t wear it, I was reminded of all that it had symbolized.  A few weeks ago, I gathered some old gold and silver jewelry and my blue topaz and carried them to a local jeweler.  I sold the old jewelry and the gold setting for the topaz and used the proceeds to have my familiar blue topaz stone set in silver.  The stone’s orientation has been shifted, which seems especially fitting all these years later.  All these years later, I am no longer afraid to be myself and take up space.  I considered my options and chose for this ring to be fitted to my left ring finger.  I am all-too-aware that for most people a ring on the left ring finger is a symbol of a commitment that does not exist in my life.  But I have never quite lived by the rules of society and at 55, that’s not going to change.   I don’t know if I will wear the topaz every day or every once in a while but I am glad to have it in this renewed form, ready to be worn.  It’s a guiding light of who I was, who I am, and who I aspire to be.  

Finding Myself, Again

When I became a single mama who had to turn over her beloved child to his other mother for a weekly vacation with her in the Summer, I knew enough to understand that a weekend without him was one thing but that a week would stretch far too long.  So I began to sign up for teacher’s workshops.  They’d last 5 days or so and I could be there and focus on myself, learning and meeting new people, and not needing to complete mama chores.  It was freeing in a way: I was having fun and he was having fun and that was important since we weren’t able to be together.  Usually, the classes were small - 20-30 people - and the group developed a camaraderie as we navigated the class and shared lesson ideas.  I have fond memories of workshops on Mark Twain, George Washington, and an amazing Civics class taught by Sandra Day O’Conner.  

When T and I parted ways last November, I turned to this tried-and-true formula to fuel an adventure about me.  I signed up for a class.  I’ve just finished the class and - as expected - the history was great.  But the camaraderie was not as expected.  For starters, there were 7 workshops, each with nearly 50 participants, more than 350 teachers in total.  We sat in lecture halls, not around seminar rooms, and so there was a lot more listening than sharing.   I  love a lecture but it doesn’t build much community (side note:  that is for sure a teaching lesson I will remember).  Many people came with teachers from their district or school and so their social network was already set up.  I met people but I would not say that I bonded with anyone.  It was a teacher crowd and so there was a whole lot of husband and partner talk and that often makes me feel a little left out, for obvious reasons.  By the end of the week, I grew weary of having to ask to join a table and so on the last night, I took my supper to a table in the outdoor shade and read my book.  There wasn’t a lot of evening hanging out so I took walks and spent some time reading Cup of Jo comments, which provided a welcome sense of community.  I am proud of myself for going to the class and taking the risk.  My mind is whirling with the things I learned and the lessons I will construct on the other side.  Going to the workshop alone was a trial run to see if I am up for single-gal travel and I think that I learned that I am.  

Among the Trees: On the Journey to This Moment

It’s no secret that the last year in my life has offered a seemingly steady stream of unexpected challenges.  I’ve found a core of resilience that I didn’t know that I had in me.  I’m proud of that strength and I continue to do the work to sustain it.  

Last week, I spent an afternoon in Colonial Park and had the time to reflect on how far life has come since last June, when my freshly-minted college-graduate son was struggling to sort out the meaning of his life.  It was a hard journey for me as a parent and far harder for him.  During those difficult weeks, JT and I spent a lot of time together, much of it in the rose garden, tucked under the wisteria wrestling with his demons.  

That difficult summer was before the end of my 11 year relationship with T and the passing of my father.  I won’t say that by now I am battle scarred, but I have arrived at a point where I don’t take anything good for granted.  Every day, I look for gratitude and from it I find grace.  I take the time to be grateful for the peace of that grace, no matter how small.  

My memory of the struggles of the last year made it all the more sweet last week when JT was offered a teaching job at a nearby school.  The position is a terrific opportunity, with a chance to do some things he knows he enjoys - coach middle school sports - as well as the prospect of trying something new - working as a third grade teaching assistant.  He’s excited and proud of himself.  I am so glad for him, perhaps as proud as I’ve ever been.  I know the work that got him here.  Last week, as I walked the paths of this familiar and beloved park and sat in the quiet shade of the wisteria to read my book, I thought of how far we’ve come.  I felt at peace in all the ways I've longed for over the last year.  I reflected on my blessings, all of them, but chiefly my immense gratitude that my boy is here to turn his beautiful face to the light and the sunshine. 

Bad Love

I’m a fan of Eric Clapton — I know, I know…but the music is so damn good — and this morning “Bad Love” came on my playlist.  It’s a song I’ve loved for years but this morning it made me stop.  There was once a time when the song made me think of T in a really fond way.  But this morning, rather than a reminder of a good and strong love, it was a reminder of a relationship that had gone, well…if not bad, certainly astray.  We were neither of us happy and neither were we able to be good for one another any more.  It's funny how time and events can change my perspective and add a layer on to a memory that I once had.  Hearing the song didn't make me cry, but it did make me feel a little more gentle toward myself.  That's a trait I need to demonstrate a bit more often.

Last Day of School

It’s the last day of the school year.  There’s plenty to celebrate, of course, but damn if this hasn’t been a hell of a hard school year for me personally.  I find myself wrung out as we get to this moment.  In some ways, the end of the school year always finds me worn thin, so that’s not a surprise.  It’s the nature of the job.  In other ways, I am feeling a little more spent than usual…the hardships of the last year have taken their toll.   

Even so, the students depart today.  JT and I head to California tomorrow, to see family and celebrate my Dad’s life.  I expect that will be emotional.  But it will also be good and my mind is whirling with some of my favorite Dad stories to share.  When I get to the other side, there is a summer to relax and refresh.  I’m already planning a weekend filled entirely with things that I want to do.  That’s awfully nice to contemplate and, if I am being honest, is a smidge overdue.  Welcome, summer.  I am so very glad to see you.

Monthly Book Report: You Could Make This Place Beautiful by Maggie Smith

 Maggie Smith is a poet and writer whom I found via the Internet, I think via Instagram but maybe Twitter, back in the before Elon days.  That I found her first via her poetry is interesting because I am sometimes an impatient reader of poetry.  Over time, I read more and more of Smith’s work and when this book came out earlier this Spring, I was eager to read it. 

It’s labelled a memoir and in certain ways, it is that.  It’s Smith’s story of the end of her marriage and what comes next; what she learns to make of the life that remains for her and especially for her two children.

So much of the book resonated with me.  Smith writes with clarity and intention about the end of her marriage and the pain of the loss.  She sorts out the matter of being a mother and a wife and the story is about how she finds her way forward as a mother who is no longer the wife.  She writes of feeling that a family of herself, two children, and a dog, feels impossibly smaller; smaller than just the subtraction of one, the husband and father who left.   

I’ve made this journey myself, not as a wife but as a partner.  At the time, my child was around the same age as Smith’s youngest.  Like single mamas everywhere, Smith finds that the days blur into one another, a frenzy of the activity involved in caring for others with very little time left for oneself.  But it is in the finding of one’s self, and the nurturing of her, that Smith finds her way forward.  This path is paved with both grief and a deep and abiding sense of happiness.  That the two can occur simultaneously is a lesson that I learned all those years ago when JT’s other mother left. 

I’ve thought about that time and those years a great deal lately.  Part of that has surely been the reality of my life as a parent right now.   A great deal of it is associated with the ending of my relationship with T.  First nine years and now eleven years of time with another human being whom I thought of as a partner for life is a lot to think about; two losses that I sometimes feel as failures on my part.  I am again at work to find myself on the other side.  I did it before, as a mother of a young child, and now I am doing that without needing to care for a little.  It’s different this time around, in some ways harder and in other ways easier.  I am not thinking about my obligations as the mama of a young child but I am certainly thinking about my son as I look toward the path ahead.  This time, I am aware that I will likely grow old alone, that plans for my future that once seemed like my bedrock turned out to be gravel.  

I’ve re-paved the road before and I can do it again.  Though I don’t know Maggie Smith, her book seemed like a friend who can help and that was a great comfort; a reminder that I there is a strength at my core that can see me through.

Searching for Certainty

Earlier this month, I read Maggie Smith’s You Could Make This Place Beautiful.  It will be this month’s book report and I will write at length about the splendidness of this memoir.  I can’t stop thinking about the lessons of life that Smith shares.  One of the things that she says so well is that finding yourself, and taking joy in doing so, doesn’t mean that you don’t mourn what has been lost.  That truth is so much a part of my world these days.  I like myself and I love my solitude.  Those are both really good things.  But it’s still true that I now look toward the future without the certainty of a partner; of a life together.  I am sometimes quite happy in the moment.  I know with certainty that the end of my relationship with T was the right path.  But I am still afraid of the uncertainty that lies ahead.  We will not grow older together; the happy adventures we once daydreamed about together will not happen.  Together is gone.  I grieve the loss of a certain future even while I am grateful for the peace of not coming home to dark moods and an unfathomable anger.  I miss the shared intimacy of a joke; a phrase; an experience that brought laughter.  I once thought of them as the solid building blocks of a life together; they reflected a shared history that now lingers in the air, untethered and uncertain.  I sometimes struggle to make peace with that, as if I am trying to put together a puzzle even though I know for a fact that some of the pieces are no longer in the box.

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

 On my own, I know that I must take care of myself so that I can look after the other people in my care.  I’m good at caring for myself and I enjoy the planning involved.  But it requires effort and space to consistently do it with happiness,  without feeling lonely or sometimes downright sad.   

I think that time will make this better.  But right now I struggle to dismiss the thought that I have never been enough for a partner to stick it out for me.  That I tried my best to do that for both of my long term partners is a comfort of sorts.  I now recognize that neither was able to do that for me.  It’s a realization that’s hard to sit with because it makes me feel like I was never enough and never will be.  That is the feeling that I must confront and, I hope, dismiss.  I think that I will be able to do so when I am stronger than I am now.  

And so I wait, sometimes not very patiently.

April Book Report: Mrs Harris Goes to Paris

Earlier this month, I went by the town library and got myself a library card.  When I was growing up, libraries were magical places and everything about them was thrilling.  Filled with the prospect of nearly endless books that I hadn’t yet read, I loved them as a girl.  As a grew up, libraries became places to study and get school work done and I loved them for that.  As a parent, JT and I visited the school library and delighted in a new stack of books to bring home.  It’s been several years since I had a little boy to take to the library but the recent news about book bans and libraries and librarians under attack reminded me of the magic I used to find in libraries.  So I looked up the hours and went to my local library.  

I am best-pleased to report that it is as delightful and happy as the libraries of my girlhood.  I came away with a stack of books and a newfound pleasure in the prospects to be found in this local treasure trove.  

This month’s book report is about a book I found at the local library, a two-volume book by Paul Gallico:  Mrs Harris Goes to Paris & Mrs Harris Goes to New York.  Written in 1958 (and turned into a film last year), the book is about the adventures of an industrious char lady from London.  Mrs Harris, a woman in her 60s, works hard cleaning the homes and tidying up on behalf of posh clients.  She’s been doing so long enough that Mrs Harris may choose her clients and lives a happy, if tiring, life in London.  It’s while she’s cleaning up after Lady Dant that Mrs Harris first sees - and touches - Lady Dant’s beautiful Dior dress.  Mrs Harris is charmed - besotted, really - and the novel is all about the char lady’s effort to acquire her very own Dior dress.  First, she scrimps and saves and finally she sets off to Paris to acquire the gown.  

The novel was a lovely and quick read, funny and clever and the sort of cheering story I love best.  A happy ending is virtually guaranteed from the first page of the novel and the adventure is in the twists and turns that unfold on the way to the inevitable happy conclusion.  Just my sort of book, always, but especially this month which has found me in need of good cheer.  Thanks to the local library (and Mrs Harris!), I found just that.  That's a blessing that will last, I expect and I am grateful for it.

A Rough Patch

As I restructure my life and move through this first year without a partner and without my Dad, I’m learning that rough patches will appear without warning.   I do my best to predict and prepare for them, but it’s often an imperfect balance.  The two losses are vastly different and separate but that they are happening within just a few months of one another combines them in my mind.  

For reasons I can’t completely sort out, grocery shopping remains a challenge.  I don’t quite know why, but it’s hard and I often cry on my drive home.  Contemplating my Summer garden is happy right up until the moment I want to ask my Dad a gardening question and then I feel sad that I won’t hear from him that the tomatoes are looking splendid this year.  I’m not fragile or even brittle but I am sometimes sad and I feel tender, as if there is a deeper hurt just under the surface bruise.  

I have this vivid memory of my Dad telling me I was beautiful - it happened years ago, at a moment when I desperately needed the reminder - and though I’ve never forgotten it, it’s not been a memory that resurfaces often.  But it has appeared in my dreams of late and it feels intentional, a message from my sub-conscious,  While it brought me comfort all those years ago when he said it to me, now it stings and I’m not sure why.  

I am gentle and try to be kind to myself but even that is rather a double-edged sword as it reminds me that I am truly on my own.  In my weaker moments, my internal dialogue repeats that I am alone because I am too difficult to be loved and cherished.  I shut down that voice when it speaks, but I can’t quite seem to disable it.

I maintain a pretty blistering pace at work and a lengthy to-do list for the weekends in order to dodge unsettling feelings.  Being busy feels useful.  I enjoy time by myself without feeling lonely - that has always been true for me - but I now I seem to worry this won’t always be the case.  Again, that’s a strange development, since I have always been a loner of sorts.  I would like some easy weeks without an abrupt reminder of what I have lost but I feel like it will be a while before that happens.  Right now I am grateful for a peaceful day.  Loss and grief are like that, I think.  And so I move forward and even when I stumble, I keep my chin up.