Philadelphia Blues Rocker, Ben Arnold wrote this song a few years back. Now I’m living what he meant. Two years ago, I steeled away from my marital home a few prized things. Of course the most precious to me–my kids, and my soapstone countertops, would stay. (Though I’d get shared custody of the kids. The counter tops, I’d have to learn to live without.)

I moved from the comfort and loneliness of the home I shared with my husband for 17 years in exchange for a light-filled, high-ceilinged 2 bedroom apartment in a town that has lots of green space and walking paths. The space was already out-fitted with comfy furniture and all the other accessories to make it homey.

Tomorrow I am leaving this nest that has served my soul, my muse, so well. At my youngest’s bequest, I have rented a townhome nearer to her father, her school, her friends. While some folks pack with excitement about the new life ahead, I have been filled with dread. I am moving back to my old life.

Not exactly, but that’s my fear. Since leaving my marriage, I’ve discovered and rediscovered this creative, introverted side to myself. I’ve written stories, made music, made love. I am terrified that moving back[wards] geographically speaking, will unwind me, this new spool of myself.

Practically speaking, there are things I can do to keep myself in check–I can buy a stereo and listen to all the old cds I’ll be lugging to the new place, I can decorate the house to include a spot for my writing, I can keep my guitar nearby. Just because I’m moving to a house, doesn’t mean that I have to become a housewife.

In the past two years I’ve learned so many things. Not the least of which is surrender. My daughter needs me close. I am moving spaces, not time. I am strong enough to be me, even if those around me only knew who I used to be. God, grant me the courage to accept the things I cannot change, the strength to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. And, the next time I’m moving, I’m moving to heaven next time.

(Well, maybe not *quite* yet. It’s only a three-year lease, afterall).

[Title used without permission by Ben Arnold. Ben, I hope that’s ok.]

When she was 3, my eldest daughter “caught” me vacuuming, not something she often saw me do

Her comment confirmed my infrequent cleaning as she said, “Mama, you look like the cleaning lady.” I confess, I was embarrassed. But, it was true. We had a once-every-three-weeks lady who came to the house and cleaned. 

One of the last times I saw her, I was quickly remaking my massage table in my upstairs studio, hiding the fact that I’d slept there. She asked.if I was ok. I said I was, yes, but that my marriage might be over.

Today, as I do every Wednesday morning, I dropped off my daughter’s overnight bag to her father’s house. I rang the doorbell and the cleaning lady opened the door. She was surprised to see me, as I haven’t lived there for two years. The expression on her face said, “Please don’t come in.” I was not welcome in my home. But the cleaning lady was. 

Here’s a tip: if you’re a stay at home mom, clean your own house, so your toddler doesn’t mistake you for the cleaning lady. And, if you’re married to a man who doesn’t “get” you, with whom you feel broken, insufficient, not worthy, don’t end your marriage by getting attention from another…Don’t try this at home.

“I am older now. I know the rise and gradual fall of a daily victory.”
–Poignant, Yet Pointless, Crisis of a Co-ed, Dar Williams

Beneath my high school senior yearbook portrait read my future plans, “College, Psychology, Fall in love and get married.” And so I did. What I incidentally left out of that fortune-telling was “be incredibly lonely in marriage, fight for years to get attention, give up and throw it all away in one incredibly desperate attempt to save self.”

Two years ago, after 26 years of, competing with one another for who could be more right (and therefore less happy,) who could outlast the other (refraining from affection the longest,) who could simply ignore the other (without revealing any pain it caused) my husband and I called it quits. Well, called a “time-out,” actually. A “90-Therapeutic Separation.” We had a structure set up by our therapists, how much money I’d receive to maintain my standard of living, (albeit now in a two-bedroom apartment); how often I could see the kids (I’d previously stayed home to raise); which of my high school and college friends/lovers I could keep in touch with (and who I’d be disallowed to call or text.)

It was all a naive attempt to save what was, since its inception, a doomed relationship. Because you can’t build a relationship on contract. You can’t promise to stay together and never talk, never hug, never once in over 20 years shower together…Enmeshment, sure. Entanglement, absolutely. Even the two most wonderful children ever created, absolutely. But a relationship? No. Not even close.

So that’s what landed me here. In a “temporary” separation.

Only, it’s been two years since I left. Ten months ago the divorce was finalized. And now, this nest of an apartment, with it’s high white walls and open floor plan has cradled me through my infancy of living alone, adolescence of rebounding sexual mama, to now–this fully fledged adult woman, single. And so it’s time to move on.

And that, it turns out, is why I’ve been so sad about moving into the cute, backing to trees, little townhouse, only one mile from my kids’ school. I should have been jumping for joy. But I have not been.

I realized tonight, washing dishes I never purchased, that it’s truly the end of the 90-day Therapeutic Separation. It’s really over. And, no Dorothy, I’m not going back to Kansas.

Instead I’m taking on a property, a house, leased in my name from the get-go. Filled with my belongings. My domain. The woman of the house is me. Like that time so many years ago, pregnant for the first time, when it suddenly occurred to me, “Oh, shit. I’M the MAMA.” This house, this next step is MINE. And my marriage, that other life, it really and truly is done. I am not sure what to feel. Relief? Excitement? Sadness? Terror? Yes. All of the above and more. My knees are shaky now, but they’ll learn how to steady themselves in this new terrain. I will plant basil. Hang fairy lights. I will call it home.

These two years, this apartment, has been a flash of light in a very, very dark time. I am grateful. But it’s time, not just to leave this nest and fly, but to land.