“Everywhere you go, you are your own home” –Sarah Barelilles

My youngest daughter is in Africa. She boarded a plane on Saturday night that was intended to fly her directly to Accra. She was even more excited for this trip than she’d been the first time she’d gone, two summers ago. This time, she knew in advance how kind the people would be, how mesmerizing the music is, how strange and wonderful the meals are. Being an experienced traveler, she’d packed her bag with precision – her one small bag for her entire three week stay. She had her textbooks for her 3-hour online class she’d log into on Thursday nights. She had her brand new scrubs for her shifts assisting on the labor and delivery ward. She had her special hair gel, to keep her naturally curly hair in check. That night, the plane sat on the tarmac for 5 hours before the flight was officially cancelled. Fortunately, she was automatically rebooked onto a new flight for the following morning. Her bag, she was promised, would also be transferred. It was not. 7,000 miles from home since Monday, with no creature comforts familiar to her. She’s been sad. So sad. But she has tried to stay on the brightside, acknowledging the kindness of strangers and recognizing that things could be much worse. She is grateful to be healthy. She is grateful for this experience. She is grateful for the difficult lesson brought on by losing something (albeit temporarily) has taught her.

The missing luggage has been found. Tomorrow it will be delivered to her. 

How much can change in a day!

And how much impact can the little things–clean socks, your own shampoo, have toward making you feel better? Feel safe? Feel at home,  even when you’re thousands of miles away. 

I am sitting in the Colorado kitchen of dear old college friend. Sipping coffee out of a girl scout mug she must’ve picked up when the kids were small. They’re no longer scouts or band kids or swim teamers. But the light spilling across the worn grain of the oak flooring in this kitchen reflect the many early mornings where my friend poured cereal into bowls and baked birthday cakes. This house, like my friend, is showing some age, but has awakened this morning smiling at the promise of a new day. Zhittya tryvae. Life goes on. 

I remember standing in the kitchen making blueberry pancakes at 4:00 a.m. The gentle glow of the gas stove flame the only light in the room. That was 26 years ago when my eldest was in utero. Today she is a labor and delivery nurse in Rhode Island and my youngest is about to graduate college. I’m standing in my kitchen making blueberry pancakes. Today is the 5th anniversary of owning my little townhouse that backs to the woods that lead to the river. The river that I walked repeatedly while crying in the years leading up to, and through, my divorce. I often say that I don’t move quickly, but I do move. And today I realize standing here at my stove flipping this pancake, that I am proud of myself. I’m proud of this little house. I’m proud of the life that I have built for myself, contented as I am with my own company. I am proud of my daughters who have grown into beautiful women with bright futures. I know that I can do hard things and then I can get through the impossible. Not everyday is progressive. Not every day is measurable. But today is. As I lift and rotate the pan to even out the batter, I can see that everything has a way of working out. No matter where I live or what time it is, I can feed myself. And that sense of agency is worth the price of lawyers and child support and mortgage. I guess what I’m saying is, I’m every bit as grateful for the days that were hard to get through as the days like today when the sun is shining and I am celebrating myself because they all work together to create this beautiful, messy life. Even in my darkest days I can comfort myself, with pancakes made with fresh blueberries topped with a spoonful of Greek yogurt and a hit of maple syrup. 

You ever had that experience where you’re looking right at something and yet you miss what’s right in front of your face? 

Tonight I made a crazy jumble of fresh ingredients into a colorful stir-fry. The main color of which was green from this fresh spinach leaves that I’ve added at the last moment. But when I tried to describe the dish to my children I mentioned everything except for the spinach. But there it was adding life to the quinoa and mushrooms and onion bits in my bowl.

It’s funny how we can just overlook the most apparent of details. Like maybe the fact that your dad is kind of a narcissist, maybe your mom is on the spectrum? Or maybe that your husband of 26 years doesn’t actually love you the way that you want and deserve to be loved. That its all been staring you right in the face your whole life, but you didn’t see it. Not until you were ready to.

I guess that’s the point right? To try to exist everyday in a state where your eyes are open, and your ears are open, and all of the senses that can pass by you don’t go missed.

Walking along the river tonight I noticed a woman staring up into a tree, I couldn’t see what she was seeing, but I could hear it. A bird, a small bird, it sounded like, saying, “Cheery, cheery, cheery.” I didn’t feel compelled to look it up, to learn what species was regaling us down here on earth. I just listened for a second as I walked past, and noted that somewhere 30 or 40 ft above my head, there was a creature reminding me that happiness is where I find it.

And where I find it is where I remember to look and to listen and to smell and to feel. Oh, and definitely to taste. That might be the most important one, for the satisfaction that it brings.  

Umbilical cord around my neck, my first moments were full of fight. Surprising for a girl who relished gentleness, and whose best friend, a Collie dog. As kids, we drank cold hose water in the summertime and dunked our heads for cherries. The one with the most, wins. A lilac bush permeated the front yard with its sweet purple scent, masking the truth of things. Inside, sink dishes waited patiently for soap; the cleansing of their conscience from involuntarily witnessing shouting and unmet needs. From the living room measures of Beethoven boomed, accented by our mother’s curses. Her fingers, frustratingly disobedient to the sheet music. We three grew up, despite the inattention. Aware, and purposeful. Proudly providing our own children blueberry pancakes on Sundays. 

Oh the irony 

Frantically eating a chocolate bar needing the sugar to hit my bloodstream 

While, intensely, I study the left hand of a favorite songwriter

Singing in a red knit cap

During the pandemic 

Have patience 

I need this song in my hands as fast as possible 

I cannot wait

I cannot wait because the same madman who terrified the fuck out of us 6 years ago with a virus that kills, today, holds the entire world hostage as he gleefully types out his desire to end an entire civilization with the push of the button 

I have no more time to learn this song. I need to play it NOW.

And this, as we spin around in circles on this little globe in the dark, a rocket is circling the moon, visualizing the earth from our the window. We’ve all gone out the window and have forgotten just how precious we are…with our little shoes dangling. I need to tune my strings. I need to scream. I need to remember to have patience. Give it just a little more time. Everything will be all, everything will be alright. 

Title borrowed from REM. I hope they don’t mind.

I can’t be the only one 

Who reaches for a mop when the news says that the world is ending

All month my floors have been covered in snowmelt. I’ve had no motivation to clean 

Drop a few bombs and whoosh my house is spotless 

Corners swept, floors shiny.

I’ve been here before, when the smoke rose from where the towers once stood 

All I could do was fold the laundry 

Something about the sorting of the socks

Brought me back to calm

In a world gone mad, it was all that mattered 

Those neat piles of underwear, towels, pj’s, what was mine, his, the baby’s. Knowing how they’d fit into their respective drawers upstairs 

In our house

Where the lights were on, the water clean 

I do not know if today

is the beginning of the end of the world. 

But my floors are clean. 

And I

feel

fine.

I am standing in your living room, stark, yet cozy. No rug on the floor, but the wall filled with the beautiful oversized antique chest you’d inherited from our mother-in-law. I’d always wanted to be the recipient of it, but you’re the one who stayed in the family.

I got to keep other things, my agency, my sanity, my life. Those worth more, anyway.

Your home so familiar, and yet so unknown. Curated with the artworks we bought together in Waterford and Frederick, and that photo of Noah when he was 2, feeding your husband a goldfish cracker. It must’ve been taken by some ghost version of myself. I remember, but why should I? I am not her. She is not me.

Then why does it hurt, the teapot you use daily, it’s twin, I am disallowed from owning; the children I’d cared for and who I now barely know.

Who am I to them anyway? Someone once married to their uncle, your old best college friend, now just another gray-haired woman sipping tea in your kitchen.

I am walking along the river. I used to walk along here everyday. Back when my life was in pieces. Supposedly, the river is never the same twice. The water’s transformation makes me think about the theory (or fact?) that skin cells shed in such a way that every 7 years your entire body is renewed. 

I wonder if it’s true. 

December 23, 2018, 7 years ago, my divorce was 3 weeks old. When I walked along the river then, I had no idea what my future was going to look like. I couldn’t really imagine how I could possibly rebuild my life. But I did. One skin cell at a time. 

Walking along the river today, the water is perceptively still. But I know that underneath the surface, the current moves, awaiting a westerly wind. The logs and rocks and debris that jet up from the surface will not be there tomorrow. 

This is why having faith makes such a difference. That which seems impossible to navigate today will be downstream tomorrow. Just wait. You’ll see. This too, shall pass. 

“Moon, moon moon, shining bright. Moon, moon, moon, my night light. Moon, moon, moon, I can see you’re taking care of me.”

— Laurie Berkner

I am not yet 60, though it feels like I am. I am 59. I live alone and I am not lonely. But some nights, when there is a warm, dry breeze blowing and the house is quiet except for the kicking on and off of the HVAC fan – the house not sure, either, what season it is. Too warm for fall, too cold for summer. The time change has happened already and it’s black as pitch by six, which makes me want to just put on my pajamas and crawl into bed, though it’s too early, even for dinner, much less sleep. On nights like these I am aware that I am alone. And I take a little less comfort in it than normal. But, if I’m lucky, I’ll hear what has become my favorite sound, the muted “badoomp bump” of the Google chat notification on my phone. One of my girls is texting and has a question, how to cook brown rice? Or wants to share a picture of the sunset or her latest outfit. On nights like this one, so peaceful and quiet and alone-ly, that little sound sends me to the moon.