WELLNESS
I sit here on the deck of our apartment, wondering. Wondering what will come. How our lives will unfold. The house is sold. Two weeks of chaos, packing, moving and installing ourselves in this temporary space. I am thankful, it's true. Thankful that we have this place to live in, thankful that the girls can finish their school year here--that they can hold on to some sort of stability and constant in their worlds. Thankful that I have this time to think, to read, to write, to walk...
And also wondering at this path we're on. Will Frank like his new work in Michigan? Will we carve out a place for ourselves where we find community, friends, happiness, a rhythm of life that we can thrive in? Will we learn to make peace with Winter? (As I type this, in late April, the weekend's forecast there is for "significant accumulation of snow.")
And my life, which feels on hold. No cake work. No creating, in a realm that is so fueling. No husband, even, for the most of each week. Limbo has become the constant.
Do we not fool ourselves, daily, into thinking otherwise? On my better days, I remind myself that our lives hold no more certainty when routines and patterns are safely in place. This time is a vibrant reminder to me of the flux of life that is truly, ever present.
And yet, I do crave more certainty. I wonder at what feeling settled is, at what a regular, family week is, at what our future will resemble.... And I realize that I am finding myself tightening the circle of my view, choosing simple things, creating a smaller, more manageable sense of goodness.
The hypericum berries. Yes, the hypericum berries. I fixated upon them, out shopping last week. Tried to walk away, and felt the deep pull back, coming from somewhere I couldn't even identify. (But at the apartment, no vase....) No matter. They now burst brilliantly from toothbrush holders. Transition does bring creative solutions, after all...
And the yogurt. With singular focus and intent, amidst all the chaos, boxes and schedule changes, I've become quite certain that making our own yogurt is what needs to happen around here. Seven sturdy, compact little pots of it per batch. Over homemade granola, it's a comforting, fueling start to each day--and reminiscent, it's true, of the countless pots eaten in France (Normandy, Summer of '84), one each day, at lunch. A small nod to past and present and future, to the continuity of goodness, consumed, amidst the logistical pieces of life that I cannot control.
I sit here on the deck, wondering. Longing, waiting, pondering--and yes, feeling the brightness of hypericum berries and the nourishing sustenance of yogurt. These are among the simple, honest and real joys we each have at our beckon, anchoring us in constancy, as we live out life's uncharted ebb and flow.
