Wondering if I can wear a goiter with style.
These days I’m forced to recognize that ‘control’ may be more illusion or perspective than reality. That my body (despite being properly fed, nurtured, treated delicately and exercised appropriately) might still do its own thing.
I am edgy today. Irritated at the bags under my eyes, the ease of exhaustion, the swelling in my throat and the persistent pain in my back….my hips…my feet…my hands.
Moving forward…movement in general…is what is best. The quiet numbing slosh of the water at the pool as I go from one end of the lane to the other. The scrape of the skate blades on the freshly cleared ice. If I sit for too long I may stay that way, suspended.
This morning I started to pack the boxes. Started the process of putting everything temporarily on hold until we unpack again. A familiar, but now completely uninteresting process. I have moved enough times now that there is no longer any excitement in it for me, but luckily also no hesitation. No longer that sense of sitting on the edge of something new…some unknown potential…some brief glimpse of opportunity.
There is always the uncertainty. But even that I have gotten used to. I don’t know where I’ll work…if I’ll make new friends…if I’ll find old or new patterns to follow….if this place will be better or worse than the last. For now I will simply not know. You have to sit with that. There is no other choice. No prediction. No way of reading the future.
I am a master now at address changes. All of our worldly belongings can be unloaded by two of us in under an hour. I panicked briefly about labeling boxes and than quickly realized it’s not as necessary as it seems.
Next friday, a pizza box…perhaps a bottle or two of beer…and that strange hollow echo of a place not yet your own.
once held meaning
perhaps i wore it on a trip
or a night when someone
set teeth into my heart
wether a size too small or too large
torn or stained
i feel compelled to keep.
caught here in the hangers of my closet
my hear of losing ground
tokens that anchor me.
misplaced by sentimentality
things become the thieves of time
no place to hold what I can’t keep
each armload to the truck
a house for memories.
I love you. and I hate you. And some days I’m totally indifferent. Every street here has now formed a story for me. It’s never been a secret, my heart here has ached. At times, lonely and isolated, I have had to question every step. I have left you many times and yet always come back. But I’m always questioning. Always wondering if I am going backwards or forwards. There are many days I sit with a map and think…”just anywhere…just go”. And there were days when I sat somewhere else and wanted only to be back. rolling hills and familiar smiles.
I can easily say that I have been hurt here. I have spent more time alone than is ever really healthy and I have soured. I have felt the last few years pass as if they were minutes and cried to get them back. But here, there has also been joy. And the two, the good and the bad, are all anybody can ever expect or ask for.
Here I found love. There is a little space on Kushog Lake. When I need to think of home. When I need to feel grounded, that is where my mind goes. I have memorized every board of the floor of that cabin, every smell of that forest, every crisp autumn morning that I was blessed to experience. Here I found love. Community. Separated at times by distance or schedules or just plain getting-by-ness, it was community nonetheless. Creative, eclectic and unique. Here I found love. The writer in me met the writer in others. Every second Saturday, if I could make it, I had the joy of being welcomed with such warmth into the greatest little writer’s circle. These moments, wrapped in story and warm tea and friendship, have easily been one of the highlights of my highland experience.
And here I found love. Two arms to hold me and a keeper for my heart. Someone to help build home when it seems at times I am always aimed at tearing it down. Someone who created a new map of the highlands for me. Love.
So it is true…for the fourth time in less than 2 years…and likely the 30th times in 32 years…I am on the road again. It is hard sometimes, just to make the ends meet. So Monday we will go, to work and oh dear Haliburton, I hope also to play. We will be back often, for it seems, love or hate, we are family now.
p.s wish me luck!
It’s easy to be nervous, distracted, anxious when sitting on the doorstep of some kind of change. I’ve always lived uneasy with change, and yet oddly craving adventure and new experiences. In 32 years I have lived in an extraordinary number of places and I find each move, rather than getting easier, becomes more of a struggle. Physically it is obviously exhausting, but emotionally the toll is hidden and much more profound. You can see now that it takes me much longer to hang a few pictures. I’m efficient when I move. I have the boxes unpacked, the kitchen ready for cooking and all the essentials organized in a matter of hours. Typically I have the whole thing done and over with in a day or two. Yet the little things, those steps you take to truly make some empty or new space feel like home, those steps take longer. I hesitate to make a new home. I hesitate to truly claim a space as my own.
So here I am on the doorstep again.
As much as I love the craftiness of making a home, after 3 months I still haven’t connected to the new home. The picture frames lean against the wall sitting on the floor where they were originally unpacked. The shelves went up and the craft table given a comfy spot with plenty of beautiful natural light. I have invited some favourite people into the new space, we have cooked beautiful meals and shared all the usual joys of time well spent together. We have bonded and grown and loved, but the space itself feels temporary.
I am fortunate to have placed my home in the heart of someone wonderful and I take comfort in that. While I struggle with change, dangling one foot out the door, I know I have a true home of two loving arms. So today’s post is about gratefulness for the space that has been opened in my heart and the sweet man for which I am blessed to share all of these struggles and joys!
Dear Blayne, you are my home. Love, Stacy.