 |
| On the road to Birdland. |
THIS MORNING'S SILVER FOG HAS ME FEELING REFLECTIVE. In the distance I see the tree line and the
highway with trucks carrying their loads, but everything is muffled:
sound, light, color. In the distance I see the road curving up over
the railroad tracks and up the hill. I have let the chickens out, and
even they are subdued by the frost that sugars the still green grass.
I stand for a moment and watch the last Auracana hen peep out of the
coop. She is a little shy. I don't know what I am waiting for,
really. I stand here and take a little time to reflect on the past
several years. So often I write these letters about my daily
activities. I don't often reveal the more personal parts of my life,
but some pretty big things have happened in my life, in my marriage.
At first, I thought I would write about
the separation, the difficult months leading up to the sudden sadness
and loss, when both Michael and I were desperate to find the best
path through the despair and loneliness we felt together. I thought,
at the time, that I would find the courage to write about the sudden
wrenching of our lives, and the decision to seek an answer in living
separately. But there was the fall semester to prepare for, eggs to
be gathered and a garden to tend. There were sons urging me to keep my chin up, and friends to talk to and many, many reasons to take note of
the sun's rising and setting, and flowers' blooming and fading, and
the wheel of the year turned and life went on.
 | |
| Maybe we tossed one or two to the wind. |
 |
| Maybe we dropped some in the river. |
As my independence sprouted and and I
began to relish my new life alone. I adopted a little black puppy. I
thought I'd write about learning to live a life of singularity, of
remapping my path, forging the way toward joy, of making decisions
unfettered by another's opinion. But there was snow to shovel and fires
to light, lessons to learn and bills to pay, and a boy to teach that
he has the love of both parents, that even if they have to pass him
back and forth like a volley ball, they won't let him drop. And the
wheel of the year turned and life went on.
 |
| I adopted a little black puppy. |
When Michael and I divorced I thought I
would write about letting go of a loved one and trying ever to do it
with grace and respect, of searching for and finding the surprising
gifts of the divorce, silver linings in the heartbreak. But there
were seeds to plant and sticks to throw and fires to build and trails
to blaze, and a young man to teach to drive so he could visit each of
his parents in turn. And the wheel of the year turned, and the river
flowed, and the seeds sprouted, and life went on.
And then a funny thing happened.
Micheal and I met up again and began to
see that we had each lost some of the burdens that had complicated
and encumbered our marriage. Maybe we dropped some in the river and
let them float away. Maybe we buried a few in the soft earth to mulch
and decay. Maybe we tossed one or two to the wind to ride the jet
stream. Maybe some burned to ashes in a bonfire and floated up with
sparks to the sky. We didn't lose all of them, you understand, but
enough that we could remember why we got together in the first place.
We began keeping company, learning new things about each other and
remembering the little ways that we worked well together. It hasn't
always been easy or delightful, but somehow we have arrived back to
love, ready to commit to each other again with a little more wisdom
this time, and a lot more support. We are engaged to be married when
the peonies bloom.
I notice that the sun has burned off
some of the haze while I was thinking. The shy little hen has come
out and joined her flock. I lift the lid of the coop and find one
brown egg in the nest. I cradle it in my palm. It is warm and full of
life. And the wheel of the year turns, and life goes on.
 |
| Ready for the next Chapter. |
Posts
