This is exactly how a Sunday morning should feel; I’m sitting in bed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, and the rain is pattering outside. The screen of my laptop is reflecting the Gingko tree in the backyard, and she feels like she’s watching over me. My little cat Luna is curled up on the bed, licking raindrops off her coat, and I’m here, talking to you as we approach our first pandemic fall.
I tried again. And again. The space between him and I grew wider and wider. Not for him, somehow, which I don’t think I’ll ever understand, but certainly for me. It’s the worst kind of lonely to be lonely in a relationship.
So, here I am, creating Sunday morning sweetness for myself.
I shared my decision with so much love. I still feel all of that love, but I’ve made peace with the fact that I can love someone and not be in relationship with them. There needs to be time now for me to understand, with no measure of uncertainty, the cycles we were locked in. Two wonderful people do not always make an ideal pair.
This time my decision wasn’t a boundary I threw up in the midst of conflict. This time I sat in this feeling, I did the work with my team of healers, I wrote and wrote and wrote. This love was a huge piece of my healing because I filled four books from cover to cover in the space of a year and a half with trying to understand. Understand him. Understand us. Understand who I was in this space.
I could not be myself.
My son and I are settling into our new life, in our new home, in our new town. I’ve moved in with a dear friend who is also a single mom. She’s got a five-year-old daughter who is full of fire and sweetness. My little guy is adjusting to having her around, to having his own room, and it’s not always smooth, but I am so happy here.
I sit around the fire with amazing women. We share our secrets and our struggles as the coyotes howl in the distance. My roommate is full of kindness and grace. She’s brilliant and talented and so wonderful at mothering. I wake up to coffee and a huge backyard with the most beautiful Gingko tree to shelter us all. Gingko is longevity, resilience and hope.
I can’t wait until my daughters come to see this place. I can’t wait to cook for my friends in my home.
What do I need now? I need to focus on my career. I need to give my heart space and time to heal. I need to be in nature, and I need my children. I need to see my parents and my brother. I need to connect more with my dear ones in Toronto. I need good books and delicious food and permission to have days where very little gets done but everything gets processed.
I need me.
None of us can envision the coming fall. This has always been my favourite time of the year, but now I’m just not sure where it is leading us. I could not have imagined a world where I’d deliver my son to grade three and everyone would be masked and distanced. I couldn’t have imagined a world where he couldn’t have sleepovers with Grandmere and Grandpere. What will happen as our numbers continue to climb? We’ve lost so much, haven’t we?
What have you gained? I’ve gained a clear and unwavering understanding and acceptance of how I need to be loved. I’ve gained permission to fall deep into my own wildness, to grow feral with my need to be connected to nature and the divine. I’ve gained an awareness of how powerful my journal therapy practice is, and how I am truly meant to do this work. I’ve gained another reminder of how precious and fleeting my time is here.
I’ll be sitting more often with you. I need this space again, this space which has been so powerful with each huge transition. I’m going to cultivate the most healing pandemic autumn that I can. How will you adapt your favourite fall routines?
Whatever we come up with, I hope we can be connected and healthy and aware of how important it is to nurture ourselves.