Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Commit Love


 
 
The other night, I was over my friends’ house for dinner.  A last minute invite: they had been out to the farm to pick tomatoes, boxes and bags of tomatoes, and needed to eat them, or some, that night.  The farm.  My insides tumbled.  Not their farm (they don’t have one), but the Yoder farm, the Amish family who grows all the vegetables for the CSA started up, in part, by my ex-husband (with my intermittent help).  In married life, I used to drive out to farm with C. and the kids, pick a trunkful of tomatoes, and spend days processing sauce, salsa, and bags of whole peeled Romas.  And chat with David, the farmer, and his wife, and their giggly half-dozen kids.  We even had them over for an Amish-English dinner party in our formal dining room.  One daughter, six or seven at the time, thought it was so fancy because I’d lit candles and put them in gleaming crystal holders shaped like stars.  Wedding gifts.  But in divorce, some friends get divvied up, just like the wedding gifts, which meant for two, go to one or the other.
This is not about the loss of wedding gifts, but the loss of friends.  The real loss.  Last week, one of my friends committed suicide.  Impossible to imagine (and I try not to) because she was always suffused with joy, at least when I saw her.  She owned the yoga studio where I practice.  Her smile was a stabilizing force and she inhabited her body with a grace I can only hope to achieve.  And yet, she is gone now.  A strange, legalistic phrase: “committed suicide.”  One commits crimes or commits to a relationship.  But suicide?  Perhaps initially as a cause of intended action.  But wholeheartedly?  That seems impossible, and I know since I once committed myself to such a course.  But gratefully I woke up in the hospital bed, my life, while not intact, given more time for repair.  Even in the pain and inside the intention and in the bottle of pills I swallowed, even in my irrational thinking, unable to see any other possibility, I don’t think I believed for an instant that I wouldn’t wake up at some point, even if that meant years on out, and see my daughter and son and husband again.  A faulty, fleeting solution to the pain of now, a decision, in its execution, that seemed temporary.  Except so often, it isn’t. 

Sorrow for my friend in her pain and the consequent devastation.  It is not easy to resist shutting down for good.  Sometimes, I wander into thinking that might be the only way—not as often as I used to—but still, what I imagine as a blank, dark quiet can seem preferable over the angry, hopeless noise in my head.  And then, my daughter emails me a sketch of the two of us, disguised as her invented cartoon characters.  The mother has her arm wrapped around the daughter’s shoulders, and they gaze at the other as if besotted. 

 
Love keeps me here.  Friends, too, and their tomato bounty.  So I commit love, then.  R. sliced up platters of enormous tomatoes marbled through like steak, and decorated them with mozzarella, feta, basil, salt and pepper.  We joked they were as big as the brains of small children or swollen hearts or alcoholic livers.  A way to counter sad mortality.  The three of us sat at the table, spearing tomatoes with our forks, juice and olive oil dripping from our chins.  We mopped up our plates with warm pita, spoke of our friend who was gone, and moved into the restoration and warmth of laughter.  That was our meal: the joy of summer’s bounty and the pain of its end, and friendship that could make a feast from what seemed like so little.        

 

   

Thursday, August 6, 2015

Divorce: After Words



This is what happens when you rush through a divorce, when you make agreements that it is for the best (out of kindness to each other); that it can be relatively benign; that yes, it has been over for you, too, for years: months later, what has been moldering in the basement (regret, grief, and the most intense nostalgic longing), drags you down into the dank, dark room. 

The day I moved into my rental house, everything was immediately and helpfully unpacked and arranged in the new space.  Pop-up home!  Even the knickknacks, the few I’d claimed (mermaid bowl, poppy pottery, glazed, clay birds) had found pleasing places.  The speed was a manifestation of my fear of being alone in foreign territory.  No need to live with the actual emptiness if all of my belongings (1/2 of what we’d owned together) were in an aesthetic order around me.  That approach was terrific except when it came to my books (1,000?) and bookcases.  The movers were magicians in folding and tying up my now-enormous-for-one king-sized mattress in order to squeeze it around the sharp-turning staircase.  No idea how they managed the box spring, but I can attest to sleeping on top of both every night, my body, out of twenty years of habit, still on the right side.  No sprawl, no claiming the whole bed for myself, just a polite amount of space, what is minimally necessary.  This, too, a buffer against loneliness.  Or perhaps my growing ability to claim the space I need.

In any case, the twenty-one boxes of books and bookcases were the last things to be moved into the house.  I was exhausted by the loading and unloading, by the fact that my then-husband was assisting (glad for his help, but in retrospect, cruel on the heart), by the fact that it was the end of my paid-for-time with the anonymous and accomplished movers.  When they tried to get the giant IKEA bookcase up the stairs, it wouldn’t fit, not without gouging out a piece of the wall (bad idea for my deposit).  So in haste and desperation, the only place that had room for the bookcases and books was the basement (dry, according to my landlord).  A stupid decision.  Everyone knows there is no such thing as a dry basement in Meadville.  But I was overwhelmed, and sent the bookcases down there along with my lifeblood—books I’d been collecting and reading since high school.

There is nothing, really, in the basement, so I never went.  Not for months and months, except for a brief two minutes at the beginning of the month to dump salt in the water softener.  So when I went down there a few weeks ago in search of a book, after a month of straight rain, I found the outside of all of my books covered in a thin fuzz of green mold.  This is what happens when I neglect what is meaningful, what gives me comfort and hope, what can often speak for my pain.  For hours, the kids and I wiped down every book with disinfectant wipes and carried them in stacks upstairs to the spare room that was once meant to house them.  I managed to save most of them—the bookshelves, mold creeping up the particle board, will have to be tossed.

All of this is to say, after the rush and surface detachment, I am in a delayed period of shock and mourning and longing for my now officially ended marriage.  My children are going to my former in-laws with my ex-husband (I still trip over that compound word, mention “my husband” in conversation, only to have to retract what I’ve said, ashamed that it is taking me so long to give him, us, up) and his girlfriend.  A new-sort-of-family trip.  Agonizing for all the reasons one might expect: someone in “my” place, someone who will sit at the same table where I sat drinking tea with my mother-in-law, someone playing in the pool with my/our kids and saying good night to them.  Though I would like to be ready for a new relationship, if only to cast off the pain of the old, I have to give myself time and space for that lonely emptiness: feeling the depression when it knocks me out, allowing for jealousy and anger rather than believing I am above them, and knowing, too, that though my spine might be covered in the mold of neglect, all is not ruined, love and hope can be salvaged.