Friday, November 6, 2015

Reclaiming The Dusty Places


The last of our holiday time has been officially over since Wednesday.

The children were all visited. The granddaughters have been tickled, hugged and kissed, read to, and imagined, danced and laughed uproariously with.

The vacation laundry has been washed, dried, ironed or folded and put away.

Milk, bread, vegetables and fruit have been bought to restock the fridge.

The bathrooms have been thoroughly cleaned, and the floors and carpets have all been vacuumed.

And now.



What now?

Now we begin to reclaim the dusty places.

The cobwebbed spaces.

The quiet, forgotten corners.

Now we are home, and there is no one but we two to inhabit these walls. We expect none of our kin to be home later. None but us will live, sleep, eat, bathe or rest here.

It has been twenty-eight years since it was just the two of us. TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS!

I think we still remember how to be just We Two. We've tried to be deliberate about US, knowing that this time would come; knowing that we didn't want to look across the dinner table at each other one day, only to see a stranger looking back.

We are comfortable with each other. I think we like each other better than we did when we began the journey. We are good together, and we are alright apart; The Dance has become slower, but more graceful. We generally cohabit with an ease that comes of shared history. We will be okay.

We will be okay.

We will revisit forgotten dreams. We will blow the dust off old ideas and brush the cobwebs from half remembered visions. We will take joy in the Skype moments and telephone conversations, and we will enjoy the slower pace, the quieter space. We will rediscover Ourselves; individually and together. We will be glad we started young; glad that we are still not old to begin the continuation. The next chapter.

Turn the page.

Grab the Pledge and a rag.

There are dusty places to reclaim.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Regarding Change And Whatnot

I don't enjoy change for the sake of change.

Sometimes "change" is a good thing; when it's as good as a rest, or when it makes a fresher, brighter space, or when it adds up to enough for a London Fog at my favourite coffee place...

But more often change is just plain tough. It means a season of adapting, compromise, learning new things, stretching, working it through...

We're coming to the end of a summer of change, here in The Field.

It started with an urge to "change" the bedroom around. He *knew* he had a picture in his files of how it looked with the bed over there instead of over here... so he searched until he found it, finding, in the process, some pictures of other rooms from when we'd first moved and the spaces hadn't begun yet to fill up.

We decided that we liked the rooms we saw in the pictures of Parsonage Past, and began working our way through a small mountain of books, clutter, fabric and patterns,  in the hope of finding that quieter, less busy place.

A month into The Great Purge of '15, we stumbled upon a little house in our neighbourhood that was up for sale. We investigated, and started walking through a process that had us excited about maybe finding *home*- belonging; roots enough to truly feel part of this community. That the little house was indeed very little only spurred us on to deepen the purge in order to live comfortably in about an eighth of the space we currently inhabit. I was confident we could do it. A good, healthy change. A liberating change.

Then the house deal fell through, and we had to readjust our minds and hearts. 

Just when we were beginning to feel reoriented and content again in our house by the church in the field, we entertained, unawares, an unwanted visitor in the middle of the night.

Ours was one of half a dozen acreages and farms broken into nearly 3 weeks ago. They hit the outbuildings and shops mostly, but our house was one of the few they entered. Although they didn't find any fun toys in the garage, they made off with His new phone and my very old laptop computer. Which means more change of the kind I don't like.

My computer has been replaced, but it's a brand, spanking new one. I've gone from Windows Vista to having to learn Windows 10. It's too new for my old computer game, He thinks, (I'll admit that I like to build houses and play god on Sims2), so I'm having to give a newer version of the game a try. 

Changing all my passwords, changing my favourite game, changing the locks, changing the way we trust the world... not the kind of change that precedes happiness and joy necessarily.

I've changed my perspective a little, figuratively, and a lot, literally. I'm reading the screen here with my new progressive lenses- a change that I'm actually quite happy about. It's taking a little bit to get used to the new spectacles, but I can knit and watch T.V. at the same time again, and that's a change I welcome. 

And the weather is changing. I love the transition into autumn, but I shudder a little at what follows. We just bit the bullet and have secured a better vehicle to face the storms of winter with, but again- change. 

And our last chick has flown the nest, although I'm sure he wouldn't like being referred to as a chick. His stuff is still in the room that has been his since we moved here, but this is the beginning of the end for us, the beginning of the beginning for him. Another change, albeit a good, and necessary one.

Is there a point to this rambling? I don't know. Maybe it's just about getting all y'all caught up. Maybe it's about processing the last few months. Maybe it's about admitting that the summer was a roller-coaster ride of emotions and in the end I'm left feeling a little stretched and heart-sore yet.

One thing that remains is the necessary ability to roll with the punches; I continue to be fairly adaptable, and that's a good thing that I hope doesn't change any time soon. 

Change is a good thing if it means becoming a stronger, transformed version of myself. The changes of this summer are only negative if I let myself become hardened by them; if I don't let those changes rub off the rough edges that needed rubbing off; if I refuse to grow and be made better by this season of change. 

In spite of my age and the progressive lenses in my new glasses, I think I'm not yet old enough to be completely unmoved and unaffected by change. I hope.

So, here's to change. And that London Fog...

Friday, September 4, 2015

Ode To The Small Moths That Disintegrate Upon Thumb Contact


Sunday, April 12, 2015

My Birthday Is Coming And I Need A Haircut

Now, you may think those two things, (an approaching birthday and shaggy hair) have nothing in common but the "and"...

BUT, for a good month now I've been thinking it's time to get a haircut- maybe even a new style, and whenever I think about my particular "style" (or lack thereof) I get to thinking about how irritating and unhelpful society is.

I frequently bemoan the fact that I was born in 1963 and not 1903. Had I been born in a more appropriate decade, I would have been turning 52 in 1955 instead of 2015. I've always felt a little out of sync with the world around me; I was a Stay-At-Home-Mom when being a working Mom was more in vogue. We were a family of 6 when McDonald's hadn't evolved beyond tables with only four chairs. I liked sewing and knitting and cooking and baking and ironing and washing dishes and doing laundry. I liked being a homemaker when there were few other homemakers living nearby. I was Laura Petrie longing for a Millie next door.

Although I've come to terms with being born too late, the fashion/style of today makes me frustrated. In 1953 you knew what you were expected to look like. You could look at a woman and know by her hairstyle how old she probably was, and whether she was a grandmother,  had teenaged children or babies in diapers. A person knew how to dress. A person knew how to do their hair. No guesswork.

As it is, I can't think about getting a hair cut without thinking about my age, and stressing about what kind of style is appropriate for a 52 year old Nana of two with grown children. I know, I know, everyone says, "Whatever you like! That's appropriate!" But there's a danger of looking like one is trying to be younger than one is- of trying to recapture or hold on to a youthful self. There's also the danger of looking "old", or being "dowdy" because women are expected to be as charming and youthful as they may appropriately be.


So... yeah.

My birthday is coming, and I need a haircut.

End rant.

Carry on.

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Haiku For A Long Sleepless Night

a night is better
passed without your company
fell insomnia

Saturday, March 7, 2015

Oh Spring!

you tease and taunt us
sweetly follow a March breeze
then leap back again

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

In The Middle Of A "Tigger" Winter

End of February and I've decided that this is a "Tigger" winter: very springy and bouncy, bouncy back and forth from warm to cold.

Today is "spring" again, but this afternoon the forecast is for snow and a thirteen degree drop in temperatures.

It's an unsettling time, especially for a person who traditionally gets hit with a jittery wanderlust during the transitional seasons. Autumn's restlessness is usually accompanied by a period of nesting and cozying up for winter. In spring I had a tendency to peruse the MLS listings online and in the newspaper. A rush of warmer, fresh air makes me want to be on the move.

The other day I had a sort of epiphany about my life.

I realized that personally, as far as family and family life is concerned, I'm also in a restless, between seasons state.

Maybe getting married and beginning to have children is like the "spring" of family life- March and April.  Raising the kids- all the ups and downs, ins and outs- is like "summer" and "autumn", say May until September. As they start getting to the point of being grown up and leaving home it's like the beginning of "winter"- October and November, leading up to a grand Christmas season when the main work of child-rearing is done and we celebrate the empty nest.

And then comes January and February: the post-party months. The "Christmas is over but spring and Easter are a long way off yet" months. The "now that you've cleaned up the party mess, what'll you do until the next party?" months.

If, personally speaking, the next "spring" season is retirement, this could be a very long transitional season indeed.

This, "Hey! My life is actually like February!" revelation does nothing to alleviate the restless uncertainty of my existence, but it has helped me to define it for myself. There is a sense of relief in the understanding. There is a little more patience for  myself. There is also the realization that I really do have a lot of time to fill and I do need to decide what I want to be when I grow up, or at least what things I would like to accomplish before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

I don't have any concrete plans yet. Apparently I'm not yet bored enough to be motivated to pursue some of my dreams or have any vague hopes realized, but all in good time.

February, in spite of having the fewest days, is typically the longest month of the Canadian year after all.