Wash me clean

I'm sitting in the comfy chair in my living room, just having finished an impromptu peanut butter desert concoction, the house is a mess but its quiet, and the only thing I can hear is the rain.  For the first time since last summer I'm enjoying the rain.  For the first time since last summer it feels like the rain is washing me clean rather than beating me down.  This has been a hard spring.  A really hard spring.  The trees didn't fully leaf out until the first week of June, the lilacs didn't bud until then either; it rained almost every day from April 1-June 1, and never before have I been so filled with self doubt, lack of direction and loneliness.  Why did we move here? Why would we leave the friends we had? We were supposed to have more time, more money, more passion, more meaning in our lives here.  But we don't.  And worse yet, I have nothing to give to make it happen.  It feels as though we sacrificed a whole lot of good for a whole lot of potential great, and in order to instill a sense of stability into the transition we have sacrificed all that potential great for a whole lot of mediocre.

Just in the last week or two does it feel like there might be some life in my blood, some semblance of passion and self still circulating deep under the surface.  The rain that I hear right now is wafting the smell of flowers and the sounds of birds in through my open screen door and the finally leafed out trees could not possibly be any greener.  They, like me, are for some reason grateful for this rain even though it is far from a novelty.

A week or so ago John and Maggie and I were outside by our raised beds, looking at our tomatoes and greens.  Maggie had brought a plate of moistened been seeds out to plant and one by one she would hold up a seed and wait for direction on where the bury it.  John would make a small hole for each seed and have her drop it in and bury it.  I was simply an onlooker.  As I watched this meticulous process, I was overcome with a feeling of success.  Last year we tilled up four plots of land, planted in three, watered two, and weeded one.  We lost a ton to poor soil prep, poor nutrition management, and general neglect, and felt pretty grim about it all.  This year, we turned over the soil in two beds and built two small raised beds, so far have planted in both raised beds and one plot...just a few things.  But to stand and watch my husband and my daughter dig in the dirt, put seeds in the ground, and do it while truly engaged in each other's company....that nearly leveled me with joy, this is what it feels like to be doing it right. 

Since that moment I have been in a gradual process of unfolding.  Unfolding my arms, unfurrowing my brow, unclenching my jaw, unfolding my expectations.  We have been time and again dreaming of diving into something with both feet, producing at least an impressive harvest if not lifestyle, and assuming that the balance of passion and life will just flow.  But to truly find that balance we have had to scale back to what seems like miniscule visions.  And yet, in that moment I felt that our miniscule vision fed every need in my body and fueled the fire to grow.

I have spent eight months in nothing shy of a panic attack, wondering how we are going to manage bringing another baby into our lives.  Finally, in the last week I have let myself rest in the idea that it doesn't matter how we will manage, but only that we will.  Because its events like this that ask you to stop and truly evaluate what you care about, what will read as your favorite chapters when you look back at the story you wrote.  And just as I realized that it is not the plants or the dirt or the vision that will get us where we want to be, but the ability to keep it at a level where we can remain truly engaged with one another, the same will go for this new and wholly unknown adventure.

So today, I'm going to sit, in the comfy chair in the living room, adamantly ignoring my long and growing to do list, and let the rain wash me clean.

And Back

On Christmas morning this past year, my husband had written me a note in my stocking on a card that said 'I love you to the Mountains and back' on it.  It has a beautiful picture of a dirt path leading you into an idyllic mountain range.  That card has been on my mantel since, and I finally framed it today.  Every time I caught a glance of the card, the words would turn over in my mind....'...to the mountains and back, and back...and back.'  I love you to the mountains and back is a beautiful sentiment, and my husband knows how still and peaceful my heart is when I'm in the mountains, but its not that part of the message that snags my attention.  'And back'.  Over and over again in my mind.  It is easy to be bold, strong and fiercely lovable on the path to our passions, to our refuge, to our happy place, to share in laughter and excitement when beauty lies ahead.  But what about when you turn around and head back, when the beauty is behind you, when you are returning to whatever it is you left behind earlier.  It's not as effortless, as graceful to love someone on the way back, nor is it as easy to shine forth your most beautiful self (certainly not for me).

Ever since moving to Maine, John and I are perpetually making the metaphoric expedition to the mountains and back.  We go through a phase where we dream, in both big and practical ways, feeling like all the things we have ever visioned are right there at our fingertips.  We get giddy with possibility.  Driving to the mountains.  And then we go back to work, clean up the house for the sixth time in a day, change our daughter's princess outfit five times, pay too much at the grocery store for poor quality food, enjoy each other's company for 30 minutes at dinner before starting the bedtime routine and then collapsing on the couch with only enough energy to browse instagram and the Free section of craigslist.  And back. 

Its not loving someone to the mountains that makes this journey worth taking.  It's having someone to love you on the way back, to hold your hand in the moments when you're unsure that the future is as bright as the past.  Because having a steady hand to travel back with is what makes us strong enough to pack up and make the journey once more, into the mountains.