a year later

It started in the pantry.  I was searching late at night for something appealing to eat, but only finding empty boxes.

I have got to clean this out.

I finally found a lone bag of popcorn and shut the door on the whole mess.

Then, again in my closet, as I was reaching over a teetering pile of stuff to grab a jacket.

Ugh. Too much stuff. I’ve got to go through this.

My closet is the default “I'll-deal-with-it-later” location.  I found my jacket and shut the door on the whole mess.

Later, mindlessly folding clothes, I came to a realization.  I had a conversation with myself. With words. And questions. It went something like this:

My life is not what it was. For the next eight years, I’m going to have little to no time to do any of my hobbies. Chickens, quilting, roses.

Okay, yes. True.

The next eight years are going to be exactly like the last year has been.  No time for anything. And after that? What comes next?

Wait, I can’t even see past tomorrow and you want to know what happens in almost a decade?

Yes. You can’t keep treading water.  Enough of that.  Pick a path.

I…I can’t….I don’t know…there's...too much.....hurt...

Kristin.  You’ve been talking about moving north when the kids are grown.  You’re not going to pack up all this and take it with you.

 No, probably not.

Then why are you keeping it all?  Why are you storing these constant reminders of a life you no longer have?

 

Well, what if that’s a whim?  What if I stay? What if I meet, fall for, and marry a very rich man.

A whim that you’ve been talking about for 6 months now? Don’t be stupid. And besides, anyone you fall for is going to be the starving artist type.  Not the lawyer type.

Look.

At.

Your.

Life.

Stop a minute.  Sit.  Look.

I stopped.

I sat on the front step.

I let my mind go where it wanted.  I looked back.  I looked at now.

I don’t know how long I sat.  I just know that at some point I came to terms with something I was told months ago.

“You are not her anymore; she’s a part of you, but not you anymore.”

I let her go.

Silently I grieved the loss of the woman I was.  The woman who quilted; the woman who tended roses; the woman who bred chickens.  The tears came and I just sat silently, surrounded by the night and knowledge that this was long overdue.

“You are not her anymore; she’s a part of you, but not you anymore.”

Eventually the tears stopped. And peace came.

It’s time.

So, I begin.

I picked a place to begin where there would be the least amount of tears. 

The pantry.  Because really, what is there to be emotional about in a pantry?

I pulled out everything.  All the food, canning stuff, and everything else we've shoved in the pantry over the last three years.

There were tears.

There were tears when I realized that I was fully stocked with homemade jams and jellies for the next year, and I didn’t make any of them. I hadn’t had time to do any canning.  I love canning.  My mother, the wonderful woman that she is, made enough jams and jellies for us, because she knew I was busy. This hurt. Not that she made them, but that I didn’t.

There were tears when I realized I was almost out of brown sugar, and had no idea, because I can’t remember the last time I baked something. I love baking.

There were tears when I realized that the whole house is filled with who I was, and paring it down to who I am is going to hurt.

My table is piled high with mason jars, cookie cutters, candles and who knows what.  Next I need to empty out all the cupboards in the kitchen and sort through it all. Pack up the things that are no longer relevant to my life today, things I haven't used in a year, and let them go. Let go of the clutter that has accumulated since I moved here.  Let go of the “well maybe one day” and the “I might need that”

My heart hurt. Physically hurt.

I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to get through cleaning out my craft supplies.  Because I don’t need a room full of sewing and crafting supplies. A closet full, yes; but not a room full.  I’m sure there’ll be whiskey involved.  And I’ll probably ask a friend or two to come sit in the middle of a mess and help me let go.

What I’m doing has nothing to do with the man I was married to, or the home that we shared.  This is about me.  This is about me accepting what my life is now, and letting go of what it was.

Everything happens for a reason.  

The further I go, the more I have believe that.

everything.

it has to. 

All the pain and heart-ache that I've lived through for the last year has led to so much goodness.

• A younger-than-me older brother.
• Two girlfriends with whom Friday is a verb.
• This blog. 
• M’Amy. 
• The knowledge that I can handle frozen pipes, a broken heater, a riding lawn mower, a power outage, and noises outside at night.

There’s got to be more coming, amid the continuing hard, there has got to be more joy.

So, in spite of all the tears and loneliness, I am happy.

At my core. 

Yes, I’m lonely.  Yes, I want someone to hold my hand and cuddle with me on the couch.

Yes, it’s hard. 

Every damn night is hard. 

Here I am.

A year later.

I’m not lost.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m done treading water.