The Quiet To Come

Tonight I realized that something is going to change.  Something that's already changing incrementally, like first roots from a seed, curling and clinging to dirt in the dark.  It's out of the way, small, something you can't see.  But it's there, hidden in the cool damp.

I have known that one loss is coming:  the loss of the Professor from my life.  It has been slow and painful, and I have been making my new life my own.  I have settled into friendships with strong, smart and loving women, and realized for the first time in over a decade how much I need those bonds.  I have also settled into the house, started making it my own in the smallest of ways.  Months ago, I took down photos from our life together because they were too painful to see.  More recently, I put away a sweet picture of my father and me at my wedding -- the last wedding photo I had out -- not because it was painful, but because I was ready to let it go.  I bought new patio furniture, red stools for the kitchen, purchased a few small pieces of art.  All things I got because I liked them, because they made me smile.  It felt kind of sad, and kind of good, to make those decisions myself -- for myself and no one else.

Tonight, in the quiet of my house, padding by my new red stools on the way to the kitchen, I felt for the first time that this really is my house.  The Professor is still on the title, and will be for a while, and it's our joint asset -- but it's my home.  Something in my heart said this is mine.  And that made my heart happy, because I love this house, and I love it in a new way now that I've let go of the old way.  Or mostly let go.

And, then, something in my heart said it will be even quieter than this once the divorce is final.  And it struck me and I stopped walking.  Because I'm not just losing the Professor.  In some bizarre way, I'm losing the divorce, as well.  The stress and anxiety and limbo, with which I really am ready to be done, will actually leave an empty spot in my life.  I have been making my way to this point, making my way to accepting the loss of my marriage, the loss of the Professor.  But I realized in that moment that the loss will be even bigger than that, and the quiet, even quieter. 

It is something that it sad and scary to know, but in a soft and peaceful way.  

The Divorce

Last night I returned from an incredible weekend in Ocean City, NJ, where I had the unequivocal pleasure of watching two people who are unabashedly in love -- and with whom two families are in love -- become a new family of their own.  Believe it or not, even I have no words to describe this wedding.  From an observer's perspective, it was perfect down to the last detail.  Although I'm sure many little problems cropped up along the way, as they always do at any orchestrated occasion, the celebration, the love, the reason we were all there -- those were perfect, and they were apparent and abundant at every moment.

But more on that later, once I get my wedding photos and thoughts in order (which, for all of my eager family members, I hope to do very shortly).  This post is on a slightly less joyous subject:  The Divorce. (Notice how I've capitalized that for dramatic effect.)

Tonight the Professor came over so that we could sit down and discuss a few issues.  Last week, we didn't see eye-to-eye on some of the details of our divorce.  I won't go into any specifics here, because they really aren't important to or appropriate for this blog, but I will acknowledge that at least some of the issues were because I didn't communicate some of my thoughts with the Professor before I sent him a draft settlement agreement.  I may have blindsided him, unintentionally -- but also thoughtlessly, and I should have been more thoughtful about his expectations before sending him the proposal.  From my perspective, it's just one more learning and growing experience.  One more thing I know I'll do better the next time.  And I can't do it differently this time, so that's really the best that I can take from it, and so I will.

At the end of the day, we mostly worked things out, like adults.  The reality is that that sucks.  No bones about it.  No other, more eloquent way, to say it.  Here I sit across the table from my husband, the person I married, gave my heart to, handed my future, my everything -- and we're talking about who's going to pay for what.  There is no way around how exquisitely painful that is.  But the flip side of that, if you can step back and see it (and I'm really trying to do that), is that it's also really nice.  It's good to be able to sit down, face-to-face, like two adults who (once) love(d) one another deeply, and resolve the details of your lives.  It is good -- although in a profoundly heartbreaking way -- to be able to say I think what I'm asking is more than fair, and to feel like you have been heard and taken seriously.  It is good to be acknowledged.  It is relief.

It is also good, albeit incredibly difficult, to hear him out.  To consider his perspective, to give it legitimacy.  It is difficult, but necessary, because he has a perspective, and a life, and it's not mine any longer, but it's important for me to accept that, to come to terms with that, and to know that for him, it is still his life.

The reality is that the Professor's perspective, in terms of our divorce settlement, is actually considerate of me.  I will not walk away from this feeling like I won, like I got what I wanted -- because it's a divorce, and no one wins, no one walks away with what they wanted.  That's just how it is.  Otherwise, they wouldn't be getting divorced.  But -- stepping back from it a bit, having a little perspective, removing myself slightly (as much as I can) from the pain of the actual divorce -- I can say that I am as satisfied as I will ever be with the resolution of things.  Not because I 'got what I wanted'.   I could never get that, because what I wanted is not, and simply cannot be, within the realm of a divorce.  I am satisfied because the Professor acknowledged me, acknowledged our relationship, acknowledged some sense of moral obligation that he feels he has, completely separate from anything I have foisted upon him.  And that is more valuable than any amount of money, more meaningful than any piece of property.  It is, ultimately, what I get in the divorce, and has to be enough.  And it is.

I realize this post may suggest that some amount of my peace in this comes from the Professor, rather than my own internal resources, and I admit that is at least partly true.  That is all tied up with how I have done things until now, how I have at least tried to handle this divorce.  It is tied up with the fact that we have maintained some sort of a relationship, and that I still love him, even if I don't always like him.  And that is just the way it is.  Messy and complicated, but true.

The hardest part of the evening was not actually discussing the details of our divorce.  I've done that enough, professionally, that I can remove myself from it.  Mostly, and with a lot of self-control.  The hardest part, the worst moment, was also a good moment.  It was when the Professor told me that he knows how hard this has been on me, that he knows this has been a huge blow to me, and that he is impressed with how I've handled it all.  I can debate mortgage payments and health insurance all night long.  But that comment took the wind out of me.  I wanted to curl up and cry.  I wanted to scream.  Because this year has been hell.  It has taken everything away from me and everything out of me.   Sometimes I feel I have nothing left to give, no more energy left to put out there, nothing left to carry me through.  And, as much as I can remove myself professionally to discuss custody of the dogs, let's face it -- it takes enormous emotional effort to do so.  It is a monumental challenge.  And to have him acknowledge that, on some small level, was enough to make me collapse into a pile of tears.

I didn't do that, though.  Instead, I clinched my jaw and breathed.  I waited for the moment, the emotion, to pass.  And I said thank you.  That was it.  That was all I did, that was all I said.  There is really nothing more I can say.

I waited until he left to cry.  Because sometimes, despite everything, you just have to weep.  And that's okay.

Endings And Beginnings

Life is really just a series of endings and beginnings, isn't it?  When our lives begin, wet and raw, our parents' lives are ending - or life as they knew it.  Although it's hard to imagine the 'before', there is a before and after in their lives, in that moment.  And there is for each of us, many times over.  We grow in stages, defined by where we are, who we love, what happens to us.  If you could shear your history with a chainsaw like a tree, you would see the rings of those things, those people, those decisions, those heartbreaks.

In the history of my life, this time will leave a number of rings, perhaps a few sizable knots, as well.  It is a time of upheaval, a time of many endings and beginnings, a time of coming to terms with that realty of life, and of learning to see the beauty in even the pain.

This week I told the Professor that I can't continue spending time with him.  I told him I am grateful for the time we have shared, that we get along, that we're on good terms, but that I am ready to move away from everything.  I didn't say all that I think or feel, or everything I would like to have said (in love, anger and hurt) but I said what needed to be said.  I said what I needed to say with respect for both of us, with dignity and kindness.  I said enough, and I let the rest go - with sorrow and relief.  It is an ending for me (if not for him), but it looks to another beginning.  For my Aunt J:  it is a broken hallelujah - but without doubt,  it is a hallelujah.  And there will be many more of those.

I also learned this week that my sweet, brilliant best friend of almost 14 years is no longer a puppy.  I adopted Chase when she was eight weeks old.  I was only 21, and so Chase has been with me for more than one stage of my life.  I was living in my parents' basement when I got her, without their permission or knowledge (the getting Chase part, not the living in their basement part), and if I recall, they were less than pleased.  Five years later, they were equally thrilled to invite Chase to live with them while I finished law school, so I wouldn't have to give her away.  Notwithstanding her middle-of-the-night guarding of the house (by way of hours long barking sessions) and the carpet of white hair with which she blanketed their front porch, Chase found a place deep in their hearts.  A few years ago, after a Christmas visit with Chase, my mom called me an hour or so after we left the house.  We were driving through the deep North Carolina mountains.  She asked if we could turn around, bring Chase back and leave her there to live.

But Chase is no longer the puppy who would chase a ball for hours, panting to the point you thought she'd drop right there, and so you hid the ball and forced her to rest.  She limps with arthritis and waits patiently for me to lift her onto the bed to snuggle me at night, where once she bounded.  Recently, she wheezes when she's excited or hot. This week, for a few moments, it was clear she struggled to breathe, pulling air in sharply and deeply, sounding like an angry goose.  The vet says she has laryngeal paralysis.  The muscles of her larynx no longer open and close properly.  They need to open so she can breathe, and close so she can eat and drink without aspirating food or water. The only treatment is surgery.  The Professor and I agreed long ago that we wouldn't put Chase through surgery at her age and with her arthritis, and the vet concurs.  The palliative treatment is cool air (I'm anticipating outrageous energy bills) and relaxation to keep her breathing normal.  If she has an episode of respiratory distress, she will have to go to the emergency vet for sedation and oxygen.  We won't let her go through that multiple times.  It would be selfish.  All that matters now is that she is comfortable and happy.  The rest of it is my problem to deal with, not hers.

Good news: the vet wrote us a scrip for Valium.
Bad news: unfortunately, it's not for me.

There are also beginnings happening this week.  A multitude of beginnings.  My sweet "baby" cousin Timmy and his effervescent fiance, Ashley, are getting married.  This will not be your greet-the-relatives-and-endure-it wedding.  This is a weekend of celebrating the soul-mate, life-changing, can't-live-without-it kind of love we all desperately want, admit it or not.  It's also a weekend of celebrating the newest addition to the family - Tim's nephew, my brand-new gorgeous second (I think?) cousin, Julian.  And, from my point of view, (and perhaps most importantly), it's a weekend of celebrating the Walker women - who have reared siblings, children, nieces and nephews, grandchildren, and, most importantly, friends, among their family.  I love those women. They are the women that novels and songs are written about.  The women who make moments happen (and without whom moments do not exist).  They are the women who make life, who make you stop in your tracks and hold your breath, because of their strength and their bonds and their beauty.

Endings wind down, and beginnings burst forth.  And that is painful. But it is also beautiful.  And the Walker women - they know it in their bones.  And so they love, and they live, and they cry, and they go on. And then they begin again.

And I am one of them.

Look Kids, Big Ben!!

If the scenery starts looking a little too familiar, you might be going in circles.

The Professor and I have been spending a lot of time together for two people who are getting divorced.  It started shortly after the new year.  First, he came by every week to grab some things he needed from the house.  Then he asked me to help him with some minor surgery.  He was snowed in here for a few days.  March rolled around, and with it the first anniversary of his father’s death.  It was a tough time for him.  I wanted to be supportive (and, frankly, I was afraid of the consequences of acting otherwise), and so I made myself, and the house and doggies, available.  I told my therapist that, after March, I was sure he’d stop wanting to come around.  I was wrong.  As the weather improved, the back yard became an appealing hangout, I got a job and the Professor started coming over more frequently, sometimes to help out with the dogs, sometimes just to hang out.  Lately, there hasn’t been a weekend we’ve both been in town that we haven’t spent a day together.  After a recent week in Germany, the Professor called from a cab at the airport to ask if he could come over.  

You might ask, as many people have, why I would want to spend time with the person who left me, who stood in the doorway and said our marriage was a mistake he could fix.  The answer is ironically simple:  it's complicated.  Isn’t everything?

I have enjoyed spending time with the Professor.  Strangely, I'm sure even he would agree that we always had fun together -- when we weren't fighting, that is.  And I’m glad we’re on good terms.  I'm proud of myself for that, because it's required a lot of self-control on my part -- which is something I needed to practice.  I'm proud to be learning that skill.  And I’m glad that the end of our relationship hasn't been a sudden rending, leaving a ragged abyss between what was and what is, but instead a slow withdrawal.  For me, at least.  It's the way I wanted to do things, if they had to be done.

We go to lunch, cook dinner, talk about work, law, research, food, the doggies, and life in general.  Sometimes we even talk about the divorce.  But we never talk about anything too real.  No emotions.  There is no validation of anything, at least not for me.  No acknowledgement of what he’s done in leaving me, of what it’s done to me, of what it’s been like.  No suggestion that we still love each other.  (Or, rather, that he still loves me.  I may not always like, or even think very much of, the Professor, but my love for him nonetheless abides.)  In that sense, it leaves me feeling kind of empty.  And so it's also been very difficult – an ongoing emotional upheaval of sorts.  It’s been confusing, particularly because I haven't felt like I was allowed to ask any pointed questions, raise any serious issues, be real. As a result, there are many things I simply don't know or understand.  And there are many things I feel or think that just go unsaid and unacknowledged.  I've accepted that.  I had no choice.  But I cannot continue to do so.  It's just not working for me anymore.

For months, my wise mind (as opposed to my emotional mind) has been asking me how long this will go on.  How long it possibly can go on.  I have felt (or known?) that it could not go on forever, that at some point the Professor and I would have to stop moving forward on close parallel paths, and move apart.  More recently, I have felt frustrated and somewhat stagnated by the state of our 'relationship' -- although I have been reluctant to draw any conclusions, make any decisions, or take any action to change things.  I haven't been ready, and I haven't been sure.  It is a sad, and lonely, and scary thing to decide.  

But I have finally come to the conclusion (or had the realization) that I'm not going anywhere.  I've moved as far forward as I can on this particular path.  I've journeyed a long way -- but now I'm seeing familiar landmarks.  I've traveled over these mountains and through these valleys in years (and months) past, and I'm ready for new scenery.  I'm also tired, worn out, exhausted by the familiar.  I am completely spent.  And the gas stations along the way that used to fill my tank seem to have gone out of business.    

So I'm consulting my map and heading off in a new direction.  I'm afraid of flat tires, endless stretches of road with no one to talk to, radio stations that don't come in, and losing my way.  But I'm hopeful about what new wonders I might discover -- both along the way and wherever I end up.

C'est La Vie

It's my new catch phrase.

Car breaks down:  that's life.

Dog pees on the floor:  that's life.

Husband leaves you:  that's life.

I know it's cliche, but it's cliche for a reason (another cliche, I'm on a roll).  Somehow, though, when the French say it, it sounds so much more hopeful.  Not, 'that's life' (resigned with a frown), but 'that's the life' with a shrug and a smirk.  What can you do about the car, the dog, your husband?  Nothing - c'est la vie.  You can shrug and smirk, maybe even laugh, and then get on with it.  Notwithstanding the cliche, it sort of puts things in perspective, because that is life.  And life is hard, and life is good, and most of all, life just keeps on going -- despite the hiccups, the speedbumps, the twenty car pileups that leave you mangled.  

Years ago (before I had the experience, the scars, required to understand her wisdom), my mother told me something that (for me) resonates with the French version of the cliche:  you can never control what another person does, you can only control how you respond.  Although she was far more eloquent, she said there is a moment between what happens to you, and what you do about it -- and that in that moment lies your control of your life.

I have found (as have many daughters before me) that my mother was right.  In small moments (second by second) and in longer moments (month by month), there is a time after what happens but before you respond, and in that moment you have a choice.  And in that moment, in that choice (be it seconds or months), you will find the only control you have.  

That's it.  What happens before that moment - that's life.  But what happens after, c'est la vie:  it's entirely up to you.

Some Things Are Better Left Unsaid

There are a lot of things I don't say -- on this blog or otherwise.  In the last nine months, I have learned the art of saying nothing.  Letting the moment pass.  I have learned that sometimes silence makes the point better than words.  Or sometimes there's not a point to be made, although accepting that takes patience and time.  I have learned that if I sit back, hold my breath and wait, the moment passes.  Things often work themselves out or become clearer -- or even irrelevant. Circumstances change, my emotions evolve.

Maybe I just come to terms with the way things are.  Deal with it.  Move on.  Or maybe I don't.  It's not too late to say what I wanted to say, only now I can say it thoughtfully, not emotionally.  I am learning, as my therapist would say, to listen to my wise mind instead of my emotional mind.  You might say I am growing up.

This lesson has been important for me, perhaps necessary and too long in coming.  It doesn't fundamentally change me.  It doesn't change my emotions, my hurts, my needs.  It doesn't make those things any less important or any less valid.  But it alters my perspective.  I have tended to say what I feel when I feel it, without really thinking it through. I have regretted many things I've said emotionally in my life. In the last nine months, I have not once regretted saying nothing.  To the contrary.

It's also been a tough lesson -- one that required suffering deep emotional pain in silence, and one that required (and still requires) looking back on certain things I've said and done with a critical and honest eye.  That means coming to terms with having acted like a child, with having been unnecessarily nasty and cruel to those I love most. (And, in that regard, I am not referring only to the Professor, but also to my dear parents, siblings and friends.)  It means acknowledging that I have often let a flare of intense emotion dictate my words and actions in shameful ways.

I will almost certainly always be emotional, sensitive and reactive. Those are aspects of my temperament that I probably cannot change.  And I don't know that I would change those things, anyway, because they are also what make me empathetic, open and loving -- and connect me to those I love, and those I don't even know, in a way that feels right, and real, and necessary.  But I can continue to practice patience with my emotions, to step back from them, to be aware that they will pass.

If nothing else, it's a good thing to come of this last difficult year. And, for that, I am grateful and blessed.