Chapter 12
Arrived
26 September 2015
Day 64: "I have been running, so sweaty my whole life, urgent for a finish line. And I have been missing the rapture this whole time, of being forever incomplete." Alanis Morissette
It's funny how I still count the days. The part of me that sought order from confusion wanted time markers as a way to gauge my grief and healing. Now, it seems rather silly...although, in a way, provides a strange sort of comfort. If, at some point in the future, when I'm an old woman, living alone with lots of cats, I happen to read through my old diaries and journals, I don't think I'll find one specific day where I can proclaim: 'Here it is! This is the day I became okay again!'
It doesn't work that way. I've always been okay, while not feeling okay; and I've always been whole while feeling broken. If that makes sense. And, I have to believe that all of this has meant more than arriving at some unknown destination, but instead loving myself? Honoring what's true for me, even though I feel wobbly and eternally incomplete. Nan told me that day in the garden..."If it was important, it leaves a mark worth remembering."
I don't need to count the days for remembering. There are too many memories beyond what can be tracked or numbered.
I love those who have died.
I love those who live.
Today, I remember that love and promise to be easy.
The birds are singing and the eastern sky is just starting to break with dawn. I scribble these words while cocooned in down, warm and far too comfortable to move. I wish I could twitch my nose and a hot cup of coffee would instantly appear at my bedside. I'll get up soon, though, take a long bath, go for a ride with Nick and maybe visit the beach to collect shells for the garden.
I'm so happy Nan's friend, Laura, arrived from Scotland. They've been best of friends for almost sixty years. All I can say is, Wow.
3:41pm
Dear Diary - I wonder what it must have been like to live in the Regency Era? To be a character cast into a Jane Austen novel, imposed upon by civility to set aside personal grievances for social protocol? What if I were Lizzie Bennett, visiting the countryside, in desperate need to write a letter to my beloved sister, Jane? What would I say about these circumstances?
Dearest Jane,
It is with an anxious heart that I desperately wish your company, consoling and providing me with your kind guidance and sound wisdom. Surely, if you were, I would not feel agonized by the presence of the unpleasant and taciturn Mr. Holmes. He has made it incumbent upon himself to attend the memorial of our dear Taid, of which there was no expectation, by family or congeniality, and his pretense is being given all the advantages of one who anticipates and expects familiarity. I am vexed in my desire to meet his vanity with deserved contempt, and he is deserving, Jane. Were it not for our Nan, I would not hesitate to unleash my tongue against his arrogance and contemptible pride, which passes for superior intellect. I am deeply distressed how he is fawned over and thought a respectable gentleman of polite society, when he is anything but. Do not judge me too harshly, my dear Jane, for if you knew him as I do, your acquiescence to my good opinion would not be offered in haste.
Clearly, I would have failed miserably as a letter writing aficionado. If Meena weren't late, we'd be sharing this bottle of wine, while I dress and hold her hostage to all my complaints. And, as my best friend, she's obliged to agree. With everything. It's the rules.
I promised myself to be loving and easy today, and was doing so well until Nick and I returned from our ride. I saw them from a distance, Sherlock and John, talking with Nan, and hoped no one noticed me among the busy waitstaff bustling trays of cakes and bottles of wine to their designated areas.
Two thirty is not late afternoon, although why am I not surprised?
We were found out, owing to an oblivious sod shouting, 'What a pretty horse!' There was a brief moment where I wondered if it would be rude to pretend I didn't notice?
Nan was thrilled to meet the 'famous' Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and questioned why I never told her I knew them? I did, Nan. I just never mentioned his name while you nursed me through endless tears and heartbreak. Seeing him, here in my home - my sanctuary away from him - feels awkward and unsettling. Why are you really here, Sherlock? Your movements are as deftly manufactured as the inner workings of a fine Swiss clock, determined to meet a specific agenda - and I know you're not here for the cake.
I'm grateful that John's enthusiasm provided a welcomed buffer.
Laura is doting on John and hasn't stopped talking about how much she loves his blog. She asks about his next update, but neither of us have the heart to tell her there probably won't be one. Although perhaps it's more for our benefit, than hers. Still, John is kind and indulgent of Laura's flattery and simply told her he's been busy. In the mean time, he shares a few short stories, which delights her to no end.
Nan and Sherlock have monopolized each other's attention, which is suspicious and surreal in equal measure. He expressed an interest and stated some minimal research into bees, so off they went, arm-in-arm, for a quick tour of the apiary. Nan suggested that while he was here, he should take advantage of my father's library to read some of Peter's research into medicinal uses, as well as female hive culture.
I don't know why I feel so anxious. Everyone is taken care of. There's enough to distract my attention from the unwanted, and still...I can't help but feel that everything I say, every movement I make, will be observed, deduced, and categorized into neat compartments as the proxy stand-in for the real me.
Meena still isn't here, but if she was, all these things would be said to her, instead of sitting here writing, when I should be dressing. So, I stare at my reflection, which stares back at me, and I wonder if I've made the best use of Time? I have more material wealth than I actually know how to spend. I am proud of my career accomplishments and have every intention to continue, but it's been a very long time since I've asked myself what I want. It's glaringly apparent I've taken on the decidedly bad habit of conforming rather than creating. Adapting, instead of initiating.
I want a baby.
Wait. What!? Did I just write that? That's not what I meant! I meant...family, people I come home to, who come home to me. I want intimate bonds, shared affection, make plans and dream about the future. I want to make memories, capture a million tiny moments and watch them evolve into the story of us. I want the walls of this big old house to be filled with conversation, laughter, and tiny voices filled with delight. Maybe a dog or two? And, at the end of my life, I want to look back and feel heart-bursting appreciation for it all. I wonder if I can allow that to happen here?
Right then. My hair is dry, no fancy braids or styles today...loose and free is fine. Nan is dressed in her usual, bohemian flare, although muted with autumn colors. She looks like she could be going to a Lilith Fair, instead of hosting her husband's wake. But, for me, it's basic black, which serves a more practical function, rather than the traditional clothes of mourning...such as not showing dirt or spilled wine...an unfortunate accident that happened at Rosie's christening. A bit of make-up and I'm good to go.
It's time to say goodbye.
