That's a realization: my friends have been my bedrock.
Don't people usually say spouse?
But this is not the point. The point is that, as I read Lori Gottlieb's Maybe You Should Talk to Someone, I think, Oh, time to move on from topic of Husband (hers is Boyfriend), and get to what I want. If I don't want him or this marriage, it's time to think about what I do want or to actually do what I want. I can't have it both ways: miserable with him and miserable without him.
This morning, I biked to the post office to mail back clothing returns from Gap (v-neck t-shirts too low), L. L. Bean (tank tops too loose), Eddie Bauer (cute sleeveless shirts too falling off shoulder). Walking down the sidewalk (marciapiede! -- I remember a little Italian!), I saw a postal worker emptying out the blue mailbox. He opened the bottom half of the mailbox, slid out a white crate with United States Postal Service stamped on it, full of envelopes, reached in to grab the other loose envelopes that had missed the crate, added these to his crate, then put in a new white empty crate. So that's how it works, I thought.
And I laughed at myself, thinking, Do I want to take a picture of this blue mailbox, this postal worker, this process of his removing the mail?
My family spent a year in Italy for the 2018-2019 school year. Even though I'd spent time in Italy before, everything was new: the grocery store, the streets, the people, the post office, the mailbox. So I focused not on the big details and big trips we took, but on the daily, ordinary details, the things that made up daily life. I didn't want to keep a travel blog so much as a blog of daily, ordinary life. Life is in the details. One day I wrote about going to the post office and spending seventy euro on stamps; another day I took a picture of a red mailbox and wrote about snail mail. Now I've been back in the United States for almost a year, and finally I realize that I have things to write about. A mailbox.
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While I still have a good bit of work, teaching life is done for two and a half months. The days are opening up. And I realize that I have wanted to be happy, to feel free, to do what I want to do, to have the mental and physical space to take care of myself. Now there's no more blaming Husband or Marriage. It's up to me.
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Today is Monday, and I know that I have ten-hour work days for Tuesday and Wednesday (we are interviewing for a new Head of School), so today is my free day to do whatever I want and to be off my computer and zoom or bluejeans meetings all day. I didn't sleep well (eight-year-old slept with me and kicked a good bit), and I feel a little stuck when I wake up (sveglio!), unsure of what to do with myself. I write in my Five Minute a Day Journal, text a friend about talking on her commute, and do a meditation with Headspace for fifteen minutes. I walk around the block talking to said friend on her non-commute (because of social distancing, she's doing appointments virtually from home). I eat my Cheerios and read the local paper from last week. I do eight-year-old's challenge assignment that she made. I do two short pilates videos of Robin Long (one abs, one legs).
I admit it: I feel both a little lost and a little overwhelmed. I have errands and chores, but I don't want to do errands or chores. I want to relax, but I don't know what to do. Finally I decide to bike to the post office to do my returns. I borrow eight-year-old's lock, pack up my returns, and head out. It's maybe a mile and a half to the post office. We're all wearing our masks inside, giving each other space, standing on the marked yellow circles in line. An older woman is ahead of me in line; she takes her time, getting some stamps, mailing an envelope.
When I leave, I head to UPS on the corner to take care of the final return. I walk in, ask where to put the package, drop it, walk out. On the walk back to my bike I see the postal worker emptying out the mailbox.
Yes, I think. This is it. This is the living that I did for those two weeks alone in Italy before Daniel and the kids arrived. For two weeks I made simple plans, like going to the post office or finding a store. I took my time, I noticed a lot without trying, I rested and read and wrote some each afternoon, without ever making a schedule. I had apartment projects and cleaning to do to move in and to prepare for my family's arrival. One day I worked on reading the cereal box. Another day I worked through learning the recycling system (which I still messed up more than once). I reveled in the necessity of slowing down in order to understand anything around me, of getting used to a new place and adapting.
Waltham is not new. Having my kids home all the time is not new. Not being responsible to or for another adult is new. Having more independence and autonomy is new. Mary Oliver: What will you do with your one wild and precious life?
I will live as I lived for that year in Italy -- exploring and noticing and listening and growing. I can do that right here in Waltham, it turns out. It's more of a challenge for me, but I can do it.
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At times I've felt that I needed to move to change. Staying in the same place and changing sounds more difficult than moving and changing life up. After teaching for two years and feeling like I wanted to try social work, I felt like I needed to make a big move in order to leave this stable, fascinating, wonderful job. So I moved from Massachusetts to California. It seemed too hard to stay in Massachusetts and leave the good, loved job.
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I'm not moving. Daniel moved out. I'm in our house with our kids. It's summer. The purpose and necessary being present that comes with teaching are not happening now. I need to make my own purpose. Biking and standing in line at the post office and watching that postal worker at the blue mailbox, I thought, Oh, okay. I can do this. I can treat the days this summer as I treated the days for those two solo weeks. There are more complications and interruptions because I have four kids with me every day, but I can get back those solo Italy days, those days where I felt emotionally free and available and thrilled to explore my world.
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I took out my computer to write when I got home, but our fourteen-year-old wanted to debate my summer rule of one hour outside by 1pm. When I finally sat down at the computer, he came and called my bluff, "Would you play basketball with me now?"
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I am not solo as I was in Italy for those two weeks, and I am so glad. I am so glad that I get to be around these four kids for the summer, that I can notice them and life and myself again.
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