Two moms, two boys, two houses

waiting for the other one. it'll drop.

Yes. That means what you think it means.

Rachel and I decided to separate in December. Last Wednesday, the movers came to pack up and cart off what she’s taking to her new house, the place she’ll live full-time, with Rowan and Isaac half-there, half-here.

Between then and now, I’ve kept pretty quiet (online, at least) about the whole process. Too raw, too close, and — frankly — too private. And in large part it will stay private. I can say that it was a mutual decision, that it was and is the right decision, that it’s generally amicable, that the boys are thriving, and that we tried really hard for a long time and in the end concluded that it just wasn’t going to work.

And so, we called it.

Between then and now, I’ve taken stock, in so many senses of that phrase. What will stay and what will leave? What will I have to replace, and how much will it cost, and which of those items can even be bought? Where do I stand in this very moment, in the moment after that, and the one after that? What have I amassed, to whose credit, and does it even matter any more? And I’m hardly talking about money or things here, although I have talked plenty, too much, about money and things.

Between then and now, I’ve been living what I started referring to as a “half homeless” existence: alternating time in the house with the boys with time travelling or staying with a series of uber-generous friends, colonizing guest suites and bandwidth, feeling utterly welcome and ridiculously taken care of and also needy, tiresome. Two weeks ago, I returned from a trip (actually, the Mom 2.0 Summit, where I got to share this news in the way, ideally, that it should be shared — in person — with a crowd of online intimates, and no that’s not an oxymoron, and of course that was invaluable). And I unpacked my suitcase, and nearly cried when I realized that I could put it away away, in the storage closet in the basement. I could actually unpack my toiletries case, take my toothbrush out of its holder, stop using the travel-size floss and skin toner. I’d reached the point where I never bothered unpacking it — why bother, when I’d be returning to it in a couple of days? Yesterday, there was so much more space in the bathroom cabinets, the drawers. The grown-ups’ coat closet is now navigable, with only my stuff in it.

And all that feels in-between, the emptied drawers and cleared-off shelves at the same time glorious with possibility and yawning chasms of emptiness. Are half-full closets half full or half empty? It depends on the day, I suppose.

I am in transition, shuttling through relief and grief, waiting always for the other emotional shoe to drop, to take me from euphoric to despondent, terrified to tough, content to anxious and back again. “The sky is full of shoes,” a friend of mine says, and she’s right: they’re all up there, suspended, waiting to rain down and clobber you or even, sometimes, hold you up.

And, speaking of friends, have I mentioned friends? Because they are the lifeline through this whole process, the way they show up and listen and listen and listen even more, witness you in all your devastation and don’t try to talk you out of it, give outrageously and still manage to make it feel reciprocal. I didn’t know what I had, really, until this happened. I could go on, but I get choked up whenever I try to write about it and I descend into clichés.

(Speaking of choking up: tears are good. One should never apologize for tears. But still, I am — thankfully — well over the reflex of bursting into tears any time anyone asks how I am, anytime I mention the separation. Because although they are useful and necessary, tears are also inconvenient, and get in the way of conversation. So, cry, and then be happy to be done crying quite so much.)

I originally typed/dictated these words in the literal midst of transition, spending an oddly intimate day with Rachel as we divided up household goods. I’d been dreading this day for weeks, but we managed to get over a couple of initial bumps (there will be more; remember that sky full shoes) and made it mostly work. In some ways, we are so ridiculously privileged that I’m not sure I’ll notice that I have only three flan pans instead of six. (And here’s a riddle: Q. How much Tupperware is half of your Tupperware? A. Still too much Tupperware.) But at one point that day I looked at all the boxes piled up at my front door and something about what they symbolized caught in my throat and I dissolved into tears just one more time (shoe!), and she did too, both of us sinking down the hallway walls to the floor, shaking our heads at the surreality of it all.

I’m in between spaces, phases, lives, between disclosure and privacy, (co)dependency and independence, intimacy and boundaries, between celebration and grief. I’m literally in between time zones, but that’s also a metaphor as I ponder the next phase of my life as a grown-up, which of those empty spaces to fill and how, and what, for now, to keep clear.

“You’re in a liminal space,” said a friend to me — a friend who has also been through this — over a bottle of wine one evening. “And you know, it was always in those in-between spaces that I found myself.”

Come over. I’ll make flan.

How the Internet saved my life (when it didn't nearly kill me) OR Elan Morgan and I are launching an anthology project!

The current background image on my phone is a fairly crappy photo of a lit candle.

See? Crappy. No Instagram filter is going to make this into a Pinterest-worthy image.

But of course, there’s more to the story, the thousand (or thousands of thousands) words behind the image, the narrative always in progress. I snapped that sub-optimal photograph at the end of a conversation with a good friend, a conversation in which we shared some of our deeper hopes and fears, in which we met each other and talked about the ways in which we’re vulnerable, the ways in which we’re trying to embrace difficulties and learn from them, even when that learning hurts. Even when it’s raw. We talked about noticing, and breathing, of sitting with certain feelings and also gathering the strength to delve into them in all their messy, visceral glory. We spoke of diving into the wreckage and the muck and coming up with, well, wreckage and muck, and what you do with that? We interpreted dreams.

And then she asked me — as though I were doing her any sort of favour — to indulge her in a small ritual.

“I’m a visual thinker,” she said, closing her eyes and rubbing them as though to bring the image into words, “and through all of this, the visual I’m getting from you is of light: of this small, strong, bright light at your very core that is going to deepen and grow.”

And she fetched a candle, and some matches and a candle holder, and lit the flame. And we watched it for a while, that little flame, until we had to go.

“I wish there were a way that you could take it with you,” she said, gesturing toward the candle.

And I took out my phone (the phone I had been carefully ignoring in favour of being present in the flesh-and-blood conversation) and took a picture of that lit candle. And I set the photo as my phone’s backdrop, so that every time I look at it, I am reminded of light and strength, friendship and kindness, warmth and care.

So. On the one hand we have a series of intense, real-time events and emotions. On the other, recordings of them, images of them, their digitized interpretations. Does it cheapen the moment, make it any less real, to carry a memento of it on the cold metal interface of my smart phone? Or does that flickering candle as my backdrop humanize my digital experience, make it more compassionate? Are the two mutually exclusive?

I’m asking these questions for a reason. I’m doing it all wrong, because I should have told you this at the very top of this post (but hopefully its title clued you in), when you were still interested in reading it, that I have a new project in the works: 

Elan Morgan and I are launching an anthology of essays (here, and also on her blog) on the ways in which the Internet has saved our lives — that is, when it didn’t nearly kill us.

In fact, that’s the title of our book-in-the-works: 

Read more in our call for submissions. We’d love to hear from you. We want your stories, be they about romance, mental health, creativity, family, addiction, identity, money, politics — or something else altogether. Your stories can happy, sad, or bittersweet. The only thing we ask is that they be true and that they not be previously published. 

We’d love for you to spread the word about this project. We have an informal lineup of some fantastic bloggers and writers contributing their stories to this project (really, that lineup gives me so much joy — these are some of the best and most insightful wordsmiths I know of and I am beyond honoured that they are interested in being part of this), and we’re looking for additional contributors to complete the book.

(Also, I can’t imagine how you wouldn’t know of Elan Morgan, but she’s a dear friend who has come into my world precisely because of blogging and the Internet (oh, and she designed this website). She’s also a pretty much perfect example of the ways in which people can build meaning and communities online and off — and I couldn’t imagine a better partner in this project.)

So. I am, at my core, good and bright and safe and warm. I’ve got my light — in all its backlit, pixelated, sweet glory. And you, if you’re a writer and blogger with something to say about this topic, may just have your work cut out for you. We look forward to hearing from you.

Change

On Sunday, Isaac and I helped a friend paint a room in her house.

It sounds like the setup for a joke: what happens when you give a seven-year-old a paint roller and let him have at it? But actually, he did a remarkably good job, covering much of a wall as high as he could reach, with only a couple of minor incidents, easily fixed, of paint on trim.

In short, he’s a better house painter than me.

We were painting because, well, who doesn’t love painting? With seven-year-olds? But really, we were painting because the friend in question is travelling through some big changes. Those changes are her story to tell, but the short version is that she is reclaiming space, painting over grey with the brightest, most springlike shade of green imaginable, willing herself (or free-falling, depending on the hour) into the new season it symbolizes. Isaac painted, I took photos, another friend filled in the parts of the walls that Isaac was too short to reach, and my friend DJed. Songs like “Walking on Sunshine.”

And when we were done the first coat, we went downstairs and rolled coins. Obviously.

I could roll coins for days. It suits my compulsion to organize, to use things up — all the bits and scraps left over from other transactions, other expenditures, pulled together into tidy tubes, traded in for something larger. It’s the same principle that attracts me to quilting, to throwing together magical dinners from what’s left in the cupboard. The grown-ups cracked open post-painting beers, and Isaac and I hunkered down on the floor with loonies and quarters and now-defunct pennies, sorting and counting and sliding tidy piles of coins into paper wrappers. And one day, those coins will get taken to the bank and traded in and, eventually, traded up — my friend is dreaming about a kayak, moving fast and light and quiet over Lake Superior waters.

All that loose change, scrounged from the street and pulled from pockets and thrown into jars over how many years? You don’t know the weight of all the things left over until you, as we did yesterday, gather it all and sort it out and measure it. So many small moments, now forgotten, that make up a life. And that life can change — forgive me — on a dime.

Some changes are easier to embrace than others. Sometimes you trade in something that seemed whole for what seems like less, and broken. Sometimes, you look at your life scattered in parts around you, and don’t even know where to begin to make order of it all. Some days, all those pieces weigh down your pockets, make it hard to get up off the couch. And some days, in front of a movie or two, or with the right music, and the right colour of paint, and the optimism of a seven-year-old, and a friend or two with compulsive tendencies, you gather some of those parts into a new kind of whole, that much more valuable for having been split apart in the first place.