The last few weeks have seen an over-haul in my life. Jeremiah and I are feeling more and more scattered, like butter scratched across crusty toast, and less and less realistic about our expectations of life and life’s expectations of us.
I’ve come to admit that I hate working evenings but I insist on loving nursing and my patients. Meanwhile, Jeremiah has come to admit that eating supper alone night after night wasn’t “what he signed up for” but insists that he loves me, just wishes that “me” was around a little more often.
As a response to my husband’s loneliness and my exhaustion, I’ve cut back on hours at work, quit picking up every unfilled hole in the schedule. All the same, I still missed my brother’s thirtieth birthday party, telling myself “There’s always next time” only to realize these events in life only happen once. Sure, there’s the next family gathering but a next “Luke’s Turning Thirty” get-together simply won’t ever be. I blew it.
While I slowly unearth my goals and priorities for life, Jeremiah is scrounging for time to manage our community garden project, study for his CPA, master his job as an auditor, and tackle the pile of dishes I’ve left behind in my dash to play Super Woman: nursing, mentoring, studying, visiting.
We’ve recently encountered the frigid reality of depression in many of our friends, and in this odd company, I’ve begun identifying a few of my own dark, despairing demons. Am I depressed? My marriage makes me joyful. Jeremiah is the best thing in my life since my birth. The rest of my life, however, is a messy roadway of deserted hopes.
Also, on the rare weekends we’ve had together, Jeremiah and I have chased our “land lust” up hill and dale, only to find one apartment after another already rented, or a sewer in disrepair, or a seemingly generous land-owner crazy. More than that, we’ve realized that, actually, we’re too “busy” to tend chickens, work pastures, plant apple trees. Both of us went to school and landed professional jobs with the practical, yet dreamy intention of using those jobs to pay for our true loves, Vermont and agriculture. But, as Jeremiah says, “You’re gone all the time anyway, Grace.”
In the house-wife world, it’s pretty well near jam-making season, and I guess I too have hit the boiling point. My schedule is bubbling over with empty activity and silenced emotions. It’s time to blow some steam and boil down to the “sugar” of life. It’s time to clean out, pack up, and move on to what I truly love and those that truly love me.
If this blog post is anything, it’s a vague promise to take greater stock in what I’ve been given. It’s a promise to be honest and to share my honesty. It’s a promise to celebrate the joy and contentment of my marriage and disregard the rest. It’s a promise to stay in touch with old friends and quit dialing the number of obligatory relationships. It’s a promise to reignite the dreams of my girlhood and temper them with the wisdom of my failures. A promise to go forth with confidence and grace.
Happy Thursday, all!