*Lyrics from Frank Sinatra’s One For My Baby (And One More For The Road). This song pretty much epitomizes my feelings for these past weeks. Plus, who doesn’t have random Frank Sinatra songs rolling through their head, late at night, after a few too many glasses of wine? Lucky for me, I have a patient, understanding, and sympathetic husband who will play me songs while I weep in the middle of the night.
I’ve been remiss in filling you in on the progress at the Big House, and The Pied. I’ve been busy. I’ve been deeply sad. I’ve been just trying to get through it. I’m alive, so there’s that. And our house is no longer ours. There’s that, too.
Tears are a surprising thing. Not when they come from happiness, or from pain, like when a fan perched atop a suitcase tumbles onto the floor only to bounce up and crack you so hard in the shin/ankle (shankle?) that you end up with a bruise about 2″ in diameter (yes, that happened, because, as we all know, moving is the pits). No, the kind of surprising that, while fully anticipated, leaves you humbled in their unrelenting bounty, and also healed by their painful yet medicinal existence (apparently so-called ‘psychic tears’ release a natural pain-killer, so crying actually does make you feel better). It is still surprising to me that I can cry so easily, and so hard (like, really ugly cry here) so often, and yet the well of tears is still there. I spent the better part of the past weekend dissolving into tears that caught me off guard – like when I moved my blanket out of the master bedroom and into the guest room (since our mattress had been moved to my mom’s house, and the new owners were keeping our guest bed) – and those tears flooded memories into my brain without my even thinking about it. I was overwhelmed, breathless, and powerless to their force. The only course of action was to relent to them, and give them a wide berth. Best to just let if flow out, lest it gets stuck in, no?
Hopefully this will be my last gloomy post for a while (no one wants to feel gloomy, but I’m realistic – it will happen again). I hope to start seeing the glass as half-full again, instead of stolen, or at the very least pilfered. My brain knows that this move, while traumatic, will be cathartic, too, in the end. I’m certain that things are looking up, that the house is in the best hands possible, and that everything is as it should be. It just isn’t easy right now.
And, since we’re all blue now, how about taking one last look around to see the place? I have memories from our life in this house that will permeate my heart for decades (or for life, whatever), memories that popped up and smacked me in the face while I tried my hardest not to succumb to my feelings, while I tried to just keep swimming, to march on, to not crumble. I’ll save you the suspense: I crumbled. Many times. Can you blame me? I mean, just look at what we’re leaving behind?
Despite my overwhelming feelings, and the natural inclination I had to pause and study the past with affection, and not a twinge of criticism (rose tinted rear-view mirror, anyone?), we are looking forward. We have more adventures on the horizon, including revealing much of The Pied, and sharing with you our plans for the roof deck, the final result of my work on Project W (they just moved in days ago!), and other projects that will commence as soon as we can find places to unpack our things into (work in progress, the new place is). So, onward, upward, and only a little dip to look backwards, as we plod along in this thing called life. Let’s do it together.