Here again
Outside, in the quiet winter cold, a dog barks again and again and again. A series of three staccato yaps, then a pause, snowflakes swirling in the silence before it barks again; left somewhere outdoors, hot breath making the fur wet around his mouth, icicles gathering in shaggy snarls.
In the sky, the moon, rinsed in the shadow of a recent eclipse, climbs higher up the edge of the dark.
Inside, I almost hold my breath. Heartache coiled in my chest again. I’m restless.
It is still winter here, and I’m home after a week away, where I was submerged in desert sunlight and words. The yearning to be at the next place in my life is fiercer than ever now; to be doing this writing thing, full tilt, without anything else. To be writing every day, without a day job that leaves me feeling like one of those tabs of fish food you throw in the tank for the fish to nibble relentlessly while the owner leaves for a vacation.
It is still winter and stumbling about the internet I find a classmate from my year in college who has published her first collection of essays, and also has the job I wish I had, in the thick of the Manhattan literary world, among tall buildings and subways and martinis. I bite my lip seeing her book jacket, her shiny hair.
I hate the color of this thing that creeps up in my solar plexus. I hate the way jealousy makes me feel small and suffocated, and the way it makes me ask a hundred stupid what-ifs, as if time weren’t irreversible, as if I weren’t here in the thick of this winter snowstorm with a three year old tucked into flannel sheets upstairs and a husband suffering through another bout of depression.
Maybe this is the thing I hate the most. How he won’t admit that his entire way of inhabiting the world hinges on finances; on what he makes or looses for the week in the market, the charts and numbers blipping by him faster than a heartbeat. He won’t say that his life is empty of things that make his heart tremble with passion; he won’t say that he keeps putting these things on hold to maintain our status quo, to keep afloat, to put in a home gym and a flat screen TV, to do whatever comes next in the acquisition process that never ends but never makes him really happy either. He doesn’t see it this way. But I feel his emptiness like a dry heat licking at my skin, making my knuckles crack, my lips grow chapped.
Winter. It seems to always find us here, under sweaters in different rooms with hardly anything to say. It’s been three weeks of tight jaw muscles, and shorter conversations. We hug each other by the kitchen island over Saturday morning pancakes with maple syrup and bacon and hot coffee, but there is always something that makes one or the other of us pull away abruptly, as though magnetism, like heat, is scarce on these cold days and longer nights.
The only time I really see his face bloom into an unguarded smile is when he is with Bean. Then it spreads across his cheeks like the unexpected tiny rainbows from the prism hanging by a ribbon in the window, and a small sharp sliver worms its way into the very center of my chest. I can’t help but wish his smile would bloom like this for me.
But we’re like hungry dogs, circling, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. It is as though we’re both looking for a reason, for some release of tension—both of us craving the pulpy mess that exposes our hearts and leaves us pressed close together with heat between us. Maybe this makes no sense. Of course it makes no sense. But why else do we do this at-once push and pull?
When he’s around, it’s all about pull-your-hair-out-crazy mood swings, and this week has been his worst week ever in the stock market. Everything tipped in the wrong direction, keel up, toppled like dominos. And at the end of a day I can’t help it, I turn away, heart pounding. I’ve already given nearly every shred of patience away to six year olds who play modern warfare games and miss their mothers living in other states. It’s almost like a reflex: the way I avoide directness, intimacy, while feeling like everything between us is flayed: muscles, tendons, hearts, tears always at the back of our eyes.
But then when he’s gone all I can do is watch the clock, the minute hand dogging the hour hand until he’s back, craving him like homesickness.
Work, Writing, The way I operate, Thoughts & observations |26 Responses to “Here again”
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wow… just wow. This paragraph was so profound: “…under sweaters in different rooms with hardly anything to say…”
I’ve been wondering if and when it’s going to come back - the rightful flipping of the magnet so that we pull together instead of push apart. Parenting and mid-life doubts and yearnings and unrequited dreams and inactivity and overactivity and envy and fantastizing about the apparent adventures and polish and accomplishments of others.. it’s nonstop. It’s so hard on a relationship.
Please don’t feel like you’re alone in feeling this way. The specifics that frame it are your own, but the resulting claustrophobia is the same. I find it to be somewhere between a panic and an itch, this what-have-we-become. I crave both togetherness and solitude.
I’m sorry he’s had a rough week. My brother’s got a similar career, so I can relate from a distance. I can’t imagine your performance being so quantifiable, every day - I remember my brother talking about being down x-million dollars, and needing to earn his way back up to zero before he made any bonus.. and he just went to work every day with millions of dollars in the red, with his name on it. And he is good at what he does. I couldn’t manage with that kind of pressure. I wouldn’t know how to make it better, either - especially when you’re tapped from your work, too.
When I know nothing else I always figure it’s good to keep writing. And we’re here to receive it, to just sit with you for a while, nodding.. feeling the same way.
Even on a dark day like this your words are so beautifully strung together. Thanks for sharing them, and I hope you’re able to sleep well tonight.
xo
i understand—and live—the push and pull. thank you for writing it so beautifully.
sending you peace and warmth.
a
Big long hug. I relate to so many of the things you say. And you say it all so beautifully.
Here’s to Spring’s swift return.
xoxo
As a teacher of Kindergartners I can so relate to your simile about the fish food tablet. As a wife and mother I feel your cravings.
As a reader of many things, I see your writing as a gift that helps me get through my day.
Thank you.
I want to express what surfaced as I read your words…
but they won’t come.
I’m grateful.
oh my darling dear, sounds like February has you between its teeth but good. I hope for you snowdrops unexpected in wooded corners and rays of sunshine long upon the evening earth and a relaxation of the tension in the back of your neck and the chance to slow and remember that you are moving toward your goal and that the ones you love are moving with you, even if it doesn’t always seem like it.
reading your words, i just had this thought ~ that your published classmate in manhattan would probabyl feel the very same jealousy when she saw the pictures of your world, a world away from the pomposity and pretension of the uptown literary world, a world out in nature, with a vivid sky above, a forest close, a wonderful 3year son next room, a husband who is there, and, well, like probably all mates, has its edges, but also, so very many good sides.
smile. you know what’s good about winter? it will pass, and then there will be spring. which arrived early this year here, and so the tulips in the garden are peeking out of the earth already, and i know i will be with them this afternoon, with the earth between my fingers, loving the very moment, and still wishing it was there, too, already, my name on the cover of a book, in a bookshop.
and then i remember this line a friend once sent:
Perseverance, Persistence,
and Patience, Patience, Patience.
love,
D.
Difficult and raw to write…I’m sure….beautiful words describing a painful situation that I know all too well..I hope freshness and tenderness find your household again soon.
Reading this is at once like a warm blanket of familiarity to wrap myself in and a reflexive repulse to want to push my feet out from the cover and fling it off in one swift movement. You have written with clarity and focus of the stuff souls and soul mates are made of. Thank you for being real…there is little of that left in the world and to strive for it is to embrace truly living. Screw martini’s and manhattan mountains, you have depth, breath and life to fill you, and a warm latte in the morning hours before the house wakes to sit with you and your words. Spring is coming.
You and your husband had a vision of life in the country, and you made it happen. It has been a wonder to watch as you’ve created the infrastructure of your dreams, adding layers, sharing your ups and downs. And now, if this is truly just a way-station, you will find a way to create reality of the next dream. As far as the martini-sodden manhattan literary scene goes…you are where you are and it seems to be feeding your writing in a way only nature can. If you were a city gal, well… I know I would miss the colors and textures of the words you use in response to your country life. They are beauty.
thanks for sharing, as always your words are beautifully composed. i was happy i read all the encouraging comments too! may you find peace.
the way you spoke your heart rending truths here, so powerfully, stitching the seams with vivid bits of poetry… well, it staggered me. I am staggered and moved to tears.
You are so much someone I would love to break away from reality with, slipping into a little cafe to muse about life while sipping hot coffee. I cannot believe your little guy is three!! It is adorable as ever with those big, curious eyes. Hugs to you as you and your husband journey on… have faith and keep hope. xo
Ugh. Sweet Christina. Your words and the feeling they evoke are so familiar - they hurt my heart for you. Hugs to you.
The mildly terrifying, foreboding, and hopeful emotion that underscores this post is oh-so familiar to me. And this reminds me why I fell in love with your writing.
I’m with Lyric, not really knowing how to respond but feeling profoundly touched by this post. I just want to assure you that these words you craft, they’re meaningful, relevant, achingly honest. They stir our hearts so much more than any boozy Manhattan bestseller ever could because they are spun of this real life that we all live. This is the grit of everyday, and you’ve made it BEAUTIFUL. Truly.
I’m with Lyric, not really knowing how to respond but feeling profoundly touched by this post. I just want to assure you that these words you craft, they’re meaningful, relevant, achingly honest. They stir our hearts so much more than any boozy Manhattan bestseller ever could because they are spun of this real life that we all live. This is the grit of everyday, and you’ve made it BEAUTIFUL. Truly.
I have to ditto DO : that former classmate? Trust me, she has her bag of itch, too. We all do. I think this winter has been the test of all time. Seriously, it has pushed us to the very edge– just to survive it.
When things are that hard in our physical world, it leaves no margin for the pinches and pulls of the emotional world.
Today is sunny– I like to think of you having a mug of tea– gazing out from the magic of the kitchen you two have built with your own two hands, gazing out across the fields, across the top of the chicken coop– and reflect on the fact that you just spent a second writing workshops with Pam H et al– and reflect on HOW MUCH you have accomplished and how you ARE having it all, bit by bit– as Bean runs into the room and you see– you ARE writing, you ARE living surrounded in beauty and love.
We sure love you. Maybe we should all ditch it in and take a camper van to the seashore– I’m really tired of winter.
A friend of mine said to me a while back, after reading something I’d written, that he thought I needed to keep writing because what words I put out in the world have the possibility of helping others who are feeling and living through similar things.
I always think about that when I read your blog. You write so beautifully, but more, so honestly. You write about things I feel, or things I could imagine feeling, and through your words I really do feel it. And knowing that here we are, then, two people feeling this, somehow makes it easier to take the next step, put my foot just a little further forward in hope.
Thank you.
Others who have commented have already said much of what came to me as I read. And some of what came I cannot express. It touched my heart, with a little wound to know there is that pain in your life right now. And I saw how, in the past, reading some of what you’ve written about your life, I’ve felt that flash of jealousy for the impossibly beautiful existence you seem to have, and the beautiful relationship you and your husband have at times. We can never know all of what is in someone’s life. I wish you both comfort as the light of spring returns.
i love reading your posts - it describes another world so different from mine that i sometimes wish i had. i’m also in the northeast and it’s so interesting to hear about what others are doing with this snowy weekend while i study, all day, all night (medicine). i have no time to write, my s/o is thousands of miles away, i also feel tinges of jealousy when i read about your life in the country with your husband and 3yo son. but we all have our ups and downs… i don’t know that i can relate to your life but i can certainly relate to how you are feeling.
as i try to find my motivation in these cold winter months, sending warm thoughts your way. it’s a beautiful day.
I once again open my land and home and heart to you snow entreched goddesses…I know it has to be so maddening, all that heavy weight, all the darkness. Of course, as I told our darling BP - you deserve so much more than our grey landscape, but it IS warm - you deserve turquoise skies and white beaches, and deliciously lethal alcoholic drinks, with umbrellas and crushed ice…
Absolutely I agree with others have said - that your former classmate may seem to have what you want (in that moment) but you, my dear, have a far richer life. Textured, layered, deep -
Your love is deep, and wide. Marriage is hard. You are so brave to share it with us. I think we often underestimate (I know I do) the pressures our men carry, their own unique set of burdens. I know the best thing I can ever do is say, “Forgive me.”
I once again open my land and home and heart to you snow entreched goddesses…I know it has to be so maddening, all that heavy weight, all the darkness. Of course, as I told our darling BP - you deserve so much more than our grey landscape, but it IS warm - you deserve turquoise skies and white beaches, and deliciously lethal alcoholic drinks, with umbrellas and crushed ice…
Absolutely I agree with others have said - that your former classmate may seem to have what you want (in that moment) but you, my dear, have a far richer life. Textured, layered, deep -
Your love is deep, and wide. Marriage is hard. You are so brave to share it with us. I think we often underestimate (I know I do) the pressures our men carry, their own unique set of burdens. I know the best thing I can ever do is say, “Forgive me.”
I think as women we are told too often that we can & should have it all. But that’s impossible. We can’t. You can’t have your job you wish you had, in the thick of the Manhattan literary world, among tall buildings and subways and martinis without Bean missing his mom in another state. & your husband’s passion - it’s you & Bean. Men work so hard for their families - sometimes it’s hard to see that - to see that everything they do is for us.
Keep writing Christina, & reading it over. Keep working at your work & at your marriage. Make yourself a chain to countdown to summer. Be patient. All you can do is all you can do - is that profound or what??? Be grateful for the abundant life you have. You really do come pretty darn close to having it all. & thanks for this window into your world.
Ah, it’s February again, one of the hardest times of the year. How can a month that is so short feel so long? The long dark nights and the frozen resistant ground. I too am at that place where I want to be at the next stage of my life and it seems the faster I want to get there the slower I actually do.
your words are so raw and so beautiful. your writing is poetry, even the mundane. life is routine and it sometimes really sucks if you have a wandering spirit. i do and i know. but believe me that girl with the book deal and shiny hair, she too has her basket full of stuff, we all do.
i have 2 boys under 4, imagine that….no don’t! each day i love and teach and tenderize and feel like i am going to explode sometimes.
not a lot of “me” time…no ME time. but i have come to understand that this is what it is all about, life…no one said it was easy!
no one tells you before you make a baby how difficult it is, how routine, how unforgiving, repetitive but ever so loving and beautiful and magical.
we woman almost hold the truth somewhere in our heart unable to tell the next woman the woes of raising kids…we tell only the joy.
BUT, if woman really knew the truth the population would decrease..maybe we should spread the word. only have babies if you are willing and able to give up YOU! but, i will attest that there is nothing like that sweet smell, smile, i love you’s, that look, the lOVE!
hang in there! and so glad things are better for you!