For the past month or so it has felt like I’ve been pieces of an heirloom china set teetering on the edge of a kitchen shelf, and this week I came crashing down, gold rimmed bits scattering in shards at the floor. I haven’t been picked up yet. In fact, I’m not entirely sure if I will. Friends I’m writing you from the front porch with a glass of red, a story to share because I’m afraid if I don’t, it will grow and twist inside by body like a wild grapevine up an unsuspecting poplar.
In April we found out that we wouldn’t be able to build our home that we recently had designed; building prices coupled with recently risen interest rates and the fact that we are currently a one income household solidified that we’d need to wait for something to give. We were angry. We grieved. We felt defeated. On the night of our wedding anniversary Michael told me that he felt as though the universe were putting this obstacle in our path for a reason, perhaps a map of sorts to aid in finding where we were truly meant to be. I am still tightly holding to the hope that this is part of our future. In the following weeks I could feel my body begin to soften into peace and I began to question how I value contentedness. A dear friend told me that she felt society had never led us to feel that content was a necessary part of the human experience. That capitalism fueled by scarcity thinking needed us to always feel that need for more, for that thing that would make us happy. And I can tell you I haven’t stopped thinking about that since. Clinging to the albeit late arrival of spring, I was looking forward to finally ridding ourselves of what seemed like a season of runny noses, and we went from freezing rain to August heat in a span of days. The tulips burst at the seams, stamen dancing in the breeze as the petals clung desperately to the stems. The narcissus weren’t far behind, but I wouldn’t be home to greet the musky scent of my favorite springtime friend, the Sir Winston Churchill double bloomer.
On Monday of last week I called the doctor for our youngest, who had spiked a fever and was complaining of a sore neck. Thirty six hours later we had already stayed one night at Children’s Hospital and I held my two year old as she began to shake and turn blue in my arms. Saturday we’d arrived home, and I can tell you that the last week has been a whirlwind of emotional exhaustion and perspective. Fern is doing well, in fact I still cannot quite comprehend the bravery that both of my children displayed last week, and tonight we had our first after dinner dance party since we’ve been reunited. I finally breathed out and watched them jump + dance on the bedroom floor, banging wooden blocks on one another as drum sticks. It was glorious. But while we were in that hospital room, barely holding it together watching the hell endured by Fern’s tiny little body, my head went dark places. Places I never thought I’d fathom, and I was begging the universe for no more lessons. It had all fallen apart. Then I watched my children hug each other on the front stoop when we returned from the hospital yesterday and my eyes have barely dried up since. It isn’t about building a new house, it isn’t about our best laid plans, it isn’t about the aesthetic, it isn’t even about our health. It’s about the joy. It’s about the presence. It’s about the love of folks who believe you deserve repair you when you’ve shattered into pieces on the floor.
Our beautiful community of family + chosen family delivered groceries, did laundry, brought coffee, and held space. Prayers were said, spells were cast, and I am sure I can’t comprehend the rippling of healing thoughts that went out into the universe for my little Fernie. I am forever indebted. But I am glad for it, because without it I wouldn’t have been able to see the importance of moving on. There are so many things not for me in this life, and I am leaning into trusting that when they are, I will receive them. I am letting go of the encumbrance of carrying weight that isn’t mine. No longer letting anyone distract me or take the worth from experiencing the joy of being present for the moments that matter most. Early morning snuggles while the sun creeps across the bedroom floor, tiny pockets full of treasures from family walks, loads of giggles + silly laughter, more photos of children instead of things, and moments held each day to reflect the gratitude for it all. Including my shift of perspective for the everyday moments of time we weave together, even when things fall apart.
wholewovenhome.com 