Another Confluence
This morning finds me just a bit north of the confluence of the still young Mississippi River and the Saint Croix River. It is the Big Mama's first major confluence. One of many in her long journey to the Gulf of Mexico.
Yesterday evened out for me, but this morning finds me in a similar state. Still agitated but a bit more secure in the source of the agitation. For this go-round, I shall call ^it^ the hubby's business wall. Hubs will hate that name for ^it^ but this is a personal therapy journal, nay a petition for a Federal Copyright. It is a healing works in progress.
Risking the danger of attempting to speak for another, I believe Hubs would protest that name for ^it^ on the grounds that his business is my business. To a very high degree, that is true. We have built a family together, complete with the creature comforts like home and hearth. All the business attached to that family is very near and dear to my heart. My grand-maternal role is simply not enough to make a complete life. That part strikes my senses as both natural and desireable. I've done my maternal duty. Where's my gold watch? My retirement party?
"The Sandbox" is a central theme in my funk in this go-round. I feel pangs of regret with each and every enticing wild herb patch I come across. The regrets bring tears long before I can begin the taxonomy on the herbs I donae recognize. I miss "The Sandbox" and feel it's absence like yet another failed effort. There isnae any longer a functional space for it in the Urban Homestead. I moved it to the job site during the Tri-city shuffle and the space it occupied at the homestead was filled with furniture from the in-law estate. It is once more a Master Bedroom and the distillation equipment, grow shelves, etc., etc., are at the job site. Except that the job site is to remain ? ? ? on the other side of hubby's business wall? the Co-owner agreement? Acceptance preceeds understanding. The summary is that I am back to square one on the lab dreams. Sorta. I still have the equipment in the investment property storage unit. Now for someplace with wiring and plumbing to handle it. Ah, those pesky details.
The good news is that my head noise has been reasonably gentle as I have been processing the attached emotions, etc. It is what it is whether I understand it, or not.
Replies
Arfie, I wish I was along on the ride to help with the steerage. But this is your pony and your trail. But my choices are influenced by hindsight. I know why John found me compatible. Even in my worst points I was creative and daring to try. For much of the time he provided the music to my dance with the directions I turned. But at times when I was in doubt he gently steered me in to a turn to start again. There were many starts.
A marriage as long as yours also has a dance of it's own but if both of you , or either one steps away too long you may loose track of the what the music was about. So going back instead of questioning it? That is for you to decide.
But I always had to turn back and face John during our 22 years and he always inspired my next steps, even when they looked very individual. Other times he was right next to me making what I dreamed possible, my dream, his strength. His dream, my strength, twirl twirl.
Take your pony where what pulls you.
Support.
J.
Love is a dance you learn as you go.
It's ironic that you should use the music analogy. Hubs and I are both musicians, but we can't play together. We can each tend the home fires while the other plays, but with the Big 37 anniversary coming up next month, we still aren't playing from the same sheet of music. Hell, I'm not sure we are even in the same music store bin. Practical details, like childcare, et al, we handle beautifully, but. . . News flash. . . The children are middle aged now. Time for some new music and maybe even a new dance floor.
Dunno. . . Fact is, Hubs is a chronically busy man who isnae likely to ever retire and I have no life of my own. Eating, sleeping and breathing just ain't enough.
I am still deeply plagued by the Runaway Housewife sense. I seem to feel the domestic waters closing over my head at the thought of "Going Home," erasing all evidence of life outside motherhood without a ripple in the collective family assumptions.
Be it *just* in my head, an actual phenom, or an immeasurable mix of all the twixt, I still canae bear the thought of going back to, ^it^.