Last night I went out for a walk.
I had a good gully washing cry.
I cried for the life I had counted on - the life I thought we would be living at the farm.
I cried because there is part of me that feels like I failed and I am embarrassed.
I cried because I had put a lot of hope into that basket, and now I am faced with making-do where I am.
This weekend it hit me like a ton of bricks, that instead of starting over (as I had thought of moving to the farm) I (and we) will have to learn how to change and grow and adjust here, among these already deep and tangled roots. My mother always says " you take you wherever you go." I think part of me was hoping to be able to leave some of me & us behind in the city, and start fresh in the country. But for whatever reasons that is not to be.
Instead, what is to be, it seems, is that I need embrace the other old adage and sow the soil I have, and bloom where I am planted.
So my heart is a little bit broken, and my pride is also a little bit wounded, and I am a little bit put-out with not getting my way (okay maybe a lot put-out.)
These things are not all mutually exclusive of each other. They are all true.
I am not a saint. I have selfish bits and sincere bits, as I expect you do too. I am not proud of the selfish bits, but it is no use to pretend that they don't exist. But it would also not be of any use to stay there, in anger and selfishness and foot stamping. Luckily I have a Sweet Man and the best of best friends who will not allow me to wallow there forever. But yesterday they all let me say it. They let me say all the unattractive, self-indulgent, petty things. They let me walk away from hope and peace and contentment. And they loved me still.
But they won't allow me to walk forever. They call me back home; gently, patiently, honestly, bluntly. And for that I am grateful. Because, really, deep deep down, I do prefer being at home.