And so it goes. Morning gives way to afternoon; afternoon to night. And we find ourselves at the end of July. One foot is put in front of another and finally there's a way to slow down time. Nights are longer; there is more time for writing, for reading, for living in someone else's more perfect world. The red dragonflies hover over the water. A humming bird nest is discovered near the chicken run. The coyotes wail at night startling the old dog, who isn't used to the canyon yet. The water reflections ripple against the bamboo fence. Edith Wharton is in my hands, the paperback is bent back against itself so that I can hold it in one hand, trying to take my mind off the days. House of Mirth is Angela's favorite book and she hasn't steered me wrong. There is nothing to do but wait. Be patient, they say. Sit with the discomfort. Don't do anything. Forget that you're resourceful, impulsive, impatient. Slow down. Think of the Buddha. Don't ask yourself a lot of questions. Have faith in the process. Trust the love. Remember the rhythms of the earth. You're exactly where you should be.
I stayed outside all day today, under a tree, gripping my book with sticky fingers, squinting into the sun. The spotted triumverate lay next to me, keeping their eyes on me. They take it in turns to watch me and I realize that they know what's going on. They know that the house feels empty. They watch me at night too, forming a circle around the bed, coming to lick my hand or nuzzle their way under the duvet when I wake up at 3.
I don't know what's going on. I can't predict the outcome. I know I have to show up once or twice a week and speak my truth and listen. I know I am thin, that my body doesn't want food, that my heart feels strange. I run. I walk. I ride. I read. I write. I sleep. I wake. I get extra hugs from the children. People check in on me because they worry.
I don't feel sorry for myself. It's just a new strange land, this land of limbo. There are no rules, no walls, no ground beneath my feet. I think about being six and scared of the goblins under the cupboard. I put on heels and lipstick and lift my chin and go out into the world and people say "You look great." And I smile and wonder wryly why I didn't go on this diet years ago.
I think about Paul Simon and the window in your heart (everybody sees you're blown apart). I think about Paris and my twenty-first birthday and the grey and yellow checked dress I wore in the Tuilleries Gardens and the picture you have of me licking my ice cream cone and smiling at you behind my father's old RayBans. I think about that grand gesture, how you wanted to take me to Paris because I'd never been and how it was perfect and you spoiled me, and we couldn't sleep at night and flung open all the windows in that ancient hotel because it was so hot in the city, which smelled of overripe melon and baking bread.
My thoughts keep circling back to you. I'm reminded of you when you bid friends goodbye at the airport, having been just a tiny bit irritated that they stayed too long. But when they leave you say "I really, really miss him. I hope he comes back soon."