reconcilation

We finally moved to Bearsville. Every move in my life, all 30+ of them, have felt like a mid-way point, a stepping stone to the ultimate goal, which isn’t always the healthiest mindset. Each place is a chapter or whole story unto itself, of course. Living in Frederick was mostly wonderful with its own set of gifts, but it was especially difficult living there knowing that our final destination was next. Even then, it felt as distant a dream as any other time. The property was so raw, the house so in need of restoration. We bought the Bearsville property three years ago only to languish in the imagination of what will be one day. Always "one day”. But here we are, after years of red tape and dozens of drafts of engineered drawings and pulling our hair out waiting on permits. We landed on our final stepping stone, a small furnished sublet just a 10-minute drive from the house, and our dreams are so real we can physically touch them, all unmowed grass around the pond, all clay-smelling sheetrock and piles of excavated soil. The drywall is up, the painting has begun, the hardwood floor goes in this month.

There’s no way to prepare for moving to a place where you know nearly no one. Our last year in Frederick I found a group of friends in some other mothers, became close with their children, had a comfortable routine and consistent childcare that afforded me time to myself. In Bearsville it’s just me and Felix left to figure out our days. Going to the local library brought some culture shock. In Frederick, toddler story time took place in a large corporate room where dozens and dozens of parents were commanded to keep their children close by or else leave the room. In Woodstock, story time takes place in the library attic, a colorful but dingy place, and the children are allowed to roam free which is a recipe for chaos. Woodstock is, let’s see, a thirteenth the size of Frederick, so it can feel quite small and isolating. There was some initial panic at the sight of all the hippie moms and making our own fun, but it’s since given way to a rhythm that is slower and quieter than where we came from. It’s not bad, just different from living in a bustling downtown atmosphere. We live on a dirt road in the forest. Every day we take walks with the dog happily off-leash and by our side. We throw rocks in the stream, we smell the multiflora rose, blow dandelion seeds and check our bodies for ticks. In the early evening we drive to the property to sit in the construction vehicles the building crew left behind and to check on the goslings nesting on the pond island. And really all I have to do is walk outside to remind myself why we chose this place. The hills are verdant. The birdsong is off the charts. The coyotes howl across the mountains at night. My son has access to nature in ways he didn’t before.

There’s something I need to say here about the difficult year we had, about its contrast with the year we’re going into, because it’s shaped the person I am in this new place, made me more available to it. From November to February last year I lost my mind. I became almost instantly infatuated with a close friend of mine which invited a lot of chaos and heartache into our lives. I was honest from the jump with my husband, with my friend, with just about anybody who asked how I was doing at the time. My mind was fixed on a fantasy, or else twisting itself to justify the fantasy, while my motions and body were tethered to reality. It was an absurd way to live, being needed and feeling so far away. In hindsight, I see it now as a final act of rebellion. Not a rebellion against my life, which was and is full of love and goodness, but a rebellion enacted by a younger version of myself that is slowly but surely fading in the face of a person with an entirely different set of values and concerns. This younger version prized rock n’ roll and art at all costs, sought validation in the eyes of men who preferred the fantasy to the whole picture, was able to move my body where it pleased and stay up late. This version burst through with her final death rattle and shook up our lives. Pathetic is what it was. I acted a fool, hurt my partner, and lost my friend to boot because he let me act the fool (perhaps that last bit was a blessing in disguise. Real friends don’t let friends be idiots). And then, almost as quickly as it overwhelmed me, it left me. I became pregnant unexpectedly, life’s hilarious way of snapping one back to reality, and one day I woke up very much needing my husband and my son and everything fell back into place. Not that it’s been all blue skies. The bruising sometimes lingers. But Danny and I are stronger for it, and most importantly, I know myself better. I know what’s important, what’s always been important, and that clarity is sharp. I’m not sure there’s been a time in my life where I’ve felt more at peace. A friend called it a reconciliation.

A few days ago I found myself overcome by this deep contentment. Felix and I were exploring our new area, checking out the local state park. He had recently become enthralled with a book on camping so we were exploring the campground, remarking on the tents, the pop-up campers, the fire pits. We found a wooden playground humming with carpenter bees. We dipped our feet in the lake. We walked across bridges and spent several serene minutes sitting quietly on a bench, watching swallows and red-winged blackbirds hunting bugs over the water. When it came time to walk back to the car Felix asked me to pick him up. I hoisted him onto my hip and he buried his rosy-cheeked face into my neck, his arm stretched across my chest, his hot, sticky palm gripping my shoulder. He whispered a quiet “mama” and I inhaled the sweet smell of sweat on his scalp. Just then his brother kicked in my belly. I was struck with the realization that I was carrying both of my children at the same time. Brothers. Babies. Me, their mother. It was a beautiful, sunny day. I looked out across the lake towards the mountains and felt a glad, sincere tranquility wash through me. A mother of brothers. This is exactly where I want to be. This is all that matters, these boys. I am devotedly theirs. It is enough and it is everything.

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