Our theme for this week: Outside
One of the things I love most about gardening or doing the dishes or running or being on my bicycle is that the monotony of the task is such that it frees my mind to do other things. Sometimes I write poems or pretend I'm the subject of an interview for This American Life. Sometimes I think through theology or fundraising. Sometimes I space out and listen to the radio. Whatever it is about keeping my hands busy, my brain manages to reach conclusions it wouldn't otherwise.
Over the weekend, I had the most ordinary, laid-back Saturday ever. I wrote a paper. Read Lolita. Drank some tea, napped, and made dinner. I did a number of small tasks around the house that left my mind free to churn (or particularly in this case, not churn) away over much of what has happened in the past six months. I realized (right around the time that I woke up from my nap) that much of my writing revolves around the feelings of falling into and out of love. I don't focus very often on the sheer and utter contentment that comes with the feeling of being on your own and being happy about it. Saturday was one of those days--blissfully self-involved and quietly decadent--I reached a number of small revelations on Saturday.
It as not my first night without you.
Or even night at all.
But an ordinary Saturday morning.
I wrote some letters, drank flower tea,
did the dishes and reread Lolita.
It wasn't until later--after a long nap
but before I was making dinner--
I was in the garden cutting herbs
when I realized that I no longer love you.
And how that feels.
And what it means.