The city of Davis, and I, have been battered by ferocious pacific storms (and in the latter case, a gnarly sinus infection) for about a week. Imagine the sound of water pouring off the cheesy corrugated fiberglass that passes for the roof of the pergola off my bedroom; driving with 9,000 other working stiffs on the dark, cold, slippery, deadly freeway, trying not to cuss aloud when they do things, that are, shall we say, unsmart; getting home to a dark house with no imp and no perch and no prospects of being made a cup of tea or poured a glass of wine or god forbid having someone else make dinner....needless to say, I have been feeling a wee bit sorry for myself, and have, alas, whined. Only a little bit. But whined.

I’m not very good at waiting. In the past, when stuck in the Waiting Place, I was apt to do something crazy, like – drive to the desert. Or the ocean. Or the next town over. Or a town 8 hours away. Not so much because that would solve anything, but because the act of moving through space, driving, was a distraction in itself. Occupied just enough of my brain to allow me to function until the hideous waiting had passed.

However, in spite of the whining, it seems I have learned to wait. Somewhat. There is a way in which this place between, between what I have been for a while – a single parent, most of all – and what I’m soon to be – Kevin’s “fiancey” – is, if not an entirely pleasant, at least an interesting place to be.




I stepped out the door this morning. The roiled, inky, black pouring sky of the night before had cleared, and it was absolutely still, clear, blue. Perfect.

Once in a while, the powers that be drop a moment on us that takes our breath away. It’s been happening to me a lot lately, but this one was unexpected.

My town, after a rain, is like a magnifying glass. The world is so clean and pure and green and gorgeous that it’s as if it is all made out of crystal – everything you can see appears closer than it is.

I stopped on my front porch, and took in a breath. It was as though time had stopped – the sky had also taken a breath, and was holding it, for just one moment. And I loved it. Just that one moment. It filled me with joy, and made me smile, and the smile carried me all the way to work.




This particular waiting place has a similar quality to butterfly soup, but it’s less scary. Lots of ideas flying around, planning, changes, many unknowns. But underneath it is that sense of stepping out into a new adventure, of a new journey. I don’t know exactly where it’s going to take me or what it’s going to be like, but I know I want to go.

However, it makes more sense to take the hit in apart time now, to be separated for the next month, so we have less time apart down the road. This shocks me – I’m actually behaving like a grownup.

So for the time being it’s a matter of doing the planning and the working and the waiting, but also being present in the time I’m in. As someone who tends to live about three days ahead of where I actually am, this is a constant, and challenging, practice. I miss Kevin, and Tessie, but I try to miss them joyfully. ("I proudly burned toast.") I miss them, but let the moments of crystal clear prettyness and the fun of bouncing ideas back and forth and talking on the phone and donating boxes of too-small clothes to the Red Cross and smiling at a momentary blue sky, be enough, amidst the missing.

And it is enough. Thanks, planet, for the reminder.

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