Endings. Beginnings.
APRIL 16, 2019. Exactly one year ago today, I boarded a plane for Paris; it was only my second time in Europe in my life. My daughter and I spent four days exploring the museums, cafes and shops before she flew to Barcelona in search of art and parties, and I took a southbound train to St. Jean Pied de Port where I would begin my 800-kilometer pilgrimage on the Camino de Santiago.
One year ago today, I pinched myself as I looked out the window of my cute boutique hotel room and breathed in the Notre Dame Cathedral. That beautiful church welcomed me to Europe. That evening, my daughter and I walked down to the Notre Dame and basked in the beauty of the lighted row of medieval saints and gargoyles. A community of tourists and locals enjoyed ice cream or a beverage on the square in the warm evening. Buskers and musicians performed. There was a sense of community. The 800-year old gothic cathedral survived the French Revolution and two World Wars. It’s considered the finest example of French architecture, and is the most popular tourist site in Western Europe. It is also still a house of worship, beloved by the religious and non-believers alike. Just across the river, a century ago, Ernest Hemingway and his artist and writer friends spent hours at Shakespeare and Company bookstore reading and working, nurtured by Our Lady’s inspiring facade.
Today, the Notre Dame is on fire and crumbling.
Today, also, is the culmination of nearly four months of purging my home of 25 years, cleaning, painting, installing new floors … readying it to put on the market this very Holy Week. I am selling my house, my security blanket! My funky cabin-like home among the trees with the beautiful master bedroom, river-rock lined woodstove and the kitchen I have, over the years, loved to hate, but in it, have prepared and served many Thanksgiving dinners, will soon be someone else’s to nurture.
Soon, someone else will sit on the front porch with their coffee and listen to the varied thrush’s long-noted sign of spring. Someone else’s heart will warm when they open the coat closet and see a little Sharpee heart, drawn by my eldest daughter when she was just 8. (A treasure hunt of kid graffiti remains, I admit.) I gave birth in that house. I laughed and cried in that house. I created music in that house. I studied for my master’s degree in that house. I raised my kids, celebrated and grieved loved ones, and cared for my husband till he died. In that house. That house has nurtured me, and the ones I love for a quarter of a century.
I have sold, dumped and given away more than half of my belongings. It was crazymaking, emotional, cleansing. My life was on display on the front lawn during my month-long yard sale.
Yes, I bought that coffee mug in Mexico. Yes, that used to be my favorite soup pot. And yes, those pretty ceramic figurines were my mother’s, she bought them in Germany.
And yeah, music was our life! Those are my husband’s classical, jazz and rock CDs. Take as many as you want, a quarter a piece.
I cried when I pitched my luxurious, but old, king-sized mattress, too soiled to sell or give away, into the dump.
How did we accumulate so dang much stuff? And there is more; there will be another round of micro-purging at some point. What I did keep is strewn in several locales. Furniture, art, some kitchen stuff I can’t seem to part with, along with a few books and memories, are in a storage unit. A few more books and office supplies, my laptop, a thermos and some clothing are in suitcases in my car. My two pianos have found homes with loving friends for the time being, and I’m learning just how cool an e-reader is, although I still pick up a paper book (used books are cheaper than e-books anyway) and a real newspaper from time to time. I still do my Sudoku puzzles with a pencil. Sometimes, I watch TV on my iPad.
I live part time in my two-year-old grandson’s nursery and part time in my new boyfriend’s woodshop. This sweet, thoughtful man has created a comfy private nest for me in the back of his building where I can rest and write and heal. Other friends have offered their guest spaces to me as well. In a couple of weeks, I will get in my car and drive to southern California where I will be on a writing retreat for about a month, staying with some dear friends who have been my book’s primary cheerleaders. I will finish that book that has been on the back burner since last fall and meditate on where I will go next.
Right now, from the outside, to some, my life probably looks like shambles. My exterior has been charred, and much of what was inside has been transformed. But my foundation and structure are sound.
The Notre Dame, charred and broken today, will be most certainly be rebuilt. It won’t be exactly the same as it was, some of the artifacts inside have been permanently destroyed, and only memories are left. But it most definitely will be made whole again.
With the help of my community of loved ones, I know I will too.