The photos of my ex-husband are not on my walls. Nor are they in albums on my shelves or in files on my computer. The pictures I have of him and the life we shared are contained safely within a sealed box that resides in my mother’s attic halfway across the country. I do not want to gaze upon them or interact with them in any way but nor do I want to dispose of them completely.
My ex’s place in my mind is similar to that of his pictures. He is there, but he is tucked securely away. He is not at the forefront of my thoughts. I do not want to gaze upon him or interact with him in any way but nor do I want to attempt to erase him completely.
When I first started gardening, I was timid with my new plants. I would very gently ease them out of their nursery pots, cutting away at any plastic that was bound too tightly. I would carefully tease apart the roots, unwinding them from their circular pot-shaped path and tenderly place the new acquisition in its meticulously prepared hole. Then I would water and wait, assured that the foliage would soon attain the glorious heights featured in the magazines.
Sometimes I lucked out and the plant survived.
But, more often than not, those early attempts at gardening failed. The plants would appear to thrive for a period of time and then they would begin to wither and die.
I didn’t understand. After all, I had selected the right plants for the conditions. I prepared the soil. I watered judiciously. I babied the plant.
I thought I was doing everything right.
But still they failed to thrive.
Throughout this time, I kept trying. New plants. New locations. And finally, a new nursery. I discovered a discount seller that offered small plants at amazing prices. I made a shopping list, covered the interior of my car in blue tarps and came home with over 100 individual plants. It was impossible to baby them all. There was no way I could gently tease the overgrown roots from the plastic pots without damage. My new strategy was to squeeze or thump the pot to release the soil and then to slide the new plant on its side on the bare soil. Then, instead of carefully unwinding the roots, I would use my trowel to quickly make four clean, vertical cuts along the root ball before placing the plant in its new home. The tender loving care was replaced with a quick message that the plant was no longer bound to its pot. The roots were told to spread. To explore. To anchor and find sustenance from the surrounding soil.
I watered and I waited. And the plants grew. And grew. Not one fell victim to the precedent of early growth followed by slow death. Just to be sure that the results were not due to some factor related to the nursery, I applied that same planting technique to plants acquired from other sources and the results were equally as positive.
I came to realize that my early attempts were misguided; the gentle unwinding of the roots was not a strong enough message to the plant. When I pulled up the struggling foliage, I found that the roots had resumed their former pot bound growth pattern, becoming a congested gnarled cylindrical knot, incapable of providing the plant with the nourishment it needed. The boundary was no longer present, yet the plants acted as though they were still constrained.
Do you ever feel stuck?
Do you feel constrained by perceived boundaries?
Do you ever feel like you’re growing in circles?
Are you pot bound in your own life?
In retrospect, I can see this pattern in my former marriage. My world became too small, too constrained. I was looking for nourishment and support within a small space. The divorce was more battle axe than trowel upon my exposed roots, but it certainly served to send me the message that it was okay to spread. To grow. To leave the perceived security of the known.
We are only pot bound when we believe that we are limited by our perceptions and beliefs. When we are afraid of growing too far and too fast. Sometimes it takes a strong message to release our roots from their accustomed path. Sometimes it takes some injury and pain to shock the system into a new way of being.
Don’t fear the cut of the trowel; it’s just the universe sending you the message that it’s okay to grow.
I’ve been playing house lately. The hunt for a home has continued and we are currently in negotiations on another house. Chances are, we won’t get it because we are willing to walk instead of paying more than the comps suggest.
That doesn’t stop us from playing house, however. We’ve talked through how each space would be utilized. We’ve computer shopped (the new version of window shopping:) ) for new furniture. The desired updates are planned and priced. We’ve even discussed the feasibility of having a get together there during our wedding celebrations.
When I picture life in that space, it is a romanticized version of daily living. As though somehow the toilets in the house would be self-cleaning and the floor would somehow repel wayward socks. There are some very tangible benefits to this home as compared to our current rental: usable outdoor space, a working stove, screens on the windows and no moisture problems. Yes, those factors can lead to a slight improvement in quality of life. For a time. And then, like any material object, we will become used to them and their influence will no longer be as appreciated.
But our minds have trouble accepting that. We fall prey to the “life is greener” fallacy, expecting things to somehow improve after some benchmark. I have been guilty of that bias time and time again.
“It will be better when I am done with my master’s and have more time and money.”
“Once the divorce is final, I will be free of him and all the mess.”
“Once I have a home, I will be more peaceful.”
Those expectations always fall short. After my master’s, the raise didn’t seem to buy any more and the extra time was easily filled with other (pointless) things. The legal divorce only marked the beginning of my healing and I am still dealing with the mess. Once I have a home, my life will not be automatically more peaceful just because there are screens on my windows (but I will have fewer moths in the house!).
Some people play house by envisioning a better life after marriage. Or kids. Or an empty nest. Or a new job. Or a new pants size. Or new shoes.
The list is endless.
The possibilities tantalizing.
The reality, often humbling.
It’s hard not to play house, to envision an idealistic future. There are ways to use this tendency that can help you be happier.
– Use your house playing daydreams and visions to help identify areas in your life where you are feeling unfulfilled or that need change. And then do something about it now. For example, I can tell that I am feeling disconnected from the outdoors in my current house. I am making more of an effort to use the outdoor space I do have rather than wait for something better to take advantage of nature.
-When you find yourself engaged in future dreams, turn it around and think of what you have now in your life that you can be thankful for. Going along with the house theme, I was in a 10×12 room for a year in a city I didn’t love. Now? I have all the space I need and I love my current location.
-Research shows that experiences provide more long term happiness than things. When you are playing house, focus your thoughts on the experiences and the interactions with others. Work towards making those happen. I will be happier if I have lots of friends over to the new home than if I spend that same time trying to find the perfect couch.
-Rather than have vague ideas for how you want things to be different after your benchmark is reached, script tangible goals and hold yourself to them. Since I want more peace, I am going to make setting up a yoga/meditation spot with plenty of room and no view of my workstation a priority. I’ll post pictures to hold myself accountable:)
I just received word that the sellers are holding out for a better offer. The house hunt continues. If you hear of one with self-cleaning toilets and sock-repelling floors, please let me know.
Today marks four years since I received the text message that ended my marriage. I’m celebrating – not the end of the marriage but the life and love that I have found since. I used to mark July as a disaster, now I can see it as a beginning.
As a kid, I was always fascinated with the portrayal of old maps. I loved the rather amorphous forms of the landmasses. I chuckled at the fanciful guesses about what might lie beyond. And I especially liked the tiny illustrations of dragons at the edges of the plot, warning adventurers of the dangers that can be found in the great unknown.
I’ve had my own dragons at the periphery of my life. Areas where I have dared not tread in case the monsters of memory are too real. Earlier this week, I braved the edges of my mapped life and I faced the unknown.
Pretty scary, huh?
It turned out not to be too bad. There were tears but nothing I couldn’t handle.
I have been a dog lover from the get-go. I befriended my parent’s adopted stray as soon as I could feed him from my high chair. From then on, I never went more than a few months without at least one dog in my household. By the end of my marriage, we had three dogs: an elderly, opinionated pug, our “special child” Boston terrier and Glottis, a happy go lucky lab mix. When my ex left me and his life, he locked the three dogs in the basement with limited food and water. Since I was out of town, they had been alone for more than two days when he sent the text. I have a feeling the only reason he sent the message was out of guilt, knowing that the dogs would not survive until I was slated to return. Upon receiving the text, I was able to have a friend take care of the dogs until I could make in back. That same friend took care care of me, offering me a room in her home for the next year.
I knew right away that I could not keep the dogs. I was in no shape emotionally or financially to be able to care for them. I would be living in a guest room in a house with a premature and medically fragile baby. They needed new homes.
I was not strong enough to take on the daunting and devastating task of finding homes for the pets. A friend from work spearheaded the networking connections while my parents tried the shelters and rescue organizations. Over the next few weeks, new homes were found for all.
Within two days, I went from having three dogs to having none. I had to release the care of those innocent creatures who trusted me with their guardianship. I cried more in those two days than I had in the previous few weeks. I knew I was making the best decision for them but, damn, it was hard.
Glottis was the baby in the family. She was sweet and extremely good-natured. She had been impacted the most by the recent upheaval. She used to get so upset when I cried, staying by my side and whimpering along with my keening. A friend at work arranged Glottis’s new home at her parent’s farmhouse in rural Alabama. Glottis would have room to run and new siblings to play with. It was perfect.
On the day of the adoption, my mom and I drove Glottis to the visitor center on the state line, where the transfer was to occur. I cried the whole way while rubbing the thick fur around her neck and ears. I liked Glottis’s new mom right away. She recognized the dog’s sensitive and cautious nature and gave her the time and space she needed to become comfortable. As we sat around a picnic table, the leash was slowly transferred from my hand to her’s. It was done.
Over the years, I received pictures and reports of Glottis (now named Gabby:) ) and her adventures on the farm. I could tell she was thriving. They were able to give her a better life than I could have during that period. It was such a gift to not worry about her, to know that she was loved and cared for.
Throughout this time, I had a standing invitation to visit, but I was afraid of facing that part of my past.
Giving up the dogs was the most painful part of the whole experience. Tears still flow even today when I write or talk about it. Tears from the loss. Tears from the innocent beings caught in the middle. Tears that come from a feeling of failure in my inability to care for them. Tears of gratitude for the people who worked tirelessly to find them homes and for those who adopted them and loved them.
This summer, I finally felt ready.
I’m glad I did. It felt so good to be greeted by that crazy tail, wagging in a huge circle while those familiar ticklish puffs of air danced around my face and she sniffed and greeted me. I believe she remembered me. I received the usual cautious hello, but then her eyes widened and the enthusiasm overflowed. The memories of her came flooding back, opening windows into my former life which I had long since painted shut. It wasn’t painful. It wasn’t scary. It was bittersweet, heavy on the honey.
Glottis AKA Gabby with one of her new sisters
I felt such a bond with her. We had both been abandoned and were forced out of the life we knew. We both had families that took us in when we needed it most. We have both changed, losing some aspects of our old selves and adopting new passions. We both have found loving families and are surrounded by people who care about us. We are survivors.
I watched Glottis, content sitting on the porch between her two moms. She was at peace. And so was I.
Yes, here there be tears. But they are tears flowing over smiles.
It’s time to redraw the map, replacing the dragons with good memories and wagging tails.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 