It’s like my pre-period mood swings and cramping: it faithfully arrives every single month, and yet every time I’m convinced my world has gone to crap. Eventually I think to check the calendar and then remember what’s actually happening.
The crunching of gravel under the car sounds as Wes makes his way out and away to work for a week or so of guiding. As I hear the car recede and then finally disappear, that feeling sets in: a sudden, gasping loneliness. It’s a wide, open, echoing sense in my chest. My mind probes frantically around in the sudden enormous cavern of space and time where I am entirely on my own, not just in this moment but for days.
With this feeling, I do what I typically do. First I instinctively try to stuff it away, scrubbing at some coffee-ring stained corner of the counter and going through the motions of putting away dishes. When my brain reminds me that what’s going on is a “feeling” and that it’s healthier to acknowledge these, I give it a little air time, feel the feeling and its contours – sad, scared, overwhelmed – don’t like it, and go straight back to the stuffing down.
The whole cycle causes me to feel pretty out of sorts for that first morning or day. It’s tiring, wrestling with my brain, while feeling intense, bright and searing flashes of loneliness.
Even so, I don’t sink into nothingness. My fear of not fulfilling my life overrides most any other feeling, so I always have a strong motivation to do something. In this case, it’s healthy because I’m not sitting around indulging. I’m moving around and indulging. I do whatever thing it is I had planned: I hike the hike, paint the painting, run the errand, etc. I just do it more moodily than I might otherwise.
Then, an interesting thing happens while I’m in the middle of whatever thing: I reach a decision point. It can be any decision point: which way do I want to go at the fork in the trail? What podcast do I want to listen to while painting? What do I want to eat for dinner?
I realize, like a giddy kid whose parents are away, that it’s entirely my choice to make. I don’t have to consult anyone. I can do exactly what I want, whenever I want, however I want.
This is how I tip away from loneliness, and instead have a sort of vague, philosophical missing of my life partner while he’s gone…but also, that’s suddenly quite siloed from the rest of me. This woman, right here and now, is drunk with autonomy! It’s getting pretty wild: she’s leaving her easel fully set up on the table for later because no one’s around to need the space; she’s opting for the watermelon, feta, and olive salad for dinner that is her absolute favorite but causes some people to groan because she made it ten too many consecutive nights upon discovery.
She’s going to binge exactly as much Netflix as her little heart desires before bed. And speaking of bed: she doesn’t need to make it! The front of the trailer couch is plenty wide enough for just one person, thus reducing her evening and morning chore to just making then stripping the bed sheets and making coffee. She sleeps the sound sleep of someone not dealing with another human’s annoying and nearby breathing.
I’m writing from another round of Wes being gone guiding a trip, this time in Joshua Tree National Park. My list this week is VERY long – no joke – because I’m preparing for a full month of soon-to-be-announced Alli Harvey Art activity throughout May. With all this in motion, I haven’t experienced the usual full loneliness upon his departure because I’ve been relieved that I’ll get so much needed solo focus time.
These kinds of extended times apart might not work well for everyone, but I actually think for me and for us it fulfills something that keeps us both together: our fullness and autonomy in each of our own rights. Wes and I have reflected that something we admire in one another is how we “don’t let the moss grow”. We each grow and change in our own ways, and that feeds into our relationship. We keep learning about ourselves and each other. And, we continually choose to be together: out of commitment, yes, but also out of a mutual awe in how the other engages in and is transformed by the world.
All that to say: I love Wes. And I also love this time on my own, after the hard start.
Here’s a commission I completed in 2020, because why not! I loved this one. And maybe the two dogs on the lead are like me and Wes? I’ll let you interpret, but I’m mostly adding this so you have something nice to look at.