Excerpts

It's been about a month since my last post (this sounds like some kind of warped confession), but my lack of activity in the blogosphere isn't due to a lack of activity in my world. In fact, too much has been going on and I've been unable to grasp or place any of it well enough to squeeze it into a blog entry that anyone might ever attempt to read. But yesterday I played hooky: After an overly intense weekend and a few days of scraping by on scraps of sanity, I decided to bite the bullet and call in "sick". (Well, I actually called in "overwhelmed". Smooth, right?) I spent the day being still - being present - and some far-fetched pieces fell into place at least enough for me to write about it.

One of the things I love most about my life right now is how much space I have. I don’t mean, like, square footage… but, you know… space. The kind that married people and parents and roommates all crave because they can’t find any, no matter how hard they look. That kind of space.

I completely get that *sometimes* desperate need for space to just be and breathe in. I spent years in YWAM (read: six women in one room with three sets of bunk beds and one bathroom with a tub – no shower – that drained verrry slowly) and NYC (read: crazy expensive apartments made affordable only by cramming too many people into tiny spaces so we could divide the astronomical rent several ways). I craved alone time and coveted privacy. I learned the value of it, learned to fight for it – to find it and build it into my life despite the impossible-ish circumstances. But it always required an intentional effort.

Now I’m swimming in space. Life has done a 180 and my intentional efforts are now focused on getting out with other people so that I don’t become “creepy, never-wash-my-socks, recluse” girl. I come home to an empty apartment, no one (except *maybe* my boss) expects me to be anywhere regularly, I have hours to myself in the evenings and weekends at my disposal… oh the luxury! When I first moved into my apartment, I spent the first couple of months on cloud nine relishing in my newfound space. It was automatic and available and I soaked it all in. In a sense, it truly does feed my introverted soul. It breathes life into me. It is freedom and peace and sanity.

And then, sometimes, it isn't.

Sometimes it feels like... well... it feels like isolation. There's something about the forced intimacy of "family" - whatever that looks like in different stages of life - that is super safe. When you live together, have expectations of one another, cook together, check in with each other when you’re going to be late - it can feel oppressive, sure. But it can also feel like relief, like belonging, like security. I've come home many times to roommates (even on nights I would've preferred to come home to no one) who powerfully met me in that very natural way that only the people you see every day can meet you. With food and drinks and smokes and laughter and the ease that comes with soaking in the presence of the people who sleep in the bedroom next to yours, who drink from the same carton of milk and shop at the same bodega across the street. I don't care if it sounds trivial and insignificant... there is something to that.

And the thing is, I’m missing that. I think my “swimming in space” has turned into “drowning in space” and I'm seeing the value of forced community like I couldn't before. The in-your-face-and-space reality of people, the safety of knowing that at the end of the day you have a legitimate spot waiting for you... it’s actually a privilege. I'm bumping around in my oh-so-glorious, much-coveted-by-many-of-my-friends space, thinking maybe I made too much out of it after all. Maybe I was wrong.

(At this point, I realize that all my friends with spouses and kids and all my friends sharing bedrooms in mini-apartments in the city are shaking their heads and muttering to themselves, "She has no idea what she's talking about. That girl's got it made". Don't misunderstand me. I do appreciate what I have at this point in my life. And yet...)

Our obsession with having our own space, our personal bubbles, our independence – it’s so North American! I’m not saying the option to tap into all of that isn’t necessary. It is. I need access to alone time (read: dance-party-in-my-underwear time) in order to recharge. But I’ve realized that the option of not-space is just as necessary.

Because not-space is where life happens - in the small moments, the unplanned gatherings, the spontaneous meals. It happens when you've had a shit day and you're hiding out in your room and someone shows up at the door with a beer and a brownie. It happens when a few of you go out on the deck for a smoke and don't come back in for three hours. It happens when you pool your edible resources and have a picnic feast on the living room floor. These are the moments I miss as I meet friends for drinks in bars, for dinners in restaurants, at previously determined times and locations. I miss the sweatpants moments, the real moments that suddenly appear - unscheduled - as you're moseying along through day-to-day life.

I need not-space. I need the presence of people in my life who remember how grand and glorious my shine is, who remind me of what all I can be. That's the danger inherent in too much space: I start to feel like I have nothing to give when really… I've just forgotten how valuable I am because it’s been far too long since I’ve been met.

I arrived home late Sunday night to an envelope hanging from the binder-clip-hanging-from-a-nail-hammered-into-my-door-frame contraption my apartment complex calls a mailbox. It had my apartment number scrawled across the front, and the logo of the apartment management company in the top left corner. My initial thoughts went something like, "I paid my rent, didn't I? I did! Do they evict people via envelopes? Dear God, I can't move back to Texas". Yeah, paranoid much, Lauren?! The envelope did not, in fact, contain an eviction notice, but rather an invitation to re-up my lease. Whew! I was relieved for two whole minutes. And then the panic set in.

As is standard in these situations, the cheapest (read: only affordable) option for re-upping requires that I sign yet another 12-month lease. And this realization is what brings me to my current panicked state. In this state, a year-long commitment might as well be a decade-long commitment, and my mind goes crazy with all the possibilities of all the things that might come up in such a vast period of time that might make me wish I wasn't tied down to this 700 square foot apartment in Lakewood, Colorado. I start to think thoughts about how I'm living in the suburbs of North America - Is this seriously where I want to be?! Am I okay being that person?! - thoughts about how I could be saving boatloads of money if I didn't insist on living alone in a place that offers luxuries like 24-hour maintenance and a fitness center and two (two!) hot tubs. And, inevitably, I started fantasizing about returning to South Africa or working on a cattle ranch or inhabiting one of the other countless worlds I'm convinced I'd rather be in. Thus, I spun... out... of... control...

And yet. I have school loans, and a car payment, and *ahem* other debt I'd rather not discuss. And a coffee habit and a thrift-store t-shirt fetish to fund. And 11.7 miles from aforementioned suburban apartment is a job that (almost) pays me enough to keep my head above water in the "finances" area. So there's that.

Also, there's something small and still in me suggesting that maybe I need to stay put for a while. I moved from Texas when I was 17, went to South Africa-back-to-Texas-for-a-few-months-then-back-to-South-Africa-again, then after a few more very enlightening months in Texas (read: I decided once-and-for-all I would never ever live in Texas again), moved to New York City. Two apartments in midtown Manhattan, a summer in a basement in Queens, an apartment in Brooklyn, one in Jersey City, a summer back in Texas (oops), and then a year in the Bronx rounded out my college years. Then came the "crap-I-have-no-other-options" nine months in Texas (double oops) before I managed to get myself to Denver. Where I wanted to be. Where life got rich and sweet and yet! - 11 months later I'm balking at the idea of another year in this place. The first time since I graduated high school that I don't have to move after a year and I'm hesitating?!

The still small thing is forceful, suggesting that maybe I have a *slightly* unhealthy restlessness thing going on. Maybe I don't know what it looks like to find rhythm, pattern, ease, and contentment in staying put... in not moving. Maybe that scares the ish out of me. Maybe I'm afraid more than one year in the same place will cause me to forget what I ultimately want... that the images of the ideal will fade behind the fog of comfort and familiarity. And if they do, that I’ll doubt they were ever real in the first place.

Basically I'm a big ole' scaredy cat who needs to take a deep breath, grab a pen, and sign the damn lease...

*gulp* Okay, yes, but maybe not right now...

The dress arrived today. The website advertised it as "sweet cantaloupe" but I'd call it "electric tangerine". It's pretty, though. Not bad as far as bridesmaids dresses go. Brides always claim, as they reveal their choice, that you'll be sure to get loads of wear out of this particular dress. I've never re-worn a bridesmaid dress and I doubt this one will be the first. It's pretty, like I said, but I live in New York City… where the hell am I ever going to wear "electric cantaloupe"?

But it's a nice dress. It fits with the theme of an August wedding under a pavilion on the lake in Texas. It fits with the couple. It will fit me, I hope…

I call the bride, to tell her I've received the dress. She asks me what I think of this menu: roasted garlic chicken, mashed red potatoes, steamed asparagus… It sounds good to me. We talk about the wedding a lot these days. And the marriage. She tells me she's scared; afraid she won't be a good wife, mother, and partner. She's scared she'll screw it up. I tell her of course she will, and so will he, but if they mean what they say when they pledge those forever vows, the strength of that commitment will carry them through the screw-ups. I believe this, and so my words are sincere. I tell her this with conviction.

Around five o'clock I arrive, ring the bell, get buzzed in, press the up arrow for the elevator. On my brief ride to the 5th floor I try to prepare myself. I'm not exactly sure what it looks like, when divorce hits a home, but I try to prepare nonetheless.

Apparently it looks like a collection of subtleties. Kate is shockingly thin. Too thin. She wears the trauma on her body like an extra skin. There are spaces on shelves. The PlayStation 360 is missing. All photos of him have vanished. There is less clutter in the hall; empty slots in the shoe tree. No beer in the fridge, but a half a dozen half-full bottles of wine on the counter. The kids seem okay. Perhaps Aaron is a bit more mellow, a bit harder to send into hysterical giggles. Or maybe I'm imagining it, over thinking things. I tend to do that.

Then it's bedtime, and we always pray at bedtime. I ask him if he wants to pray, and he says he wants me to. He always says he wants me to. I then ask him what he wants me to pray about; who he wants me to pray for. This is also a part of our ritual. He'll name the usuals – Mama, Dadda, Sissy – and often adds someone else like Batman or Speed Racer. Once he asked me to thank God for "Mama, Dadda, Sissy, and chocolate". Which of course I did, with genuine gratitude of my own. Tonight he asks me to pray for the usuals, but mid-prayer, when I get to "Dadda", he interrupts.

Pray for Dadda, he says.

I brace myself. What do you want me to pray for Dadda about, Aaron?

He's at work, the little voice in the dark says.

Has he been at work a long time? My throat starts to close up.

Yeah.

And you miss him?

Yeah… but one day I might get to have a sleepover with him. His nightlight-lit face brightens when he says this. Hope.

I continue the prayer, grateful that the Lighting McQueen nightlight doesn't give off enough light for him to see my twisted face. And I pray for Dadda. In a faltering voice I ask Jesus to be close to him, to be his best friend. And I pray that Aaron will get to have a sleepover with his Dadda soon.

Amen.

I love you Jesus, Amen. He completes his part of the prayer. Then, God is everywhere in the world.

Yes… ?

So he is close to Dadda. And close to me too.

You're right, Aaron. He is. I believe this, and so my words are sincere. I tell him this with conviction.

I'm done now. Have to get out of the room before I lose it. I tuck him in, plant a kiss on his forehead, and bolt for the door. I spend the next hour crying on the sofa in the living room. Kate comes home after one, drunk.

I share a cigarette with the cab driver on the way home. Before bed I check my voicemail. It's the bride: Call me when you have a minute. I want to talk to you about the bridesmaids bouquets.