the waves

It's funny how states of mind come and go, weave themselves in and out of existence in a cyclical pattern like the tides.

Last weekend I flew to the Cayman Islands to witness my sister's wedding. It was beautiful, she was beautiful, she was radiant and smiling and her husband had tears in his eyes and the reception was lovely and the sunset stunning, and a good time was had by all (except perhaps by his creepy hateful mother who spent most of the reception looking glumly like someone had died, bollux to her). I'm not the biggest fan of the beaches or the suncombed seas; I prefer the quiet mystery of forest, the bark and leaf smell of trees, the stone smell of hills, a sky shrouded in branches and a wind peppered by the whispers of foliage and the chattercalls of birds. But I still enjoyed myself.

And something interesting happened there, walking barefoot on the beach in early November scanning the shores for shells and bits of glass and coral -- a habit long borne of living on the lakeshore at home, one that calms and focuses me -- something happened, sitting in a tropical dress that cost me four dollars at Old Navy and had the courtly French proprietor of our inn offering my father a million dollar dowry if he could have me for a second wife (what is it with me and these jocular polygamous marriages?). Something happened, toasting my sister and watching her move along the dance floor with her husband, with my parents interlocked nearby, and my sister's married friends on her other side.

I was happy alone.

Weddings are usually a signal to my subconscious to plunge itself into a subterranean sea of sadness and self-pity. At most weddings, however happy I am for the bride and groom, the yin balancing-opposite-factor in me gets up next to the Lion and the Scarecrow and the Tin Man and starts singing, If I only had a date... Or, if the self-pity is really bad, mate.

But I learned in the Caymans something that all of the rejections of the past couple of years had obscured -- I am a quality woman. The serving staff were more attentive than they needed to be at any restaurant we attended, whether or not I was even wearing makeup. I smiled, I laughed, I was gracious, I was perfectly comfortable in my own skin. I was happy. And when I wasn't happy, it was because I missed being in my own house with my own cat in the solitude that I love. The flights back into the States, which I made on my own, were totally fine, because I was relaxed and believed -- no, reveled -- in my own independence (an unusual state of mind for a new experience -- new things tend to stress me out).

And I returned to my beloved Michigan happy. It hasn't worn off yet. The horrifying grief of singleness has, for the time being, gone. I like falling asleep alone in my single bed between my scarlet flannel sheets (mmm, weather finally cold enough for flannel sheets). I like waking alone in the mornings, enjoying my coffee alone, showering alone. I like my quiet, solitary evenings with my cat. I look forward to having a house settled enough (I have so much stuff, and the new house has less floor and wall space than the old apartment -- much creativity, and some downsizing, needed) to cook my incredible meals in my quiet kitchen with a Yankee candle burning and enjoy the results alone (I'm getting fat from too much eating out -- it's like the restaurant foods pack in unnecessary calories just because -- ickgh).

Maybe it's fall -- it's hard for me to feel lonely or unhappy during the dying of the year. It's hard to feel despondent when all around there's the beauty of the resting fields, the leaves showing their true colors hidden by summer's cholophyll, the smell of vinegar and wet grass and naked bark and the first hints of snow. It's a time to celebrate aloneness and introspection and the pure happiness of being.

Maybe it's that I know that I'm loved by my family, and by the people that surround me. Maybe it's that I know I'm loved by my God, and am grateful just to have been brought to a small harbor of rest. The grief has been long, and turbulent, and hard, fraught with a few sharp hopes quickly dashed in unkind ways, and it's lovely, really lovely, not to care about them anymore, but to feel the goodness of my life, and to realize that, whatever may be, my single state is not a result of some lack in myself. It's a time to focus on my callings and my gifts -- I'm starting to write again, I can't wait to start cooking and baking (it's hummus night tonight, a return to an old favorite; and as far as baking is concerned, my new stove is pure joy), and my home is so peaceful and safe that I can sleep again at night, and relax when I come home.

Of course this tranquility, this unexpected contentment, won't last. It will ebb, to be replaced by the grief, or the anger, or the anxiety, one of these days, and probably sooner than later, because I really don't think (although I'm beginning to wonder) that this solitary state is what I was meant for, and is, most times, uncomfortable at best, and agonizing at worst. But I'll enjoy the peace to the marrow while it lasts. This tide's been a long one coming in.