Yes, of course. It takes time. And we are all waiting now. Sometimes I’m vague or expansive about that “we.” (We and liberation?). “We” meaning, usually, people I imagine to be like me. My imaginary friends — or enemies, the boundaries get porous in my head. Lower-middle-aged, upper-middle-class white women. (I’m lying about that. I’m definitely middle-middle-aged.) But now, really, the universal we applies. We are all waiting, all suspended. Aren’t we?
It is agonizing to be waiting for the divorce and its constituent parts: Daniel’s reply to my opening offer, the filing or not, the sale of the house. It is agonizing to be waiting for any movement at all on the job search. I will imagine myself into a new phase on Tuesday, something more diligent, more creative, more successful– low bar, that. I will admire, or at least respect, myself for the dissatisfaction with my current position and my determination, my knowing-in-my-bones that I deserve more, that what’s on offer in my current place of business is absolutely not how I’m going to flourish, and I can insist on flourishing. (Right?…. right? Do we agree on that?). Or, at the very least, I can aim for it. I can get closer and closer. I can aspire to get closer and closer.
And with all that, it’s probably easier to be doing this in a pandemic, when stalled is the human condition. A greater proportion of we than usual is both stuck and unmoored. Ungrounded and unable to fly.
I miss strangers — that’s what I really miss in the pandemic. I didn’t see my family and my dearest friends very often before, but I saw strangers every day. I saw what they wore, how they walked. I wondered where they were going, what they wanted. I took cues from them: yes, an iced tea is a great idea, thanks for the silent suggestion. What are you reading and can I surreptitiously photograph the book jacket so I remember? My routines weren’t quite set enough in this new place/new life for regular strangers– the people who tell you whether you are late or early, based on where they appear on your shared route. Milo and I had so many regular strangers when he was growing up. Did they notice when we disappeared from their paths, when Milo took a different route to school? Did the morning dog walkers in the park register my absence? I was a reliable regular stranger myself.
Wanting and liberation. The Buddhists — maybe not the real Buddhists, the imaginary Buddhists in my head — say that freedom from wanting is itself liberation. But my liberation alphabet is the opposite. Freedom from desires is not my medicine, not at all. Asking myself what I want and meeting that want, or thinking about it, or yearning even harder and accepting that my yearning has nothing to with the pace of delivery or certainty of relief. That’s my liberation work for now.
Work and liberation. I can only sigh at this one. I am working, I am. I am working at a pace that allows for other pleasures, like lingering in Will’s arms for hours, hours! on a recent morning. For conversations with Milo. For joy. I am working as hard as I am going to work now. Liberation from self-doubt. From yelling.
Another Door 