Fragility

I have retreated this past week. From blogging, the internet in general, much of the world. If I look back over the last year I can see a pattern. I take steps forward, I heal, I claim back my power, and then comes the backlash. Usually the threat is implicit. This time there is a directness that chills like ice. Each time, I am reminded of my vulnerability. Which is the point, I suppose.


I’ve continued to make changes around the house. I got rid of all the dishes that we shared, which I never really liked. Boxed them up. I’ve started buying individual pieces that I like. I’ve always had something of a pottery fetish. I collect odd pieces from places I travel to or art fairs I happen across. I especially love bowls. Nothing I have matches, but that is how I like it.

(And yes, Wanderlust will never be a photo blog. I'm okay with that. But you get the idea.)

Every piece of pottery has a story behind it. Like the large bowl with a leaf pattern and a slightly irregular edge.  My late father bought it for me from an artist’s cooperative on Whidbey Island, off the coast of Washington, on a glorious September day, back when I only dreamed of living there. This is the bowl my husband held up and tilted precariously back and forth on the day he assaulted me.  “Do you want me to throw this against the wall? No? Then apologize!” 


There is the mug I bought from an artisan in Lawrence, back when I was a student at KU. It's the most perfect mug in the world. The sensuous shape, the deep cobalt hue, the weight of it in my hand. I'm in love with that mug.

There is the gravy boat I bought from the biker couple at the Renaissance Festival. Brown on brown on deeper brown.  It came with a miniature whisk with a hand-carved wooden handle.

The day after he was gone I packed up every piece of pottery I had in the house. I wrapped each one securely and tucked them in boxes and rented a storage locker and moved them, along with all the things I treasured, into the unit.

Even though he never returned to the house, I kept them packed up. I thought I would just save them until I moved into my own place.

My safe place.

But the weeks stretched into months and now the seasons are recycling, and still I am here. The other day I unpacked them. I bought a few new bowls and a mug. I filled the empty spaces in the cabinet where our old dishes used to be. It feels good to open the door and see them again.

I think sometimes you have to make a certain peace with where you're at, even if it means pausing  occasionally to press back against the darkness so you have room to breathe.

Today I went to Whole Foods to pick up something for lunch. They had huge Gerber Daises on display in the most beautiful colors. And handmade soaps. I love soaps. On impulse, I picked up an orange bunch of daisies. When I got to the checkout a woman looked at them and admired their vibrancy. Her tone was wistful. I put a hand on her arm and leaned in a bit. “I'm buying them for myself. You know, you can do the same thing.”

She laughed heartily. "Was I that transparent?"

Personally, I think transparency is a beautiful thing. As are fresh flowers in a borrowed vase on the corner of a desk. The sun reflecting off the Sound on a clear autumn day. Bowls that don't match. Healing and stretching the kinks out of one's soul.

I want more Gerber Daises. I want to put them on the nightstand in my bedroom next to a bowl that holds stones from the beach. This time, I want yellow.