I am a Distillery..

I am a distillery today.

I am allowing all the liquids in me; the emotions, the contradictions, the surprises, the concerns to slosh noisily together in the container of my being; trying not to arrive at conclusions; allowing the visions to exist; my sweet friend in a hospital bed, her hair brushed, her skin wan, a strange counterbalance of control and lack of it, my friends from my “before” life, when I had not yet disrupted the order of things, when I was living on the outside, acting as if I too were part of a perfect family, in a perfect town, with perfect children, where I hid from others the wrenching dissatisfaction, the disdain, I felt for the man posing as my partner. And seeing those people upon whom I had perpetrated the fraud of contentment, I am being shaken like a bottle of fizzy liquid, on the edge of explosion, until there is a subsiding.

The who I was then and the who I am now, being purified into a combination of ingredients and tastes, a drink yet to be named. In the condensing, there are remnants of the past resting on the bottom, creating, along with the present, a new color; the me of now, sixteen years later, wondering about those beginnings in NY, with snowstorms and Broadway shows and the comfort of my parents, me with my beautiful gaggle of children, doing all the right things for my children, teaching them everything I knew, notwithstanding the emptiness inside me.

Who can say what might have been.

I am re-emerging, showing up in the town that I left to chase a dream of love that deflated before even taking flight, noticing that my dear friends from the “before” days have travelled less far than I, have stayed the course, remained with their spouses, raised their kids in our beloved town, sent them to college and watched them become productive and secure young adults. They seemed more contained, peaceful, less changed.

And there am I, the hardness of life visible on me, yet the distance did not become a dividing line; we had not slipped too far to remember, to connect, to feel the days when we were in the same barrel of liquid, taking our kids to Little League, attending nursery school graduations and accompanying our daughters trick or treating, the three best friends always wearing coordinating costumes. This trio of little girls, now in their twenties; finding their way, two remaining close, without mine.

My heart hurts; fear floods me. Did my choice to leave, to move towards the promise of love, cause harm?

Of course it did, but harm is in everyone’s reach, however it finds us.

And thus, perhaps it is survival that I have modeled as I am still standing, in an elegantly appointed apartment, near where it all began, serving chilled Pinot Noir and softened brie with fig spread. Still making it look like I belong.

Laughter can be heard in my new apt; coming back home, it is both ancient and futuristic. But hugs are still hugs; they feel comforting. And thoughtfulness knows nothing about moves across country or tragedies that have befallen us. Memories of sweet moments from “before” are poignant arrows to the heart.

The bubbling of the various liquids, the condensing of them all, filtering through different lenses; pain, worry, discomfort, hope, then processing together to become something strong, an exceptional combination, sweet enough, but with a dash of spice, a shake of bitter, distilled and sublime, not a saccharine-y version of life in the suburbs, not a stilted version where people remain the same and where growth is under-appreciated, but this life, the one I have led and led my children in to, through, around, over, and under where the honesty of heartache is permitted, where the moving towards a dream is applauded, where grief is always close by, staying with us through life’s events and experiences, where failure, even in the form of betrayal is accepted and not shunned, where change is believed in, chosen or not, and where together we sludge through it all, growing, expanding and opening up.

That’s the life I have led and the distilling of it is the place I am in now, looking out, knowing that all we can ever do is to continue moving.

As Robert Frost says, Life can be summed up in three words. “It goes on”.

And on it goes.

Kids growing up, parents dying, navigating illness, careers ending, world events chilling…

I look out the window of the apartment in the town I was raised in, where I raised my kids and see a park where we used to play; Turtle Park, named in honor of a large metal turtle, onto which children climb excitedly, stand with outstretched arms and declare “I did it” and then slide down its slippery side into the sandbox surrounding it.

We take risks, we climb, we are proud, we fall, and if we are lucky, we collapse into a bed of sand, or something safe and soft, a place to recover from our tumbles and look up at the sky and miraculously feel the urge, the need, to stand up, dust off and begin again.