I have this habit of getting almost euphoric about how well things are going right before I have some kind of melt down crash. I can't seem to get the balance between that great feeling of "I can totally do this" and "I can't do this at all".
Yesterday I was sitting on the patio with lemonade and then cleaning the kitchen with Patti Griffin music pouring out of the living room (and probably down the street out my open windows), thinking about summers past. I'm happy to be here for a million and one reasons. I love my deck, I love love love my kitchen, I love this city and my kitty and Rob. In fact I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world. For years when I was asked the silly question "if you could transport yourself anywhere in the world right now, where would it be?" The answer was always Victoria, even though then I had no idea the answer should have been into this kitchen right here. I've always known this is where I should be, I just fought it off for a while first.
And I loved Jan Lake with my whole heart and Staff 5. But I stood at my kitchen sink thinking of my teeny Staff 5 sink at the lake and how the counter was on a slant and all of the soapy water from the drying rack would puddle under the microwave for me to find in a slimy mess every time I had the chance to really clean my kitchen, realizing I didn't have another lake summer left in me. I knew that at the end of last summer but haven't been able to admit it until just recently.
The Universe knows where we need to be, even if we fight it off. My first summer at the lake Scotty made me two CD's full of Patti Griffin. I didn't even touch them. I didn't know it but I wasn't ready to know where I needed to be yet. I popped one of those CD's in my car on the way to the lake my second summer and Patti Griffin became my summer anthem. And I knew that I needed to get here to this kitchen that didn't even exist to me or Rob yet (he found the house later on in the summer and while I think we both knew then that this would be our house we were no where near admitting it). So, Making Pies by Patti Griffin is this week's (and the first) song of the week (click the music notes up top to listen).
By last night all of that turned into my being (maybe a little irrationally) angry at Rob for not appreciating his new baby niece and brother more. This is often a touchy subject for me having grown up an only child and not having real siblings. I love my cousin Alison and her boys as much as anyone loves their brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and I know she does too, but you wouldn't believe how often I still get told "well they aren't your real nephews" or "Your not really their aunt." Anyway, that's probably a whole different post for a whole different day. Point is. I miss my family and my friends and their babies so much. And every single minute I am going to miss of those babies lives. Even though every other part of me is so much happier here then I was ever going to be in Saskatoon. And I know I will be a big part of Lucy's life, and the kindness Pete and Mary Jane have shown me over the whole span of me moving out here has been amazing (another reason to get up in arms a little when Rob doesn't appreciate his brother enough) but right now I still don't feel like any of the things out here belong to me yet.
So I spent the night angry and crying and too hot to be upstairs. So I moved down to the couch and watched the lightning storm and felt like it was just for me, since I know they are rare on the island and I was so so homesick (I didn't actually believe the first thunder crash when I heard it and had to check the weather report) And I slept all morning and I'm still in my pajamas and feeling sort of lousy so I'm taking today off for myself.
And not making pies, but making Rhubarb Squares and listening to these wonderful girls I just found on the internet. The Rabbitfoot Duo's Fun with Lynne and Sally. While they play bluegrass and giggle.
And remember the first time I ever visited Victoria in another kitchen in Saanich, Chris saying to me "I think growing up means there will never be a place I can be again without missing somebody."