Rain

Last night it rained for the first time since ... I don't even remember when. May, maybe. That's something I don't like about the summers here—the complete and utter absence of rain. Everything gets so dry and dusty. The first rain always freshens things up a bit, and when it finally rains for real—not just the few little drops we had last night, much as I loved them, but a good hard drenching downpour—the whole world comes back to life within days. Tiny little fresh green grass sprouts up everywhere. I can't wait for that to happen.

Alas, it was sunny again today. I spent most of the day going through boxes of books in the garage. I got through seven boxes altogether, paring down the stacks book by book until I had filled three full boxes to take to the thrift store. Or somewhere. The books in those three boxes are all so good I kind of hate to just send them off to no man's land—I feel somehow responsible for them, like I should try to send them someplace where they're more likely to be found by people who need or appreciate them. Then again, surely this is just as possible at a thrift store as anywhere else.

I also set aside a fourth, smaller box to fill with books to return to their proper owners, and to send or give to friends I think might like them.

So slowly but surely I continue to divest myself of material possessions. As of today I've whittled a fully furnished two-bedroom house down to the books, my clothes, my bed, assorted electronics (iPod, cellphone, laptop, stereo, etc.), two metal boxes full of tools, one small and one large armoire, an old oak filing cabinet, an antique oak pub table, a small battered old pine farm table with a drawer in it, a lamp that was my grandmother's, several mirrors, several paintings, two book shelves, two boxes of art supplies, two boxes of kitchen things, and two giant willow baskets (also my grandmother's). Oh, and two bikes. I do seem to like things in twos.

This is not much stuff for a forty-year-old American to own. Although there's other stuff not on that list ... Tater's toys, plants, old electric fans, kitchen chairs, the useful odds and ends of everyday life. But not much that I'm really attached to.

It seems like I've been doing this for twenty years. Putting a home together, and then taking it apart. Gathering comfort and beauty, then throwing it all into the wind. Trying to settle in, then needing to escape. I don't think it's because I'm flaky or lack commitment. I think it's because I keep overestimating other people's willingness and ability to change. I keep believing in it (I tell myself) because I know from my own experience that change is possible. I've worked and studied and practiced, and I have made changes. But then I see myself once again in an untenable situation, trying to make it work ... and I wonder why I have so much faith in the possibility of change when I myself have found it so difficult to make the kind of changes that would allow me to live in a healthy relationship with a healthy, happy man.

When that stops seeming possible, all I really want is a clean, warm room with high ceilings and big windows, painted white, with long white curtains and clean wood floors and a comfortable place to sit. I would like to sit in a room like that forever, sometimes.

Oh blah, so maudlin, so dramatic. I'm so sick of drama! The truth is, I'm fine. Just feeling a little downtrodden. I need to get back to the bare bones again. Attend to my own life and release my expectations of others in order for them to do the same. Learning to remember that during times like this, and to actually do it, is one of the best changes I've made in my life.