Pendulum

I had to drag my winter clothes back out this week. Our 1929 house has itty-bitty closets that could never accommodate my winter AND summer clothes. Every year I am guilty of trading them out too early; there is inevitably a 60 degree day early in March that inspires me to box up all my coats and boots and exile them to our garage. Turns out the storm didn’t hit the way they thought it would and I  would’ve been okay to leave my coats sleeping in hibernation. But when I looked outside our front windows, I commiserated with the tulips: I felt a heaviness on me; I felt blanketed in cold. I felt ill-equipped to weather the storm.

I am astonished by the highs and lows of this process of trying to conceive.  One day I can fawn all over a baby. I coo alongside its mother and am practically drooling myself over their sweetness and chubbiness. The next day I turn into a wild dog with my hind leg stuck between the metal jaws of a trap. I glower and snarl at anyone who draws near, despite their efforts to help free me. I sniff out the various peace offerings that are tossed my way, but ultimately leave them where they were thrown. I retreat into my cave where I can lick my wounds alone.

On good days I feel capable and hopeful and sometimes even blessed to be granted this extra time. Eric and I play scrabble every day and indulgently thumb through our Rolodex of favorite restaurants come dinner time. We can get on a plane to anywhere and not worry about anything except whether or not we’ve forgotten our passports. We sip wine and watch Chopped  and sleep in and go to the gym.

But on bad days I am touchy and prickly and feel like someone whose house has just been broken into. My personal space and comfort has been invaded as I cautiously navigate each room of the house. I glare at everyone who passes by. I am critical and accusatory and hateful towards no one and everyone, nothing and everything.

I know my condition is not unique. It’s universal to experience seasons of discontent and helplessness. I know people who are unemployed, going through a divorce, grieving the loss of a loved one. I feel petty and selfish when I allow grief to knock me on my ass. But that’s the thing about grief--it barrels through your door, uninvited, and stays as long as it wants. You can turn out all the lights and change into your pj’s and it still might not take the hint that it has overstayed its welcome.

Today the sun blazes. We are in Santa Barbara for a wedding. Eric is golfing and I am tucked inside our boutique hotel room sipping coffee and watching our gauzy white curtains flutter in the breeze. Two people will exchange vows this weekend and I am humbly reminded of the life that pulsates just outside my set of circumstances. There is a pair of binoculars resting upon a stack of vintage books in our hotel room. They are meant for bird gazing. I will use them to step out onto our balcony, broaden my lens and try to grasp a glimpse of the bigger picture.