This is the space I inhabit most of my waking hours every day, during Covid-19.  It's a comfortable sized room with a large window onto our backyard. The walls are lined with shelves of books, notebooks, art supplies, plus a desk, a couple computers, pens of various styles and colors... I have so many tools for expression, as a professional and/or as simply me, in arm's reach.

On the right side, you see my workstation.  Here, I do my job from home, primarily. It's also where I journal, issue email and texts to folks I love, and write cards and letters to go out in snail mail.  I increasingly appreciate the utility of this work space and the flexibility to use my tools in different ways.

On the left, under my son's painting of a planet, lays an altar.  It's new.  It's special.  It represents my escapist dream of a solitary life in a shack by the sea.  In my imaginary seaside retreat I am soothed by the sound of the waves, restored to myself by the absence of heeding and tending the needs of others. I am whole and wholly my own.

Establishing the altar was a suggestion from my new therapist.  She is younger than me, vibrant and vital, creative and wise.  She nudges me back to myself, a dynamic, multi-faceted me, through little activities that express my deep insides out to my open view.  I see me.  I know, and can be, more me.

By setting up and using both of these spaces, the workstation and the altar, I have jerry-rigged a "room of one's own" where I can think my own thoughts and act on my essential Jenni-ness.  The room more functional than Romantic - I can't hear waves crashing on the shore and there's an assortment of random kid-stuff crowded under the altar table (not to mention an occasionally pungent litter box in a corner) - but that's all part of me, too.  I am not a solitary life.  I am whole and wholly my own, and gratefully interdependent with my partner, child, friends, and colleagues.  

In this room, I am learning to restore myself where I am.  It's gradual, baby-stepping work.  Close the door (they can knock), pop in earplugs, light a candle, sit down...  I know I have the tools I need, inside and out, and am practicing how to use them.  

Recent days have been bumpy.  Each day with its own series of ups and downs and back up again (mostly). Because the "new normal" doesn't arrange itself overnight. We create it one small course correction at a time, which bring us closer to stability, familiarity, and a sense of normal.  

Things that are working in my house: making art, physical activity outdoors, planting seeds (literally) for a big new garden, revising the schedule of working-at-home and school-at-home, practicing patience and mercy (aka grace) with ourselves and each other.  What's working in your home? What fails are you either learning from or just moving on from?  It all counts.  

"Pause. Breathe. Repeat."  An entry about remembering to take my own advice. And some household tools for remembering your calm and focus in the midst of a very challenging transition.  

My Christian faith started evolving 25 years ago, but the kernel or promise of change was embedded in my heart since childhood. The catalyst for my transformation was the fire of grief, which cracked me open and left me exposed.  Community, in the form of women’s friendship and wisdom, tended me, planted me deeply in cool soil, and gave me room to grow. ​

My father died when I was 18.  I was in college at an Evangelical Christian school.  In the following year, I attempted suicide. My family of origin slid into a state of alienation from each other.  I was angry and bereft, rude and out of control. I struggled against everything and everyone. ​

Something essential in me prevailed and was witnessed.  Other women saw it. I received compassion and insight from female professors at the college.  They brought me to church, a woman-lead Episcopalian congregation. They taught me about feminism, new-to-me theologies, women’s perspectives and experiences conveyed by women authors in narratives and poetry.  I learned about the entanglement of Christian religion with colonialism. I reached out and met other female students wrestling with the same ideas and stretching into their own awakenings. I prayed and played with God alongside the guidance of an eclectic and faithful spiritual director.   ​

A few weeks before my thirtieth birthday I moved across the country to Seattle for graduate school.  It was my fresh start, far from my family, my personal history, the church I grew up in, the politics I did not subscribe to.  The Madwoman resurfaced in my graduate studies and occupied a central role in my thinking and writing. As I drafted my thesis I heard Her call.  She did not reveal Herself to me in the upper room of the house, which I had hoped and expected. Rather, She bid me retrace my steps and meet Her in each person I met as I traveled back down through the house. ​

There’s still no “there” there, for me.  I don’t have a local community that I can simply join for resonance and support, teaching and service.  I miss that. I understand, now, the best parts of a house of worship. Even so, I proceed. I am making it up as I go, one step at a time, down from Her attic and into the company of Her people, who are everywhere. ​

Here is Little N with Slim and Brother Justin enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning.

It was such a leisurely Sunday morning that I got to sleep in until 8-ish.  We stayed at J's Saturday night after a 4-hour playdate with G and her family.  Pizza and a movie later and Little N was sound asleep.  Only to rise early, with the cats, and then J, while I slept on.  happy sigh.

Happy too, to note that N's behavior toward me improved a little after a call with his dad.  N heard that he was going a little too far in his treatment of me and some of his classmates.  He is still impatient and quick to anger, but he's eased up on his verbal abuse of me. 

So we enjoyed a playdate with G's two boys.  We enjoyed hanging out for the evening at J's.  Little N put down the iPad and enjoyed imaginary games in J's house, which he wishes was ours.  He enjoyed pizza, a raucous movie, sleeping in a big bed by himself, with maybe a cat or two.  And I enjoyed my son.  

It's a beginning.  It's a sign, I hope, that we're in a change.  I anticipate bumps.  I'm seeking additional support in the form of a counselor for N.  And I'm holding onto my hope of N learning how to manage big emotions, like anger, like reactions to change and loss.  Holding onto my hope of knowing my son throughout this transition and continuing our relationship, on good terms, on the other side of this.

I haven't been writing here in a regular way for ages.  Real life occupies my mind, time, and energy so much.  Here's what I'm doing now:

The landlord raised my rent this summer and I needed help financially. So L moved back in with me and Little N. He's paying me rent to share a room with his son. It's an unconventional arrangement, though I hear it's not as uncommon as one might expect, and it's given my bank account a little breathing room. Much appreciated!

The new living arrangement also initiated some rearranging of the physical space. I've moved into the smaller bedroom and turned it into a bright cozy nest. My little sanctuary of self-care. 

I've been away from this space for well over a year. It's been a full and challenging time. So much learning.

 Old memories are rising - both painful recollections and wise encouragements from my past. The memories point to how I got here. Intimating the sources of deeply held beliefs. Recalling me to nurturing habits I once held sacred and practiced regularly. If I resume those old good habits they could carry me into and beyond this new phase of learning.