I wrote this week that we have now officially entered the week of the year when I have no idea what day it is, and I wander from room to room in my pajamas, carrying all of my new books, and eating a Christmas cookie.
My friend Angie sent me a meme that shares my sentiment: it's the week between Christmas and New Year's, where I'm basically confused and full of cheese. I felt so seen and known.
I feel compelled to write important things on the last day of this year, but also, the cheese thing is real.
Also, I woke up angry. I went to bed angry, and I woke up angry. Mad at Peter.
We do basically all of the things in our lives with a strong degree of passion, so our fights are a thing. I mean, at least for me. He says he has had way bigger fights with other people, that ours are basically articulate discussions. But seriously, woe unto him who triggers my articulation.
Peter slept downstairs. Like we're a sitcom couple.
He says he tried to sleep in bed with me, but he said I was thrashing about like nothing he had ever seen, like I was waiting for him to come to bed so I could really let him have it.
I have no memory of the thrashing or his body next to mine, so I choose to believe both are hyperbole. They simply didn't happen. I slept alone, silent in my seething. Perception is reality, folks.
In the morning, I said to him, "What do you need today?"
It was probably passive aggressive, if I'm honest, like an unhealthy Enneagram Two manipulating a situation to elevate the other person's needs above their own in order to manufacture some reciprocity.
Not that I know anything at all about that. At all.
He said, "I need to do what love requires of me."
Oh, hello, perfect answer.
I said, "What does that seem to be?"
He said, "I know it's going to be something I don't want to do. God and I are working on that."
We went to our separate offices (I have named mine The Studio, and he has named his The Valley of Disappointment), until we met in the middle ground to do yoga together. 17 minutes of breathing and moving together. If you're ever looking for a fun time, do yoga with Peter. When he has to stretch his core, he yells at the virtual instructor, mostly with comments about her preferences with goats. When she whispers "Namaste," he bows his head and replies, matching her tone and breath, "Yesterday."
We cleaned out the kitchen cupboards together, seamlessly trading places in the processes of sorting, organizing, and purging. We restructured the shelves soo all my sugars fit on one shelf and my tall pitchers can sit together way up high. We consolidated the spice pantry to find years of repurchased spices for many Thanksgiving turkeys. So. Much. Sage.
It was a task I should have done nine years ago when I moved into this house, and then I should have done it again five years ago when we got married. I did it exactly none of those times. Hence, the sage.
I said, "I had no idea when I moved in that I would leave it this way for so long. I just unpacked and left everything there, whether it made sense or not.
He said, "Sometimes you can't know until you do."
I said, "And sometimes you can't do until you know."
We had a day of nothing special, but each of them became an ingredient of healing.
Twelve hours after being fiercely articulate and gesturing with my coffee mug, I felt peace. Even contentment. Even love.
On this night when you could be out to dinner by candle light, were it not for the pandemic;
On this day when maybe you went to bed angry and woke up mad and believe your spouse exaggerated your sleeping behavior;
On this end of the year when you'd like to be profound but you're confused and full of cheese -
I raise my sugar cookie to you.
Let it be what it is. Sometimes you don't know until you do, and sometimes you can't do until you know.
I don't even know what that means. But I have less sage in my cupboards as I begin 2022, and that seems like a good thing.
Happy New Year, Namaste, and Yesterday.