I have been residing part-time in a log cabin built in 1870 since just before Covid.
I say part-time but it might be three-quarters. Then again, there are weeks at a time that this cute little cabin is still and empty.
I own a townhouse that my son, his dad and stepmom currently reside in. Grey goes back and forth between us and I have also spent time living there again while they vacation. I pretty much live part-time at my partner’s home. And I travel regularly. For work, to exciting, sunny places, and to the not-so-exciting town where my dad’s long-term-care home is. All this amounts to what I think of as part-time resident status.
My first experiences in this tiny cabin, flanked by forest and deer, fox, bunnies and elk, were magic. It was the beginning of the pandemic, and I was grateful to have ended up here, away from the skittishness of the city. Magic, indeed because I had no inkling of the sheltering journey that was about to begin. But back to the cabin. In the springtime, the peepers sing their nightly musical chorus (frogs for those not familiar with the term). Summers are spent walking in the forest, building bonfires in the backyard and nighttime star-gazing. Fall is akin to watching a beautiful piece of art being created, every day a new wondrous colour in the trees and bushes. I’ve never seen leaves of gold so gold with intermingled greens, browns and iridescent reds, like flames licking up towards the sky. And winter is a charming scene, like the ones you see painted on the cover of a Christmas card.
In such a magical place, I have felt like a magical being. There is something special about this cabin and property.
Right now, however, it’s a swamp. The April melt has created a marsh of the driveway and yard. We can’t go out the door without rubber boots on. After three years and four months spent here, I am ready to move on. Of course, it’s not the mud I’m running from. We’ve just run out of room. Physically, mentally, and energetically. We’ve grown and expanded. We’ve changed.
Greyson was 14 when we came to the cabin. He will be 18 in three months and is sprinting towards 6 feet tall. Our tiny, open concept cabin has shrunk. The disappearing spaciousness, however, is not really what I have been ruminating on as I contemplate packing up. I’ve been reminded that, in life, when we try on something that fits perfectly to our circumstance at the time, we think it will never end. But sure enough, at some point in future, on the other side of all the living done, the thing that fit like a glove feels tight and restrictive and once again, I’m trying to squirm my way out of it.
Much like a snake shedding its skin.
I think this pretty much sums up the journey of healing and recovery. We land in a new space, we live in a different frequency (sometimes kicking and screaming through some of it) and then one day we find ourselves grown, expanded and too damn big for our britches. And then we must move out and move on.
Everything is about to change for me. I welcome it in many ways. I close my eyes and think of the large circle I drew in my mind three plus years ago. And I know I have filled every inch of that space. I have grown and mended my relationships, I have acquired new relationships and picked up the string of old and ancient ones. I have grieved the death of two mothers here: a birth mother, immediately lost to me as I heard the devastating news of her death years before to overdose; and my adoptive mother, unexpectedly rediscovered as a woman who truly lived and loved…and somehow chose me to be a part of it.
I’ve had some of the worst moments of my life in this cabin, isolated and alone with my son, whose anxiety and distress seemed to multiply along with the Covid virus.
But I also joyfully danced non-stop, in every room, on the back deck, in the yard, around the trees, by the fire under a full moon. I studied and completed new certifications. I dreamed, created and manifested a new business. I stepped into a new version of myself. I grew things in the little garden box, putting my hands in the soil and my bare feet on the ground. I ate those delicious things. I made snow angels in the middle of ice-covered wetlands under the bluest of skies, surrounded by trees who I swear were laughing along with me. I skated the smallest, bumpiest homemade ice rink, flanked by those same trees, feeling like a little girl again, smiling through my tears. I got close enough to a full-grown Elk with his awesome crown of antlers, to feel his curiosity and majesty.
I have done it all out here. I’m ready to go.
But I’m scared. Because I am a Taurus. Taurus peeps generally have an aversion to change. Thank goodness I’m close to the cusp of Gemini. Astrology-aside, change is uncomfortable for most of us humans. As we do our best to control our people and circumstances, and predict what will happen next, we simply cannot. Change and uncertainty are besties. As I throw myself in the middle, three definitely feels like a crowd. Awkward. Slightly panicky. My inner voice asking me, “REALLY? You are doing THIS?”
Greyson is about to share his mom. I am about to share a space with a man after almost 15 years on my own (just counting that in my head has me reeling)! I’m obviously about to enter a new phase in my relationship with my partner. I’m about to be a city girl again.
I have committed to drawing another big spacious circle. That’s it, the calming visual that assures me everything will be okay. I’m here for growth. I’m here for new experiences. Before I ever got into recovery and had any kind of real self-awareness, I always knew, at the end of my life, I would value experiences over any kind of wealth or acquisition of material things. (That’s probably quite evident to many people who know me.) When my time is up, I want no regrets about what I didn’t do because I wanted to feel safe and secure. It’s a bit of a harrowing choice at times. And I understand it’s not for everyone. I always know too, that I’m okay to change my mind. One of the dear women in my membership texted me the other day. When I asked how she was, she said “good…but subject to change”. Life and everything in it is always subject to change.
While I’m here writing on the subject, I’d be remiss to not mention this journey of change, growth and expansion is my jam and if you are looking for support, I’m here to help. My membership Expand Beyond Recovery is for women on the journey. We explore, move, reflect, and share through our expansion, during the times we are squirming to leave something. It’s a small, intimate community where you get to create your unique space of learning and integration. If you could benefit from 1:1 guidance, I offer private coaching. I’ve helped women connect to their authentic selves and move through change with more acceptance and self-trust.
Expansion and growth are truly my core values. Change is the pathway.
And so here I go. Next month I’ll be in the middle of complete chaos packing and moving. I’ll be back here to share what that’s like.
Movin' out, movin' on. I’m ready.
Love,
Payton