Retreating

There was a time—not all that long ago—when I lived mostly alone.

Before sharing my home with a partner. Before his teenage son. Before my son’s tiny house on my property—and the belongings that don’t quite fit in it. Before the baby.

Before the steady rhythm of left-behind cups, shoes, tools, jackets, toys, mysterious piles, and clutter that seems invisible to everyone but me.

I adore these people.

That feels important to say.

But the messes left in their wakes are wearing on me.

Especially on rainy days.

Rainy days are when everyone is inside more than out, and suddenly the house feels smaller. Louder. Fuller.

Yesterday was a rainy day. After folding laundry—mostly not mine—I retreated to my bedroom and closed the door, because my nervous system needed audible, spatial, and visual quiet.

Needed time in just my own mess.

Mess I was perfectly okay with leaving until morning.

An organized mess I understood.

Lying on my bed, it occurred to me that my bedroom is roughly the same size—and even shape—as my RV had been. That familiar rectangular space that held me after my husband died.

Small enough to keep tidy.

Quiet enough to settle me. And my nervous system.

These days, the house feels very full.

There’s the baby who visits often, so there are toys for her. Lots of toys that make the house look like a bomb went off after she leaves.

A basement full of stored belongings.

A garage still half workshop, half obstacle course. And now, my side—the side I specifically asked my beloved partner not to get cluttered with his things—is now happily housing my son’s belongings while we make updates to his tiny house (he is my first born after all—to the dismay of his younger sister).

Three male creatures and one toddler—all deeply loved. None sharing quite the same definition of clean as me.

I lay on top of the coverlet of my made bed, finishing a movie on my phone.

I could watch it on the television hung on the wall.

But for some reason, I don’t want to.

The phone feels familiar.

Much like I used to do in my RV.

When the people we love fill our homes and somehow also empty our quiet, we retreat to the spaces that still feel manageable.

Maybe for my brother, it’s going for a walk alone.

For my best friend, it’s going on a retreat.

For the lady in the Calgon commercial, it’s a bathtub.

For me, it’s a rectangular room, closing the door, and a movie on my phone.

We all need our alone spaces, for whatever reasons.

Not because we love people less.

But because loving people well sometimes requires returning, for a little while, to ourselves.

Sincerely,

The one behind the magically replenished full roll of toilet paper