My friend Pete is a hippy surfer. We first met when I was living Down Under. He was fresh from a divorce and suddenly had a bunch of free time on his hands. I was an advertising art director desperately in need of a little soul. We became best friends instantly.
On the coffee table of his beach shack was a huge wooden bowl filled with creepy wooden fruit in it. Something you might see decorating a fake living room set-up in a Thomasville Home Furnishings. It stuck out horribly amongst his surfboards, patchouli candles, guitars,Buddhism for Beginners books and various other hippy surfer junk. Whenever it came up in conversation, he'd explain bluntly that it was a wedding present and then he'd shrug. Next topic.
Another thing about Pete is that he's an amazing listener. Sandie and I had a few breakdowns when we were living in Australia and Pete was always there to hear me work through them. He never judged and rarely commented. Just listened. In retrospect, being newly single, he probably had all kinds of opinions about my relationship turmoil, but he knew to let me talk things through on my own.
And we never once talked about his divorce. I would have listened, had he brought up, but he never did.
I, conversely, have been talking about my fresh divorce nonstop for months now. For the first thirty days, I could only avoid discussing it by getting hammered, so I did, a lot. Fortunately, other diversions have since presented themselves. Among them is my new little beach pad.
After almost two decades of cohabitation, decorating on my own terms is liberating. Eclectic household objects that never made it past the previous design committee, such as my fire extinguisher umbrella stand and my great-great-grandfather Joseph Davenport's 100-year-old Masonic sword, are now displayed with great prominence around my living room.
Also on display is a Celtic-themed wooden bowl my sister Debi brought us from her honeymoon in Ireland. When she gave it to us, our house had reached a point of maximum-chotchkey. Neither Sandie nor I were all that impressed by it. It had been sitting in our closet ever since. But for some reason, when I unpacked it the other day, it was suddenly the coolest bowl in the world. It was a symbol of my family, the group of complete lunatics who, more than anyone, has been listening to my scrambled ravings for the last few months, who I spent Christmas night with last year because I couldn't handle staying in my own home and who will be an integral part of my life until the day I die. No. matter. what.
I put the bowl in my hallway and filled it with loose change, stick-on tattoos and a yo-yo. It has become my huge wooden bowl filled with creepy wooden fruit.
I wonder if this means I'll stop talking about the divorce any time soon.
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Comments
It sounds like you are making progress. It's one of the oldest cliches but it's also true: Time heals all wounds.
I have spent the past week co-habitating with my gf while I recover from an unexpected illness... as someone who has NEVER cohabitated with a significant other before, it does feel odd. At times wonderful and at othre times I just want to run (well, hobble) back to my solo apartment, lock the door and sit and stare at all of MY stuff... shabby though some of it might be.
Stay Strong
PS: are you a Mason?