The luxuries of living small
Freedom, time, and maximal joy
Yesterday I took my daughter, who has been living with us since May, 2022, waiting for approval of a visa, to the airport. This time it wasn’t for a visit to see her husband, but for her move to live with him in Sweden, where they will finally be able to start their life together after more than 3 years of marriage.
I had been dreading that day since the one she arrived, but since that day I had (mostly) successfully worked to to stay grounded in the present. Because today is all we truly have. Because I didn’t want anticipation to be the thief of joy, and there was so much joy to be had in my bonus time with her. Because, as I wrote back in April, I want to live with palms open to everything I love.
And then July descended.
Three weeks of non-stop oppressive heat that kept us mostly inside, a series of rolling migraines, the grind of TBI recovery, upended routines, and political happenings that created existential dread like I’ve never before felt (and I’m no stranger to existential dread). My other child grappled with a serious crisis, with little support from anyone other than me, and I became aware of the beginnings of a difficult situation for my aging parents that is likely to spool out over years. And the clock on her departure was ticking, so very, very loudly.
It was a lot. (I know the month was a lot for a lot of us.)
I found myself unable to talk with anyone about any of these things, even very casually, without tears choking my throat. I found myself unable to watch much of anything on TV—even very cheesy movies with formerly big movie stars leading them—without tears rising. Don’t even get me started on what the Olympics did to me.
These weren’t big-cry tears, but tears more like clouds that move over the sun on a breezy day. They passed by quickly, but they were almost always there, hanging in the sky. I came to expect and mostly accept them, in the way I have our heat waves we would once have described as “unseasonable.” I don’t like them, but I can’t fight them and I know they won’t last forever.
I also found myself unable to write about any of it, or to engage in some of the kinds of creative work that being housebound with limited physical capacity might lend itself to. My mind needed something different, something to take me away from the things I’m not yet ready to get too close to, but also something that could absorb my attention. I dove deep into writing the essay I shared here last week.
And that—even though it was about an uncomfortable subject—was such a balm. When I began, I didn’t really know what the piece was about or what I thought about it. It took weeks of writing and revising and hard thinking for that to come clear. Each day I would think I was nearly done with it, that surely I would be sharing it in the next day or two, and the next day I would make so many changes I knew that day wasn’t the one for sending it out.
As one week turned into another and another, I felt uneasy about being absent from this space for so long. I thought about sending out a quick “see you in a bit” message, but I didn’t want to clog your inbox with something that I couldn’t see having much value for you. I had a bit of an existential crisis about what I’m doing here—because it sure hasn’t been much like what I originally envisioned, and the essay didn’t seem to really fit with my stated mission—but then I remembered what a gift it is to be able to create in the ways that I do, and in the ways that I know many of you do.
I reminded myself that we don’t have to rely on what we do to feed anything but our feelings and ego. Don’t get me wrong: I appreciate everyone who reads and interacts with me here, very much. But I don’t need my writing to give me anything more than it does. And that is such a luxury.
It was a luxury to be able to lose myself in questions of craft for a month. To not have to worry about gaining or losing subscribers, or making money from this labor. I don’t take that for granted, and in a month of hard things it was something to be grateful for.
I was reminded, again, of the freedom that comes with making choices to live small. I mean, some part of me would love to eat-pray-love my way around the world right now, or go buy a villa under the Tuscan sun, or do something else romantic, adventurous, and completely life-changing. I’m glad there are people in the world who do those things and write interesting books about them, but I’m not one of those people. I’m a homebody. I would love to win some kind of lottery and never have to think about money again, but I don’t do any of the things a person has to do to win any kinds of jackpots—and I have no wealthy relatives, either known or long-lost, waiting to bestow a fortune upon me.
Because I’ve been able to craft a small life, I’ve had the luxury the last two years of being able to maximize the joy of having my grown daughter live with me again. Instead of spending my time hustling in one way or another, I have able to enjoy leisurely after-dinner conversations around our table. Afternoon fikas. Car rides when I picked her up from her late work shifts. Skating sessions where we ice-danced to Taylor Swift and music from The Gilmore Girls. Lunches at our favorite pizza and burger places. I’ve also been able to drop everything when I’ve needed to for my son, and I have time to write a daily email to my mom. What gifts, all of these small things that add up to everything I care about most.
Today, I will be leaving our cozy little home to spend a few weeks with my husband’s family in Louisiana. I knew I’d want to be some place my daughter has never been, where her absence wouldn’t be so deeply felt, as the reality of it sinks in. I’ll be filling up my well from a month that ran me dry. (And what better place to do that than in a land of high humidity! I joke.) I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to write much while I’m there, but I’ll be here as I’m able to and as it makes sense.
Thank you so much for being here with me, however I show up. I would love to know how the summer has been for you, what you’ve been doing creatively, or what gifts you find in living small.
Oh my goodness, Rita, crying all the way through this. We are cut from the same cloth. And I too have been crying my way through this summer, big tears that seem to be waiting for me most days, if I allow them. My daughter moved to the east coast a few years ago. She was just here for a visit, which was far too short. What I love that you have focused on here, is the choice that I'd make over and over again that love and connection are worth any amount of tears. We will both find our way, Rita. We just don't see the path yet. 💕
Oh, Rita -- tender, tearful mama heart hugs to you, but also congratulations to her for finally being able to start the life of her dreams with her husband!
We've had a chat or two about this behind the Substack scenes, so you know I'm empathetic. With the caveat that it's probably too soon, my wish for you is that you and your daughter can find a rhythm of connection that takes the sting out of the separation. That has happened for me with my far away daughters. FaceTime is magical, but only one of them prefers to use it. The other is more of the phone call type, and she'll also occasionally write a letter! It's not the same - not by a long shot - but it's more than enough to keep me out of the pit of despair.
I hope the time in Louisiana is deeply restorative. I must have been channeling you somehow as I made a big pot of gumbo yesterday! Summer, for me, is so much about growing and eating food. I grab minutes whenever I can to water everything (it's been so cursed hot and dry here!), to appreciate the critters and chat with my plants. And then I have to figure out what to DO with all the harvests! We'll travel north to see his mom a week from now, but that will be our only summer vacation this year. Small is just fine by me!