Last year, after I came back from Congo I felt weightless and changeable, and this year I’ve been thinking about that time, and times like it. When we moved to North Carolina. Just like that. Packed everything up and left, just me and Jesse and our cat and our mismatched stuff. The feeling of leaving the state where I spent my childhood, the feeling of living in a place where we knew no one and no one knew us. Right before we left Florida, I cut off all my hair. I came to North Carolina with a pixie cut and no one here knew I’d had long hair most of my life. My memories of that time are all buoyant and sunshine coming through star-shaped leaves. I have to remind myself I still live in that same town, and the beach has not changed, the weather has not changed (much, though I swear it’s getting hotter). It’s just me. It’s just me who has changed.

* * *

Flux:

I’m beginning to think I live in six-month cycles. That nearly everything that has been certain about the past six months is coming up for review. Maybe it’s just the new year. I said at the beginning that I felt 2009 was going to be a change year, and so far it has not disappointed. Perhaps it’s Africa, the fact of the Congo, its existence, the flowers there and Fiston’s clean shoes walking over the dirtiest roads I’ve ever seen.

I’ve felt isolated this year. If the second half of last year was characterized by community, the first half of this one has been characterized by its lack. Friends are a habit, and at times it seems our friends have fallen out of the habit of us. We’ve been sick, we’ve been out of town, we’ve been busy–and now that we are not sick and are in town and are not busy, we find that people have formed new habits and we are no longer among them.

This is probably melodramatic. But I don’t mind–I gravitate toward the melodramatic, the sad songs, the long movies.

Jesse and I went to an outdoor concert Friday night to see Third Eye Blind. It rained during the opening act, and we huddled together under our umbrella, and as the main act took the stage and the rain stopped, I listened to the words of songs I’ve been hearing for years, songs that meant something to me when I was 16 years old, songs from albums we listened to together when we were teenagers. And I felt like anything was possible. I could go home and pack my things in old boxes and we could load up and move to California, and we could walk through the Haight on sunny Saturdays and eat burritos and buy funky sunglasses. And we could live in a tiny apartment in Berkeley and sit under the redwoods and think about important things like what we would cook for dinner. And we could drive on roads lined with eucalyptus trees, watch Shakespeare plays in outdoor amphitheaters where strings of white Christmas lights glowed like little stars in delicate tree branches.

And it felt good. It felt lovely to be there, with Jesse, the battleship behind us and the river to our left, listening to music that stretches far before Wilmington, far beyond it. Sometimes it feels good to be in a state of flux. Sometimes it feels good to have roots, to feel connected. And sometimes it feels good when those roots wither, when I’m weightless and anything is possible.

In the next six months, odds are good that things will settle, return to earth. The rhythms of last year will probably resume themselves. We will not move to California.

But I think there are things set into motion that I will not understand until I get more distance on them. And I am changing. There is Congo, and the way it has creeped under my skin, the way going has provided more questions than it answered. I think in six months, in a year, in another six months after that, I will look back on that concert, and I will know that I felt the echo of a change that hadn’t yet happened, that I knew as soon as “Motorcycle Drive By” started that something was ending, I just wasn’t sure what.

At a coffee shop waiting for the traffic to clear after fireworks, July 4, 2010. The people behind us had screeching children, which I did not appreciate.

So, it’s been six years since we got married in a country-western bar in downtown Orlando. (Remind me to tell you the story if I haven’t already.) Since then, we’ve graduated from college (twice for me), moved, gotten jobs, left jobs and got other ones, lost jobs, joined a new church though convinced we’d never find another we liked as much as ours in Orlando, found a group of friends we love dearly, been apart far too long (longest was nearly three weeks the first time I went to Congo), thought about kids, decided against kids for time being, got a house, refinanced said house, watched said house decline in value, managed to stay out of debt (except for aforementioned house), saved a modest emergency fund, fought weeds in our yard, dreamed about moving again, planned vacations we never took, planned other vacations we swear we really will take, fought far too often about stupid things, fought about legitimate things, loved each other fiercely.

It’s been a wild ride so far.

All right then, since we’re on Awkward Topics, let’s talk about my employment status. Let’s just go there. I suppose the technical term for me is “underemployed.” I’m not unemployed, a distinction I feel is important. But the job I have is decidedly not full-time.

After I graduated with my MFA in 2008 (yeah, we’ll go there too—it’s been two years, two full years) I got a job working from home. I wrote stuff, edited stuff, did online stuff, and had to call people to try and convince them to set meetings with someone who would then try to convince them to move their business to our client city. I enjoyed (well, “enjoy” might not be the right word) everything except the calling, which I absolutely hated and dreaded and avoided if at all possible. On the side, I also copy edited for a local business.

I did this for about a year. Then, the recession hit. First, I lost the copy editing. Then, I lost the online job. I had already begun watching A, though, so I still had something. Regardless, I promptly felt depressed at my underemployed status and started looking for a job. Before I found one, though, Jesse and I had a heart-to-heart and we agreed I would take some time off from job hunting to focus solely on the book, which I was in the process of completely re-writing and which had taken a back burner since I’d been out of school.

And that’s been the past year of my life—two or three mornings a week of watching a toddler, the rest of the time writing. And keeping the house clean, and doing laundry, and grocery shopping, and cooking all our food, and washing our cars, and maintaining our lawn, and growing our garden. You know, that stuff.

Now, I’m wrapping up a draft of the book, ready to call it quits on that project (whether it works or not—I’m simply exhausted, creatively, and don’t know how much energy I have left for it). Which means my experiment in housewifery must come to a close.

I, of course, don’t want it to. Not working has confirmed what I’ve been suspecting for quite some time now: I don’t like work. I don’t like having a job. At least, I haven’t loved any of the jobs I’ve had, and I’ve had a variety. I’m much happier at home, cleaning the house and baking bread and doing all that stuff a good feminist isn’t supposed to like.

The inherent problem is I married a man raised in my generation, a generation very used to two incomes, a man philosophically on board with stay-at-home mothers but bewildered at the prospect of a stay-at-home wife. I can’t say I blame him. I know he’d rather stay home too. (Though I’m convinced that about two weeks of domestic chores and responsibilities would have him running back to the office.)

And while stay-at-home mothering seems to be experiencing, at least in my circle of friends, a comeback, a little stamp of Oprah-approval, the noble act of sacrificing career for the raising of productive citizens, I can probably forget about the possibility of the return of the housewife. Women make up more than half the workforce now. We’re better educated than men are, and we’re more likely to be managers (though not CEOs).

Today, I read Hanna Rosin’s article—“The End of Men”—in the new Atlantic and found it fascinating, and probably true. She writes,

Dozens of college women I interviewed for this story assumed that they very well might be the ones working while their husbands stayed at home, either looking for work or minding the children. Guys, one senior remarked to me, “are the new ball and chain.”

But, shhh, don’t tell Jesse. He might want to try a little experiment of his own.

But, then he did something shocking and started wanting a baby, right about the time I stopped wanting one. It seems the closer I get to thirty (the magic number, it seems, for when you’re Supposed to Be Pregnant Already), the less I want kids. I inched back onto the “Maybe” side and then slid right back to “Eh, is that really necessary? I kind of like things how they are.”

I have found that the more time I spend with people who have kids, the more thankful I am that I don’t have them myself. I know how bad that sounds. I know they love their kids, and I love their kids too, and I’m absolutely sure I don’t know what it is I’m missing, all that fierce unconditional love and seeing the product of your marriage in bodily form, the mystical elements and the tangible ones, the hugs and all that.

But the pendulum has swung hard the other way and I’m trying to remember what exactly I found attractive about the whole having children thing. It seems when a woman has a baby, her world becomes said child—a vibrant and varied life becomes, on the surface at least, a long string of discussions and thoughts about poop, naps, breastfeeding, and endless debates about the ever-fascinating Cloth vs. Disposable issue. (Right about now, I’m worried the pitchforks are coming out…)

I know there’s the whole “new life” thing, but it seems more like a death to me right now, the ending of one life in order to make room for another. The eclipsing of one’s thoughts and personality with the new baby and its needs.

I see the necessity in this, the absolute biological necessity in the parents’ having tunnel vision. They need to keep an infant, something entirely helpless and fragile, alive. No small task there. They have to disappear, at least a bit, in order to do their job. Is there anything worse than a neglectful parent, or an abusive one? It seems to go against nature.

It’s just, nothing about that job seems attractive to me right now. (Also, I don’t find newborns cute. In pretty much all cases. Babies are at some times cute, but then they usually poop or vomit, making up for any momentary adorableness they may have displayed.) As soon as you make it through the baby stage, you have to potty train, and then educate, and don’t even get me started on the teen years. And if you do your job right, the best outcome you can expect is that your kids will leave you eighteen years later and you’ll just end up with empty-nest syndrome.

Cynical much? I know. Sorry. Well, I’m not really sorry. I’m sure I’ll change my mind again, probably a dozen times over, but this is where I sit now. And I know this view is going to be unpopular with probably most people I know, but oh well. Someone had to say it. I can’t be the only one who feels this way.

Two days a week, I watch A, a most adorable two-year-old boy. And I love that job, and I feel it’s important, and I throw my whole energy into it—trying to teach him shapes, reading to him, singing to him while he eats lunch. I have a great job, and I think he’s a great kid. I really wouldn’t trade it, and I think I do a good job of it, if I do say so myself. But I go home exhausted and wonder how on earth people manage it twenty-four hours a day. I get to go home and make myself lunch in silence. Then, I read or I write or I nap or I do laundry or I go to the beach or I make dinner or I do whatever the heck I want to do.

Maybe one day, I’ll be unselfish enough to want to parent another human being all the time. Maybe then I’ll see what I’m missing and I’ll write all about it, I’ll tell you just how fascinating those diapers really are, and maybe you’ll believe me or maybe not. But regardless, this is not that day, and I’ll leave the mothering to my friends, who are better people than I am and have a much, much harder job.

I had a six-hundred-some-page novel with me, a bottle of ice water, and my iPod. I set up my cheap Wal-Mart beach chair and old towel a good distance from the nearest family and settled into the book. I love Oak Island for many reasons, the free and readily available parking being near the top of the list, but the lack of crowds is by far the best part.

About an hour or so after I got there, I heard thunder and looked behind me to see dark clouds gathering and moving in quick. I headed to the car and, determined to wait it out, kept reading while it poured rain. After about an hour cooped up in the car, I decided it had stopped enough to venture out, and I walked back to the beach, the sand wet and the cloudy sky a tentative shade of periwinkle streaked with lilac and some yellow tinges that let me know the sun was trying to make a reappearance.

It did, and I spent several more hours there, reading, not reading, watching the ocean, watching people walk by looking for shells. As evening approached, the tide started to come in and the waves got closer to my chair. I finished a chapter and put away my book, looking out at the waves, at boats on the horizon, and I realized that there’s nothing quite like going to the beach alone. There were people nearby, not too close but there, but I had connections to none of them, and instead of isolating the feeling was liberating.

For much of my life, I’ve defined myself at least in part by relationships, by family or friends or loves. For the past ten years, I’ve been half of a couple, and there is something peculiar about growing up that way, of making a decision like that at sixteen, at seventeen, at twenty-one. To stay with the same person, to marry him just out of college.

But there on the beach, it was just me, me and the ocean waves, and the music in my ears, and I felt just how nice it was to be there, with just me. Maybe it’s growing up the only child in the house, the feeling you have early on that you are the only one of your kind. Maybe I’ve been trying to change that feeling, maybe I’ve been trying to add when all along that was the right feeling after all, that was the truth of the matter, and I felt that as I watched the waves pushing closer, the ocean making no apologies for itself, existing and existing and existing. There is something, I think, to turning twenty-seven, to going overseas and coming back, to reading novels and cooking food, there is something to being at the beach alone, there is something to all of it, and I’m not entirely sure what it is, but I think I like it.

I spent almost the entire weekend in bed, except for meals and a visit with Stephen and Sandy on Saturday (which I cut short with an abrupt crash and a “Take me home now, please” before we could even get to dessert—which is the way to tell whether I’m really sick or faking it, because I’ll suffer almost anything for dessert) and a trip to church on Sunday. Thank goodness for the 6:00 p.m. service, which gave me the entire day to sleep and drum up enough energy to venture out.

I’ve been banished from the kitchen, after burning my arm with hot grease while trying to sear a rack of lamb (admittedly not my smartest decision, but it was one of those almost-expired half-off sales, and I love rack of lamb). I’ve broken a vase and knocked over a glass of water, but I’m a fairly clumsy person anyway, so who’s to say it was the vertigo that caused those…

It’s hard to describe the feeling. Sometimes, I feel like I’m sitting on a trampoline that someone else is jumping on. Sometimes, while walking, I suddenly feel two feet shorter than I am. Sometimes it’s like getting out of the car after a long drive and still feeling the momentum, the forward motion. Sometimes I feel like I’m either too big or too small for my head, like I am floating a little above myself or have sunk deeper inside.

It’s funny, my reaction to things like this. I’ve no patience for it, and having to lie around in bed all day when I’ve got a long post-trip to-do list waiting for me is quite maddening, but perhaps there’s something to learn in all of this. Like, can I honestly say that suffering is part of life and then arrange my life with the highest goal being the avoidance of suffering? If suffering is part of life, and I want to experience life, then I will experience suffering, and I can either struggle under it and buck against it or accept it, go with it, experience it as fully as possible. I never appreciate health more than right after an illness. And, let’s get real here, this is not that bad.

I’ve been trying to dwell on all the upsides, and there are quite a few. For starters, I’d much rather be sick here than in Congo. So, the fact that this waited long enough for me to get in my own bed, in my air-conditioned house, with my doctor a short drive away and a pharmacy within minutes from my house, that’s a pretty good thing. And maybe I needed this, needed a time of stop of be still and it struck me yesterday that my physical state matches in some way with my mental state. The swirling thoughts, something brewing, I feel a little stirred up, and in a way it’s kind of interesting to see physical and mental line up that way.

There are so many thoughts to think. I tried to put some of them in sentences yesterday, but I don’t remember them.

Well, enough of this. There’s a stack of paperwork on the floor of my office I’m going to attempt. But if that doesn’t work out, I’ll just take the medicine and go to bed and sleep and dream and that will be nice too.

That bit about the flashcards—I remembered that this morning as I sat on my couch, listening to Beta Radio, drinking green tea with honey I bought at the farmer’s market last week. I had been reading a book but had set it down, and I was just sitting there, with my tea and music, feeling happy and present.

Because that, I think, was what I really learned from the flashcards: to not be present. If an activity isn’t naturally productive, make it productive.

Last night, we had Warren over for dinner. Sharon and Story are visiting family out of state (no, I haven’t killed the garden yet, though one of the cucumbers and some of the broccoli plants aren’t looking so great…sorry, Sharon). Earlier this week, I’d read through half the new issue of Bon Appétit and had come across several recipes I wanted to try.

See, another thing I’ve realized is that while I cook all the time, I have stopped challenging myself in the kitchen, and it’s that challenge that I really enjoy, it’s pulling off a difficult meal, the sense of accomplishment. I mean, I enjoy cooking the standards, too, the meals I know will turn out, but sometimes it’s fun to live a little dangerously.

Well, last night I made a chicken dish with a sauce made with roasted garlic, white wine, butter, cream, and tarragon. On the side, a salad of rice, corn, avocadoes, poblano chile, yellow bell pepper, zucchini, cilantro, and a lemon juice dressing. And buttermilk biscuits.

Everything turned out perfectly. I’m not just saying that. It was perfect. The chicken was tender, the sauce tangy and creamy, the salad delightful, the biscuits like fluffy little pillows.

Sharon called as we started eating, and Warren stepped away from the table to take the call. While he was gone, I took my first bite of the chicken and then whispered to Jesse, “I don’t want to brag or anything, but this is stinking good.” And he said, “Yeah, I hope this is going on the list of ‘Things to Cook All the Time.’”

The recipes weren’t complicated. In fact, they were downright easy. They weren’t challenging in that way, but cooking that meal took my full attention—getting the three things to come out on time, cooking all three simultaneously, the biscuits being a last-minute whim, making sure everything was chopped and ready, the stirring and the tasting and the adjusting. I was fully present in the kitchen, and then I was fully present while eating what I’d made. Enjoying it. I left all the dishes for this morning.

No flashcards necessary.

And this morning, a quiet sleepy Saturday with eggs and leftover biscuits for breakfast, Jesse heading out to golf with guys from the small group, and me, sitting on the couch, listening to music and drinking tea, remembering me at fifteen, remembering last night’s meal, the garden having been watered this morning and book work to do later on. But that moment was just what it needed to be, nothing more, and it was lovely.

Sometime last week, Jesse observed: “You never just sit.” I may stop for a moment, but even in my times of “rest,” I’m always consuming something or doing something—reading, checking the news online, planning something I’m about to do, or regretting something I should have already done. I’m always on.

Sadly, this doesn’t result in great amounts of productivity. If you want to see productivity, just look to Sabrina, who accomplishes more while napping than I do in a normal day.

It does, however, result in a lot of procrastination. See, when my brain decides it’s done and can’t stand to edit or write or whatever, I just end up on Facebook, wasting time. Then, I feel guilty for not getting more done and overwhelmed thinking of all that needs doing. Even when I do something I enjoy, say reading a book or something, I feel guilty for it afterwards.

So, the epiphany. Sunday afternoon, I had a Congo meeting and afterward Rachael and I stood out in the parking lot of the church and realized we were looking forward to the trip because in Congo, we’d be less stressed out. I wanted to laugh. Who goes to a third-world country to relax? Well, me, apparently. Because here, in my comfy first-world existence, I don’t.

The other day, I forced myself to take a bubble bath without a book or magazine with me. I filled up the tub and then stared at the ceiling and every three minutes thought, Is that enough? Am I done? Can I do something else now? NO, I told myself, and stayed put, determined to rest.

I think a lot of this stems from the fact that Jesse’s basically working two jobs right now while I babysit and try to finish this book. I feel like a freeloader, and that drives me crazy. Sure, I do all the household chores, I cook, I pay the bills and keep the budget, I grocery shop, and so on. Most of the time, Jesse comes home to a fairly clean house and a home-cooked dinner, and I’m sure that’s kind of nice. But, I’m not bringing in a whole lot of cash, and try as I might, I still have that linked to my feelings of self-worth. (Stupid, I know. Sorry.)

So, when I do things I enjoy, somewhere in the back of my mind is a picture of Jesse, slaving away, not getting to do the things he enjoys. And it’s all my fault.

Well. I guess he and I need to do some more talking about our current situation. But, in the meantime, I can’t keep this up, this whole never-really-resting/feeling-guilty-for-not-doing-more song and dance I’ve got going.

I made a list, because that’s what I do, and at the top I wrote Things I Enjoy. It goes like this:

Being outside
Gardening
Photography
Reading
Cooking/Baking
Reading cookbooks
Spending time w/friends
Spending time w/Jesse
Having a clean house (not so much the actual cleaning)
Listening to music
Drinking tea

(Note that Facebook didn’t make the list. Neither did checking online news.)

This week, I’ve been trying to do at least one thing from the list each day. These things are relaxing to me, restorative. The trick is, it doesn’t count if I feel guilty for it later.

The funny thing? Since I’ve started this, I’ve been more productive. Because when I’m tempted to procrastinate or waste time, the pull isn’t as strong because I know I’ll be able to do something restful that I enjoy if I make the time for it. It’s really just an attitude shift. Today, I mopped the floors and vacuumed and cleaned the dishes, and while I was doing it, I told myself I was doing it because having a clean house is on the list, and I knew I’d feel better once the floors were sparkly and smelling nice.

Today, I spent the first half of the day with A. and we took a long walk, played outside, read books, worked on learning colors, shapes, letters, and numbers. Then I came home and ate lunch while sitting at the little table on our back patio (er, concrete slab). While talking to Simona on the phone, I dusted the house and tidied up, and after hanging up I performed the aforementioned chores, then washed Jesse’s car (outside and in!). Earlier this morning, I’d put a pot roast in the slow cooker, so I didn’t need to make dinner, but on a whim I decided to go for a batch of cornbread. Jesse had to work late, so I ate by myself, cleaned up the kitchen, then decided I’d bake a lemon buttermilk pound cake (I’ve never made a pound cake before, so we’ll see how it turns out).

And the day’s not done. I may read, I may drink some tea, I may tackle some editing. Or, I might sit in the tub, doing absolutely nothing.