Embraced.

I've been talking a lot lately to strangers and semi-strangers - on planes, in classes, etc. - and I've been open about my life and my trials and my eventual triumphs. I see it all now blossoming before me like a scenic landscape of Crayola green glens with red apple polka dots and dabs of yellow sunshine. I see joy and contentment. I am in the midst of it. I feel it, and yet when I tell someone how blessed I have become I struggle with tears. I don't know why. I know that I have reached a pinnacle. I feel, at work, that I am fulfilled and that I am fulfilling others. I feel, with my child, that no mother could have a more tender, loving child. I feel, in my life, I have been exorbitantly provided for - a lovely cottage home in a lovely small town. I feel more loved than I have ever felt, more accepted. I don't know if these are tears of joy because I have never felt this kind of joy. Tears of a child who has felt so alone for so long who is finally embraced.

And another thing.

Why is it that people only acknowledge one kind of love? People act as if life is loveless without romance. I don't find that to be true. I am loved by my friends, my family, by many of my colleagues, and even by some of my students. To top it all off, I am quite fond of myself. Why is it that people believe that choosing to leave off the romantic part must be sad and lonely? In truth, I've never felt so loved in my life as I feel right now. And frankly, I'm the best date I've ever had. I can eat all of the steak and onion rings and not even be bothered with brushing my teeth right away, which I've always found to be a waste of perfectly good after-taste. I also don't have to share my cheesecake with anyone. You know you're jealous.

Weird.

I have a married friend who thinks that I must be weird because I don't want to re-marry. It's hard for some people to comprehend being happily solo, though I know many people would understand me perfectly well.

I am happy alone. I am not looking for a soulmate. I don't want one. I don't want to get married or date. I enjoy driving in my car alone. I enjoy sleeping alone. I even enjoy dining in restaurants alone. I don't need anyone around in order to devour a book and understand its message. I don't need anyone to rouse my attention to the clattering of pear tree leaves in the evening. Crickets sound just as soothing without another pair of ears resonating to their monotonous rhythm.

Aside from my son, of course, who sits next to me at the open window, his chubby arms crossed beneath his chin as he smiles and listens and watches with me.

I am no less of a person, my existence is no less fulfilled, without a romantic partner. What would that one extra person add to my life that I don't already derive from myself, my family, or my friends?

I'm not a poor old maid who will die having never experienced true love or passion or romance. I've had all of that, thank you, and it was lovely. I wouldn't change a moment of it. Not even the heartache. However, when I was in love with someone else, I hardly had a spare moment for myself. I had no time to press my palms into clover patches just to feel their cool softness. I had no time to stand and stare at swaths of stars or to notice the changing shape and color of the moon. I had no time to pull apart pansies to find the hidden pansy king. I bet you married people didn't even know he existed. I didn't have time to take up the guitar or to sketch trees or to write poems.

I've been married. It was mostly lovely at times. I'm not anti-marriage, but it's important for a girl to know what she wants. I want time for my son and time for myself. I don't think that a man exists who would be able to provide that for me.

It's hard for some people to distinguish between a person who is alone and a person who is lonely. In fact, I am neither. I am surrounded by people who love and respect me. I don't want more than that.

Sweet Betsy and cape jasmine.

Fain and I walked to our house from church today. The current owners were not home, and so we gave ourselves permission to peruse the backyard. Our neighbor from across the street, a knowledgeable gardener, joined us and told us the names of many of our plants.

The far back yard is overgrown and wild, shaded by tall pines, wax myrtles, and dogwoods. Yellow jonquils are in bloom, and the green flags of irises wave in the breeze. The crisp, silver pods of money trees rustle and shake behind azaleas and tall, dark bushes covered with red berries. There is a tulip tree and several japonica shrubs in full, scarlet bloom. I’ll have to cut out a few free-loading oaks that have tried to take over, and I’ll have to pull out fallen branches and suspicious undergrowth. I look forward to the job. Sunshine, the smell of sweet Betsy and honeysuckle, dirt. What could be better?

Lantana grows in whips around the sides of the house, along with cape jasmine and camellia bushes. We even have a red Japanese maple waiting for us.

Fain enjoyed running and falling in the wide swath of dry lawn. I eyed the flower beds at the front of the house, empty, waiting for me to fill it with lavender and rosemary and butterfly bushes and blue mist. I’ll pack it with catnip and redleaf and pinks and indigo. I’ll never go on vacation again. My yard will be the most exotic escape ever forged by two bare hands…four when Fain is a little older.

The original owner of the house lived there until she died, in her eighties. The neighbor used to bring her tomatoes from his own garden. He said that she loved her yard. She walked over it with a pad in her hand. She wrote constantly about new growths, old friends, buzzing pests, perhaps. I laughed because I had already envisioned myself doing the same thing.

She told the neighbor once that her husband had picked a sweet Betsy bud each morning before he went to work, crushed it, and put it in his pocket. I’ll have to try that.