Rethinking habits

Last night I ordered pizza from our usual place, but I wanted something a little different from our normal pick. As I read through the menu, I realized I could order the gorgonzola pizza. Sandy didn't care for gorgonzola or any other blue cheese; I love them. And she's not going to want a piece. It was pretty tasty, and I enjoyed it again for lunch today. I don't know that it'll become my regular pizza, but it felt oddly adventurous to order it this time.

I stumble across those little unexpected freedoms every few days. Honestly, I feel a tiny thrill each time I realize I don't have to do something a certain way; I need only please myself now. There's also a pang of regret. The habits we shared were the product of hundreds or thousands of compromises forged over the years, the negotiations and agreements that come from sharing a life together. I don't want to abandon them too quickly.

The honeysuckle in full bloom, June 2009

I cleaned up the deck last week, sweeping up the birch leaves and removing things I'd tossed out there to deal with later (pots of spent basil, vases of dead flowers). I also cut back the honeysuckle, which overwhelms everything else on the deck and seems to aspire to gaining entrance to the house itself. I approached the task warily; this was Sandy's territory. How angry would she be if I lopped off too much? What was she planning for it? And then I realized that, for better or for worse, the decisions were all mine. I could trim it to my taste, and if I accidentally killed it, I could buy another or replace it with something a little less exuberant. I cut with abandon, nattering to Sandy about my logic as I did.

In the first few days after her death, I began wearing her clothing, reading her kindle, and using some of her other things to feel a connection to her. This is different: Now I'm reclaiming (invading?) her space. I hung a towel on the hooks that had been hers in the bathroom. I've moved my art supplies onto the shelves that held her zines until a few months ago. Soon, I'll clean the meat drawer in the fridge and start putting veggies there. I may even move the torchiere in the bedroom to my side of the bed, where it's more convenient to me; I haven't done it yet, but I realize I can.

One thing I can't bring myself to do is to sit at her computer
desk in the TV room. That was her space for more than a
decade; the cats walk across the desk and Nada
sleeps in her chair, but I haven't done much to disturb it yet.

This process involves a weird mix of emotions. Each time I claim space that was hers, it's an acknowledgement that she's not coming back.  Each time I change a habit to suit myself or evaluate one and decide it still works for me, I commit to living my own life, having my own future, creating my own space. At the same time, I'm striving to keep Sandy's presence and influence alive in our home, our garden, and the broader world. It's an awkward dance, but one I'm slowly learning to appreciate.