Hello, fronds. This weekend I did … absolutely nothing.
Honestly, it came as a bit of a shock. I was worried for a hot second: was I ill? Depressed? But no. I think what’s happening is that I’m starting to settle into my new life.
I talked a couple of months ago about how constitutionally incapable I was of doing nothing, even when I had time. There’s been a standing to-do list, especially for the weekend, while I kept myself busy busy busy to cope with my anxiety.
But here I am. I’ve worked through the eleventy-billion details that come with moving across the country; this weekend, for the first time since the move, I had nothing on the agenda. No errands, no projects, no meeting a friend. I stayed up late reading, slept in, and spent Sunday binge-watching Bernadette Banner videos* on YouTube, which is wildly out of character for me. Apparently, moving into a house without children and dogs might free up some time on the weekend. Who knew?
Here’s the thing: once I calmed down, I realized it was the best kind of nothing. (Or maybe that realization came first, then the calming down?) I’m alone, but not lonely. The weather’s gorgeous, it feels like fall, I have friends here I meet up with in various safe ways. I’ve been slowly digging out my warmer clothing and linens from wherever I haphazardly shoved them in June, when I moved in during a heat wave and couldn’t bear the thought of touching my winter things, much less organizing them. That’s all a merciful blank in my memory (moving is terrible) but there are only a couple of places I could have stashed them – mostly under the bed in storage bags, this house has literally one closet – so, I’ve been pulling them out and doing what I should have done before I put them away, which is washing and/or airing out. I’m pleased that there are in fact sweaters and pants and coats, now that I’m going to need them. I made harried decisions at the last minute, so it’s been a surprise seeing what made the cut.
I did a couple of tiny projects on Saturday — buffing some moving-related scuffs off the top of my coffee table, and re-potting two small houseplants that had outgrown their micro-pots. I had to nudge a black widow spider out of the way with my trowel to get into my potting soil; I’m not thrilled about that aspect of the southwest (the giant desert centipedes here are frankly horrifying, and it’s also tarantula migration/mating season, they’re on the move in droves. You’re welcome!) But allegedly black widows are shy and would rather run than fight, and it served as a reminder not to stick my hands and feet where I can’t see, even indoors. I’m back to shaking my shoes and boots out vigorously and banging them upside down on the floor before I put them on.
I also took a short walk to see the pair of ravens in a tree up the street. One of them keeps talking to me. I googled it (“what is the raven saying” is apparently a thing people regularly google) and I still don’t know … some of the online symbolism is more dire, I hope that’s wrong. I think ravens are gorgeous, way cooler than crows, which were the standard big, spooky bird back east. I’m going with the interpretation that ravens are a harbinger of change and transformation, not death; that seems nicer, doesn’t it?
*Bernadette Banner hand-sews historical garments for herself, something that I have no intention of doing, ever, but I find it fascinating; she shares all her research and techniques along with occasional reviews of the costumes on period dramas.