Love and Leaves

Saturday, I opted to sit with a friend after our volleyball tournament instead of playing pick up.  We drank beers in the warm sun and caught up.  He mentioned that I hadn't written in a while.  "I know," I said.  I'd been thinking about it the day before, but I guess I hadn't really realized how much time had passed since my last post until he said so.  I suppose when you've got work, boyfriend, house repair, and Airbnb renters consuming your life, it's hard to get a moment to yourself.  This weekend, I think I spent more time at other people's houses than at my own.  That sort of thing catches up with you, though, and I'm glad I'll have the house to myself (and myself to myself) this week.

"Is it because things are getting serious with the guy?  Is that why you're posting less?" he asked.

And here's the thing.  I've been thinking about this question of "getting serious" a lot.  I've talked about it with my old roommate Jessica a lot, too, when we went out to dinner last Tuesday.  "People always say, 'you know when you know,'" she postured, "but if you've never known before, how do you know?"  And it's true.  I remember the first time I really had a crush on a guy in college, and I thought to myself, "Is this love?"  And then I remember the first time I dated someone seriously, and I thought, "Is this love?"  And I remember a guy I wanted to be serious with a couple of years ago and thinking again, "Is this love?"  I find myself even now wondering the same thing.  Because what is love?

Last week, I was teaching my fourth graders about matter, and I did a quick activity to get the ball rolling.  "Here's a list of twenty things.  If matter is something that has mass and volume, like we said, then which of these are matter? And if they're not matter, what are they?"  Love was on the list.  When I asked, "Is love matter?"  The kids replied with a resounding no, and one called out, "It's not matter; it's a feeling!"  And I wondered to myself, "Is that what love is?"

In college, I was part of a pretty engaged Catholic group, and I distinctly remember the priest saying, "Love is not a feeling.  Love is a choice."  Others reiterated the thought in countless retreat speeches and homilies.  "Oh yes," I thought at the time, "love is definitely a choice."

But a choice for what?  A choice to care for the person?  To have his/her best interests in mind?  And what are the shades of love that we supposedly choose?  I don't love my mother the way that I love my sister the way that I love my house the way that I love my boyfriend.  Or do I love him at all?

Sometime in the past two weeks, I came to the realization that "Jack" is most likely not my future husband.  We're pretty compatible in a lot of ways, but there will likely come a point when his lack of financial awareness and my overbearingly organized lifestyle and his weird interests and my desire to have kids will make that personality compatibility seem insignificant.  This seems like something that would stress me out (as so many things do), but instead, it was a weight lifted off my shoulders.  Prior to the epiphany, I was unsure of how "Jack" would ever settle fast enough for me to have kids before I'm too old, and that uncertainty kept holding me back.  But I'm realizing now, that's not the point of this relationship.  It's like my mom likes to say when we go furniture shopping, "R, this doesn't have to be a grueling decision.  You're not marrying the furniture; you're just dating it."  I don't have to marry "Jack"; I just need to be willing to learn something from the experience.

It was a relief to "Jack" as well, it turns out.  Friday night, after an uncomfortable discussion between us about pot, we then found ourselves in the midst of a conversation about the future.  "I'm a mess," he said, "and I don't know if I want to have kids or get married.  And you're responsible and you seem to have a plan, and I don't want to waste your time."

"We've only been dating for three months," I replied.  "I'm not with you because I want marriage or kids with you.  I'm with you because I like spending time with you.  Because you're sweet and thoughtful.  Because you're cute.  Maybe it'll be an issue whenever we have this conversation next, but for right now, it's not important to me."

"That makes me feel better," he said.

It made me feel better, too.  Especially because I was pretty worried at the beginning of the conversation that he was leading into a break up speech, and I wasn't ready for that.



This weekend, I also finally tackled my backyard.  It's been clawing at me, always in the back of my mind, and on Saturday, I finally pulled out the rake and heavy duty black bags and got to work.  It's not a particularly large space, but it took two and half hours and something like 15 contractor bags to get rid of all of the leaves, trash, and random shit people had left in that back area over who knows how many years.  Truth be told, it still doesn't look great, but it's a start.  My mom likes to say that house renovation is a marathon not a sprint, but I've never run any further than 4.5 miles, so I'm not exactly sure I'm capable of that sort of stamina.  I just want a nice backyard, and I'd prefer to have it sooner rather than later.  Luckily, I can't afford it, so it doesn't matter what I want.  I'll just have to be patient.

Three months ago

During Clean Up

After Clean Up