Bainbridge

Not a day goes by that I don't question my decision to move here. One day, after lunch, driving home from Bainbridge to Bremerton, I said to Magge, "I'd kind of like to live there," and Magge said, "Well, why don't you?" and one week later, I did.  Really. That's what happened.  I put my house up for sale, looked at a few places here, plunked down cash for this space, got some friends together to help me move, packed my things up inside a friend's industry-size moving van, and vroooooom. 

And that's what I know I know about grief.  You all know the story about the ninety pound lady who picked up an automobile because her son was lying under one. Well, I left one house, bought another, and moved to a community I did not know in seven days time, without consulting anyone. Why? Because I had cried enough tears in Bremerton and I needed to spread the tears around.

No, that's the joke answer.  Because I felt abandoned and unreceptive and not one good sensible thing felt right to me. Because friends were making noises like I should be over Jim's death and I was still sleeping with his ashes, stuffed into a silk pillow case - -  (I slept with them here, too, for over two more years, until one day Alan asked me if I would please, please consider putting my Jim-pillow away).

And now that the silk pillow has been emptied into the waters of Puget Sound, and now that I have come to my senses again, I find myself here.

Here.

Here's what I know about here.  If it weren't for my patients, I think I might go mad, here.  My patients bring a certain reality that is otherwise invisible to this place.  Otherwise, there are no African Americans in this place. Otherwise, there are no lower middle class people.  Bainbridge is kind of like a little literary heaven. They celebrate William Stafford's birthday here. I knew William Stafford. I knew his wife, Mary.  I visited them, at their home. Bill used my right shoulder to steady his - - that thing that you look at the heaven's with. Telescope.  He attended two of my writing classes at Port Townsend. And, of course I attended his.  Here, if you go to Gerry's Auto Repair, you are very likely to find an Edith Wharton book next to you on the crappy little side table. Here, there is Shakespeare in the Park and famous authors in the most surprising places and ten minute plays to write and poetry contests to win and only white people on the streets.  Here, the doctors live on the island and their staff live off island.  Here, if there's been an accident on the bridge, the restaurants don't open because the staff live off island.  Here, you will never run into one person with a sign that reads, "NO JOB! NEED MONEY!" held with a bedraggled man standing at an intersection with a dog.

What's wrong with me that I crave to see poor people?  That I crave to see different colored faces?  Could it be that this place is just a little too much like living in some mutant version of adult kindergarten?  And, oh my God, am I biting the hand that feeds me?  Probably.  I don't know.

Probably.  I don't know.

Today a  very dear and very bright friend who is coming to visit me, wrote, "Bainbridge is a fur piece, but seeing you will make it worth it."

       So what have I done here, other than rebuild a successful practice (no mean feat, at 65 years old)?  Well, Ma'm,  I have learned, finally, how to live alone.  I have learned how to care for myself.  Not without a struggle.  Not without things to be otherwise. But. If I want to go to a party, I throw a party.  If I want to join others, I find others.  During the Golden Globe awards, I bought myself a split of very good champagne, curled up on my couch in my silkiest black robe and ate a dinner of champagne and popcorn.  I was perfectly happy.  During the last SeaHawks game I split my time between a good book and the game, knowing my autonomic nervous system couldn't simply watch the game clear through. When I need a walk, I take a walk. When I need to lift weights, they're right here, beside my television.  I read a ton of books. I keep a journal.  If I feel broken, I know how to fix myself. I no longer need anybody else to fix me.

That's big.

I no longer need anybody else to fix me.  I can fix myself.

Even so, wow.  Without my patients, without their humanity, without  their crushing honesty,  their inevitable struggles, their commitment to life,  without the solace of their struggle at the deepest level, where could I find my own.  I share myself, of course. I am not that therapist who does not share herself. But it is the participation that makes life here, life on Bainbridge Island, not merely tolerable, but deeply live-able and most certainly love-able, for me.