I pulled over early this morning across the street from the house in Pennsburg and just l0oked resentfully (at the idea of John) and sadly (at “my” porch) for a few moments before driving on. My potted rural mailbox is still on the porch, and the three upstairs windows — two to my bedroom, one to the hall — gaped blankly at me like the tired eyes of . . . I don’t know — an old stone house. I wish I’d taken better care of it, and of myself. I know I was grateful; I never took it for granted that I know of. I loved my big kitchen, my porch on Main Street, even the stairs I found it so hard to manage. I loved those deep windowsills. I loved the mantlepieces.
I’ve been at Rest And Be Thankful for just over six months now. I need to remember why I am here, and remind myself how I got here and what promises I made to myself and God.
I need to write the stories of these two places, how I had seen and loved them both long before I lived in them, what I called the old house when driving by, how I looked toward the cottages here and imagined living in one.
Sometimes in a meeting an alcoholic will say, “This is where I am today.” This follows or is followed by an assessment of the speaker’s spiritual or emotional condition. For me the phrase refers to this apartment — the porch, the big-enough kitchen, the lovingly-maintained (by Harley) and comfortable living room, the thumpy upstairs neighbors who’ve been so good to me, the dogs that bark all around, the magnetized closet doors, the smallness that’s still more than I need. Upper Perk is gone like yesterday and I have no idea what the future with Dan holds.