IN SEARCH OF FREEDOM
I’ve been at a loss for words these last couple of months. I attempted a post in March and another earlier this month, but felt they were more like lists of accomplishments and things still to be done, and I lacked the mental, emotional and intellectual energy necessary for weaving disparate threads into a meaningful essay. Let’s hope this third attempt takes me, and hopefully you, on a journey of discovery.
One of the things I’ve learned over decades of writing, is that sometimes I have to say “no,” first in order to say “yes.” Another thing I’ve learned is that writing the mundane, actually committing it to paper, is often the vehicle that gets me out of the rut. So, here is a chronological list of accomplishments and hindrances, challenges and victories, resentment and revelation, exhaustion and rejuvenation, disappointments and love.
23rd February
We left Tuscany for London to attend to repairs to the house in which we have a pied-a-terre.
2nd March
Flew to New York to:
See our family for the first time in 2 1/2 years.
Prepare the apartment and Joel’s studio for sale.
Create and sign new wills.
Spend time Upstate New York with my daughter.
Prepare Joel’s studio for relocation to Brooklyn.
Continue being filmed throughout this time for a documentary film of which we are the subjects.
It wasn’t until the arrival of the pandemic in March 2020 that Joel and I realized we were “Old and Vulnerable.” We were informed of this by the World Health Organization. At that time, I was 73 and Joel 82. It took us a couple of weeks to accept our new status. It literally aged us. Two years later…and older…we knew that the trip to New York was going to be challenging. This is a year of transition for us; a year in which ware are accepting not only our ages the but the fact that our inevitable departure is closer than it appears in the side mirrors. In order to free ourselves to live as simply, creatively and harmoniously as possible for the remainder of our time, we had to take a good look at reality: Barring an unforeseen double whammy, one of us will depart first. As much as I find that unacceptable, I do accept that it’s unavoidable.
Coming from different backgrounds and indeed different countries, living in Tuscany all these years has levelled the playing field in that we are both strangers in a strange land. We call it our Switzerland in that it neutralized us. However, last year we realized that living in the remote countryside, car-dependent, in a foreign language, with only 3 friends nearby, is not conducive to old-age. One day, before we crash the car, we’ll have to leave. The best thing about all of this is knowing how much we want to take care of each other; that we want to prepare the ground in a way that whomever survives the other will have the bolt-hole (London for me, New York for Joel) that will provide some comfort, some sense of belonging that will allow each of us to feel as at home as one can in the absence of the one we love.
I don’t always like being grown-up. Sometimes, the relentless responsibility that comes with it is such a drag. I particularly felt that way when, at 8 o’clock in the morning, the day after we arrived in NY, I began the emptying of cupboards, closets, drawers and file cabinets, so that Joel can downsize to Brooklyn, close to his kids. I won’t bore you with details; we all know how much ridiculous/useless shit we accumulate and attach ourselves to in the misconception that the material not only reflects who we are, but keeps precious memories alive. Twenty bags of garbage were disposed of right quick. About 20 boxes of items went to a local charity. Then began the sorting of what moves to Brooklyn, what to London, what gets donated, and what stays in order keep the place looking attractive for sale. It was physically exhausting. But two things did me in emotionally and mentally.
One was the intrusion of Covid which sent us all into isolation and cut, by more than half, the time with my daughter. The other was my library for which there is no room here in London. Apart from hundreds of books that I treasure, it also housed 2 shelves of approximately 60 journals written over 30 years between the early 70’s to the early aughts. Each day I’d look at them and try to figure out where I could put them. I’ve been carting them around all these years, from Upstate New York, to San Francisco, back Upstate, to Cape Cod and finally to New York.
Then one day I looked at them and saw them for what they were: years of searching and pain and loss and disappointment. Decades of struggle and addiction. Why the fuck would I want to hang on to that? Did I really think that one day I’d want to spend weeks reading them? Did I want our children to read them after I’m gone? Horrors! I suddenly saw them as the vehicle that had gradually got me to here; to now; to life as a sober wife, mother, writer, artist, friend. They got me to the good life and were no longer necessary. There were also five 3-ring binders of “poetry” that I thought I had, many years ago, pulled out of the pain. But reading through them knifed me. Out of some 200 I ended up keeping 10 that had some worth as poetry. One of them, written in 1977, seems as universally relevant today, as it did personally back then. Here it is:
Sometimes the ever-diminishing
circle of confusion
spins itself out
in a straight
line as if
it knew all
along where
it was
going
Letting go of it all was an unburdening of the past that I had unconsciously been clinging to as some kind of proof that I had earned the right to live as an independent, fulfilled woman. And yes, at first the sense of lightness was unbearable.
I came back to London alone on 3rd April, leaving Joel to finish Important work in his studio. The first week I slept 10 hours a night, went for walks and started drawing and painting. Some of which is threaded throughout this essay. Joel is back with me now and we are allowing ourselves pats on the back for all that we have accomplished in our quest for freedom…in spite of our ages. Freedom is, of course, an illusion; unless one is willing to accept that “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”
With love
Maggie
