v.40 Porches Should Be Sat On, Marriages Should Breathe.
Welcome to Life, Created—a new [old school] blog for modern times. This twice-a-week(ish) dispatch is a space for us to dig deeper, share ideas, recognize microjoys and build community beyond the mindless scroll.
Not every stretch of solitude needs to be a transformation. Sometimes, the quiet is just quiet, and that’s it. We live in a world that insists every moment should mean something, that even rest should be productive, that time alone should come with a before and after. But what if it doesn’t? What if some days are meant to be ordinary, and still feel full? What if joy doesn’t always arrive with a big reveal, but with a soft landing?
While Ira was out of town, I didn’t do anything noteworthy. I didn’t become a better version of myself or re-read The Artist’s Way (though it’s on my list.) I didn’t spontaneously deep-clean the apartment or brush our cats. I didn’t call anyone I love. I just… stayed home. I went to yoga most mornings, bought my cold latte after, potted a few plants, and finally bought the appropriately-sized lampshade for the wildly unnecessary but very loved vintage orange baroque lamp I picked up at a thrift store. I also spent a surprising amount of time walking and wondering why people with beautiful porches in the suburbs refuse to use them. Honestly, what is the point of a porch if not to sit on it and silently judge everyone who walks by?
And no, I wasn’t lonely. Not once. Ira and I have been together for a decade and got married when we were 39 years old, which means we brought our full-grown selves into this relationship. We rarely talk and don’t need to text nonstop when one of us is away. We trust each other. We like each other. We also deeply enjoy doing our own thing. There’s something beautifully adult about that. It’s the kind of adulting that isn’t performative or aspirational, it just is. I suppose that it’s a quiet kind of freedom to love someone deeply and still feel whole in their absence.
My favorite part of him being away wasn’t the solitude itself but instead, it was how unremarkable it felt. No part of me needed to fill the space. I wasn’t resisting loneliness or romanticizing my time alone. I was just living inside of it. Fully. And if you’ve ever felt like you need someone else to witness your joy for it to be real… I get that. But I also want to gently challenge it. Because sometimes, the most grounded joy is the kind that asks for nothing. It just shows up while you’re drinking a cup of coffee (or tea, if that’s more your thing), ignoring your to-do list, or lighting the fancy candle you were saving for no good reason anyway.
Also, consider this your reminder: if you have a porch, use it. Truly. Put a chair out there. Put your whole self out there. Make eye contact with one neighbor. Or don’t. But for the love of all things holy, do not let that porch become a Pinterest backdrop with no soul. We are too grown, too beautifully alive, and too deeply aware to live in spaces we don’t actually inhabit. That goes for our homes, our relationships, and also, ourselves.
This week’s microjoy: My brothers came to visit for a picnic lunch in the park, just the three of us, sitting under a wide blue sky, eating unhealthy delicious food and talking for hours about Mama Shelley, about life, and about nothing at all. It was the kind of afternoon that felt both ordinary and sacred. Exactly the kind of moment I know our mama dreamed of for us. Her adult children: self-sufficient, connected, laughing, remembering.
There’s something so comforting about sitting with the only people who knew you in a home that no longer exists, who speak the same family shorthand, who carry the same memories in slightly different hues. We didn’t have to fill the silence. We just were. And that, in itself, was enough.
Though I miss my parents every single day, this was a microjoy in its purest form—a quiet reminder that I still have my brothers. My people. My memory keepers. We are still here, side by side, holding it all together in our own imperfect, beautiful way.
And truly, what a gift that is.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- PLEASE repost, comment, share and spread the word.
Welcome to Life, Created.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
