Maybe she was saying it's okay not to be okay all the time

"When we love people, we learn to speak their language."

I am an hour north of the City, alone in a small, nearly all-white room filled with cloud-filtered daylight through the windows on three sides. We call it the cabin. Or the studio. It might be called a guest house if only it had a kitchen.

I’m nestled in a window box by a garden window, across from the plump white duvet that’s so perfectly crumpled over the murphy bed, it looks staged. I’m drinking strong, lukewarm coffee and watching pink peony blooms bow gently over their stems with each fat raindrop that plants itself on a petal. A hummingbird hovers over the showy purple sage flowers.

I love watching hummingbirds. They’ve always felt magical to me, like creatures in a fairy tale that no one believes are actually real.

The breeze disappears and everything goes still in the garden. I can only hear the ceiling fan spinning overhead.

I’m not used to this kind of quiet.

I can get used to this kind of quiet.

This is a holiday weekend for many people of beach trips and family vacations, graduation celebrations, picnics and brunches with friends — but not for me.

This is a weekend that I needed to have nowhere to be. Nothing on my calendar. No meetings. No school events. No reasons to wash my hair or put on mascara. No waking up with a panicked gasp at 5 AM, thinking surely I’ve forgotten some work or obligation that is now past due which is, of course, the end of the world.

(Narrator: It’s not the end of the world.)

It’s been that kind of a month. It’s been that kind of a year.

And now, it’s the start of a new season.

As much as I preach it, I’m not always the best at putting my own oxygen mask on first. So I’m incredibly grateful to have a partner who said, I’ll take the kids…you go for a couple of days by yourself…and promise not to work, okay?

I’m incredibly grateful to have parents who welcomed me like the most gracious B&B hosts and said, you just rest. The cabin is ready for you. Don’t do the dishes. No, we’ve got the salad. Is the room temperature okay? Do you need another pillow in the studio? Would you like a glass of wine? It’s not too early for wine, right? Let’s have a glass together.

(Although B&B hosts don’t generally wrap you in their arms on arrival and say, I’ve got you. That would be weird.)

Every time I’ve tried to help, my mom has said, you just lie there. Relax. Do you want the TV on? Do you need a blanket? Do you want some slippers? Do you want The Atlantic? New York Magazine? I still get them in print. Wait....I put some more wine in the refrigerator. Let’s have a little glass together.

We had a little glass together.

I’m cold, put on a sweater, is a running joke in our family.

My mother’s projections of her own feelings on us — I’m cold, do you want to put on a sweater?

What a long day this was, how about you take a hot bath?

Dinner’s not for a while, how about a piece of cheese? I have a nice brie...

It wasn’t until I had kids myself that I learned I have my own funny way of saying some things.

Do you want to get the water started for pasta?

Do you want to see who’s at the door?

Do you want to grab the mail?

As if I’m asking whether you want a neck massage. As if I’m doing you a favor.

I didn’t notice it for the longest time; it was just my way of speaking.

My ex used to yell at me, “Just tell me if you want me to get the mail! Don’t ask me if I want to!”

Then, I met Jon.

He simply answers, “Sure. I’ll grab the mail on my way upstairs.”

When we love people, we learn to speak their language.

I’m cold put on a sweater

You know that line about how changing your view helps you change your perspective?

I’m staring out this rain-splattered window thinking that maybe my mom was never saying that she was cold and therefore, I must be cold too.

Maybe she was simply saying, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I want you to be warm. I want you to feel happy. I want you to feel taken care of. I want to anticipate your needs. I want you to know you can have my sweater.

I want you to know I love you.

Maybe she was simply reminding me that here, with her, it is okay not to be okay 100% of the time. It’s okay tell her what I need, to ask for the sweater or the time alone in the cabin that’s just 50 yards from her back door, to let someone else cook for me, to accept seconds on ice cream, to hit that reset button so I can move forward into a new season.

To let her take care of me like moms do.

If we are lucky.

Tomorrow, I’ll share the stories of the peonies.

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