a slow morning
Jul. 30th, 2005 10:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chelidonI was up very late last night with the entire household, including our new Once and Future Housemate, along with another dear long-time friend and "sister" I haven't seen in far too long who came along to help with the move and get a much-needed visit in. And we caroused and regaled and reconnected and had a wonderful evening, and just before bed one of my housemates and I went up to the paddock and watched the stars radiate their glory through the inky black bowl of night...I hope I never forget what a blessing it is to see the stars like this.
And this morning I woke up a bit bleary, a bit slow, a little dehydrated and with a tiny headache (probably more from a shortage of water than an excess of wine), and everyone else is going out to the Rusty Moose cafe for breakfast, and I check in with myself and find that for no reason I can put my finger on, I just feel quietly, deeply, unaccountably sad. So I bow out of the outing to the local cafe, and stay to sit on the back deck once everyone leaves and the house is silent, and listen to the birds and finish installing a new light fixture in the upstairs master bath, and...just have some alone time, some space to feel as I feel, and let it pass.
For all that I've lived in group houses since I left home 20 years ago, and all of the bardic circles, parties, gatherings, festivals, workshops and events I've planned and hosted, all the camps and weekend workshops I've taught, all the outrageous things I've done on occasion over the years, all the Grand Central Station-like nature of Casa Chaos on many nights, weeks, months, I'm still essentially an introvert, still in some ways very much a hermit. I need my alone time, need to have personal time for contemplation and solitude. And I'm blessed in that I do usually have that -- I usually get about as much time as I need on weekends, and most of my days now are spent working alone, on my own land, until everyone piles back into the house each afternoon and fills it with noise and life again. My new housemate may also be working from home, so that arrangement may change somewhat, but I know with certainty that she'll give me space if I wish, too.
I think that's one of the characteristics of my "tribe," particularly all those with whom I've shared living space -- they have a fundamental respect for personal space and privacy, of the need for company, or the need to be alone. This morning, when I chose not to go to the 'Moose for breakfast, someone asked, once only, "are you sure you don't want to come?" Then, from another housemate, "can we bring you something back?" And that's all. It's so important to know what kind of space you need, and to be with people who respect each other's need for various kinds of space. That's certainly something I didn't get with family of birth growing up, so I'm especially appreciative for it since.
As an aside, our new housemate has three cats. That means that once Tracy, our lovely English expatriate guest, goes back southerly on Sunday and leaves us with just the permanent residents, we'll have broken one of the cardinal house rules, and there will now be more cats than people here. We're in *such* trouble. I think we've got houseguests now more often than not booked through September/October, but over the winter, we will definitely be outnumbered for perhaps weeks at a time. I smell a coup ;>
And this morning I woke up a bit bleary, a bit slow, a little dehydrated and with a tiny headache (probably more from a shortage of water than an excess of wine), and everyone else is going out to the Rusty Moose cafe for breakfast, and I check in with myself and find that for no reason I can put my finger on, I just feel quietly, deeply, unaccountably sad. So I bow out of the outing to the local cafe, and stay to sit on the back deck once everyone leaves and the house is silent, and listen to the birds and finish installing a new light fixture in the upstairs master bath, and...just have some alone time, some space to feel as I feel, and let it pass.
For all that I've lived in group houses since I left home 20 years ago, and all of the bardic circles, parties, gatherings, festivals, workshops and events I've planned and hosted, all the camps and weekend workshops I've taught, all the outrageous things I've done on occasion over the years, all the Grand Central Station-like nature of Casa Chaos on many nights, weeks, months, I'm still essentially an introvert, still in some ways very much a hermit. I need my alone time, need to have personal time for contemplation and solitude. And I'm blessed in that I do usually have that -- I usually get about as much time as I need on weekends, and most of my days now are spent working alone, on my own land, until everyone piles back into the house each afternoon and fills it with noise and life again. My new housemate may also be working from home, so that arrangement may change somewhat, but I know with certainty that she'll give me space if I wish, too.
I think that's one of the characteristics of my "tribe," particularly all those with whom I've shared living space -- they have a fundamental respect for personal space and privacy, of the need for company, or the need to be alone. This morning, when I chose not to go to the 'Moose for breakfast, someone asked, once only, "are you sure you don't want to come?" Then, from another housemate, "can we bring you something back?" And that's all. It's so important to know what kind of space you need, and to be with people who respect each other's need for various kinds of space. That's certainly something I didn't get with family of birth growing up, so I'm especially appreciative for it since.
As an aside, our new housemate has three cats. That means that once Tracy, our lovely English expatriate guest, goes back southerly on Sunday and leaves us with just the permanent residents, we'll have broken one of the cardinal house rules, and there will now be more cats than people here. We're in *such* trouble. I think we've got houseguests now more often than not booked through September/October, but over the winter, we will definitely be outnumbered for perhaps weeks at a time. I smell a coup ;>
