Who Is This Woman?

I spent my mid-to-late-twenties living alone in a one-room schoolhouse. It was like being at the cottage all the time: comfy, mismatched furniture, no television or computer, instruments and books for company, a deep bed, and most of all: peace and quiet.

My life now is as far from that as I can imagine. Unless you have 2+ children, you cannot fathom the cacophony that is my daily life; the screams, laughter, demands, arguments, and constant chatter of children can be overwhelming. Add to that the seemingly endless string of tasks and responsibilities, and it's no wonder we barely recognise ourselves sometimes.

Lately when I look in the mirror I find myself searching for that woman I was. She's still in there, surely. She used to have this poem taped to her bathroom mirror, smiling at the sense of recognition:

Portrait By A Neighbour
Edna St. Vincent-Millay
Before she has her floor swept
Or her dishes done,
Any day you'll find her
A-sunning in the sun!

It's long after midnight
Her key's in the lock,
And you never see her chimney smoke
Til past ten o'clock!

She digs in her garden
With a shovel and a spoon,
She weeds her lazy lettuce
By the light of the moon,

She walks up the walk
Like a woman in a dream,
She forgets she borrowed butter
And pays you back in cream!

Her lawn looks like a meadow,
And if she mows the place
She leaves the clover standing
And the Queen Anne's lace!

I loved this self-indulgent woman dearly. She wandered in the woods in her rubber boots, collecting bits of nature to render in watercolour later in the day. She adopted stray cats and let them give birth on her bed, then found loving homes for their kittens. She existed on crackers and cheese and tea, and good books. She fed guests on antique silver and china. She stayed up late noodling on her mandolin, playing the piano, singing to shake the windows. She sat in dreamy silence a lot of the time. She had a few suitors, but preferred to be alone.

I miss her. Part of the aim of my retreat was to seek her out, ask her how she is, and if she'd like to visit me in any small capacity. I think I caught a glimpse of her late at night, in a candlelit mirror, but only when I didn't look directly. Look past the little lines of worry and joy, the softer places experience has wrought...do you see her there, in my eyes? Near the corner of my mouth? Now, if I can just figure out a way to coax her out more often...