After a chock-full weekend of activities and events, yesterday it was just the man and me, home alone all day, our girl gone back to school, our son at work, and the two of us here, companionable. We were mostly in different rooms, passing through to make this comment or that to each other, but really just knowing with a quiet sense of comfort that the other was there. I did some work, pushing to get my book project done, while my husband mostly read and watched TV, enjoying his day off from work. We didn't march in any MLK day marches. We just stayed in. As Mary, the minister of our church said from the pulpit one Sunday, "Sometimes self care is a revolutionary act."
Speaking of our new minister, she was invested on Saturday, an occasion of great pomp and ceremony, presided over by the Bishop of New York in gold and red regalia, his mitre atop his head, and a procession of other bishops and cannons and priests in ceremonial robes that streamed up the aisle forever. I was there mostly for my husband, who as senior warden of the church had a major part in making all this happen, from the renovation of the landmark rectory building over the past two years, to the hiring of this new activist minister, to the church decorations and floral arrangements, to the feast in the undercroft afterward.
The church was packed, standing room only, as many of Mary's flock from her old church in Greenwich Village were there, not to mention what looked like every high church dignitary in the city. And Mary's family was there, her wife and two sons, her mother and brother, other family members. I was so proud of my husband for getting it done, and so proud of Mary, this tiny woman in white robes who was taking over this quirky little parish in Harlem, known in New York City as the "We are not afraid" church. The applause and cheering and hooting when the Bishop presented her to the congregation was sustained, everyone on their feet. I imagined how her mother's heart must have been bursting in the front pew, and how gratified my husband must have been feeling, and my eyes welled up with tears. My husband's did, too.
And then after more weekend events that included a birthday party Saturday night for one of our friends, Henri's leave-taking on Sunday morning, family dinner out on Sunday night, and my daughter packing and blowing out the door Monday morning with suitcase in tow, there was the peace of a house empty but for my husband and me. I could hear him in the living room, laughing a some of the antics on the show Brain Games, which was having a marathon. It tickles me no end when I hear him, alone in a room, laughing with such abandon.
At some point in the late afternoon, my brain was tired of stringing sentences together, and I climbed into bed with my Kindle. I read for a while and then drifted into sleep, and woke a little while later, my husband still in front of the TV, now cheering on the Knicks, who actually won a basketball game last night. Knowing his cell was on the bench next to him, I picked up my phone and texted him from the bedroom, I love you. Being here with you is nice. You and me. No stress. Peaceful. I added lots of emoticons because my husband is a teenage girl when it comes to emojis; never met a one he didn't want to use. He texted back: Been a nice day indeed. Much needed. You are still a nut. With lots of emojis of his own. I turned over and went back to sleep.
|The man of the hour (and me)|
|Delicious birthday lasagna made by James|
|Breakfast smoothie before work|
|My girl took this one of her family|