THE ONLY ONE

From the very beginning, I could see myself sitting in a rocking chair on the porch of my new house.  And I did notice that I was the only one there.  I assumed, because I have been around the block a few times, that this vision was far in the future, that I was an old woman, and that my domestic partner had died.  Or perhaps left me and moved back to Argentina but I kind of assumed he had died.  Because, y’know.

I have no words to describe my surprise when, on a lovely afternoon at the beginning of August, 6 weeks before the house was finally finished, said domestic partner informed me that he didn’t want to move to the new house with me.  He wanted to “be alone.”

HOW TO DIVIDE

We can skip over how devastating that was.  A lot of snot and sleepless nights (for me) ensued.  We can fast-forward through all the questions I had/have and all of yours too (sorry), and all the painful conversations (probably still not over) and all the haggling over logistics.  My goal is to tell the truth without being unkind.  Part of me is screaming about how bogus that is and telling me that at age 55, the mandate to “be a nice girl” has got to have about timed out.  But it’s my default mode.

I wrapped my head around it.  I made myself figure it out.  How to divide a business in half without killing it (hopefully). How to divide a household in half when most of the stuff belonged to one person in the first place and that person is very mad but trying to be nice but very mad.

THREE WEEKS

Don Agustin, the builder, is a fatherly gentleman whom I felt deserved at least somewhat of an explanation when I suddenly went from bouncy and excited to puffy-faced and listless, distracted, and barely functional.  I didn’t want him to think it was about the house.  I summed it up for him in about 2 sentences, explaining that for my mental health I needed to move in ASAP—that I didn’t care that the house wasn’t finished and I didn’t care how much dirt and noise they needed to make.  God love Don Agustin.  The look that crossed his face let me know that I had an ally.   That same evening after he and he and his helpers finished their work day, they hitched the trailer to Don Augustin’s truck and drove over for a load of my furniture.   

From that day, it took about 3 weeks for them (and the window guys) to get my bedroom to a point that I could move into it.  And, with the help of said ex-domestic partner and the grown step-children from my first marriage, I moved at the end of August.  The workers slept in the workers’ shed and Don Agustin slept in the guest bedroom until they finished the house.  Saturday.  And yes, the amount of noise and grime was remarkable.  And no, I did not once complain.

About 85% of the angst of being dumped evaporated in the doorway.   

POR FAVOR

How can I not wonder what happened?  I tell myself it doesn’t matter.  Did I do something wrong?  I tell myself not to be ridiculous.  I realize that I was not perhaps the most attentive partner during the construction process, especially during the last months.  Could that be it?  I tell myself that’s impossible.  No one ever left someone they love because that person built a house.  Por favor.  And then there are all the questions about ex-domestic partner’s emotions/involvement/intentions/etc.  But we aren’t going down that rabbit hole here.  He swears there isn’t someone else.  And considering the size of the community we exist within, I believe him.  When did it fall apart?  Or was it always just a bunch of pieces held together by the focused stream of energy I aimed at it?  Until I had to build a house on top of all the other things and All The Things had to share the available energy with All The Other Things? 

I tell myself it doesn’t matter.  That’s facing the wrong direction.

HARD TO STAY SAD

It IS a lovely place to be.  It isn’t perfect, but it is made of beautiful teak trees harvested from just down the road; trees that were planted the same year I came here for the first time and my life flipped upside down.  It has the terracotta floor I wanted.  And beautiful window bars (which IS possible) so that I can be both inside and outside at the same time.  Air moves through the house in all directions.  I even have an awesome open-air shower which Don Agustin tried in vain to talk me out of. 

I was sad when they left.  I expected to be happy, but that was before I ended up living with them for 3 weeks. 

So now what happens?

I guess we’ll find out.  But at least I know that I don’t know.  Before, I thought I knew and it turns out I had no freaking idea.

It is hard to stay sad, though, when you are surrounded by things that are beautiful.  With a mountain behind you and the blue church in front of you on the other side of the green plaza.  And the pretty lamps I found in Alajuela and the mango tree and the row of pipas.  I bought 15 little jasmines to plant around the porch.

WISE WORDS

I am reminded, here on Costa Rica’s Idependence Day in my rocking chair on the front porch, of the tale of my mentor, The Little Red Hen.  And having designed the house myself, having quoted and shopped for every nail and bolsa de fragua, having run out here almost every day whether I felt like it or not for the last 10 months, and having imagined this house so hard it actually materialized, my attitude, more and more, toward living here alone with my cats, can be summed up in her two wise words: 

Cluck. Cluck.