Losing everything and gaining everything.

I have a morning tea ritual. I've had it for quite some time now. It was inevitable really, that it would come about. I've always had a penchant for small things. When I was little, I preferred buds to blossoms. I liked small books; I still like the old tiny ones best. There's something about a Shakespeare's tragedy that can make you sob at the same time it fits in the palm of your hand. Even in ceramics class, everyone else would mold huge serving platters and I would have rows of small bowls, or their cylinders would tower over my bud vases that I crafted painstakingly. The tradition of tea is small like that for me. It's special, a rhythm that is hard to find in other things. It's expected; it's sure. I think I like the romance of it. Morning tea is a tiny ritual that you can fall in love with. I've fallen in love with it. Between the chime of porcelain and the whistle of a kettle and soft taste and the marriage of dried flowers and herbs and honey and cream, I've fallen in love.
I have been falling into habits lately. It's almost disconcerting. I am extremely fluttery and full of wanderlust; I have no roots, but lately I want to build the religion of familiarity in my life. It doesn't make any sense. I have a yearning for wood floors and small china plates with blue edging and earth that belongs to me. I want to own things. I want to say, 'that is mine.' I want french ovens and a small studio and a record player. I want to settle in some ways.
These past few weeks, I have become more accepting of my self. Physically, but also spiritually and humanly. Not even satisfied, just accepting. In preschool at lunch today, a sweet little girl piped into our conversation, 'you git what you git, and you don't throw a fit.' I recognized a thread pulling at my rib cage. That saying resonated with me. There has been a lessening of who I am, and a growth in what I should do.
I've felt sorry for a lot of people lately. I wish more people thought like three year olds.

At the same time that I am yearning for the familiar and wanting to be simple and stepping back from self, I have been flustered. I've been reading Anne of the Island, so I have become resigned to the fact that I don't need sunbursts and marble halls, but I also went to see Kirsten this past weekend and realized my singularity in a more prominent way. I do wander still. I also want adventures and to climb mountains alone and to go somewhere in a very naive or selfish manner. I think a lack of Gilbert Blythes have created that tension and restlessness in my soul. Even though I have come to terms with the broadness of my shoulders, I still want to go places. We were in Kirstie's temporary kitchen drinking a rainbow tea and chatting about her gorgeous plans to marry her best friend this fall, and I was so satisfied with her beaming and joy, I felt prepared to face 100 years alone. I felt complete and whole. I wasn't jealous of her future rhythms and familiar traditions that she and Sam will create together. I was happy they would do that. I was sure that I wanted to do that as well. But I was pushing that down.
I recognize now that I cannot wait to be a bridesmaid twice this year, but I can wait for quite some time more to be a bride.

I feel patient. Maybe a little too patient.
It is true. I do want a house and lilac and a square ceramic stone to bake spring pizza on. But it doesn't fit. Not yet at least. Because I also want to go places and walk through tall forests and maybe sail a boat somewhere and challenge myself and prepare to be a wife and a mother and a friend in better ways than I could be now. I want to learn more and build and see things I've only dreamed of seeing. I want to create and be unassuming and surprise people I love.
I want the familiar. Just not yet.

My bicycle pedal fell off of my 10-speed this morning on the way to work. I laughed about how absurd it was, and how unexpected. I relished that startling moment and tucked it away.
Last night I dreamed about a man whom I was helping get somewhere. I think it was supposed to be somewhere safe. He would turn into a fox during the day. A very vibrant red fox with a large bushy tail. I had a leather backpack full of my only belongings, of which there was a small bowl for cream for him and a tea cup for me because it was my favorite. I called him 'Childer.' We were always moving very quickly in my dream, and when I was waking up and in the state between dreaming and opening my eyes, we stopped moving quickly. We just rested. We had stopped on a hill of golden wheat that winked with sunlight. And I had this feeling in my dream right before I woke up in reality. I felt like we had gotten to where we were supposed to be. Like we had made it home.

I think sometimes as people we neglect to enjoy the pleasures of how we are now and the experiences we are gifted with now, and we spend too much time grabbing for later.
I kind of like my point on the map right now. I kind of like not being lonely but being alone and my bicycle pedal falling off and being here. I can wait to climb to the top of a hill. There are plenty of valleys and forests that I need to pass through first.