There are times when it is appropriate to describe life and other times when it is better just to live it. It is now the last day of what, for me anyway, was an incredibly difficult year. In my own experience 2010 marked many months of living alone as a “film widow,” the passing of several much loved animals, the implosion of a lengthy marriage, and the beginning of another life in a lovely borrowed cottage on the banks of the La Have River.

In the four months that have ensued since my last post, the “sturm und drang” that heralded my leaving home have morphed into something else as my husband and I have both had time to process the events of the late summer.  Over time the iciness between us has melted and by now we have grown close again, sometimes even able to really talk.

As I write this, he has been sober for three months, is undergoing counselling, and has become a faithful attendee of AA, an organization for which he has nothing but gratitude and respect. A week from now, by his own choice,  he will enter a residential rehabilitation programme to continue his brave attempts to explore and conquer the underlying problems that have tormented him for years. I will live here at the farm to care for the animals, but only while he is away. 

After a slow year, the legal research through which I make my living experienced a sudden resurgence in the fall and I have been far too busy to spend too much time looking backward. I love the tranquility and beauty of the cottage and the ability to control my own existence. At the same time, I can’t stop myself from missing my home.  

I have come back for the Christmas holidays, partly to allow my kind and generous friends to inhabit their own space and partly, truth be told, to see what is left of the life and love I left behind. This has been incredibly bitter-sweet. Especially here, with the animals and the rituals of Christmas still in place, there is a real battle waging between what I “know” in my head and what I feel in my heart.

This fall I joined the wonderful group of people who run the Lunenburg County Film Series and have volunteered to Habitat for Humanity, who are gearing up to start a new built in the new year.  I have read countless books, taken advantage of the free month subscription to Netflix and joined the occasional ranks of the ladies who lunch. Although I’ve been clear headed and perfectly functional, the emotional pain, anger and frustration that derive from years in an alcohol marriage linger inside me and still get in my way. I too have much internal work to do.

Tonight, in this place, with the man who is still my husband beside me, I will observe again the ritual to which we have held for two decades ; we will dine on cheese fondue and Caesar salad, sit by the fire and watch Casablanca, and toast the incoming year, this time with sparkling de-alcoholized wine.

With the next chapter far from written and the words just beginning to flow, there are only two things I know for sure.  The first is that, even if we can’t rescue the marriage, we will never stop loving one another. The second is that, whatever is to come, that future can only define itself  slowly. 

It will happen  “one day at a time.”

My retreat into solitude deepened yesterday with a storm unlike anything I recall in a very long time. Torrential rains and howling winds came late on Thursday night and continued almost until this morning, disrupting routine and shaking our old post and beam to its foundations. Sometimes I could  even feel small gusts of wind blowing through the house. Accustomed to solitude and unafraid of being here alone, I still had my resources tested by the darkness and drama that a spate of heavy weather brings.

Somehow in the morning the wind disrupted the radio reception in the barn, creating a whole new soundtrack to my labours, in the process making me significantly more aware  of the auditory universe  the animals no doubt prefer to the CBC.

Most dramatic were the loudest sounds - competitive crowing from three roosters backed by the clucking of their hens, the braying of a hungry donkey, wind-driven branches tapping on the windows, and the pounding of heavy rain on the corrugated tin up on the roof. Occasionally the old ram would add his deep throated baa-ing to the mix. More softly came the susurrus of hay being pulled through the slats in the mangers, then contented chomping sounds and the occasional satisfied “hum.”

Unable to allow the animals outdoors, I took advantage of my reprieve from heavy mucking out to do the abbreviated version of the chores while handing out peanut treats, touching velvety noses with my own and enjoying the comfort and safety of this second of my homes.

In the house, later in the afternoon, the power went out entirely and as the day wore on without restoration, I made myself embark on the precautionary manoeuvres that would see me safely through to another day. I assembled candles and flashlights and hauled buckets of water from the well. Luckily we have a propane fireplace as an alternate heating source and a propane stove that makes it possible to be quite comfortable even without electricity. It was the deepening darkness that I minded most and, truth be told, the absence of theoretical contact with the outside world. Like it or not, the dependance on technology runs deep.

Having done all I could, in the candlelight of early evening, I  finally curled up with my iPod touch under a warm throw in front of the fire. The wind still howled and the rain continued to beat mercilessly on the windowpanes. Just as I was warming to the romance of the moment and looking forward to my talking book, Nova Scotia Power ruined the spell and thrust me back into ordinary life.

As the lights first flickered then came back on, my first sheepish move was to make a beeline for my Mac.