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The Space in Between

By on November 4, 2019
PAULA

By Paula McDermid

Laughter exploded out of me when I was asked to speak about balance at a women’s empowerment event recently. It was my automatic response; I had very little control. I laughed, boisterously, and then swore, also an instinctual reaction, before explaining that I don’t know much about balance, but I do know a lot about the space in between. Balancing is an act. There is no acting about life after divorce; it’s a very real shit show.

The space in between balance, the one we don’t talk about enough that I can tell you about, is the distance between who you once were and who you’re becoming. It’s the safe driving distance between two cars that no one respects, the run between the bases and the seemingly thousand-second pause when you hold your breath before the puck either goes in or hits the top bar. That one, that space I can share my experiences about. It’s uncomfortable yet exciting, rigid, and open to interpretation.

I am in the space in between the next destination and my last known location, and I am finding some moments of balance here.

We lived on the water for a couple of years, in what was our dream home, our oasis 45 minutes out of the city, the city we only ever really knew, and spent our long work hours in. It was going to be the legacy house, the one we would pass onto one of the kids, the one that our grandkids would have stories about, the one home we would never leave. It was the remedy. It was going to fix us by forcing us into togetherness by being everything we’ve always wanted. It was also the beginning of the end from the very first moment we moved in. It was our last known location.

After my nightly marathon dog walk, I would thrust myself into my big white Adirondack chair like a rag doll being carelessly thrown by a toddler. Rain, snow, tsunami, whatever it didn’t matter to me, I would collapse into that chair on my lawn, desperately seeking some stillness in the midst of my marriage imploding. I would stare across the mighty St. Lawrence into the abyss, hoping it would hold the answers. I had no words but a mind full of decisions I should have, could have, and might have to do. The river used to be full of rapids, but now it is effortlessly calm; hope.

I often saw a campfire on the other side nestled in the brush, I never could make out any people, but on a clear night, I could see the fire blazing and sometimes the headlights of the vehicles coming in and out. I wondered how people made it to an unmapped area because that would feel a hell of a lot better than this place of being stuck between a rock and a hard place of debating a divorce.

One warm spring day after work, I planned to pick up something on the American side and take the long ride through the rustic villages of the countryside. I’m appreciative of long car rides when I can blast music the kids shouldn’t know exists. Plus, I was lured by an ulterior motive of finding the space in between. I am brilliantly fearless, always curious, slightly rebellious, always up for an adventure and usually unprepared for all of that, it’s what I like to call my signature style.

There was only one narrow dirt road leading into the great unknown, which I assumed was the abyss across the river. After a few minutes of trees and overhang, it opened up to smalls hills and fields of wildflowers that would soon bloom. It smelled like new beginnings mixed with an unknown coldness. I recklessly forged forward, discovering the mystery so close to my home yet so far away. I turn left and right and finally found a stretch of road to parallel the Canadian shores. Searching for a glimpse of my home, I continued until I finally find it on the other side. I have a hard time recognizing it. It doesn’t seem like anything I ever wanted, let alone needed, but I can see my chair if I focus really hard.

Heading south as my only guidance, I crank the tunes and drive too fast, but before long, I hit a large pond with nowhere to go but swimming. I have to back up the road, and if you know how I drive, this is where you should be concerned. Yet, before I can even attempt to back out, I’m sinking, and with no pause in between, not even a chance to run the base, I am immediately stuck. An hour into my attempt to fix this shit myself, I have only cemented my position in the mud. Classic — my signature style.

Reluctantly, I call OnStar, however, they can’t locate me. Are they are not the definition of roadside assistance? F*ck! I’m not on a road they tell me, call 911. How about no, I can see my house from here this isn’t exactly an emergency. Plan C, I’ll walk it out and flag a ride from the highway to a local tow truck shop. Alone in the bush in another country’s unmapped area, it’s cooling off and getting dark, no campfire to be seen. I head out in my pretty yoga gear and shiny new running shoes. I walk it for a couple of kilometres, then run it for a few more, only it’s been a couple of hours now with no signs of life or roads that I can remember. Finally, I suck it up and call across the river.

“So, hey! I can see the house from here, and my car is stuck…” I won’t repeat, I mean I don’t recall the rest of the conversation. All I will say is that it inevitably involved: two countries emergency services to triangulate my location, a really kind state trooper who kept me on the phone for an hour while trying to locate me, a father and son fisherman duo in a beat-up pickup truck they called Betsy, a place called the Stumps I should probably never visit again (but might just for kicks), and three muddy men designating me the Canadian Princess. Not a moment of which I am particularly proud of, however one hell of a good story, and hey we’re all Facebook friends now!

This whole story is perfect foreshadowing for what life after divorce is like. I am between the view of the only home I’ve known, but I don’t recognize it from where I am now. I know exactly how I got here, even if I can’t fully assimilate what that means going forward. It’s a very real and raw place on the map that nobody plans on visiting. Sometimes I’m covered in mud, sometimes I am enjoying the freedom of this space, and I am always blossoming wildflowers while getting to know what I need to flourish on my own.

Here’s the thing about my signature style; I’m not a worrier or a panicked person in tough situations. I’m adaptable to circumstance, fairly chill, logical, and naturally balanced. I wasn’t ever really scared that day even when Chris, said State Trooper, told me I might want to be, however, it’s just not who I am. I am not scared of much. I am an eternal optimist, perhaps naively at times wearing rose coloured glasses. I tend to tune out the world and tune into the big picture. I believe everything is happening for me to become my best self even if I have to trudge through some muddy ponds. I clearly drove myself here, anyway.

It’s the space between the old life and a new life. It’s the pause I have to take when acquaintances say ‘I’m so sorry’ when they hear I’m divorced, and I’d really rather say something else, but instead, I just pause. It’s when others don’t pause before they say, ‘I saw you going down that road,’ but I know I would have never listened anyway until the day I was ready to get stuck in the mud. It’s the place of being really happy with who I am now while still honouring the past paths we took and the incredible children we created during our time together.

Balance is when I have to figure out how to start my own fireplace, fix my own broken things, hang my own shutters, take out my own garbage, ask a neighbour to turn tight valves for me (oh and pump up my own gas which my least favourite thing to do, silly I know). It’s setting new boundaries with old people and defining the roles for new ones. It’s finding new hobbies and leaving old habits behind. Balancing the imposed painful compromise of shared custody. Sometimes really needing your kids, and you can’t have them, sometimes just wanting to see them sleeping in their beds, but they aren’t there.

It’s supporting my own wellness in one hand while simultaneously holding up the highest interests of my children together in the other with a lot of faith, love, and YouTube tutorials. It’s the reality of having no time or energy to do anything for a few days but be a full-time mom (which is easy combined with the sobering paradox of having all the time in the world to attend 3 days of yoga, do 5 loads of laundry and have coffee with the three friends on the same day who asked earlier in the week and but I couldn’t because I had the kids). It’s multitasking three human bodies as one person on no sleep and then the contrast of Netflixing and chilling with the dog while eating cereal and then falling asleep on the couch at 9 pm.

Balance is navigating being a single full-time mom whose children unequivocally come first, which won’t ever change. Yet, also a single person, when they aren’t around which technically, makes me available to be asked out, but I am not really available, not for just anyone. I won’t risk the peace I have now. I have worked really hard to get here, to cultivate happiness, and I am ruthless about the company I surround myself with, I compromised for too long.

This space I might refer to as the unchartered territory of post-divorce dating, which brings back the dumbfounding insecurity of the teenage years except for this time, there are extra-large book bags filled with history books and who wants to do that? Believing there is a man out there who knows how to kiss me so that my knees go weak, not only because of the way he kisses, but because he has shit together already. It’s believing that he’ll want me with my history books but also knowing no matter how well he does all of that, that I’m moving at a pace slower than a snail because I’m terrified of having my heart broken and my world compromised for anything other than true intentions. Balancing here is to exist in the space between openness to serendipity but closed to being on the market, thank you.

Maybe I’ll be the here for a long time, in this space of balancing realities with expectations and the unapologetic selfishness of knowing exactly what I need and want. This is the place where growth happens, and old skin is shed. It’s where you can see your breath in the morning, but you’ve lost your coat by the afternoon. When you’ve won the battle, but the war is still ongoing, it is being comfortable in the uncomfortable.

Rumi wrote, “life is a balance of holding on and letting go.” I am learning the balance of surrender and effort in my life, the importance of asking for help when I need it, saying what I mean and meaning what I say. So after laughing about having balance, I suppose I have found the space between insecurity and comfort, vulnerability and confidence. I have found balance for today. I’ll crank the tunes and recklessly forge forward into the abyss. There is no road map here on wild adventures; there usually isn’t.

 

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paula 1

Paula McDermid is the owner of LoveYoga, a yoga teacher herself, a visual artist, community tv show host, writer, and most importantly mother to three bright, beautiful children and one superhero dog. Her life’s mission is to be authentically herself, to live a messy, courageous, curious, and brave life and to attract a tribe of those who wish to do the same. She hopes to encourage healing through raw vulnerability and cultivate personal happiness through unapologetic truth and a lot of humour a long the way.

Follow her on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/loveyogacornwall/

Or Instagram: @pinkpaulaloveyoga

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