Now, I get to make a new home, a new life, in addition to a new me.
It’s exciting.
And terrifying.
And daunting and invigorating and inspiring and…dizzying.
But the journey of a million miles starts with a single step, so…
I step. Out the door, following Charlotte to her SUV to go join her nona for a day at the botanical garden.
The rest of Saturday unfolds with gentle ease that’s a balm to my over-stimulated nervous system.
Charlotte’s grandmother is another #olderwomangoals inspiration, a gorgeous, silver-haired octogenarian dressed in head-to-toe shades of gray, who manages to make monochromatic dressing seem classic and edgy at the same time.
She tells stories about dating an obscure European prince as a younger woman before she married Charlotte’s grandfather and encourages me to sow my wild oats now that I’m single.
“Enjoy yourself, sweetheart,” she says over tea at the café near the Japanese garden. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves as much as anything else. There’s something I wish I’d understood when I was younger. Not that I regret the law degree or having any of my three babies, I just wish I’d made more time to enjoy the gifts of the flesh before the flesh became so…temperamental.”
“You know they have estrogen cream to help with that now, Nona,” Charlotte says seriously, hiding her grin behind her teacup.
Nona arches an imperious brow. “Oh, hush, Charlotte. I refuse to let you embarrass me this time.”
“But why?” Charlotte says sweetly. “When it’s so much for both of us.”
“Fun for you, maybe.” Nona lifts her chin. “Besides, I know all about estrogen cream. And testosterone cream, for that matter. My doctor put me on some to help prevent muscle loss. But Hugo and I have found it has…other benefits.”
Charlotte beams. “Hell yes, Nona. Get you some.”
“Oh, stop. Beatrice will think we’re both hussies.” Nona wiggles her fingers Charlotte’s way, while I fight a smile.
“Never, Miss Valerie,” I assure her. “I think you’re both awesome. And if you’re hussies, I want to be one, too.”
They laugh, and the conversation turns to other things—Charlotte’s party planning for the film festival and Nona’s fundraising for her crew’s Mardi Gras float.
But my thoughts keep drifting back to Hussyville…
That night, back at Charlotte’s house, I sit cross-legged on the guest bed with my guitar across my lap. The window is cracked, letting in the sound of crickets, distant traffic, and a crisp autumn breeze that feels delicious on my skin.
My skin that is feeling more sensitive, awake, and alive the longer I’m away from Kai.
I hadn’t realized how cut off from my body I’d become until the numbness from being constantly on my guard started to fade.
Now, my skin tingles at every breeze, my taste buds dance, and creative energy vibrates in my bones, surging back to life after years of lying fallow. I mean, I’ve written songs. Lots of them. I produced new material pretty consistently through the dark years—was even nominated for a Grammy for a ballad I co-wrote with my friend, Shaima, last summer—but the music didn’t touch me the same way anymore.
In my steadier moments, I assumed I’d simply reached a less volatile, morematurestage in my evolution as an artist. In the less steady ones, I feared that a part of my soul had shriveled and died on the vine and would never bear soul-feeding fruit again.
But I was wrong.
Thank God, I was wrong. Even if I never find love with a man again, reconnecting with this long-lost creative magic will be enough to keep me going.
More than enough.
My fingers find the chords, riffing through familiar combinations, then new ones. I play with the time signature, then shift into a different key, the slide from C major to A minor sending a melody surging out of me in a rush.
I find the words next.
Words about a harvest I thought I’d lost, about dark fruit that never gave life, about Demeter with a heart full of fire, charging into the underworld to demand her daughter’s freedom.
