“She’s fragile like a string of pearls.
She’s nobody’s girl.”
“My name is Pearl and I’m a recovering wife and mother.”
“Hi Pearl! Welcome!”
And so…it begins. Telling my story out loud and to you, other recovering wives and mothers like me, the most unlovely,not so very graceful, messy, confusing, delightful, mysterious, maddening, fulfilling, nurturing, protective, tenacious, brave, committed, loving, defining, endeavor I have ever attempted.
Without a map.
Since being a wife and mother.
The story of my own eight year recovery from one hell of a case of Empty Nest Syndrome.
When it first emptied, after nearly 31 years, I saw my nest as just that. A bird’s nest; weather-beaten, washed out brown, jagged, tilted, most and worst of all, deserted.
And, so, heartbroken, I flew away too. Far, far away.
And stayed away for a long time. Nearly eight years.
When I got tired of flying (or really, I didn’t stop flying so much as the flying stopped me), I slowly, carefully, very quietly and very much on my own, began to build a new nest. Only this time I built a nest of pearls. Luminous and incandescent pearls, much like the timeless and beautiful strand that was given to me by my mother’s mother, my Nana, on my 18th birthday, along with a set of matching pearl stud earrings set in fine gold.
Somehow, I’ve held onto this string of pearls, and the earrings too, all these years. They’ve grown in value; sentimentally and financially and in ways I don’t even know yet.
Someday I’ll pass these cherished heirlooms onto my daughters.
All of them, the strand, the studs and the pearls from the nest I’m building each day.
In this new life I have to make.