I Cleaned the House for Nothing

Last night, just before I went to bed, I received a message from my friend Stacey.

Stacey and I met in Seoul, South Korea in 1997. We were both teaching English, both a long way from home and somehow, despite being very different, became close friends.

Nearly thirty years later we're still friends.

The sort of friends where you can go years without seeing each other and pick up exactly where you left off.

She lives in California.

I haven't seen her since 2017.

We were supposed to visit as a family just before Covid and then, well, Covid had other ideas.

This morning I should have been driving to Whittlesford to collect her from the train.

Instead, Stacey is in hospital.

She has something called hypokalemia, which until yesterday I had never heard of but have since learned is serious enough that doctors don't think she should be getting on a long-haul flight any time soon.

My first reaction was concern.

Of course it was.

I love Stacey.

I want her healthy.

I want her well.

But when I woke up this morning, another feeling had quietly arrived.

Disappointment.

Not because she has done anything wrong.

Not because she isn't coming.

Simply because ten days of plans had vanished overnight.

And what plans they were.

This wasn't just any visit.

She was coming for my birthday.

The house had been cleaned to a standard not previously thought achievable.

Cupboards organised.

Spare room prepared.

Beds changed.

Bathrooms scrubbed.

The sort of cleaning that makes you briefly wonder whether having guests is worth the administrative burden.

I had booked tickets.

Planned outings.

Created itineraries.

Mentally arranged conversations we hadn't yet had.

And perhaps most significantly of all...

I had done the food shopping.

One of the things that really brought home how much I was looking forward to seeing Stacey was opening the fridge this morning.

I love Stacey enough that I had planned ten entire days of vegetarian meals.

Ten.

Days.

Anyone who knows me understands the significance of this.

There was dhal.

Halloumi and bulgur wheat.

Chickpea and butternut squash.

Various lentil-based creations that had required me to venture into parts of the supermarket I don't normally visit.

At one point I found myself researching ways to make vegetables exciting.

I am not saying I deserve a medal.

I am simply saying this is a level of commitment usually reserved for hostage negotiations.

The freezer now contains enough pulses to sustain a small wellness retreat and absolutely no one to eat them.

It may be some time before Donald and I see a potato again.

The strange thing about disappointment is that you're often not mourning what happened.

You're mourning what didn't.

Stacey is still my friend.

She is still very much alive.

Thankfully, she is receiving treatment.

The friendship hasn't disappeared.

The loss is something less tangible.

Ten imagined days.

A version of the future that had already started taking shape in my mind.

I think we do this all the time.

We don't just make plans.

We begin living in them.

We picture the holiday before we've packed.

The retirement before it arrives.

The birthday celebration before the candles are lit.

The reunion before the plane takes off.

And when those things don't happen, we aren't just disappointed by reality.

We're grieving the future we had already started inhabiting.

Yoga has never stopped me feeling disappointed.

Nor should it.

Disappointment is a perfectly reasonable response when something you were looking forward to suddenly disappears.

What yoga does help with is the second layer of suffering.

The arguing.

The wishing.

The mental negotiations with reality.

The endless repetition of:

"But it wasn't supposed to happen like this."

At some point the practice simply invites us back to what is here.

Not what should be here.

Not what could have been here.

Just what is.

This morning what is here is an unexpectedly empty diary.

An unusually clean house.

A freezer full of legumes.

And a friend on the other side of the world who needs rest more than she needs a flight to England.

None of this is what I had planned.

But then life has always shown a remarkable lack of interest in my plans.

Stacey will come another time.

The tickets can be rebooked.

The conversations will wait.

The freezer will eventually recover.

And the house?

Well, at least for one brief and shining moment, it looked magnificent.