Back in December, when I started sharing thoughts here at FWW, my half-way back-on-again fling with Sam was new. We'd been apart for more than a year, sleeping together again for about a month.

I left in October 2006, but I guess in some ways I never totally left. Not for long anyway.

A week after I moved, we went out to dinner and a concert for my birthday. November was Lila's birthday and Thanksgiving. December, Hanukkah and Christmas, then New Year's.

I couldn't handle it. One holiday after another we just kept celebrating together. Apart. I couldn't say no.

I said it was for my kids, but maybe it was more selfish. Maybe it was not wanting them to be angry or upset with ME, or not wanting to miss out on something I gave away in the move.

There were a few months that winter, 2007, I went cold turkey. Saw him only when we transitioned the kids, and worked it so there wasn't time for dinner or small talk. We usually met on the fly and I was all business.

For two months, maybe three, our longest conversation was under three minutes. That was it. I was done. I was ready to file.

Then spring brought more birthdays, and slowly, slowly I went drifting right back in.

By the time my birthday rolled around again, October, we were having sex.

When this blog started, I had no idea so many other women were just as half-in, half-out as me. And I thought Sam and I would be back together by spring.

Now spring is closing in on summer, and one year is closing in on two.

I'm not sure what I'm doing.

But I'm doing the best I can.

Since the divorce (two and a half years ago) and in the last year, I have discovered something quite wonderful. It is that each and everything that we do is important. So, consequently, I am no longer in a rush. Seems I spent 12 years rushing, rushing, rushing to please, to prepare, to arrive on time, to make sure "they" were on time, to get things done. And it nearly killed me.

Today, I take pleasure in the smallest of things. I simply look at the job at hand and begin. I cut linings for my friend's drawers today. I did not over think it. I did not look at all the drawers and think, "Oh, my God, there are so many of them."

She gave me the assignment, and I poured myself into it. I sat in the sun at my "work" station, which was a bench on her deck. I sat on a cooler with wheels, and I had a razor blade and a block of wood, an ink pen and a tape measure to complete my work.

I sat and drank a Smirnoff lemonade thing and began the task at hand. I did not care if there were rolls and rolls of this shelf liner that needed to be measured and cut and that the dimensions had to be 19 ¼ for some and 8 ¾ for others. I spread the material and measured and marked and cut using a quarter round to hold down the liner. I ran my blade as close to the quarter round as I could, paying attention to the fact that I wanted the edges to be smooth and not ragged.

I accomplished my task.

When the kids spill Pepsi or milk. When my dog gets sick and throws upon my floor or when the kitchen pipe under the sink leaks and I have to stop my current task or effort to relax and must stoop, bend, twist, unscrew, wipe, I do it willingly and almost happily.

I am a grateful Samurai, today. A soldier with Krud Kutter and Lysol as my weapons.

Somebody made a comment on one of my blog posts yesterday that said, "Faith, can you please make up your mind...Are you in or out of this whole thing? Get a life and move on or stay in the blog and be miserable."

Of course, this comment was meant to be nasty and hurtful, and of course just like every other comment of its kind, it was signed by a "guest." I have a feeling said "guest" is Levi, or his other ex, or one of his other minions. In any case, that doesn't matter. What got me thinking was the subject line of the comment: "Making me dizzy."

Exactly.

I feel dizzy, all the time. I feel like I've been running in circles for the last year and a half. I feel dizzy with stress, dizzy with anger, dizzy with sadness, and dizzy with disappointment.

I don't want any of this.

I would love for things to be normal, for things to be better. I would be overjoyed if Levi would take responsibility as far as his son is concerned. I would love it if we didn't have to go to court. Hey, maybe then I could even get one of those "lives" you speak of!

And I did run circles around that decision. I actually have quite a few issues with the family court system that make me not want to take any part in it.

To start with, I don't agree with pumping my money into a system that doesn't have my best interest in mind. I feel that they actually hope that people won't do the right thing. Why? Because if we all did the right thing, they wouldn't have jobs. If everyone paid their child support there would be no need for child support enforcement. There would be no need for family court judges, family court lawyers, etc.

Where I live, out in Oregon, it's about an hour to the ocean and not much more to get 7,000 feet up Mt. Hood. It's one of the reasons I always say I'm here, but I don't go either of those places very often.

When I do, it's the drive, the getting there, I love as much as the being there. I love the journey at least as much as the destination. The unexpected.

You wind along miles of mountain road, two lanes, nothing but trees and sky, then around some bend, a viewpoint. There it is, everywhere you've been and some of where you're going, rolling peak by peak, as far as you can see.

There's a point in separation, at least in my separation, like that. Miles of winding and climbing, nothing but work and groceries, cooking meals and wiping butts, then vision.

Around some bend, an unexpected overlook, and I can see everything. It's breathtaking.

The whole road and all the steps behind, spread out in the view.

That woman, way back there at the start of the path, the one holding up her exhausted self with the stroller she's pushing. I see her.

So tired she can barely step, and it's close to dinner time and nothing's cooked and she can't spend one more minute alone with two kids in her tiny apartment. It's dinner time and she's pushing a stroller to the coffee shop. She's crying. Wants to lie down on the sidewalk.

She'll be okay. I want to tell her, but I know now she knew then. She'll be okay.

She'll find the rhythm, start getting the kids to school on time, even enjoy being the only grown-up at dinner.

For all the miles of nothing but trees in sight, she'll come round to this overlook.

Have you ever planted a garden and followed all the garden etiquette and made sure that the soil was fertilized and softened to encourage the growth of the new seed or tiny seedling? Have you pulled your children out from their warm beds to rush barefooted and still in their PJs to see the first tiny tomato bursting forth before all the others?

What is it to grow a garden? To till the soil and fight the rocky ground and force the it to make something grow from next to nothing?

As I came into the spring of my first year away from my crazy ex, I decided that the children and I must grow a garden. I took them to the farmer's co-op and together we selected our tiny plants that would entrust their miniscule lives to us for the next several months.

We chose Big Boys (I'd heard they were very good tomatoes) and Earlies and Tommie Toes (what we called them when I was a child). We picked peppers and cucumbers and squash. I let my children decide.

Caty and Joe became excited and began to pick flowers and leafy green things that would help make our tiny house a home. And...I let them. \No rational evaluation of what would or would not grow. They picked their flowers and their vegetables and together we took our bounty to the check out stand.

And when the total came to well over a hundred dollars, I paid the bill with a smile on my face. We were putting our hands in rich dirt and fingering green leaves of various plants. And it all felt so good.

In Middle Tennessee, the ground is filled with rocks. We sit on top of limestone, I think, and the first few inches of soil usually yield a dead end in the form of hard, impenetrable bedrock.

"Rake over there!" My ex pointed to a patch about 100 feet from where I'd decided to amuse myself with old leaves. I bristled almost immediately.

"I'll rake where I please," I answered, lifting my chin a little.

It's a backlash effect, a reaction to the way things used to be. There was no reason for me to be upset. My daughter and I had come to the country to have a nice day in the sun with Dad, and we were all in a good mood. My ex hadn't meant for it to sound like an order; he was just telling me which area needed raking the most.

But I can't stand being told what to do. The last eight years of our relationship were full of control and possession, and I'm afraid I wasn't the one running the show.

My ex was extremely controlling. He told me who I could see and when. He would time my outings down to the last minute and explode if I was home late — even when it was just a grocery run or I'd been held up by a slow tractor on the road.

I don't blame him. He operated out of fear of losing control. He knew things were rocky. He loved me, I loved him, but we were so mentally separated from each other that he felt he had no other way to hang onto me.

So he'd rule with an iron fist (thank god not literally) and I would comply to his every wish in the hopes of accomplishing peace and affection. I dropped all my friends. I did what he wanted. I went where he told me. After a while, it became too much trouble to even go out.

For a long time, I lived in fear. He scared me. I felt worn down and beaten. I was tired. I was afraid to leave and needed to leave like the desert needs rain. I thought if I told him I wanted out that he would hurt me.

But I did it and he didn't do it.

Now, we live apart and love together. We're a couple under two roofs. We have our bad times still, but we have good times more often — enough to make it worth it.

The Foils (I first introduced them in "Meet the Foils") recently visited the city for the weekend, two of their four kids in tow.

The Foils are a lovely couple, and they have achieved everything Rob and I cannot — the gaggle of happy and healthy children, the strong family bond, and the clear mission to ride the ups and downs in their marriage, come what may. I can't really relate to all that togetherness, and it gives me serious doubts about my marriage.

Rob and I took charge of the kids Saturday while their parents attended a wedding. We went to the zoo, indulged in ice cream, rode the train (to kids from the country, subways are wondrous), and enjoyed a festive Mexican dinner. An incredible day.

I expect the kids talked about their city adventures during the entire seven-hour ride home with their parents.

Of course, kids must feel safe and secure to enjoy themselves in new territory. That's not easy when you're not their parents. So it's all the more precious that Rob and I pulled that off together. But I still don't want to have kids with him.

I'm in my mid-30s with a bit of time to spare, so perhaps I will be a mother in the next chapter of my life?

Or so I've been hoping. Yesterday a friend in the 30th week of her second pregnancy said she must endure more monitoring and tests this time around because she is considered by the medical establishment to be of "Advanced Maternal Age." What? I guess sooner than later, I need to move on. 


Gas is up to $3.69 at the cheap station on the corner and the media has spouted three different in-depth accounts of why I dropped $78 on two bags of groceries this week.

Story number one, the obvious: with gas prices over $4 a gallon in some places, cost of transporting food is driving prices through the roof. Well, of course.

Story number two: a CNN account of how commodity traders are responsible by betting on futures. Get past the basic supply and demand model and economics flies right over my head. I don't totally understand why, but it made sense when I was watching.

Story number three: federal mandates requiring farmers to grow corn for bio-ethanol fuels has cut into our food supply. Not only does less corn make it to market, other grain crops shrink to make way for more corn we can't eat. The point: we need to find an alternate energy source or we'll likely starve ourselves fueling our excessive lives.

Oh yeah, and one more story I heard last week, related to the ridiculous price of surviving: it's been 30 years since the U.S. government has increased food stamp funding. And, the ever-wise W is poised to veto two bills calling for an increase.

I'm low on grocery money this week.

From day one of separation, I've said money wouldn't be a deciding factor. I would not have a poverty-inspired reunion.

I'm not sure now. The higher those prices climb, the deeper my debt. I've been so busy surviving these last few months, I haven't paid any bills. Well, I did pay gas, but only because it was turned off. WiFi, too.

The harder it gets, the more appealing my marriage looks. I keep asking myself, if money weren't an issue would I still be married?

I mean, in these 18 months of separation, I couldn't afford to file even when I was positive I wanted to.

Now, I'm just broke and uncertain.