Great Barrington, Back Again

This week I drove to Great Barrington to spend a week in the same place I’ve been renting for the past five summers—a stunning white modern house looking out on six acres of rolling hills, mature trees, including apple, pear and peach trees, and lush green grass bordering the Housatonic. T

The first two summers my husband Richard came with me; the last three he’s stayed in the city. The worse his chronic arthritis gets, the more anxious he becomes about leaving the familiarity and comforts of home, so I set off by myself.

  Eager as I was to leave the city, mostly I felt guilty. No matter how much Richard had supported my decision to go away, no deeply I felt that I had earned a break from being a caretaker, guilt was what I was taught as a child brought up in a devout Catholic household—to feel guilty for almost everything I did, wanted to do, or thought. And, after all these years, 84 years later, that hadn’t changed. I still felt guilty about leaving my responsibilities behind. I was reminded me of something my therapist had told me, “No matter where you go, you bring your baggage with you.”

  Once on the road, I quickly adjusted to driving again. By the time I was on the Sawmill, it was smooth sailing. By the time I reached the Taconic, I was putting the gray walls of the city behind me and looking forward to the rolling hills of the Berkshires. Slowly but surely, the guilt was wearing off.

  I went from the rainy streets of the city to the open spaces of the parkway. I felt as if I was being released from hell and on my way to heaven. But I also felt disoriented: my body was making the transition just fine, but my head insisted on remaining in the city, specifically in apt 10E at 245 west 104 street. My concerns kept reappearing: Would Richard be okay, and was I doing the wrong thing by leaving him on his own? Why wouldn’t all the guilt go away?

  As soon as I arrived, I called Richard to let him I’d arrived safely. He sounded fine. Okay, I said to myself, now it’s up to me to enjoy being on my own. It was a lovely sunny afternoon. Instead of unpacking my clothes, I put up the hammock. Across the meadow, I saw Phoenix, the horse, and Daisy, the donkey, chipping away at the grass. Up above, I saw the blue sky and heard the birds and the bees. I relaxed in the hammock, picked up my book and read. Finally, my guilt and anxieties began to disappear.

  It's been four days of bliss. Doing what I want or, more importantly, not doing what I don’t want to do. There are plenty of things to do in the Berkshires, but that’s not what I needed. There’s plenty to do in the city, too. But sometimes I need the freedom to do nothing and, even more important, I don’t need anyone telling me what they think I ought to do. Which is exactly why I’ve enjoyed the last several days on my own. It’s all up to me.

  Tomorrow I will return home to Richard and hope the energy I’ve regained this week will last for a long while. Probably not. But I've managed to have had time on my own, and that has made all the difference.