On Life and Lemons

Photo by Vladimir Gladkov on Unsplash

During my regular women’s group call this month, we discussed how we deal with life’s lemons. There were lots of approaches, like throwing them against the wall, hiding them in a drawer, or making Limoncello. I shared that my best way of managing the sour fruit is to slice it into small pieces. You don’t need all the king’s horses and all the king’s men. You just take it piece by piece.

Then, after hanging up, and in a brilliant display of comedic timing, a secretive leak from the upstairs bathroom chose that very moment to announce itself by collapsing part of the dining room ceiling below. Life sure does have its moments.

So, tapping my adage, my partner and I immediately began slicing the lemons and breaking things into steps. Soon enough, the leak was repaired, the ceiling was gone, and the adjacent walls were stripped down to the studs, along with the bathroom and basement floors (yes, water damage can travel). We’ve all been there: the phone calls, the meetings, the samples, the new files and contacts. The kind of days that fill themselves fast.

We do what we have to do. I’m not complaining; we’re fine and lucky it wasn’t worse. But once the dust settled, I was surprised to notice a kind of disconnect between the me on the outside, who was getting things done, and the me on the inside, which felt blank. And stayed that way.

I’ve known that kind of detachment before. It doesn’t ask for attention but makes itself known with its absence in moments that should feel like something. There’s no anger, no sadness, no panic, nothing inside at all; only the outside robotically powering through. And with it, my motivation had also gone quiet — the drive I’ve been relying on to keep me in motion and keep building the life I want.

I remembered that feeling from back when I was still working, times when I would just power through tough jobs without a thought. Back then, I had a ritual to reconnect: a nightly collapse around 11pm, me on the sofa, with Friends reruns looping on the television. I even looked forward to it. That unraveling was when the inside met the outside, a reckoning with the tradeoff of long hours that wouldn’t last forever, followed by a popcorn pat on the back and resolve to meet the next day’s challenge with aplomb, because, well, why not?

But since leaving my job, life has been different that way. I’ve reshaped what I do now, with inside and outside mostly moving together — in fact, the inside now calls the shots. But something faded — or paused. And beneath the blankness was a familiar question I’ve been carrying: Am I doing this right? Not about the ceiling but about my own rebuilding and making choices to spend my precious time well. Is my writing going anywhere? Do I really enjoy the routine of my volunteer work?

I’ve been trying to move beyond right and wrong, beyond measuring every effort for its future potential. But sometimes, when the absurd shows up, old habits and gremlins slip in. And I guess I just needed to let those gremlins know that I don’t have to do things that way anymore. Or do I?

As I sat down yesterday afternoon to exhale a bit and watch the light at the end of the day, as I like to do, my neighbor arrived at the door. He and his family had just returned from South Africa and brought us a gift from their travels — they always think of us. As we talked about his trip, I shared our own domestic adventure and showed him the ceiling and walls, or what’s left of them. We “wow’d,” we laughed, and even made some metaphorical lemonade. I enjoyed his company and his gesture, as I noticed the autumn colors out the curtainless window glowing in the light at my favorite time of day. His kindness brought my feelings back to life.

Today I sat down to write this story. Next week I’m signing up for some volunteer shifts. It’s easy to talk about “what to do.” Words come quickly, and logic builds a plan. Sometimes the heart is already full—too full to move. Other times, the body moves first, and the heart takes its time. Either way, meaning finds us. Sometimes it waits with us. Sometimes it arrives quietly. And sometimes it knocks on your door.