Sensual things keeping me sane while accidentally tradwifing

Surrendering Paris after 18 years has not been easy. Finding myself, now, in the north Italian countryside, with little gainful employment for the first time since I was about 16 years old, is absolutely fucking alarming.

There is little I can do besides thrash around and howl at things. But to say I have little to do is also a lie: I remain primarily responsible for the childcare, even now that I live under the same roof as my partner. (He has, however, built us a lovely home.) Not all the boxes are unpacked yet. There are new social relationships and family dynamics to mind. 

Here is a list of sensual things that are keeping me grounded and sane:

1. Making tea. It's a creative act, inherently witchy and stimulating, and takes little more than 5 minutes. 
2. One or two creative recipes a week. That's it. My son will likely not eat them, he hates my cooking, but I love the playing-jazz sensation of making myself a weird and beautiful meal. 
3. Caring for my hair. I don't do this enough. And lately I'm losing a lot of hair, owing to the stress, which has made this a focus. Nothing fancy: Coconut oil before showers, avoiding brushing while wet, not shampooing too much. 
4. Acquiring beautiful versions of the needful things. I just bought an unreasonably expensive Caran d'Ache pencil sharpener in ice blue. Like the first lamp I ever bought in Paris, I'm sure it will follow me for the rest of my life, barring the house being swallowed up in an earthquake, which could happen. 
5. Indulging in the compulsion to catalogue and reorganise our books as often as I like.
6. Second-hand Proenza Schouler PS1's. I love purses. I have too many. Leaving Paris presented a good opportunity to offload a number of them and get serious: The PS1 is the ideal purse for my life. I am soothed and comforted by the reliable presence of its many pockets, the tactile fickleness of its closing mechanism, the perfect way it falls at the waist when worn cross-body. Second-hand, they're not very expensive. Surrendering to a PS1-optimised life means never again being tempted by fancy new handbags that will not meet my needs.
7. Wearing weird things when I go outside. Really taking the time to put a weird outfit together. My clothes are finally all under one roof. There is so much colour. Fashion is a form of literacy, and engaging in it does well for my heart.
8. Red shoes. I dreamt once that I needed red shoes and recently acquired a pair cobbled by the same people who make the shoes for the cancan dancers at the Moulin Rouge. They are so comfortable and make me so happy.
9. Conditioning all the leathers.
10. Writing by hand. Anything that facilitates this should be indulged. That means spreading out into lots of notebooks, simultaneously; that means staying up nights scribbling; that means using my pretty stationery to write letters.
11. Aggressive reading. There's a free book bank here with surprisingly good English and French sections. I finally own a copy of Middlemarch. I always keep a book nearby, so I don't doomscroll into infinity.
12. Perfuming the house.
13. Perfuming myself, indulgently and lovingly. Currently rotating between Voyages Imaginaires' Tea and Rock & Roll and Hermès' Un Jardin sur le toit.
14. Using pencils.
15. Labelling things.
16. Wearing lipstick at home.
17. Footbaths composed of apple cider vinegar and sea salt. I do this during meetings, splashing my toes while staring at Zoom.
18. Belly rolls and back bends. I like to imagine I'm a snake.
19. Linen sheets.
20. Vacuuming the couch.
21. Pressing the flowers my son proffers me when he goes outside.
22. Keeping a stone or two in my pocket.
23. Wearing a single big, wild necklace to social functions.

This isn't a complete list. But I have to work hard to avoid feeling sad, exhausted and heavy. Remembering to do even a few of these things is like having lots of little anchors tied to strings tied to me, keeping me grounded so I don't float upward and away from myself, like reverse balloons.

I try to remember that this is a lucky life. I don't miss Paris yet, but I will soon, when it's sunk in that I'm really gone. When that finally happens I need to be ready. It's imperative to have roots and rhythms, to fill myself with fruits and vegetables from the garden and smell things that feel like home.

Grasping for tactility feels like a creative work. I need that, too. If I'm too long without something tactile, my mind drifts to its reduction in scope, my heart breaks, and the sonata slides quickly from grief to rage. All of it is tiring. So I rub the herbs for the tea between my fingers, I polish the shoes and desk chairs, I inhale the sheaves of old paper, I reach for pretty inks. Beauty marks the difference between survival and thriving. If I keep reaching past the bare minimum, maybe my muscles will be ready for reentry into the world.