Circumnavigation

Last year, I moved into a barn. It marks the second renovated barn I’ve lived in to date, which seems like an improbable statistic. It sits midway up a hill in a small town, just before the pavement turns to dirt. There are cows in the backyard and bugs in the cabinets and birds of all walks (flights?) in the sky. When it comes to rentals, we lucked out big, big time. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this barn and time. Nick and I moved in here together with my dog, which represents a new season in our relationship. Two years ago, we were a pair of platonic friends. Me having just blown up my life to resettle into a very small apartment and a nannying gig, and him thriving as a full time filmmaker, completely satisfied with the trajectory of his life, his community and his work. Our lives were total opposites and we went for bike rides together.

As our rides together stacked up, so did our relationship. Each time we slapped on our spandex and attempted to hold conversation on our bikes (I think on average, I hear every fourth word of my companion cyclist), our relationship had shifted into a different shape than what it was the ride before. I think of a Sunday two Octobers ago, when we rode the busy main street that sits at the base of this hill, feeling overwhelmed with possibility and intrigue. Or the time we carpooled on that same road on our way to a group run that winter. Or eight months later when, as a bonafide couple, we pedaled up an ascent that topped out at the apex of this same hill.

How many times have we circumnavigated this barn on our various bike or vehicle routes over the past two years? Not quite passing it, but riding the adjacent roads surrounding it. We were homing pigeons, circling around a future landing strip. 

I like to think about the days of our lives playing out simultaneously. For instance, just as I am sitting at my desk writing this story, I am also miles away in Southern Vermont, age fifteen, arriving home from a long and difficult cross country practice. On a Sunday morning when I’m boiling water for our coffee I consider that maybe, at this very moment, the former versions of Jillian and Nick are at the bottom of this road, biking along on their way to a favorite coffee stop. Maybe they’re talking about a faulty shifter or the weather, or maybe they aren’t talking at all. Maybe they’re pedaling along, listening to the wind passing by their ears and thinking about how nice this is. They are blissfully, platonically unaware that just up the hill, their future selves woke up in the same bed and are now discussing a full trash can and the absence of butter in the fridge.