Just finished with a long meeting. Head a bit muddled and blurred. Reading each line seven times to be sure I didn’t miss anything. Doing a little toggling of my medicine and always trying to balance what’s working and what isn’t. Anyway, today I will drink a lot of water, do a bit of work, get some sun and try to get enough protein. That will be enough.
This is the space where I put things when I don’t have enough time to untangle them fully. To that end, here’s the quote from Kelly Corrigan’s book Glitter and Glue. This is the quote that completely undid me this weekend; the quote I am still chewing on, observing from different angles as it brings me to tears and then awe and then shatters the box where my thoughts sit:
But now I see there’s no such thing as a woman, one woman. There are dozens inside every one of them. I probably should’ve figured this out sooner, but what child can see the women inside her mom, what with all that Motherness blocking out everything else?
Slipping. Slipping.
There’s a precipice here somewhere. I get near it. Then I rally, plant some flowers, get ice cream and step back. But then the ground gets shaky and the earth erodes and suddenly, there’s that edge again.
One breath at a time. One moment at a time.
The three year old informs me that “our feets have thumbs too, mom.” I hang onto those observations because I am convinced that’s what matters. I ignore the heaviness in my gut, exhaling it out.
Rainy days always do this to me. Time to pick fresh flowers. Carefully.
Many things I’ve held onto for a long time:
It’s weird – resentment (and its birth mother, anger) – in some instances it takes years and years to stack up like wooden blocks firmly set one on top of another and then it takes as much time to dissipate and only does so with purposeful work. But other times, it slips through your fingers though every sensible part of you knows you should be holding on. The point is, you can steel your resolve and stay cold as you please, but no tower of blocks has ever stayed in place forever. At some point, someone knocks it down.
There are things I’ve held onto and then suddenly, in an instant, I’ve known it was time to let go:
So what’s the point? Why am I writing this? I’m not sure- other than the fact that there’s a curiosity here. Is it time to hold on or time to let go? Is there a greater purpose being served by the holding on? Perhaps. Perhaps not. We are left unresolved.
Amazing how fast the tides can turn and how easy it is to swing from one end of a spectrum to another. Feeling so warm and cozy on one hand to cold and nauseous on the other. Like a mental kick in the head, the Feelings come. Where has the gratitude gone when I’m in a space like this? Is the love still there when the anger is as well? The human capacity for holding emotion is incredible; unquantifiable, really.
Outside, the lilacs are in their prime, and this morning I smelled jasmine that was otherworldly. The new mulch is made of cocoa shells and makes me think of a chocolate shop I went to once where the truffles were delicately painted in primary color hues. And yet, the sadness sits. I’m sure I’ve had a spring like this in the past. This is the only one that matters though.
Rainy day. Woke up bleary-eyed and exhausted. Could never quite shake the feeling. Caught myself staring at the wall in a daze more than once – so many blips of inspiration just passing me by. Most of the time I have a nagging sensation that there are things I should be working on, catching up to, or researching. So hard to just be in the in-between. I should be used to it by now – I’m getting there, inch by inch.
Meanwhile, told only in hues, I’m thankful for:
Tomorrow, Mother’s Day. Struggling with preemptive sorrow and malaise. Fighting it with yard work and criticism – the way my pioneer ancestors would have wanted. Too many things in transition make me want to run. Nose to the grindstone today. Monday will be time to take stock.
We’ve turned a corner. It’s almost exhilarating. I fight the urge to talk too much. I walk a lot; pound the pavement; hit the dirt. It’s a day for noticing: church bells ringing at noon, the new feel of feet in sandals, slight ache in my neck. Today I’ll drink enough water, walk 10,000 steps, write something new.
Lovely Saturday. Sun shining. Slight breeze. But I’m hiding from the children and tensions are high. We’re all trying to claim existence. So I bought fancy coffee and we’ll have a “farmer’s lunch” – lots of protein and good carbs. I’ll lower expectations and maybe the best we’ll do is to get the sheets washed and go for a walk.
Balancing on a high wire, afraid of heights, I’m in suspense. “Not like in a mystery novel,” I say, “more like suspended.” She gets it.
I’m wildly running from pole to pole: abundance/scarcity, wealth/deprivation. That animal fear is in my gut; programmed into my DNA. I can see it in my mind’s eye – a blip on the double helix, so big in Biology books, so small in actuality.
The real curse is how it’s tied to self-worth – scarcity snakes its way in and wraps around your very self like a cobra you don’t notice until you almost can’t breathe and you’re suddenly questioning why anyone would talk to you ever and why did you ever think you had anything to offer? And it goes on like that until you snap, eyes wide, body gasping; reaching for stasis in a room spinning with falsehoods.
So you take yourself by the hand and find your comfiest pajamas. Pour yourself a small glass of that wine you bought a few days ago, as if you knew this was coming. You unplug yourself. For now the bills are paid, the children are tucked in, everyone has enough to eat, you can breathe. That’s enough.
An Absurdly Magnificent Life 