That I can't sleep or eat or think or write. Or that I'm exhausted from running this old race. The one I know by heart, even by the twists of gravel beneath my feet.
I'm not saying that the sky hasn't been blue or that the sun hasn't been yolk-yellow-round and warm on my skin. (Though I may not have had time outside myself to notice.)
And, I'm not saying that we haven't been moving forward. Because we have. Oh, we've been ducking through houses, sticking our noses in other people's bathrooms and scrutinizing the size of their kitchens, all the while wondering if the bedroom is big enough to fit our amoire.
I've been there. Pointing at the cracks in their floor and breathing their cigarette haze.
Oh, I've been fully there.
But also not.
One Lap.
I'm not saying that my days haven't been busy - that I haven't been wiping cat vomit up with Bounty sheets and praying that the wet warmth of it in my palms doesn't make me gag. Or that I haven't been pacing laps around the living room with my son's precious head in the crook of my neck, smelling like cereal, always.
Or that we haven't been building worlds with toys and blocks. We stack them together and he destroys them - always with gusto. Bravado. And a solid shriek of satisfaction.
Oh, yes, I've been busy.
But not enough.
Two laps.
For all that I'm not saying. That I can't say.
Know that I'm here.
And yet not.
I'm not saying that the sky hasn't been blue or that the sun hasn't been yolk-yellow-round and warm on my skin. (Though I may not have had time outside myself to notice.)
And, I'm not saying that we haven't been moving forward. Because we have. Oh, we've been ducking through houses, sticking our noses in other people's bathrooms and scrutinizing the size of their kitchens, all the while wondering if the bedroom is big enough to fit our amoire.
I've been there. Pointing at the cracks in their floor and breathing their cigarette haze.
Oh, I've been fully there.
But also not.
One Lap.
I'm not saying that my days haven't been busy - that I haven't been wiping cat vomit up with Bounty sheets and praying that the wet warmth of it in my palms doesn't make me gag. Or that I haven't been pacing laps around the living room with my son's precious head in the crook of my neck, smelling like cereal, always.
Or that we haven't been building worlds with toys and blocks. We stack them together and he destroys them - always with gusto. Bravado. And a solid shriek of satisfaction.
Oh, yes, I've been busy.
But not enough.
Two laps.
For all that I'm not saying. That I can't say.
Know that I'm here.
And yet not.
5 Comments:
Here enough to write this. And get across the feeling we can hear our feet pounding the ground as the details pound through our heads.
Be wherever you can be.
I have always found that last step between winter and the start of spring as the lowest point in my cycle.
Spring is when blooms start, summer if vibrant of life, fall is a cooling time, when the harvests are at their best and time is celebrated with friends. Winter itself is beautiful, white snow, warm hearths and nesting with great friends, good food and loving family.
The strech between winter and spring is this last gasp of winter that is the most blah. It seems that the days are grey, though there is sun, the cold still wins. The beauty of winter snow is gone, leftover grey snowbanks and brown grass now emerge. The trees have not even started to sprout buds, and you cannot walk on the ice on the lake anymore.
It is this stretch through March and the start of April that is the longest in the year. Come May, spring will bloom! The days will get longer, the smell of new flowers and growth will over power the musty smell of late winter and we will once again be out on our patios.
I would not look inward when what is outside is not sufficiently inspiring yet. You could also go out to the sugar bush and enjoy some maple syrup..... It may not be inspiring, but it sure is yummy!
Mella!!!!!!! I love love love love love your writing!!!!
I get it.
xoxoxo
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