Puddle Jumping

I would like to spend all my time listing the wonderful things going on. Things like the wonder and delight in my fathers face when he read my "prize winning" poem. And the fact that I received my copy of the magazine in which my poem appears the day after my birthday. And the fact that many thoughtful people whom I love contacted me on my birthday by phone, e-mail and in person to wish me well. And to boot I think I will- very sure I will- get an A in my first university course in over a decade, the one in which I wrote two formal essays for the first time ever and got A-'s on both (please, no autographs). And the fact that I have been having a very beautiful month long e-mail conversation with a dear friend I thought was more or less off the radar for good. A conversation that has opened my thoughts to so many wonderful things.
I would like to spend all my time thinking about and talking about and acting on these splendid happenings.
The reality is there are equal measures of dark and weighty subjects to occupy my mind.
But as Monkey has shown me, if you want to jump in puddles you have to get a bit wet. To live a full life there will be elements that don't feel good. But wet cuffs dry and all things pass in time. And hey, I got to jump in puddles!
I highly recommend it.

Ladies and Mommies

Monkey and I were in the car today travelling to the Value Village to find atrocious $4 sweaters to harvest for yarn. That is an idea I got from my friend on the wet coast and I think it is so brilliant I am following her lead. So on the way Monkey looked out the window, and in her usual way said "What's that, Ahmmy?" As we were at a stop light I could follow her gaze and see that she was looking at a billboard ad of a lady in 80's sweats gleefully holding a cellphone to her ear.
I have just finished a class on mass communication in which I studied, in depth, the ramifications of media on society and my final essay was 8 pages on the subject of billboard advertising; the techniques used and the ways it damages society. So when my toddler pointed out that ad only 2 days after I finished writing this rather dense essay I was at a loss as to what, exactly, to respond to the innocent question; "what's that, Ahmmy?" Do I go into a lecture on how the imagery is misogynistic and may damage her self-esteem? Do I ignore the question all together? Do I lie in some "benign" way by not acknowledging that it is an advertisement for a phone? Do I explain the elements in the imagery and what they are meant to represent?
She's 2, people and I am taking mass media WAY too seriously, I think.
"That is a lady" I replied mildly.
"Lady?" She says, true to form.
"Yes."
"No...not lady" Monkey responds pensively. "That is a....mommy!"
"A mommy?" I say.
"Yes" she asserts. "That is a mommy."
So evidently there is a distinction between ladies and mommies and apparently mommies smile gleefully off the tops of buildings like Olivia Newton John King Kongs! Please adjust all preconceived notions accordingly.

Square Pegs

I was talking to a friend recently about this new sensation I have discovered passing through my consciousness on an almost daily basis of late. This sensation is not, in and of itself, new but the urgency and disquiet it inspires is. The sensation is the simple and overwhelming feeling of not fitting in. Now, one expects to have this feeling, say, in high school when one is still working out what and who you are before knowing where you should fit. And that feeling can trickle into your twenties if it takes you some time to mature and really "know yourself". But there is an assumption that eventually, when you have a deeper confidence in the idea of self in regard to your own inner landscape, that your "place" in the world will become evident, that like minded people will surface and you will have a sense of belonging.
Now, I have done a few things in my relatively short 34 years and I believe I have sorted out, to a great degree, who I am (in the deeper senses) and I like and have confidence in who that person is. But to my alarm I am realising that this feeling of otherness has never gone away. I have individuals I feel akin to and resonate with but there is still no group, no demographic, no sphere where I feel comfortable and represented as part of a whole despite the fact that, on the surface, I would seem to fit into many. I am a woman, a Canadian, white, a mother, bilingual, blue eyed, a knitter, a writer, a thinker, a student, a humanist, a lover, a baker of bread. But in any group of any one of those things I feel like the exception in every case.
All this I told to my friend, trying to convey the growing feeling of unease this realisation brought with it. And you know what she said? "Me too." Just turned 40 and just as misrepresented by all she sees as me.
And I think of another friend who kept telling me about how he cannot relate to his coworkers though they all be personable and engaging in their way. They are all...made to fit...or so it would seem.
I am reminded of a song I wrote about how, in our restless youth, my best friend and I would "laugh or yell at the world that had made square pegs of us" as if, perhaps, it was our environment that had made us malformed for the mold, alone in a crowd, in opposition to the norm.
And I am beginning to see that it is not that I don't fit into any group but that my group is not marketable, consumable, sitcom worthy. I am not represented because I am not a sheep. My demographic IS the exception.
And we are legion, honey.

It's been a hard day

Watching time pass
over and through
the ice in my glass like a dispassionate god
passively watching things live and die.
It's been a hard day.

Reeling after another day
of reacting to other peoples baggage
feeling empty and tired
wrung out and unwilling to try anymore.
It's been a hard day.

Behold! The mighty bomber sock!

Original design inspired by WWII shark-nosed bomber planes. Finally done. Hooray!

How did the show go?

I can put it off no longer! I WILL not!
The show. The cabaret. My first ever production. No pressure, just all me to book acts, advertise and host with no previous experience. And how did it go? Well there's good news and there's bad news.
The bad news is 5 paying audience members showed up, 3 of those being my friends (thank you, you sweet, thoughtful, supportive people). The performers equalled the audience. Ouch. So I lost money on the advertising and gave the performers token pay out of my own pocket out of guilt for not giving them a roaring mob or at least a burbling crowd. In the shows defence it was as cold as a well digger's ass that night and the venue is not exactly central.
The good news? Everyone had a wonderful time! The performers thanked me for having them, the audience members said they really enjoyed themselves and would come again and the coordinator for the space said we should talk turkey about doing another show. We all laughed belly laughs and were moved and made pensive. No one yawned or made polite non-committal comments like "it was ... good...". And my carrot and zucchini muffins were a big hit.
But best of all. Are you sitting down? You know how people say that you loose stage fright after you get up there- I always thought those folks were full of ... hot air but it happened- to me! Normally my stage fright is so extreme that while I am on stage (which I diligently avoid) all I can seem to do is breath in- and in - and in and receded far back into myself wondering just when it is the crowd is going to kill me for being such a talentless hack. When I am up there it is all I can do NOT to rip my own skin off and dive screaming into a dark hole. So perhaps it is easy to see why I had a hard time believing that my feelings of deep peril would ever go away on stage. Well, perhaps the combination of such an intimate friendly audience and the fact that I had to keep getting up there to introduce the next act and read some poems as time filler was the perfect vehicle for riding out my dread and surfacing in this wholly new place of relative ease. I felt exhilarated and energized instead of relieved and exhausted. It was a revelation. Truely.
So all things considered the good out weighs the bad and I call it a success. Enough to give it another go in June. When I have the date set I expect you all to mark it on your calendars and rush to join the fun.

Welcome to the show!

When: Doors open at 7:30, March 20th

Where: Centre St Ambroise, 5080 St Ambroise, Metro St Henri, Montreal

What: A live show of spoken word, improv comedy and music. A feast of language. An opportunity for you to get up and show us whatcha got!

If all goes well this will be a recurring event so tell your friends and come join the fun! Spoken word performance by Catherine Kidd, improv comedy by Without Annette and music by Jenn Anderson.

I will post an aftermath entry to let everyone who could not attend know how it went. But you should attend! You don't want to say to yourself later "Aw I should have gone!", do you?

The Winning Poem

Of course I forgot to mention which poem I had submitted. Here it is.

The Poem On Your Body

I traced out a poem on your body
With a Japanese brush.
The first uneasy drop
Spread on your shoulder blade
Like a star.

Along your side I wrote the size and span of your wings.
At the base of your back
I catalogued the examples of your courage.
On your inner thigh
I wrote the details of your secrets.
Down your arms
was a list of your desires
and on the soles of your feet
in tiny letters
I chronicled your dreams.
Each word, each letter brushed
spelled out my love.

Our august sweat washed it all illegible.
Rubbing into our pores
the words reduced to m’s and r’s and s’es,
no longer words at all.
Then was the cohesion
when the poem became.
The knitting of cells and ink
braided the poem real
and such a soliloquy can never be spoken.

I (kinda) won!

So I got an e-mail about a month ago from Descant magazine. They are a Canadian mag out of Toronto that publishes literature and art. The e-mail said that the poem I had submitted to the "Winston Collins- Best Canadian Poem" award had made it onto the short list. The e-mail asked if I would go to Toronto and attend the award soirée. It said the short list had 17 other finalists on it.
I was surprised to be a finalist but didn't figure I was going to win and travelling mid-week to TO was not a convenient thing to do so I put it all in the back of my mind. About a week later I got another e-mail saying "You haven't told us if you are coming." So I replied that, officially and unequivocally, I was not attending. A few days later I got a phone call from the editor-in-chief. "Are you sure you can't come?" So I explained that having made the 5-6 hour car trip to Toronto once with a toddler had been a real trial and I was wise enough from the ordeal not to repeat it. Also I work (granted I could take a laptop and work en route but I didn't mention that). She asked if I had a web-cam to "virtually" attend. I said no but offered to make a video poem of myself reading the submitted piece which they could show at the event. She said that would be great. So I memorized the poem, set up my little camera in a quiet spot and did about 3 million takes. When I finally had read it through smoothly I took one look at it and went to bed feeling puffy, lispy, stoned-looking, and unwarrantably pretentious. The next day I sent it anyway because I knew most of my insecurities were in my head and would not be so glaring to strangers.
I figured that was the end of it. But the very same day I got another e-mail from the editor saying that someone else was coming from Montreal with a toddler and maybe we could travel together. I called the editor (as she had kindly given me her personal number) and said "Really I would love to come but will not drive it. The train is a great way to go but I can't afford it. I would strongly suggest you recommend this option to the other people travelling there with a child. Thanks for putting me on the short list, blah blah blah."
To which she replied "Are you really sure you can't come? I shouldn't tell you this but you are on the short list..."
"You mean a shorter short list?"
"Yes. And we really hope you can make it to the event."
"Well as I said, I would come by train but I can't afford it."
I had also previous to all this called a friend or two (because, really, I did want to go, even if I had to do some creative financing later) to see if Morgan and I could be put up for a night but it seemed like all of Toronto was leaving that very day for Cuba!
She e-mailed me yet again that day to say that Descant magazine would pay my train fare.
Well hell. They really do want me there. So I made one last attempt to contact someone in Toronto to stay with. It was a go. It turned out that I would not have any work the two days I would be away anyway so it looked like the universe was giving me a cosmic shove.
Morgan and I made the trip. I gotta say, travelling with a kid really makes me empathize a LOT with single moms-it is not easy doing stuff with a kid in tow!
So all this long pre-amble to say I won "honourable mention", which translates as one of two runners up for the prize. The title comes with publication in the summer issue, a year's subscription, a bouquet, a certificate, a bottle of champagne and $250. Heehee.
This is my first lit prize and only my third or so publication.
Wee!

Help me, Buddha

This morning while I changed her diaper, Monkey looked over at the mantle and spied someone who might be able to free her from the horrible mommy-monster's wipes-filled embrace.
"Help me, Buddha" she called plaintively. "Help,Buddha!"
As any good offspring of hippies would, I rejoiced in the idea that my little angel recognised the deeper elements of the statuette on the mantle but my plans to enroll her into some kind of spiritual practise in India were cut short when she changed her tactics and started beseeching assistance from the moose figurine sitting next to Buddha. Ah well. We can't all be enlightened every moment of the day, right? Any Roshi will tell ya that.

Putting priorities to bed

For the past week or so I have been trying to convince Monkey that sleeping in her own bed is a great idea. It's slow going. As a compromise to having to wake up as many as six times a night to carry her back to her room and into bed I have set up a bed for me in her room, part laziness, part convenience, plus she doesn't wake up too much so I can get her back to sleep faster. We have been through this drill before only to end up all back in the big bed on a regular basis. I have also been trying to keep a strict bed time, nine o'clock, and getting her to actually fall asleep first in her bed before waking in the night to look for me. Often she won't fall asleep in her bed and has to be put into bed once asleep. I am still trying to figure out how to fix that. It has a lot to do with her not yet being weaned.
- I ranted to a friend recently about how there is this huge push these days to encourage new mothers to breast feed; there is an organisation called the "La Leche League" (spelling?) which is a kind of grass roots support system you can call for help or to answer questions about breast feeding. My rant was this; it's all well and good to push mothers to breast feed (got my own qualifications on that particular argument but lets move on) but where are these mother suckers when it comes time to get the kid OFF the boob!? But I digress. -
So Monkey is not weaned and now associates boob with comfort and safety (I got some exes who can relate). She almost never falls asleep without the boob. This makes it very hard to get her to fall asleep in her own bed and next to impossible for anyone but me to put her to bed. Not fun.
So anyway, because she is going to bed at nine (not always falling asleep for as much as an hour but whatever) she is waking up earlier and earlier. Today it was 8:15. As I lay there while she insisted on me getting up I debated the merits of putting her to bed later so I could sleep in some again. MyDear hadn't left for work yet and was greeted with a delighted "Daddeeee!". After the days first diaper change I put on the morning kids shows so I could go make breakfast and a cup of tea. When I came back with a couple of Eggos and my cuppa (with lemon as I feel a cold coming on) MyDear was watching Monkey rock out to the "Super Readers". We sat and watched her for a while until MyDear had to leave for work.
Once he was gone I started thinking about all the things I wanted to get done today and my mind turned to the sock pattern I am trying to create. At MyDear's request I am devising a sock pattern fashioned after a sharknosed WWII fighter plane. It is not easy but very engrossing. I keep not doing things like dishes, laundry, groceries because I am working out the sock pattern. (Yes, I am obsessed. I accept it.) So, needless to say things are piling up around here and I HAVE TO leave the pattern for a while and catch up some. Today is groceries, shower, put away clean laundry and try to get my laptop fixed for free. Seems like a do-able list but life has a way of stalling things. And of course spending my morning blah blahing on my blog is just ridiculous in the face of things but hey, if I can be engrossed by the idea of a sock I obviously DO NOT have my priorities straight.

Too Quiet

I knew she was being too quiet. There is the quiet when Monkey is engrossed in a benign activity like filling and emptying her vintage barn with the mooing door. There is the quiet of Monkey "reading" herself a story. There is the quiet of watching for the millionth time the most exciting kids movie ever made- whatever that happens to be this week. And then there is the quiet of undertaking a forbidden activity. Every parent knows it. It awakens the parental "spidey sense". And yet I let it go for a few minutes because I was otherwise occupied.
In acquiring a sudden boon of house plants from a friend leaving the province my main concern was in regard to Monkey trying to eat harmful foliage. The sheer size of many of these potted beauties meant, however, that putting them up high or out of reach was impossible or down right dangerous. So the next logical option was to keep an eye on her to ensure no leaf munching went on. Surprisingly - to me at least- she has never attempted to eat the forbidden plants but the dirt... the dirt is at times irresistible.
So what should I find to explain the unnatural silence but my little angel with her tender tootsies nestled in a pile of potting soil while she methodically scoops more onto the floor with the heads of her two tiny "princess" dollies. Her big eyes shine up at me as she waits to see what my reaction will be. She seems torn between sharing her delight and dreading my reprimand. Though I was disappointed and annoyed (as much with myself as her) I must admit we did have fun washing her hands, feet and princesses in the sink before I had to go sweep up the mess.
All parents be advised, heed the "spidey" sense. Do not hesitate.
Lesson learned.

The Dark Mistress of Snot

I don't think I have had the flu - the actual flu- since my teens. No wonder everyone rushes off to the doctor thinking they are going to die, that's the way it feels...for real. I think the criteria for judging if one has a cold or flu should be the regularity of complaints coming from the infected person; the more you complain the less likely it is to be the flu, because with the flu, one has no energy to complain, or roll over, or cough.
I started to see the virus in me as the manifestation of some Latin-American style "Day of the Dead" Icon, some skeletal creature in female form working her necessary evil on me through fatigue, head congestion and, the most evil of all, endless viscous snot.
I spent one night dreaming that the bed was a raft on a dark, choppy sea. I and the other raft members spent our time trying to knit a sail out of rags but just kept making more convoluted rags.
My snoring got so oppressive my Dear had to move down to the couch.
One night I sweat through five separate shirts.
For several days I felt as though I had swallowed razor blades and that and a completely blocked nose reduced my diet of tiny swallows of soup when ever I could raise my head.
But as thick as the fog spread by Lady Influenza was it lifted suddenly leaving me with a slight sniffle and little else as a memento.
I am stunned by how healthy I feel. I feel as though I ought to make an offering to Lady Influenza thanking her for the weird dreams and leaving me unscarred...but what? Used tissue? Ginger tea? Warm blankets?

Learning to Eat

A friend has been staying with us with a wheat/dairy allergy. She says it makes her uncomfortable thinking that her eating habits inconvenience others. I found it a pleasant challenge to find yummy recipes that fit the margins. I scoured the internet and found a fabulous chocolate cake recipe which made her grin which in turn made me happy. So really the food "issue" made me more creative and made for a happy memory.
In talking with her about food and her allergies I realised it wouldn't hurt for us to try abstaining from wheat for two weeks and see if anyone here has an intolerance. I talked it over with my Dear and he agreed to give it a try.
That night we made a Mexican influenced stir-fry and asked ourselves what to have with it. What about couscous? Nope, all wheat. Okay, rice? Nah, not in the mood. Quinoa? Is that a kind of wheat? I don't think so... Quinoa it is.
The next day, off I went to the market to buy wheat-free things. Rice crackers, rice noodles, wheat-free pasta. I couldn't find rice tortillas in the store but I know a place that sells them cheap by the pound. And I bought a lot more vegetables and meat. Only when I got my wares home did I see that two of the pasta packages I had bought did in fact contain wheat. A clear case of take the time to read the ingredients carefully. Lesson learned.
That night we ate rice based fusili noodles with a meat sauce. My friend had warned me that rice noodles have a very narrow "ready" window. If you take them out too soon they are unpleasantly under cooked and a minute too long and they are sticky and mushy. I kept a close eye on them and rinsed them in cold water after draining. They did have a slightly gluey consistency that you don't find with wheat noodles but they were still tasty enough, and I think, properly cooked.
The next night it was spaghetti noodles with a rice and quinoa base. Those were yummier with a better consistency and less sensitive cooking instructions but the box only contained enough for one person or two if served as a side dish, and for the price, that is not worth it. I will, however, keep my eye open for other brands of noodles with quinoa and see if they are all expensive.
So tonight, I think we will have Chinese style chicken stir-fry. No faux-wheat issues to think about accept soya sauce, I realise. Must find an alternative for that.
On the whole I have been learning that a diet restriction as wide as "no wheat" can feel quite limiting but I am seeing it as a matter of perspective. If you think of the best yummiest foods as having wheat then you will feel deprived but if you think of the vast variety of delicious foods that do not have and often have never had wheat it doesn't seem like such a sacrifice. Also it is probably a lot easier for me knowing that I can go back to wheat if I choose, some cannot and thinking that you will NEVER eat a fresh baked loaf of pumpernickel ever again could and probably is quite saddening.
My delight comes from baking so I have been searching for recipes without wheat. Not an easy task. Many recipes started out as wheat flour based and have been adapted, these, I often find are like calling carob chocolate or tofu meat-only if you have never had the original can the substitute fool you. But I have been finding a few, a sadly small few, that never started with wheat and I am trying them out in turn to see how they hold up. The whole experience is a learning process but I am finding it an enjoyable one.

Morning Noodling

The Monkey and I lolled in bed until quarter of nine today. When we finally opened our eyes to greet each other we gave the other a great squishy morning smile. On days like this I often get the gift of a "Hi mommy!" which starts my day off nicely.
I put on the kettle and popped a bagel in the toaster while Monkey wandered around reintroducing her clown to various characters in the kitchen. I started making a mental "should-do" list; dishes, buy baby wipes, do some laundry, etc. Meanwhile I flipped through a cook book ogling cake recipes and wondered which one my Dear would like as an after work surprise. Monkey ate a muffin and shared her Cheerios with me while I had tea and ate cream cheese and Joan's home made marmalade on a bagel. It was a nice way to start the day.
We went out and bought wipes but I am now studiously avoiding the rest of my "should-do" list. Thinking about my current knitting project. Wondering if I will get work today. Wondering if I should start tackling the tricky Halloween costume I have decided to make for Monkey. Should I shower now or later?
Monkey is enraptured by her favorite cartoon which frees up my time some but will I use that time "constructively"? Ah! I know, I will read the free paper and see what interesting events exist for my friend and I to do this weekend on my "day pass" excursion. Now that is time well spent!

Knit, Purl, Dream, Knit, Purl, Dream...

I have been knitting to such a fevered pitch recently that I dreamed of knitting last night. I dreamed the act of knitting and nothing else, no plot, no characters, just yarn and sticks. This is what I get for making knitted objects a goal rather than a hobby. At least I have the good sense to know that I never want to get paid to do it. Making it a job takes all the love out of it. And there is definite love there for me. The fact that I got giddy when a burly P.I character on a TV show I like (Pushing Daisies) was revealed to knit under pressure shows that I am obsessed and loving it. I don't go gaga over "yarn porn" like some but the act of creating a usable, hopefully, beautiful object really satisfies me. No wonder I dream of it.

Long distance relationships

We drove to Toronto last weekend to bring the Monkey to the zoo. Her favorites were the giraffes, elephants, gorillas and seals. While walking to the seal pavilion she was hollering "Seals, where aaarrre yoouuu?" in a sing song voice. And when we finally saw them she greeted them with a gleeful announcement of "Seeaalls!"
We stayed with a friend who always brings my spirits up. She has wonderful warmness and she gets excited about the same kinds of silly things as me. It's only a shame she lives in another city, like most people I would love to have close to me. I have some friends in this city and some of them I have known a long time but there is and always will be a distance of a sort. A squeak in my "letting you in" door. The ones I can fall down broken in front of are far away, the ones I would choose to help me up because they would do it just right. The ones who make me laugh from the gut, give hugs from the soul and gently but firmly tell it like it is all live away.
So despite the agony of the drive there and back the trip helped heal an empty feeling I had been having. I feel stronger after having spent time with someone I truly enjoy if only for a weekend.
Now all I need is to find someone or someones like that here but, of course, I don't get out much.

In the time it has taken...

In June I sat down.
They told me to sit down.
My core vibrated with shock.
I thought "He never wanted to die alone".
I cried some.
I was desperate to mourn in a group,
To have and to be a witness.
I flew to where your name was on everyone's lips.
I got drunk on photos, hugs, cigarettes, poems and Fireball whiskey
And flew away again.

In July I listed your faults.
Love and frustration
Stretched my sadness into strange shapes.
I asked why you had died.
I spoke of you to few in fewer words.
I kept you secret.
I looked for you.
I wrote you letters.

In August I forgot you.
I lived.
I slept and woke up,
I ate and did laundry.
You were nowhere in my mind.
Sometimes I felt guilty for it
But mostly I lived.

In September I dreamt of you.
I heard poems by people you had introduced me to,
People who are not dead.
I cried waterfalls.
I composed poems to you as I fell asleep.
In the night I cheated on the father of my child with you, a dead man.

I always felt like your secret lover,
like if they ever wrote a book about you my name would not be in it.

I keep wondering if I would now love you this much if you had lived.

Addressing The Internet God

Bless me internet god, for I have sinned. It has been, like, two months since my last confession.
I have thought of posting. An idle thought that skips by as my toddler climbs on top of something tall for the forty second time. A passing consideration as I put the monkey down for a nap that has been two hours in the prepping. The blog idea gets quickly crowded out by the pile of dishes, the laundry, the current knitting project, the floor that needs sweeping (maybe even mopping, don't even go there), the phone ringing, the counting back to when I last had a shower (do I smell?), the picking up of toys, the thoughts of what to make for dinner (should I prep now while I have the peace and quiet?) and the long sighing thought of...just...sitting...down...
So, internet god, I am unrepentant.
Sure I left things on a sour-ish note with the whole death thing but hey, life goes on, right? Not to say I don't think about my two friends who passed this summer. Or about my friend who more recently told me he is on palliative care for cancer. Or about the fact that I haven't worked in almost a month. These things are on my mind but so is watching the last flowers of the season bloom before it all prepares to go below deck for when the snow flies. And watching Monkey laugh as if it is the first time at the movie she has insisted on watching every day for the past month. Watching her dance to Elvis tunes. Taking bike rides. Getting reacquainted with an old friend. Laughing on the phone long distance. Working in fits and spurts on a story idea. Making a christmas list of things I want to make for people I care about. These things have been on my mind too.
Yes, I am unrepentant for living rather than writing about it. But I will try to check in a bit more often.

Shining Light on the Debris

So becoming acquainted with the death and mourning process, dealing with strangling financial stress, trying unsuccessfully to extricate myself from family related drama and entering the summer heat wave have all given me pause for thought. That's a mellow way of saying "quietly loosing my mind".
I started smoking again, which I blame on the above situations. I fantasize about getting embarrassingly hammered and I have a running inner dialogue that is bitching and complaining non-stop.
I have cried a fair bit lately.
I have wondered when and if this is going to let up, this crap-tastic ballet of "interesting times".
But right now I am thinking this must all be the universe giving me a good shake, saying "HEY! DOPEY! YEAH, YOU! WAKE UP!!!"
The question at this point is; did I nod off? How long have I been out? What did I miss?
And ya know, I was sure I wasn't sleeping, I mean I got this great kid who makes me happy to be alive every day (even when I want a break), and a swell home (even though my mother-in-law finds reasons to complain about it often), my man is working (earning little to no money and stressed as hell), I like my work (though I could use more of it) and I am happy with my lot. So what is it? What is my blind spot covering?
The whisper tells me it's spiritual. Not "I Found God!" spiritual, but "Operating from the Center of my Inner Me" spiritual.
So I think I'll work on that.
That and giving up smokes again.