I am not Wonder Woman. And I am not in control. I've been feeling very mortal this week, particularly since the accident. I'm still processing that, as well as all the stuff I sorted yesterday. A whole fruit salad of mixed feelings. Delight at finding the third page of my rough draft for Avery's sweater. Chagrin at finding unopened birthday cards (from April) and worse, Christmas cards. I read them, and felt a portion of the love that came with them, but mostly I felt embarrassed. It reminds me of when I was living alone, before I married the children's father, and found a package of unused sparklers in a dresser drawer right before the Fourth of July. When I lit them, they would barely smolder, much less spark and fly.
I remember when Sarah was working on my body, and she asked if I ever felt as if I were drowning, and I had to answer yes. I feel frustrated because the house is progressing so slowly. I feel ungrateful, because there is so much stuff to wrangle, even after two and a half years of reasonably steady chipping away, and I don't want to make a mistake and throw out something valuable. I feel determined to have a home that works for me, and which is easy for our kids to deal with when my time on Earth is done. I feel tired. I haven't been to the gym in weeks, and I feel guilty because it's a lot of money down the drain in that time, and I feel confused as to whether I should cancel my membership and buy a bike now rather than later.
I feel undernourished. I've been doing so much reading of late that there hasn't been much time for cooking. I felt better when I was eating more vegetables. I feel broke. And a little broken. And scattered, very scattered. I am trying very hard not to be so busy that I cannot feel my feelings, but to be busy enough that there is forward progress around here. I wish I could talk to Beloved, to ask him Where does this stuff need to go? Who could use it? And I wish that I could feel his arms around me.
On the other hand, when I look around at what I have accomplished, either on my own or with Fourthborn's help, I feel pleasure and pride and artistic satisfaction. There are oases of order and calm amid all the unfinished business. There is a smidgen less overwhelm at the end of most weeks. I think part of what I am feeling today is because I wrangled the contents of a small plastic grocery bag that has been kicking around my room for two and a half years. Expired tubes of hydrocortisone cream. A cheapie compass that will go into one of the cars, because it makes me grin. Notepads and index cards he might have taken along when he was having chemo. (There is yet another briefcase which needs going through. I'm not sure that today is the day for it.)
Choir practice resumes this afternoon, after a summer hiatus. And my home teacher and visiting teacher will be coming over today or next week. I'm looking forward to their visit. I wish I could say that I'm looking forward to choir practice. I know that once I get there, I'll enjoy myself, but right now it feels like just one more thing.
I woke up at Weekday Standard Time. I wish there were time for a nap before church. Thankfully, I am not depressed. I think this might be a very subtle wave of grief, and I am just going to roll with it, knowing that it will pass and I will go back to feeling productive and capable and a whole bunch of other Girl Scout virtues.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!