November 1 2020 so begins my own writing. For sanctuary, and commitment. And i’m sharing it here because i don’t feel totally complete without the share, and i’m not going to look into that too deeply. sue me.
Today’s writing prompt?
Time.
ugh.
- Time is funny. Time spent dancing in the kitchen touches all the minutes of the day, remembrance of my body and my joy. Wanting to tell someone of it, realizing I’m okay without that. And still wanting anyhow. Maybe this serves.
- Letting go of the wifely, finally, after five years. The protection I still do, because he is the father of my children, the things I haven’t told. Now I can let someone else hold the secrets, the narcissism and the myopia. And what will I do with all that space? Why do I think him incomplete on his own? That is a question. Do I think it of all men? Another one. Dang.
- Days are passing, large chunks of time uninspected. The chickens are fine, the decorations from last Christmas are doing well, more timely now. Funny how that works, right? Round and around again.
- Time time time. Bangles. My brain doing the roundabout too. Resisting the writing on the very first day. I have to force myself through this. I want it bad, y’all.
- The last therapist I had used internal family systems which I loved. Recognizing your emotional parts as protectors of your sacredness. Like, my self-criticism is really just trying to protect myself from bravado, or risky behaviors. Etc. and so you approach all the pieces of you with great love and appreciation, for all the good intentions that they have. Much like that movie, whatsitcalled. Right? She retired, my therapist, and I’m looking for another, and boy, anytime you bump into new expenses or insurance problems, it’s a quick and dirty reminder of how much the American system sucks balls. In a bad way.
- Can I make it through this writing without checking the phone? Nope. Recognizing compulsion doesn’t seem to make any real difference to me these days. I do know it as addiction and yes, it bothers me and no, I can’t seem to make headway. I say it has to do with connection to a world outside of my house, children, dog and chickens, but I think I could do with less of that. Particularly as I live in this country, and in this town, which is heavy with the trump. I do not think I will leave the house again if he wins, which I think he might. Based on the signage in my Massachusetts town, not any flipping polls. i learned my lesson last time.
- I want a slow life, I want less seek. Its not happened for me yet. I’m not sure I have the patience for it, the self-direction. If ‘someone else’ were to come in and take all my tech and leave me with just the chickens and the dogs, and kids, I’d be fine…. But I can’t do it myself. Willfully get off the grid? I don’t know how that makes me feel about myself.
- My last boyfriend was amazing. And still is. He’s repeating an act of love he did for me, last year. A slew of cards are making their way to me in this month of November, when time takes a bat to my head on the regular. I don’t know how to say how much it means to me, and how unworthy I feel to receive such selflessness. Truly empties me out. I feel terrible. And greedy. And so damn needy.
- Memory and remembrance are heavy in this month, for so many people. The fall of fall. The traditions, the food, yard cleanups, the way the light changes and flows and glows and everything is in freefall.
- I’m sticking to ten. Maybe next time I should set a timer. I’m not sure there will be much pith here. Exercise type writing. Is there meat to suck on ? bones to suck the marrow from? I’m not sure, really. But I’ve got to move on. I forgot to change the clocks and now I’m all jacked up and I could be sleeping. How timely.
- She cracks up.
Think the beginning of November ushers in a time of reflection. Usually I just skim through the arts section of the Sunday Globe, but today there were 3 really good reflective articles I read in their entirety. One was a Ty Burr piece about Jerry Jeff Walker’s “Desperados Waiting for a Train” rejecting on male psychology, its myths, and Trump and his supporters. Another was Zoe Madonna’s essay, “Election night 2016, when the world changed in the space of one symphony.” (In with she says,”I don’t drink much in quarantine. Not unless the occasion calls for it.”) Wonderful reflective pieces. Ty Burr writes, “If you’re anything like me, you’re experiencing these final pre-election days as a moment of off-the-charts anxiety, an almost existential waiting for a shoe to drop and dreading that it’ll be the wrong one.” Exactly. Thanks for your musings and comments on life and time.