I’m feeling all Twin Peaks-y, which, for me, just means I am feeling inexplicably weird. Maybe velveteen in the corner for no reason, just petting the log, maybe dancing.
if you know, you know.
I just had therapy for the first time in months. I ended up cancelling out totally in the summertime, finding time to schedule it in was proving too hard and the stress was ridiculous. It was so sweet, I like my lady so much, and it was good to talk about the stuff I had percolating when I first made the appointment, almost a month ago now. Its all that stuff about the season, you know, and the fear of loss, and the inevitable loss, and the mom-ing, and daughtering, and soldiering on.
Everyone should have a therapist. C’mon. Get your log burning, baby.
I’m craving simple things. I want Matthew McConaghey in the seventies, in the orange pants of Dazed and Confused. I remember them as orange anyhow.
I’m tending a sick kid today, nothing serious, just cranky and ‘something’. I’ve got the time to do it, so I am. She’s curled up at my side as I type. We’re watching the fire.
Tuesday I wrote this about the woodstove:
It’s a big black box, yes, in the middle of my circus kitchen. But there is nothing better here. Nothing more needed, more central, when it comes down to it. The most reliable object of the home. No plug required. Not loss if the power goes out. Just four walls, a roof and a door and I feel like I can provide for the family. Really. I wonder if that’s all it was, as I worked Monday, the feeling of managing things. I’m on top of it all, if I can make a fire. Not buried in the avalanche, but on top of the pile, having dug myself out . I’m resting now, in the light. Clear yellow instead of the bruised blue of the snowpile.
May we all get to the top of the snowpile. (if we want to)
I love colors. so much. I wish us sunlight and color. And logs, and velvet.