Humanity

Nibbles

i do what i can to take care of myself lately. i’m only talking to people i like and i am not looking at a dating site. (now that i’ve typed it, i’ll probably look tonight, goddamnit)

i’m trying to go to yoga twice a week, i’m taking my vitamins.

i’m making sure to water the plants and i’m even using fertilizer this year, which i’ve never been willing to do because i’m all ‘nature should be untouched’ and all that shit.

we’re still not going to the beach very much. two redheads you know. they don’t really want to, and i would have to start drinking if i spent a full day in the sun now. and that sounds gross to me.

i send a letter occasionally.

i’ve figured out a way to get air conditioning on the entire bedroom set. it involves several pushpins and a sheet hanging from the ceiling. we will see. the truth is, i think i sleep better without it. it seems to be giving me headaches. what a bitch.

i’m taking my kid to camp for three weeks this weekend. i will be more fragile than i think. or, as fragile as i think. there will be a lot of driving and my older teenager has completely opted out to stay with friends for two nights, and someone is coming to watch the dogs and release the chickens!! (you have to yell that, right there, as in RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!)

there are a few moving parts. i’m taking my youngest to visit with two of her great aunts and their husbands, greatuncles too, and we’re going to a fabulous garden on the coast. maine has a whole damn lot of connection and visitation spots, as its where both my parents were born and raised. I wonder if i should visit some grave sites… it might freak my daughter out, and i don’t think the dead will notice. hm.

i had a job this week and it felt pretty damn good to have my wednesday all filled up. I purposefully cleared these past three weeks to spend time with kids before camp. and then it was cloudy and humid and rainy in a million ways. and too much screentime for us all. so it was less than ideal and i’m thrilled that my kid goes to camp for three weeks screen free.

i’ll have more work next week and I’m hoping structure will help me give us more activity. we’ll see.

first i’ve got to leave a kid in a place that makes him supremely happy and makes me feel like i have a hole in my heart.

i’ll be fine. i will.

remind me he needs a flashlight. okay?

allright. glad i’m writing? HA! a bunch of nibbles for you. I’m thinking a lot. I’m looking forward to when it starts spilling out onto a keyboard. its been a good time, believe it or not.

love you,

kate

person holding flashlight during nighttime
BUY A FLASHLIGHT, GODDAMNIT. TIME IS RUNNING OUT. Photo by Wendelin Jacober on Pexels.com
Humanity

Chump

I got stood up on a first date. I only waited fifteen minutes. I bought myself a sundae anyhow but didn’t want to pay a dollar for the slices of banana and so robbed myself of a little joy. but there was hot fudge.

(online dating bites the big one, also without banana)

i wore my yoga pants backwards this morning, to yoga. I’m not sure if anyone could tell but man, its that feeling, when you recognize that you are kinda sorta only basically functioning.

I spend a lot of time excusing people, making up imaginary scenarios in which there is a good reason for their bad behavior. I am beginning to see what a waste of my time that is. It is hard to let go of a pattern I’ve had since childhood. Some things are just inexplicable.

I’d like to tell you that I’ve been patting myself on the back for dodging a bullet but that would not be true. I wonder to myself if he saw me, and ran away, like they do in the movies. I am not 27 anymore and my exotic bird characteristics are not for everyone.

And then I think to myself I will stop looking. And then I recognize that it is possibly one of my defining traits, to be looking, seeking, curious. So then what? A break? I have fear that if i do that it will be permanent, I will somehow float off into the woods never to be seen again, disconnected entirely from the world of my body and of men.

and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. but then there’s these kids that still need to be shepherded to adulthood. and stuff. and i should probably feed the dog. yah.

CHUMP.

thats right. its been that kind of week. And i’m pretty sure its just Monday.

Humanity

Misty Monday.

i’m reading this book by Margaret Atwood, “Negotiating with the Dead: A writer on writing.”

Its summer and I’ve had it from the library for far far too long. So much so that their letters to me have actually become rather abrupt, if you can imagine.

but it is summer, as you know, my brain collapses in on itself and I barely function as a feeder to my children. barely.

so here’s the line that gets me, that I get, that sums up my relationship between my brain, fingers and keyboard.

“…when I typed that sentence, I wasn’t myself.”

I am myself, all the time, yes, but there is something that happens when I’m writing, some otherworldly experience in which my fingers and brain move more quickly than my conscious mind. For instance, I can be surprised by what I write. I can fall into a turn of phrase that I wasn’t aware I was loving.

And yet, its me. Its all me. plus some.

the resurgence in my writing in the years post-divorce has really fostered the mustard seed within me. of faith, of personhood. there is something magical happening as my brain clicks and sputters, and i’m so glad to be part of it, and aware of it, and even now, as i sit in front of the fan and pray for fall, I’m pretty damn thrilled that I’m coming back to myself.

its not fast, this movement. no.

the space, the mist between what i am and what i deeply AM. thats where i am at when i write. Its like a good church. (a good one, a real one)

I want that for you, too. and i want more of it, for myself.

and now, a thousand questions waterfall their way into my space.

How? is there a first step? if i write more, will i lose it? What happens if i sink into the liminal space? will i be irritated by my kids all the time? can i even write at all when the kids are here? I need to spend all my time watching them because they are leaving soon, relatively. can i write THEM? probably not? can i make a plan to seek something as vague as a mist of faith and personhood? can i do anything in the summertime at all? ever? can i figure out how to repair the catscratched sofa?

the brain boings. but I want that mist. Might be a personal Fall i could carry with me through the summer, no?

love love,

mistyme.

a person standing in the middle of a foggy forest
Just like this, but with sparkle lights all around. . . Photo by Nandor on Pexels.com
Humanity

slug fest.

I’ve managed to get my schedule pretty clear for the rest of July. and i have things i want to do.

i do not want to do yoga but i went and exercised for the first time in several years last night, (which is kindof on a want-to-do list) and then i collapsed on the sofa and i missed a thing i actually really do want to do. so what is that? a double edged sword? in my slovenly sodden month of july?

sodden=humidity. so much of it. so very much of it.

and slovenly? ha. i might watch more tv because i don’t have something pulling me into the other room, but I’m going to enjoy the hell out of my kids at the beach if a single day of sun ever arrives, or dropping them here and there and fifty other things. and so there will be driving, and lots of it. and i’m devastated to say, i have to start getting them packed for camp. three weeks these boys will be gone. and its too damn long. it just is. i’ll be driving back and forth to maine, so there will be that, and i’m taking the littlest on a little sidetrip and i’m quite thrilled about it. and it involves a spontaneous motel-finding, so its another whothehell knows moment. but hang on there, there’s more.

i’ve been reading about something called ‘disorganized attachment‘. I’m just touching the iceberg with sturdy gloves on, so i’m not sure its 100% on target for me, but much of it is. my parents were fantastic, and i’m not a product of abuse. There were a lot of times when i was living with them, that their focus was entirely elsewhere, and not wrongly. There is something in that time which made me not trust, and I am still in that.

so its been an interesting ride, to find some real and achingly familiar paragraphs that suit me, and my style, and/or problem set. heh. problem set. like i’m some page in an algebra textbook.

hello 8th grade math, i am you.

I also discovered, and honestly, you would think this would be a no-brainer, but no. I also discovered a very firm boundary about being around men who drink in any way problematically. very firm. Its not for me. and guess what? i’m the one who says whats problematic. Not going to happen and I’m sorry that I like you, but no. and finding out how to say it is my new struggle because i also know how much i have to deal with my people pleasing self.

boy, do i want everyone to think i’m the best woman in the world… shoot. i do. its not healthy and its also impossible, so what? man.

This is July, and this is my online therapy of choice currently. we all need therapy, more of it. more.

huh. my brain just wondered if i should be dating a therapist. one stop shopping.

i love my brain and her sick sick ways.

July, man.

lovelove,

me

abstract background
Dapple yourself silly. and Pink? Yeah. Go. Photo by Madison Inouye on Pexels.com

Humanity

Dark Night of the Should

It was a writing prompt, in which I don’t allow myself to edit. Edit? you say? You edit? Aha. Yes, yes I do. I may not care (here) about capitalizations of the I, and so on, but I do spell things correctly, and I do try to use grammar to capture the way it would sound if I were speaking. So there.

But in this prompt, I am ‘rulebound’ to not fix my errors at all, in an attempt to kill the inner editor which censors. And so I typed today’s title, as a mistake. I clearly intended it to be a reference to the Dark Night of the Soul that the mystics undergo when they lose their faith and are consumed with doubt about their relationship with the divine. Perhaps they are even cut off, as they believe, if such a thing is possible. ( I say it is not, but I am not in charge of their belief system, believe it or not.)

So.

My last list, of things to give up, was to help me with releasing some ridiculous ‘shoulds’. I ‘should’ be married, I ‘should’ be an office working professional, I ‘should’ look put together at some point, without the crew of people who got me ready for a wedding, my wedding. I should be cartwheeling. I should be buying lottery tickets. (those last two? clearly still on the fence.)

You’ve read a million things about why shoulds are bad, I know you have. I’m just adding another. A refusal on my part to accept the life I actually have, and all the power I have within it. What I’m doing right now? Is FUCKING AMAZING, and I don’t need any shoulds to water it down. I’m a writer, I’m raising three kids, I’m growing a garden and raising chickens and I’ve managed to do it all while recovering from a kind of traumatic marriage. DAYAM.

when I should myself, I’m denying the actual day to day life that I have. Which is real, and sometimes cruddy, and sometimes I’m an asshole, but its real, and its all mine, and i’m the boss of my house.

And sometimes I get really lost, and I get swamped by futility and lonely and fear of the future and the constant dishes. (would someone please just move in and take care of them? Swear to god, no rent if you just do the damn dishes. Wait. Fuck. I have kids! Why don’t they do the damn dishes?! Fuck.)

But that swamp? THAT IS THE DARK NIGHT OF THE SHOULD. right there. when i’m disappointing myself so badly, because I think I ‘should’ be something else. Well, I’m not, goddamnit.

I’m POPEYE THE FUCKING SAILOR MAN.

northern lights over mountain and forest
Photo by Mohan Reddy Atalu on Pexels.com

so bite me, shoulds. BITE ME.

-kate