I'm the One Standing Here Just Dying to be Heard
Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia. I'm back in the house where I pay bills, with my feet up on my usual not-my-ottoman, my second Tropicalia half full on the end table. That's the last of them for the night. This week's triggers have renewed my interest in keeping a good handle on that. The girl cat is curled up in her usual location at my shoulder and the orange idiot is on the heated mat a couple feet to my left. The familiar is soothing to me just now.
I am dead tired. That feels really lovely at the moment. You can't wallow if all you can do is keep your eyes open. Seems to be a Friday night pattern at this rate. That shoulder is stiff, but it's better than it was around 16:00 today. Ice pack and Aleve for the win. I'd sell what's left of my soul for an extra pair of hands on that. I've managed to bash the back of my left hand on something, I frankly have no memory of it, but the bruise has bloomed across half my hand in rosy shade of purplish brown.
Make no mistake, I'm still over my head in a tide pool somehow. It is my own fault for lying down in it. And I suppose it could have been any shade of blue, not only this exact shade of pale Pacific. I have made the weather and all there is to do is stand in the rain, lightning striking me in a blinking light or the hint of campfire smoke in the air. I just have to keep my head above or hold my breath until I find my legs under me and wander to a new wetness.
There is some beauty in this feeling. It's hope. It's a possibility. It's something to look forward to. It's kindness and encouragement and deep conversations and all of my favorite songs and pink bubbles and breakfast. It's my locket on the nightstand and a painting over the bed. It's a temporary getaway and pizza and the chill breeze on the balcony and waking up feeling peace. All of these things because I let the water wash over me for the first time in years instead of backing away as the foam drew too near. I don't know what's next and as unlike me as this is, I'm okay with it. You can't control the tide. It's small comforts until a greater one comes along or these small ones become more. Greatness and gratitude.
I've taken to writing longhand letters to my friends who want them and it's been therapeutic without being quite so exhibitionist. That never bothered me much before I felt as if some readers are a little voyeuristic and it left me feeling somewhat exposed. "I guess you can say I'm asking for it because I'm the one standing here just dying to be heard." I wrote three today. That said, feel free to shoot me your mailing address and I'll send you a no-obligation snail mail. I write a damn fine letter.
I set up an outdoor studio for the kids tonight and my sister was well enough to sit on some pillows and join the lesson. We did Milky Ways because they are just abstract enough to be beautiful even if they aren't all the same. Less technique and more wiggle room. My wheelhouse. And they did turn out lovely, even if the boy couldn't be seduced into it until we were close enough to finished that it was too late. We had a blast and I felt as if I could contribute something worthwhile to a soul. I have to tell you, that girl is going to be an incredible artist.
I'm grateful for the moments like now that allow me to reflect. I've been told I'm self-aware for someone my age, the implication that I'm young. I feel a thousand these days. My face doesn't really show it, but my soul is weathered. I need more time in the gym and less time in front of a computer. More time on the rail and less time in the kitchen. More time in my own chair with a good bit of Southern literature and less time driving point A to point B.
I would not trade anything in the world for these weeks. Carrying that boy to bed, so much like the one I held twelve years ago, his little horse muzzle soft head on my shoulder and his little body so heavy and relaxed in my arms. The whisper-soft questions the girl asks, waiting quietly for her answer, whether she was heard or not. My sister's laughter with mine, just slightly this side of hysterical, over something that is nothing to anyone but us.
It is completely silent now apart from my own fingers clicking over keys and the waterfall sound of the kitty water fountain. And I am thankful for nights like this. A part of me misses knowing there are small bodies who need me up the stairs sleeping, or the chaos of bus pick up and fully inappropriate signage held airport-style, seeking the same kind of validation and recognition. But some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia.
I am dead tired. That feels really lovely at the moment. You can't wallow if all you can do is keep your eyes open. Seems to be a Friday night pattern at this rate. That shoulder is stiff, but it's better than it was around 16:00 today. Ice pack and Aleve for the win. I'd sell what's left of my soul for an extra pair of hands on that. I've managed to bash the back of my left hand on something, I frankly have no memory of it, but the bruise has bloomed across half my hand in rosy shade of purplish brown.
Make no mistake, I'm still over my head in a tide pool somehow. It is my own fault for lying down in it. And I suppose it could have been any shade of blue, not only this exact shade of pale Pacific. I have made the weather and all there is to do is stand in the rain, lightning striking me in a blinking light or the hint of campfire smoke in the air. I just have to keep my head above or hold my breath until I find my legs under me and wander to a new wetness.
There is some beauty in this feeling. It's hope. It's a possibility. It's something to look forward to. It's kindness and encouragement and deep conversations and all of my favorite songs and pink bubbles and breakfast. It's my locket on the nightstand and a painting over the bed. It's a temporary getaway and pizza and the chill breeze on the balcony and waking up feeling peace. All of these things because I let the water wash over me for the first time in years instead of backing away as the foam drew too near. I don't know what's next and as unlike me as this is, I'm okay with it. You can't control the tide. It's small comforts until a greater one comes along or these small ones become more. Greatness and gratitude.
I've taken to writing longhand letters to my friends who want them and it's been therapeutic without being quite so exhibitionist. That never bothered me much before I felt as if some readers are a little voyeuristic and it left me feeling somewhat exposed. "I guess you can say I'm asking for it because I'm the one standing here just dying to be heard." I wrote three today. That said, feel free to shoot me your mailing address and I'll send you a no-obligation snail mail. I write a damn fine letter.
I set up an outdoor studio for the kids tonight and my sister was well enough to sit on some pillows and join the lesson. We did Milky Ways because they are just abstract enough to be beautiful even if they aren't all the same. Less technique and more wiggle room. My wheelhouse. And they did turn out lovely, even if the boy couldn't be seduced into it until we were close enough to finished that it was too late. We had a blast and I felt as if I could contribute something worthwhile to a soul. I have to tell you, that girl is going to be an incredible artist.
My most recent PFT (pulmonary function test) had a 98% result. That's really good. And it's a good sign for many things that I enjoy. I dropped it to my mother that I might consider taking voice lessons now that I finally have the air to hold it. It's in my blood. She just made a sound I can only describe as skeptical and unencouraging. Well, she was the same way about visual art for me. I guess that is to say "Hater stay home." Then my dear sister heard Lydia Loveless and told me that I sound like her. I guess we are getting to be for each other what our mother never could be for either of us. Hopefully between the two of us, we can kintsugi each other into something more than we were, bone china shot through with gold. That is my hope.
I'm grateful for the moments like now that allow me to reflect. I've been told I'm self-aware for someone my age, the implication that I'm young. I feel a thousand these days. My face doesn't really show it, but my soul is weathered. I need more time in the gym and less time in front of a computer. More time on the rail and less time in the kitchen. More time in my own chair with a good bit of Southern literature and less time driving point A to point B.
I would not trade anything in the world for these weeks. Carrying that boy to bed, so much like the one I held twelve years ago, his little horse muzzle soft head on my shoulder and his little body so heavy and relaxed in my arms. The whisper-soft questions the girl asks, waiting quietly for her answer, whether she was heard or not. My sister's laughter with mine, just slightly this side of hysterical, over something that is nothing to anyone but us.
It is completely silent now apart from my own fingers clicking over keys and the waterfall sound of the kitty water fountain. And I am thankful for nights like this. A part of me misses knowing there are small bodies who need me up the stairs sleeping, or the chaos of bus pick up and fully inappropriate signage held airport-style, seeking the same kind of validation and recognition. But some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia.
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