Here I am, blissfully alone, sitting on my couch, fake fire glowing, as I tap away into the ether. My circumstances changed with a blink. I went from wiping four-year-old noses to enduring pre-teen poses. I guess I like it all, but I'm glad I'm no longer in the JK yard, coming down with every variety of communicable ailment because I had to hold hands with the little germ mongers every day. Don't get me wrong, I loved them all, but I was also very, very sick, very, very often.
Middle school is much more civilized, germ-wise, although not so much otherwise.
The good news is that E and I get to escape to Cuba on Christmas Day. Hooray. I had to convince him to take me to a resort, rather than his kids, which was his original plan. I do have to do a lot of convincing with this man, which can be annoying, but at least he accomodates me. Can I say that I can't wait until the kids are grown and gone? Is that such a bad thing to admit to? His kids, not mine. Mine is challenging, but I like having her around . . . most of the time.
Ahhh, parenting. What a challenge thou art. Both E and I are dealing with kids on some kind of spectrum and it is hard going.
What isn't?
Why is that?
There must be a way, time, place that makes this all make sense.
Winter is a time to spend dark nights wondering about the sense of everything . . . when all is muffled in the cold, white shroud of snow.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
What makes fall beautiful
Okay, I tend to complain a lot and have recently noticed myself feeling angry . . . so I'm going to try to focus on the small and beautiful.
At my mother's funeral, over a decade ago now, what I noticed was that my mother was noted for small and quiet things, not grand accomplishments. She always told me she was happy. What can I take from this?
I think what makes me happy are small and quiet things, too, although I suppose that's because those small pleasures are easiest to access. My husband, who has a big career and recognition, doesn't suffer the same sense of bewilderment and confusion that I do . . . I know that his career provides him with a strong sense of identity and security. I do wonder what would do that for me.
Strong intimate connections are what make me happy . . . but what kind of career is predicated on those and how can I begin to explore that at this late age? I wish I knew.
At my mother's funeral, over a decade ago now, what I noticed was that my mother was noted for small and quiet things, not grand accomplishments. She always told me she was happy. What can I take from this?
I think what makes me happy are small and quiet things, too, although I suppose that's because those small pleasures are easiest to access. My husband, who has a big career and recognition, doesn't suffer the same sense of bewilderment and confusion that I do . . . I know that his career provides him with a strong sense of identity and security. I do wonder what would do that for me.
Strong intimate connections are what make me happy . . . but what kind of career is predicated on those and how can I begin to explore that at this late age? I wish I knew.
Monday, August 18, 2014
Late Summer
I`m up early on my last summer day with A. She is heading to the cottage with her dad. I fully expect not to hear from her for the next two weeks because every time I have been away, or she has, I hear nothing. Her father does not answer the phone. I feel that`s deliberate. I don`t know what to do anymore.
I prepare her as best I can. I hope for the best. I let her go.
How should a person be? I wasn`t left with any answers. Thanks, a lot, Sheila.
I think my big question is . . . What am I doing here? And I haven't been able to answer that question. There doesn`t seem to be any resounding answer from the Universe and I don`t seem to have any internal sense of purpose - beyond feeling compelled to mother well and express myself clearly to those I love.
Art should, I think, ask us to consider our circumstances critically. We enjoy art, I think, because we are seduced into doing so by whatever particular form it takes.
Recently, I`ve been wasting a lot of my time on entertainment . . . wasting being a harsh word, but . . . I feel that my efforts to create and facilitate entertainment haven`t helped me grow in any way and I expect that everything I do can increase my understanding or further my sense of connection to ideas or people. Again, my challenge seems to be trying to forge connections and I cannot figure out why it isn`t happening.
What does it take to really connect? E.M. Forster was all about that. He was hugely influential for me. `Only connect!`
But what if you want to connect and no one else is really interested? What do you do then?
Can art be a means to connect without fear or threat? Maybe.
Maybe all I can do is withdraw . . . to muddle my way through some form of creative expression that will make me feel . . . even if no one else does.
I prepare her as best I can. I hope for the best. I let her go.
How should a person be? I wasn`t left with any answers. Thanks, a lot, Sheila.
I think my big question is . . . What am I doing here? And I haven't been able to answer that question. There doesn`t seem to be any resounding answer from the Universe and I don`t seem to have any internal sense of purpose - beyond feeling compelled to mother well and express myself clearly to those I love.
Art should, I think, ask us to consider our circumstances critically. We enjoy art, I think, because we are seduced into doing so by whatever particular form it takes.
Recently, I`ve been wasting a lot of my time on entertainment . . . wasting being a harsh word, but . . . I feel that my efforts to create and facilitate entertainment haven`t helped me grow in any way and I expect that everything I do can increase my understanding or further my sense of connection to ideas or people. Again, my challenge seems to be trying to forge connections and I cannot figure out why it isn`t happening.
What does it take to really connect? E.M. Forster was all about that. He was hugely influential for me. `Only connect!`
But what if you want to connect and no one else is really interested? What do you do then?
Can art be a means to connect without fear or threat? Maybe.
Maybe all I can do is withdraw . . . to muddle my way through some form of creative expression that will make me feel . . . even if no one else does.
Monday, August 11, 2014
How Should a Person Be?
The title of this post comes from Sheila Heti's novel, that I downloaded onto my new kobo and have been reading since we left the desert.
Her novel is making me feel less alone, less strange, less like a failure.
Maybe everyone feels a little like a failure, but probably not. E doesn`t. And he doesn`t think about meaning. I asked him, 'What makes your life meaningful,' and he said, 'I don`t think like that.'
Whenever I try to talk to him, that is the kind of response I get. He is perfect, has done everything he ever wanted to, doesn't have any regrets, and doesn't think about the future, beyond planning for his perfect children's perfect lives.
I can't talk to anyone else because they are all busy.
It is difficult to find kindred souls, and I do believe in them. My daughter is one, but she`s still a kid.
So . . . where does that leave me? I talk to my 7-year-old. Our conversations sometimes make sense, but often are so clogged in make-believe they don't make any sense at all.
Most of what I think doesn't make any sense either, so we're okay.
I just lost the rest of my post . . . about how you can worry about how you should be only when you have the luxury of time that allows you to do so. With kids, that vanishes. All you can worry about . . . is how to make it through the day, or week, or summer, or school year, or childhood.
That`s the next movie I want to see - Childhood.
We saw Palo Alto in the desert. It felt like a movie about living in the desert.
I think the desert is easier to live in than the wilderness. There is less to attend to.
How should I be? Apparently, according to the signs I`ve been seeing, I should be nothing much of anything at all . . . the universe keeps shutting doors. Bam! Not for you. Bam! Sorry! Bam! Think of something else.
Funny that Heti`s mind never goes that way . . . her gripes are with others. She knows she's right where she should be.
Her novel is making me feel less alone, less strange, less like a failure.
Maybe everyone feels a little like a failure, but probably not. E doesn`t. And he doesn`t think about meaning. I asked him, 'What makes your life meaningful,' and he said, 'I don`t think like that.'
Whenever I try to talk to him, that is the kind of response I get. He is perfect, has done everything he ever wanted to, doesn't have any regrets, and doesn't think about the future, beyond planning for his perfect children's perfect lives.
I can't talk to anyone else because they are all busy.
It is difficult to find kindred souls, and I do believe in them. My daughter is one, but she`s still a kid.
So . . . where does that leave me? I talk to my 7-year-old. Our conversations sometimes make sense, but often are so clogged in make-believe they don't make any sense at all.
Most of what I think doesn't make any sense either, so we're okay.
I just lost the rest of my post . . . about how you can worry about how you should be only when you have the luxury of time that allows you to do so. With kids, that vanishes. All you can worry about . . . is how to make it through the day, or week, or summer, or school year, or childhood.
That`s the next movie I want to see - Childhood.
We saw Palo Alto in the desert. It felt like a movie about living in the desert.
I think the desert is easier to live in than the wilderness. There is less to attend to.
How should I be? Apparently, according to the signs I`ve been seeing, I should be nothing much of anything at all . . . the universe keeps shutting doors. Bam! Not for you. Bam! Sorry! Bam! Think of something else.
Funny that Heti`s mind never goes that way . . . her gripes are with others. She knows she's right where she should be.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Lessons from the Desert
So, in beginning to think about this post, I was reminded of the fact that Jesus also went into the desert. I am not religious, but I opened my little red Gideon bible, given to me in 1978, and it opened to this passage:
Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.
This was a prolonged chapter about fasting and temptation and Jesus sending the devil away. Was this the whole desert section? I`m not sure. Maybe I am confusing wilderness and desert. I live in the wilderness . . . I just visited the desert.
I loved the desert. I felt it taught me a number of valuable lessons. I`ll try to summarize them here:
1. what appears stark and barren may be thriving with beauty and life
2. look closely
3. breathe deeply
4. drink water
5. step carefully
6. attend to yourself in the heat
Oh, there`s more . . . but for me the desert was mostly just soothing with muted colours of sage and terra cotta; contrasting textures of pointed cacti, waving rounds of brush, corrugated mounds of red rock, and dusty, bloodish sand; delicate purple flowers white lacy branches; and sweeping blue skies.
E and I were there so he could ``conduct research.`` While he did that . . . I wandered about Albequerque . . . spying on the Breaking Bad RV tour and reading in sun soaked squares. Later, we retired to our desert resort . . .
So, as I fantasized about escaping our less-than-ideal marriage, I was lulled into acquiescence by our
luxurious surrounds.
This is marriage. I forgot our 2nd anniversary this year, cotton, but rode a horse named Cotton at the resort, as he munched his way through the desert to the shores of the Rio Grande at sunset. E rode ahead, on a horse named Topaz, a survivor of a rattlesnake bite. We reconciled ourselves to each other and whatever this is . . . struggling with stepkids and bio-parents, with our orange not apple marriage, with mid-life and foul tempers, with the messy richness of clashing cultures, bad manners, and good intentions.
Easier, please. I`d just like it to be a little easier.
Suffice it to say, I can relate to Walter White.
Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.
This was a prolonged chapter about fasting and temptation and Jesus sending the devil away. Was this the whole desert section? I`m not sure. Maybe I am confusing wilderness and desert. I live in the wilderness . . . I just visited the desert.
I loved the desert. I felt it taught me a number of valuable lessons. I`ll try to summarize them here:
1. what appears stark and barren may be thriving with beauty and life
2. look closely
3. breathe deeply
4. drink water
5. step carefully
6. attend to yourself in the heat
Oh, there`s more . . . but for me the desert was mostly just soothing with muted colours of sage and terra cotta; contrasting textures of pointed cacti, waving rounds of brush, corrugated mounds of red rock, and dusty, bloodish sand; delicate purple flowers white lacy branches; and sweeping blue skies.
E and I were there so he could ``conduct research.`` While he did that . . . I wandered about Albequerque . . . spying on the Breaking Bad RV tour and reading in sun soaked squares. Later, we retired to our desert resort . . .
So, as I fantasized about escaping our less-than-ideal marriage, I was lulled into acquiescence by our
luxurious surrounds.
This is marriage. I forgot our 2nd anniversary this year, cotton, but rode a horse named Cotton at the resort, as he munched his way through the desert to the shores of the Rio Grande at sunset. E rode ahead, on a horse named Topaz, a survivor of a rattlesnake bite. We reconciled ourselves to each other and whatever this is . . . struggling with stepkids and bio-parents, with our orange not apple marriage, with mid-life and foul tempers, with the messy richness of clashing cultures, bad manners, and good intentions.
Easier, please. I`d just like it to be a little easier.
Suffice it to say, I can relate to Walter White.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Mid-Summer
It doesn't feel much like summer. I am walled in with rain. Oh, dreary mess. I am listening to the top 100 best Canadian songs on the CBC . . . and am waiting for the Payolas to make an appearance . . . and Corey Hart . . and Neil Young's 'Heart of Gold'? Where are they??
Anyway, a distraction when I need one from everything else . . .
I am staring at the beautiful, wilting red roses that I was given on Monday, my second anniversary. I desperately want to see 112 Weddings . . . to see if everyone feels as disenchanted as I do . . . but I won't be around for the run . . . as we are off to the desert.
I can't get the title 'Desert of the Heart' out of my mind . . . and pulled it out to re-read it . . . thinking it might parallel my own particular pain at this time . . . but, alas, it doesn't . . . it is set in Reno and is about some other kind of love, even if redemptive. I don't feel anything can redeem my well-meant mess.
Recently I visited my mother's crumbling homestead. It is almost a ruin. She would have been devastated at the state of our family. I realize it takes a lot of work and will to hold people together, but there doesn't seem to much you can do if people do not want to be together and are not directly bound by blood or love.
I have been asking for help, not from anyone in particular, from the air, the summer, the universe, but no one is answering. The answer seems just to be 'carry on.'
Does anyone else have a better answer?
The sun doesn't seem able to bring any light.
Anyway, a distraction when I need one from everything else . . .
I am staring at the beautiful, wilting red roses that I was given on Monday, my second anniversary. I desperately want to see 112 Weddings . . . to see if everyone feels as disenchanted as I do . . . but I won't be around for the run . . . as we are off to the desert.
I can't get the title 'Desert of the Heart' out of my mind . . . and pulled it out to re-read it . . . thinking it might parallel my own particular pain at this time . . . but, alas, it doesn't . . . it is set in Reno and is about some other kind of love, even if redemptive. I don't feel anything can redeem my well-meant mess.
Recently I visited my mother's crumbling homestead. It is almost a ruin. She would have been devastated at the state of our family. I realize it takes a lot of work and will to hold people together, but there doesn't seem to much you can do if people do not want to be together and are not directly bound by blood or love.
I have been asking for help, not from anyone in particular, from the air, the summer, the universe, but no one is answering. The answer seems just to be 'carry on.'
Does anyone else have a better answer?
The sun doesn't seem able to bring any light.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
June 14, 2014
Ah, June. Lovely month. I just returned from a stroll through the burb . . . to the Couche Tard for mediocre coffee . . . but alas, nothing else is walking distance away.
I'm almost through this year . . . and from this end of things . . . it really was unbearable, despite my attempts to see it in a positive light. I'm done with doing whatever I've been doing and really must find a better way.
After experiencing what I thought of as a quarter-life crisis in my twenties, I'm back to crisis mode at the now-appropriate mid-life point. What now? is all I can think . . . as my second marriage is a mess of disappointment and frustration, as my career is crushed, as my confidence is lost . . .
Thankfully, I do have a super cute and curious kid, but she is exhausting.
I have to recover this summer . . . I have to rediscover who I am and what I can do . . . because all I've been able to focus on all winter are my failures.
Bring on the sun.
I'm almost through this year . . . and from this end of things . . . it really was unbearable, despite my attempts to see it in a positive light. I'm done with doing whatever I've been doing and really must find a better way.
After experiencing what I thought of as a quarter-life crisis in my twenties, I'm back to crisis mode at the now-appropriate mid-life point. What now? is all I can think . . . as my second marriage is a mess of disappointment and frustration, as my career is crushed, as my confidence is lost . . .
Thankfully, I do have a super cute and curious kid, but she is exhausting.
I have to recover this summer . . . I have to rediscover who I am and what I can do . . . because all I've been able to focus on all winter are my failures.
Bring on the sun.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014
Ha, two weeks more?? It's still cold. It's May and there is not much to show for it.
The only silver lining is . . . I have until Monday to file my taxes. This is tax weekend and it will be taxing! I am struggling through H & R Block's online software and the convolutions of filing business income and expenses. I do not like this, not one bit. I spoke to three CRA reps yesterday - two gave me entirely wrong information - the third I quite liked, and seemed to know what he was talking about, so I'll trust his advice. E, listening from the couch, said he sounded like a therapist, and he really did. He was calm, encouraging, spoke slowly, seemed concerned. CRA should hire therapists as tax advisors, or train tax advisors in non-directive counselling.
Anyway, otherwise, things are finally calming down . . . my marathon marking sessions are over, as are classes, so I can focus on my less exacting teaching . . . and productions. The next month will involve three different ones . . . and so lots of variety and, hopefully, fun.
So, no Sarah Hampson, I may not be living exactly the opposite of creativity, although I can't say that I'm gunning for high octane accomplishments or risks to get them. Can't some of us . . . just be who we are and not see that as a failing? (This relates to Hampson's article "The Afterlife of Marina Keegan" in yesterday's Globe.)
I'm determined to try not to see myself as less than others because I haven't accomplished big things. If I have tried, which I think I have, and nothing's really come of it, why bang my head against the ceiling and risk a concussion? Why not just live quietly and continue to pursue what pleases me and be happy that I can do that?
What else is there to do?
The only silver lining is . . . I have until Monday to file my taxes. This is tax weekend and it will be taxing! I am struggling through H & R Block's online software and the convolutions of filing business income and expenses. I do not like this, not one bit. I spoke to three CRA reps yesterday - two gave me entirely wrong information - the third I quite liked, and seemed to know what he was talking about, so I'll trust his advice. E, listening from the couch, said he sounded like a therapist, and he really did. He was calm, encouraging, spoke slowly, seemed concerned. CRA should hire therapists as tax advisors, or train tax advisors in non-directive counselling.
Anyway, otherwise, things are finally calming down . . . my marathon marking sessions are over, as are classes, so I can focus on my less exacting teaching . . . and productions. The next month will involve three different ones . . . and so lots of variety and, hopefully, fun.
So, no Sarah Hampson, I may not be living exactly the opposite of creativity, although I can't say that I'm gunning for high octane accomplishments or risks to get them. Can't some of us . . . just be who we are and not see that as a failing? (This relates to Hampson's article "The Afterlife of Marina Keegan" in yesterday's Globe.)
I'm determined to try not to see myself as less than others because I haven't accomplished big things. If I have tried, which I think I have, and nothing's really come of it, why bang my head against the ceiling and risk a concussion? Why not just live quietly and continue to pursue what pleases me and be happy that I can do that?
What else is there to do?
Thursday, March 27, 2014
No one around
Oh no. Just lost a post. Maybe better that way . . . pour out all the anguish and "poof" it's gone.
I'm alone again, just now, just for a little while, with E flown away, and all the kids with the crazy parents.
It's still brutally cold and nothing like spring, but there's sun and blinding glare.
I'm reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt and it is incredibly gripping and moving. I've been crying my way through my morning tea, lying on the couch, seeping in the fireglow, postponing the start of my long day until the last possible moment.
Once spring arrives, it will be easier, I reason, then I read the Globe headline that promises 2 more weeks of winter and I wilt.
E isn't affected by weather. He seems to coast along, thrumming with work and purpose, stalled only briefly by the crises of his children.
Would I were more like that.
I am determined to try . . . within reason. But being overly attached to my daughter's outcomes seems impossible to avoid. Her happiness seems the only real thing I can aim to accomplish right now, but maybe success in school isn't the real measure of her happiness. Her English teacher told me that they did an exercise in class where they each spoke to what they wished for. A explained that she was truly happy with her mom and dad and didn't particularly wish for anything.
There's that. At least something seems right.
I'm alone again, just now, just for a little while, with E flown away, and all the kids with the crazy parents.
It's still brutally cold and nothing like spring, but there's sun and blinding glare.
I'm reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt and it is incredibly gripping and moving. I've been crying my way through my morning tea, lying on the couch, seeping in the fireglow, postponing the start of my long day until the last possible moment.
Once spring arrives, it will be easier, I reason, then I read the Globe headline that promises 2 more weeks of winter and I wilt.
E isn't affected by weather. He seems to coast along, thrumming with work and purpose, stalled only briefly by the crises of his children.
Would I were more like that.
I am determined to try . . . within reason. But being overly attached to my daughter's outcomes seems impossible to avoid. Her happiness seems the only real thing I can aim to accomplish right now, but maybe success in school isn't the real measure of her happiness. Her English teacher told me that they did an exercise in class where they each spoke to what they wished for. A explained that she was truly happy with her mom and dad and didn't particularly wish for anything.
There's that. At least something seems right.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Smoothie
Okay, so I'm drinking smoothies to smooth out this rough, late-winter patch. It isn't working as quickly as I'd like it to. I'd like my energy back, please. Optimism would be nice, too. Hope? What's that?
I'm alone again this weekend and I'm brooding. A friend and I were talking about The Artist's Way the other day, which I should re-read. I'm no doubt frustrated by my lack of creative expression. It isn't that I'm not creating things, but I don't think I'm creating the things I'd most like to. However, when I try to get to what I want to write, for example, I come up blank. So . . . I'm just waiting for something to come clear, which may never happen.
Certainly, what I realize about myself is that I'm incapacitated by emotional upheaval and we've had a lot of that here lately. The boy in the house is apparently in crisis and it seems the other parent on that side is again veering close to the edge, threatening to abandon the kids and commit herself for treatment. Meanwhile, I'm dealing with a sad little girl who misses her half-brother. I'm also facing another year of unemployment after an email from my department warning of dire work prospects.
I would like to change course. I tried to, actually, this time last year, but the route I took was a dead end. In talking to my friend, I realize that I'm doing exactly what I've always wanted to do . . . and I know my ambitions are fairly small . . . but I'm not nearly making enough money to do it for any prolonged period of time. I'm hoping the book I picked up last week at the library, Tapping into Wealth, will help.
If I could work and make enough to support myself and A and have some extra for a rainy day, then I think everything would be fine. This would all feel easier. Life would seem possible.
Currently, my circumstances feel impossibly challenging and I don't feel up to dealing with them.
So, I'll swig my smoothies and continue my navel-gazing until the other people return and I have to deal with their problems.
I'm alone again this weekend and I'm brooding. A friend and I were talking about The Artist's Way the other day, which I should re-read. I'm no doubt frustrated by my lack of creative expression. It isn't that I'm not creating things, but I don't think I'm creating the things I'd most like to. However, when I try to get to what I want to write, for example, I come up blank. So . . . I'm just waiting for something to come clear, which may never happen.
Certainly, what I realize about myself is that I'm incapacitated by emotional upheaval and we've had a lot of that here lately. The boy in the house is apparently in crisis and it seems the other parent on that side is again veering close to the edge, threatening to abandon the kids and commit herself for treatment. Meanwhile, I'm dealing with a sad little girl who misses her half-brother. I'm also facing another year of unemployment after an email from my department warning of dire work prospects.
I would like to change course. I tried to, actually, this time last year, but the route I took was a dead end. In talking to my friend, I realize that I'm doing exactly what I've always wanted to do . . . and I know my ambitions are fairly small . . . but I'm not nearly making enough money to do it for any prolonged period of time. I'm hoping the book I picked up last week at the library, Tapping into Wealth, will help.
If I could work and make enough to support myself and A and have some extra for a rainy day, then I think everything would be fine. This would all feel easier. Life would seem possible.
Currently, my circumstances feel impossibly challenging and I don't feel up to dealing with them.
So, I'll swig my smoothies and continue my navel-gazing until the other people return and I have to deal with their problems.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Not anytime soon . . .
It isn't going to stop. I can't take it . . . I hate winter! Arghh!!!
I wish I were one of these people who could enjoy the snow and cold and get out and do things and feel revitalized. At times, I have been one of these people. Not now. No, now, I just want to hibernate. I sit in front of the fire and read and surf and used to watch the rats . . . until our beloved little one died unexpectedly yesterday. She never grew. I'm not sure why. don't know rats . . . and of course feel responsible for her untimely death . . . because I didn't realize she was so sick. She sneezed a lot and was small . . . but . . . I had no idea she was dying!
So, a sad day yesterday. . . and A and I were plowed in by the snowplow's pass . . . and it took me 40 minutes to dig us out so that she could make it to an afternoon birthday party. Today's headline, yet another "Snow Alert!" - unbelievable!
Thankfully, amid the bad news is some good news, my sad-sack, miser of a boarder is out . . . that was a huge relief. I'm not made to share; I'm finally, fully aware of this. That may not be such a great thing, but it is a true thing. I don't think I'll be able to tackle this anytime soon.
Challenges of any kind will have to wait. I'm just going to continue to hibernate until winter breaks.
I wish I were one of these people who could enjoy the snow and cold and get out and do things and feel revitalized. At times, I have been one of these people. Not now. No, now, I just want to hibernate. I sit in front of the fire and read and surf and used to watch the rats . . . until our beloved little one died unexpectedly yesterday. She never grew. I'm not sure why. don't know rats . . . and of course feel responsible for her untimely death . . . because I didn't realize she was so sick. She sneezed a lot and was small . . . but . . . I had no idea she was dying!
So, a sad day yesterday. . . and A and I were plowed in by the snowplow's pass . . . and it took me 40 minutes to dig us out so that she could make it to an afternoon birthday party. Today's headline, yet another "Snow Alert!" - unbelievable!
Thankfully, amid the bad news is some good news, my sad-sack, miser of a boarder is out . . . that was a huge relief. I'm not made to share; I'm finally, fully aware of this. That may not be such a great thing, but it is a true thing. I don't think I'll be able to tackle this anytime soon.
Challenges of any kind will have to wait. I'm just going to continue to hibernate until winter breaks.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Hot Buttered Rum
So last night, after my long drive home in the extreme dark and cold of the Polar Vortex, I attempted to make myself a glass of hot buttered rum, based on Beppi Crosariol's recipe in the Globe. The only thing I left out was the sugar, thinking that a 'paste' of butter and vanilla ice cream was probably bad enough. To that, I added hot water and my Puerto Rican spiced rum. I sat in front of the fire and decompressed for a good long while and thought, okay, so this is winter.
Winter gets me down. I don't like it. I especially don't like being cooped up inside with E's kids, who are always obnoxiously behaved. It is getting to me in a really bad way. I am planning on vacating the rest of the winter, just as soon as I recover my home from my sad-sack tenant at the end of this month. I'm not sure at all what this will mean in the long run . . . certainly, I'm now fully committed to an alternative 'family' constellation - and notice I've used air quotes. This is an artificial approximation of family and his kids will never let me forget it.
Winter gets me down. I don't like it. I especially don't like being cooped up inside with E's kids, who are always obnoxiously behaved. It is getting to me in a really bad way. I am planning on vacating the rest of the winter, just as soon as I recover my home from my sad-sack tenant at the end of this month. I'm not sure at all what this will mean in the long run . . . certainly, I'm now fully committed to an alternative 'family' constellation - and notice I've used air quotes. This is an artificial approximation of family and his kids will never let me forget it.
Stop it, already!
I hate this winter! It has to stop.
It took me an hour and a half to drive in this morning. Traffic was crawling and several macho truck dudes went spinning out in front of me as they raced through intersections. I puttered along and made it in the nick of time, but it was close.
This is why . . . this is a big reason why . . . I will be returning to this side of the river soon. First, I have to bid farewell to the gloomy, grey-haired, soon-to-be divorce who has been occupying my former bedroom in my small home. He has not been a terrible tenant, but he is so intent on taking advantage of me (having hour long hot showers, doing hot washes every night, installing cable and a large screen tv against my wishes and angling me to share their costs, campaigning for me to pay for snow removal) that I think he's a rather unpleasant man. So, bye. As soon as he's out, I'm back in.
Of course, this seems necessary and easy to do right about now, but the other side of this decision is the sense that living at E's house is impossible, and our marriage is . . . faltering. I'm not sure I really believe that . . . not really . . . but surely if it were good and healthy I wouldn't want to live away again. I do want my space again. After three years of constant bad behaviour from his son, rudeness and provocation, I don't want to have to spend another day avoiding him in order to preserve my sanity.
All I can do is return to what seemed to have worked better -- separate residences and shared alone time, without kids around. I realize, of course, that this is more like dating than marriage, but second marriage is more like war than love, so - all's fair.
It took me an hour and a half to drive in this morning. Traffic was crawling and several macho truck dudes went spinning out in front of me as they raced through intersections. I puttered along and made it in the nick of time, but it was close.
This is why . . . this is a big reason why . . . I will be returning to this side of the river soon. First, I have to bid farewell to the gloomy, grey-haired, soon-to-be divorce who has been occupying my former bedroom in my small home. He has not been a terrible tenant, but he is so intent on taking advantage of me (having hour long hot showers, doing hot washes every night, installing cable and a large screen tv against my wishes and angling me to share their costs, campaigning for me to pay for snow removal) that I think he's a rather unpleasant man. So, bye. As soon as he's out, I'm back in.
Of course, this seems necessary and easy to do right about now, but the other side of this decision is the sense that living at E's house is impossible, and our marriage is . . . faltering. I'm not sure I really believe that . . . not really . . . but surely if it were good and healthy I wouldn't want to live away again. I do want my space again. After three years of constant bad behaviour from his son, rudeness and provocation, I don't want to have to spend another day avoiding him in order to preserve my sanity.
All I can do is return to what seemed to have worked better -- separate residences and shared alone time, without kids around. I realize, of course, that this is more like dating than marriage, but second marriage is more like war than love, so - all's fair.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Oh Doris, how could you???
Okay, so I am reading Doris Lessing's "The Grandmothers" now and I came across this passage that made me realize that even great writers can be really dumb about how academia works, or maybe it is wildly different in the UK, but I doubt it.
"To deal with her feelings of emptiness and loss, she accepted a job at the university as a full-time teacher of drama, worked hard, swam twice a day, took sleeping pills."
Oh, the tragedy of having to accept a full-time academic position, oh, the sorrow of it!
Oh, please! How unlikely and unrealistic. I'm disappointed.
"To deal with her feelings of emptiness and loss, she accepted a job at the university as a full-time teacher of drama, worked hard, swam twice a day, took sleeping pills."
Oh, the tragedy of having to accept a full-time academic position, oh, the sorrow of it!
Oh, please! How unlikely and unrealistic. I'm disappointed.
Let's call this story . . . moral culpability
They cast him as not morally culpable. He was, the article
states, “over-achieving” and his responsibilities “mushroomed” so much that “his
inability to cope was inevitable.” When I read this, well, all I could do was
think about writing it down. It doesn’t hurt anymore, surprisingly. It doesn’t
hurt me because I’m into a whole other set of hurts in a second marriage, but
it still rankles. I was married by that man, it was, now in retrospect, a
fraudulent marriage, and my ex-husband’s brother-in-law is defending that man,
as he defended my husband, in court. The brother-in-law lawyer, larger than
life, known for his hair as much as his work, thinks he’s championing the
little guy, casts himself as the true defender, but mucks about in people’s
lives without conscience himself. My ex’s whole family was like that, truly
gothic in tone, and there I was, pregnant, and caught in the middle of it.
***
That's the beginning of my new story, based on today's headline. I mean, really, how can I not write about it and all its parallels?
Time is a strange healer. It was always offered up these quite public stories that have confirmed that I was right in my judgement all along . . . accurate in my moral compass . . . though it tends not to agree with the media evaluation, the media scrutiny reveals what it cannot know.
So, here I am, almost now 7 years on . . . and still sifting through wreckage.
Anyway, that's love, right?
Friday, January 17, 2014
Adore
After a long day yesterday, E and I watched a movie on our new HD TV. Adore wasn't well received by critics, I learned this morning, but I loved it. I'll try to read the original story by Doris Lessing this weekend. It traces the close relationship between two young girls, who remain close through adulthood. When one's husband dies, they seemingly become even closer, as do their two young boys. In middle age, their boys grown into beautiful young men, they spend a lot of time together at the beach, which leads them into passionate affairs with each other's son. These affairs last years, until one son drifts into a relationship while away on a work assignment. This results in both deciding to end the affairs, which leaves one son angry and bitter . . . .to the extent that when he discovers his mother's affair with his friend is still on, years into his marriage, he confronts his lover and betrays her and his mother to their two young wives. With their wives and children out of the picture, the boys resume their former honeyed state in the arms of their lover/mothers.
Ahh, watching this . . . middle age just doesn't stand up to the beauty of youth . . . good thing I don't have a son, or a good friend with a beautiful young man for a son . . .
Ahh, watching this . . . middle age just doesn't stand up to the beauty of youth . . . good thing I don't have a son, or a good friend with a beautiful young man for a son . . .
Monday, January 13, 2014
The Public Library
I feel so lucky that I can sit here in a quiet room at the library and work. I mean, it is really a luxury to have this. I don't have internet at home right now, but having this means that I can stay connected.
This weekend, A and I will be coming back here together to do research for her school project on Chinese New Year. A grade 2 project isn't really about the kid doing research, it's about the parent doing it with the kid, which is okay, I guess, but it isn't something I've had to do before. E used to complain about this . . . but now that his son is in grade 6, E is almost off the hook. My mouth is just opening to receive the worm.
I can't remember a time my parents helped me with homework, but maybe I'm not remembering as far back as grade 2. Still, I think things have changed.
Haven't they? My friend H and I were talking about fathers and how absent our fathers were. Did they do much of anything with us? Not really. At least now fathers seem to get involved. I can be thankful, for all his flaws, A's father does do things with her. Really, she does benefit from that, when it happens.
But how much time do we need to spend with a 7-year-old? It has been such a relief to have A quite happily retire to her room to draw or browse her books (not quite reading) or play. She can do that and be quiet, so I'm thankful. She's not plugged into any device yet . . . she's just plugging into her own interests.
That means I can too, sometimes. Here now . . . for a brief bit . . . and for snatches of time later.
Which reminds me of watching The Motherload last Thursday night on Doc Zone on CBC television. I'm not alone, it seems, in feeling overwhelmed by multiple roles and responsibilities, the most important and pressing of which is my daughter. I've always prioritized her . . . and, as a result, my career has suffered, if not sputtered to a complete standstill. Will I ever regret this?
Probably not. But why is it necessary?
Shouldn't we all be asking why we have to compromise so much of our family and personal lives for our work?
This weekend, A and I will be coming back here together to do research for her school project on Chinese New Year. A grade 2 project isn't really about the kid doing research, it's about the parent doing it with the kid, which is okay, I guess, but it isn't something I've had to do before. E used to complain about this . . . but now that his son is in grade 6, E is almost off the hook. My mouth is just opening to receive the worm.
I can't remember a time my parents helped me with homework, but maybe I'm not remembering as far back as grade 2. Still, I think things have changed.
Haven't they? My friend H and I were talking about fathers and how absent our fathers were. Did they do much of anything with us? Not really. At least now fathers seem to get involved. I can be thankful, for all his flaws, A's father does do things with her. Really, she does benefit from that, when it happens.
But how much time do we need to spend with a 7-year-old? It has been such a relief to have A quite happily retire to her room to draw or browse her books (not quite reading) or play. She can do that and be quiet, so I'm thankful. She's not plugged into any device yet . . . she's just plugging into her own interests.
That means I can too, sometimes. Here now . . . for a brief bit . . . and for snatches of time later.
Which reminds me of watching The Motherload last Thursday night on Doc Zone on CBC television. I'm not alone, it seems, in feeling overwhelmed by multiple roles and responsibilities, the most important and pressing of which is my daughter. I've always prioritized her . . . and, as a result, my career has suffered, if not sputtered to a complete standstill. Will I ever regret this?
Probably not. But why is it necessary?
Shouldn't we all be asking why we have to compromise so much of our family and personal lives for our work?
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Facebook stalking
Guilty.
There was so much ice everywhere yesterday that I couldn't leave the house. I hate driving, so there was no way that I could drive, when I couldn't make it to the driveway without falling. So, I stayed in and . . . facebook stalked my sister's children. There's a reason for this.
I haven't seen them in more than 12 years since my mother's funeral. My sister cut off all contact soon after that. It was an inheritance issue . . . I think. She never explained. She just absented herself and refused contact. As a result, I'm reduced to keeping up through facebook, which is remarkably easy to do. In fact, it feels almost like being there, even though I'm not even a friend. I can view pictures and see comments and imagine . . .
Maybe that kind of distant contact is what is most manageable for many people. Why else would facebook be such a phenomenon?
It not only allows us to reconnect with the past in a voyeuristic way . . . we can actually contact people who we have lost touch with. I did that too. I was able to connect with a boy I really liked in my twenties . . . and see how gracefully he's aged into a good man, husband, and father. As I told him, that's encouraging, especially when I feel so utterly lost.
I told my good friend this yesterday and she said I shouldn't worry. I should just be, I shouldn't worry so much about doing.
That's not so easy, because worrying is the one thing I can do.
There was so much ice everywhere yesterday that I couldn't leave the house. I hate driving, so there was no way that I could drive, when I couldn't make it to the driveway without falling. So, I stayed in and . . . facebook stalked my sister's children. There's a reason for this.
I haven't seen them in more than 12 years since my mother's funeral. My sister cut off all contact soon after that. It was an inheritance issue . . . I think. She never explained. She just absented herself and refused contact. As a result, I'm reduced to keeping up through facebook, which is remarkably easy to do. In fact, it feels almost like being there, even though I'm not even a friend. I can view pictures and see comments and imagine . . .
Maybe that kind of distant contact is what is most manageable for many people. Why else would facebook be such a phenomenon?
It not only allows us to reconnect with the past in a voyeuristic way . . . we can actually contact people who we have lost touch with. I did that too. I was able to connect with a boy I really liked in my twenties . . . and see how gracefully he's aged into a good man, husband, and father. As I told him, that's encouraging, especially when I feel so utterly lost.
I told my good friend this yesterday and she said I shouldn't worry. I should just be, I shouldn't worry so much about doing.
That's not so easy, because worrying is the one thing I can do.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
Alone, at last!
It's Saturday morning. I slept in for the first time in what feels like forever. There was no one here to wake me. Silence is blessed to me.
Not so for E, who lost it last week and screamed that he hated silence. That was new. He doesn't usually lose his temper, but it made me realize that he holds a lot of anger in, which worries me. The fact that he hates silence also worries me . . . because it underlines our basic lifestyle incompatibility. I've known this for a long time . . . but if it is wearing on him as much as it is wearing on me . . . then something has got to change before we destroy each other. Ah, marriage. Lovely, isn't it?
Here I am a year-and-a-half in and I feel half-out already.
I watched Stepmom on Netflix last night, and that didn't help much. It did address some of the stepmom challenges, but it was just a weepy at heart, and not at all realistic. As absent as E's ex is . . . she's not dying. I'm not replacing her in any way and don't want to. The problem with the kids is how to co-exist with me and their dad.
I don't miss them. Ugg. I'm just so glad not to have to deal with them for a while. It is always so stressful and makes me feel terrible. Awful, but true.
Mothering is so rewarding. Stepmothering is a trial.
I do wish the stepmother group I tried to start had worked. It didn't. Maybe I'm the only stepmother in this region who needs to rant.
I'll channel my frustration into fiction, I've decided. I've started something . . . and will continue writing to see where it goes. My play is on hold for the moment . . .
There must be a way to sort through all of this without imploding. I've imploded far too much already.
Not so for E, who lost it last week and screamed that he hated silence. That was new. He doesn't usually lose his temper, but it made me realize that he holds a lot of anger in, which worries me. The fact that he hates silence also worries me . . . because it underlines our basic lifestyle incompatibility. I've known this for a long time . . . but if it is wearing on him as much as it is wearing on me . . . then something has got to change before we destroy each other. Ah, marriage. Lovely, isn't it?
Here I am a year-and-a-half in and I feel half-out already.
I watched Stepmom on Netflix last night, and that didn't help much. It did address some of the stepmom challenges, but it was just a weepy at heart, and not at all realistic. As absent as E's ex is . . . she's not dying. I'm not replacing her in any way and don't want to. The problem with the kids is how to co-exist with me and their dad.
I don't miss them. Ugg. I'm just so glad not to have to deal with them for a while. It is always so stressful and makes me feel terrible. Awful, but true.
Mothering is so rewarding. Stepmothering is a trial.
I do wish the stepmother group I tried to start had worked. It didn't. Maybe I'm the only stepmother in this region who needs to rant.
I'll channel my frustration into fiction, I've decided. I've started something . . . and will continue writing to see where it goes. My play is on hold for the moment . . .
There must be a way to sort through all of this without imploding. I've imploded far too much already.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Egads - can I handle this?
Okay, it was -31 overnight and then this morning . . . somewhere near there and dark when A and I left for the Breakfast Club. The street was icy, the car relatively snug, considering it had been in the garage overnight. Unfortunately, the streets were busy, with Aylmerites hitting the road early in order to make it in to whatever office in good time. Even leaving at 7:00 am, A and I didn't reach her school until 7:45 am.
When we arrived, I hustled her in and then tried to help C, the Breakfast Lady, prepare the hundred or so bagels, muffins, eggs, and cereal servings that she dishes out for all the kids who attend Breakfast Club at A's school. A watched patiently, but peppered us with questions as she waited for 8 am to take her first serving. By the time she was tucking into her rice krispies, I was back on the road, headed to the University and praying for a parking space. I cut it so close that I pulled into the closest paid parking lot and used my credit card to pay for what I thought was enough time, but ended up being an hour short. Not wanting to start again, I hoped for the best and took off jogging to my basement classroom. Thankfully, I made it in time to load my power point lecture and begin. It went relatively smoothly, and I was able to build in some introductions that I forgot on the first day. After class, I had to remind myself to motor back to the parking lot, which I did, thankfully, just in time to avoid a ticket. It was my lucky partking day. They don't come along often.
I was back at the school and in Mr. D's JK class by 10:25 am, just in time to help wash hands, open tupperware containers, rip goldfish bags, comment of healthy lunches, and help the kindergardeners get dressed for the -24 celcius weather (they only keep them in at -28 celcius or lower). After recess, I headed to my house to eat my lunch, then headed back to school for the afternoon recess. It was nice to wander about in the sunshine, even in the cold, even as I was admonishing 4-year-olds not to clobber each other with blocks of ice. This did happen and resulted in an office visit . . .but the ECE made the long walk there with the kids in question so that I could stay and focus on lunch duty.As soon as the clock struck 2:00 pm, I bolted and made for the car and another coast across town to the U. There were no spaces in the lot this time, so I circled and found paid parking on the street, again, just in time to arrive at the 5th floor class (no elevator) with minutes to spare.
Afterwards, I had minutes to make it to my office hours and another parking relocation to complete. The parking gods smiled again, however, and a coveted 3 hour space on Nelson opened just in time for me to take it and sprint to the office where a student was waiting to tell me my blackboard account wasn't working.
Ah, technology.
I'm still in the process of fixing that. Meanwhile, brain-wiped, I'm watching videos of rodents performing a variety of tricks to wend away the time.
My life is very dull. Busy, but . . . blurry, not to mention cold. Often dreary. But how can I really complain? Like this . . .but it's meant well.
When we arrived, I hustled her in and then tried to help C, the Breakfast Lady, prepare the hundred or so bagels, muffins, eggs, and cereal servings that she dishes out for all the kids who attend Breakfast Club at A's school. A watched patiently, but peppered us with questions as she waited for 8 am to take her first serving. By the time she was tucking into her rice krispies, I was back on the road, headed to the University and praying for a parking space. I cut it so close that I pulled into the closest paid parking lot and used my credit card to pay for what I thought was enough time, but ended up being an hour short. Not wanting to start again, I hoped for the best and took off jogging to my basement classroom. Thankfully, I made it in time to load my power point lecture and begin. It went relatively smoothly, and I was able to build in some introductions that I forgot on the first day. After class, I had to remind myself to motor back to the parking lot, which I did, thankfully, just in time to avoid a ticket. It was my lucky partking day. They don't come along often.
I was back at the school and in Mr. D's JK class by 10:25 am, just in time to help wash hands, open tupperware containers, rip goldfish bags, comment of healthy lunches, and help the kindergardeners get dressed for the -24 celcius weather (they only keep them in at -28 celcius or lower). After recess, I headed to my house to eat my lunch, then headed back to school for the afternoon recess. It was nice to wander about in the sunshine, even in the cold, even as I was admonishing 4-year-olds not to clobber each other with blocks of ice. This did happen and resulted in an office visit . . .but the ECE made the long walk there with the kids in question so that I could stay and focus on lunch duty.As soon as the clock struck 2:00 pm, I bolted and made for the car and another coast across town to the U. There were no spaces in the lot this time, so I circled and found paid parking on the street, again, just in time to arrive at the 5th floor class (no elevator) with minutes to spare.
Afterwards, I had minutes to make it to my office hours and another parking relocation to complete. The parking gods smiled again, however, and a coveted 3 hour space on Nelson opened just in time for me to take it and sprint to the office where a student was waiting to tell me my blackboard account wasn't working.
Ah, technology.
I'm still in the process of fixing that. Meanwhile, brain-wiped, I'm watching videos of rodents performing a variety of tricks to wend away the time.
My life is very dull. Busy, but . . . blurry, not to mention cold. Often dreary. But how can I really complain? Like this . . .but it's meant well.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Back
It was a long, cold drive in . . . and I'm at the point, still, even after holidays, of not really being able to handle this commute. It takes hours a day to do it and really, considering I could stay in my house, it seems unnecessary. The problem is my tenant, renting a room, who makes acid comments if I show up, which is why I'm glad he's leaving, hopefully at the end of this month. That would make my life easier in many ways, although not financially. There doesn't seem to be any easy way to do anything these days.
That's winter, I guess. That's remarriage with kids. That's mid-life. There are all kinds of explanations, but it doesn't make it feel better.
It's all in how you react though, so . . . back to yoga for me . . . but not today. I'm not up for it today. I am content today to sit listening to acoustic music in a cafe, until I have to pry myself out of here and face recess in the cold and ice. Not nice.
Did I mention our mice? Our new pets are hiding out in their house, currently in our hamster cage, eating and sleeping like the babies they are. So far they are more active than our beloved hamster Snow, but still not comfortable with us. Taming takes time - both for animals and the spirit.
I must try to tame my rebellious side . . . and figure out how to abide all of this . . .
That's winter, I guess. That's remarriage with kids. That's mid-life. There are all kinds of explanations, but it doesn't make it feel better.
It's all in how you react though, so . . . back to yoga for me . . . but not today. I'm not up for it today. I am content today to sit listening to acoustic music in a cafe, until I have to pry myself out of here and face recess in the cold and ice. Not nice.
Did I mention our mice? Our new pets are hiding out in their house, currently in our hamster cage, eating and sleeping like the babies they are. So far they are more active than our beloved hamster Snow, but still not comfortable with us. Taming takes time - both for animals and the spirit.
I must try to tame my rebellious side . . . and figure out how to abide all of this . . .
Friday, January 3, 2014
Cold
There isn't much one can do in this extreme cold. It was -24.5 today. Needless to say, we stayed in. I am unable to work well, as yet, but I'm gearing up for it.
I finished Maddam and that felt like accomplishment enough. It wasn't my favourite book of the trilogy, although I'm not sure why. Zeb wasn't my cup of tea, I guess, and I can't get around the name Toby . . . and hope Atwood didn't choose the name because of a fellow grad student I knew who met the grand ole dame during a conference we organized in her honour. This student was manipulative and unkind . . . and threw me under the bus to forward her own career aspirations, so I certainly hope this heroine of Atwood's wasn't named after her . . . one has to admit it is an unusual name. Anyway . . . that's done . . .I can move back into the genre of the term, short fiction. I picked up America's Best at the Hudson Bookstore at the New York airport, so I can start that now.
Reading by the fire is about all I can manage . . . until everything starts again and I lose track of time and myself.
At least the light is increasing again . . . and there's only another month or so of extreme cold . . .
I finished Maddam and that felt like accomplishment enough. It wasn't my favourite book of the trilogy, although I'm not sure why. Zeb wasn't my cup of tea, I guess, and I can't get around the name Toby . . . and hope Atwood didn't choose the name because of a fellow grad student I knew who met the grand ole dame during a conference we organized in her honour. This student was manipulative and unkind . . . and threw me under the bus to forward her own career aspirations, so I certainly hope this heroine of Atwood's wasn't named after her . . . one has to admit it is an unusual name. Anyway . . . that's done . . .I can move back into the genre of the term, short fiction. I picked up America's Best at the Hudson Bookstore at the New York airport, so I can start that now.
Reading by the fire is about all I can manage . . . until everything starts again and I lose track of time and myself.
At least the light is increasing again . . . and there's only another month or so of extreme cold . . .
Thursday, January 2, 2014
2014
Happy New Year!
I always hope for a new start. I asked myself this year . . . what can I do differently? I think that I have to do something different to get different results . . .but as usual, I'm not sure what to do.
Writing may help, so as I've done before . . . I resolve to write . . . more. Just more. I can't commit to much else. I can set definite goals because that's destined to fail. All I can do is try incremental change. Okay? Okay.
We spent New Year's inside our home, tucked away from the cold, with E's friends. I hoped for some friends to join me . . .but everyone I asked was busy, so I listened to E and his friends talk politics. I rarely join in to their conversation and they rarely invite me to. There isn't much to do about that. I'm not one of them - in their field, of their ilk. We are wired differently. I have to live with the limitations of those around me . . . and my own. That's what I've decided.
E does the same. He came up North with me. He tolerates my family. That's something
I also tolerate his . . .which is my biggest challenge.
I've been finishing Atwood's trilogy this holiday . . . The Flood and now MaddAddam. I'm liking the last book less than the second. At least in The Flood we focused on some female characters, but MaddAddam deals with Zeb a lot, who is less interesting to me. What I do like is the assertion that despite the desperation of circumstances, in this case, the end of our world, people are still essentially concerned with relationships and narrative. Storytelling is essential to our humanity.
As such, I will try to narrate my way to a more humane existence. Ranting may not be humanizing . .. but it is cathartic, which is also valuable. It is a safety valve. I don't want to implode, which I felt in real danger of doing, especially when I inadvertently knocked myself in the head with a shovel and suffered a concussion. That was a wake-up call. Wake up!
Stumble through. Manage.
Today A is returning from spending New Year's Eve with her dad. She's still sick with a gastro that had her puking up all over me in our bed up North. That was a miserable night, followed by a miserable morning in the regional hospital and a miserably cold drive back to Gatineau. It is still far too cold to bear and I've been holed up next to the fire ever since. Hopefully she will be better today.
I always hope for a new start. I asked myself this year . . . what can I do differently? I think that I have to do something different to get different results . . .but as usual, I'm not sure what to do.
Writing may help, so as I've done before . . . I resolve to write . . . more. Just more. I can't commit to much else. I can set definite goals because that's destined to fail. All I can do is try incremental change. Okay? Okay.
We spent New Year's inside our home, tucked away from the cold, with E's friends. I hoped for some friends to join me . . .but everyone I asked was busy, so I listened to E and his friends talk politics. I rarely join in to their conversation and they rarely invite me to. There isn't much to do about that. I'm not one of them - in their field, of their ilk. We are wired differently. I have to live with the limitations of those around me . . . and my own. That's what I've decided.
E does the same. He came up North with me. He tolerates my family. That's something
I also tolerate his . . .which is my biggest challenge.
I've been finishing Atwood's trilogy this holiday . . . The Flood and now MaddAddam. I'm liking the last book less than the second. At least in The Flood we focused on some female characters, but MaddAddam deals with Zeb a lot, who is less interesting to me. What I do like is the assertion that despite the desperation of circumstances, in this case, the end of our world, people are still essentially concerned with relationships and narrative. Storytelling is essential to our humanity.
As such, I will try to narrate my way to a more humane existence. Ranting may not be humanizing . .. but it is cathartic, which is also valuable. It is a safety valve. I don't want to implode, which I felt in real danger of doing, especially when I inadvertently knocked myself in the head with a shovel and suffered a concussion. That was a wake-up call. Wake up!
Stumble through. Manage.
Today A is returning from spending New Year's Eve with her dad. She's still sick with a gastro that had her puking up all over me in our bed up North. That was a miserable night, followed by a miserable morning in the regional hospital and a miserably cold drive back to Gatineau. It is still far too cold to bear and I've been holed up next to the fire ever since. Hopefully she will be better today.
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