Ahh, the dark season approaches. The rainy season is in full shower. What gives my life meaning? I am stuck on this because my life feels stuck. Maybe it always has. Maybe I just have a melancholy temperament and I cannot avoid feeling miserable and purposeless. I'm not sure.
E is Switzerland bound. I am trying to order transcripts to update my apply to teach portfolio. I may head to Aylmer tomorrow is order to . . . call places. I'm not sure what to do with myself, sometimes. Often. I am mostly alone here now . . . having abandoned that house and its inhabitants. I feel so disappointed, but there isn't much I can do about it.
What can I do? All I can do is put one step in front of the other and try to get things going teaching-wise. I can write . . .but I'm not sure what. Surely, after all the effort I have expended in writing, something would have materialized. . . oh well, I'll write for myself and the world can go fug itself. Really.
I can write plays. I can teach. I can read. I can travel. I can enjoy raising my beautiful daughter.
Everything else seems beyond me.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Jet stream arctic cold . . .
I do dread winter. Each wall I try to pscyh myself up for the onslaught of dark, cold, and snow, but I never seem to do much more than whimper all the way through it. I am hibernating now. I am back in my own home, tucked into the cozy warmth of it, fending off worrying thought about family and work.
Yesterday, E's son was diagnosed with a number of learning disabilities, depression, anxiety, ADD, and Turrett's Syndrome. It looks as though the Turrett's comes from his father, which explains a lot of E's behaviour to me, but doesn't make it any easier to live with.
I am in avoidance mode. I feel overwhelmed by this news and the fact that special cases are all around me. My own A, lovely daughter sunshine, is also a loopy disengager, so much so that her teacher has been in touch a number of times over the year about it and we have initiated our own investigation into why . . . which will take more than a year to complete.
For myself, aside from avoiding cold and conflict, I'm attempting to learn as much as possible from a miraculous LTO posting with a local school board. It is a .20, which amounts to an hour a day, but I have the opportunity to try . . . and learn as I do . . . so I am grateful, even if it can't continue.
Next year is up in the air . . .the insecurity of it scares me so much that I can't sleep, but once in a while I do.
I do try to enjoy what I can in the midst of all the confusion - the sunshine, conversations about learning, art making, dining out, and reading in bed.
Oh, but I'm longing for spring and for the jet stream to go back where it belongs!
Yesterday, E's son was diagnosed with a number of learning disabilities, depression, anxiety, ADD, and Turrett's Syndrome. It looks as though the Turrett's comes from his father, which explains a lot of E's behaviour to me, but doesn't make it any easier to live with.
I am in avoidance mode. I feel overwhelmed by this news and the fact that special cases are all around me. My own A, lovely daughter sunshine, is also a loopy disengager, so much so that her teacher has been in touch a number of times over the year about it and we have initiated our own investigation into why . . . which will take more than a year to complete.
For myself, aside from avoiding cold and conflict, I'm attempting to learn as much as possible from a miraculous LTO posting with a local school board. It is a .20, which amounts to an hour a day, but I have the opportunity to try . . . and learn as I do . . . so I am grateful, even if it can't continue.
Next year is up in the air . . .the insecurity of it scares me so much that I can't sleep, but once in a while I do.
I do try to enjoy what I can in the midst of all the confusion - the sunshine, conversations about learning, art making, dining out, and reading in bed.
Oh, but I'm longing for spring and for the jet stream to go back where it belongs!
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
December eve
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.
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, 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.
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