Life is startlingly good.
I need to write here more often. At the moment I find myself sort of paralyzed by all the things I want to say. I want to write about the good and bad parts of this weekend. I want to write about some freshly dawning truths about my old life. I want to make a list of exactly how I'd like this day to go. It's all too much.
But it's also all good. Or at least fulfilling. I feel so alive and engaged and awake most of the time. And it's different from the hypomanic state that I used to rely on. I'm not having any problems sleeping. I can concentrate on one thing at a time. I am finishing what I start. I am balancing my tasks in such a way that nothing is horribly neglected. I am not afraid that I'm alienating or disappointing half the people I know.
I can't quite shake the idea that this is a fantasy or a dream. How could my daily life change so dramatically, so quickly? I used to agonize about housekeeping. Now, once or twice a week, I spend a few hours deep cleaning. The rest of the time I just pick up, do some dishes (if someone else hasn't gotten to them already) and putter around a bit. I used to dread the phone ringing, because I knew I'd lose many hours to whatever new crisis had popped up. Now, well, it never rings -- unless it's my husband or an appointment confirmation. I used to feel rushed all the time, despite the fact that I wasn't accomplishing much of anything. Now I feel like there's enough time to write, teach, connect with others and take care of myself. Especially if I pay attention to what I'm doing at any given time.
An Intense Weekend:
On Friday, I spent several hours cleaning and cooking and dealing with school ... all with a specific goal in mind. I wanted to put things together well enough so that it would all hold while I spent the weekend writing and doing some fairly time-consuming "errands". By five thirty, I was sitting at my computer, fussing with the 8th section of my book. I wrote about five pages, spent some time with my various housemates, napped, ate, bathed and slept.
On Saturday morning I went to the post office where I found an AMAZING package from France in my mail box. It contained a selection of little treats, a lovely miniature piece of vibrant, colorful art and a long letter that touched me beyond words. I read it aloud to my husband as we drove to the blood bank. He was so happy for me that HE got tears in his eyes. (He also asked me to read it with an accent.
"Maybe like Minnie Driver?" ) We laughed a lot. We exchanged a half-dozen startled looks as I read about a woman who seems a lot like me and a life that sounds a lot like ours -- despite some pretty significant differences in circumstances. We shared lunch. We gave blood. (Now both of us have given a full gallon, as rapidly as it is possible to do, without missing any appointments.) We talked a little about the donations we've recently made to
Heifer International and
Kiva. We discussed money without getting crabby with each other. We talked about our future trip to New Orleans and the little savings plan we've got going.
Saturday afternoon, into evening, was more challenging. I felt tired after being out and about. I worked with the book a bit, but decided to give in to the desire for a nap after realizing I wasn't going to make much progress in my sleepy state. Rick came to me just before I nodded off to say that he was going for a walk. He smelled of spray paint, which made me smile. (Because that meant that at least some progress had been made on the bathroom project.) After he left, I almost fell asleep but started to think about how terribly cold it was outside and how fast it was getting dark.
This time of year is always hard on me. This entry will get too long, and my whole day will go away, if I really explain why. I know I have new readers on my flist so I think I have to say this much: My father died of hypothermia when I was nine. He was on a bender. He was over-served. He got in his car and drove on the coldest night of that year, January 28th. At some point he stopped the car, left it running, walked into a field, laid down and died. I barely knew him, but all indications are that I'm far more like him than my mother.I wasn't able to sleep. I didn't want to give in to my instinct to sit around fretting, so I invited my daughter to go to the store with me. We enjoyed our little outing and bought way too much junk food. (Cheesy-Corn, yum.) The bank thermometer near the store read 4F / -16C.
I was sure Rick would be back from his walk by the time we got home. He wasn't. His cell phone and his wallet were still on his desk and he'd been gone for at least an hour. I went looking for him, of course. And I found him, though he was nearly home. His account of the event is
HERE.
[husband pimping]
By the way. Rick has become wonderful about writing in his journal regularly -- and he writes very well.
HIS entries are smart, often funny and of a reasonable length. He could use some friends. And he already knows a fair bit about the lot of you anyway :)
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rick_the_ogre[end of husband pimping]
So. Saturday night was all about raising my husband's core temperature back into a reasonable range. After he fell asleep, under three blankets, in the glow of a portable electric heater, I left him on the sofa, put some clothes back on and wrote another five or six pages. (And ate a hella lotta cheese corn.) Things are blurry for me already, but I'm pretty sure we eventually snuggled into bed. I remember watching some more of
The Wolf Man (1941) with the commentary track on.
On Sunday morning, we set out for our long-awaited trip to see the
Frida Kahlo exhibit at the Walker Art Center in Minneapolis. Our daughter opted to stay home, but Ricky joined us. On the way, we listened to the tracks Rick's band recorded while performing at a house party last fall.
The wait at the gallery was crazy. We spent at least an hour and a half in line. The building itself is a work of art. At one point, I sent the boys to wander a bit while I people-watched. The teenage couple in front of me was adorable. I used to look at such "kids" unfavorably but I must be mellowing. It was strange to watch their hands, which looked almost as young as my son's (the main distinction being in how clean they were:) as they constantly touched each other. For them, the line was an excuse to stand in the space of one person and forget anyone else existed.
Our boy's capacity for understanding and accepting the things he saw astound me. He was polite, attentive, considerate of others. We rented the available audio tour guide which helped immensely, I think. I don't think I'll soon forget the vision of him sitting on the floor, in various, out-of-the-way corners of the gallery, studying individual paintings while he listened to the guide.
The exhibit itself left me speechless. I felt simultaneously energized and drained when we left the show. I should have known that viewing so many works by this intensely personal artist would have a major impact on me.
When we got home, I knew I was done for the weekend. I conceded defeat for a
writing related goal at 43Things before spending some time playing with upcoming swaps. Then I crashed on the sofa and watched mindless TV for a couple of hours before falling asleep.
I woke today, knowing that I would spend some serious time trying to capture it all. And now it's 2:30 and time to write more manuscript pages.
Life is startlingly good.
