| Jan. 20th, 2002 @ 12:24 pm January Lament |
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Current Mood:  listless
Current Music: LiveIreland.com on Real Radio
Little by little the cold receded. Blue skies began to dazzle me with brilliance and sweet breezes. The birds were chattering in the ivy that clings to the bricks on the south side of the house. Daily, they have been teasing poor Boo, my calico gray "foster cat." Likewise, the rich smell of thawing soil and greening grass has been teasing me. Seed catalogs have taunted me with their glossy photographs of lush vegetation.
And, so it was, that a week ago, I began to dance my Spring dance and smile whenever I stepped outside my door.
Then winter returned. My window now frames a white landscape. Four inches of snow smother that brief glimpse of a greener, warmer world. Bare, black branches stand stark against a pale sky. It is January, after all....
What did I expect?
I have been working so much overtime, lately, that I find myself unable to say anything about how I have passed the time since my last live journal entry. The thing is, I don't want to write about work, or the upheaval that has been going on there. Somehow, it just doesn't seem to be very important, in terms of what really matters in my life. Likewise, as I look around at all the chaos, I must say that I don't want to write about all the things I have not done, but should do soon... Chores are not something I want to write about either.
So, although the dishes are piled up in the sink, and the dining table has become a graveyard for a wide assortment of old bills, papers, books, magazines and who knows what...and even though the Sunday paper, along with the contents of my ten year old's backpack are spread all over the living room floor, I am going to take a few moments to not think about those things.
Perhaps I will not think at all.
(Please....no company today)
I cannot yet bring myself to restore order to this house. First, I must restore order to my soul.
That is why I write.
Ironically, though, the words do not seem to be forthcoming. Boo has jumped into my lap. Her hard little head is butting up against my hands as I type, and her pokey little feet are kneading at my lap as she tries to squeeze into that little nest of a space made by the keyboard drawer, my two forearms and my waist. She curls up and actually looks comfortable. Amazing.
I envy her that ability to center herself anywhere she chooses. I envy her strength of self to always choose. She does what she wants, when she wants, but she does it in a way that makes me feel good too. it's quite an art.
I am not comfortable today. I want to do nothing, and yet accomplish everything. I want to curl up and doze the afternoon away, and yet get all my errands run so that I don't need to worry about them.
I think I may be solar powered. I need some sunshine. My battery cells are depleted. Winter is beautiful. It really is. I don't know why I whine about it so much. It's not the weather or the season that wears me down and seems to grind against my bones. I think that it's just that in winter, all the fluff and extraneous ornament is stripped away. Suddenly, we all see each other....and ourselves for what we really are. The 'naked truth' is everywhere and there's no hiding from it. We recognize the bullshit but feel forced to play along. It's pointless. We're helpless. The truth stalks us in winter and I think that is why we are never quite comfortable with this season.
I am not going to sit here today and wallow in my philosophical woes. What I would like to learn is how to be still. January comes, in spite of us. Winter is neither 'good' nor 'bad'. Spring will come. So will summer. I want to stop commenting on it. I am not sure there's any point in critiquing the seasons or the weather. Instead, I want to learn how to shut off the dialogue and just live the moment.
Which doesn't mean I am trying not to write. I'm trying not to chatter. Sometimes, I think I've gotten trapped in the poetry. I've been ensnared by ideas and forgotten how to really live. Wholly and freely.
It scares me. For some it is drugs, alcohol or even the search for romance that has consumed them to the point where their lives become a flat parody of what they think it should be. For me, it is too much thinking....too many words that sometimes get in the way of the "knowing". I want my writing to spring from rich experience, and not the other way around.
And so....that is all I am going to say, today. I don't know if I'll do much of anything today, but I hope that whatever small steps I make are intentional. It may not be a Spring dance, but it'll at least be my own dance, and today....that seems to be important. |
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