Because I feel like while other people are striding heroically across the earth, I am on a treadmill of boredom and endless repetition…the kind where you have the same set of emotions so frequently you stop exploring them…you just label them and move on. Anger, frustration, bitterness…it’s all really just BOREDOM. I’ve always been addicted to novelty…I’ll admit it. I am forever waiting for signs and miracles and star alignment and daisies dropped in my path from the universe. And lately, either it’s not happening or I just don’t have eyes to see it. I sit on a plateau…in my mothering and in my writing life and in my marriage. Nothing is terrible and nothing is working, either.
I don’t want to blame being a mother (although, Lord, the tantrums are really wearing me down to a shrill little nub of a person)—even before Madam was born, I would fall into this passive rut, expecting some external thrill to shock back into wakefulness and life. But back then, I could jumpstart something, by taking a "mental health" day from work and reassessing my priorities, or traveling, or taking a class—just something that reminded me that I COULD take some action and move forward, however incrementally.
None of those options are possible anymore, for various reasons. I suppose it’s good that I can’t gloss over it anymore, this need to flit from distraction to distraction. But…I miss the sense of possibility I used to feel. I miss the fun, the excitement of having something to look forward to.
When I was in India, the women in TEG’s family would tell me that even though they stayed home with their children (none of the women in his family work outside the home, even though that trend is changing now), there were always so many things going on, family marriages to attend and help plan, religious festivals, birthdays, anniversaries, visits and vacations and dinners and parties to plan. They live in a sort of sacred festival time. I’m sure they also have their days when the children are screaming, when the work of doing and undoing becomes too much to bear. But on those hard days, they can call each other, go have tea, share the burden.
I suppose those are two sides of the same coin—the desire to add some variety and fun and purpose to my day, and the loneliness of not really knowing anyone really well here yet.
Wise Pixie once mentioned to me that I was free to choose another story, one that would fulfill me, instead of forever seeing myself with nose to the glass, outside in the rain while the celebrations went on inside. Unable to go inside, unable to be a part of it all. It’s interesting how much I have arranged my life, however unconsciously, to fit the confines of that story. I love the fact that I’ve been able to live out my gypsy dreams, moving with TEG from place to place. But I never dreamed of day when there would be only silence between us. Sure, I was always lonely whenever we moved—it’s not easy for me to make friends. But I always had him. I don’t feel that way anymore.
Blogging helps to fill those empty places, but I still feel at a remove—I don’t have the time or the ideas to post everyday, to comment as much as I would like, so I know that I’m still very much on the periphery of things. And that’s frustrating too—I started this blog to begin a daily writing practice, but I don’t post often enough for it to feel substantial. I mentioned once that I wanted to use this blog to gain momentum as I inch towards my writing dreams, but it can feel like the same hamster wheel—the same emotions, the same thoughts, the same words, no growth, just promises I break to myself and ideas that never lead to something more. Honestly, I see you all moving forward, doing the hard work of transformation, and I wonder why I can try the same things—the mirror meditation, Sunday Scribblings, journaling--and not get anywhere with them. But then I ask myself...where do I want to go? Am I putting in as much effort as my blog sisters? Or is this something else I try and then mysteriously give up before I can see any results in my life?
When I was in labor with Madam, I pushed as hard as I could, ineffectually, trying to move into the pain and through the other side, but I always stopped just before the push became productive. I had prepared so much for this moment, learned all sorts of mindfulness techniques and breathing exercises to surrender to the moment and allow my body to work instinctively. And yet...I was afraid of the pain, and that fear moved us back and forth, back and forth, but always in place. I tried so hard, knowing that her life was literally at stake. I tried with everything in me. So why couldn't I do it?
I couldn’t build on momentum. And I still can’t.
Ugh, I didn’t mean to sound as whiny as I just did. It’s just been a hard day in these parts.
Hope things are better with all of you.
Labels: the unfolding of me