Life has been so busy, so energy sapping, so full and challenging - its kept me away from writing for writing's sake. But today, and lately, when there is a bubble of unease and my feet tap, my fingers flutter and wring, and there's no single thing causing all of this nervous activity but maybe just the whole load of it beggining to slip as my mental acceptance of all my roles suffers in continuity - maybe this is the time to try and write.
My roles - as mother to three teens, as medical coordinator and interloper for my oldest in the journey to wellness, as the first line of contact for teachers, principals and guidance counselors, as a single head of household in charge of groceries, laundry, cooking, cleaning, upkeep and beautification, as full-time researcher making up for a lost year of projects due to cancer treatments, in striving to regain athlete status, as friend to many, and an obvious indulger of some portion of self pity.
My physical energy is so often zapped by my mental state. Dinner has been later and later until last week, none at all offered three of four school nights (there were snacks on the shelves). And I, who hate TV, have watched 13 episodes of Awake, finishing the series in a 6 episode marathon my one free night without the kids in four months. At least I am too immobilized to eat, unless there is cookie dough in the fridge or chocolate stashed above the rangetop.
Its finially spring so I am impatient for more energy to well up inside me. But not this nervous kind that keeps my feet tapping while I am at work, unable to craft the large specific data sets for uber-analyses that is my distinguishing skill here.
I have stopped saying that I hate my hair, since its okay, I guess. And so many point out that at least now I have some. I quite liked the cue ball look since it drew the focus to my face, which I know well. And of course the awesome eagle feather tattoo on the back, now hidden from the world. This awful soft mass of curly dark thick hair that reminds me of middle-aged clowns startles me still everytime I look into a mirror, which is as little as I can get away with. All I see is the hair and I've never seen it on me until these last six months. And no matter what you think, that is not enough time to get used to it. It doesn't convincingly cover the 46 years of blonde straight hair I expect to see each and every time I dare to peek.
Complain, complain, complain. Is that what its come to? In nearly 48 years I should have learned the futility of complaints.
My kids are lovely. A wealth and depth of challenging entertainment. And the one thing I am so deeply pleased with is, that despite their lack of generally useful socialization skills (memory, organization, a sense of responsibility, eagerness towards work, a willingness to follow rules) they are all deeply ingrained in the art of grattitude and social awareness (re: prejudice of any kind), they are all outspoken, expressing strongly their innate personalities, and they let me know how happy they are to still have me in their lives. Almost daily they communicate that. Can't ask for much more as a parent. Except maybe help with the dishes and laundry and....
Next up, and soon I hope, is my re-discovery of Bernice. A dear and cherished friend that I met 19 years ago in France, that passed away 18 months later from cancer, through whose many letters in that dense 18 months span told me her life story. An amazing story. An amazing woman. One who puts me five degrees of separation from Hilter. Maybe Ghandi too, but we didn't discover that before she died. Re-reading our letters after my own bout of cancer brought a whole new meaning to them, to her and what she was trying to express. I can't wait for you to meet her and I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Until then - please - forgive the hair.
