old wives tales. tales from people who are or have been a wife* for more than a decade. … all your tales are old wives tales. all the things you’ve learned, all the world you’ve seen.
lets venerate ourselves. more, more. more.
get those glennon doyles, those liz gilberts, those oprahs, those anne lamotts… get them, put them in one spot and shine the hell out of them. read them to our kids, start borrowing bits of their knowledge and calling it our own, because we’re them too, just not with any platform. we do know as much as they do, actually.
although i envy the hell out of their ability to think and process and then SHARE so well. i’m missing at least one step at all times.
but still. bring it on, we old wives. . .
*recognizing ‘wife’ doesn’t have to mean ‘church wedding’, or hetero-anything.
i’m supposed to be a love giver, an affirmer. i am. not just ‘supposed’ to be …
i ACTUALLY am, but i’ve fallen off the wagon. and when you do that and you feel like you fail in that way, it is dank. moist. musty in a bad, bad way.
in one of the groups i am in, its actually my ‘job’ to be the lovah. and i’m falling off. sucking at it. NOT being the affirmer, NOT showing up at all.. dodging even.
UGH. I’m trying to work myself back to authentic me. whatever that is. like this title? i just like to say that word. a lot. so, finding the things I like and utilizing them.
i’ve taken on some little baby resets (courtesy of ms Hannah marcotti) … for six days at a time, i’ll add a new habit. i’ve added water to my desk. all the time, there’s a glass of water just sitting there. (so thats like, self-care, right? water?)
i’ve sometimes light a candle. (meh. only sometimes) i’m keeping the candle, but i might not keep that one. i like it, but hello sometimes i forget i have lit it. (overnight, once. so. danger.)
i’ve decided to read for all the minutes i have before six am. and sometimes thats almost an hour.
today it was two hours.
so the books are back in town, and that feels good.
i feel like my chipper is just around the corner. i’m tired of being in my cave, kind of. only a little. not really.
but something does need to be different. and i actually need those pieces of me back, those affirming-of-others pieces… its my legs, yo.
i’d never hangout on the top of a mountain. that seems fraught with peril. i’d much rather a small cabin tucked into a nook for safekeeping, with herbs hanging from the rafters and birds that are my friends and some predators that have adopted me and protect me while i sleep.
visitors get to sleep by the fire.
so thats one thing. one thing of all the things i could tell you . so many.
when i went out to clean the chicken coop i discovered one of my hens had died in the night. and its possible she was bonked to death by the several roosters (4) that i have. but i am sad. and after disposing of her in respectful ways, i didn’t really feel like diving into chicken poop anymore. so the wild springclean has slipped down the list.
but i’ve torn the plastic off a single window and opened it. ( i am not willing to commit to the plastic-free windows til we are past the frost date because sheesh, frosty toes are bad.)
i was barefoot today.
Another thing is this:
I’m lonely, true. But I am so happy that I am not dead, and that I am not still struggling to find my way in that relationship.
Another thing is this: even with a jackass for president, the world is still indescribably beautiful, and we should all be working for peace in the whole of it.
If this means shunning gun manufacturers or right wingers who think hurting someone is okay, then i’m allright with the shun. both the silent and the vociferous.
Let’s find out who they are. yeah?
and another thing: i have organized three whole bookshelves for myself. and this, in a room that once held all the books of the world, three, for me. only me. all my books. well, hells bells, not all. but comeon, i’m making a point. there is Poetry, there is ART, there is serious fiction and then there is fantasy fiction, because i love a good swashbuckle with magic, and maybe a dwarf.
its kind of thrilling. and it felt really nice to do for myself. amidst the dozen popup books, and the christmas collection and the riordans and the nonfictions, there they sit… my three shelves… the kids won’t even notice, but that was my saturday gift to myself. a little mom in the mayhem.
Maybe not trekking up to the top of the mountain will give peace to the seekers. That would be nice. I can make soup? Come visit.
been reading a bit about enneagram personality types lately. i’m slow on work for the next two weeks or so and i’ll have too much time to fill. i know, i should be so much more appreciative of this time, but i struggle with how to fill it in a way that feels productive, and no, the presents are still not wrapped. so, i’m reading here and there. and sometimes a thing gets wrapped. it’ll all get done.
so the thing about personality types, and myself, in general… i’m way bigger than they are. way. we all are. but, as i’ve been reading, i’ve been seeing a clear arrow to what is mine, well, more than one clear arrow. but i’m certain, for sure, what is not mine.
sometimes the work happens even in that tiny deciding… i may be this, but i KNOW i ain’t that.
and how can i use this information to investigate my own patterns…. how? i think i’m a 9, as far as this system goes, I know i’m not a 3, and I know i’m only parts of 6. I’m working my way forward…
and i don’t think i’ll lay down any bricks around my number, i’m not moving in… but thinking about myself in the abstract is a damn good exercise. because its pretty damn easy for me not to, at all, in the frenzy of kid-rearing and house maintenance. I’ll take my pieces of recognition and run off. offt.
there’s a lot about how you saw yourself as a kid here, and i was both fear-oriented at times, and felt overlooked at others. (sometimes happily… middle child shenanigans) …
i’m still pretty fear-oriented and i did feel surprise at realizing that… how to watch people, find out what is going to happen by watching body language and knowing patterns in other people and do everything possible to mitigate something that hasn’t even happened yet.
i used to hide from my angry dad under the piano. it was a terrible hiding place, totally ineffective. i used to wait for my alcoholic spouse, and watch him get out of the car to see how much he’d had to drink before he came into the kitchen. I was always, always right. The commonality between the two experiences has blown my mind a little. ‘wait til your father gets home’… takes on a new level of weight.
there is so much here, and spending time and consideration on thinking about myself could possibly be helpful as i move on ahead in my life.
my dad would call in navel-gazing. i love him a lot. did, do, all that. i, evidently, also love my navel.