Or something. This week has been hectic, and I'm grumpy that I'm turning into one of those depressing post once a week bloggers. I love coming here and finding all of you and your comments and your stories, and I have a zillion posts that I write in my head... you know how it is.
This week though, in particular, has been like a bizarre synchronized swimming competition and I've barely had time to come up for breath. It shouldn't really be so hectic--my in-laws have moved here (and though they don't have appliances so they're here all the time for meals, they help A LOT with Bean and such) and my class at school has finally started to come together as a group. There have been no more incidents of scissor throwing or wailing or refusals to say, sit in a chair, or come to the meeting area, and today a parent came in and built an exquisite terrarium for us.
At home we have a toasty warm new wood stove, and the hills are turning to burnished red and saffron. When we take walks in the afternoon we walk through armloads of fallen leaves the color of gems, freckled with rainwater. The rooster has begun crowing. The skies at dusk are purple like the stain of a grape, with gauzy gray clouds smudge across the mountains. Itâ€™s a good time of year. Time for apple pie, and cafÃ© au laits and pumpkin cheesecake ice cream.
But I still have this feeling; like a dervish. Twirling, my feet barely touching ground. I know the real reason is that I havenâ€™t connected back with my writing for several weeks now, and the threads that connect me to the stories Iâ€™m constructing have become fine and tenuous like spiderâ€™s webs. But every morning I wake up still tired, and every night I go to sleep with my mind a kaleidoscope of fragments. I have forgotten the geometry of being divided in this way: mother, writer, teacher, spouse.
In a conversation with my mother yesterday, she was saying how so many women she knows are on a quest to find the true things that they love. A calling. A direction. A depth of purpose. I laughed, relating my own woes. Mine has never been a lack of purpose or direction or enjoyment, itâ€™s always been a lack of time.
â€œIf I could do every day twice,â€ I said, â€œthen maybe, just maybe Iâ€™d get everything done that I long to do.â€
How about you?