Just written in email

I think you have to get there organically, whatever the hell that means. I guess what I mean by that is that no one else can tell you where to go with it, how to feel, or where you draw the line. I think I just hit this point today where I was like -- no. I don't have unlimited time. I don't have unlimited energy. I want to believe I have both, but I have neither. It saddened me, but it also woke me up. All the repeated things I do, the things I grumble over, the things I dread or come close to regretting -- they don't have to happen. Hand-washing underwear where there's been a potty accident, yes. I just did that. That's a given. The things that are taking my life away cell by cell -- that's a different story. But you have to get to a certain place with it. I don't know that there's any controlling it.

Heather Farm Playground

We took Baz out to Walnut Creek yesterday. Something so normal as a playground visit -- but it was amazing too. He's been in the house too much. He hasn't been around other kids enough. It was awesome to see him play and enjoy himself.

What happens when I try to write

 

Ocean breaths and roller-coaster breaths

Baz has the awesome transitional-kindergarten teacher. She's amazing. Part of what she teaches are meditation principles: ocean breaths, roller-coaster breaths, star breaths. I know you can laugh and say, Jesus, Berkeley. I do and yet I don't. It's what I want him to learn.

That doesn't mean he'll always be in the Berkeley school system. I don't want to live here forever. But I do like the schools -- and the enrichment. He's got two dance classes, music, gardening, library. Virtual schooling can be a pain in the ass, but at least I get to see what he does up close and personal.

Today's writing

Make yourself at home. Cliché, right? Except for a six-year-old, the one looking for exactly that. A first-grader doesn’t know pleasantry, only that words spoken are promises meant. “Thank you,” I said, and I imagine her looking down into who I was, who I remain: the wide-eyed, the slightly disbelieving. To this day I cannot imagine someone is actually in love with me; tell that to my husband of 12 years. I cannot believe I too could be wanted, desired, needed.

Or in this case, welcomed.

 

This morning's writing

The Morrisons’ house stood out. A two-story Mediterranean that towered more than it sprawled, it was soon to impress me with its surprises. The entryway, first off, was huge, the marble floor dappled by strategic light from an oval chandelier. Down two oval steps was the living room, a space that looked like it hadn’t been used once since the furniture was set into place. A dual-step platform led to an impressive circular staircase, but we didn’t go up there. Instead Leslie – Mrs. Morrison – led me through a pastel kitchen into a wonderfully jumbled family room.

 

That’s where the girls were.

 

The female energy in that space was nearly enough to cause me to back out through the French doors, past the poodle and into the pool.

You Wear it Well

Texting with Marcus, I wrote: "Right? I wear it well." (Don't ask what I was responding to.)

His response: