If there’s anything consistent about this blog, it’s that I’m not consistent. I’m up and down and verbose and silent, sometimes chipper and often wry and deprecating and full of wishes and hopes and aches and pains. There is it.
The past two weeks have been quiet achey ones. I’m not sure why, but have been letting it roll over me. Lack of energy has been the theme, with an undercurrent of pms, some reflection, and a lot of distraction with obsessive show watching, late-night reading, and delightful new indie-music listening. Kind of hunkering down and letting the quietness pervade.
It’s been easier than usual to do so, thanks my eldest going (solo) to visit my folks in Chicago for a week, so it’s just Fynn and I at home this week. It’s a treat to have 1:1 time with him, which is so rare with a 2nd-born. We’ve cuddled more, watched cartoons, shopped for birthday presents for his brother, and hit up the transportation museum. Good, rich times, and they’re salve on my heart. Why does it ache? I can’t tell you, really, and wish I knew.
Perhaps part of it is this feels like a changing of seasons, life seasons, not just the wishy washy is-it-still winter-or-does-60-in-February-mean-spring-already kind of stuff. Am I done having kids, or just making the decision by default? Do I really have a 10 year old right around the corner? Am I middle aged, or just letting myself slump into a label? What’s next? I’ve not lived in a place this long since I was home with my parents. It’s getting to me a bit, the itch to move, to change, to throw off the towel and find a new dance.
A friend asked me yesterday, as we were catching up on life, what did I really want next? My almost-immediate response was that I wanted to be able to speak my mind, with no fear of reactions or judgments or repercussions. Not something I’m known for, or was raised to do, but something I crave. It’s one reason I blog … this putting thoughts out into the world, for you to read, and perhaps react to. To relate to. To resonate with. It helps clear my heart out a bit, makes me carve the thoughts into something marginally more coherent than what swirls in my head.
Not being able to put the thoughts down, or find the threads in the murk, I think that’s the root of the ache. It’s wanting vision, but not finding a clear one. Wanting answers, but not finding ready ones. Stewing in my own juice. It’s rather like the broth-making that I’ve been doing all winter. Throw in a chicken and lots of veggies, add some vinegar and herbs, and let it simmer for a couple of days. Strain out all the stuff, and drink deep of the nectar that’s left. Full, rich, and healing. Everything else gets thrown out, having been turned into tasteless husks.
I’m hoping to get to the straining part soon, I’m ready for it.