A post a day for a month. Who was I kidding?
It quickly went from a good idea into today-nothing-happened-maybe-tomorrow.
To start, some small things. I’m laying in the hammock in the back yard. It’s a bit like being by a campfire: my front is warm where the sun hits my black hoodie, my back is cold where the wind chills me through the thin hammock fabric. Add in the smell of woodsmoke from Mike’s place, and it’s kinda nice. My fingers smell like concord grape – I touched my marijuana plant and the stickiness of the resin first smelled dank and dark as I expected, but it’s changing to grape, and now a bit chocolate-y. I need to talk to Mike about drying it for me.
Breakfast today was a hot chocolate and three spiced date cookies from the Kimberley General Store.T he loaf of sourdough I bought was still warm. I went to my swimming spot and sat on my camp chair and watched golden leaves fall into the river with every freshening of the breeze, helped milkweed seeds float away on their fluff, opened my notebook and wrote maybe 8 words. I gave it up in favour of enjoying the sunshine and the beauty spread out before me.
I feel really good today. Like, slept well, and my hip or hands don’t ache like a bugger.
Note to self: do more damn yoga.
Question: What do I want?
Better question: What do I need?
I didn’t last a week. (insert image of me shrugging) Whatever. I make the challenge, and I can bend it or break it however I want. I am long past the point where I can be bothered to feel guilt for failing a self-imposed deadline.
Call it self- care. Call it laziness. Call it coming to grips with how my mind works. It truly doesn’t matter.
Friday was a long and almost difficult day. I bailed on the Wellington Cask Fest because once all was said and done, it seemed too far to go to hang around by myself. Better to come home and be with Keith and the cats.
Today was the pleasant normality of shopping, cooking, canning and baking. It has not escaped me how much I enjoy and am deeply satisfied by the activities that I mocked so thoroughly for so long.
Middle age is finding out just how wrong you were about everything.
The other day, I wrote a long, loooong list of things I can do when I get home instead of reaching for the iPad or phone and plopping my aching body on the couch. Things like
- write in my journal
- write a letter
- work on some sewing
- read a book
- plan the garden
You get the drift.
And if you know me at all, you’ll know that I’ve done exactly zero of those things in favour of reaching for technology and plopping my sore self on the couch.
I really need to keep working on getting my shit together.
I have This Charming Man by The Smiths stick in my head, and I have no one to blame by myself.
I went on Twitter on the weekend. I was curious.
(No, I didn’t recreate my account. I cruised through a few friends’ feeds.)
Such a bad idea. Four days later and I can only now feel my anxiety start to let go. The hamster wheel in my head has been spinning over people calling one of our beers awful (it’s not. It’s just not for them), over missing friendly get togethers with other friends who have been radio silent since I moved (not really friends then, are they?), over the perception among my peers of this company I brew for and the beer I make, over the fact that I appear to be unliked and unlikeable.
It’s all bullshit though. There is a voice in my head that is a liar and and here I am giving it ammunition.
The last few months on the anxiety medications and off Facebook and Twitter have shown me that I can be happy. Happier. It’s a good feeling. I like it. Why would I jeopardize that for curiosity?
Note to self: don’t be so dumb.
Today I ended a 12-year toxic relationship. Fuck you, Facebook.
Fuck the targeted ads, the lack of privacy, the lack of care with my data, the oh-so-broad definition of the word friend, the FOMO and the bullshit.
And fuck the lack of funny cat pictures.
The yoga instructor said, “Let go of that which does not serve you.”
I have been having a rough time lately, for reasons that I cannot pin down. I have a great job with people I like and I am living in my dream house in my dream location. And yet, I feel disconnected. And emotional as fuck.
I’m finding it hard to get a balance in my post-menopausal moods. So hard that apparently I can’t find the words for it right now. I feel like some of it still concussion-related, but what do I know?
“You need to write more,” said a woman I work with. She is so very smart; I adore her immensely. And yet I have snapped at her, made mountains out of molehills, and generally made an ass of myself. Thankfully she is a better woman than I, and sweetly accepted my tearful apologies.
So I am going to write more. And I am going to get rid of that which does not serve me. I’ve deleted everything off of Twitter (I can’t bring myself to delete my account and give up my name yet…I should though), purged so much from Facebook (gone are the Toronto people, breweries, concert venues and bars that are make me homesick for a place I haven’t even liked in the last 5 years), and made some lists. I’m going to yoga again tomorrow. And looking for a local doctor. And a therapist.
I need to get my shit together.