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Monday, February 8, 2016

Teacups and Saucers...

In my dreamlife, I long for more teacups.  and saucers.  and the lifestyle that contains them.  the quiet morning in the sunlight, the ritual of the fine porcelains...

but I am not of the Canadian or British empires. my feet are mired in my American coffee ways, and i am truly a mug.
Mug.
make that a romantic one, can you?
mugh.

I am working on it...

For lovely and different book reviews, including children's, you should go read here,  at PickleMeThis... she's been having a teacup friday, where she shows you her current cup and saucer. tiny, delightful.

The book reviews are good, and illustrative, and give you enough to go on... I found the Polnit writings because of her, and am so happy that I have...

(this is a just one sentence writing that has spilled... mwah)

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

My god.

Do i change my entire blog premise? the name, even?  am i no longer a wife, because someone thinks me not a good one? i suppose so, since it is the husband who says so...

but my god...

can i be a non-wife? a no-longer wife?

as a generic term for 'woman', i still could claim it, helpmate, and so on...
since the helping of others is still going on.
Do I want it anymore?  How do i reshape that word, instead of re-shaping myself, as i've done for so long, in the quest to fill it?


Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Oh, really?

I just hit upon something I'm certain about. **   how the fuck about that?

nice, actually, the feeling of it. . . is this what normal people feel all the time? is there some trick of naivete in it, stupidity even ? in certainty?

**gah, i take it back.
what do i know?!

Monday, January 25, 2016

Sorrow spills..

I may be a gardener, appreciative of the full glory of the percolation of hibernation,  but it doesn't mean that i'm not weeping into my downward dog.  I'm trying so hard to keep my sorrow from the kids, and its not really working... it just spurts out in 'short-temperedness' and apologies. and i feel so for the three year old that i will cry in front of, because i think she is too young to understand, because i think i'm fooling myself and shortchanging her.  so much change, so much sorrow .
and surprise. so much that i wasn't ready for... the silence, man.  thats a killer. not knowing if sending a text is appropriate, not knowing what to share, striving for normalcy but not knowing what that even is, anymore.
and, fully, realizing that i am on my own, that i might not get any response at all, much less the interest and curiousity that i am pining for.  i told a friend that i am a keeper of the flame, and i am aware that i hold the light, but am filled with sorrow that noone is looking for this flickering... the mystery is too deep and right this second i am in sink.

.

Friday, January 22, 2016

Gardener

Definitions are in flux here, these days. Incorporation of all this new stuff is leaving me feeling unstable.  like i'm a popcorn popper starting up without the lid... a quarter in spin .

Yesterday I momentarily won a battle with the 'what he thinks/feels/wants' game, and did spend some time focused on self-definition. (the game is awful, it requires me to make-believe, and fill in blanks in conversations that aren't actually happening.  It frequently results in tears or in telling myself to shut up.)
It was a victory, however fleeting, and I have clutched it to my heart.  These days I am a gardener.  In winter. I am in it for the long haul tending, learning of chemistries that kill and bolster. I am prepwork, and whole cycles.  I am every part of the process, from seed to death, to seed again.  Check me preparing for winter now, while the snow is flying, tending my tools, gathering my dreams of seeds, and the invisible, buried, and faith-based lurk of life.