I have a lot going on in my head, when moments blur to days and weeks and where am I? It’s December but how did we get here? And I don’t have a clock on the wall and forget to record reading minutes with Jessica and I have 3 different calendars I try to sync – and my basement is in my dining room and there were men in our house for 2 weeks, and fumes and dust, and I made bread and saw friends and planned a Holiday Open House and I couldn’t have done any of it without help and here I am.
Reading good books and then ordering the books they referenced and reading those. Taking notes, journaling. Being dangerous with the words I record. Finally writing the poetry, telling the lost stories of starry nights in Maine, trampoline truth or dare in Washington, first kisses, my blaring daredevil coming to life.
Realizing I will not be the exemption to the rule of how a parent will inevitably screw up their kids. That I can’t give my kids the answers, I have to let them wade those waters and come to their own conclusion. I can’t redo my wrongs through their rights.
Somewhere in there I went from one adventure to the next. Wide eyed, young and stupid, I had it all figured out. I kissed a boy in a tree and we trespassed on private property. Slept in a tent on the beach, wrote in each other’s journals. Saw his messy, wild eyed morning eyes and I knew.
This adventure, this is the one I want to keep chasing. Where will it ever go? How does this one end?
Some times I confuse the adventure with torture. The ups and downs of a family, of a business, of homes; confused with the feeling on that beach so long ago. With this terrifying freedom, where no one knew we existed and yet all we did in those days was chase the feeling of living wild. Living free.
I’ve been an understudy to my emotions and the intelectual female inside of me for the past 18 years. I study women, especially, other mothers, my own mother – my female family members. I watch them and listen to them and I wonder, do they feel as lost as I do?
Did they have this idea that turned into a hypothesis for living, like me? Do they look in the mirror and talk to the understudy inside of them. Do they ask them for direction?
Do they feel the weight of heaven? The mercy of a God in us and all around us? Do they feel it, like me? Do they know?
And before I can figure it out, write it down, the thought is lost. I can’t find it and I keep looking for the words that washed through me. I look up and do another sink-full of dishes, sweep the floor. Check email, respond, make plans and connections and listen to music on pandora or the music of the silence in my house.
The furnace whirring, the electricity humming, the fish eating, the water in the tub dripping and the jet engine on the washing machine in it’s furry. I hear my name and the phone is ringing and I’ve mentally put everything away in the house but physically I stand in one place, overwhelmed with where to start.
And I just keep moving. I keep writing and reading and driving to the beach for the peace and quiet – which is really just more noise. But it’s the noise of my soul, the back and forth of the understudy. The eyes searching, the heart learning.