I Might Be Back...
Technorati says it's been 60 days since I've made an entry in this blog. I want very much to resume what I started here, but frankly, it's agonizing trying to resume activities from my old life. And I know now that is the right phrase to use: "my old life." Patrick's death was also, in a different way of course, my own. Patrick's death was for my life the equivalent of a huge natural disaster, one which takes the earth down to only its earthness, one which changes forever the landscape. I am working very hard to just survive until new growth comes to soften the harsh lines of devastation, until I feel like I can begin to build things again.
Meanwhile, the same old clutter has crept back in the last 12 weeks...even The Chair is back to being what it was,
a chair, a filing cabinet, a closet. I offer pictures of how things have reverted to what they were when I began this blog. One of these days, I hope to wake up and feel like dealing with it all.
I think maybe it is a good sign that I vacuumed the living room today for the first time in all these terrible weeks. I sucked up cobwebs that lurked in the corners of the entryway ceiling, and did away with the bizarre pile of dust and bits of yarn and wool that had secretly gathered under the ottoman. A good sign.
I'll close with the final lines of a long poem I wrote about my longtime relationship/fascination with the moon, a longing to understand what its message might be for me... the last part of it juxtaposed my being in the hospital for Patrick's birth with being in the same hospital just a year before, when I nearly died of an asthma attack and I'd seen (or thought I'd seen) a lunar eclipse from my window. In the poem I was looking at the full moon from my hospital window after Patrick's birth....
"....a year later, bruised
and still trembling
with the birth
of my third son,
it seemed important
to stand
unaided
before the same speechless sky
expecting nothing.
I would only love
the luminous constant mirror,
the path of its recurrence.
Full with everythin
possible and intransient,
the slow pale oracle
of my longing
revealed something at last,
saying,
you can always
start over, levitating
from the edge
of a shadow,
as pure and whole
as this."
Meanwhile, the same old clutter has crept back in the last 12 weeks...even The Chair is back to being what it was,
a chair, a filing cabinet, a closet. I offer pictures of how things have reverted to what they were when I began this blog. One of these days, I hope to wake up and feel like dealing with it all.
I think maybe it is a good sign that I vacuumed the living room today for the first time in all these terrible weeks. I sucked up cobwebs that lurked in the corners of the entryway ceiling, and did away with the bizarre pile of dust and bits of yarn and wool that had secretly gathered under the ottoman. A good sign.
I'll close with the final lines of a long poem I wrote about my longtime relationship/fascination with the moon, a longing to understand what its message might be for me... the last part of it juxtaposed my being in the hospital for Patrick's birth with being in the same hospital just a year before, when I nearly died of an asthma attack and I'd seen (or thought I'd seen) a lunar eclipse from my window. In the poem I was looking at the full moon from my hospital window after Patrick's birth....
"....a year later, bruised
and still trembling
with the birth
of my third son,
it seemed important
to stand
unaided
before the same speechless sky
expecting nothing.
I would only love
the luminous constant mirror,
the path of its recurrence.
Full with everythin
possible and intransient,
the slow pale oracle
of my longing
revealed something at last,
saying,
you can always
start over, levitating
from the edge
of a shadow,
as pure and whole
as this."
posted by 'Zann at 12:27 PM
3 Comments:
Slipping back into old habits is understandable. It takes effort to find a place for things and your effort is focused in other directions. Like healing and living and , somedays I'm sure, simply breathing. Just like you picked knitting back up, you will pick up the other threads of your former life. Don't rush yourself.
Hi 'Zann,
Glad to see you've posted. I've been wondering how you are doing. :-)
You're in my thoughts. Take care of yourself.
-RM
I'm trying to imagine an area where knitting projects (which spill and creep across tables and chairs along with cable needles and scissors and other essential implements of creation) could be worked on and contained at the same time. A magic chair with pockets? A bookshelf (not stuffed full of books like mine) with baskets for yarn and projects nearby? I often sit and look at the projects around me that I'm not working on, as I work on the current one, and they give me inspiration and joy: color, texture, sense of accomplishment, all too important to relegate to a dark closet or box.
There seems to be an important tension between clutter and creation.
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