Can we talk a little more tonight? I've been on the couch or in bed most of the day with intestinal rage, and feel better now, but am really, really rested. Henry, unfortunately, has stayed by my side, and is virtually vibrating with energy right now. He's running the hall...click click click...then boom! Up on the bed. Then down the hall again like a little monkey in high heels.
I'll blame it on the belly, but today was a day of hopefulness and hopelessness all rolled into one little sushi package. I'm packing for Florida ...yay! Henry will be missed....boo. He's done everything but pee on my suitcase. The cat has curled on top, then found a way in and curled inside. This may be an answer to having too many legs to move. Kidding. But it's difficult - Purrl was a buddy and companion between the time that Nikki passed away and Henry came to live here. S/he has rules about petting (3 times only) and is generally happier wherever I am not. But there are a few times during the day when Purrl absolutely needs to tell me s/he appreciates my life here on earth, and that is truly a spectacle. But in a small area, with a dog who eats kitty poo like candy, what to do? Right now, our downstairs walk-in shower is where the litterbox is stashed. It works. But in a smaller place, a Tinier space, there may not be a spot that's workable, and a cat needs a litterbox. Being clawless, Purrl stays indoors and dreams magical dreams of the outdoors. And hides in the dryer.
Yep, off on a tangent.
So, while my mirror reflected back hideousness, my heart felt warm and confident. While I felt grateful for feeling better by late afternoon, I felt completely sad about not being invited to dinner with stepdaughter & her boyfriend. That's the part of this tearing apart that's surprisingly difficult. It shouldn't be a surprise, but I guess it is. And I wonder if anyone in the family has any idea why this is happening? I wonder what they've been told. The wagons are being circled, and I'm still getting used to the idea that my services are no longer wanted. I'm still being asked to perform menial chores...answer: no. Which is somewhat even more infuriating. Little bully tactics, like walking loudly above my room, or dropping something on the floor - every night- waking Henry and sending him barking and running down the hall, waking me for the zillionth time. I am looking forward to a string of days with nights of good sleep. Nights where I don't need to wonder about the alcohol intake vs the artillery in the house.
So again my head swirls to this compass point.
I look forward to days and nights that are filled with my own-ness. Despite the potential for lonely ugly cries. Despite the certainty for magical growth.
My girlfriend's child at the farmers market: "but what if a potato doesn't want to be a potato? Could it be something else when you pull it out of the ground?"
I've broken through the ground...my roots are growing deep, and my arms stretch upward through the ground, searching for warming light...sunshine to grow with.
My mother used to sing me to sleep...sometimes a lullaby, sometimes Canadian drinking songs...who knew. But she always sang You Are My Sunshine (but NOT the hideous last verse. I mean, really?). I sing that to Henry because A) I'm freaky like that, and B) I'm kinda singin it to me from her sort of.
Yep, I probably should have wasted this time on Facebook, rather than trail about in circles, dragging words behind me.
The short version in plain English is that today mostly sucked, with moments of sparkles. Very small moments, but there all the same. Like my fizzy Lush bath. That was good. And I left all the heart-shaped confetti in the tub after.