What keeps me up at night these days
…selling the house for a reasonable price
… buying a new home
…the state of the world today
…scary right wing Republicans
…coming up with good ideas in school
…coming up with great ideas
…leaving Luka at home all day
…what I’m going to do with all the stuff I have once we move
…being a good wife
…being a good mom
…keeping the house clean
…finding time to do the yard
…getting a good grade
…getting out of shape
…being too skinny
…being too fat
…annoying my husband with the above
…my term paper
…too much to do in too little time
…finding time for my love
…making it to church
…paying my bills on time
…finding a way to make money
…being an artist
…being taken seriously
…worrying about people think of me
an incomplete list…
I leave it here…all my worries, big and small..here on the blog. I have much to be great grateful for..I will be grateful.
Went through my filing cabinet this morning…filing new documents and letting go of a lot of old paperwork. I lit a small fire in the fireplace and burned the “sensitive” and personal papers. It felt good, until I stood up and noticed my house was smoke filled. I threw open the front and back doors and let the day air cleanse the space. My home feels lighter, I feel lighter.
There is so much I hang on to. Stuff. But little of it matters in the day to day. In fact most of it doesn’t. But I let my energy hang on to it, and some days I feel the weight of it physically. I have been weeding through my closet in much the same manner as my filing cabinet. But I find it harder to let go of cloth than paper. Maybe it’s because I paid for my wardrobe, and the paper comes free to me. Money plays tricks on my sense of priorities and self worth. The paper is a burden, the clothes are a pleasure. Too bad for me. There are far greater pleasures to pursue and enjoy than the wearing and caring of my clothes.
My daughter turns twenty one this week. Every year I retell the story of her birth, well I try to. Usually I get a groan, but I believe that my children really are interested in their story.
Today at work, one of the kids told me how when he was young, his father didn’t live with him and his mother. His parents live together now, but this boy doesn’t know why they lived apart. Perhaps his father had to work in a city far away, or maybe his parents were separated. His parents won’t tell the story..”it’s not important now,” his mother says. But it is important.
Our stories, our histories, however subjective they are, matter. Or do they? I have met people who are so invested in their story that they become that story, rather than who they genuinely might be. I have done it myself. The story becomes a role.
There is a place between the two..between the holding on too tightly to the past and the discounting of it altogether. I am not sure where that is, I feel as if we might float back and forth between the two. My Grandmother once told me that her mother, my Great Grandmother, never spoke of her life. My Grandmother knew none of her mother’s history. As such, I know nothing about her as well.
A few years ago, I sat with my mother and asked her questions I have never asked her before. Sometimes I forget that before she was my mother, she was someone else entirely. I wanted to know my mother outside her motherness. Just as I want to discover who my daughter is, outside of her daughterness.
I am not sure we can ever really know anyone. We seem to be conditioned to view others with the lens of their relationship to us. I would like to find a way to know someone with out that bias..but perhaps that’s impossible.