Some time in January I began a post about the new year weight loss frenzy. It's always like chalk on a black board to me. It settles down after a few weeks and then gears up pre-summer.
It made sense to me to be tired of sugar and big dinners and party food. I was tired of it and there wasn't that much of it my life. We had nice holiday dinners but nothing too over the top. In fact I served a fennel, orange and pomegranate salad that I read was a good after holiday thing to eat because it's so light and refreshing.
Then the goosestep of my life drove me through another holiday (Easter) and I could have written the same post again. Easter candy every where. And ham. Oh lord the ham. And then all the posting about how unhealthy it all is and all the recipes framed as healthy instead of, oh I dunno, good. Just good.
I've written that post so many times.
Other ideas for posts run through my head. I power up Blogger and then ... it's always something.
Today I have some time. I have some focus. But I'm filled with sadness and no small amount of rage about big lifetime metaphor stuff. The actual detail of life is about the mommy and laundry and what to make for dinner and swimming and reading and the shifts of seasons. Nothing terrible. Nothing wonderful. Just life. But my inner world is a storm.
I knew a woman who always said: it is what it is. I always blanched at that because I hoped for evolution and change. I worked for those things internally and externally. But she had a point. There are things that you just need to live through. And feel. There are things that aren't going to get much better. There are things that are going to get worse.
My intention has always been to be with what was happening and who I am and what I feel and make every effort to understand it all. Accept it. Just be with it.
Writing has always been both a way to process my internal world and communicate. Right now I feel like I'm yammering.
I mean. Really. This is another kind of post I've written too many times. A post about why I'm not posting.
Very often. Late at night. I've just read something. I'm filled with thinking. I want to write. Some times I even scribble notes trying to remember what I'm thinking. They're usually illegible. I have books filled with book marks trying to remember what was triggering all that response. But sleep pulls me under. Some times I wake up during the night picking up where I've left off. And then it's morning and time to get fed and clean and packed up for the day and out the door and do all the things. Back home. Pick up the book. Rinse. Repeat.
It is what it is.