Sending C off to work... Dear Lord, I love that man!
Spoke to the local Rotary Club this morning with E, to raise awareness about the Healing Journey. 6:30 a.m. I haven't been up that early in months! It felt good, though, despite having only gotten 4 hours of sleep (I've been having a series of days where things just aren't running according to my ideal timeline... and they're all things beyond my control, mostly. That's okay. All's well that ends well, yeah?)
I've got an interview tonight for that part time nanny job, and tomorrow I'm finishing the application for the temp labor place.
So, today... I'm cleaning C's apartment. S is gone, so, honestly, that means some of the clutter will be gone. He's fairly neat, which I appreciate, but I never can put things away, because I'm not sure if he's using them or not.
I hung out at the library yesterday, and found a book in the young adult fiction section called "hold still". The protagonist, Caitlin, is struggling to make sense of herself and her life in the wake of her best friend's suicide. Her progress is gratifying, and she ends up reaching out to help others around her also find hope and make sense of the tragedy. I liked it. I tend to gravitate towards the young adult fiction, I think mostly because that seems to be the genre that treats subjects like this one (or just basic emergence and identity) realistically.
I've noticed that I also seem to gravitate towards this particular writing style-- the very real, detail-oriented, yet eloquent narration of daily events, and the emotions that accompany the events.
I suppose it's because I just... resonate... with the idea of somehow recording the seemingly mundane and trivial pieces-parts that make up the whole of an experience. Life is poetic, and the symmetry and grace is found in the objects and sounds that surround us, the play of light and shadows throughout the day. When I think of V High School, for instance, I think of the taste of chocolate milk, the sunlight filtering through the leaves of my tree, the feel of cold, gritty, damp earth on my fingers, the worn sheen of the green rubberized tables...
When I think of home up north, I think of the crunch of gravel beneath shoes or tires, the jarring jolts of potholes, the crisp evergreen air softened by the scent of earth and shrubs, and the cold dew on my hands as I pick raspberries. I think of the smell of the S's house, but I also think of unyielding despair and agony, of stress and stretched out on my bed, the red and cream quilt and incense, of cool, smooth floors and warm fur. I think of the rich, salty taste of popcorn and the smooth, creamy tang of green drinks. I think of the vibration of the Vitamix, and the warmth of the sunlight through the kitchen windows. I think of the rough wood of the deck on my bare feet, and I think of Titan's breath steaming in little puffs as he waits on the ledge. I think of the smell of the print shop and of the repetitive echo of the racquetball court.
I want to keep all those little things, and tuck them deep inside where I won't forget them... where I will feel them always... because those are what make up my memories. I have so many gaps where I just don't remember anything at all (mostly from childhood), and I wonder what happened? What was I touching, tasting, smelling, feeling? I think that's part of the reason why I used to be a hoarder. I needed concrete things to help me remember, to prove to me that something happened... something tangible to keep me grounded.
And so, I love books that record the little incidentals that truly make up the moments we live in. It is when I am aware of those little things that I feel like I'm really alive, really here, really focused. It's so easy for me to zone out and forget what surrounds me, to retreat to a dream world, as it were. I like to hear the music of the world around me, though. I feel alive in a way that I can't really explain. (Another reason why I hate depression... it just kind of dulls my senses and it feels like I'm walking through an invisible, dampening fog.)
Spoke to the local Rotary Club this morning with E, to raise awareness about the Healing Journey. 6:30 a.m. I haven't been up that early in months! It felt good, though, despite having only gotten 4 hours of sleep (I've been having a series of days where things just aren't running according to my ideal timeline... and they're all things beyond my control, mostly. That's okay. All's well that ends well, yeah?)
I've got an interview tonight for that part time nanny job, and tomorrow I'm finishing the application for the temp labor place.
So, today... I'm cleaning C's apartment. S is gone, so, honestly, that means some of the clutter will be gone. He's fairly neat, which I appreciate, but I never can put things away, because I'm not sure if he's using them or not.
I hung out at the library yesterday, and found a book in the young adult fiction section called "hold still". The protagonist, Caitlin, is struggling to make sense of herself and her life in the wake of her best friend's suicide. Her progress is gratifying, and she ends up reaching out to help others around her also find hope and make sense of the tragedy. I liked it. I tend to gravitate towards the young adult fiction, I think mostly because that seems to be the genre that treats subjects like this one (or just basic emergence and identity) realistically.
I've noticed that I also seem to gravitate towards this particular writing style-- the very real, detail-oriented, yet eloquent narration of daily events, and the emotions that accompany the events.
I suppose it's because I just... resonate... with the idea of somehow recording the seemingly mundane and trivial pieces-parts that make up the whole of an experience. Life is poetic, and the symmetry and grace is found in the objects and sounds that surround us, the play of light and shadows throughout the day. When I think of V High School, for instance, I think of the taste of chocolate milk, the sunlight filtering through the leaves of my tree, the feel of cold, gritty, damp earth on my fingers, the worn sheen of the green rubberized tables...
When I think of home up north, I think of the crunch of gravel beneath shoes or tires, the jarring jolts of potholes, the crisp evergreen air softened by the scent of earth and shrubs, and the cold dew on my hands as I pick raspberries. I think of the smell of the S's house, but I also think of unyielding despair and agony, of stress and stretched out on my bed, the red and cream quilt and incense, of cool, smooth floors and warm fur. I think of the rich, salty taste of popcorn and the smooth, creamy tang of green drinks. I think of the vibration of the Vitamix, and the warmth of the sunlight through the kitchen windows. I think of the rough wood of the deck on my bare feet, and I think of Titan's breath steaming in little puffs as he waits on the ledge. I think of the smell of the print shop and of the repetitive echo of the racquetball court.
I want to keep all those little things, and tuck them deep inside where I won't forget them... where I will feel them always... because those are what make up my memories. I have so many gaps where I just don't remember anything at all (mostly from childhood), and I wonder what happened? What was I touching, tasting, smelling, feeling? I think that's part of the reason why I used to be a hoarder. I needed concrete things to help me remember, to prove to me that something happened... something tangible to keep me grounded.
And so, I love books that record the little incidentals that truly make up the moments we live in. It is when I am aware of those little things that I feel like I'm really alive, really here, really focused. It's so easy for me to zone out and forget what surrounds me, to retreat to a dream world, as it were. I like to hear the music of the world around me, though. I feel alive in a way that I can't really explain. (Another reason why I hate depression... it just kind of dulls my senses and it feels like I'm walking through an invisible, dampening fog.)
0 thoughts: