Stale. It's feeling all stale here at blessourhearts. I've covered the same ground over and over and if I want to continue I either need to cover new ground or dig deeper into the ground I cover.
But me? Go further afield? I think we know my boundaries, physically, at least, and they do not extend very far. The chicken house, the garden, the woods and fields for my walk, to town to see my children, go to the store, the library. To Roseland, to Cozumel when I am beyond lucky. I am not apt to suddenly decide to go backpacking and Eurailing in Europe (that train, has left the station, no pun intended) nor am I thinking of taking a trip to Peru or to Greece or to New York City or to Australia to see the Rolling Stones or even, truthfully, into town on a Friday night to go hear a local band.
I become more and more less interested in foraging far from my home for any reason. And that leaves me sad and it leaves me feeling inadequate in every way possible and it makes me feel anxious just to consider such possibilities and it makes me feel stupid and weak and pathetic.
Which leaves emotional boundaries, I suppose. I think that there, too, I have pushed as far as I feel comfortable doing. I have so many stories I could tell but they are not mine to tell, not entirely. Trust me- when I talk about someone else, unless that person is a celebrity or politician, I either have their permission or protect their anonymity if the subject matter goes deeper than a worm trail on hard ground. Although the very phrase, "Bless our hearts," is a bit on the smirky side, it also confers a bit of compassion, a bit of understanding that we are all in need of heart-blessing, no matter what. The difference between saying, "She's such an asshole," is completely different than saying, "She's such an asshole, bless her heart."
Those last three words convey (to me, at least) a bit of warmth, an acknowledgement of the possibility that we are all assholes at some point or another and there is usually a reason.
When I write here I think of who might read my words. I can't help that. That is who I am. My husband may read what I write, my children, my friends, my brothers. And you, whom I have come to know, some of you at least. I don't want to make people angry or embarrassed or left feeling explosed. I am perhaps too sensitive.
When we were eating lunch at a restaurant in Sebastian the other day, two women came and sat at the table beside us. One of them was a very, very small person. Child-sized. Doll-sized. Yet she was definitely a woman, not a child. And she was wearing extremely chic rich beachy type clothes. A tiny green Polo shirt with bright pink seahorses embroidered on it. A well-fitting expensive-looking skirt. Very nice shoes and a handbag that was well-proportioned for her size and probably cost more than I'll spend on Thanksgiving dinner this year. Plus a car payment. Her hair was perfect and styled in a ladies-who-lunch sort of modified controlled helmet and I wanted desperately to stare at her but of course I did not.
A man joined the two women and I yearned to figure out the relationships. I yearned to learn more. And every time someone in their conversation said the word "little" or "cute" I cringed. Would that hurt the small woman's feelings? It was ridiculous. On my part.
After lunch, in the car, Mr. Moon and I talked about the small woman a bit. "I wonder what it's like to be treated as a child your whole life?" Mr. Moon said.
"If I was small like that, I would probably use either the word cocksucker or motherfucker in every sentence I spoke," I said. To, you know...remind people that I was NOT a child.
Where am I going with this? I'm not sure. Is the little woman a metaphor for me with my little life? Do I feel as if I look like one thing but am entirely another? Do I curse and swear and to make it perfectly clear that I am not "just" a grandmother, a mother, a wife, a woman who really has no life except for this very constrained one?
I do not know.
I also know that waking up in angst and despair is part of who I am and some days, it passes quickly and easily and I accept who I am and how I live and love and some days it settles in and spreads its wings as if to hatch something evil from my heart. Today, for no apparent reason whatsoever, is one of those days.
It will pass. And hopefully, my feelings of despair about my writing and even my life will too.
Even as the rest of the world swirls and whirls around me and Facebook reports that every human on the planet is more open to change and travel and adventure than I am.
Even as I sit here, trying to make myself take a shower and go to town to push my boundaries as far as they ever go, which is not very far at all.
And I wonder when this closing-in happened to me. Has it always been here and it's only been in the last decade that I have so thoroughly quit fighting it, have given in to it?
And then again, sometimes I wonder if this small life is all my heart can hold?
It doesn't really matter, does it? But I am going to try to dig my shovel in a little deeper where the earth may be richer, darker, wetter, denser.
Maybe. We shall see.