It is gently raining and I was so tired last night I can't even remember my dreams although every now and then an image will float past me and if I try to grasp it, it slithers away, a snake-fish in a sea of grass.
I don't want to remember them anyway.
Sometimes I think that my shell is way too thin and that with stress and worry it becomes even thinner until it is worn almost away, the opposite of the cicada's process. The smallest things become huge in my mind- the sending of mail, the making of a meal, the meeting-up with even the people I love the most. I am overwhelmed with feeling old, with feeling ugly, with feeling inadequate, with, let's face it- all feelings.
Perhaps I am just waiting on this baby, even as I do not feel any rushing need for him to arrive. I know he is happy where he is and he is finishing up creating all of his systems and becoming sweet and fat-cheeked while his mother's womb tunes up and strengthens with the Braxton-Hicks contractions, all doing as it should.
Perhaps there have just been too many tests for my husband and I, like the sin-eater, must eat the worry while he concerns himself as a normal human should, with what lies before him. The moving of our children, his business, his plans for hunting, the repair of this, the fixing of that. The older we grow, the more he astounds me and the more I wish I could have been a woman who could more match him in spirit and in heart instead of so frequently falling apart and moving to a place in my mind where he cannot go.
I remember once when my mother talked about the abuse I suffered, a rare, rare occasion for her to mention it. She said, "This has probably affected your marriage, hasn't it?"
I could not even begin to tell her. It was so bizarre and absurd that she finally realized (maybe?) the far-reaching ways that yes, it has affected even my marriage.
Well. The rain falls. I need to go to town again. Life never stops until it does. And I suppose I need to give myself a break. What are the top stressors in life? Illness, moving, babies being born? Something like that.
And although none of them are happening to me, they are all happening to my heart's closest.
And I need to remember that my shell, my skin, is truly a rough old hide, not the delicate rose-petal I feel it is sometimes.
All I have to do is keep moving forward, accept that which is and take into my hands that which needs to be done.
I am glad it is raining.