I feel so freaking frustrated.
I am remembering once a long time ago when my first husband and a carpenter friend of ours were restoring a cottage house on our property that we'd moved and I said one day in a pique of tied-down motherhood, "You are simply building me a prison! A beautiful prison but a prison nonetheless!"
They gaped at me in disbelief. Where had this come from? What was I saying? I had my two beautiful babies, I had my garden, I was about to move out of a ten by fifty foot trailer into this old Cracker house that I loved and adored which they had jacked up and replaced sills on and put a window in by the back door that I had wanted and we'd refinished the floors and they'd built a front porch to it and it was everything I wanted and I wanted it so badly but...
I think I knew even then that I was not one to go out into the world so much, even though I did go more than I do now and that deep inside of me I was aware that I am quite capable of being my own captive in my own world of what I create to keep myself supposedly safe.
Oh, I'm frustrated. I spent a great deal of today in the garden, ripping huge weeds and digging them out and I did plant another row of beans and I don't even care. I don't even care. Beans can be bought at the store. Tomatoes rot on the vine from one pest or another and they only serve to make me feel guilty because I am not tending them the way I should. I gave myself half a heat stroke, most likely, and had to come in and rest for awhile and then I went back out and ripped and pulled some more and for what? For what?
Sometimes, probably most of the time, I am completely content, or at least mostly content, with what I have here. What my husband and I have built together and scratched from the ground together and maintained together and I love it. I love my chickens and my flowers and I love these trees and the way the light filters through them in the morning and in the evening both and I love the birds as they sit and sing and even the squirrels as they chase each other from tree branch to ground and back up to the branches. I love my simple cooking and of course I love my children and my grandchildren to come out. I love the way Owen has a world of his own here, a world that fosters fantasy and play and wonder and learning about animals and where eggs come from and where food comes from and and I love living in this house where people have lived and danced and been conceived and born and died for so many years. I love it when people come over, as they did last night, to sit and stand in the kitchen as I cook and there is laughter and there is talk and drinks and light and friendship.
I do. I love it all. And even when I don't love it, I appreciate it so much.
But sometimes. Sometimes I feel as if I am missing out on something. Everything maybe. Oh, I have my reading and I have this, this way of communication and I have my writing, my words, my joy there, but why am I spending entire days, weeks, months of my life ripping weeds out of a garden and doing the same laundry over and over and over again...
Wait. I just had a complete phone conversation with Owen. He is on his way home and I guess his mother called me for him.
"Where are you, Mer-Mer?" he asked me and we talked like real people. "Are you home yet?" I asked.
"Not yet," he said. "Not yet."
Oh my god. That boy. "I love you, Mer-Mer," he said.
And this, this is what it's all about, I guess and I know and I need to take a shower and make some salad for Mr. Moon to eat when he gets home with the pizza I'll heat up. My Fisher-Man, home from the seas.
Full moon tomorrow night and maybe that's what is causing this, this...what?
Dissatisfaction. Frustration. Anger at myself for building myself these beautiful prisons of labor and love.
I will never live in Paris or know what it's like to wake up in an apartment in New York City and I will never learn Spanish and I will never get a book published and I will never hike the Appalachian Trail and no one is stopping me from any of these things except for myself and I stop myself, I get in the way of myself in a million different ways.
I am old enough to know that.
I am old enough to know that weeding the garden isn't something I am required to do. It would be so easy to tell someone else who is thinking like this that she can do ANYTHING she wants. No one is stopping her.
No one. Except for herself.
Well. Something to think about. As if I don't think enough already.