Friday, September 23, 2016

The ball rolling. . .

Lots of thinking about home lately. . . Working on feeling good about my financial life, recognizing yet another shift and change in my expectations involving money.
When I set out to write about home, just now!,  I wasn't thinking about money at all. At all. The damn fingers have a mind of their own I suppose.
Candles, small corners of curation,  snack platters, loud declarations that love still lives here, and always has, pestilence and boils aside, amongst the pandemonium of kid life, and unformed mom-life.
And a shift in focus, and it's fall, and I can feel myself roiling in the need to prepare for the winter, the inside time, the hours of looking at the same spaces... The way the light falls when the leaves are leaving. The 'facts' of having hours per week when all three kids are in some kind of school and I am still in the house.  Not still, but still.  (See what I did there?  A lot of possibility inside of it all. And, again, depth in small sentences.) and hope. And curiosity. And fear, Trepidation, and longing.
Read it slow. Read between the lines. Hear what there is.

I am trying to catapult my ideas into action, and have painted this on the side of the windmill. I'll show you later. 
I have been in love with Instagram, and have heard from Corinne( @crnnoel ) something that caught me up, and reminded me, in parallel with some of my complicated feelings about the photos I am seeing of my own old house. I can see the old place getting filled up on instagram and in a blog, and each time I see it, the breath catches in my throat.  that place. The love lost, the love that may have been still real in that  place, the mess the clutter the unbelievable spontaneity which precludes curation in a family vignette. Here, and there,  I have so many plastic toys, and a dress up box which hardly closes, and underneath the sofa lives an entire family of misfits, toys, socks, trash, yesterday I found a half eaten roll... And the bitemarks were not human. I don't even remember the last time we had rolls.  I mean, seriously, who has rolls in summertime? Uh, not me.

And so it is real, and messy and my youngest is in a purple tutu that doesn't match her classmates, and her sneakers, which rest next to me, smell of the boys, and wet dogs and there ain't nothing which will make her more a princess ... Like mother, like daughter, the mess is the truth of it, but it's a lot and it's exhausting. And in the challenge, is the joy.
Which is something to remember as I embark on this loneliest and most challenging of times.  In the challenge is the joy.

BUT boy, sometimes challenge is FUCKING messy. And smelly, and full of snot and stumbles. And sometimes I hide out in my house for entire days, and don't call anyone and don't engage in any 'self-care' because I am basically punishing myself some more. which is terrible, and true.
And there is little on Instagram which catches the light of the mess, the unpretty. When the light is just right is not all the time, and sometimes my piles topple and fall, and the sparkle doesn't
Look good, but green and LED'd and the dog chewed off the plug.

There is a lot.  I haven't even been writing in my journal these past weeks, I can't.  I spend my time alone shifting furniture, adding paint to already done paintings, and staring into space while I try to read books.  And yet I can't seem to write anything down.  I am far too internal, and I am struggling to get it out of my brain. And here, what should be two or three posts, I spill and spit and learn to identify myself as a dance mom on top of everything else.  I am writing this while the purplest one in the family dances her way to more stank.  Although, frankly, I think it's more an activity right now, than a lifetime commitment.  I certainly won't make this my reality show.
But then again, it seems the world is topsy turvy, and you get what you get and you don't get upset...