Life in the country is not what I imagined before moving out here. That is entirely because my imagination was new love blinded and lacking realistic detail while I was imagining it. Frankly, I imagined laying face down in the dirt next to last night’s smoldering fire. So…what? I ask myself now. How long did you think that was going to be fun? I imagined growing a vegetable garden. I have never grown a vegetable garden. One year I grew many excellent tomatoes in 5-gallon buckets on the roof of my house in college. This is why I thought I could grow a vegetable garden. I imagined commuting via ferry to work in the city every day. I was like,how cool! It was 2009. I can tell you this for sure. Ain’t no city business was hiring a girl who lived 90 minutes away when thousands of people were losing their jobs every month.
When I was college I took a summer poetry writing workshop, the focus of which was “obsession.” I wound up having to write about this nearly life long teeth related trauma / issue / drama. When that became the case I snorted to myself and thought it was some kind of combination of serendipity and irony.
You may have noticed that I am self-deprecating. I am a recovering perfectionist. One of my karmic knots is acceptance of those snort-inducing serendipitous and ironic moments. I have recently realized that I did not adjust well to moving to the country. I hid this reality from myself and from all who knew me terribly well and for a while. Facing it now, and the accompanying realization that I’ve been pretty dang depressed for quite some time, has been liberating. It’s hard for me to live in the isolating country. It’s not terribly fun being a stay at home mom way out here. I’m not especially suited for these things, no matter what kind of apron frills, patty cake and scavenger hunt fantasies I might concoct. Now that I am accepting these realities for myself it’s a lot easier to be nice to myself and more patient and creative with and for others.
Yesterday morning I became quite frustrated. It was early in the day and I was already feeling huffy. The solution was a long walk. The country is pretty good for long walks. That is, if you like fresh air, run down cars, barns, detritus, mole hills and fog in the trees. I can usually get down with this stuff. A leash in each hand, my kid in the backpack behind me, we set off down the road for a little park nearby. I took photos. So that is what I made yesterday. (I also papered more jars.) There were puppies at the park, which we did not expect. These puppies were funny but then they became an effort to see to. I couldn’t let my boy toddle around because they would pile on him licking, biting and wiggling like puppies do. I didn’t want to head home with them out loose and they were so I had to do a little neighborhood investigation. They were collarless and so young. I felt they might follow me to the road and do something terrible. Off we all went: me, my boy, and sixteen padded feet waggling around us.
I went to the nearest country house. It was well-appointed in the shed and outbuildings category. There was a chicken coop and antlers hung outside near the front door. There were three pick up trucks parked around the lot. It was a little creepy to me, so quiet and devoid of womanly characteristics. I knocked at the front door and a tall old guy answered. They were his dogs, though he didn’t seem to be too in love with them. I left them all there and we went back home. Two hours successfully filled and without me succumbing to shrill mommy-mania.
I love when people tell me about myself. I like the different perspective. Last night I was told that I am a “woman of large emotion.” I love that. It makes me think of Italian women. Women with pear bottoms and big bosoms in chaste every-day work dresses an aprons. It makes me think of powerful women that are feared, respected and adored. I do feel that way; a woman of large emotion. It’s a tiring way to be, not that I can help it. It’s difficult to feel so overwhelmed by my emotions, to feel sometimes out of control when they hit like freak storms. At least now I have a nice phrase to put on this way that I am and I can accept it. I can merge the irony and serendipity of who I am, letting go of the odds of who I “wish I was.”
I’m skipping breakfast and lunch today because I have been taking terrible care of my body for two long months. Instead I’m having juice. This is a photo of chard, golden beet and ginger juice. Chard makes one peppery juice! I added a teaspoon of honey to it and it’s making my insides warm and tingly.
- 366/30 Day 3 (shanarose.wordpress.com)