I’m shedding skin, like a snake readying itself for a new phase.
I’m thinking about transitions a lot lately. How it feels to change this home space. How hard it seems to be to decorate my world. How I need to move slowly from sleep to waking and try to carry the crumbs from my unconsciousness into my day. Sitting in the hopes of meditation has been relentless lately. I can barely stay on one track in my mind.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m failing my girls, like I have been punting the days, forgetting activities and teaching them to flounder. “He had been floundering for years,” D said last night to describe a friend who died. The word felt so close to home.
Have we all been floundering for years now? It’s as if we didn’t die from the virus but the pandemic is still taking us down in other ways. Our family has been floundering for a while.
That’s why traveling felt so good; it was vibrant and alive and dynamic. We were moving again.
Now we have settled back into this space that is torn apart and another transition. We gravitate to the sofa, the one nice thing we have. I dream about how it will all be perfect if I just buy nice things and hang art on the walls in the right places. The idea feels as flabby as the belly fat building on my body. I don’t know how it got here, but I am forced to feel its presence - some unexpected growth I can’t control.
And I don’t have the energy to work it off.
Still I believe something better is coming as I wriggle out of this old phase.