Hello, chiclets. It’s kind of ridiculous, the vast panoramic vista of time that’s elapsed between posts, but summer is summer so this needn’t be defended nor explained, right? Today is gray after a couple previous days of rain, and the sun is making only meager attempts to push the clouds away. I’m cozy in the quiet house, as all the kids are housesitting for my parents and Scott is at work. I’ve been lolling, meandering, and sometimes skipping around the apartment in beatific wonderment at my freedom to Be Me–not mom, not wife, not counselor, not friend, not cook, not maid (well, maid a little… dishes gotta get done)–you get the drill. Just Me and all my blithe spirits, doing whatever it is we want to do.
For a few months now, what I’ve wanted to do in my free time has been, mostly, to read books and stream Netflix. I’ve devoured three novels in the past two days, and have watched a couple of good documentaries. Lately, social documentaries/movies have been my favorite; I see them as ways to experience facets of life that I can’t begin to touch in this lifetime–I call them my ‘perspective gainers.’ Yesterday I watched a doc about a black single mother with six kids who was given the opportunity to buy an inexpensive new home but was too overwhelmed to follow through with it. Today I watched a movie about an Israeli teenage girl who was doing all she could to take care of her prostitute mother, and in the end, for her, that meant following her into the trade. I cried during the final frame, when she looked straight into the camera, into me, with her big brown melty eyes. In fact, I consider social documentaries/movies a success only if I end up weeping like a lost child at some point during or after. I watched these two, as I watch all the rest, with as much concentration as possible so that I could truly crawl into the lives of their subjects for the two hours I was with them. After every viewing, judgment flakes off me like Eustace’s scales and compassion rushes in to take its place. I hope that by the time I die I’m literally encased in a sarcophagus of love.
So, I guess I’ll toss out a few random facts in list form, though they would probably make more sense as paragraphs if I wasn’t so lazy:
- I have become unremittingly choosy about what I read and watch because I want everything in my life to have meaning.
- I love to create aphorisms to live by, which I post on my Google start page to encourage myself.
- This brings me to the rerevelation I had today (rerevelations are those you’ve had before but then forgot for awhile): that if I don’t have anything Meaningful To Do, I can make whatever I do meaningful. Believe me, remembering this has removed about ten tons of pressure, because I’ve been asking and asking for guidance regarding my next steps into service.
- Next steps, which could include volunteering for the local hospice or the organization my son Jesse works for, Woape. Either one would be fantastic, and maybe even both, but neither feels right to jump into quite yet. I’m listening carefully so I can follow the flow.
- I love the flow… to follow the stream as lightly as a leaf on the current. Right now it has me helping my daughter Torie through her separation from her husband. Since she’s been here, we’ve had several deeply nourishing wee-hours conversations, from which I’m learning more than she is, I’m sure. At twenty, she knows things that I’ve only learned in the past year. I’m in awe. I’m in awe of all my kids, to be perfectly honest.
- In fact, I’m in awe of every single one of my loved ones, of all who are in my sphere. One thing I’ve come to believe is that I travel with the same souls throughout every incarnation, all of us taking on different roles for the sake of each other’s growth. A few nights ago, when we were at my folks’ house playing 10,000, our family dice game, I looked around the table at everyone and felt the hugest rush of love for who they are to me–not only physically, but spiritually. Soulually.
- Anything regarding the soul has become my passion and if I do any spiritual reading at all these days, it’s about our souls. When I read novels I have one eye out for soul information. When I watch movies, documentaries, and even gory old True Blood, I’m looking for ways to apply whatever inspiration I pick up to my soul’s development. I’m like a soul fiend, baby. A soulaphile. A soul collector. Maybe I’m watching too much True Blood.
- Sprechen ze passions, I thought that gardening would be one this summer but, while it jazzed me up for a month or so, it’s failed to sustain my interest. Every so often I’ll still help in my parents’ gardens, which are really beautiful so it’s refreshing to be there, but I’ve neglected a few of the poor flowers on my own patio that need to be moved closer to the sun, or transplanted into new pots or… watered. Sigh. I’m a terrible patio plant mom. At least the two houseplants are doing fine, and Horatio remains fat and sassy, so I’m not a failure with cats.
- It’s with great relief that I can say that lately the most pressing question on my mind has been: should I remain a redhead or go back to my natural ashy-coppery-blondish brown? To my shock and awe, not even one gray hair has sprouted on my specific vicinity, so obviously I’m delighted about that. My dilemma arises because I’ve been wanting so much to be as natural, as genuine, as honest as possible from here on out, and faking the red doesn’t keep with that philosophy. It’s striking, though. What to do, what to do. I’m letting the question slowly simmer into an answer. [Edited to add: I got my answer! It’s au naturel for me. :)]
So, there, now we’re current. I hope you’re all doing well. I believe I’ll skip into the kitchen and see if I can find something quick and easy for dinner… like, a telephone number. I’m pretty sure Wong’s King delivers. Until next time! Love. xo