Just Train The Dog.
I just dictated a very long, very detailed post into my phone and then the entire thing got erased because I needed to verify my fucking password. I cannot tell you how much this enrages me. My body feels very, very angry right now.
It felt angry before, my body. That's why I was dictating in the first place. Because I had to go outside and move wood from one side of the house to the other, and my dog, who I called repeatedly for 20 minutes, who looked me right in the eye again and again, continued to ignore me.
"Just train the dog," you say?
Oh, yes, of course! I knew I forgot to do something. Train the dog and raise the children with gentleness and love and maintain the healthy marriage and these are teachable moments. And don't forget to grow some food and can it and then cook with it throughout the year. Don't forget to take care of yourself, too, because you matter. Get up early to meditate and and exercise and eat well, and not too much coffee and are you sure you want that drink/cigarette/TV show? Does it really feed your soul?
Somehow, the dog has become representative of so much more.
Just one hour ago, I was filled with a very different feeling. Head-to-toe bliss, golden light. "I feel happy," I said to the kids as I buckled Osi into his seat. "Me too," they said in unison. We drove home listening to new music.
I know it's a fucking choice to feel like this. Please don't throw my words back at me right now. I know how annoying it is when people do that; I've surely done it to you.
Right now I just need to feel pissed before I can feel un-pissed.
How will my life look when it looks how I want it to look? How will my life feel when it feels how I want it to feel? When will there be longer spells of those feelings and those visions? Why is it all so fucking staccato?
Back to the firewood: it's not even that I mind moving the wood. I like dealing with firewood. It's that I also need to cook chicken soup for my sick daughter, and write beautiful little cards that I desperately want to write to some women I'm going to circle up with in a few weeks, and hang laundry because our dryer broke and put laundry away, and put new sheets on beds, and vacuum the inch of grime off the stairs.
It's that I need to do all of these things, and - because they're the things I need to do - I keep waiting for one of them to fill me up all the way. Sometimes some of them fill me up a little bit and then I find myself depleted by something else.
You know when I feel full? When I'm at the ocean. And please don't tell me that I'm just stuck in late-winter blues, because that's not it. The ocean is the one place where I feel whole and full and like I know everything I need to know, for real. Why do I live in a place where I have to tolerate my way through half of the fucking year? What is this weird New England pride I've been born into?
What would I write about if I didn't give a shit who read it? My dysfunctional relationship with my mother? The years and years of work my husband and I have put into being real-life-grown-ups in our marriage? The way my stepmother apologizing for how she treated me as a child completely transformed how I felt about her and, in turn, about life?
And let's just go there because why not: why don't I have more friends?
The dog is inside.
I feel less angry than I did before.
My kids are watching OK Go videos and I don't feel guilty about it.
I want to go get a tattoo while I smoke a cigarette.
I wanna do those things at the same time.
At the ocean.
Instead, I'm going to go move wood.