Over & Into

I'm over the term "up-level".

I'm over giving a shit about what every fucking person thinks about me and my kids.  Today, I laid on a table at the chiropractor.  It's a community-style space; there were about five other people in there with me.  My kids were playing quietly in the waiting room, with all of the wooden toys.  I could hear their muffled voices, and for the entire 30 minutes I was in there I wasn't thinking, "Goddammit, my kids are fucking rockstars.  They're out there!  Away from me!  They know I'm right in here and they're staying out there, playing quietly!"  Instead, I was thinking, "Oh my god, can anyone else hear them?  I think they're quiet - I just have my ears perked for their sounds.  There's spiritual mood music on in here - that's what people are hearing.  Oh my god I just heard someone walk down the hall to the bathroom - was it one of them? Should I teach them how to walk more quietly?  Are people annoyed?"

Fuck my brain.

I'm over reading essays about Mama, The Moments Are Slipping Away when I'm in the middle of the worst PMS of the year.  When my kids are sleeping, they are angels and I'm the worst mother ever.  Essays like that mixed with hormones like this equals I'm about to cry all night about what a terrible mother I am, how I'm missing their moments, how I'm too distracted.  

I am so fucking over the busy-ness of my inner world.  SLOW THE FUCK DOWN IN THERE.  I can't keep up.  

Can I just stop thinking?  For one fucking minute?  Is meditation the only answer for that?  

I am over hollow connection.  OVER IT.  Maybe that means we need to have a convention once a year in a big hotel ballroom where all of us gals who like to curse and talk and shriek about shit and then cry and then take the motherfuckin' house down with some straight up knowledge can get together and become real to one another.

Maybe that's what we need to do.

I'm over aimless.

I'm over the facade of busy.

I'm over overwhelm.

You know what I'm into?  Ordering six things at one of your favorite restaurants and sharing them all with friends, shoving food into your mouth like you haven't seen it in days, half-delicate, half-animal.  I into saying 'fuck' after the first and second and third bites.  And I'm way into being dumbfounded, again and again, by the fact that I get to eat this shit.

Food is church.  Yoga is church.  Church is church.  Here is church.

I'm into my kids telling me they love me.  I'm working on believing that they mean it.  Their love's so crystal-clear, you know?  It's like having the waters of the Mediterranean lapping up against my feet everyday, living with these two; they tell me they love me and I think, "But, why?"

I'm into writing like this even though this is the scariest shit for me to write.  I'm terrified about the fact that I'm about to hit 'publish', that I'm going to let you in here, into my loud, relentless brain.

It's weird in here.

But I don't really know how else to do it.

So.

That.

Emily Ballard8 Comments