I would like to offer my readership an apology. I “owe” a few tutorial posts (I am well-aware of this!), and I have not been writing as much as I’d like.
Some of this is circumstantial – just, getting out of balance. As of this week I have committed to two sewing projects – and a design sketch – that I haven’t yet started. My creative exploits have been put on the back burner as I meet commitments to family and community. I am trying to be very patient with my limitations, as it is end-of-school-year for my daughter and I have a little work to do there. Ralph has had a few professional and personal activities that have kept him from home a night or two – and that adds up.
But most relevant: I have not been feeling well. I am experiencing medical problems that are quite distracting and often disabling. It isn’t a complex illness to describe and it is one I am looking forward to sharing in the next few days; but I don’t feel like writing about it now. I am under a sewing deadline at the moment; when this is finished (tomorrow evening), I will take stock of what I said I would accomplish, and make a plan.
Paradoxically, it has been a commitment or two that keep me in relative good cheer. I have a few volunteer engagements I’ve been faithful to for almost three years. Today I sat in my standard Wednesday afternoon meeting, and served as the meeting’s chair. While I listened to others talking, I wondered if the individuals there knew how much it meant to me, to have a place to go, and a purpose, and to be asked to help, a group of “strangers”. No fame. No pay. No reputation. No one gives a shit. All of this makes it deeply meaningful (because I’m a Buddhist, and we are weird). Dizzy and nauseated, I breathe deep, close my eyes, and meditate on the gladness I am alive. There is something very special about caring for people I will never see again. About pouring my heart out, just emptying it out, with no regard to where things go. Because I know I’m doing something helpful but I don’t know what I’m doing, exactly.
Home and my children are themselves: energetic, lively, clever, loving, and vibrant. I am ill and sensitive to noise; on the drive home (Ralph in the driver’s seat) I put my hands on my face. “Mama, are you sick?” Nels immediately asks in alarm. “I am, little guy.” The sunset is beautiful and the car has a full tank of gas and I’ve got makings for tomorrow’s dinner in the fridge (fried chicken, corn on the cob, coleslaw and homemade biscuits) and surely I’ll survive the night.