Skip to main content

I made my bed.

For the first time in about 8 weeks, I made my bed.  The minute the calendar ticked over to September 1st, something inside me clicked and I started to turn towards ensuring my household was in order. I embarked on a flurry of making ready projects, washing bedding, putting clothes on the line, putting all the laundry away in their respective places and beginning to think in terms of regimented scheduling again.

The making of the bed was the most symbolic for me.  After weeks of vacations and overnighters and late nights lingering beside campfires or watching movies, I clung to the idea that a made bed was a waste of time, after all I barely spent anytime in it.   Making a bed was associated with school work and assembling lunches and remembering milk money.  But as soon as that full moon made its presence, it was like it switched on my bed-making reflex and it suddenly became extremely important for me to get into a bed with fresh sheets, without sand.

The summer has been full of swimming and socializing and walking in the sunshine. It's been fantastic, but in an attempt to get at every moment the summer threw at us, I neglected my sleeping place.  In turn, I neglected some parts of myself.  As the season continues to turn, I realized that I'm going to need that bed.  I'm going to need it to help me reserve that sunshine I have been so busily absorbing, to face each new day with energy and balance.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Keep telling yourself that.

We talk to ourselves everyday, all day (and night) for the whole of our lives. We started talking to ourselves before we knew we were a self, we forget what we said because we forget everything from before...when we were too young and busy developing our brain to remember those early years. There is still lingering residue of long forgotten conversations I have had with myself as a toddler sitting around in the crevices...sloughing off occasionally into words I tell myself still.   We talk non-stop, and not just with dialogue.  Our goosebumps communicate to us, our tingly feelings, our neurons, our peripheal vision.  They are all submitting data into our self and expecting us to react, respond or all to often, expecting what they are sending us will be ignored. After all that talking, you'd think we'd know what we think about most things, but occasionally we are stumped.  Unless we stop what we are doing and really concentrate sometimes that voice(s) ...

the words fell out

 Despite being an introvert, I do often process big life events (and many many small ones) out loud by verbally hashing out my thoughts with whoever will put up with me. But this morning when I woke up to the big red blotch on the U.S. map...all my /the words fell out.  They fell out unsaid, unformed. Got to work and probably , in another time, would have annoyed my co-workers, dominating the conversation with my verbal extrusions, but not today. I just mutely stared across at them and nodded. My dad came for lunch.  Normally, we relish a good political diatribe, especially when we feel sure of our perspective, but this time, all I could do was munch on fries and marvel at all the unarticulated thoughts that I was not even bothering to retrieve. The silence inside me was noticeable.  Social media was awash with reactions and I just looked away. I couldn't bear to read one word about it. I was not receptive to any reactions,  accusations, reflections,  words...

I entered August without you.

 I won't visit you this month.  You won't call. I will raid your garden and you won't get any of the vegetables. I will make plans without telling you about them. We'll go to the store and not buy you one single thing. Whole books will be read and I will not tell you which ones. I will watch movies and not inform you. The nasturiums will ripen. Last month was different. I changed my schedule and took time off work to be with you.   I dropped all kinds of plans for us to be together. You sent me messages, I received them. I picked up food that I thought you would like at the store and sent you pictures of every beautiful thing I saw. I sang with you. We watched the Great Canadian Baking Show. You chose the recipe for the garlic scape pesto and gave me instructions for making the gooseberry jam. I am in August without you. You are in July.