I'm feeling melancholy and slow and pensive. I'm feeling trapped and stuck and I can't breathe.
I feel like I'm at an impasse, a stalemate, a conundrum of days and ways of life. And the puppy just ate one of my shoes.
I think I haven't taken my vitamin D in a long while. Maybe it's time for a "happy light" purchase. But that just makes me sound mentally ill. And I don't feel mentally ill; I just feel ... stuck. And overwhelmed a little.
I feel like I'm grieving. That's what it is. Grieving for what, you ask? Sigh. I don't want to tell you. I don't want to spell it out loud here on the page. I don't want it to exist. But then I do want it to exist. I want to act on it; and then I don't want to act on it. I want to live a different life, but then I want and cherish the very one I have. I want less chaos in my life because of the pull on my time and energy; and then I want to add more for the excitement and promise. I want to live authentically, with my true self showing at all times, but then I'm too afraid.
Puppies, chickens, husbands, boyfriends, children, IEPs, homeschooling, gardens, special needs, doctors, therapy, traveling, writing, agents, editors, proposals, desires and un-met needs.
I struggle with extremes. Paul told me once that my dreams were diametrically opposed to each other. Yes. True. Like: the fierce dream to travel around the world and wade in multiple cultures and breathe in their essences and write about them -- AND, to live with minimal footprint, on a mountain farm and ranch with a creek and tons of trees, living totally off the grid and completely self-sustaining. I can't do both. Who would take care of my animals while we traveled? Who would tend the gardens? How could I knit and sew all our clothes and household items and still have time to write the books that are milling around inside me like lost travelers? How could I live my dream of using little to no fossil fuels and still fly around the world? I would be (and am) the biggest hypocrite of all.
And so I sit in my office -- with the compact fluorescent light beaming on me, and the dogs play-growling down the hall, and the kids yelling "Don't bark!" and my son locking the puppy in with me so they can hear their television show, and the dog scratching at the door so that I have to get up and let him out so he doesn't tear the paper blinds -- and feel stuck.