and so i sit here, in the dark of the living room, listening to sounds in the next room, wondering what has happened to the day. it moves fast, goes away before i know it and, lately, i don't even know how it got away from me without me noticing. i've lost a little bit of focus these days. oh, not in ways people would probably notice. i get my work done--whatever that is anymore--i still cook for my kids like wild and i track in my conversations, but i'm not really there. not anymore, not lately. i don't really care to share of myself in anyway beyond the rudimentary. i'm happy even grateful to hear about others, what's going on in their lives, how they're doing, even to the point of being willing to help someone else with a burden that may be on their mind. i have no wish to share any of mine. none at all.
and so, i cook, as i'm wont to do when i'm feeling like this. i cook, i bake, i make so i can escape. it is my greatest escape, for sure, even more so than the writing. interesting that. the writing feeds my soul, the cooking feeds everything. and there are times when i'm writing that the words i am putting on the page are so intense, i need to distance myself from them. i look back and read things i've written sometimes and wonder who the hell wrote it. i don't recall being so enlightened, in touch, or exceedingly dense.
the dinners i have begun to make go from incredibly elaborate to immensely simple--i'm the queen of defrosting boneless chicken breasts or thighs, seasoning them, sauteeing them then blanketing them in some sort of yummy toppings and putting them between two pieces of bread--for the kids, not me. i don't do sandwiches too often (bread, much as i love it, just lays in my old stomach way to hard). i've also seared scallops in a lime olive oil infusion and served them over homemade spaghetti topped with lime zest. i think my kids view all of this as a matter of course while scratching their heads at my weirdness.
i don't have a bathtub, so i can't take a good long soak and standing in a hot shower for more than 3 minutes is WAAAYYY beyond my pay grade. reading takes me away and i appreciate it as does walking my beloved pooch and holding the bunnies. but it's the cooking that makes me feel that i can build something that makes a difference. the cooking that gives me a sense of purpose.
blogs are funny little creatures, aren't they? you never know who's watching/reading, do you? so one must be a little more conscience of just what they share and about what. as much as i'd like to rant away, just can't seem to do it too deeply, and yet, i need to share this so you know--whoever you are. i need someone to know that today, well, it feels like it will end too soon and i will have to go and face a world i've begun to view as a place i don't belong. oh, don't get your panties in a bunch. i don't mean "oh, life... how can i go on?" i know how i can go on which is why i do and always will. no, i mean the world in which i currently maneuver. the environment, if you will. i'm not too sure about it. not anymore, if i ever was. i don't know what my place is in it and that, alone, has me wondering if i can continue feeling this way without losing my mind.
and, all the while, i keep cooking, creating with food, pouring my emotions into the pot, like that book MEAN SOUP does with the little boy, or the films i love that deal with food and passion.
ah, well--i'll leave you with this, at the top, a picture of the Morris children then and here one of us now. food figured prominently our whole lives. my mother was a vibrant, passionate hostess and in celebrating my brother's most recent birthday, food was a gift i could give him that came from my heart.
it is the way i show my children how much i truly, absolutely and will always love them, even when my brain is fried, my heart is breaking and i don't know if i can take another, "oh-KAY, mom..." (add huffy sigh and pounding feet). they are my loves.i never forget that.
