11:41 pm.
I’m so tired of staying up late. I hate going to bed alone. Camping was perfect–everyone crawled into tents at the same time, and I could hear the girls breathing next to me as I grew tired.
I sent the cat to stay with someone else, but now I’m missing her. If only she weren’t nocturnal; when she’s around I can’t sleep anyway. She pushed me out of bed, have I told you that? She got between me and the wall and inched me over and over until I fell off.
I’m moved out of the old place, though not comfortably moved into the new. There’s not enough room in here. I’m not sure whether to buy storage-y things or get rid of stuff. I feel as if I don’t quite fit. I have to dodge boxes every time I head to the bathroom, and the Wonderwash is losing its charm. I have about three regular-sized loads of laundry to do–or about 12 loads in the Wonderwash.
I have so much writing to do. I’m inspired, a bit, but so…if the house were clean, I suspect a lot of things would be easier.
It was clean recently. Then I moved a ton of crap in, and now I can scarcely find the floor. I need more bookshelves, and a place for dishes. And food. This place has a lot more space than my first little cabin, but about a third the storage. It’s probably supposed to be a guest house more than an actual house. It’s gorgeous. I like it here. I’m frustrated that I’m complaining, I’m happy, I swear. I’m blessed. And I want to appreciate it. I don’t feel entitled, I’m not ungrateful, as I worry I appear.
I’m just tired. And I don’t want to go to sleep. And I don’t want to get up. And I don’t want to clean. And I can’t function when it’s dirty. And I’m tired. 11:59.
I want to craft things. I’m not quite in a writing mood, I’m in a crafting mood–I have plans for an Etsy shop, and lots of supplies, somewhere. Everything’s all topsy-turvy. But I can see things, and they’d be so beautiful. If. Had I table space, I’d paint again.
I’m hesitant to unpack. If I hang the pictures, I’m likely to move again. If I put holes in the wall, I’ll only have to fill them again. I don’t want that to happen. Not yet. Not already. I didn’t put any holes in the first house, and I was there November through May. I put holes in the next house, slowly, and we were there June through half July. I put holes in the house after that, immediately, and within a week I was moving out again. Four houses in four months is enough already.
There are so many things I want to do. I’m not willing to believe I can’t do them all. But I’m a bit afraid. I start work again next week, and my schedule leaves me free from 10 to 3 every weekday. I’ve already set up a weekly crafting date with a friend, so I should finally finish that scarf I promised someone last December. I’ll be running a fitness class Saturday mornings, and while it’ll be basically once a week I need to make it count. It’s a teaching class, not just a workout, and there’s important stuff to pass on.
But what about the stories I have to write? The grammatical adventure is being reviewed, and criticism will come back, and I pray it will inspire rather than stymie. But there’s old things banging around in my head too–a long-promised Russian fairy tale, the demon hunters whose internal demons are too hard to fight, countless love stories of vivid characters that outshine their plots.
Can I spare 20 hours a week to spend at the fire department? I’ve been off for the summer, so I can get things settled with moving and jobs etc. But I miss it.
And…what about the big picture? College, marriage, places to stay rather than move away from, life goals, community?
Isn’t there something I’m supposed to be doing? Aren’t I forgetting something?
I feel like I’m not-doing something, and not-doing it wrong. Should I be here?
The things I’m filling my life with matter so much to me. I feel so stretched, and so unproductive at the same time; as if I’m letting people down, not fulfilling my obligations, though I’ve been almost on par. 12:16 am. A partner in crime would be so helpful right now. Someone to dry dishes as I wash, so I don’t run out of counterspace. Someone to remind me to do morning prayers. Someone to talk to about all the things that don’t belong on the internet, but that weigh on me. Someone to watch Sleepless in Seattle with, and Roman Holiday, just one more time.
I miss Megan, and Michaela, and Linda and Sara and Daniya and Erin and Elly.
I miss mac & cheese in martini glasses, and the odd rumbles of the city at night, and knowing that at any hour someone I loved was awake. I miss violin lessons, and The Onion Dome, and swinging at midnight and schlepping coffee when the place was mine alone and tea + British comedy and even standing on a chair crying as I took my college’s then-president to task.
I took an enormous risk last night. And I spent nigh on three hours today making business calls, which is also terrifying. And I’m being brave and I’m getting things done and I want to believe I’m heading somewhere.
And right now, I’m heading to bed. I think, all told, maybe I have cause to be tired.
And maybe, if I get some sleep, I’ll have energy tomorrow. I have stuff to do.
