by the light of the red star lamp
the red star-shaped paper lantern ...
it was so, so pretty in the window of that little paper shop in Santa Fe.
I just didn't realize how RED it was going to be. I feel like I should charge my neighbors just for seeing it through the top of my blinds in the evening. It's very... Amsterdam in here.
Trying to unwind from a couple weeks of failing to unwind...
The sound of the heat kicking on.
The comforting feel of my enormous hooded Hamilton sweatshirt.
The smell of sheets tumbling in the dryer and the heating kicking on after many months of being still.
The strange sensation of a crick in my neck... the kind you wake up with and can't turn your head to the right all day.
The clock, reading 11:54pm, reminding me that I was absolutely required to be asleep at 10:30.
The odd pinch of a headache I've had for more than 1 week. Continuously. Some weird kind of diagonal sinus-pain headache that intensifies if I sit, stand, sleep, focus, speak, or pay bills.
The smell of peppermint from the vitamin gluttony I sprayed in my hair.
The unusual feeling of socks after months and months of sun-exposed feet.
The warm promise of cool-weather layers in fall.
The glare of a laptop stirring subconsciously reluctant internal monologues about not wanting to look into the glare of a desktop all day every day for the next few days.
The message I haven't listened to yet from Peter, left on my phone while I drove through country roads in cold weather, scanning the roads for dark raccoon burglars.
The ache of having to be patient when things are not on your terms, and not in your control, and continue being patient, day in and day out. The silent reminders to myself that positivity needs to flow through my veins until I'm so steeped in hope and gentle reassurance and, what my mother would call "self-soothing"-- that my blood will be replaced with unicorn sparkles. It's so odd to feel so firmly confident and positive, and at the same time, with equal intensity, feel anxious questioning nudges and frustration and confusion.
I am feeling very bedraggled and very worn thin, but underneath that I also feel immensely light. Somehow, I'm managing to take a little more on each day... the cliched "juggling act" comes to mind, but it is like juggling... job 1, job 1, job 1, job 1 & 2; job 1 & 2; job 1 & watch a movie with Tom & call landlady; job 1 & laundry & job 2 & getting that big email written...
The balls fall. BALLS. But there's no use crying over spilled beanbags, and I have a nest egg to protect and benefits to keep and people I love to see and a weary self who-- at some point-- will cash in those accumulating days off and just read until my eyes cross and then stand in a hot shower until my heating bill skyrockets and then Tom will come over to have a glass of red wine and he'll call me Liz Lemon while the squirrels throw seed pods at me from the top of the tree outside my apartment. And that makes all the early mornings and the humiliating mistakes at work and the weary Tuesday nights on the couch and the evening & weekend jobs worth it.
Julia Child was not an advocate of the Blood Type diet or the South Beach diet or the Caveman Diet. She deeply believed in "all things in moderation," even though she endearingly and eccentrically was known to give in to bliss and the sinful, life-spinning effects of red wine and chocolate and cream and romantic dinner company. I live in the lean, Pilates and rock climbing Muesli land of diets and self-discipline, but at heart I am a Julia girl. I work very, very hard for moderation, but many times I divulge in weary nothingness from the comforts of my couch and a quilt; I give in to chocolate and loud laughter at my office when I should be printing scripts; I lie awake thinking on Saturday mornings for a long time when I could be cleaning or working, but instead doing nothing at all, feeling protected by a warm and supremely comforting arm that's slung across both of my arms, occasionally twitching from REM sleep.
This is one of my biggest life goals. That even when I feel worn as thin as my aging black low-tops, staying up until 12:30 on a Tuesday when the alarm's set for 6:30, that underneath the weariness and nerves is still a sense of stoic lightness... that 'unbearable lightness of being' that so perfectly titles what life truly feels like.
Faith comes in all forms-- and for me, when things are confusing or rocky, it is the unbearable lightness of being that helps me find strength in unusual places.
For now, it's just the unbearable lightness of the red star lamp. Over my bed. Which I should've been in hours ago. Which I will turn on again tomorrow night, after another day that might feel endlessly long, but all in all, will turn out just fine.
To sleep, perchance to dream
ay, there's the rub
for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil
must give us pause; there's the respect
that makes calamity of so long life
...
thus conscience does make cowards of us all
it was so, so pretty in the window of that little paper shop in Santa Fe.
I just didn't realize how RED it was going to be. I feel like I should charge my neighbors just for seeing it through the top of my blinds in the evening. It's very... Amsterdam in here.
Trying to unwind from a couple weeks of failing to unwind...
The sound of the heat kicking on.
The comforting feel of my enormous hooded Hamilton sweatshirt.
The smell of sheets tumbling in the dryer and the heating kicking on after many months of being still.
The strange sensation of a crick in my neck... the kind you wake up with and can't turn your head to the right all day.
The clock, reading 11:54pm, reminding me that I was absolutely required to be asleep at 10:30.
The odd pinch of a headache I've had for more than 1 week. Continuously. Some weird kind of diagonal sinus-pain headache that intensifies if I sit, stand, sleep, focus, speak, or pay bills.
The smell of peppermint from the vitamin gluttony I sprayed in my hair.
The unusual feeling of socks after months and months of sun-exposed feet.
The warm promise of cool-weather layers in fall.
The glare of a laptop stirring subconsciously reluctant internal monologues about not wanting to look into the glare of a desktop all day every day for the next few days.
The message I haven't listened to yet from Peter, left on my phone while I drove through country roads in cold weather, scanning the roads for dark raccoon burglars.
The ache of having to be patient when things are not on your terms, and not in your control, and continue being patient, day in and day out. The silent reminders to myself that positivity needs to flow through my veins until I'm so steeped in hope and gentle reassurance and, what my mother would call "self-soothing"-- that my blood will be replaced with unicorn sparkles. It's so odd to feel so firmly confident and positive, and at the same time, with equal intensity, feel anxious questioning nudges and frustration and confusion.
I am feeling very bedraggled and very worn thin, but underneath that I also feel immensely light. Somehow, I'm managing to take a little more on each day... the cliched "juggling act" comes to mind, but it is like juggling... job 1, job 1, job 1, job 1 & 2; job 1 & 2; job 1 & watch a movie with Tom & call landlady; job 1 & laundry & job 2 & getting that big email written...
The balls fall. BALLS. But there's no use crying over spilled beanbags, and I have a nest egg to protect and benefits to keep and people I love to see and a weary self who-- at some point-- will cash in those accumulating days off and just read until my eyes cross and then stand in a hot shower until my heating bill skyrockets and then Tom will come over to have a glass of red wine and he'll call me Liz Lemon while the squirrels throw seed pods at me from the top of the tree outside my apartment. And that makes all the early mornings and the humiliating mistakes at work and the weary Tuesday nights on the couch and the evening & weekend jobs worth it.
Julia Child was not an advocate of the Blood Type diet or the South Beach diet or the Caveman Diet. She deeply believed in "all things in moderation," even though she endearingly and eccentrically was known to give in to bliss and the sinful, life-spinning effects of red wine and chocolate and cream and romantic dinner company. I live in the lean, Pilates and rock climbing Muesli land of diets and self-discipline, but at heart I am a Julia girl. I work very, very hard for moderation, but many times I divulge in weary nothingness from the comforts of my couch and a quilt; I give in to chocolate and loud laughter at my office when I should be printing scripts; I lie awake thinking on Saturday mornings for a long time when I could be cleaning or working, but instead doing nothing at all, feeling protected by a warm and supremely comforting arm that's slung across both of my arms, occasionally twitching from REM sleep.
This is one of my biggest life goals. That even when I feel worn as thin as my aging black low-tops, staying up until 12:30 on a Tuesday when the alarm's set for 6:30, that underneath the weariness and nerves is still a sense of stoic lightness... that 'unbearable lightness of being' that so perfectly titles what life truly feels like.
Faith comes in all forms-- and for me, when things are confusing or rocky, it is the unbearable lightness of being that helps me find strength in unusual places.
For now, it's just the unbearable lightness of the red star lamp. Over my bed. Which I should've been in hours ago. Which I will turn on again tomorrow night, after another day that might feel endlessly long, but all in all, will turn out just fine.
To sleep, perchance to dream
ay, there's the rub
for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come
when we have shuffled off this mortal coil
must give us pause; there's the respect
that makes calamity of so long life
...
thus conscience does make cowards of us all
posted by JustJane at
11:50 PM
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