Seconds
Mom and my brother just pulled away. It's Saturday morning and they were here just over a week. I'm actually sad to see them go, previously I would have been so relieved to have people out of my space that it would have overwhelmed everything else. I am not over-peopled these days. That's nice.
I keep wanting to write about what having mom in my space is like: she wants to clean things and help, but occasionally throws out valuable things and definitely puts things in odd places. I wonder if she could feel loved if she didn't do things to help out, and/or if she enjoys that feeling of cleaning someone else's space because there's no requirement to and it's a nice gift. I'm not annoyed enough right now to write about what got lost or thrown out, though. I'm just here in myself, being a little and and feeling my house be spacious around me.
7kg of soap is on its way to Quesnel in trade for my opal heart ring with a leaf. Shortly I'll go down and eat pancakes, I was flipping them for my family and didn't have time to eat. I'll talk to Tucker on the phone-- we left off our conversation about what if he buys a condo the other day because he had to catch his plane. I'll feed the ducks and geese and pigs and carry water. I'll put pallets into the greenhouse so they're acessible when it snows. I'll go get some grain and shovel it into containers. Maybe I'll work on the pig roof or sit in front of the stove on the floor with dogs and a book. Maybe I'll make a round of sausage.
Tomorrow I'll work on the pig roof, carry straw, and hopefully fix the serpentine belt on the Tundra with help from the toyota geek from work. I'll lie on my bed and feel gravity. I'll take pictures of where the frost first melts on my roof, giving me the map of my trusses that transfer heat faster than the insulated spots.
All that, but: the days will unfold forward from this one moment of quiet. I'm here, breathing. I am alone in the silence of the house humming around me. Moment to moment, I continue to exist.
Edited to add: oh, the veil is thin. That's why it feels like this here. Imminent.
I keep wanting to write about what having mom in my space is like: she wants to clean things and help, but occasionally throws out valuable things and definitely puts things in odd places. I wonder if she could feel loved if she didn't do things to help out, and/or if she enjoys that feeling of cleaning someone else's space because there's no requirement to and it's a nice gift. I'm not annoyed enough right now to write about what got lost or thrown out, though. I'm just here in myself, being a little and and feeling my house be spacious around me.
7kg of soap is on its way to Quesnel in trade for my opal heart ring with a leaf. Shortly I'll go down and eat pancakes, I was flipping them for my family and didn't have time to eat. I'll talk to Tucker on the phone-- we left off our conversation about what if he buys a condo the other day because he had to catch his plane. I'll feed the ducks and geese and pigs and carry water. I'll put pallets into the greenhouse so they're acessible when it snows. I'll go get some grain and shovel it into containers. Maybe I'll work on the pig roof or sit in front of the stove on the floor with dogs and a book. Maybe I'll make a round of sausage.
Tomorrow I'll work on the pig roof, carry straw, and hopefully fix the serpentine belt on the Tundra with help from the toyota geek from work. I'll lie on my bed and feel gravity. I'll take pictures of where the frost first melts on my roof, giving me the map of my trusses that transfer heat faster than the insulated spots.
All that, but: the days will unfold forward from this one moment of quiet. I'm here, breathing. I am alone in the silence of the house humming around me. Moment to moment, I continue to exist.
Edited to add: oh, the veil is thin. That's why it feels like this here. Imminent.