My grandparents have been on my mind alot lately. Maybe that explains why I'm sketching my 5th drawing of an old man.
Finally around 2pm the day turns around towards my cherished time of the day; nap time for Shula, and as I lullaby her to sleep with some old russian worship songs. I nearly collapse into deep sleep with her for I am very exhausted.
But the picture of our deserted backyard sinks like some kind of evil into my mind and I can't help but jolt up from my almost-sleep and run stumbling outside to weed the yard for it is a mess, and it's driving me crazy.
So as I pull those darling weeds and get dirt seeped in through the gloves all up my finger nails (forget french manicures) I think of what has become of my days.
I get a sun burn from getting lost in thought, get up from the ground, tie up the trash bags, wash up, and with my now blistered fingers make myself coffee to stay awake in the middle of the day as I sketch my old man once again and plead to God for forgiveness for become so mundane and dull.
Maybe days like these sound alright to you, and I agree; there is no war, no starvation, no persecution (not here in America at least)
But what's really killing me is the mundane same day after day plowing through. I didnt even tell you what my whole day really is like for I'm trying to keep myself awake here.
No, actually you know what? There is starvation. It's inside of me, I'm starving to death inside this dry dessert I've become.
I’d confess that I often have the urge to jump on the grocery cart as it hurdles toward the car in the parking lot, but that’s not something for confession.
The real confession is that I DON’T jump on my cart and ride it as it hurdles toward the car in the parking lot.
When did that stop being a cultural “ok” I wonder.
For once I watched with awe today as a Shula laughed and ran toward me. She was not outrageously excited about any one thing in particular. She was just in her body, moving from one place to another and expressing some unplaced and as yet unnamed joy.
I mourn that unexpressed joy. I know I still have it because I still want to jump on that cart. When I think of the roadblock, the voice in my head, that tells me to stop…don’t give in…control myself…when I think of that I feel sad.
I know there’s reward for being self controlled…I just think I’m choosing poorly. Self control as it applies to anger is good…but as it applies to joy…damn…let’s just live in that a little more, shall we?
Look for me in the parking lot, friends….
