Today was a difficult day, for no good reason other than R's long hours and my predilection for chocolate chip cookies. I think there's something wrong with me, but that's another post.
So when R finally returned and we had eaten, and Sweet Potato was taking her required nightly shower, and R was reading Buckaroo a story or two, I zipped up my old coat, grabbed a flashlight and went out into the dark windy night. I sat on the dock for a while, watched the winking lights of the houses across the lake and listened to the water slap and glurg against the aluminum dock next to ours.
Then I tried to meditate for the first time, which is really funny-- not meditation itself but the idea of my brain being still-- but I was serious about it. Unfortunately, my first attempt was a complete flop. I kept thinking about what I would write on my blog about my first attempt to meditate. Then I wondered how Elizabeth Gilbert was able to meditate when she obviously must have been deciding what to write in her book. Luckily, I wasn't hard on myself. I just gave up and sat there watching a man in a house across the water pace between his living room and kitchen.
I sat and tried to assess what was bothering me, and I realized that my thoughts are like those wheels on the bus: I miss my friends, I miss my mom, I'm lonely, I'm not unhappy, but am I happy? I should be enjoying autumn, but how long will it last? Maybe I should get a job. Another job, one that requires my presence.
R always poo poos the job idea. My job should be writing, he says, "Write."
My mom, on the other hand, says I'm doing too much. I need to slow down or I'm going to break down. Is it possible to slow down with a toddler? Is it possible to write with a toddler? Sometimes I take my notebook outside with me, in hopes that I might jot a line or two of a poem while he's chasing chipmunks, but usually we just end up singing "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round . . . . "