Rambling and restarting, every day...

When I woke up today, I was lost.  Not happy or sad, not much at all...I look around the room and see clothes everywhere and realize I don't know what is clean and what is dirty.  At least I got an idea at support group about how to fix the drawer in Cilly's room.  And I didn't feel like making pancakes but we had enough bread and eggs for french toast.  But I can't find the part of me that moves through the mess and makes things happen right now.  I think someone unplugged her.  All I want to do is sit and look.

But I still keep peeking to see if he is watching me.  To see if I am seen.  But it seems that anyone who might have occasion to look in my direction doesn't really belong to me.  I don't belong to them. I don't mean ownership.  I mean residence.  The beautiful proposal in Home Depot I shared on facebook gave voice to a thought "I love you more than anything".  That is residence.  He is in your heart, like an owner who doesn't need a key.

I know it is probably best if I get up and move.  Motion, action, perhaps even wandering- these all instigate some version of transition.  Yet, this metamorphosis is more difficult than many, simply because I seem equally torn between forward motion change, and reaching back.  The backward pull is quieter, for sure, although it is no less strong.

I keep thinking about Momastery and about the Widow's Voice blogs that I enjoy.  So often what is shared are things that help us move forward.  I don't know if I am doing that.  But I also don't know if that is my purpose here.  I think my purpose, more than anything else, is to be seen.  To not allow myself to deny this journey.  It is a complicated dance, with spins and turns, dips and backward movement, lateral steps...and even though I am a good dancer, I still find I keep tripping.

And rambling.  And I probably don't always make sense.  And it seems I don't always care if I do.  Which might be new.  Or maybe it is just louder than it used to be, my not caring if I make sense or not.

So I am trying to turn my frustrations into my release.  Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that I am trying to overlook and embrace my perceived weaknesses at the same time, to absorb them, acknowledge them and find strength in that...I keep thinking about loving myself as I am...and the scene in Pulp Fiction where Bruce Willis' character and his girlfriend talk about how she wishes she had a pot belly...

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Pulp Fiction (1994)

Fabienne: I was looking at myself in the mirror.
Butch: Uh-huh?
Fabienne: I wish I had a pot.
Butch: You were lookin' in the mirror and you wish you had some pot?
Fabienne: A pot. A pot belly. Pot bellies are sexy.
Butch: Well you should be happy, 'cause you do.
Fabienne: Shut up, Fatso! I don't have a pot! I have a bit of a tummy, like Madonna when she did "Lucky Star," it's not the same thing.
Butch: I didn't realize there was a difference between a tummy and a pot belly.
Fabienne: The difference is huge.
Butch: You want me to have a pot?
Fabienne: No. Pot bellies make a man look either oafish, or like a gorilla. But on a woman, a pot belly is very sexy. The rest of you is normal. Normal face, normal legs, normal hips, normal ass, but with a big, perfectly round pot belly. If I had one, I'd wear a tee-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate it.
Butch: You think guys would find that attractive?
Fabienne: I don't give a damn what men find attractive. It's unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same. 

I wonder, yet again, why I am so obsessed with myself like this.  And I remember that I don't really want to be alone, and that reaching someone else requires, usually, that you have some level of confidence about who you are and how you are.  I have loads of confidence when it comes to my heart, my laugh, my desire to be positive, to learn and grow and do things...but my confidence about looks, like so many women in our culture, has never been strong.    But my belly originated with my babies.  It has remained because of stress.  And likely, a bit, because of wine and age as well.  So, with my grief as well as with my weight, I need to remember to find ways to keep moving.  I need to dance, in my heart and with my legs.  I need to find hills and mountains to embrace, to try to climb... which kind of sucks, because I so often find that all I want to do is curl up and hide.  

So, my best option right now?  Not sure, but it seems that just getting up, getting out, and doing SOMETHING is a good place to start....