Today feels a little momentous. First: after two years of sleeping till the last possible minute in the morning, i.e., being awakened by the baby, I have decided to get up early. Yeah I know I know. I should have started such a long time ago. But I was talking to my friend yesterday (she’s starting to do this too), and I was able to articulate part of the reason I’ve not gotten up early—my morning time (coffee, book or journal, staring out of a window, contemplating, ALONE) had been such a huge part of my day, both for waking up gently and preparing myself mentally/spiritually for the chaos that would come crashing down later, that the loss of it was grievous, and I couldn’t forgive. Honestly it was my favorite part of the day. Plus I was depressed (still am sometimes) and didn’t want the sun to rise. Sleeping in was my way of telling the Morning to go f itself. Ha! The logic here is astonishing.

But as I keep saying (over and over in different ways), the past 6 months—and especially the past 3 months—have seen my spirit rising and my body and mind healing. In some way. I still can’t figure out how to eat properly for lunch or pray or finish painting the house, but whatever. I can be patient-ish.

So I got up at 6:30, made coffee, lit a candle, and set up the laptop in front of the dining room windows so I could watch the sun rise while I write.

This whole feeling of rightness and courage was almost waylaid by me pulling out my phone in the bathroom and watching clips from the Betsy DeVos confirmation hearing—but nevermind all that garbage. I’m prioritizing my own mental and physical health this year, and while I also anticipate doing some protesting and demonstrating, I plan to not let politics be any less or more to me than one of my (several) jobs. As in, I’m a citizen, so I should speak about my citizenship and country; I should not let anxiety or anger ruin my enjoyment of my coffee, or my people.

Second reason today feels momentous: as you may have been able to tell, I’m writing. I’m writing a blog. Can I compare myself to someone undergoing physical therapy? No? A metaphor too far. But I really do feel rust powdering off in glinty little sprays, and the screeching of gears. I feel I’m learning to walk again, in a way. I feel, for instance, that everything I’ve written in these past two years has been garbage, and that I’m wandering around trying to figure out what would be the purpose of continuing to write. Dramatic, yes. Valid, yes.

In other news, and to keep those little showers of oxidized metal coming, I will say that Marshall’s grandfather died last week and we are going to take an 11 hour roadtrip (with a two year old) to go see family and be at the memorial service. It was a difficult decision for me—whether to go or not—because I’m so scared of sleep deprivation (on the one hand) and baby screaming in the car (on the other) that I just had this physical *NO* response to Marshall’s initial suggestions that we either drive through the night or drive through the day. I’ve had more than I wanted—and more on top of that—of sleep deprivation and baby crying in the car. Because of my terrible mental health in the baby’s first year, both of those items are all painted up in terrifying reds and oranges and blacks, nightmarish, horrible.

But guess what. 18 months ago is not right now. I’m now mostly-prepared to actually kind of enjoy the drive.

I also wanted to attend either the Nashville Women’s March or the Knoxville one. Someone please go and wear a pussyhat for me. (Weep.)

Last item, as sun is up and therefore soon the baby will be: I’ll be missing Hot Yoga at the Glowing Body on Thursday night, and my discovery of this class is such a new & exciting development. SUCH. DEVELOPMENT. So thrill. Wow. (I’ll be making doge jokes for the rest of my life, sadly.) This is a class that’s affordable, and at the perfect time of day for me to take it: 7:45pm. It’s ten minutes away from my house. I’ve longed to start yoga classes again, partly because yoga blesses my body in ways no other form of exercise has thus far, and partly because it is currently serving as my “church.” Shavasana (sp?) brings me to tears, every time. The grace that fills my whole body during one of these classes is the grace I  long for, and need, and that I can’t find (yet?) while trying to entertain my toddler in a church service. I do have a church, in the sense that I love many of the people at one particular church and regularly hang out with several of them, but I’ve been growing away from its theology/liturgy/practice for a while, for reasons.

I mean, one reason is that I’m an angry bitch who’s spent a few too many Sunday mornings during my formative years being told why I’m deficient and faulty and untrustworthy and I can really live without that for a while. But that’s another blog (series).

The sun is well & truly up. Let’s do this again.

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