Worth Writing

It is time for you to understand and admit that you do not need to eat chocolate just because it’s Christmas.

Excuse me for talking to myself out loud there for a moment but the situation was getting completely out of hand.  There are three of us co-habitating for the holidays and the other two crazy people keep leaving their hordes of chocolate lying about…alone, lonely, unguarded…vulnerable to attack.  *smile*

 It’s a relief  to be able to joke again without having to choke it out.  The funny fate of the chocolate is bittersweet, though.  So much sweetness has gone out of my life with the deat of my Seanna that I find myself indulging - overindulging, really - in the rich and sweet ingestible delights in an unconscious effort to reclaim the delight that died with my beloved.

 What a year.  I’m not ready for another one yet.  (Too bad, so sad, sorry for your luck, Chuck!)  Seanna loved to say that.  She couldn’t speak in complete sentences unless they rhymed or she sang them.  Yes, she was interesting.  And yes, life is infinitely dull without her.  Regardless, I know it’s time to get busy living or get busy dying. 

 On January 19th it will be one year since I bought my new home in Hamilton, and it’s still a half-finished renovation disaster area.  It’s going to stay that way for a long while, too, because my renovator’s truck was stolen a few days before Christmas.  So here I am.  I can write endlessly about what was, and muse happily about what will be, but there is no “is”.  At least there doesn’t feel as though there is an “is”.  I’m just sort of…here.  I can find plenty of things to do, but they would just be busy-making activities.  My present is purposeless.  No one waits.  No one needs.

 Oh wow.  I keep forgetting to add myself to the category of “people in my life”.  I wait.  I need.  For?  I wait for the energy of enthusiasm to reappear.  I have a need for a spiritual fire to relight itself and lead me somewhere, anywhere.  I have sat at this computer day and night for weeks now, reading everyone else’s comments and communications, but only rarely have I been able to move myself to make a noise or a contribution.  All that is in me now seems so unnecessary to the world around me that I am not inspired to remark or recount.

This is just perception of course.  A misperception, surely.  Nonetheless, while others celebrate the miracle of the birth of the baby Jesus, I’ve been tampering with a miracle of my own: struggling to give birth to myself.  Wish me luck.

Steph