February 26, 2025

Here comes the weather,  clouds are pouring in.  I can't really see, the sun is shining through a haze and when I stare at it it blinds me,  I'm blinded by the light.  Giving up the majority of my routine has made me lose a sense of time.  I'm unaware of where I sit in the day.  I'm kind of lost at this point.  I've had enough of my forced slow down.  I need to be able to get in my car and go shoot photos.   

I'm not kidding about these clouds, there a very large dark cloud moving rapidly.  It's 45 degrees but in another few hours its supposed to start snowing.  Nothing is how it should be.  "Things are seldom what they seem, skim milk masquerades as cream."  (Pinafore, Gilbert and Sullivan.)    I played Little Buttercup in the 3rd grade.  That was a line in one of my solos.  I remember being transfixed by it, entirely caught up in its meaning.  I find myself singing the song to myself a lot now.   

I don't know what day this is of being at home, but it was so gorgeous this afternoon that I went outside and sat in the sun.  It was almost 50 at 130 and there was not a lot of wind.  I couldn't see any of the birds.  I don't think they're use to me any longer.  I could hear them, though, loud and clear.  Can't wait to have them all back in the yard.

I'm going to write about how writing my play, or doing the entire project on First Mothers helped me to heal for my guest writer blog spot.  I've been thinking I should just start writing here about the process of developing the play and how it came about.   Many years ago at this point,  I interviewed 23 women who released their babies at birth to adoption.  The process of collecting their stories was extremely moving, it was extremely upsetting, it pushed me to disassociate.  It taught me a huge amount about adoption in general, about loss, and ultimately about on-going grief.  Writing about it eventually allowed me to organize and make sense of the overwhelming emotions that came with the reality of being a first Mom.  The emotions that kept me vulnerable to an abundance of  ptsd, and experiencing fear and an inability to take too many risks in my professional life. Writing about adoption helped me to make sense of my world, my oh so personal world, to heal and to accept that grief is a life long state. 

My dreams have been very dystopia themed this week.  I have woken from them not knowing what the dream was, but knowing that it was deadly.  On Monday I felt they had all been psychological thrillers.  I really want to curl up in my bed, but I don't want any more nightmares. 

I also woke up the night before last and last night in pain.  I have to stretch out, make myself as long as I can on my back and I know that doesn't help my sleep.  But I kept feeling as though I was six feet long (which I really liked). The truth is I wish I had been 5 foot 10 and a dancer.  Well, guess I just have to be satisfied with what I got. 

Patrick sent me this from Nantucket today.  It's gonna be us in 15 years.  True comfort. 

photo by Patrick