I am, emotionally and physically, here, there are everywhere. I do feel better. Much better than before I had my thyroid removed. I am not sure how much of that is just the relief at getting that nasty, huge thing (goiter) out of my neck- out of my body. I feel like I have been carrying a huge weight around my neck for years. Well, I guess I have been. Not huge in terms of big things in the world, but huge in terms of something that affects you breathing and ability to swallow. Constantly wondering if you're going to choke. Or stop breathing. Or maybe even not wake up one day.
Yes, I know, I am still overweight. And I still have more chins than I need. But I have a neck now. Not a "fat blob" as one of the many doctors I have been to told me.
"Enough". A word I use on myself a lot. Too much. I don't have "enough" time. I am not a "good enough" housekeeper. (something that many don't care about, but I do). I don't write to my kids "enough". I am not nice "enough" to my husband. I don't do "enough" in the yard.
I don't think I will ever be just plain "enough" for myself. To be totally happy. I am able to be totally happy in the moment- when something good happens in my life. Going to a school play with young people that I know performing. Happiness personified. Giving a gift. Yup. Helping a new mom learn and realize how amazing she is. Absolutely. The way I feel when the house is really clean. Oh, heaven!
I think one of my problems is that there is not enough time. Or at least I tell myself that. I know that the amount of time I have on earth is finite. I am afraid that I won't be ready when it is time to leave. I hope to live for many many more years. But I have to decide how I am defining living. Hard to say.
Here's what I think I want. I want to feel like I have really accomplished something. To be recognized for something wonderful. (again, I don't feel like I am "enough"). I want a Nobel prize for raising five children into adulthood alive and kicking.
There are not enough of me. (there *is* not enough of me?) By that I mean, I feel fragmented. I want to sew and make beautiful clothes. I want to knit and make gifts. I want to make art- through fabric or photography, through all sorts of means.
I wish that cleaning house was recognized as an art. I have tried to communicate this so many times, to so many people that I feel like it is a lost cause. There was an article called "The Zen of Sweeping" that I read years and years ago. The author describes the peace and well being that come from the act of cleaning. Or the act of making clean. I don't know which. When I clean the kitchen counters, table, floor and make everything shine, I stand back and enjoy what I have done. It is beautiful. It is "art", in my eyes. It lifts me up and energizes me. Bathrooms, carpets, anything that I make clean, is beautiful. I tell myself that if I lived alone my house would be spotless and I would be so happy. I sort of think I need to file that away as a fantasy.
A couple of days ago I took the leaf blower and I blew all of the leaves and crap out of the garage. I am not sure if anyone even noticed. But, now, whenever I go into the garage, I feel this wonderful peace because the disorder is now in order. As it should be.,To me anyway.
When the kids were little, I had way more energy. I did loads of laundry and folded it and put it away. And I was systematic. I had seven piles, one for Nick and me, and a pile for each kid. Then there were columns- underwear, socks, shirts, shorts, long pants. For all of us. It was so satisfying. But, I know that it was not always as wonderful as I remember it. I know that at the end of the day I was "mothered out". I was ready for the relief team to come in.
I think that I am always seeking my own approval, and I am my own hardest judge. I want credit for every little thing I do. I want to be acknowledged for putting tings away, for running the vacuum cleaner. For mopping the floor. But until I can tell myself that I have done a great job, I may not feel like I am enough.
I am a bit like a child. I want to be told "good job". Just like a three year old when he draws a something - elephant? bird? house?- whatever it is, you say "wow that's great, can you tell me about it". It helps fill up the self esteem stores that we all need. And I am not good at doing that for my own self. Oh well.
And then there is the reality of age, and again, time. I have a harder time of getting up and down. Just the act of getting into and out of the car is harder than I think it should be. I am not as fast as I want to be. Okay, I know, I am being hard on myself again. But, I know that there is an element of truth there too. I tell myself that Ia m not afraid of getting old. Then I deny that I am getting old. No, not me. Even when I start goingback to the gym. Even if I get really buff and lose a hundred pounds, I will still be in my 60s. No way around that. I cannot make myself younger. I cannot turn back the clock. Oh, how I wish I could sometimes.
Who doesn't want a do over now and then?
And to end this ramble today I will close with a picture of one of my loves. Tigger, my sweet kitty. he is almost 16. he doesn't think about getting older, or worry (as far as I can tell). This morning, when I opened my eyes, Tigger was staring into my face, waiting for me to wake up. What a nice way to wake up!