Christmas hasn’t felt right to me in a long while.
I am not a child, and everyone has their person.
The lonely is cold. I spend the day with family filling my role.
Its a constant reminder that this is a spectator sport.
I resent driving home alone.
I resent my resentment. It makes me feel selfish, defensive and unworthy.
Joe is our neighbor. He’s incredibly thoughtful and kind to us -
He invites us for dinner, helps with things that need fixing, opens bottles of wine,
I once joked that I just wanted a live-in Joe.
Do I really want to be in a relationship with a person or an idea?
Am I really willing to be fully available to someone, mind, body and spirit?
Sometimes I think all I really want is someone to bring me cheap Chinese food and wine and cuddle with me on a bad day.
I’m not entirely sure that’s a bad thing.
I’m tired of feeling like someone’s flavor-of-the-week.
I still don’t write enough.
Sometimes, I’m not afraid to write what I’m feeling, I can’t find the words to get down.
This was never a problem until I decided the only thing I wanted to tell was the truth.
I want to learn to love my body.
I’m not even sure I know my body.
Today I resolved to eat at least two whole meals a day next year, and to never go hungry.
I haven’t kept that promise in over ten years.
I think this might be a good start.
I know none of this is coherent enough to publish.
I’m not sure it needs to be.
Maybe this - even writing for me, is a beginning.
Sometimes all we have is our stream of consciousness.
Sometimes we need to wade deep in the stream to collect the pebbles of truth worn smooth along the bottom
If only because they have weathered the current and have not been swept away.
Like them, I am here to stay.