Sunday, November 5, 2017

Toting the feels

"I never give you my pillow
I only send you my invitations
And in the middle of the celebrations
I break down."

"Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried." Megan Devine of Refuge in Grief.

Let me get right down to brass tacks. Life remains an emotional roller coaster for me.

I won't lie. I've been feeling pretty fucked up.

Staying busy helps to a degree. In fact, as long as I keep moving, I feel better.

That's been one of the most confounding things about this whole experience. The experience being my reaction to being here as opposed to the move itself.

Sometimes I feel almost fine. And I can almost always go through the motions. I can convince everyone I'm doing just fine, including myself.

And then the cloud descends and I feel just despondent. Homesick is the best way I can explain it.

Neil is exasperated. This is your home, he says, and I cry harder. I can tell he is losing patience with me. I don't blame him.

Unfortunately, I can't keep moving all the time.

This week I've spent time unboxing. Even though a lot of what I'm doing is taking things out of boxes and stacking them on the closet floor or the bedroom floor, it's a start.

I'm also struggling with my attachment to things. Part of the whole clusterfuck is just having too much stuff. Letting go of almost anything stymies me.

This morning I put three milk glass vases in the box designated giveaways. So far, since we've been here, I've yet to fill that one box.

The milk glass vases were an impulse buy a couple of years ago. I bought six or seven pieces for roughly one dollar each. They sat harmlessly on my kitchen soffit since.

Our kitchen here does not have a soffit. So the milk glass vases really need to go. I have nicer things to display in the limited amount of display space here.

Yet it was a struggle to wrap them in tissue paper and put them in the box. Even though every time I do put something in the box, I feel a hair lighter, it hasn't become a no-brainer.

I'll continue to whittle away at it. Or I won't, and we can just hire someone and have a giant estate sale in five or ten or twenty years, whenever we move again.

Or Neil and my kids can do it after I die.

I don't want to die. I'm nowhere near feeling that bad, and if I was, I'd remember that it would pass in time.

Time I think is the one and only thing that can really help me heal.

Neil asks me, what can I do to make you feel better, how can I fix this. I tell him, nothing. I tell him, I don't know. I tell him, if I knew what would make me feel better, don't you think I'd be doing it?

I tell him some things can not be fixed.

That's not to say they won't mend in their own time. And if they don't mend, in time we may find better ways to live with them, to carry them.

There are no short cuts though. You can't sidestep pain, you can only sit with it and wait it out. Even if that takes a long time.

Oh, people try. And believe me, I've considered it. From alcohol to opioids, from cannabis to cutting to counseling, I've pondered ways that I might accelerate revival, dull the melancholy feelings.

And I think I'd rather just feel them. Maybe some part of me is wise. Maybe some part of me just enjoys being sad.

I've wondered about that before. What is the payoff for feeling despondent? Is it because its a familiar space, one I've visited before, a comfort zone in some bizarre counterintuitive way? Do I go there because I know how much better it will feel when I finally stop hitting my figurative head on that metaphorical wall?

I don't know. I've never known.

One of the things I find myself procrastinating on is my studio. Getting back to melting glass would be getting back into my routine. Structure has always been a saving grace for me.

More than that, making beads was that rare thing, a true passion for me. In lampwork I'd found my calling, my niche.

It's true that we've made progress on setting up my studio. I bought two three-drawer cabinets from Ikea and Neil built them. We came up with the solution of using a laminate countertop for my work surface, we found one at Lowes, I bought it and we wrestled it into the car and got it home and put it in place.

Now I have to procure the right hoses with the right fittings and then schedule a mechanical plumber to hook up the gas line.

Day by day I've put off making those calls.

I've put off un-bubble-wrapping and organizing my glass.

I've postponed reopening my Etsy shop or listing anything on Facebook, even though I've unpacked my personal bead inventory.

I've dragged my feet about ordering shipping supplies, since I'd pretty much used up them all up before the move.

I've even broken it down into smaller steps. So, maybe I don't start selling again. Maybe I focus on one thing, the most important, most gratifying thing, being able to light my torch and dip a mandrel and wind on some glass.

If I analyze my motive, or more precisely, my dearth of motivation, it occurs to me that I'm unsure that making beads will captivate my heart and mind in the way it once did.

Neil spent some money having my studio space set up. We put in a tile floor and a gas line and ventilation. A few days ago I told him, I will finish getting my torch set up, I will make beads again, but I can't promise that I will embrace as unequivocally as I did before. I might, I hope I will, but I just can't predict how I'll feel.

Only time will tell that.

Once nothing could dampen my enthusiasm to master my craft.

Now I wish I could wave a wand and have everything be magically in place but when it comes to doing the work, I waver, I wobble.

But I'll do it. I'll do it because it's what I do, one day at a time, one foot in front of the other, the next right thing, the baby steps that still mean progress.

You might be surprised to hear it, but it's one of my hidden talents. I carry.

And I damned sure don't mean heat.


Once, there was a way to get back homeward
Once, there was a way to get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Once, there was a way to get back homeward
Once, there was a way to get back home
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Boy, you're going to carry that weight,
Carry that weight a long time
Boy, you're going to carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time

I never give you my pillow
I only send you my invitations
And in the middle of the celebrations
I break down

Boy, you're going to carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time
Boy, you're going to carry that weight
Carry that weight a long time

Oh yeah, all right
Are you going to be in my dreams
Tonight?

And in the end
The love you take
Is equal to the love
You make.

(Lennon–McCartney)

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Thanks for your comment! I will post it as soon as I receive it. Liz