Feeding the hungry birds and squirrels, deer, fox, raccoon and opossum. The snow is a flutter with all the creatures of Fairmount Park's woods. I stand by the window and look out at the bird feeder. It has become quiet - ominous. My eyes travel downwards to a large hawk-like bird pecking at the snow. But, no. It is not the snow, for I see wings fluttering and feathers flying in the air. I pull up on tiptoes and see blood, red as can be, spilling out on the white, white snow as the hawk suddenly flies upwards carrying the struggling, dying bird in its talons. Refilling the feeder today, I wonder, "Why do I feed the birds, drawing them here, only to be torn to pieces? And yet, the hawk needs to eat too."
Thinking about how much easier it is for me to express myself on the blog than in a company of family, colleagues, friends, or acquaintances. I called my sister today. I really wanted to talk. And yet my tongue got tied and I sat silent, listening. Putting back the phone into its cradle I felt a tinge of blue-ness, hole in the soul, and not knowing why or where it rose up from. Sitting with a gathering of people last night and having so much to say but allowing so little to slip out. I wonder, "Why am I silent in the presence of people when I have so much to say? Am I afraid that what I have to say might be dangerous? For whom? For them? For me? What?"
If only I had allowed myself to have all three children. My life would be full of family and grandchildren and things a-happening. If only I had allowed myself to keep all the weight off that I lost over and over again each seven years or so, it seems. I would not have to deprive myself again and again in that humiliating counting out the calories game I play - constantly chastising myself for desire. If only ...
Ada peeks up at the bed as I wave the sheets airing before smoothing them down. I see her eyes and ears from across the way as I tuck in the sheet at the foot of the bed. My love for her knows no bounds - even hurts. I stall, knowing that she wants to dive under the sheet and play hide and seek. Up she jumps, predictably, and hunkers down pretending I can't see her as I pull the sheet over her head, participating in the game. She lays low and still and I say softly, "I love you kitty-girl. Come out when you're ready." Walking out the room I look back to the little lump in the middle of the bed. I think, "I love your predictability, Ada."
A year ago at Mining Nuggets: Uncovering the shame
Update:
This just in from a friend:
I was reading your blog this morning ... You words also made me realize that there is so much work in living well ... sometimes ... I keep wondering when the feeling of "mess" goes away? When does it ever feel okay? When does it stop feeling like an uphill climb and I forgot to wear my shoes? Maybe never. Maybe the trick is learning to love the journey no matter what the road reveals. Some days I think I have learned the trick, but then other days I feel maybe not.
Your friend's comment reminds me of this quote posted my blogger friend Whiskey River earlier this week, which gave me much food for thought (I like Norman Fischer a lot): http://whiskeyriver.blogspot.com/2008/02/you-are-called-and-you-answer.html
Posted by: Jean | February 27, 2008 at 06:25 AM
Stella,
Thanks for your comment. Here's to keep on keeping on!
Posted by: tamarika | February 25, 2008 at 08:12 AM
Ah, I might know what you mean - about communicating. Perhaps it is as much the difference between writing and speaking? Though I know that with my family of origin I am still maddeningly mute.
And those "if-onlies" - that's a struggle, isn't it?
Stella
Posted by: Stella | February 24, 2008 at 12:14 PM