I've been hiding out the past couple days, I'll admit. Everytime I sat down to compose another post, I'd find out something I didn't want to know. This is why I've not been writing creative stuff lately, too, I'm sure. Truth has a way of seeping through like winter cold, even when we're busy running around stuffing rags in the cracks just as fast as we can. When you write, it seeps in faster. There are too many potentially frightening and painful things in my psyche for me to be entirely comfy with this, so all too often I find myself stuffing the cracks with near-compulsively frantic activities: nibbling, playing mindless computer games, blog surfing, napping, doing housework quickly rather than deliberately, taking too-fast walks, or pacing the floor restlessly. Anything to not think, to not feel what I'm afraid might be waiting for me just outside, digging little claws into any available crevice and prying for all it's worth.
On top of reality dodging, my computer decided to have its own vacation. . .again. I have refrained from emotional and perhaps physical cyber-violence by refraining from the computer, in part. One thing at a time, I keep telling myself. One breath at a time. One reboot at a time. So far it's working. The computer and I are both still in one piece, and if it's not eaten any of my files yet, well, I've eaten enough Captain Crunch for both of us.
This morning I'm sitting in the study upstairs, at Great Scott's computer, looking out the window where my car is sitting under a slowly accumulating veil of snow. When time came to take the girls to school, I couldn't get said car out of the driveway, despite dumping the cats' litterbox behind the back tires for added traction. (Hey, when you're desperate, you have to get innovative.) As a result, the girls are home today and thrilled. When I called to let the school know where they were, the secretary said she wished she'd been as lucky. That softened a little of my guilt, and I'm grateful.
Little things, Lucy. Little things. The flakes flying by the window, the bright pink cyclamen and red begonias blooming on the sill, the silk of the cat's fur beneath your fingertips, the white light of the cloud curtained skies, the grace that will pull you through.