Thursday, May 26, 2011
I feel kind of like I'm on maternity leave. My new baby is, um, me. And I might possibly, thanks Emma, have a touch of post -partum depression.
Every since we returned to America I have felt somewhat newborn: exposed, awkward, wobbly-legged. I've also felt as if a long-awaited event has come to pass so quietly, so swiftly, I can't remember it happening. How long have we been home? Almost four weeks? Is that possible?
I've been cocooning, withdrawn, shielding myself from the real world here in the Honeycomb Hideout.
We are adapting. My kids, one could say, have adapted, but I am still getting used to this new, old existence. I'm in the attic of my life, looking at old pictures and going through a trunk of old clothes, picking some things up and wondering, "what the hell?"holding other things to me and saying, "Oh how I've missed this."
Not being in our real house has allowed me to ease into this adaption. This cabin in the woods is a buffer zone. It might as well be a hotel room or resort. We are here with our four bags of clothes, the dozen odd library books we checked out yesterday, a few DVD's including Tinkerbell, which I insisted just yesterday, while wincing, is to be viewed in French, and our dog. Nothing else.
I don't have an answering machine, or a cell phone, nor do many people know my phone number. There is no cell service here. My mail is still being sent to my mother's house. I haven't raised a finger to figuring out our health insurance yet. I need to contact the electric company and the gas people. Dentist and doctor appointments need to be made, but can wait. Some long-lost friends remain unseen. This too, after two years away, can wait.
I sit here day after day, listening to the scritch of mice, the pooping is never done, and the roar, swoosh and creak of the wind in the tress, the trees in the wind, and the desperate calls of spring peepers: pick me, pick me, pick me.
I watch the rain fall, the sun shine, the grass dance, and the clouds descend. I also watch the children speed barefoot past the windows, round and round, followed by their loyal dog.
And I laugh at myself for thinking we have lost something when there is so much for us here. Abundance.
And, as I wrote to a friend back in France just yesterday, I have so much to talk about, but...
" but I haven't yet found my voice. I'm still under water, looking up at the surface and the blurry world above it, but preferring to stay down here in the cool darkness and blow bubbles every time I open my mouth. (Or then again, maybe I'm just talking out my ass....)
Some days I think I might be depressed. Then other days, on yet another trip on foot down the hill to pick the kids up from school, I look out at the Green mountains, the white steeple, and I smell the warming, waking earth and feel it squishy beneath my feet, and I have to smile about all of it.
Storm's a brewin' over here at Momformation.