rainy evening musing
Is it okay that I'm in here while the girls watch Sesame Street and Merry walks around, flute in hand, pretending she's about to play?
Is it okay that I'm sitting here among candles in a room I'd love to be sparse and organized, as the debate rages on in the living room: Is Snuffalupagus real, even though nobody has ever seen him but Big Bird? Is something real if we imagine it enough times? If we talk to it? If we can hear from it?
Here I'm sitting while Martin is at another late night, wishing I could drink a glass of wine but knowing I will wait for him to come home because I never drink alone (thankfully, this does not apply to tea--I'm on my fourth cup in a bid to stay awake this very dark, very drizzly day).
Is it okay that I'm sitting here typing this even though the dog has not been out for hours and the kitchen is cluttered and the laundry undone? My suitcase from this weekend lays about bloated with clothes and detritus I've not bothered to put away and the garage is a minefield and my latest book a mess and my other book begging to go out to agents and my life is not on the track I'd imagined.
And I've got a class tomorrow to teach (Poetry, Plays, and Puppets), which I've planned only nebulously and I'm overdue on printing the Hallelujah Chorus so the tiny, insufficient choir may practice, and I'm behind on my relationships and correspondence and there are, oh, about 50 socks which miss their mates.
Is it okay that I just drank that cup of tea down to the bitter, left-too-long dregs and I sit here even though I don't get enough exercise and my belly gets flabbier by the minute?
Yes, yes, yes. It's okay.
Is it okay that I'm sitting here among candles in a room I'd love to be sparse and organized, as the debate rages on in the living room: Is Snuffalupagus real, even though nobody has ever seen him but Big Bird? Is something real if we imagine it enough times? If we talk to it? If we can hear from it?
Here I'm sitting while Martin is at another late night, wishing I could drink a glass of wine but knowing I will wait for him to come home because I never drink alone (thankfully, this does not apply to tea--I'm on my fourth cup in a bid to stay awake this very dark, very drizzly day).
Is it okay that I'm sitting here typing this even though the dog has not been out for hours and the kitchen is cluttered and the laundry undone? My suitcase from this weekend lays about bloated with clothes and detritus I've not bothered to put away and the garage is a minefield and my latest book a mess and my other book begging to go out to agents and my life is not on the track I'd imagined.
And I've got a class tomorrow to teach (Poetry, Plays, and Puppets), which I've planned only nebulously and I'm overdue on printing the Hallelujah Chorus so the tiny, insufficient choir may practice, and I'm behind on my relationships and correspondence and there are, oh, about 50 socks which miss their mates.
Is it okay that I just drank that cup of tea down to the bitter, left-too-long dregs and I sit here even though I don't get enough exercise and my belly gets flabbier by the minute?
Yes, yes, yes. It's okay.
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