Saturday, May 4, 2013
There's this overwhelming desire in me today to rent a bobcat and tear up my backyard. Start over. Maybe the front yard too.
I really need a bobcat. Who doesn't? Scrape it all away. See the surface again and see what sort of inspiration comes up with the earthworms. And yes, this is a metaphor, mostly.
I have to figure this out. I have to figure out why I'm so angry one minute and so apathetic the next? And why I can barely write anymore. I know who I am so why do I have to explain it to myself again?
But I'm tired. I'm tired of the earth beneath my feet. It's not solid is it? And that's what I'm really feeling I think: fear.
But I know about insolidity. It's like opening pop that's dropped from the counter-top to the floor. This should not be a big deal. Yet I need to close my eyes before I do everything. I mean, come on, I thought I was generally done with being pathetic. I thought all my experiences and challenges and this resilient skin I've grown would get me from point A to point G since B&C&D&E&F punched me in the throat (maybe once or twice in the balls too). And yet I don't even know why I say it's pathetic. I wouldn't tell any of my friends that this sort of conflict is pathetic. It's human. It is. Isn't it?
It's mental health. I'll just say it. Grief? Is that what it is? Still? But hasn't enough time passed to feel normal again? Haven't there been enough laughs and enough TV shows and milk chocolate and a mountain top in Sicily with my son and enough distractions and enough concentration on work and enough enoughness to get me back to where I was last August before....
My big brother would not be impressed with this. At all. He was a do-er. All my thinker-type behaviour doesn't get things done. As I said in my brother's eulogy, "All my life I've been trying to match his courage." And that's exactly what I need, I think. I need to muster more courage today. I need to reacquaint myself with this shaky earth beneath my feet again and to get some shit done (as my brother would have said too). Even when I'm scared and angry and tired and aching and grieving.
And that's why, that's why, over the last few days, I keep hearing the words of one of my favourite poems in my head (from Truth by James Hearst): "How the devil do I know if there are rocks in your field? Plow it and find out."
And that, I guess, is what I just did.