I woke up this morning as arthritic as a woman twice my age. Okay, that would make her 106, but you get my point. Every bone and joint in my body is aching like crazy and, what’s worse, I’ve got to go downstairs if I want any coffee. Which means I’ll have to climb stairs to get back to my room. At times like this I can’t help wondering just why it is I so much like having an upstairs room. When I get up at night to use the bathroom and forget where I am and nearly fall down the stairs because I start to turn right, instead of going straight, I really have to wonder what’s so great about living upstairs.
There’s a coziness about it, that’s it. I don’t know why, and I’m sure not everyone feels this way about upstairs bedrooms. Should a fire break out in the middle of the night, I don’t think I’d be feeling too cozy. But disasters and arthritis aside, I do love my room. My window is rather spacious; leaning on the sill the other day and watching snowflakes fall felt like some kind of blessing. A benediction of sorts.
Since my move I’ve felt rubbed raw emotionally. There’s been the guilty feeling of, “I know I’m supposed to appreciate how much nicer everything is here, and enjoy the peace and quiet, but I can’t. Not yet at least.” Oh, I’m not even getting to the bottom of things, and I know it. I’m not saying what should be said to myself, let alone on this blog. Instead I bide my time hoping the awareness of what’s eating at me will simply go away. In the meantime I faithfully keep my room clean, and the bathroom that is mine alone. (Oh how uncomfortable that makes me! One whole bathroom with tub all to myself?) I channel surf and find, now that we have cable hooked up, nothing much worth watching. Flip through books I might read if the weather’s just right and I’m having a good hair day and the silence in my room doesn’t scream so loudly that I can’t hear myself think.
And I wait. I wait for something, for some inner click or shift to happen so that I can get on with my life. I’m suspended in limbo, not having succeeded in detaching myself from my old household nor quite able to attach myself to this new one. Time I suppose is all it will take. People say that, you know, whenever you’re dealing with something hard. Just give it time. Me, I don’t trust time. I don’t trust time in itself to do much of anything for me. I think that how I spend my time during this limbo interval is the important thing. And I haven’t quite figured out what to do with it. And so . . . my bones ache, TV bores me, I try not to imagine myself zigging when I should have zagged in the middle of the night, and ending up a pathetic heap at the bottom of the stairs. I make up sentences for the book I will be writing just as soon as I’m more settled in here. Some of these sentences must be scribbled down at once, so beautiful they seem—though tomorrow I may make a face when reading them, and hastily throw that scrap of paper in the trash. Some are so wooden I could maybe use them as kindling for the fire I’m thinking of starting in our backyard. Just a little fire, just big enough to be able to send out S.O.S. smoke signals. Send help! is the message I’d send. And I’m dying here!
The reality about my whole situation is that no one can really help me. Once again I will draw on my inner strength. It’s there somewhere, I know it is. Shoot, where did I leave it? I saw it just the other day. Well, doesn’t that beat all? Just when I need it most my inner strength decides to take a little hike. I’ve a hunch it’s out lollygagging with my sense of humor, which also is M.I.A. Just wait till I get my hands on either one!
(Now I must go get some coffee in my veins.)