Where Does Time Go?

This is a question I almost expect my son to ask someday. He hasn't, yet. But he might.

I'm asking it right now, when I realize I last posted a very long couple of weeks ago.

Where did it go?

Into a Thanksgiving Trip to Arizona, to see family from far and wide;

into loads and loads of work and more work as productions gear up and meetings are held and designs are made and people talk and other people talk and email never stops;

into a trip to SeaWorld's Holiday Night for members - a splurge I made when friends visited in June, memberships for Finn and I... Some (like my husband) may call it cheesy or commercial or crowded - but with a 4 year old, my 4 year old, on my lap listening to carols and the live classical guitarist and watching Shamu and friends leap through the water on a dark, dark night - I call that wonderful;

into a show at The Old Globe, How the Grinch Stole Christmas - again, perhaps cheesy/commercial/crowded to some, and with a song or two that went on a tad too long - but they make it snow inside the theatre, and Finn said in the dark and clapped his hands, and when songs went on too long looked up and me and whispered, "I need see the Grinch" - showing his already well-developed appreciation for complex character over sentimental song.

And into time with Kenny, talking about life and how we want to live it.

That's where Time goes, has gone, for me, over the last few weeks.

And now, it takes me to bed.

I love going to bed. At 9:37pm. Wow.




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I am thankful...

I came home from work tonight, a good day of work, and this is what I found. Finn, and the picture he made at school.

"I am thankful for

my mommy and daddy."

And Kenny said, "That's what he said he was thankful for..."

and we looked at each other, in wonder. I felt dazzled. Almost giddy, but quieter.

It may just the best moment in my life, so far.

I, Maria, am thankful, for Finn. And for Kenny. For the unimaginably precious gift of a family.

Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.










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Gratitude and Good Cheer

If you write it, it will be.

This is my hypothesis, and my hope.

I am cheerful today. I am productive. I work. I work efficiently, productively, and cheerfully.

I am a good Mom today. I love my son, actively. I listen to all his questions, and I answer. I enjoy my time with him.

I love my husband today. I listen to all his meanderings. I enjoy my time with him.

I suddenly flash on that scene from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, where Harry has to write Lying is Bad or something and it shows up on his hand all bloody.

That's what I love about imagination. It can't be tamed.

I do hope my hypothesis proves true. I do hope for good cheer and productivity and enjoyment.

I guess what I'll actively try to do today is appreciate.

I'll take "gratitude" as my cue. If I can appreciate my life, and be grateful for all the colors in it, I suspect it will be a good day.

And I still might go on Retreat. But today, since I can't, maybe I'll just act like I am -

I'll walk in gratitude, slowly.





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Retreat

When did I get so GRUMPY?

My irritability confounds me; I don't know why I have it, where it comes from, and I want it to go away.

That's not entirely true. I do, sort of, know why I have it. I'm just not sure why it's bothering me right now - sometimes it's fine, that thing.

That "mother" thing. That "wife" thing. That "job" thing.

And sometimes, like now, I HATE IT. I HATE being NEEDED. I HATE being SPOKEN TO. I hate the words I usually find adorable, the "What I neeeeeeed?" coming from my son. Usually, I love it. Usually, I pop right up and respond, lovingly, "What DO you need, my darling?"

Usually.

Tonight, I yelled. I might have said something like "Go away." But in a loud voice. Louder than I want to admit. And my husband thankfully swooped in and picked up our son and left me alone, closing the door behind them. And even that makes me angry - Why did it take him SO LONG?

I need a Retreat. I crave Silence. I long for Solitude. Long-term Solitude, beyond a bath or a closed door for 20 minutes. I'd like a couple of days.

What would I like? What's my vision?

A cabin. A cabin in the woods, with a beach nearby; lots of walking trails through silent forests. The sound of the ocean, the wind in the trees, birds. Food and drink that magically appears, or is already there waiting in the cupboards. A place to cook, if I feel like it. The perfect book. Two or three other perfect books - some fiction, some spirituality, maybe an autobiography or history. A new journal. A couple of excellent pens, blue ink, fine point, smooth gliding tips. Paint and paper. A camera. A dandy little laptop. A big bathtub, lots of candles, a big warm bed with supersoft sheets and a window that looks out at a vista.

And no one - NO ONE - around.

Solitude that is peaceful, not scary - maybe there's a nunnery over the hill where I can't see it or hear it, but I know it's there, with nun doctors and nurses, just in case I need them. Maybe they come check on me in the afternoons, to make sure I'm okay - without my ever seeing them or having to speak to them. Maybe they bring me silent baskets of food.

Four days. No - seven would be best. Maybe even more.

And I would not have to talk to anyone. I would not have to think about anyone, except myself.

I don't care if it sounds selfish. I have been selfless for over four years now. I want to be selfish. I am tired. I am GRUMPY. And I need my Retreat.





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44th Birthday, 44th President...

I haven't posted in so long - for good reasons, happily.

Good family times, with Finn and I hitting our stride and not too many breakdowns, and then Kenny home on October 30.

A good Halloween, Finn happy about his costume!! The most delightful little Witch ever, with neighborhood trick-or-treating and lots of loot.

And the best day of all, November 4 - with a new President Elect, bringing new hope and such joy. I wept and jumped up and down, watching the TV, and Finn fell asleep on the couch to Barack Obama's acceptance speech. He refused to go to bed, very out of character for him - he knew something BIG was happening, he could feel it in Kenny and me. And now, he gazes at the TV, saying, "I need see Barack Obama..."

And another good day, November 8 - Lights Up! at Playwrights Project; a job well done by all, a joyful, successful special event. Deborah was happy, people were moved and thrilled - and ladies who impress me, ladies who are not easily impressed themselves, were extremely pleased. One said it was a Magnificent night. And one looked at me and said, "You are a producer, aren't you?" with just a tiny bit of awe.

And I'd like to take all the credit, but I don't deserve it all. I deserve some, and that feels good. A job well done - a profoundly satifisfying feeling.

And today, my 44th birthday. Finn serenades me right now with Old MacDonald, sung by a toy long forgotten, who was recently resurrected and reassigned favored status. A lunch at work, with balloons and my favorite meatball sub and chocolate mousse pie, all provided by my co-workers. I was planning to take the day off, but a debriefing meeting was in order and happily combined with a birthday lunch.

And a walk on the beach; a quick walk, but good enough.

And dinner picked up by Kenny, grilled chicken and rice and beans and salad. And birthday wishes a'plenty from friends and family and Facebook pals.

I am grateful. I feel hopeful.

And Old MacDonald has a tractor, and on his tractor he has a duck, and on his tractor he has a cow, and on his tractor he has a pig. Ee Ei Ee Ei Oh.

Life is good.







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Whew...

Week one of solo parenting:

3 different babysitters for Finn, for 3 different nights/weekend days of work;
I-don't-know-how-many dvds conned out of said babysitters;
1 night of working with Finn, at auditions;
3 extra days of Extended Day Care for Finn at school;
at least 3 crying, angry, sad times while there;
at least 3 okay times;
maybe 1 or 2 actual happy times;
3 school lunches (all of them eaten, joyfully);
1 sobbing fit of my own in the car, in the middle of a particularly tough day;
2 after-school visits to the blissfully quiet, empty, serene Mission Trails Park;
a couple of work crises;
1 bad haircut (Finn's, not mine);
too many calls with Kenny to count.

How do people do this?

I guess things become a routine. I guess things get easier, or one gets used to the difficulty. At the end of the day yesterday, I had never been so exhausted.

Then last night I actually slept, well, and stayed in bed dozing and sleeping from Finn's 7:15am wake-up through his early morning playing and 1 dvd until 9:00 Praise-the-Lord am.

And today I didn't officially have to work, and I was rested, and Finn was rested, and we went at his pace, and we went nowhere near school, and we went to dance class together, and then he spent 90+ minutes playing in a park while I got to talk to my sister on the phone, and we came home and ate lunch, and we read some books, and he watched his favorite movie Ratatouille while I managed to do a load of laundry AND check work email AND write part of a grant.

Today was a very good day.

Kenny comes home October 30. I can't really think that far ahead, or I might die. Life at the moment is a strange balance of:

"Think ahead. Make a list. Write down everything. Check off one thing. Move on. Check off another...."

and

"Stop. Breathe. Be. Here. Now."

Tomorrow there is no schedule. Thank you, God. There are tasks - Salvation Army and the 99cent store to shop for 2 chairs and the last few props for the set for the tour, get the house in order for the week, maybe even surprise myself and make a meal or lunch or something AHEAD OF TIME.

Who am I?

Work is just plain hard work right now. It's probably two of the worst weeks of my work-year for Kenny to be gone. But it is what it is, and he is well. Working hard, earning money, in his beloved gray, calm, green Seattle. He stays in an aerie of a room, with windows that look on a gray lake and green trees and nothing (not a single car alarm, not a boombox, not a tire screech, not a circling helicopter) can be heard. He is blissful. Lonely, missing us, but happy to be where he is.

And my work is work. Everyone gets grumpy when a show gets toward tech, and we have a touring show heading towards tech, and a set with fabric that shrank while painting, and a van to rent, and blah blah blah. And there are still shows to be booked, and income is down, and grants are due, and there's another show to program and cast, OH, and we had auditions for FOUR different plays this week, and I'm late on writing contracts for the entire artistic staff, and there's a special event to worry about, and school residencies to program, and school residencies to sell, and I don't have to do all of the work but I have do a lot of it, and everyone else does too, and so everyone is cranky, and tired, and and and.

And I'm doing my part in 2 to 3 hour bursts in between drives to and from Finn's school and in between breakfast, lunch, and dinner prep, and trying to not be the yelling, mad, "no-one-wants-to-be-her" mother.

And Kenny will be home in 12 days. Which I prefer to think of as a week, and a little bit. Because that's what it is, really. He left early in the morning last Sunday, and we made it to here, Saturday night. So now all we have to do is that same week one more time! And then we have to do a few more days. Which will be easy!

I pray.






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School pictures, Grandma pictures

I posted this because I love this picture, and wanted to share. What a wonderful swing, wonderful boys, and a wonderful Grandma & Mom.

Finn looks a little funny, sure.

He took his first school picture today. The teacher's aide reported to Kenny that he cried, and basically freaked out. They had, somewhat unwisely in my opinion, staged the school pictures in the same room where they tested kids' hearing - basically, the room where no counting or music or art or anything fun takes place - the room where adults lie in wait to do scary things to unsuspecting 4 year olds.

So Finn cried. He calmed down while he watched the other kids have their pictures taken, but it's unclear whether he was actually photographed, or what those photos will look like.

This, in a nutshell, is why I hate being a full-time working mother. I wanted to be there. I wanted to get the story first-hand, and I wanted it to be a happy story! Although that is unfair to Kenny, I realize.

Finn and I even practiced for his pictures. He showed me all his faces - surprised, mad, sad, grumpy, and happy. We agreed happy would be great for the picture.

So I don't really care what the school picture looks like. You all might have to deal with it when it's on your fridge, but I know what the real picture looks like - a happy, close-mouthed grin with shining bright eyes looking right into mine, on the most beautiful boy in the world.








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I prefer Franklin Delano Roosevelt...

and I keep waiting for Barack Obama to join me.

I want him to Stand Up and Say: "I myself look to the other, younger Roosevelt for inspiration - the one who led his country out of a Great Depression, by creating visionary programs that put Americans to work, building our nation's dams and highways and making art and teaching schools, the one who believed in the notion that we should take take of each other and brought that notion to life with the radical idea of Social Security, the one whose wife was one of the best friends to the citizens of this country the United States has ever seen, the President Roosevelt whose intelligent leadership brought our country to victory in a World War, the one who did not worry himself with colloquialisms about sticks and soft voices, but who called out to a nation to banish fear and look to the future."

Obama speech-writers, please take heed - give us a little soaring, inspirational joy. It's time. If I have to listen to that crotchety old man say "my hero Teddy Roosevelt" one more time I might scream.





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Teletubbies and counting

The joy of a multi-layered life. After the bleakness of the last post, I was pondering what to write about. I started something on a work break earlier, didn't finish. Was standing in the living room a few moments ago, with a BRILLIANT idea - I came in to write it, but -

Finn thought differently.

He climbed up on my lap - I wouldn't say forcefully - more like with DETERMINATION.

And he said "I need play Teletuvvies. I need play Teletuvvies on the computer. I need play the TIGER."

So we did. We went to pbs.org and then to PBS kids and then to the Teletubbies and we played Guess the Animal shape, which is the game you get to when you click on the Tiger.

I forgot what I was going to write about. And that's okay. The present is enough, I think.

Because earlier, Finn counted. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10....

which he's done for a while.

Then he kept going - 13, 14, 15, etc - 20!

which he has also done, for a while.

THEN he continued - 21! 22! 23! 24! 25! 26! 27! 28! 29...

..... (big eyes, questioning me... I whisper "30")

FIRTY! FIRTY 1! FIRTY 2! FIRTY 3! FIRTY 4! FIRTY 5! FIRTY 6! FIRTY 7! FIRTY 8! FIRTY 9!

You get the idea. We went on to 40, then he kinda drifted away.

He is 4 years and 2 months old. And he has learned to count - and count, and count.

I was blown away. I don't know if it's exceptional or not, but it sure feels that way. A massive shift in understanding, the power of ten, the addition of a number in front of another number and how that unfolds and unfurls, pattern after pattern, into infinity

Amazing, don't you think? I do. I love him so much, and I just feel full of hope when I see him learn.



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Autumnal ramblings

Of a mental sort, at least.

It is the Autumnal Equinox. I got a voicemail this morning, from my dearest friend, wishing me a happy one. Wishing I could join her for a circle of women. I wish that, too.

Leaves will be getting wet, underfoot, soon, on Whidbey Island. I remember a Samhain with Tom Cowan, when Janine was still alive, a circle of wild power at the Marsh House. Is Joy still there, I wonder? Her cat died that night. Sassafras, I think. A cold, wet, windy night with a moon somehow peeking through, and the body of Sassafras quite, quite dead. And we buried her, together. Joy's white hair whipping around, her powerful old body digging into the earth.

I think that happened. Although I might have made it up.

I miss Janine. And Joy. Janine I know has passed on, and I know she's happy there, wherever she is, lighter than air, flying about on pale purple wings I imagine, tending the souls who are hurting, everywhere in the world.

It is the season of dying.

May not seem like it here, in the land of sun, but it is. What part of me will die this Autumn?

What part do I want to die? What part do I want to purge, shed, peel away?

There is so much weight on me. I feel heavier, in every way, than I have in a very, very, very long time. Psychically, painfully heavy. Oppressed, I would go so far to say. And I would like to shed THAT. I would like to shed the weight of regret, of dishonesty, of escapism, of addiction, of un-tended to pain. This is my call, my prayer, for this Autumn.

I intend to shed. I intend to jettison my flotsam. I intend to peel away, I intend to surrender, I intend to heal.

Finn sings behind me: "Down came the rain, and washed the spider out..."

Yes.

Yes.

Please.

Please,

Aho.







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Sunday at the Beach with Friends

That is where we are headed, today, to celebrate a friend's birthday. That is our PLAN, anyway.

We met them at the beach a few weeks ago, these friends, new friends we first met at a 4th of July party and liked, friends who are artists and teachers and workers for Obama, people right up our emotional alley. That over there to the left is a picture of our encampment. Sea Wall / Sand Castle designed and constructed by Ken, to save us all from the waxing surf.

Makin' friends - as I posted before, it's a process. It's why we miss home, Seattle, so much - all those people who know us, who have known us for years and years, who showed up to birthday parties and Solstice parties and who opened their doors to us on Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter and summer picnic gatherings.

We miss them. We miss YOU - since you're probably the ones reading this.

And now we are here, in the southern corner of the United States, and we're trying to make new friends.

And Kenny & I reverb back to adolescence, wondering Will They Like Us, Are We Weird, and sometimes (frequently) end up staying home with our heads under the covers. Which we can easily disguise as Playing Fort With Finn.

But today, I think, we are going to be brave. We're goin' to the party. Or at least we're gonna try.
Deep breath.

Wish us luck.






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Reprieve...

The job is not there, the one he was going away to do. My husband is staying here, at least for now.

He may travel north, to help another friend, soon - and I hope that he will, that he does, I hope this for him.

And I feel a little, tiny bit guilty. Because truth be told, I was silently screaming to the heavens:

"DO NOT LET HIM GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

I was afraid. Afraid of being the ONE, single parenting, and afraid on a superstitious level that something BAD might happen. That he might not come back.

I was afraid of a lifetime of single parenting. And I was afraid of losing him. And I was just plain afraid of the inconvenience and stress and all of that, of driving Finn to and from preschool and working and hiring babysitters and and and blah blah blah...

the hamster-circle of worry.

And now I don't have to. He's staying here, with us.

For a little while, anyway. Yeah, maybe he'll go up soon, to help Bret on the big paint job. And I'll be okay with it then. Really, I will. I promise. I won't scream silent prayers for divine interference, for adjustments in the cosmos that allow him to stay here. With us.

My husband. My bipolar bear.

He sits outside in the sun right now, talking to his friend. Sounding remarkably mature, calm, spiritually fit, loving.

Will he sound like that when he comes inside? I doubt it. Maybe he'll surprise me. But I seem to get the wounded, snarling side more often. I don't know why.

Have you ever felt that? Have you ever been that?

What side of me do I give him, I wonder...





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Single parenting... Survival... Holy crap.

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I have an active imagination. Ever since I was small, I have imagined terror and trouble, just to see what I would do...

8 years old, in church: "If TIGERS escape and come in here, in church, how will I escape? Could I climb up the altar? Could I then jump to the lights? Could I hang there until rescue came?"

Another scenario, albeit a similar one: "If a FLOOD came into church, how will I escape?" etc....

Sometimes even moral implications and consequences would enter my pondering:

"What will happen to my family? Will I save them? Will I even try? Or will I just scramble to my own safety?"

It would while the hours of mass away. Which was essential, considering I went to mass six days a week.

My penchant for bad fantasies has stayed with me all my life. I once read an interview with Mary Steenburgen, where she said she used to think she was insane, because she daydreamed about horrible things happening to her and her family. Then, when she was studying Meisner (an acting technique), she realized she was just an actor.

Lately, since I got married, my fantasies have primarily been about my husband leaving my life. Never, ever my son leaving my life - there I do not wander. Ever. Some places are unimaginable, even for bad fantasy time.

But my husband - he leaves a number of ways. Sometimes he dies. A pleasant, peaceful death, that's over before he or anyone knows it. Sometimes he just disappears. Sometimes I leave him.

No matter how he goes, the fantasy is pretty much the same - I grieve and grow wise through my grieving, maybe I even write a book about it, and I become a noble, wise, spunky single parent. I am Finn's friend, his mommy and his daddy. Somehow, inexplicably, I am 35 again. We explore the world, I make lots of money (somehow), I buy a little home for us (huh?), and eventually I meet my soulmate who becomes the best second dad for Finn that you could ever imagine - a sweet, calm, quiet, giving, smart, generous, patient, saintly kind-of-fellow, a guy who's a world away in temperament from my current bipolar bear.

and I drift off to sleep thinking - "Yeah. I will survive...hey, hey..." as Gloria Gaynor echoes in my head.

And now - NOW. Oh Good Lord, NOW - I am going to get to actually practice.

My husband is leaving.

Not for good, and not for bad. Actually - let me be clear with my language.

He is leaving FOR GOOD. He's leaving to go back to Seattle to work with old friends, and make a lot of money for us, his family, and regain a bit of his soul, hopefully. And then he is coming back here, to us, in San Diego. (note - I did not say "home." Since none of us are at all sure where that is.)

He is coming back. That's the plan. After a MONTH. FOUR WEEKS.

I work. I work full-time, at a job that will grow increasingly demanding over the next four weeks. There are many graces - we are an office of women, half of us mothers, and I am the boss of me. There is no one to hover or disapprove. I can bring Finn, I can leave early to get him from daycare, I can do many things -

and I have daycare, thankfully, at Finn's beloved preschool. I don't know if he'll love daycare as much as school, but it's in the same place - that has to count for something in his affections. I hope.

And I can ask for babysitting. I have one person I can ask. Maybe I'll find more.

It's just that I will be the ONE. I will be the ONE who drives him to school, goes to work, then picks him up from school; the ONE who takes him grocery shopping to the park and on errands and the ONE who makes his breakfast and dinner and the ONE who brushes his teeth and puts him to bed - I will be the ONE doing this, while at work I will be the ONE artistic directing the whole shebang.

I am terrified. I suspect that I will not be noble, or wise. I'm pretty certain that I will not wake up and find myself 35 again. I'm afraid of the new map of furrows that will arise on my already weary face. And I know, in my heart, that I may shriek more than I laugh.

Now, without being the ONE, I barely keep my head above water. I paddle along, breathing hard, until I fall into bed at night. How will I paddle for two?

My only consolation is that I will be alone, after Finn goes to sleep. I will not have my husband here to help (him helping me) - but I will also not have my husband here to help (me helping him). I'll be alone - and that may be a blessing. His troubles brew large, much of the time. He takes up a lot of psychic space, my bipolar bear.

So maybe the respite from his worries will compensate, a bit, for being Finn's ONE.

Or maybe I'll just die.

Mary Steenburgen would understand.

I Am Special

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Sorry, friends - time just flew.

Some gorgeous firsts this week - Finn's FIRST Homework!! We had to answer questions and print up family pictures for a book he's making at preschool.

A book called "I Am Special."

He is. And so are you. Think, for just one moment, of what makes you truly unique. What makes You, You.

I think it might just be the people who love you. And the light you shine on their lives.

We all have that. Now we all just need to remember it.

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Okay. Okay. I'll try to be happy for a moment or two.

I am in distinct danger of becoming obsessed with the coming election. I want to be obsessed in a GOOD and positive way - taking action, calling folks, talking to people and campaigning joyfully for Obama/Biden.

But I'm not exactly doing that. I'm trying - but when I am honest with myself I'm spending more time searching the Internet for horrible, horrible things about S. Palin. It's not hard to find them. I just like to search, and then read them, with a growing sense of doom and disgust, wearing my most appalled face. I can actually feel it as I write, that tightening of my diaphragm and curling of my lip.

It is very visceral.

And maybe just a little bit habit-forming.

I wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, I could think about something else for a while...

McFailin', McPain, Mc I Cannot Allow These Two People In The White House

"Citizen Maria, awake!!

What are you gonna do, to make sure Barack Obama and Joe Biden get elected in November?"

asks my civic conscience, which is still cringing a bit at the fact that I did not write a single letter of protest when Bush/Cheney stole the White House right out from under us via crooked dirty tricks in Florida oh-so-many years ago.

My answer: I'm posting whatever I can find on Facebook and sending on to all I think will read it. I wrote my check to Obama and will write more as soon as I can. And I'm signing up to volunteer, and I'm emailing everyone I can think of --

including the Obama/Biden campaign. Those emails request that they stop being nice and start fighting HARD against the lying, scheming, grotesque Republican machine. They say -

Hey! Why did MSNBC pull Olbermann and Matthews off the air? And what are you going to do about it? I sure as hell hope you are going to TALK about it, LOUDLY, and cry fowl!!!!

We can't be nice. Respectful, yes - but not nice, not in any way whatsoever.

I don't give a shit about John McCain's time in Vietnam, not compared to the disastrous time millions of Americans now face if he becomes President.

And as for her - don't get me started. I might never stop.

So, please, join me - volunteer, give, write, call, and VOTE. And get everyone you meet to VOTE. We have to save our country.

OMG... Two Days In A Row?

And.... "OMG"? Did I really just write that?

I've entered the texting universe. I was at a work meeting yesterday with some younger folks, talking about scheduling things, and asked if I could email them some information. They looked at me kind of blankly. I pressed on, asking "Is that okay? Do you check email?" And they somewhat sheepishly said, "Well. Not really. We text."

So I guess maybe I will, too.

But that's a sidenote, a small tangent of sorts. It's not why I wanted to post. I came here this morning because I woke up wanting to write, talked myself out of it, glanced at my email, looked at my Facebook, thought Oh, what the hell, I'll look at my blog - and my friend Lisette had posted a comment. And that felt so good... to have been read. To have been heard.

I woke up with ENVY this morning.

That's what I was gonna write about.

I hate ENVY. It is my least favorite feeling, and one that plagued me through my 20's, and sometimes it comes back to visit.

It is enervating - is that the right word? It Takes my Energy, is what I'm trying to say. I leave myself, my world, my son, my husband, my life, to think about Someone Else's Life and long for it.

I was beginning to berate myself for my ENVY, labeling it a character defect or a sin or what-label-have-you, and then a quieter voice spoke up -

"What is your ENVY trying to teach you?"

And whoa. Quiet thunderclap. Of course - I envy because I long for something I think I want, I think I don't have - and maybe those thoughts are true.

I am missing something in my life. Something I want.

It might be dressed up in different colors, and maybe I don't ACTUALLY want to travel the world performing like Mike Daisey and Jean-Michele Gregory (although I do, kinda), and maybe I don't ACTUALLY want to be a surfing Life Coach living at Half Moon Bay like my friend Corrine (although I do, sorta) -

Whatever the exterior activities look like, I realize that I DO want, DO long for Creativity. I want to write and perform again. I long for new experiences, for travel. I long for independence, for self-employment freedom, for MORE FUN.

I have a really good gig. I must admit that. I have a job in the arts. I get to be relatively creative. I am relatively well paid.

But I'm not on stage. I'm struggling spiritually. I'm sliding sideways into dangerous habits of escapism, which I know from long experience means I'm ignoring some real need inside. And if I keep longing for escape, sooner or later I'll take a possibly dangerous step in a likely dangerous direction.

So, this morning, at least, I decided to write.

And now, on a hot Saturday, I'll go be a mom. Finn, my 4 year old son, has our whole day planned. We'll go to:

Mommy & Me Ballet class (us in our sweats with a handful of little girls in pink tutus with their moms in nice exercise clothes);
Starbucks (for our snack/treat)
The Model Train Museum in Balboa Park (to which we MUST ride the Park Trolley), then we'll
Walk Over the Bridge to the Cactus Garden, then we'll
Go to the Rose Garden, then we'll
Go to Another Park

And that will be my Saturday.

Not bad. Not bad.

A Year? Unbelievable

I had such good intentions.

I was gonna write every day, or at least some days...

...describe my journey, join the blogosphere, have lotsa readers, touch lives, be known, be read, be wildly successful, whatever that looks like.

And I never came back here to write. Not until now, nearly ONE YEAR to the day of that first post.

I did write. Just not here - I wrote, as I have all my life, in scrawled journals. And in emails. But did not write all that much, I guess. I kinda shut down.

I shut down to survive.

It turns out Moving is Hard. Moving can Suck.

Moving means you might end up in an apartment with shared walls and an drunken neighbor who falls asleep with two TVs BLARING (one tuned to ESPN and the other channeling porn) while your new city bursts into flame and your new co-workers confess they work 50 to 60 hours a week (but didn't think to tell you that when you interviewed) and your not-new husband had a brand-new kind of breakdown. Moving means you have to find a lawyer to break a lease and then find a new home and learn how to set boundaries at work in a brand-new way and figure out exactly what the "for worse" part of the marriage vow means. Moving means you have to make new friends and Moving means you realize that is much different in the decade of 40 and the decade of parenting than it was in the decades of 20 & 30 and "I'm in theatre so let's be friends and do a Play!" Moving means your son might not have anyone at his 4th birthday party except his mom and dad, instead of the 30+ entourage of friends and family who attended his first 3 extravaganzas.

Moving brought me closer to despair than I've been in many, many years, and nearly a year later I am not entirely sure we're out of the woods.

So maybe I'll write some more on here soon. I'm not done Moving yet, that I know.