Things are hard right now.
Everyone is as well as they’ll ever be in our household, and that’s a good thing. There’s nothing really exactly *wrong*, except this fragile feeling that took up residence a few weeks ago has not left or lessened one whit. I’m clearing my calendar of any outside obligations beyond tending to my part time jobs and my day job, beyond that, my wants, because I can’t bear the pressure otherwise. I’ve picked up knitting again because that calms me and soothes me and gives me patience and a better ability to be kind, to myself and to others.
I want to bed last night begging for . . . something. I feel bereft, and I decide that that means I feel bereft of Poseidon. And, I’m not tending to my things because I’m exhausted and I want to feel carried, just a bit right now. How, when there is constant back and forth, do I convince myself that He’s distant? That it’s been ages since I felt His presence? I wanted just one small, small, obvious, anything will do, sign.
Today it’s raining. Yeah, it’s been coming for a while now. Yeah, we’re due. But it doesn’t matter. It’s helped, immensely, in not feeling bereft.
I still feel fragile. Hunt season is here, and it’s heavy as a motherfucker. The constant sense of ending, of mortality has acquired a feeling of mourning, of grieving, so that’s fun. That’s typical of this season, but adjusting to it this year is harder than it typically is.
I’m only reading the things I want to read. My prayers are simple and quiet. I’m giving up any sense of needing to “study.” We’re going to a fiber festival this weekend, and when I’m done the second sock I have to knit, I’m going to cast on my very first sweater.
I’m exhausted, and I’m fragile, so I’m retreating into His arms, and into the sanctuary of Family, where I can weather this darkness in security.