[This is mostly thinking out loud; you’ve been warned.]
In a couple of hours Beth and I are heading down to Black Sheep Gathering, and we’re looking forward to that. Historically, this has been a day during which we honor both Frigga and Poseidon, as well as others, because: sheep and fiber and fiber arts! This year the day has arrived and we’re both sort of meh? about it, and it’s quickly pointed out to me that we’re staring down at the one month mark from having Grim put to sleep.
It’s only been one month. Four weeks. Those words, taken together, do not make any logical sense.
We both have a tendency to pull back when we’re grieving. Not from our immediate Family, but from the others? Yes. So, while we are sharing our grief with Odin and Poseidon, and we’re sharing our mourning with our immediate mortal kin, we are neither of us all that interested/motivate or even expected to reach out to those who are not Odin or Poseidon. We’re only even really going in the first place on the off chance that there’ll be a fleece or some such that Beth might really, really want, and to pick up some roving and just get out of the house for a bit.
Wrote yesterday, six handwritten pages on Marriage of Land and Sea. My seekrit at the moment is: I’m bored with this story. I’m bored writing fiction. Chances are this is really further extension of the grief, but I a little bit am chaffing at the Story Subscription thing I’ve got going. I’m not going to stop until this book is finished, and really, I say I’m bored with it, but I got a good handle on the current chapter (I’ve re-written chapter 9 more times than I’d like to admit), and I worked in solutions to a Major Thing I completely mentioned once and then neglected to touch at all, and I have the set up for the beginning of the next book, and a decent grasp on the final book. I’ve been fighting how the building of the story wants to be (Two POVS for book 1, four for 2, six for 3) but I’m done fighting how the story wants to be. So, I guess I’m not bored. I’m frustrated that there isn’t more time. I’m back up to working 40 hours a week, and it’s silly the difference those 5 hours make, and there’s more writing I want to do. There’s a nonfiction paper that I’m pulling research in to tackle, and there’s another compiling/editing/gathering/sort of writing project that is in its gestation period. Why do I have to go to a job? There’s too much writing to do!!
We’re not special. I’m holding that close these days, closer than I have been. It’s my lifeline. It keeps me sane.
There’s a lot of snuggling going on still. Zerk keens, at least once a day, and then collapses against me as I hold him and we mourn together. It’s a distinctive cry that he only developed in the last month. He doesn’t purr loudly like he used to. He breaks my heart.
Neech seeks out “bathing” more often than he has since he was a kitten. We snuggle and he washes my hands, my face, and I pet him vigorously and I lip at his fur and tug lightly, and he settle down for a nap and we hold hands.
I caught Lu bathing Zerk yesterday, which I’d never seen her do before. We’re all okay, but barely just.
And there’s a spirit cat walking around and making things happen and it’s so hard, so weird, to have him be so present and yet to feel this ache.
Okay. Not so random, but still a babble. . .