Luna's Baublebilities

Or was, this morning.

Sometimes I feel like Cassandra, walking about my little kingdom here admonishing everyone that things are out of control and getting dangerous and being completely ineffective at establishing any sort of balance or formulating a plan for damage control. My concerns go unheeded by everyone (including myself) until things go up in flames. In our family's case, going up in flames means that mom has a major hormonal/insomniac meltdown and poor Bryan has to pick up the pieces.

He has gotten quite good at that in the course of 18 years and we've almost erradicated these temporary tragedies completely. They do still sneak up on us and sometimes, they are even good for both of us, in a slash and burn sort of way. But if you have never been an estrogen dominant, insomniac woman who is hard wired and well trained in the art of extreme anxiety, you have no idea how terrifying and painful those little apocalypses are. The fact that I am still alive today is a testament to both Bryan's skill at soothing crazy people and my stubborn determination to stick it out in this life.

This morning's episode was definitely a result of losing lots of sleep over Maxx's asthma issues since late June (and probably some post-traumatic fall out from the ER visit) added to the stress of the housing situation, added to the stress of running a small business, added to the stress of not having enough Studio space or time (I thought I would have Running Water by now!) added to the stress that a Branch President's family is just always under, added to a lack of exercise, added to sadness that one of our favorite familes is moving away, added to the disappointment that summer is about half over and we just really aren't having any fun. Or at least, I'm not. (Big sigh.)

But now the field is burned, the sun is shining, I've got some new endorphins runnning in my blood from my early morning snot and tears treatment and I don't feel so angry and hopeless anymore. Life is just a whole lot bigger than me. I've got to expect to get flattened sometimes.

Here's a poem that I started over 4 years ago. It is loosely addressed to one of the women who trained me so well in the art of extreme anxiety - my maternal grandmother who, in spite of experiencing more misery in her life than I believe I could withstand, kicked back at death for over 13 years in a nursing home. It lacked a title until this morning

Troy is Burning
Virginia Burnett

The woman behind the counter looked at your photograph,
back at me.
"Is this you?" she asked.

Now my hand moves hopelessly against my forehead.
This curve under my palm is the same
as that which once held your smile.
These are connections deeper than blood
in the lines of our hands and the brown of our eyes,
the spaces between our synapses
and the delicate coil of our DNA.

We belong to our daughters
and to their daughters;
generations new and unborn.
I panfully, gracelessly keep this writhing darkness
safely sealed within my veins;
How is it that I may rip this web & mar this pattern,
when you, for so long, labored to keep it whole?







. . . .