Finally, Some Work

It's been a kinda tough week around here. I ran out of my Zoloft prescription last week on Thursday, and what with one thing and another didn't make the long drive to town until Saturday morning, only to find the pharmacy closed, even though the sign and the automatic refill answering machine said they'd be open. So I assumed they'd be closed on Sunday, too, and didn't get my medication until Monday morning. By that time I was not functioning all that well. I boo-hooed at least three times Monday morning alone.

But I'm feeling better now and actually got out in the studio to play. The little portrait is an experiment and not finished, and the postcard is just one in a long line of, well, postcards.

No Name

I'm stumped on the name for this one. I think my brain's just not working right...

I'm smiling as I write this, so obviously the dark cloud is lifting a little bit. I took Pissed Off Housewife's advice this morning, and I'm trying to collage my way to calm (although I suppose I could try to collage my way to clam, as I typed the first time).

Some Thoughts, If I Had Any

This may be one of those TMI posts, so if you're not interested or sympathetic, perhaps you ought to go somewhere happier. It seems to me that the last couple of months have been unusually turbulent around here, in every way imaginable. And I think I'm finally starting to crack.

On Saturday I scared everyone in my family with my anger, which included pointing out to the eleven-year old girl that "if you're hurt enough to lie in the middle of the basketball court crying and then come out of the game, then you're too hurt to play anymore--okay, you're hurt. You're crying. Dammit, get up and keep going." And though I've mellowed a bit since Saturday I can tell I'm not functioning at the same level of sanity that I was three months ago.

The question is really WHY? I need reasons. Is it the beginning of menopause (I'm 43) messing with the perfect balance of Zoloft in my system? Or is it just the worries about money and the challenge of having a thirteen-year old boy in the house? Am I finally cracking under the strain of being on the school board? Are my concerns about inept teachers just too much for me? Enquiring minds WANT TO KNOW.

Science Fair at the Memorial Building tonight, and Katie's project is in it. She did a great job on her experiment and I can't wait to see it. Board Meeting tomorrow night, but fairly routine agenda. One of my dear friend's mother just had a stroke, but she seems to be doing well. My kids are healthy and funny and loving and smart, my husband's terrific--but wow, am I ever wound up.

I know, I need to make some art, but I'm having trouble starting. I'm putting it off by doing anything else I can think of--yesterday I cleaned all the bookcases, for crying out loud! When I clean the house, you know I'm desperate.

Sooooo--here's a piece I just finished. I made my own handcut stamps from foam for the buildings. I was going to add some wispy words, but I think it's done. I'm going to go start cutting and pasting--I can prep canvasses and maybe that will get me going. Fingers crossed for luck...

Hmmm...

Today was a hard day. A not-good, bad-news, oh-no, why did I think I could be a mother/school board member/teacher kind of day. And maybe down the road, I'll be able to look back and say it was an important turning-point kind of day. But right now I'm just sad and overwhelmed.

Sunday Scribblings: Morning

Morning, that most precious time of day before beginning.

When I was little, my sister and our friend would take turns setting our alarms very early. The other two would tie a string to their toe and run it out the window. Whoever was up first would have to pull the string to wake the other two; then we'd grab apples and quietly leave the house, climbing on dew-damp bikes and riding off for an early morning adventure in the woods. As we rode down the empty streets the only car we ever passed was the odd person coming home from working late shift in the car factory. The face inside the car looked tired and shut down, and I didn't ever want to feel that woodenly adult.

I've never been a lay-abed in the mornings, except for the years I struggled with the never-ending postpartum depression. Those years I could hardly drag myself out of bed, and wondered, when I was awake, if I would ever be the person I'd been before, one who got up to start another wonderful day as soon as her eyes opened. I look back at those years--I've described them as three years falling down a hole--and lament all the mornings, all the moments I missed.

Of course, even though the depression's over, I'm not the person I was before--could never be her again--but I'm someone beyond her, a synthesis and result of all that's gone before--and I do wake early and climb right out of bed. If I'm lucky, I'm the first one up and I can silently make a cup of tea and sit at the kitchen table and look at the mountains or, even better, sneak out to the studio for a peaceful hour before the world awakens.