I have eaten so poorly that despite feeling as though eating precisely as I desire is the only release I have these days, I noted it.
Oh. I need to work on the story. I need to not slide into rubbery, gloopy slop. I am pretty negative. It may be time for more Malibu, but not until we get our ass in gear and finish this.
Is this right? Is this right? I don’t know and yet, I am capable of doing it.
The women are kind. All are intense. All are cleaners, organizers. All are mothers. All are people who know things like how to tie scarves and not to wear black at the end of May. They know how how to greet and engage and they look at a room and can instantly see the slightest angle of disarray in it. They feel discomfort at disorder. They like to be busy, not to linger, not to dwell. Boxes in closets that are not being used make them crazy. They share their chocolates, they drink Omega-3 chia seed sludge, they compliment as a matter of course. There’s not a breath of a facade about it. They point out spots on you with the assumption that you would want to correct an imperfection immediately if it were correctable. They know to watch for children’s grubby hands on glass cases. They know how to greet mothers of children, the children themselves, with an air of authority. They do not mind leaning in and telling about how the sizing goes, or where the jewelry comes from…they know and they assume you, as a seeker, as a pilgrim in their holy land, want the mysteries illuminated. Me, the new boss at the old job came in and I wandered to hide in the back. My other boss texted and I did what I could to help, but I think it was later than it needed to be to be helpful. These dance between my ears as failures.
I have been among more people over these past two days than I have in a month at the other “official” job. three months, perhaps. Yet, right now, in this long dark, I feel profoundly lonely. Like my sweet Amelia, who sails in the Mediterranean Sea and travels over Capri all alone. Who comports herself as a single unit, cast off from any and all others who might claim her. Surely she must ache every now and again for someone to confirm the water is really as blue as it looks. To have to trust your own truth in every moment is a terrible burden. Would that I might fall into solipsism!
I feel as though I might have pulled myself loose in the bonds of one captor, only to have wrapped a cord around my ankle from another.
Where am I suited to be and why can’t I get there and stay?
Tomorrow, back to the little shop, though I will see my mentor, and then 2 days where I belong to no one at all. For better or worse.