I dreamed last night about swimming with the walruses. They frolicked like chubby, graceful submarines, all whiskery and jolly. And I felt such joy swimming with them in the blue-black lake water.
I’ve been swirling in a slow-motion whirlpool of change and endings and too much work. School ended last week, we are saying good-bye to our church congregation–a good-bye dinner last Sunday which ended with my 10-year old sobbing into my shoulder–and just because I know how to pile it on, a garage sale this Saturday. Oh, and in exchange for only working 6 hours on Mondays and 4 hours on Tuesdays, I am now working 12 hours on Wednesdays, 10 hours of Thursdays and 9 hours on Fridays. Two of those nights end at midnight and the mornings begin at 8 a.m., so I am not just burning the candle at both ends. I am a towering inferno of exhaustion.
(So many metaphors!)
None of our kids wants to leave our church. As I mentioned, the 10-year old has been demonstrating the most grief, openly crying at the mention of leaving. One of my teenagers sat down tonight and said, “Mom, can I still go to our church? I don’t want to go to another church. I want to go to my church.” I believe this attachment is good and healthy and reasonable–none of them really know any other church–but alas, it must end.
The stress of everything has catapulted me into a frenzy of overeating. For instance, a key lime pie someone baked has been a nightly source of comfort and regret to me. Oh delicious key lime pie, why must you be so soothing and simultaneously fattening?
I hope to be here more regularly. I need to be here more regularly. Writing is good medicine for what ails. If you can’t swim with walruses, that is.