Is it Worth it?

Winding down from a ballet fundraiser I put pen to paper. Typically I don’t love writing that way, but the practice may be shifting. The journal feels easier to put down and pick back up again. It feels more available to interruption which suits my lifestyle.

I miss typing. I love the clicking sound and skin brushing against the keys. They don’t teach the kids home row anymore. They’re astonished at my speed. I am grateful for spell check. I digress …

It is worth it? The things we carry invisibly? The choice we make to do something else besides what’s in the home because when we come home repercussions reverberate.

We are alchemists. We make bodies from scratch. We force beauty where there was none. We heal souls and dry tears. We are women. My shoulders shrug at such miracles, but of course.

We double our work when we live outside. It flips my skin. I feel too thin. I melt into easily provoked frustration. I hated every second. It was nothing I wanted. Why am I lit up?

Was it worth it?

The weary never rest. This, this is rest. My pen gliding along paper. Thought shifting to ideas not yet revelation but moving closer.

I resent my role as maid. The endless monotony of nothing ever staying put. I long to be a monk peeling potatoes. He made his work holy. He also got to sit.

I met a woman. Her name is Dee. She was a ballerina. She must be 20 years my senior. We spoke as ballerinas. I wish she lived near me. She is from upstate New York. I imagine the lunches we’d have together. Maybe we’d see a show.

Every inch of my counter is covered in filth. Flour, wrapping paper, saran wrap, yeast; the carnage of bake sale goods. It will take exactly 90 minutes to clean. It took two days to get that way.

It doesn’t seem like it was worth it.

Someone said to someone else.

Her shirt rolls up like Winnie the Pooh. Sharpie scribbles cover her hands, shins, and feet. I hold her little hand. My joy, my little darling’s neglect on full display.

Hollowed out, empty, gross, embarrassed, ashamed, mother, woman, monster, human, destroyer, creator. Why must it be either bird caged or flying free. Can’t the little yellow bird feel both? Be both? Inside. Outside. Outside. Inside. Isn’t she enough to be both in every moment all the time?

Of course little bird. Of course. But never if ever can she be at once.

Because I can’t keep it to myself.

Delivered every Sunday.