Post Parting Regression

It would take at least a week of solitude to fall into myself again.  But I only have until Monday.  Today is Saturday. 

When did I lose the ability to think, to follow a thought thread to a conclusion or at least an opinion?  I think in thought bytes.  Nothing more substantial than a quick acknowledgement of 'Oh, that might be important!' before moving on to the next ephemera.  I'm one of those multi-taskers that multi-task themselves right out of the ability to stop and think.  I equate busyness with meaning when busyness is keeping idle hands and idle minds occupied so I don't have to confront the emptiness and fear and shame which knocks at my idle mind. 

And I'm so damned hard on myself.  I'm going on 60 and I'm still flogging myself daily for not having a perfect body.  Isn't that nuts?  When will I let all that crap go?  I exercise 2 hours a day (1 hour yoga, 1 hour walking) and enjoy the benefits of health and flexibility yet what I really want is physical perfection. 

It is breathtakingly sad.

Yesterday I dug out my huge art book in which I've stored all my loose drawings, paintings and sketches that aren't framed and hanging on the walls (the grandkids counted 51 pictures on the wall, most of which is my stuff).   Anyway, I was surprised and pleased by the amount and variety and yes, talent displayed in these works.  Not all were good, some were, many more weren't, but they were mine, they were individual and creative.  And numerous!  I have a serious body of work developing.  Won't matter one whit after I'm gone.  I'm no Grandma Moses, discovered and made famous in her dotage.  (But I'm vain enough to want to be).  The importance is in the doing.  I've always said that.  But do I believe it?

Or is my real worth to be measured in my ability to be unselfish and care for Richard?  I blame him for part of my inability to settle.  I listen now.  Since he fainted all those months ago and was carted off to hospital in an ambulance, I listen.  Part of me has become a sentinel, watching for the Enemy.  Of course it's not his fault and he doesn't know that part of me is always at attention. 

So while he is away for a few days I try and discover myself again.  Try and quit flicking between windows (just read about Clementine Hunter, a poor cotton picking black woman from Louisiana who taught herself to paint), try and be a bit more forgiving of myself for my imperfections. 

And try and start another painting before he gets home.  Drawing is more calming than meditation.  I find like repetitive detail, something to lose myself in.  Something to fall into while I'm alone.