Any Other Day
There are days when I question what it means to be truly alive. The complexity of a day that has so much potential when all I want to do is listen to music, sit beside the fire and dream.
There are days when I draw an oracle card and hope that it shows me what to do.
There are days when the watery winter sun warms my face and I think, yes. Aliveness is just this.
Sometimes there are days when writing feels like a sham, and I am fooling myself that describing myself as one is a step too far.
Sometimes I write because last night words failed me and I was cast adrift on a riverbend in a paper boat drenched with tears & bruises in my brain.
On Mondays, I wake thinking that I need to work between the hours of 9 am - 5.00 pm and realise that version of myself never existed.
On Tuesdays, I wander through the forest with the poodles and think I should be walking faster because it’s exercise, not wandering.
On Wednesdays, this afternoon I write because I’m desperate, the laundry disappears, returning smelling of hallelujah, hail marys & the promise of another day.
On Thursdays, I lie in bed and think about going cold water swimming with the local crew. I wonder if a plunge into cold water is an act of courage or a desperate move to dampen the inflammation in my body. (I don’t go)
On Fridays, I go thrift shopping because I can.
On Saturdays, I realise I am me.
On Sundays, I am prayer, wrapped up as a woman.
Any other day, other than these. I write in the hope that the sacred in the ordinary, the permission to be fully human in all its messy, beautiful complexity, is enough.
Is it?
I would love to hear from you.
Oh I always love your writing Carol - you ain't no sham girl! And yes you are a writer - a wonderful writer! Your posts are always relatable - we are so judgey on ourselves as women aren't we...(from Crete...I love it here)
beautiful.