been on a golden hour owling binge, what can i say? been out there three nights in a row. the first night we saw the owl, i had my camera settings all messed up and i was too busy screaming and happy cursing to get any good photos. but at least my friends M and T and Clyde were there with me to witness the magic.
trying to learn to BE in my body whilst seeing an owl. and it seems to be getting better. here are some of the best shots from the past few nights. i might go again tonight. there is simply no such thing as too much barn owl in my life.
it’s me again. i’m sitting here in the dark. again. hello.
i’m wondering. do you ever sometimes just completely forget who you are? even though you’ve known yourself, like, forever? even though you’ve trialed and tribulated on that personage for several decades?
for example, after finishing lunch with my mom today, i ordered a GIANT, iced black coffee and promptly sucked it down through a straw. me. the wimp who only drinks decaf coffee BECAUSE I CAN’T HANDLE COFFEE CAFFEINE. what was I thinking? i can’t drink coffee. especially not midday for chrissakes. how could i forget this? after making this mistake so many times before? after knowing myself jittering and bumping on coffee all too well?
looking back, i think it was simply because the server offered it up in such a tasty after-lunch way. he made it sound like dessert. and it made me forget. just like that. frickin’ crafty hypnotist waiters …
let’s just say my coworkers got A LOT of “great ideas” in their email boxes after that. sigh.
i don’t know what happened. i just forgot who i was for a minute. or i just wanted to be that girl who can suck down coffee and be like a normal person after that. as if.
the urge, that pesky creative one, is really nagging at me. i can feel it, taste it, the weight of it is an extra heavy thing to carry. it’s an itch i can’t seem to scratch. unable to find my writing groove. reading more of what i want to read isn’t catching my ass on fire. the photographs i take look like the same old photographs i’ve always taken. i’ve even been considering setting up a tiny painting studio in my office — even though i can’t paint a lick. can’t tell it to go the eff away. tried that too. ed jokingly suggested taking up scrapbooking because he knows he can’t really help me find the thing that’s going to fill that gaping hole right now. i know that, but i still look to him with big sad eyes and beg for help.
maybe it’s hormones, i like to think. i’m finally making my descent into becoming that unsatisfiable old lady i always knew i’d be. maybe it’s early onset empty nest syndrome, i wonder. the boys are getting bigger, needing me less, heading out into lives of their own, just like i always wanted. good god, i need to get a life that’s all my own, i whine. i am dyyyyyying, i moan. there really must be a better way. surely i’m thinking too much. doing too little. but it does’t feel like that at all. it feels like i can’t … do … anything and so i mentally beat myself to a pulp about it.
but here’s a thought — and it’s a good, tough one that goes against everything i actually feel — maybe i just need to feel this. maybe i don’t suck because i can’t figure it out right now. maybe i’m not a horrible writer because i’m not writing miraculous prose just like that. maybe figuring it out is the thing i need. figuring it out or learning to sit with it, feel it. endure the discomfort because something it happening, changing, percolating, about to be revealed. maybe i don’t have to think of my insatiable urge as suffering (even if it sure as hell feels like suffering). maybe change and new paths are hard to find and perhaps that’s okay.
i am alive and full of creative energy and i want more. there are many worse things than that.