I seem to be out of sync with the universe. In the last forty-eight hours I’ve managed to back my car into the gate, twist my ankle in the local playground, bruise my hip on the kitchen bench-top and receive a parking ticket. [Insert expletive] Bye-bye wing mirror, a little pride and a whole chunk of change.
Do you ever feel as though you’re constantly bumping into walls or tripping over yourself? That you’re just not in harmony?
I probably shouldn’t read into it too much. We moved into our new house this week, so life has been a bit chaotic, boxes all over the show and I’m still not used to where bench-tops and gates are. On top of that, B2 has decided it’s the perfect time to get more teeth, so sleep has been broken. Oh, and I found a pair of glasses I’d previously packed, tried them on last night and I think I might actually need to wear them. Like my optometrist recommended. When I’m driving, for example…
So those are the obvious and practical reasons for being out of sorts; to be expected really. But I prefer to over-analyse. Usually I’m okay with a little disorder and I can handle bumps and bruises, but lately I’ve been so enraged about every single knock. I’ve been taking it so fist-shaking-ly personally; which is not like me. My theory is that the reason I’m off my game is because I’m not writing. It’s driving me bananas. I have a book idea inside my head that is restless and urgent. If I don’t start writing it soon I think I might explode.
And the thing about writing? For me? Is that despite it being challenging and at times maddening – it makes me feel like myself. I thought that when I found the right work it would feel like a tropical holiday; that it would be relaxing and easy. Nuh-uh. It’s not easy but it does makes me feel like me. So when I’m not writing I just don’t feel right. It’s a blessing and a curse to know what’s wrong and how to fix it because sometimes it’s just not possible to put the cure to work. Like when you’re moving house and you have two little people to look after and a partner neck deep in a new job.
So, what to do with my grumpy, battered self? The not-feeling-at-all-like-myself-and-peeved-about-it self? Avoid my battered car for a start. Opt for taking the stroller instead. Step past the child having a tantrum (it’s not my fault, she’s three, she just needs to work through it). Move around the kitchen bench-top instead of trying to walk through it. Pack a bag of food, a picnic blanket with a waterproof underside, hats, jackets and paper towels. Stroll through the fading afternoon light to our local beach. Although the saying makes no sense – breathe in the view. Ahhhh. Can you taste the salt in the air?
This winter picnic dinner made my week. It reminded me that life is really not that bad, that my problems are (very) ‘first world’, that this too shall pass – both the not being able to write and the times when B1 reverse parks herself into my lap and insists on laying her head against me. These are sweet moments, even if they’re not absolutely perfect, and deserve savouring too.
Our Enid Byton-esque Picnic Contents:
Ham sandwich triangles with lots of butter
Then, when it got too dark to be outdoors, we went home for vanilla ice cream, a hot bath, brushing of teeth and straight into pyjamas.
HUGS, Hannah x
Hannah, this delightful post is a just-a-little blurry snapshot, a perfectly jagged slice of life! I hope that while your new book idea is germinating in your head, and you’ve got a house to furnish, kids to entertain, and cars to repair… you can find bits of yourself in the words you’re publishing here – I feel like I know you 🙂 🙂
Thanks Maegan! You are right – these posts are therapeutic! Besides, all of life feeds fiction – the good, the bad and….the grumpy?! 😉 Very best, Hannah x
So true about the picnic’s therapeutic qualities! Hope you get to sit down to a big fat draft very soon…