It’s Easter, a day that may be named after a fertility god. That is very cool for me, since the ending of my fertility occupies much of my physical and mental time and energy. Maybe that’s why a few days ago I asked Carole to go to the attic to find the kids’ Easter stuff, which has been up there for years. I can’t remember the last time I made them a basket. I had at some point collected and saved stuff and packed it away every year and taken it out again. Their actual Easter baskets are from two centerpieces I won. When I was pregnant with Erika, I went to a wedding and won the centerpiece. That was the first time ever for me. I saved the basket and used it for her Easter basket. I thought I wouldn’t match that when I was pregnant with Nicholas, but at a Christmas party, I won the centerpiece. The only two centerpieces I have ever won.
Right now they are on the back porch so that the dog won’t molest all the stuffed bunnies, lambs and plastic eggs that were with them. Each holiday now, it strikes me that I don’t know if my kids will be with me next year. They may be, but they may not be. Each could be the last. That’s hopeful when the bleeding appears, and sad and scary when the kids appear. Though my gratitude that I have them, that all has gone fairly mostly well, way outweighs my fears and sadness, it really does. Still I have or am working on a new fertility status, a new name, a new status within my family (since the kids truly are independent now). And soon if everything goes well I will begin my second quarter century of sobriety.
Over Lent I gave up worrying about the dog. This is not a perfect giving up, since thoughts will often intrude. I guess it was more a purposeful and constant turning away from corrosive thoughts, for a set period of time, to see how that would go. When giving things up, especially thoughts and emotions, I find myself wondering how much it is good to simply move on and how much that is denial that will bite me worse later.
I’m determined to not embed videos, though much of that is not wanting to learn how. But I made myself a CD at the begnning of Lent with some inspiring (sort of) songs to listen to in the car. I included k.d. lang Season of Hollow Soul, Simple Joys and No Time At All from Pippin, Amy Grant singing I Need Thee Every Hour/Nothing But the Blood, Remember the Tinman by Tracy Chapman, and a few others.
Along with not worrying about the dog I’ve been trying to deal better with anxiety and agida at work. And always, and truly, my gratitude for my dog and my job far outweigh any bad feelings I get about either.
Not that it has anything to do with anything, but I’ve also started to crochet and unravel sweaters for yarn.
So, Easter. I don’t know about the risen Christ. I really don’t. In dark moments it all strikes me as human fear of death, plain and simple, but from what I understand, I’d be expected to think things like that, since I’m officially entering the last phase of my life in a biological way. Although it could, but probably won’t, last longer than all of my life to this point so far, still, it is the last.
Today I’ll squeeze into church resenting for a second the people who only come twice a year and clog up the place. I’ll leave early since Carole is part of the service and I’ll drive myself, so I don’t have to wait for her. I’ll pick Nicholas up and bring him home and do I don’t know what until Erika comes over and we go to a fancy and historic restaurant. This isn’t entirely new, since I did this when I first moved far, far from home, and I’ve done it some times since. A few times when Carole’s parents were very ill, it was just me and kids here, so the gathering has even been a bit smaller than today. I often go to a meeting on Sunday nights but I won’t tonight since church and dinner is enough activity for me for one day. I have to work every day this coming week, along with one late night night, but I’m not going to worry about the dog. Much.