I am playing with broad stereotypes in energy — the feminine and the masculine. I know these words will be garish in time for they already feel on the outs and their ugliness is a part of their appeal.
Apart of the Appeal 🍎
Slowing the flow on the bundle of wire rushing into my office router or modem — I don't know the difference and maybe will look it up — and using that example as permission granted to recalibrate my expectations for this earthly experience, because I know I've been here more than I ever wanted to be.
I have loved a man for years now and I have *no idea* if we are a *good match*
I haven't and don't care about the out there in time and space because I love him deeply, now. I just always have. Love at first sight is a purity, so tell me if ? how ? where ? trauma bonds interconnect with pheromones, with past lives, souls, karma?
He comes from a huge family. He's been at a family wedding in a remote mountain town. Nice communication still coming through. Lots of snippets. Some are appealing and others scare me off. Many make me feel tired in my brain. Maybe more scare me off than appeal? Which is why I am here and not there; he already knew. He often knows things before my circuitous process lands me there. He thinks in the masculine's straight lines, so he knows if we *end up together* and we don't talk about it. Or better yet, he thinks in mountains — in steep ups and crash downs.
Masculine and feminine. Solar and lunar. I find these edges useful for placing myself in time and space, because this is the summer that I stopped wanting ? needing ? to clean the house. Stopped Tolerating, so what happens now? In many ways I was brought up as an indentured servant. By the time I was ten, like my eldest is now, I could care for an infant for hours and very often did. I could clean the entire home and had to endlessly. It was my job to iron my father's work shirts with heavy starch. I set the table to clear the table and packed all the lunches the night before. Pack the espresso into the Italian moka pot with the backside of a spoon and turn on the small back gas burner. Wait for the percolation to begin. Wait for the sound to stop. Burner off and pour it into the brown espresso cup with a matching saucer so he could escape his wife's madness and go write upstairs. An office tucked away from It all. I washed my own laundry and much of the household's. I changed the beds. I bathed the babies. As my brothers got older I always tried to answer their questions, often asked from the bath, with honesty.
This love says I talk to my boys as if they're adults.
This love only really comes clean in the bathtub. I've learned that the masculine does best without direct eye contact. Driving. Tandem bathing. Ass pressed into; arms wrapped around; bubbles and hair sudsing; strong fingers. Many long distanced live from the tub chats. Show me.
These Summer '22 heat waves flash back to lockdowns and I don't want or need to keep an outrageously clean home. My, so organized it all goes back together again with focus. But there are days of living mess left to pile on top of the messes prior. I've been unfocused on the couch for three nights now. Staycation because I cannot be bothered to hang everything up, to clear the bed enough for fresh sheets. The *dirty* sheets are now clean, hanging out in the dryer. Fluff and fold seems too much. I am labored. Put the pale blue birds away, intending to bring back the black paisleys. There's not enough energy, which is my truth. All those siblings' babies needing care up in the Alps. He says they all love being parents more than anything else. He thinks this is true. Okay then.
I teach myself everyday not to compare my life's plot to my sons' lot. I strive for age appropriate autonomy and nothing more. It's morning here and very hot. We're inside and I have the oven preheated to 350°. I've asked Ro to please take a box of frozen mini croissants and read the directions to bake them. Call us when they're ready. He seems so uncertain of this request. Why do I test? He cannot figure it out, or doesn't want to actually, so he doesn't. He's scared of the oven, scared of anything that can burn him. He leaves the little frozen croissants on top on the tray announcing he's not doing anything else. Heads back to his room. I try not to think about what would have happened if I said, No. I don't want to. Like I am now. Or maybe I should think about it? Maybe it doesn't matter anymore, like it really doesn't matter that there are clothes all over my adult bedroom and I don't mind sleeping on this really big couch. The oven timer will go off in 25 minutes. Seems like a long time for little minis to bake.
It surprises me when the timer dings and Ro comes trotting in to take them out, then asks how to set the timer for two more minutes? He's pressing lots of buttons, lots of beeping on this dinky rental stove. I get up and walk over to help him help me.
Two more minutes.
Cos mama, they're not golden brown yet like the box says they should be.
delayed gratification farm/work spring/time
Expectation determines outcome. A quantum leap is loosening the grip and trusting enough to relax into the reveal. That has to be about alchemy. I've been too busy burning up alchemizing that I'm burnt out on (house) keeping it together. Keeping this together is missing the point.
There's a pile of returns stacking up by the front door. Shockingly, it all belongs to my mother. Now who saw that one coming?
*I do. We are / and are not \ because he's my cosmic nudge >>
Labels: Adult, coffee, It
