#64
It is not easy - really not easy - wrestling with the soul at this time in a life. I spent most of last night doing this and I was so tired I wasn't able to bring myself to go to school. Just years and years of fatigue it seems. I am hoping that by the time the end of Lent arrives I will feel better. I am praying, literally.
This time of the year is always hard they say. There is something about the first few weeks of spring emerging out of the dying husk of winter. The pain of awakening is also laced with confusion and anxiety. The possibility or necessity of creating anew gets more exhausting as each year passes - I have never felt so tired, never. Usually I feel fed up - but the sheer, physical inability to do anything is very frustrating. But for the grace of my friends, there would lie I.
Today I called into my mom's house. Whenever I go there, I feel held and loved. How lucky am I, to be able to have this place I can seek refuge and silence in? I have no right to feel shite, really I don't. I have so much - so much. Shut up, Stephanie.
Then I went to see a friend - Anthony who is a writer and a real activist. He has just come off an island where he is doing restoration work, planting out nettles. I have bought a book and asked him to sign it for another friend who lives in the Netherlands. We chat about everything - from the colonisation of Ireland to memories of childhood. Seeing Anthony and his wife always make me feel better.
My entire back hurts - I don't know if I should exercise more or exercise less. I am not going to complain anymore. I must think of my happy place, which is Mutiara in Indonesia. Where I go to every year and I swim in that warm, salty sea and swim all day - first thing in the morning and last thing at night. And all the times in between. I think of that place. The blues and the pinks, the skies... the gentle breezes from the ocean, the sea rising and falling and returning once again.
Tomorrow I head out to Lough Neagh to speak to some people about working with boats. It is interesting. I need to get over myself and start taking an interest in life.
The truth is that I have come to so many dead ends - I am reading about mythology and science, I am reading about activism and Earth evolution, I am doing so much work - work is never ending, never ending, the way I had always wanted it to be... but I am tired.
I am tired and I need to look after myself when I AM tired.
I just need to put one foot in front of me and just walk. Just do.
I gather my disappointments like nettles and plant them in the borders of my land. There they wait, till butterflies and corncrakes arrive, their feathery spikes, a reminder that they will inflict stings. I walk to the edge of the field and wade knee deep in them. Kneel, I am commanded, let their punishing presence remind you.
This time of the year is always hard they say. There is something about the first few weeks of spring emerging out of the dying husk of winter. The pain of awakening is also laced with confusion and anxiety. The possibility or necessity of creating anew gets more exhausting as each year passes - I have never felt so tired, never. Usually I feel fed up - but the sheer, physical inability to do anything is very frustrating. But for the grace of my friends, there would lie I.
Today I called into my mom's house. Whenever I go there, I feel held and loved. How lucky am I, to be able to have this place I can seek refuge and silence in? I have no right to feel shite, really I don't. I have so much - so much. Shut up, Stephanie.
Then I went to see a friend - Anthony who is a writer and a real activist. He has just come off an island where he is doing restoration work, planting out nettles. I have bought a book and asked him to sign it for another friend who lives in the Netherlands. We chat about everything - from the colonisation of Ireland to memories of childhood. Seeing Anthony and his wife always make me feel better.
My entire back hurts - I don't know if I should exercise more or exercise less. I am not going to complain anymore. I must think of my happy place, which is Mutiara in Indonesia. Where I go to every year and I swim in that warm, salty sea and swim all day - first thing in the morning and last thing at night. And all the times in between. I think of that place. The blues and the pinks, the skies... the gentle breezes from the ocean, the sea rising and falling and returning once again.
Tomorrow I head out to Lough Neagh to speak to some people about working with boats. It is interesting. I need to get over myself and start taking an interest in life.
The truth is that I have come to so many dead ends - I am reading about mythology and science, I am reading about activism and Earth evolution, I am doing so much work - work is never ending, never ending, the way I had always wanted it to be... but I am tired.
I am tired and I need to look after myself when I AM tired.
I just need to put one foot in front of me and just walk. Just do.
I gather my disappointments like nettles and plant them in the borders of my land. There they wait, till butterflies and corncrakes arrive, their feathery spikes, a reminder that they will inflict stings. I walk to the edge of the field and wade knee deep in them. Kneel, I am commanded, let their punishing presence remind you.
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