It is still winter here. It feels as if my extremities will never be warm again. BUT.. there is this, one of my favorite poems about one of my favorite things:

Ode to My Socks - Pablo Neruda

Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.

Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.

The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.

Belly Rubs for Everyone!

It is Saturday. By some calendars, it is the end of the week, and by others, it is the beginning, and then again by others, it is just another day.  To me, these days, it is the day when I think about what I would like to happen in the week ahead.

And I recently read this post, by the most awesome Havi Brooks. And this is the big thing I would like to do this week: I would like to MEET every one/every feeling/every thing, instead of FACING them. Because I agree that there is a big difference. And I LOVE this idea of belly rubs for my fears/friends/everyone, because it feels so cozy and loving and also reminds me of how we are all vulnerable and have soft bellies.

SO. This week:
- Meeting things instead of facing them. (Particularly remembering that belly rubs are remarkably effective.)
- Warmth (it is horrifically cold this week here in New England. Perhaps in the form of baths....)
-  Not feeling guilty about eating other people's food. (This is both a literal goal and a metaphor of sorts.)

And thank you. Remembering thank you. Lillie is really good at thank you. But that's sort of a constant goal, right?

Welcome Back to Where I've Never Been

It has been a long time, my friends. And this one is sort of under a certain kind of radar, if you get my drift. BUT. There are things that need discussing, and this seems a good forum in which to do so. And if it is a proverbial message in a bottle, it is nevertheless a reaching out, which is important.

I have been thinking today about frustration. And what purpose it might serve. This morning I was listening to a comedy podcast and they were making silliness of the song John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, and I, being the mother of a toddler who LOVES songs like John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, could sympathize with the jokes about how annoying that song is. Particularly when repeated, at high-volume. That is an experience one might describe as frustrating.

(It turns out, of course, that the song actually has an interesting history, at least according to the comics, that revolves around immigration in the early twentieth century and how no one could tell anyone's name apart from any other recent immigrant from the same country. Which makes intuitive sense and I like as an explanation regardless of it's veracity.)

Then there is also the frustration of unfulfilled needs, which is the one I am more concerned with today. Because, my friends, I am in possession of some information the potential response to which makes me really... mmmm, nervous? Apprehensive? Uncomfortable? Angsty?

I do not want to tell! And yet. It is FRUSTRATING to not be able to. It is definitely a deep sense of dissatisfaction in not being honest. Not feeling able to be authentically myself. And why, you may ask, why do I feel unable to be myself, to tell, to be clear? Because I do not want to hear anything in response except EXACTLY what I want to hear. I do not want to listen to anyone else's views on the subject, I do not want to corrupted by other narratives of my experience, AND  I want only to hear how fabulous I am.

(Interestingly enough I am aware that the best way to hear about how fabulous you are is to be exactly yourself and then pay no attention to the people who do not tell you you are fabulous.... but somehow this is easier said than done. And how does one manage being part of a family in that instance?)

I am thinking about it. Why is it so scary to open up? Why does that feel so challenging? I have been reading a lot on the subject in recent months, but so far I do not feel clear on WHY. I have a lot of tools to OVERCOME, and to PROCESS, and to DOCUMENT the discomfort, but WHY there is that discomfort I do not yet know. What do you think? And why should it feel so truly frustrating to not share?