Where is the tension, here? I wonder. In a story, there is always tension. There has to be tension—between characters, within a character, in the setting.
Oh yeah, I already answered that one.
Just a moment prior (and a few before that one) I had loosened the grip on my cup of tea—cup of tea and not coffee because we are dealing with minor illnesses, in the Scott House.
The tension is in my hands.
The house is quiet, in the absence of my littles.1
I’ve been struck with decision fatigue this week, a long week. Not bad—that was last week. But long. I mistook Tuesday for Wednesday and by Wednesday, I had reached my decision-making quota, and lied down.
But I am a Mama. No sooner had I settled into a quiet minute to myself, Jay having taken the kids outdoors, one came crawling back—dear Q, she had an earache.
Sigh.
Toward her pain, I was not as compassionate as I ought to have been. Had I mention it had been a long week for me? I reminded Jay of this, when he got frustrated with me later that evening, and we decided to give each other, everyone, grace.
But now—I’m getting what I asked for.
And—I’m just sitting.
Tea in hand.
Curtains open to the light.
Rocking gently, in my rocking chair.
But—the tension. In the absence of outer chaos, it rises where it has been lying in wait. In my fingers—I’ve got an overgrip on this teacup which, regardless, is not going anywhere. In my eyes—squinting at the light, creases forming ridges over my forehead, my eyebrows taunt in a consternation I did not know was there. In my jaw—threatening to put an early end to my molars.
So I rock. In silence, I rock, in my rocking chair. Leaning my head against the brittle wood. I let the gentle, less-than-an-inch-in-breadth movement, ease me.
I feel it softening the ridges of my brain, where I hold so many things.
How about you? Any moments of quiet lately? Any tension you’re having trouble releasing—or even realizing?
I’ve also been:
Reading
a little of this, a little of that, as I normally do. Finishing up The Periodic Table by Primo Levi, slogging through the middle grind of Annie Dillard’s The Living, alongside various poetry.
Listening
to Joe Pug; thanks to the playlist Anneliese Roberts shared on her Sub, Writing While Washing, I found this picker who sounds like Bob Dylan, without trying to be him. Gold, in my opinion.
Making,
as it happens, more headbands for Mom. She and Dad trekked to Columbus last weekend and found more fabric for me to wield into faux-turban bands to adorn her chemo caps. Also, stilling working on my scarfette, which I started last week.
Here’s to all the sick people, in any way, and everywhere:
May we be well.
See you soon.
C
who are spending some much-needed (for-all-of-us) time with Lolli. THANK YOU, Lolli!
I’m glad we’re all working on giving grace to others and ourselves. May that never end!