It’s been a difficult week. Is that even a thing to say anymore? I guess I’m trying to mark weeks as more or less difficult in some attempt at marking time.
I thought every day last week was Friday, and I don’t even know what Friday means anymore. So how can something feel like a day I cannot define? That’s like love, right? People have a difficult time defining love, but they still say, I love you.
Maybe no need to get into the details here – I’m sure so many have equivalent lists:
1) several deaths close to home
2) the furnace broke again, in the middle of the night
3) leaking radiators means loss of sleep during the only time I get to sleep, that is, when both of my kids are asleep
4) what is daycare? They were part of our family. It’s another piece of family to let go of right now.
5) My daughter turned one. That brought feelings of joy but also just feelings, and lots of them.
6) I’m missing some things. My brain can’t hold it all right now.
How I measure my days: I have one consistent ritual. I make a daily soy mocha with the espresso machine we are lucky to have in our house. This takes a certain amount of time: grind the beans, heat the water, melt the chocolate, run the espresso, foam the milk. And then I need to clean the machine. It’s a process, with steps, and I know that I will get through a certain amount of time in my day, at least, if I do this one ritual. Time will move forward if I make my soy mocha. It means a huge deal to me.
My skin looks like shit. Too much caffeine. Too bad. The ritual is keeping me alive, and it’s a substitute for a daily afternoon cocktail. Life is a matter of relativity, now more than ever.