est-il Automne?

September 06, 2013 candacemorris 0 Comments

Is this Fall, this nothing
and everything feeling, the gray
bright shadows sinking deep into the bones of my quiet house?

This morning, after I put my child down for her morning nap,
I cooked myself a big breakfast. Biscuits
Bacon, the whole lot.
I thanked Bardot and Ginger, the hens who gave me these eggs to
scramble
                even though I don't believe animals have souls to thank.
                   Sometimes I hate being pigeonholed by beliefs.  Like,
                   for instance, if you love animals but don't believe they have a soul.
                      Or if you love babies, but don't want to have any of your own
                      Or if you advocate for social healthcare but want to encourage self-reliance.



I've been told that when someone needs to imagine a face in their head telling them that it's okay to care for yourself, to be nice to yourself, to love yourself...that face is mine.  My friends regale me with the news of personal indulgences, solitude, hot baths, an extra pour of wine, asking for help, buying a new pair of shoes.  You can therefore imagine my shame when earlier this summer a new, nasty, scaring bout of self-hate made itself my companion.

I had to shop for a swim suit for camping, so I hated my body for the pregnancy.  Then I hated myself for hating the pregnancy.

I had to camp, so I hated myself for all the ways camping stretches my personality.  Then I hated my personality.

I had to be a mother to a new phase, so I resent my daughter for demanding of me, thinking that perhaps I didn't like her.  Then I hated myself with all the hate I had in my hater for disliking my daughter.  But then I knew many mothers feel this way, so I should say it for them.  Then I hated myself for saying anything at all.

I had to live with family for a few days during vacation, so I felt anxious and misunderstood.  Then I hated myself for anxiety and misunderstanding.

I had to speak of what I am learning regarding sexism, gender identification, and feminism, so I did so - loud and opinionated, like a child who yells before it can speak eloquently.  Then I hated myself for how it ostracized people, hated myself for being a feminist.

Then I hated myself for hating all these things I usually have the power to love about myself.  My body for bringing forth life and carrying me, my personality for all its strengths, my daughter for her ability to dislodge my guts, my anxiety and fear for how it introduces me to myself in new ways.

Two of my friends recently agreed that I drop wisdom bombs.  I wonder where my the ability to detonate those for myself has wandered off to.

But Fall, it demands a harvest.
I am ready, I say.
I pick up my left-handed sickle and stand attention, eager for assignment.

But it's been several hours.  No one stands with me, they've all been purposed.
Why wasn't I picked?  Everyone else has new school clothes,
fancy trapper-keepers that smell like plastic and smarts.

So what am I do to? Give myself my own Fall purpose?
I am so tired of that.

So I ask you Fall.
Are you here to stay?
Or will that late summer Sun persist in rays of hope and energy and lazy daze?
I simply don't think I could bear it.
I've always thought Rain and Thunder were better playmates anyway.

Or perhaps this question.
Should I keep buying Rosé or move to Reds?
I kinda need to know.