I disconnected over the last few weeks—from myself. I slipped into a survival mode of busy, busy, busy, busy that allowed me to step aside from thinking, but that also meant I sidestepped writing. I didn’t realize until yesterday that I skipped several days in a row in journaling. Ideas for my blog flitted into my view, but my attention never focused upon these thoughts long enough to do more than jot down a key word or phrase within the spiral where I often brainstorm. I didn’t even go online and pull out an old poem or personal narrative to nudge my blog along.
I used the holidays and the clean up afterwards to keep my sadness away. There were places to go and people to see, and I avoided allowing myself time to be alone. I decided to go back to work, filled out an application to substitute teach in my old comfort zone, and actually attended the orientation this week. Yesterday, I found myself with another round of house keeping, today I will fill my hours with grocery shopping for the Celebration of Life we host for Mom on Saturday.
I don’t doubt my motivations. If I sit before a blank page, I realize the great void my mother’s death has created in my life. I realize that I must rediscover who I am separate from wife, mother, sister, or daughter. For so many years, I defined myself by the care I gave for others. Now I must discern my role for this newest path of life. I have to determine my next steps and learn how to move around again in my skin.