On Buttercups and Balance

Two years ago the sun was shining and buttercups rippled across the field I could see from my window. I could watch the sun rise, and set, and then rise again, throwing its magnificent morning rays over the world, through a film of atmospheric cloud. There were no buildings to start and stop the process, and watching that orb climb slowly up the horizon was a bliss I could never miss.

Hazy mornings turned into stunning afternoons, every colour highlighted and illuminated by the bright summer sun.

I was not happy then, even though I had everything I’d dreamed of growing up in an Arabian desert. I dreamed of blue skies to replace my dusty brown ones. I dreamed of vivid greens and the smell of freshly cut grass, to replace my fake grass and the dismal beige weeds that decorated the sand sparsely. I was not happy, though.

And I ate my feelings.

I am not happy now, either.

I just can’t seem to find a good balance in life.

Back then I had no car and no job and was stuck in the middle of nowhere with no neighbours and and no way of getting away unless I spent a fortune on bus fares, which I couldn’t afford because I had no job.

Now I have a job but I have to travel away from home to go to it and it is causing a raucous in my family life.

I suppose it is in the human nature to always want more and never be satisfied with what they have.

I suppose it is also a matter of finding balance. And being content, and making reasonable decisions.

Also there is an element of faith here. Maybe my faith is weak at the moment. In fact, I know it is. And that is why I feel so lost and discontent.

 

This was such a beautiful day. I walked for hours and hours with nothing but the silence, the wind, the sunlight, the soft swish of swaying grasses to keep me company. 

What are you Afraid of?

Do you know what I’m really scared of?

I’m scared of the dark. I am terrified of the sharp shadows when I lie alone in bed. That is why I don’t like to sleep alone. I have never slept alone except that time when my family were all away for four months and I slept in my mother’s room in an empty house.

It took me hours to fall asleep every night because every creak of the house would jolt me awake, and every shadow frightened me. I have always shared a room with my sister, and when I moved out of home I shared with my husband, obviously.

I am scared of being alone. I don’t like loneliness, even though I relish solitude. I am scared my husband will see right through me and then just leave. I don’t tell him this, of course. He will see that I am a flaky fake and he won’t love me anymore.

Maybe.

I’m not a flaky fake. I am very real and solid and very much all here. But he might wake up one day and say,

‘That’s it, I would like to find a new human to live with thank you very much.’

I wouldn’t be the first person this has ever happened to, certainly. I am scared of that because I love him greatly and he is good for my soul and my heart and my brain.

I’m scared of failure. I am scared I will work my butt off and not get the results I need. Or not work my butt off and not get the results I need.

I am terrified of losing my parents/family. I would be devastated and heartbroken and so guilty because I am a moody git to them and it has something to do with my siblings not pulling their weight and it annoys me so much that I can’t be nice. When I moved out I realised that they are really lazy and don’t clean up and leave it all to my mother who is already doing so much and is half blind.

And that is why our house is messy.

There.

I said it aloud. And I hate that. I don’t want to go home to visit and always clean up. I am sick of them and their selfish ways. If you live there, you need to take care of your home. So I am a moody git. And I really don’t want to be.

Why, I think, can’t they be like normal people.

I am also afraid of fear. Living in fear is gut wrenching and tummy twisting. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

The last thing I am scared of, and it certainly isn’t my least biggest fear, is the loss of my soul.

Soul is very important. It is what makes you moral and kind and real and genuine and unpolluted. People who have rotten souls are generally horrible and don’t have any kind of filter and are cruel to other people and not compassionate. They are desensitised to horror and filth and unacceptable behaviour. People who are exposed too much to that sort of thing will never regain their innocence, unless they work really hard.

Like, for example, I used to swear a great deal. It was always eff this and eff that. It is just harsh and vulgar, and a sign that my soul wasn’t that great. I mean, people can swear all they like and still be kind etc but when I did it, I was really horrible and misguided. That’s just me personally. Now, when somebody swears, I flinch a little. Which might be wimpy and cheesy but it’s true. I don’t like it. It depresses me, all that swearing. It’s petty and childish and really unoriginal. I think originality is warmth.

I think that language is so diverse and there are millions of words out there and swearing might cut it if something terrible happens or whatever but there are so many more creative words to use than the ‘f’ word. So, so many more, to be said by creative minds and to be received by minds hungry for creativity.

For example the other day when my sister was cross with me she called me a ‘bulging toad’. Which was funny and made us laugh and also wasn’t a horrible swearword insulting my mother’s birthing abilities.

Anyway.

What are you afraid of?

Adult

My Landlady (what a majestic sounding title that is, Lady of the Land!) is coming for an ‘inspection’ today and I was sitting down, minding my own business, doing my work and waiting for her arrival (she said 2:15, it’s now 2:24..) when I noticed that my feet were cold.

Usually when I notice such a thing I tuck my feet beneath my bottom, because that is the warm and comfy thing to do. However, now that my senses are heightened to the arrival of the Lady of the Land, I thought I had better get up and put some socks on.

That is what any self respecting renter of an apartment would do, is it not?

Imagine the Lady of the land walking in to see my giant lobster feet under the cuffs of my jeans!

In doing the latter, I have realised very solemnly, very morosely, that I must be turning into what they call ‘adult’.