29 June 2011

It feels like ages since I've written -- two days. Ummm. So much has been going through my head and heart but when I sit down, I really want to distance myself from the processing. I want rest. Curious my love of the task and my longing for rest. The dichotomies surface constantly these days. Task happy v. longing for rest. Homebody v. traveller. Pile of grieving jelly v. relatively together, independent person. Mother v. In great need of someone to take care of me. Teacher v. slug. There are others.

And then I feel like I am living parallel lives -- one part of me is desperately trying remember what it felt like to life these days last year, before David died -- it dawned on me when I woke up this morning that when David was taken to the hospital a week before he died that there was a night before which was the last night that we shared a bed. I did not plan this thought -- it sprung unbidden into my head. I did not think to make an anniversary of it, but . . . . I lean towards obsession. I don't remember much - if anything - about out last night in bed together. Who put Julia to bed that night? Did I go upstairs with David or did I stay up later, as was my custom? I don't remember. How was I to know that it was the last night? What did we have for dinner that night? Who did the dishes? Maybe if I had thought to reconstruct that evening, that day, last year. Maybe.

And then there is the other part -- morning meeting with the intensive therapy team, chatting with parents at the riding school, remembering to buy milk, cooking. This part of my heart and soul just moves about the world as if it is whole with very little trouble.

And as I sort through the basement -- sorting, pricing, trashing, and arranging -- I think of how I should have done this last year, two years ago. I couldn't get started, but I see now that I could have used the clean out then, as well as now. Now, I desperately need it. Need the order. Need such a clean out. The cellar, the closets, the sealed boxes and the drawers are such metaphors, such symbols. If I want a new life, if I want to re-create, if I want to let new things in, I have to let go of something. A lot of something.

I have been cutting myself off from people recently. Many reasons -- I have nothing interesting to say to anyone. I have no interests, no awareness of the world or literature or art or anything outside of the narrow world of an autistic child and my interminable sorting. I am bad company. I wait to see the rolling of the eyes, the yawn. I am not ready to be "over it" and I am not suggesting that anyone has told me to move along, but I am aware of how I am in no way ready to be moving along. And yet, I need friends and a social life -- last weekend, with Marcia and Matthew, was lovely. Nothing incredibly special -- walks, meals, movies, lots of talking. But Marcia and Matthew are easy and forgiving. I am scared that others may not be so.

Julia and I are finishing her math work for the day. We are working on the concept of "between" for Morning Parade. First, Second, third, and fourth are pretty solid. Last is in the works. Between is hard. But this is undoubtedly progress. She is arranging her number tiles up to 40, today, with only one mistake. She is counting 1's and 10's alone; 5's and 2's with support. We do 5 easy addition problems with the abacus. She still doesn't really understand addition, but we keep working at it.

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