First, the definition of delusion: a belief or impression that is firmly maintained despite what is generally accepted as reality and despite rational argument. When coming to AA (drinking), newcomers are deluded about many things that are clearly not the reality of those who are either not alcoholic or are sober and have worked the steps.
Writer’s block? No. Rather, there has been a Fullness of the absence of words. Not great for a blog, certainly not what was intended when this site was formed, but there It Is – oblivious to this laughable sense of expectation.
There are two images that came in a vision: the first one is called “Confusion”. In it, there is a tired woman, a maid, hunched on all fours scrubbing the floor her eyes are fixed on it. In a wide circumference of her body, muddy-colored hues cover its surface. Her hair is in ringlets from sweat. She has a resigned, hopeless look on her face as she moves the scrub brush in soapy circles. A sense of heaviness permeates.
Yesterday, on our daily walk, Jay and I came upon two-year old boy whose mom was about 20 feet ahead of him. Far from being upset, he leaned forward and ran bow legged toward her the way only a toddler can, muttering audibly enough to hear, but not quite clear enough for the untrained ear to understand.
I am not the ocean, but the depth of its Silence, blacker than black, more hushed than the soundless.
I stared at my husband, Jay, mouth agape, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. He had been leading up to this – first asking me to save the last weekend of September so he could take me away for a romantic trip, but refusing to tell me where.
There are no stores in the Netherlands. Regardless of what logic espouses, my gremlins have convinced me of that. But this is not merely a belief about Europe. Regardless of my destination, during the week prior to a trip I rush from store to store like a squirrel gathering nuts for a harsh winter, stockpiling personal items as if no shopping opportunities will present themselves during my travels.
It is 2006 and I’m wearing Earth Shoes. I can’t decide whether to turn my ankles left and right and admire my big, square college-reminiscent feet or impale myself on my comb. Buying sensible shoes does that to me. It is a willing surrender of my ideas about the hip, slick and coolness of youth, and it is always humbling.
I pass the smiling faces for weeks, maybe months, and never see them. Back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, I glide or tip toe or clomp hurriedly in an attempt to get wherever I am running late. I am always running late, it seems.