There are days when being even remotely charitable is an effort. Today I could pass for a cross between Voldemort and Genghis - much maligned I gather after watching a recent documentary. Bad hair day doesn't touch it. This is Premenstrual multiplied by volcanic activity of an evacuate the area kind. This is - "Who said anything about a warning?" mode - and "What part of No don't you understand?" This is when Charity is a girl's name and Generosity is a hybrid rose.
I am essentially ratty, restless and sporting a particularly bold, garish sense of humour deficit.
I was talking last week with someone who very much had my best interests at heart - and sensing an underlying rodent quality emerging in a normally ebullient individual, recommended an hour to myself each day. My laughter was hollow - but partly because I knew just how wise and true the advice was. Partly because I just didn't have the time!
I have been burning the candle at both ends - and there has been less and less down time in recent weeks. When this happens my sense of irritation grows palpably. I resent the time everything takes and I tend to beat myself up with the efficiency of a trained assassin. Time to take my time doing nothing seriously.
With guests needing to be settled and fed this evening in the retreat space - it won't be this evening - but I have a cunning plan. I am hoping to escape into the caravan I use as an art studio. I haven't done any serious painting since before Easter and this is undoubtedly one of the reasons why my spirit is doing a passable impression of a toddler's rusk. I guess because I work with words all the time, painting has a special place in my heart as I find I genuinely think differently and relate to the task in ways that seem to clear my mind and invigorate me. My plan is to sneak in there after morning chapel and re-emerge to a coffee and a natter with our guests an hour or so later. Bliss. I feel better just think about it. Where's the hollow laughter now, bitter and twisted one? Excess to requirements I think!
Our son has been home for the summer holidays for a week or so. He is growing up fast and we are very committed to honouring that - but he is impulsive - so we are trying to keep our boundaries consistent. It's amazing how quickly we get out of practice now he is away at school, at the whole business of parenting a special needs child. As I write he is out in the garden with a huge, bright red hard hat on, ear defenders in place and is wielding a massive petrol driven strimmer- his first go before he helps out with his preferred occupation - mowing on the ride on mower called Ermentrude. What else? Like most thirteen year olds he struggles with the concept of helping out around the house - and with his added idiosyncracies grapples with the business of staying on task. Oh, dear, the door has banged. Shorter than even I anticipated. He now thinks he may have repetitive straininjury. The strimmer was a bit heavy. I wonder aloud if that means he won't be able to use the computer to play his games? I am reassured that it will help heal it. Not.
(Just a hint of grummmph creeping back in!?)
Deep breaths and counting down from 300, 299, 298, 297...
Comments