Clash of thankfulness and discontent, can’t seem to adopt the God language of everything works for good, and Darwinism only tells me that whatever benefits my genes is what life is driving at, all in the field of competing genes.
Dark came down later today after the gray rolling clouds lay over us all day. Couldn’t get enough caffeine in me to pluck my spirits out of the funk, so I let work haul me up by my britches and drag me to school for a little bout of grading notebooks. Tonight I feel like just sinking into the oblivion of the fourth murder mystery in the series I picked up at the library last week, as much as I generally frown on escapism. Further, I decided to take the step of draining away the last few cups of stale wine, ostensibly so I could finally recycle the bottle and free up that fridge space. Mixed with some home canned apple cider and soda water on ice, a fine cocktail with which to retire. Watching myself from that upper corner shelf, noting that there are no precedents in my family history of abusing substances, not even generations back. Instead there is a pattern of genes manifesting as pen to page, going fishing, and tending toward baldness in men and facial hair in women.
My son called and has been engaging each of us in turn in conversation from the other side of the continent. More than any academic prowess or earning potential, I value that in him, that he takes the time to connect–a long conversation with his little brother, then each sister in turn, then me. We ask about each other’s school work, mull over the U.S. presidential campaign, the difference in weather, weigh the pros and cons of the houses we are looking at lately. I hear him say goodnight to my parents, who are hosting him for some of his winter break, but although it’s past midnight there, he’s up for more talk. I pass the phone over to his dad.
All this talk, again, about buying a house and moving, has left me feeling drained. The limbo is the hardest. Just as we are about to commit to something, we, led by my husband, draw back, and here we are again. Thought we’d decided a certain number of things and were ready to meet with our long suffering realtor, when we come to another whole set of considerations, and have to go over it all again. It’s not as if I can contribute much yet to the bottom line of such a financial commitment, so I feel I must yield.
That’s it–all I can muster for words. I’m going into my cave to watch a formulaic British crime drama now, sleep off the cider and maybe some of the blues, then figure out what to do with the holiday tomorrow. For all I know, it could be a great day, and I could get myself to feel it.