I've been longing to speak to you. Dying to reach out and touch you. I want to share my rich internal monologue.
- Should I get a pedicure?
- Could I be a nun?
- Why do people have lawns?
- Do vitamins cause cancer?
- Where is Trader Joe's?
My ex-husband said Roxanne, people don't get your humor. He meant he didn't get my humor, but he meant people, too.
I dreamed I met an old friend for coffee so she could tell me what happened after we split up. She met a guy. There were sparks. She got pregnant, named the baby Columbia, tried to raise him but couldn't and allowed him to be adopted. She went to work for the Department of Social Services. She does gymnastics in long, modest, cotton skirts.
I read Pema Chödrön and try leaning into my feelings so I can be their friend, but don't find a lot of deep feelings there. Mostly a dull sadness. I don't judge it for its dullness, but invite it to sit down for tea as though it were sharp and scintillating and quick-witted. It does the same for me.
Someone told me I have a public and a private face, like everyone, but that I show each at inappropriate times. Like mooning a policeman, but wearing my clothes in the shower.
Tell someone something about your inner life today.