The first few months of living alone with my kids was spent in chaos. They were in the same schools but walks were replaced by chauffeuring and we all needed to be ready earlier; accumulating empty hours; losing work hours; sicknesses abounded and new family rules and expectations were instituted.
I needed to let go of employees and take on entire work loads, an impossible feat. This would bring a loss of my integrity accompanied with a hopelessness and apathetic numbing of mind.
Now, a routine has settled in, albeit brief now that school is out. The main chaos is now the perpetual messiness of our environment, that also clutters the space in my mind.
In all of this a darkness has set upon me. Everything is slightly dimmed and equally exhausting. I continue to call this period of life my place of pause. Pause denoting both a stillness and equal absence of complete presence.
I began to take account of my internal resources by spreading them out on my desk to assess where the stopgaps might be in order to realign intention and focus.
My head began to spin so I decided first to understand how I was measuring my own worth. It seemed I needed to be clear on this and be in agreement with it as the measurements of worth themselves might be the stopgaps.
I once measured worth by my work but this is no longer relevant. It is not that I don’t care about my work but rather that I have outgrown the need to be validated by it.
I once measured my worth as a mother. However, there are too many days I am detached from my children’s needs by the attention that must be placed on my work, such that it is too painful to attempt to measure my worth in that way anymore.
I once measured my worth as a wife. However, I’ve considered since divorce that it may be best to shift terms and consider myself as companion, so that if I chose this as a measure, it could not be lost.
I could attempt to measure myself as a friend, but, I fall short here too. Accepting people at face value is an impossibility for me.
I wondered if I could measure my worth by how many books I’ve read or how many journals I’ve filled. I could grasp onto titles of smart or maybe creative.
What of my friend insomnia? Maybe I’m an alien, or, maybe lifetime energizers are lining my medulla, secretly placed by the government after birth, and my life is being monitored in the name of science. Or, wait, no, that’s everyone.
What about the worth of my feminine self? I wrote a post recently about dating yet part of me isn’t sure I really will. Not with four children. Not even I would want to date someone with four children. Seriously anyways. No, right now my feminine expression consists in dress up dates with my daughter on the weekends where we play salon, paint our nails and style our tresses, for bed.
Maybe the answer of worth is in just be-ing without attachment to any other identifiers. I’ve taken this position in the past, but today, it feels altogether too new agey.
I awake from brief naps feeling empty, emptied. My cup. Will it ever be full?
This identify crisis sleeps in a one woman act and all of the roles being played require full presence.
In this season of Pause, I stand sweating on stage with no audience and struggle to find and remember my lines.
All I am is light…