As a child, I lived in my imagination. I loved my world and lived very well in it before I was introduced to the idea of “making my way” in the wide, concrete universe. It was then that people started to tell me to come out of my world and do my arithmetic... everybody is, I hope, by now aware of what happens to children whose reality is shattered by this imaginary “real world” that most people live in. Bring your own clichés to this discussion.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t realize my obligation to the world and the people who raised me. I shut the little green door to my imagination very quietly and learned to go about my business with just enough of an individualist streak to make myself forgettable. Unfortunately, to blend in with this world takes a lot of effort. It takes a lot of keeping one’s nose to the grindstone and a lot less of dragons and gardens and woodcuts and wild illustrations and unavoidable castles. I shut that door willingly because of a moral obligation. I sacrificed it gladly. 

It wouldn’t be so awful if there was a happy ending where I found a few minutes every day wherein I could escape to my own, real world and there find rest and peace. But it truly is awful because I can’t get back there. That door seems to have closed--has remained closed--for several years now. My novels and books of poetry are on their shelves. I never used to have to dust them. I used to be able to sift through my thoughts and find some pleasing thing, a sort of bauble or a line of thought, or a picture of a place (my mind a mansion for all lovely forms) and this thought would be the set for my daily activities no matter where I was. I could always be in two places at once: that is how I survived my years of public school. Now I feel as if I must find my comfort in other places... as a result, I’ve taken up knitting. And spinning. And guided meditation. And watching a boatload of TV shows (Bones, Castle, Fringe, Alias, LOST, Human Target, The Office, 30 Rock, etc.). And smelly hand lotions. And sleeping in late. I try to engage in a story but my mind will simply not welcome them as it used. 

I feel as if I took the deep breath for the plunge, dove deep and swam far, and having concentrated for so long on getting where I need to go I have forgotten in which direction lays the sky. 

I sometimes have conversations about Christianity and my life with a friend of mine who is often disgusted with me because of my dedication to a cause he can’t understand. Though he wasn’t present tonight, sometimes I hear his voice in skepticism and bewildered affection in the back of my head. I try to make up answers to him. In case one day he asks.

Anyway, tonight I found myself surfing iTunes for worship songs--there are many times in my day where the routine of washing and preparing for my family just really gets to me, and I like to remind myself that my job is to make home home; a place that reminds you of what will be in heaven. Clean and welcoming, with no lack of food or drink or comforts; where you can bring friends and find help and rest. 

And preparing that place for people takes work of a tedious and sometimes distasteful nature. So I want to make sure my efforts are not touched by bitterness: I sing while I work even when I don’t feel like putting a positive spin on anything. And trust me, on those days I spend stitching in nines for problems I didn’t cause I can get pretty pessimistic. 

In my mind I could hear my friend ask me how I knew God was listening and what the point of private worship really is. There is no instant gratification here, I want to tell him. But it is like the other things I do: I prepare a home for people to return to, and from which they may set forth in confidence--prepared and restored. In my prayers and songs I don’t often feel as if I am performing the duties of a servant of God, but I do it so that when he comes to me I will have a place prepared for him to return to. When he sees me I want my face, my voice and my embrace to be familiar. 

Lately, I've been minimising my hygiene products to organic and fair-trade items. This is awfully fun, and was definitely easier in Europe. Now that I'm back in the States, things are a bit different--everyone seems to want to market the idea of Health rather than take pride in a local product that is a novelty to travellers.

The "local novelty" thing is how I bought some Italian rosewater from the abbey at Montecassino (very nice, light moisturiser & calming sort of pick-me-up) and a bottle of French orange-blossom shampoo at a small country market (light, but now that my hair is used to it, my scalp doesn't itch as often as it did with synthetic hair products and I have less trouble with the effects of spending days in the AC).

One thing I did not fancy from Europe is toothpaste. I have finally given up on the hideous stuff I bought in Germany and found a tube of aniseed oil toothpaste in a local grocers. I like it much better for practical cleaning and it doesn't spoil the taste of my coffee in the morning (this is v. important!).

I bought LUSH products when I lived in Ireland, and continued buying them as I travelled to and from Italy. I've traced their improvement from "40% recycled" plastic tubs to "100% recycled". My favourite bath bomb is the one with avocado and lemongrass.They call it different things in different countries, but the one I remember is Avobath. It makes the whole bathtub GREEN! I use their face masks and sometimes the more bland and boring of the cleansers, but I'm not on it full time yet as I'm just finishing up the ends of some mild Clinique stuff (it says "comforting" on the label and is the only really useful mild facial cleanser I've found on the wider market).

My comb is made of animal horn (as far as I know, not damaging the animal except to harvest the horns--not a painful process at all) and I love it ever so much more than my former plastic hairbrush. I do have a brush, but it is a smoothing brush of boar bristles. Right now I use almond oil as a leave in conditioner on the length of my hair but not the bits close to my head (they get their own hair oil naturally). It may seem strange to hear, but I really like brushing my hair. It is all very relaxing--I imagine it is similar to a cat being petted.

Self-care is an interesting kind of therapy. Just at present it is something I rather need. I look forward to the day when I can get my hair washed and trimmed at a really nice salon where they give head massages . . .

I suppose it might help to know that I just spent yesterday slaving in the kitchen and today working at the lawn and hauling manure over it. One of my blisters has broken but I've just now managed to get my nails clean of flour and dirt and my hair is still wet from its washing. It feels good to be clean. Oh, and having my computer upset at me for a month or so has helped me remember that there are things outside the internet . . .

The smell of our house has gone from an old, mouldy, un-lived-in smell, to a new, paint-and-citrus-derived-disinfectant smell. Soon it will be a lived-in, cleaned-on-a-regular-basis-but-still-smelling-more-like-cooking-than-cleaning smell.

Everything else I had to say turned out to be a complaint against various perceived ills that will end up forgotten if I just refrain from writing them down. Sorry I had to delete so much. Most of it was about the job market and learning how to paint and my present lack of funds. Some of it was very colourful.

I feel very disconnected from everything and everyone, trying to beg a life for myself here on borrowed property with food given to me, trying to find a job by waving about bits of paper with a list of my professional accomplishments inked onto it. I know there are worse tragedies, but may I say for the record that this is a miserable existence at worst and a frustrating one at best. One thing is certain: this will definitely keep me humble.

I still hate the things I do, most days,--sometimes my utter despite surprises me--but there have been a few times--just a few--where I can feel part of myself changing; unfurling. I think this is right. I think this may be the beginning of something good. I've worked hard to put myself in a place where this situation might occur, but the final moving of events and of my heart is not even under my control. But let us hope.