that thing you need

The manic happiness of all my busy stuff at the school is becoming a more moderate daily pleasure, with a nagging discontent hibernating under the frozen surface.

I want to play the piano more.  Really play.

I need to make more time for this.

Now that things are more settled (for now, at least, I am living with Ms. Spur; the late student registrations are slowing down), I have been taking an hour to practice at the school now and then.  I am full of grim determination.  Why do my fingers feel like bananas when I attempt pieces that used to be familiar?  Of course I know the answer to that.  Duh.  So I am resolved to be as good a teacher to myself as I can be to others.

There is so much more in me to say!

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Since Ms. Spur has come home, we have taken to watching hockey in the evenings, while stitching.  It’s very cozy.

I think I am weirding her out with how polite I am (I said sorry for POOPING this morning! I was afraid I’d made the bathroom too shtinky! What the hell?!?), but other than that, things are comfortable.

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P2 and I made a batch of soap tonight – with ylang ylang, orange, and rosewood essential oils.  Mmm, mmmmm!  It is the first soap that has really "come to trace" in an obvious way in a long time.  "Coming to trace" is when a trail is left on top of the soap when you lift the mixing spoon (or chopstick in our case) and let it dribble onto the surface.  Usually, I just wait a long time, see no really discernible trace, and finally give up and pour the soap into molds.  They turn out fine.  Still, it’s exciting to see the process of hardening happening before my eyes.  Maybe we didn’t let the lye solution cool down as much this time (there is a threshold temperature, at which the lye, when added to the oil, makes the soap harden almost immediately – this is nicht gut – we try to avoid it by letting the lye cool down to merely warm).

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Sunday morning was nice.  I’ve been waking up strangely early and naturally since getting used to Edgar’s feeding schedule, and so I was up in plenty of time to make a pot of maté and some pancakes with apple cinnamon topping.  Actually, first I had a cup of coffee in my room, and read my devotions for the day according to the Anglican Book of Common Prayer (the Canadian version from the 60’s).  It was a nice, slow beginning.  After Ms. Spur had read in bed and emerged to eat some eggs, we sat the table for a while holding warm mugs and talking about our very different experiences with spiritual institutions.  I think I began it by expressing my frustration at having gone at this alone now for years, really.  I’m thinking of going more regularly to P1’s and Asterope’s church, even though there are points of doctrine that I just don’t buy.  (The community seems really good.)  Ms. Spur told me about her time in a convent school and how it took a while for her not to cringe whenever she saw a nun.  And then she told me about how a Christian couple had decided to "save" her and Mr. Spur and Theatre, and invited them over and served them a cross-shaped cake!  I laughed rather bitterly at that.  I consider myself very lucky, because although my parents gave me a defining spiritual structure in my childhood, they also nourished my ability/desire to think critically.  (This means that we disagree about things, and it isn’t always pleasant, but at least I have the power to disagree.)

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I wrote the title of this entry before really figuring out what I meant.

Some truth.  Veils lifted.

Slamming into the hard reality of how much I have to relearn in my playing (inwardly almost rejoicing at the chance to get my groove back).

Having the relief of not smiling, with friends who will let me be real.

Sharing some kind of real connection with people who CARE.