I've been thinking. Sort of a lot. About some rather deepish things. I know, "Surprise!"
And do you know I've realized that...
I am not this blog. The voice of this place is not me, is not who I am. It's only something I slip on in order to relate more easily (or not at all) the goings on at Chez Organic. And I hope you're aware of that. That you give me more credit than this, this fluffy, slang-slinging superfluous-ness (made up words and all) that is this place.
I am not my garden. At least not this year, my heart is just not in it. I mean, the garden is there and is growing stuff and we will eat from it and enjoy it, but you know what? It's just a garden. A nothing special garden that I happen to tend (and rather begrudgingly, if you'd like to know the truth) without chemicals.
I am not my falling apart, yet coming together again body. Oh, it feels like it sometimes. Like all I am is a body breathing in air, consuming and expending fuel, taking up space, going through the motions of keeping a home, a family, a life before briefly resting and doing it all again tomorrow. But it's just a body, and an oldish one at that. A saggity, dimply, wrinkly, stretch-markity (having 5 babies and losing 80 some pounds will do that) nothing special body which, for better or worse, Mr. O is "all-in" with for the long haul.
I am not my mothering. No, I fell off that wagon long ago. I am a mother, but I am not my mothering.
Here, right here this is where words fail me.
I know it shouldn't define me. But somehow it does, and I cannot bring myself to say that I am just a mother, that I am a nothing special mother. Because being a mother is bigger than a "just". I know it. I feel it. At least I try to feel it. And even though I am incredibly bad at it more than I am ever good at it, I am a mother. I can do this because it's a part of who I am - a piece in my puzzle - and I will find a way to be at peace with it. Even if it takes me another 39 years.
When it comes down to it there are a lot of things that I am not, but most of them are not for me to share here. Partly because the little people (and the related people) have started reading this island in the Sea of Me and partly because I am trying to rewrite, to drastically edit who I am.
I hereby dub this my year to dig down, uproot, uncover, discover, recover. To find my voice. To find out who and what I am. Happy Birthday, Me.