|My youngest daughter at Chatsworth|
An entire season of months has ebbed, and so many thoughts and experiences have just dried up and blown away . . . rather like the leaves, which are being shed with dispatch now that it is November.
We’ve had big things going on in our family life: huge transitions in the youngest and oldest generations. And I’m here in the middle, feeling battered by it all. My husband has some pressing worries, and last night he twitched for hours until just giving up – long before dawn -- on the attempt to sleep. That sort of sleepless night is more common than not at the moment. I don’t feel that the details are necessarily mine to share; so unsatisfactorily, I offer nothing but a tentative mood, an emotional residue. Even though I’ve experienced only the most kind and sympathetic side of blog-friendship, it’s no use pretending that what I share here can be held in confidence.
Stress has made me selfish and solitary. Certainly the act of blogging is as elastic as you want it to be, but for me, at least, the reciprocity of it is essential. Over the past couple of months, I’ve been in this inward-looking state that hasn’t really lent itself to lots of external exchange. I don’t feel that it is right “to talk,” if I don’t have the time or energy “to listen.” Does this make sense?
Hopefully, I will tunnel out again – and soon.