So....

My mom sends me an email, and it says: "Your last entry is May 20. Today is June 30. Did I miss the invitation to your funeral?"

Well, no, and if I were going to be pedantic (which of course I am not) I would wonder if it were reasonable to expect a dead person to reply to an email asking if they were dead...

To be perfectly honest I don't even have the busy excuse (for the last week anyway) of why I haven't posted a blog. Since I can't really give you an excuse, I can tell you what I have done since that last post.

Since May 30 I have:

*Written and turned in 2 papers, 4000 words each
*Created a final presentation which consisted of a movie and a live action play with 2 other people (though I did the movie by myself)
*Taken 3 tests to test my ability to teach
*Given 3 presentations: 1 a lecture on schools in the United States, and the other 2 of my final project (1 to be marked and then 1 in front of the entire 3rd year)
*Finished my undergraduate degree
*Found a job teaching a year 4/5 class for next year
*Rented a vehicle 10 times (for transportation to said school)
*Found out my marks and turned in final paperwork (I had 2 marks that were 2-1 level, and all the rest were 1sts, including 2 90's, 2 85's, and 3 papers that I have been told that I should publish. At this point I think it is safe to say that I have a first in my Bachelors degree.)
*Cat-sat (for Moses the cat, who is here now and makes me really miss my cats)
*Worked every day that I have not been studying, at University, or at the school
*Found out about Visa situations and in the process of dealing with them
*Planned Ashley's trip to the United States for the summer
*Rearranged the living room
*Planted a new garden box for my miniature rosebush to live outside
*Evaluated plans, decided to wait on a doctorate just a little bit, and applied for entry into Grad School starting in September
-and-
*TRIED to maintain a fairly tidy house and kind of keep up with the laundry and cook dinner and pack lunches and make sure that someone washes the dishes though it is often not me that actually does so.


Truth be told, the past week I have had time to sit down and write in the blog. I thought about doing it, but I have no motivation. I'm tired, and it seemed like yet one more thing that had to be done. Funny how with nothing going on I still feel a lot of pressure to get things done. I have been feeling the same way about making phone calls to people. I know that I should call my mom, my sisters, my best friend... but the thought of actually picking up the phone and holding it against my ear for that long is overwhelming. The past few weeks I have been feeling it emotionally too, what with being really run down and sad and weepyand moody and grumpy and hard on myself. I am taking steps to get myself out of the funk (I love St. John's Wort...) but that is where I have been: in Funkville.

I want to think that the summer will give me an opportunity to slow down, but I actually don't think it will. Getting ready for next year, working as much as I possibly can, applying for and absorbing the tremendous cost of the next set of Visas, having to buy a car (and praying someone will give me financing,) Ashley being gone, missing Tristan's birthday, missing my family... there are some days that I am not just an ostrich sticking my head in the sand trying to hide, but I actively wonder if I should just give up, abandon the life I am trying to build here and the education that I am pursuing, and go live at moms house and work at a fast food joint. I don't actually think about that seriously, and I know that it is my just wanting to run away.

I am trying to do things that will help me have time for me, and things that I like to do (like gaming) but I laugh at myself because right now I even resent the planning, time and effort that creating a character to play in a game requires. My poor family... they must be walking on eggshells. I don't even understand myself.

Anyway, Mom, that is what I have been doing in the last month. Thank you for making me post, thank you for calling me on my stuff, and thank you for being patient. No, I have not died and have no plans to do so in the immediate future, and no there is no funeral for you to come to. Other than that, I make no promises.

Tears... and Why They Come.

It was not quite 11 in the morning, and I was sitting alone in a coffeeshop on the High Street, crying. Tears were leaving little tracks down my cheeks. It was the second time I cried since I got up this morning.

The reason I was crying was standing outside the window of the shop. She was maybe 18 months old, her hair a peach fuzz of blonde against her skull. Her mummy and daddy were standing on either side of her. I didn't know who she was, and I knew that I would never see her again. It didn't matter, because it was not really HER that made my eyes pour tears, but what she had done.

They walked up beside me, one parent on either side. She was walking by herself between them, you see; possibly one of her first experiences with the freedom of not having to hold hands. Abruptly she stopped and reached for them, and I thought, "Ah... she is ready to touch base again." They both reached down for her hands, one each, and tried to pull her along, but she didn't budge. She grabbed their hands, and put them together. She didn't want to hold their hands: she wanted THEM to hold hands with each other. And when they did, she smiled and clapped her hands and started walking again. Her world was happy. Her parents were holding hands.

I don't know why this 30 second exchange made me cry. It was so sweet. It was endearing and my heart ached. "Maybe this just shows that I'm sensitive today," I thought.

The first time I cried this morning was equally as silly. I was lying in bed next to Stephen, and we were taking our time waking up, just holding onto each other and sharing thoughts and other random bits. I told him about an image I had last night before bed that made me feel slightly sad and lonely and needing of him. I write him a journal, you see. I have for quite a while. And it is a very personal thing, to write to him like that. The image was of me, much older, writing in his journal... writing in the last journal he had ever bought for me, because he had died and I was alone.

I imagined that I wrote in his journals long past while he was here to read it. That I just kept writing to him, going through them one at a time, until I was almost done with the very last one he had ever bought... and it made me sad. It makes me sad just writing about it now. It brings tears to my eyes writing about it. And when I told him, I couldn't help myself, but started to cry. And he pulled me deeper into his arms and held me while I sobbed, called me his silly girl and loved me.

I don't know why I am so sensitive today.