Yesterday I was pulling weeds by 7:30 in the morning. I took a short break to walk 3 miles with Neeny where we continued our on-going discussion about our bodies, children, dogs & husbands, menstrual cycles, or lack thereof, the uncertainties of an artist's life, our dry gardens. It was a good, sweaty walk.
Back to the yard; for three hours I mulched, mowed, picked up limbs from a pine that had fallen. I tied up plants, yanked grass out of the cracks in the walkway, swept the driveway; the whole time talking out loud to myself, or rather, to my imaginary husband, checking off grievances, founded and unfounded.
Every time I tried to shift focus to more positive thoughts, I felt stuck. Blocked. What the hell, I thought, nobody's here. It's just me, trees and the wheelbarrow. Go ahead, have a good rant. I did.
The good news is, I got a lot off my chest and damn if the yard didn't look fabulous when my mouth finally ran dry.
I'm wiggling out of an old skin that no longer fits. I suppose there have been times when it's slid off so easily, I hardly noticed. But not lately. Not yesterday. But I believe that yesterday's rant was a labor of self-love. I suppose, to the outside eye, it may have looked like a mean-streak running right through me.
But I feel lighter today. I must've shed something.