Moving drama

Most days I'm not sure how to get back to myself. Everyone seems so overwhelmed with their own life that I find myself lost in my thoughts. My thoughts of moving mainly... I worry that living in someone else's space will continue to make me feel that there is not enough space for me. That I don't have room to grow. I'm afraid I'll feel claustrophobic like I do now living with my actual family. And then again maybe I won't. It would be nice to live in a big house. It would be nice to have the sense of family, and maybe it would be different if it wasn't my family. Maybe I could learn to live simply. Open myself to the idea that I don't need so much space. There is plenty of common space. And yet I feel myself greatly resisting the idea. Finding myself running against a large pole of resistance. Why... because I think I want to prove I am independent. Instead of flowing in community I want to hide under a rock. Instead gellin' with people I get grumpy and isolate myself. Can I truly open myself up to this experience. I'm unsure and unclear.

Grief on the back burner

Some days the grief sneaks up on me like an old friend. I pull out my father's pictures to remember him, to remember his voice, to remember what it was like to have a father. There are many days where it has become normal. I talked to him but most days I'm unable to allow myself the space to truly speak to him. Most days I am unable to truly speak my truth. I find myself overwhelmed by the business of life. The sure amount that goes into a day both literally and energetically is phenomenal. It in some ways overwhelms me, how can it not overwhelm us. Then in the silence I find my voice dormant but strong. I find the magic and I find him in the darkness. I remember just how close we were how deeply connected we were. And yet how deeply disconnected we were all in the same breath. I remember the anger of the incessant fighting between my parents, the tears I shed. The swearing when something didn't go right for my father, the neglect, the where are yous, the tears. And yet I do also remember the laughter, the games, the hikes, everything he taught me about nature and politics. And I miss it more than I can adequately place into words. Its in these moments I crave my own space to blast my hippie dippy music, to cry if I need to. To not have to worry that someone may find me out... that I am not done. I may not be done grieving for many more years to come. The realization is daunting that it goes on and on. It's in a the silence I seem to find my voice again. It comes on slowly, but I remember it. It's not a literal voice however I just find myself slowly remembering how to feel my heart. It feels as though work has gotten in the way of truly feeling my heart. It's like I'm avoiding the feeling of emptiness and lonliness, but what I am really avoiding is the connection to self. To remembering how deeply I miss my father, how deeply I want to remember how it use to be, and yet how I never want it to be that way again. I will always choose a community of trees over a community of buildings. Yes I am connected to the wider community I am not alone. But when I fail to write, when I fail to remember that I am still grieving life becomes difficult.