Backslides

Last night was quite restless, filled with anxious dreams I donae remember this morning. The crisp northern morning finds my senses trilling with anxious doubts without clear sources. The thread seems to be jumping between my field work, my estranged family and the busy husband and grown sons in Texas. The anxieties keep jumping to my in-laws, as well, but the legal connection doesn't feel any more real than any law to me. Our connections donae touch my heart any more than my elected representatives. Our lives are quite separate.

Methinks the field research is the needed focus of the morning. It has been mocked continually and even I have a hard time giving it credibility. Even when I have been working with accredited organizations, I still feel more like a runaway housewife/mother than a field worker. When I return to the Urban Homestead, my field projects fade quickly as the domestic waters close over my head without a ripple. I havenae done the math, but I believe the vast majority of my field work, like the stretch which officially begins tomorrow morning, has been done alone, without human witnesses to validate the work. Maybe I really am just an old housewife in search of her ultimate makeover.

It has been a bit over two months since I left Texas on the grieving pilgrimage for my estranged brother. My estranged mother's funeral pilgrimage began so soon after my brother's that the two pilgrimages have merged in my current reckoning. Throughout those pilgrimages, my river time has been far more medicinal than scientific. Watersheds are, and always have been my healing refuge in the trials and tribulations of my life.

I packed zero field equipment or research aids when I left Texas. Why would I? The reason for the journey was processing the psycho weirds of estranged grief. The current stretch is purely providential. The estranged clan central just happens to be in the right neighborhood and the time just happens to be available to me. ?Por que no?

Feeling like it is okay to be anxious and clueless. Sorta. . . It remains a sucky feeling. Letting God lead the dance. . .