This returning-to-normal-life stuff is weird. My physical recovery seems virtually complete; with the exception of some lingering physical weakness, I feel... good. Like myself. I no longer fade out by 8pm and can actually do fun things like bake for a few hours at a time and rake leaves for a while without feeling like I want to die. So that's good.
And there's so damn much going on. Like, both my kids are high school now. And Garrick has jumped in with both feet, joining clubs and getting involved with the theatre program, and auditioning for the select chorus. Quin is adding activities, too, albeit at a slower pace. The point is, it almost feels like traditional teenager stuff around here, with people needing rides to and fro and deadlines and activities and schedules to keep track of. It's impossible to ignore, so it's all getting done, somehow. Being busy keeps the engine moving.
Re-engagement is strange and I don't know how successful I'm being at it. It's akin to having taken an 18-month nap (starting with the death of my father), then woken up and no longer recognizing the universe. Re-engaging with everyone's busy schedules is relatively easy. Re-engaging with my inner landscape is proving way more difficult. All the things that were put on hold -- grieving for my father, reacting to the abrupt upheaval last year of my professional life, other conflicts and traumas -- are now clamoring for attention that I don't know how to give.
So the days go by, and I tell myself I really should be writing more, doing more, seeing friends more, but I don't. It seems time for some reckoning, and instead of digging in, I'm bouncing from deadline to deadline, from obligation to obligation.
Same as it ever was.