I dropped the girls at school, and sighed deeply. It had been a morning of tears, and grumpiness. I felt I had gone ten rounds of emotional battle before 9am, (and lost most of them).
I was weary and teary, but I rushed home and got things ready for the trip to Rockingham. I called my Mum as I drove, and then I called my best friend. Talking the whole trip down.
It wasn’t until I sat down at the table, and the timer was set for the ‘Shut up and write’, that I suddenly realised how worn out I was. Emotionally I have been holding my family together. But not even thinking about me.
I was talking with a good friend the other day, and she mentioned that what she remembers most in friendships is the things that take time. The beautiful handwritten card from one friend, another friend sitting with her at the hospital while her son had tests, another baking homemade banana bread every time they caught up.
I drove away from her place pondering this idea, the idea that things that take time, things that are slower often are the things that are more meaningful.
But we are coming up to Christmas, and I don’t know if it’s just me but has the Christmas madness started earlier this year?
Are people already too frantic to exchange pleasantries at the checkout? Are they already too frazzled to drive carefully in the car park?
This year I am craving a slow Christmas: a Christmas of intention and connection; a Christmas of being, not consuming; a Christmas of reflection and not hustle.
At this time of year my life is marked by the never-ending internal list. You know the one cataloguing presents purchased, food to be organised, the Christmas shirt required for the end of year concert, etc.
Add to that the everyday chores and I find I am subject to a constant internal dialogue that means my mind is extremely loud.
The truth is I had something already typed to post to mark the beginning of December. Something about reflecting on the year behind and looking forward to the year ahead. The truth is this post was supposed to go up yesterday (being 1st December and all). It was going to be cute and it was going to be inspiring and it was going to set a plan for the rest of the month.
But the truth is I have been in bed with the flu since Friday. The kind of flu where you have to call your husband home from work at 9am because you literally don’t have the energy to … well to do anything. The kind of flu where you sleep for two and a half days solidly before you even start to think about getting bored. The kind of flu where PJ’s are the only possible clothing option, and going to the kitchen to get a glass of water requires multiple stops to catch your breath along the way.
I have been the absolute opposite of inspiring and/or reflective the past few days and it seemed somewhat of a fallacy to post something I wrote a few days before, when that is no longer my reality.