Daniel’s down for the night.
The Hubby’s in the music room.
I’m putting away laundry.
As I stand before the now-closed drawers of the bureau — for a minute or less — time seems to pause, like I’m in an everlasting Present.
It’s not a happy feeling; it’s not a sad feeling. It’s like that intake of breath, just before you jump.
Whether into air or into water or into the future — either way, it’s that kind of pause of time.
I’m trying to live in the Present, for the Past makes me weep and the Future makes me fear.
I’ve become a hermit of sorts outside of work, for I now doubt my ability to understand others — can I really know Another without assuming incorrectly? Impossible to know, and so isn’t it safer not to make the attempt?
Hard to describe the sensations swirling around as I pause in this Moment When Time Stops. I’m pulled back to when I was 30, 21, 18, 15, 12, and then 10.
It’s like I’m oscillating between 12 and 10 years old, which means everything afterwards — the last 25 or 28 years of my life — feels like a strange, other universe, a dream:
I don’t recognize my child, I don’t recognize my husband, I don’t recognize my house, I don’t recognize my life…
I don’t recognize me.
And then — just as quickly as it came — time starts again in a rush of sound and light. I walk down the hallway, laundry basket in hand. TV’s still on. The Hubby’s still in the music room. Work and school tomorrow.
Time to go to bed.