I smell wildfire this morning. It’s too early, too soon. Only June 12th. The cotton is still blowing from the cottonwood trees, coating the lawns of houses and golf courses along Strong’s Creek and Ogden River. I see the cotton mounded up at the edges of a driveway on 32nd Street, where Bubba and I walk when I’m taking him on his slow neighborhood stroll. Bubba walks through the cotton to get to a bush that demands marking. If I let him, he’d keep heading west toward the junior high, where I know there must be many bushes and trees and walls and garbage cans and fences and posts that should be marked by him. But I tug him along in the direction I want to go: east, up the street toward the golf course, where more cotton collects.
Cotton blowing used to make me happy. Lately it reminds me of death. Of course, we’re not married anymore. So there’s that. June 8th. And I can’t remember my wedding anniversary without thinking of Randy, who was so allergic to cotton he had to sit inside at our reception. He died three years ago, on Valentine’s Day. Now a friend’s mother has died at 58. Her funeral is Saturday. She died of alcoholism. What to say about that? The disease sucks–S.U.C.K.S, as Janet says. I just feel horribly sad. Have felt that way since Sunday, the 8th, when I’d planned to get up early and write. But there was just nothing in me. Nothing in me for yoga yesterday either. No energy, no strength, nothing. At one point, Kathi (my yoga teacher) came over to make an adjustment to my posture. She said “use your body.” I did and immediately felt tired. My body has nothing to give. That’s why I just couldn’t play golf this morning. My body aches, my elbows hurt, and I’m simply too tired to try. We have so many phrases and sayings in alanon to help with states like this: “Easy does it,” “First things first,” “Keep it simple.” Sometimes they ring so hollow.
Maggie and I watched “August: Osage County” last night. We both were exhausted afterwards. So much family strife, so much alcoholic behavior (chaos, manipulation, anger, fear). At one point she turned to me and said, “I’m so glad we’re not like that Mom.” Praise god! We could have been and perhaps were once. Our last trip to Sun Valley–when Maggie and I were there, two years ago–was the breaking point for me. The scene in the parking lot with Sean. Not quite AOC material but stressful nevertheless. I know that drama radiated out beyond me and Sean. Perhaps I have some fear of returning to that place–the place where the end became clear. Maybe I need to be kind to myself for a little while: let myself grieve, allow myself to experience the memories of SV, forgive myself for not being happy right now.