Drifting
On the relief of having no schedule for the weekend
This weekend flew by as it always does. I feel satisfied in terms of what I did, but my daughter is still sick. She's getting better, but it's once again taking a toll to see her so exhausted that she can't get up. She's lost weight, her hands are cold, her little face is pale, and I can see inky smudges under her eyes. She started to eat a little at least, so I feel she'll be back to her normal self in the next day or two. All this worry has been dragging my psyche down. There is no routine, no comforting anything to hold close to, and my mind just hooks on my worry. My logical self knows she's ok, but I float around disconcerted. My baseline level of anxiety has elevated from mild to a feeling of having a constant and strong stomachache. I can't describe it any other way because of the sheer physicality of it. Like a migraine, I can't escape it because of the severity. I keep telling myself to stop being so sensitive and that everything will be ok. I know it will, I just think at this point I'm still a bit vulnerable from this past month.
The weekend was not all bad though. I had the chance to knit a little, write some letters, draw something, read some manga, start a new novel, and do housework. It's funny but I always complain to myself that I don't do anything only to realize I did a lot of stuff! I have to constantly remind myself. I enjoyed the manga/comics I read:
Haruki Murakami Manga Stories Vol 1
Yayoi Kusama: A Graphic Novel Biography
Kurosagi Corpse Delivery Service Vol 2
I love how I can feel unfocused, but a graphic novel brings me back into reading. Last weekend I read 2 wonderful short novels and yesterday I started "Latitudes of Longing" and am loving it. I am reading it slowly because it's full of richness and I want to give myself time to process the wonderful prose. Here's an example of a quote from the book:
"Girija Prasad plucks out a handkerchief, ironed and bleached, from his pocket. He leans forward and dabs away her tears. He takes another look. Her eyes have welled up again. He dabs at them once more. This time, the tears are large enough to leave a wet patch on the cloth. So he uses another corner. He wipes his wife's tears with all the corners of his handkerchief until there are none left and her eyelashes are dry and stiff like hay. He waits. He watches. Only after Chanda Devi has regained her composure does he fold his handkerchief three times and place it back in his pocket."
Such a wise, evocative, and poignant scene, where the comfort of a loved one is painted so beautifully. Comfort often is just a quiet presence, wiping away tears without judgment. I have a feeling I will cry a few times with this book.
Other than the things I did and the time I spent being close to my little one, I didn't do much. Just listened to YouTube videos of lone bakers quietly making pastries in Japanese bakeries. They're super relaxing and I recommend them. I'll add one under here instead of the usual song.
