Homebody

I'm getting used to the time change and actually enjoying it. I usually do (with the spring change, anyway). I love the extra light, the sunshine and the more relaxed ambiance of having more time to get my daytime things done. I thought that once the time changed, I wouldn't want to be home as much. That hasn't happened . . . . yet.

I don't know why it concerns me, but I find myself wanting to be home as much as I can. I want to take good care of my house and provide some loving attention to my kitties. I don't want to have to be "on." I process things in my mind when I'm home--particularly when I get involved in a project like yard work. Time at home seems to be necessary to my well being. So why does that bother me?

I guess it bothers me because I want to have a life outside of work too and that takes time and energy away from home time. And it seems that whenever I have experiences outside of home, I need time at home to process them and put them in their proper place in my knowledge and history. Am I neurotic?

Maybe the neurotic part is that I fear things getting out of control at home. In some ways I won't allow myself time away from home until I know everything at home is perfect--which it never is. There are always more weeds to pull, something to wash or vaccum, and a book that's grown dusty waiting for me to read it. Still, I long for more community . . . but there is some fear there too. And no matter where I go, I'm extremely sensitive to what can be perceived as loss of any kind. I don't tolerate it well, so I'm trying to learn to accommodate it.

When I found out that my assistant was going to get laid off, I got very upset and couldn't go to work the next day. I was furloughed for several months last year and even though I tried to see the extra time as a gift, I seethed internally at those who didn't seem to be able to see and/or value my ability to contribute to the organization I worked for. In December, my office was moved (not by my choice) to a larger room (that fit all my filing cabinets) that did not have the big windows I loved, which allowed me to see everyone coming and going and feel more connected to the world. I was cranky for at least a month. When my son Oliver moved to Virginia on March 9, I tried to be kinder to myself. I let myself grieve. I was weepy for a couple of days and then began to pull out of it. Change that might be perceived as loss throws me. I don't like that it has such an effect on me.

But when I get thrown, I want home. That's where I finish the cry I've been stifling all day, where I take a bubble bath and snuggle with a kitty, where I have free rein to put things were I want them, and where I take my treasured naps that seem to turn me into a new person. Oy! I do sound neurtic.

I've been listening to the book Seeking Peace: Chronicles of the Worst Buddhist in the World by Mary Pipher and I seem to be writing like her--very intense and introspective. Of course, I can't really blame it all on her. I AM intense and introspective . . . especially at home.