one of those ones that should stay in Drafts

It's raining biblically. Animals two by two to be seen boarding a big fuck off wooden boat any minute. Floods are starting already, and I am so grateful I live where I do, we never seem to get them.

The darkness and wetness is wearing on me a bit, it's been something of a difficult week, hormonally, emotionally. Dark and wet is the order of the day, alright. The weepy kind of wet, not the good kind.

But I saw my homeopath briefly today, to get receipts, and she told me to take an Ignatia, the grief remedy that saved me a lot after my mother died. It stopped that crazy, out of control feeling of being unable to cope that felt like it would never end. And it's done the same again today, I'm happ(ier) to say.

deletedeletedelte. Ack. I can't say what I want to say, but I don't even know what the point in saying it would be anyway. So. Deletedeletedelete.

Do you all have people you can cry with? Someone you can go to? I was looking through my contacts in my phone last night, as I sat in a wet carpark in the gloom trying to find somewhere I could go for a couple hours. In the end I went to the sea in Greystones(and given the wind and the grey and the waves and rain, I'm not sure that it was any less pathetic than crying in a deserted car park, sadly, but what can you do?), and my friend came and met me and we sat in the car and wondered what to do about our respective lots. She gave me a hug and she was warm and soft and wooly and nice smelling but sympathy undoes me, and you can't get snot and tears all over your friends, can you? Can you? I don't know. It doesn't seem right for me to do that. We watched two teenage girls in leggings and little hoodies and nothing much more walk by, in the pouring rain and wind and dark, and remembered how it was to need to get out of the house that much that you'd rather go out unprotected into the storm than stay in. And there we were, in exactly the same place, just with cars now. Thank god for small mercies.

green grey wednesday

On the way home from Olivia's charming and lifting little song recital, I stopped at the traffic lights opposite a mossy wall, and ivy covered trees. And the soft  rain that had been falling strengthened and started to spill down, tip down, thrum down, noisy on the car roof, bouncing off the pavements.

The air looked so clear it felt as if I could  see the drops slipping from one ivy leaf to the next, helter skeleter down the trees. If you were to stand naked, with your toes dug into the leaf mould, and lift your arms and face to the drops that plummet weighted from the leaves, it would feel warm and clean, cleansing on your upturned face, your waiting tender skin.