March 6 Saturday 2010
I can’t seem to get myself to move. I am now very aware with this log, that I have been learning poems but not moving. I feel in fact as if I am bigger and more out of shape than when I picked up the gauntlet to make a change.
I hate walking, with the poems, or without. I can’t find a way in. I love my bike. I adore the thought of heading out on two wheels, it excites and invigorates me, while the very plodding of one foot in front of the other causes a nearly apoplectic reaction in me. And why? Perhaps because I often eschew what is good for me. We all do, right? I am not alone here.
I long for butter and potatoes and crunchy bread or pastries and black coffee. I long to stay abed with feather quilts and long books or movies with costumes and sad longing music. The doorbell interrupts me after only a few here and house quests beckon. Not that it matters, everything seems to divert me and make me to return to the sallow, sense that I am lost. At least for now. I see how bitter and prone to anger I am. I cannot or have not gotten out of my own way. Even though the sun is beginning to shine and the earth is turning toward the warmth. Not me, not me.