I am stuck. Most obviously, I have been stuck in the house most of the weekend due to the storm. But I am also stuck in a state of perpetual discomfort. I’m uncomfortable in every position, even lying down. I grunt my way through the night, heaving and hoisting my body to restlessly toss and turn. My growing belly has made it impossible to go for long walks; I miss them so much. My lungs are getting crushed and my bladder is being squeezed two by heads bopping up and down with every step I take. I can only walk a block before I am huffing and puffing and need a bathroom to sit down.
I feel stuck not being able to play with my son. He wants to run! Jump! Tackle! But I just can’t. Not right now. I try to color, read books, and do puzzles with him instead, but he’s interested for all of two minutes before he wants to kick, dance, or throw something.
I feel stuck in the process of acclimating to my new community. I want to dive in with gusto and get involved whether it’s with my son’s school, a synagogue, or maybe even something new. But how can I commit to anything when I know that in a just a few short months I will have to bail on all my commitments except for being a milkmaid? I am stuck wanting to do more, be more, see more. But now is not the time. And patience is something I struggle with.
My physical limitations are taking their toll on me mentally. I feel stuck in a rut. I want to take out my watercolors and paint. Even if for only a few hours, I feel the need to do something for me, just me. But I would need quiet time and uncluttered space to spread out my supplies, and I have neither. No time, no place.
And the snow…the beautiful, quiet, snow has morphed into piles, mounds, disturbed by the snow blowers and shovels and plow trucks. I envy it in a way. So easy for it to change and adapt and be fluid. I watch it all from the window. Stuck.