OM

I just got back from a weekend yoga retreat in Golconda, Illinois. (More info on that below. Great place.) My darling Sarah and I were the "pregnant girls" in the group. All weekend I felt high as a kite and yet was as sober as can be. It was fabulous. A yoga class and cookout on Friday, two yoga classes, one circle gathering, one philosophy class and a yoga nidra class on Saturday, one yoga class and one circle gathering on Sunday, fabulous meals, Christian Icons all over the place, Kentucky farmland across the Ohio River right outside my back door...it's no wonder that I am crashing upon my arrival home.
I was snotty to my husband on the phone, snotty to my husband about the chaotic state of our home, and snotty to my husband while he baked us bread, grilled chicken to last a week, and grilled veggies.
Why?
What has happened?
Where did the Om go?
I was so certain that everything I was experiencing was "authentic" and everyone I came in contact with was "so real...down to earth...God gave me these people for a reason."
What I am finding to be very real is the unidentifiable crunchy crumblies on my kitchen floor and the laundry STILL sitting there from last week.
I have a serious aversion to unidentifiable crunchy crumblies.
But what is wrong with me that I feel this is "all his fault" as usual?
Why can I not vocalize this to my husband?
I keep telling him that I don't want to fight. We don't fight, really. Maybe we ought to. Maybe I should forget my manners and start yelling. Maybe I should let my Bitch out. She gets kinda pissed once in awhile, and tends to hold it all in until she explodes. And the thing is, I know this. I know she explodes and yet I keep doing the same thing to her. I shut her up and let it go.
But really I shut her up and keep it in my stash, waiting until the stash is full and cannot possibly hold any more. Then the damn thing overflows and....crisis.
This sucks.
I was so wanting my son and my husband with me at San Damiano. (sandamianoretreat.com) I want to visit again.
I am so tired of the same old battles (both inner and outer) under this squat little house. And yet I couldn't wait to get home to my own bed. And my own boys.

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