The seagull and life

One of my boys gave me my birthday present yesterday over dinner. Both the gesture and the gift was a surprise. He knows I love to read but his choice for me - Jonathan Livingston Seagull, is a strange one. For this book is about a seagull learning about life and flight, and a homily about self-perfection and self-sacrifice.

As I finished up a long-lost book that I have unearthed in my clean-up last week, I look at this book on my table, willing myself to pick it up. But I cannot. For I am afraid of the things that I will read about and associate with my life as I turn the pages.

Maybe I am only feeling this way cos it's about to rain and I am feeling unwell. Maybe I am feeling this way cos I am seeing for a long time in many moons, that I am ill-equipped to live this life that I have embarked upon.

Tis a dreadful life when you're racked with a fever that turns your toes blue and a stomach ache that has you bent doubled over. AND the only people who know about are a 6 year old girl and a 4 year old boy.

Tis a dreadful life when your family is not 30 minutes away and people you call your friends are even closer, yet the thought of picking up the phone to ring for help and comfort is enough to drain whatever energy that's left of me.

Tis a dreadful life that I've built for myself. For years from now, when my children have established their own life and patterns, I'll have nothing and no one.

Have I become like Jon - in my quest to put some right to my life, be expelled from my flock? Will I be like Jon, never realising that the secret to life is by begining with knowing that I've arrived? Maybe then I would cease to live by always "leaving" first.

I think it's cos I'm ill and I have to run out in this dreadful state with the kids in tow to get to the shops for some toiletries and medication.

I think it's cos I'm bought myself 2 new oven dishes, and with no one to cook for.

I think it's cos I know I should stay home on medical leave tomorrow, but know that I will ultimately drag myself through yet another 12 hour day, grimacing with each new wave of pain that runs through my tummy.

I think it's cos I am thinking too much and never doing anything about the thoughts that come to mind, except write it down here for strangers to read.

I think I see it now. Why you thought this book appropriate. Or maybe I'm just thinking too much again.