I missed my high school reunion Saturday night. There's a part of me that wishes I would have made it. I saw a few pictures that someone posted, and I know that the desire to have been there is, at this point, ego. I'm pretty well preserved after twenty years, and some of the other folks haven't fared as well. I was where I needed to be, in my home group, at an AA meeting, instead of in a bar banquet room with a bunch of (what appears to be) heavy drinkers. Even the woman who organized the event, whom I remember as a completely straight arrow, admitted to getting trashed. Perhaps by the twenty-fifth reunion, more of them will have "come over to my side." A few probably won't make it that far, and others, for whom the indulging isn't compulsive, will have eased off. At least that's what one of the women in the program tells me. She's helping to organize her fiftieth reunion.
George is off collecting ingredients to make pickles. I'm excited, especially since I awoke without the spasms in my shoulder that plagued me yesterday. I'm supposed to be working on a pain journal, but I've never been good at that kind of consistency. I'd rather think about the format, describe, in hindsight, the pain in metaphorical terms, than say, "spasms over left shoulder blade, throbbing pain radiating down left arm, no chest pain," or "Lyrica has mild sedating effect, no discernable change in the burning pain in my legs yet. Not sure if I want to continue with it, but I'll give it a shot." There's no art in that, it draws my attention constantly to the pain, and if anything, makes me hurt worse.
I had a man approach me last night at a meeting. He talked to me the day before Dad's funeral, from the heart, about losing his own father. He was nearly in tears when he embraced me and told me that it would take time. I was okay, other than physical pain, last night. I come to it, at odd times during the day or night, but last night, I was okay. It's disconcerting to me to be thrust into it like that, and it's difficult to tell someone who's being supportive that his expressions are not all that helpful. Today, I decided to wear Dad's stolen scrub top (he didn't steal it....it just seemed okay to put his sweatshirt on overtop of the hospital issue top he was wearing before he came home). I feel...good in it. I know that it was over his whithered body, and though I'm feeling a little on the thin side today, I feel pretty healthy. Like I'm infusing it with better mojo. Healing the cloth. Charging it, like I'm reading about crystals.
Speaking of crystals and charging them with good energy, I read that if there is negative energy trapped in them, they can continue to release it, even after the event/feelings that caused the negativity in the first place is over. Wonder if there's anything to that. I know that a pair of amethyst earrings I wear have been with me through some tough times. (Oh, look! A flock of geese!) As a matter of fact, I bought them during one of the most stressful and dark times of my life. I'll have to make note of how I feel when I wear them, which has been quite often lately, as I'm in a purple mood, and they go with many of my purple dresses.
I still have to finish this fiction class I had deferred in the spring. There's that girl I left on her knees in the mud, in the rain, in that side yard with a gun pressed to the back of her head. (An oriole just flue through my yard, but damnit! they won't stop) I don't know who's wants to kill her (or scare her), I don't know where this run-down industrial area is or why there's still a house there or if anyone actually lives in the house. I don't know if there are any other casualties lying about. I don't know if she'll get out of it alive, or if the story is just that...what happens in her mind as she's facing the bullet that will rip through the back of her head, maybe even come out on the other side, making her unfit for her mother or anyone who may have loved her to identify her. I don't know if she'll make peace with death or if she will regret. Oh, God, I don't want her to regret. Perhaps she needs to regret. Perhaps that's what she requires in order to welcome the bullet. Know her life was for naught. God, that's depressing.
I also have the woman with the matchpack. Her story, or the outline of it, is described somewhere in this blog. I guess I should spend a bit of time organizing them. If nothing else, maybe my purpose for keeping a blog is to feed ideas to other writers, better writers. My husband said the other day, when I told him that I had sent a meditation primer to a couple of folks who requested it (I offered on a forum to send, rather than post, as it's about five pages long) that maybe I would see it published a few years from now with someone else's name on it. Maybe so. I didn't write it for publication, and besides, I sent a really rough draft. They'd have to spit shine it to present it to a publisher, anyway. I know he has an issue with taking what he does for a living and giving it away. That's what feeds us. He said it in order to validate my talents, not always showcased in this particular forum very well, and let me know that I should be careful with something I consider my craft. If I want to make a go of it, I should nurture it, feed it, and protect the intellectual property rights attached to it. Of course, I married a lawyer, so what should I expect? He both touched me and irritated me at the same time with his comment. Oh, how I love that man.
Wheat's being harvested up on the hill. I like to watch it. It's not nearly as loud and distracting as the hay-bailing across the road. The machine has a nice, almost wind-like rhythm. I could nap to it, but instead, I think I should go wash cucumbers. Today is pickle-making day, after all. I've been looking forward to the smell of brine for a while, since the cucumbers first promised to through up their bounty for us. I could get to like pickles again, the way I did when I was a kid. All those things, those childhood pleasures, seem a bit more acute when harvest time rolls around. Trick is to keep them alive all year round.
Butterflies, kitty cats, hummingbirds, orioles, geese, combines, hoses stretched across the lawn, horses and goats grazing, nibbling. The day is calm, the day has promise, the day has been, so far with nothing indicating otherwise, a good one. I need a GSR report for tonight's meeting, and I need a shower sometime before seven p.m. I chaired last month, so that means this month, I get to be greeter. I get to be. I get to shake hands and offer hugs and welcomes. Cool job. I lost my father ten days ago, and I am okay. Not fine, but okay.
Life is good.
Till later....
George is off collecting ingredients to make pickles. I'm excited, especially since I awoke without the spasms in my shoulder that plagued me yesterday. I'm supposed to be working on a pain journal, but I've never been good at that kind of consistency. I'd rather think about the format, describe, in hindsight, the pain in metaphorical terms, than say, "spasms over left shoulder blade, throbbing pain radiating down left arm, no chest pain," or "Lyrica has mild sedating effect, no discernable change in the burning pain in my legs yet. Not sure if I want to continue with it, but I'll give it a shot." There's no art in that, it draws my attention constantly to the pain, and if anything, makes me hurt worse.
I had a man approach me last night at a meeting. He talked to me the day before Dad's funeral, from the heart, about losing his own father. He was nearly in tears when he embraced me and told me that it would take time. I was okay, other than physical pain, last night. I come to it, at odd times during the day or night, but last night, I was okay. It's disconcerting to me to be thrust into it like that, and it's difficult to tell someone who's being supportive that his expressions are not all that helpful. Today, I decided to wear Dad's stolen scrub top (he didn't steal it....it just seemed okay to put his sweatshirt on overtop of the hospital issue top he was wearing before he came home). I feel...good in it. I know that it was over his whithered body, and though I'm feeling a little on the thin side today, I feel pretty healthy. Like I'm infusing it with better mojo. Healing the cloth. Charging it, like I'm reading about crystals.
Speaking of crystals and charging them with good energy, I read that if there is negative energy trapped in them, they can continue to release it, even after the event/feelings that caused the negativity in the first place is over. Wonder if there's anything to that. I know that a pair of amethyst earrings I wear have been with me through some tough times. (Oh, look! A flock of geese!) As a matter of fact, I bought them during one of the most stressful and dark times of my life. I'll have to make note of how I feel when I wear them, which has been quite often lately, as I'm in a purple mood, and they go with many of my purple dresses.
I still have to finish this fiction class I had deferred in the spring. There's that girl I left on her knees in the mud, in the rain, in that side yard with a gun pressed to the back of her head. (An oriole just flue through my yard, but damnit! they won't stop) I don't know who's wants to kill her (or scare her), I don't know where this run-down industrial area is or why there's still a house there or if anyone actually lives in the house. I don't know if there are any other casualties lying about. I don't know if she'll get out of it alive, or if the story is just that...what happens in her mind as she's facing the bullet that will rip through the back of her head, maybe even come out on the other side, making her unfit for her mother or anyone who may have loved her to identify her. I don't know if she'll make peace with death or if she will regret. Oh, God, I don't want her to regret. Perhaps she needs to regret. Perhaps that's what she requires in order to welcome the bullet. Know her life was for naught. God, that's depressing.
I also have the woman with the matchpack. Her story, or the outline of it, is described somewhere in this blog. I guess I should spend a bit of time organizing them. If nothing else, maybe my purpose for keeping a blog is to feed ideas to other writers, better writers. My husband said the other day, when I told him that I had sent a meditation primer to a couple of folks who requested it (I offered on a forum to send, rather than post, as it's about five pages long) that maybe I would see it published a few years from now with someone else's name on it. Maybe so. I didn't write it for publication, and besides, I sent a really rough draft. They'd have to spit shine it to present it to a publisher, anyway. I know he has an issue with taking what he does for a living and giving it away. That's what feeds us. He said it in order to validate my talents, not always showcased in this particular forum very well, and let me know that I should be careful with something I consider my craft. If I want to make a go of it, I should nurture it, feed it, and protect the intellectual property rights attached to it. Of course, I married a lawyer, so what should I expect? He both touched me and irritated me at the same time with his comment. Oh, how I love that man.
Wheat's being harvested up on the hill. I like to watch it. It's not nearly as loud and distracting as the hay-bailing across the road. The machine has a nice, almost wind-like rhythm. I could nap to it, but instead, I think I should go wash cucumbers. Today is pickle-making day, after all. I've been looking forward to the smell of brine for a while, since the cucumbers first promised to through up their bounty for us. I could get to like pickles again, the way I did when I was a kid. All those things, those childhood pleasures, seem a bit more acute when harvest time rolls around. Trick is to keep them alive all year round.
Butterflies, kitty cats, hummingbirds, orioles, geese, combines, hoses stretched across the lawn, horses and goats grazing, nibbling. The day is calm, the day has promise, the day has been, so far with nothing indicating otherwise, a good one. I need a GSR report for tonight's meeting, and I need a shower sometime before seven p.m. I chaired last month, so that means this month, I get to be greeter. I get to be. I get to shake hands and offer hugs and welcomes. Cool job. I lost my father ten days ago, and I am okay. Not fine, but okay.
Life is good.
Till later....
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