I woke at 5:25 a.m. today. I tried to lie there and to drift off. I heard sounds of fluid spurting out.
The cat had wanted attention, more than anything else, so we have been attempting to extinguish such displays.
Uhm, perhaps this morning, she really did need to be let out. I have yet to find the cat pee, or the source of the noise.
It did get me dashing out of bed, thank you cat, for that, I think.
I let her outside. I was treated to cardinal serenades back upstairs in my room by the opened window as I ran through my morning routine, an hour or two early. I am productive so far! I wonder if this level of alert and function will last!? I think that might be nice. I will appreciate it, even if I end up not being able to sustain it today.
I updated Goodreads. I have been bringing bag after bag full of books home from the library. Some look and feel good. Some I quickly realize that I should have listened to my nose wrinkling brain, and let them there. Normally, to stretch my tastes, I MUST complete reading a book even if I dislike it. I cannot recall why I do this. I thought some of it was due to the Goodreads challenges. I can’t let me count a thing as having been read, if I haven’t read it cover to cover. I also do not like wasting of time. I think that I might have a very funny-odd way of deciding waste. I made a neat satisfying done pile to return to the library today.
I am thinking that I might go back to my new community garden plot–YES! I got one this year! I am only able to weed a few minutes at a time. I am really glad that the ground appears to have been well worked and it is pretty easy to get the weeds out. I am not sure if I will grow food or a witchy garden. Perhaps some combination of both. The plants and flowers that I have a wish for, work well as pollinators and for bringing the creatures that make things mesh and eat the ‘pests’. Speaking of eating. The cat has created a mural of evisceration on the walk in front of the door.
Chores now, running through the head. When did the kitchen here become Hell? My insides are horridly unhappy over this. The heart DID love cooking. Everything involved with it now, allergies, disorders of my household, and simply screaming, and not physically being able to clean it make it a mountain.
Inside, I think…make sun tea and lemonade in the new half gallon jars. Make mayonnaise, it is the base of many simple things. Outside, I suddenly decide that the feeling in the house and perhaps the literal clutter, requires a clearning. I begin by lighting the candle and smudging my room. I have tea. A smile of satisfaction and on, to music, Imogen Heap, and her train for home. I think of that train of addiction and how it just keeps on going without you. I think in a broader usage –important concept of generalization here, it reminds me that when I think that I get off of the train and check out of life, I’m going to roil along like being stuck in an undertow or roaring forward on that train.
“Do what you feel, just how you like…”–Imogen Heap
4 thoughts on “First Train Home”
Don’t stop. Keep writing it down.
Thank you dear. This just feels too hard, how about smashing it down with a giant rock?!
I really enjoyed this real slice of your morning, the different feelings and thoughts arising, the despair at the clutter in the kitchen. My kitchen is a mess when I cook. Barry despairs and sometimes follows around putting things away.
I am feeling bumpy again, but a better sort of bumpy, I think. Maybe. Still! 😀
My brain is now shouting a goal. Half of me is scowling at it, which might mean I should listen. I liked that arising bit. It works for the good stuff and the not so great feeling stuff, or the stuff in which I can spin. It all pops in the end like a bubble doesn’t it? One way or the other, sooner or later.
I’ve not been commenting on some of the things you are writing. Some of them I have a great lot of thinks about or even years of pondering. I can be shocked or amazed when you get them down in writing. I think that somehow you have forgotten that my sharing is a gift of a piece of me to you. No matter if I agree or not. No matter if I point out a thought of an alternate view, that I might hold, or might simply use to continue pondering. I hurt very badly at the thought that I might have bumped on a hurt. I hurt even more to think that you might have misunderstood me and have injury of some sort. I would repair any of these with a flick of my mind, but then perhaps would be no lesson except for me to remember that I cannot keep everything nice for everyone, nor fix them.
After this thought, parts of my cry because I thought that you liked me just as I am. I am sad that you might wish me to be another way, because then to, with you, I am not enough.
Any of these things when I carry them along are stops for me to observe and to choose to act or not to act, or something else entirely. Most of the time I think that life is. Everything. Other times, when I focus on one bit, I lose the ability to have immense joy just staring at a blade of grass and noting how the sun moves on it and the rest of life. Then sometimes, the crap that gets in my way just seems such a waste. But then, what good is staring at grass. I am annoyed at having to feel like I’ve got to choose.