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Still don't know what to call my chick buying binge. I get especially nervous about using living critters to self-medicate. Animal Rescue shelters are chock full of cruelly abused and neglected creatures who began their adult development under exactly these circumstances. Still. . . There is clear medication value in pondering the train wreck of my life while fuzzy little ones are pecking at my toes and chirping among the over-aged tomato and pepper plants.
Both middle aged sons continue their homeless search for their niche in our crazy world. So far, hubs and I have been able to navigate the razor's edge between caring about their pain, but standing firm that the solutions we have been using are not sustainable. Ouch. . . Sometimes life just hurts. Clarity is precious hard to come by.
The goal of the day which bubbled out of this morning's meditation is simply staying true to myself. My middle aged sons do not agree on much. Big surprise, huh? When they get to the part of what their mother oughta be and how she is responsible for whatever ails them. . . Ouch. . . The pagan god, Janus, comes to mind. Two faces pointed in opposite directions. Is it even possible for one being to fill two such radically different sets of expectations? Attempts to reconcile the two sets of expectations only launches attacks of what is wrong with The Sibling. Ouch again. That is my son you are attacking. . . And we go round and round and round in the Circle Game. . .
Can I do a road trip now? My flight instincts are stincting, big time.
Just breathe. . .
One of the chicks just caught a big, juicy centipede. Too big to be swallowed in a single gulp and big enough to be stinging the beak of the chick who caught it. But. . . Centipedes are yummy enough to be worth the pain. Three of the other chicks witnessed the score and WANT a bite of that centipede. They are chasing the victorious chick relentlessly. The victorious chick is chirping pathetically at the centipede stings while running possessively to hold on to it.
Hm-m-m-m. . . Maybe these struggles are the very essence of life. . .
Thanks for letting me vent. Think I'll just shoot for taking the day one centipede leg at a time. Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer. Onward through the day.
Both middle aged sons continue their homeless search for their niche in our crazy world. So far, hubs and I have been able to navigate the razor's edge between caring about their pain, but standing firm that the solutions we have been using are not sustainable. Ouch. . . Sometimes life just hurts. Clarity is precious hard to come by.
The goal of the day which bubbled out of this morning's meditation is simply staying true to myself. My middle aged sons do not agree on much. Big surprise, huh? When they get to the part of what their mother oughta be and how she is responsible for whatever ails them. . . Ouch. . . The pagan god, Janus, comes to mind. Two faces pointed in opposite directions. Is it even possible for one being to fill two such radically different sets of expectations? Attempts to reconcile the two sets of expectations only launches attacks of what is wrong with The Sibling. Ouch again. That is my son you are attacking. . . And we go round and round and round in the Circle Game. . .
Can I do a road trip now? My flight instincts are stincting, big time.
Just breathe. . .
One of the chicks just caught a big, juicy centipede. Too big to be swallowed in a single gulp and big enough to be stinging the beak of the chick who caught it. But. . . Centipedes are yummy enough to be worth the pain. Three of the other chicks witnessed the score and WANT a bite of that centipede. They are chasing the victorious chick relentlessly. The victorious chick is chirping pathetically at the centipede stings while running possessively to hold on to it.
Hm-m-m-m. . . Maybe these struggles are the very essence of life. . .
Thanks for letting me vent. Think I'll just shoot for taking the day one centipede leg at a time. Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer. Onward through the day.
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I haven't written in my diary on my computer since May because I thought that my computer was dying. I got away from writing but my computer is hanging in there. I think that I will start writing in it again. It's so therapeutic.
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First, I hope everyone is doing well, and continuing to fight that good fight! Keep up the great work on yourselves; I'm rooting for all of you!So, I started doing therapy at the beginning of the year, when I was in my most depressed state, but with my therapist, I made big changes and steps in the right direction. But, over a month ago, she couldn't take my insurance anymore, and I had to stop...
The Progress:
1) When my "Good Provider" went off to his busy day, I felt like I was sending off a full, collaborating partner and not just a well-paid techie with a pocketful of clueless criticisms.
2) I TURNED THE NEW COMPOST PILE!!!! YAY ME!!! Composting is one of my longest running therapy channels. Even when I am in full flight mode, you will often find me at Environmental Disaster scenes, composting some of the finer wisdom of "Good Providers." No shortage of those in our world's economic progress. . . I was really proud of my last compost pile, but since the Father/son disaster which necessitated moving the apiary this time last year, my compost pile has become the Hub's apiary. Mix in my acquired allergy to bee stings and. . . Mississippi/Ohio River confluence here I come. I started a new compost pile since my return from the confluence, but I am still hyper-vigilant of the "Good Providers" doing another corporate takeover. I pushed myself past that worry and worked the new compost pile this morning. Damn, I make good mud pies!
Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer.
I expected my mom to be the person I've known her to be most of my life.
My late sister's expectations were the same.
She saw Mom as Enemy. I saw Mom as Only Comfort.
Then she'd want Mom to be the comfort and Mom would comply and be caught off-guard when sis went back to "You are enemy" mode....
And you couldn't reconcile *us* either. We tried. People tried. And that was where it stood when she passed away.
To a certain extent, we are still kids. I still want my mom to be a supportive presence in my life, and to know she loves me. Advice, comfort, a hug. What I got as a kid, in other words.
My sister.... I think wanted to get something like that, but at the same time "revenge" for what she saw as Mom being the enemy, too. Not logical but emotions are a mess that way.
I'm with you. One centipede leg at a time.
And then we get to the joys and growing vulnerability of the geriatric years. . . Mothering adult "children" is beginning to look even less possible than wise to this tired, old warhorse.
Unfortunately, that does mean our emotions are set to elementary school, when our calendars are set to middle age. As you say, clear as mud....