Hammering II

The crooning co-worker who helped me gain control of my construction performance anxiety is floating in my head again. Mind you, I amnae complaining. His silky tenor is welcome in my head, any time. The blending of blues and physics still excites my senses. His particular lesson was on trim carpentry, where excess force causes considerable damage. My performance anxiety over owning the only tits on the job site had me clutching and swinging the hammer mercilessly, leaving dings and scratches all over the trim. His guidance was simple. "Lighten up, lady. Easy does it." The crooning song he used to help me find my tempo and swing was soothing enough to still be with me three decades later. "Don't make it more work than it has to be. Just let that hammer fall. Add an ounce of gentle guidance while the gravity works and just let that hammer fall."

Are my panic attacks escalating with the work of moving domestic operations into the new house? Tough measure. Beyond the early therapy logs which helped me grow an awareness of the phenom, I havnae kept score of my panic attacks. For certain there is evidence that panic attacks have been a daily occurrance for me for most of my life. Theories abound on the why but proof remains unavailable so I let the mystery be while I deal with the panic attacks as they hit. It feels predictable enough that they would escalate here in the volcanic upheaval which has been spewing since my son and his wife were killed in that September crash.

Breathing. . . This morning's song of the crooning co-worker was plied to the spin of the allen wrench which disassembled baby sisters crib. The morning's rare prairie fog is still thick outside, renewing my craving for the daily ground hugging river fogs. Every so often this dusty hilltop gets one of those ground hugging fogs. They soothe my sinuses with a reminiscant mist. Time to breathe deep while I load and unload the crib and a few other sets of kidly etceteras. Hubs and I are beginning to see evidence of the grinning geezers that got buried under the volcanic ash. . . Yea, we really do have needs of our own. Plying bandages.

Stepping small, praying big and resting often.