Shifting Gears
My angels and I declared the father fucking pile clean up close enough for Breach of Contract work yesterday morning. It still looks like a Breach of Contract, but let the freak flag fly. It are what it are and it ain't what it ain't. It's safe enough to let me enjoy my grandkids with a clean conscience. Before she left with a set of keys to the house so that she can keep tabs while I am gone, K assured me that I had handled her macho man with reasonable grace. He was invigorated by the participation and respectful of my position. I am grateful for the help. As we tackled the last loading of Boy Toy's bed, my flashbacks were shifting from the Bitch of No Return breakdown to Katrina cleanup with a bus loads of college trained experts. Ya works with what Life sends ya. . . Yes, my Sophmoric idealist, you know best. Watch that hole you are about to fall through. . .
After my angels left yesterday, I put the tools away and began eating like a hungry dog, complete with physical cravings to guide me on which nutrients by body needed. The return of my appetite is my number one indicator of having worked through another psychosis.
I gave myself a transition day before hitting the road back to the Urban Homestead. I'm glad I did. This morning finds me feeling the residual physical strains of the Breach of Contract ordeal. So far, they feel manageable. Knocking wood and keeping my finger on the pulse. . . I theorate that a day of gentle housework to batten down the hatches on the base camp and packing for the road trip will settle the residual strains enough to have me fit and ready to drive tomorrow morning. Theory behaves so well on paper. Now to test the theory with action.
Worries over the on-going adult dramas in the Urban Homestead are still intruding, but they are manageable so far. Plying detachment tools. No matter how much I love them, no matter how guilty I feel for the ways they were affected by my mental illness when they were young and vulnerable, their adult problems remain theirs to sort and worry is like quicksand. You can't build on it. You can only sink deeper into ^it^.
Stepping small, praying big and holding the love sacred. Hope healing happens here.
Replies
Still triggering on the pricks of security lights. Plying mindfulness exercise. . .
I notice the pricks of light are there.
I notice the pricks of light hurt my eyes
I notice the pricks of light never move
I notice the pricks of light have many reflections
I notice the pricks of light cast multiple inky black shadows
I notice the pricks of light. . .
Hopefully hopping
Hopping happily
Hope your hop is happy
I notice the pricks of light have lost their inky black shadows
I notice the pricks of light are turning themselves off
So far so good on the road prep. Time for laundry. Yesterday morning I was still getting giggles about being the one who brings home a shitload of laundry to the Urban Homestead. This morning I remembered I am the one who does those shitloads of laundry my prodigal children bring to the Urban Homestead. Might as well do it here and leave what I willnae need in Texas. More important, Persilly's bedding needs to be washed before we hit the road. I tend to neglect washing it when we are stationary. It is possible I havenae washed it for the 6 months we have been attempting to set up this camp. The best laid plans gone awry. . .
Another of my strictly personal weirds is that I kinda like laundry duty. It is typically my first choice on the volunteer roster on my community service projects. It's light duty with few experts or fenceline quarterbacks to contend with. At a laundromat, you get it ALL out of the way at once. The attendant at the laundromat I have been using has been a gentle start to a day.
Love the poem, beloved Sis. I hope I can hoppily happy it to the Grand Party.
Forgive me for going literal on you again, but hopping tends to work against my hyper-active nature when I am shifting gears. Steady on the clutch. . . Easy does it.
Or am I lost in metaphor again? ? ?
I am just imagining the kids of all ages hopping at the news that you are minutes away
Betcha dollars to wishes the Adult Children are hopping to get their list of Mommy Do's/Did's to dump on me. It's been a long, long time since I've seen them willing to compromise their dignity with Kiddie Hops. Endearments of "Monster-in-law" and "Toxic Mom" are still ringing in my ears with no clear signs that their honorifics have altered. Plying detachment tools. . .
Gampy's looking hopeful, though. We've added allot of new steps to The Dance during the year and a half since his Daddy died. Now to see if we can get those new steps to work on the old dance floor. . .
Update:
Base camp is battened down. All that remains is to pack the bags while I am unpacking the laundry I did this morning. I am freshly bathed and ready to tackle that job as soon as I finish the bath rest. Easy schmeezy. Knock wood. Over-confidence is usually my ticket to missing the obvious detail that bites me in the ass, but. . . Feeling my road zone. Insert Willie here:
On the road again
I just can't wait to get on the road again
The life I love is seeing whatever lies ahead
And I just can't wait to get on the road again
Not sure I'm translating correctly, but I think Persilly is saying, "It's about fucking time. I've had enough of this house dog boredom." Are those Mojo eyes she's making at me? Mojo is ES's dog and Persilly's favorite romp mate. He's a man who can handle her full, undiluted strength. So far, at least. He's getting grey around the muzzle. I'm not sure how old Mojo is, but he's considerable older than Persilly.
Yay, sounds like you are off in the morning for well deserved Grand time. congrats arfie, you did it~ triple hugs
My best laid plans have been biting me in the ass since November when I signed the contract for the building of the aeroponics lab/rooftop garden. I am currently afraid to plan on being on the road at sunrise. Just praying. . .
praying with you~