Working My Way Back In

Slow like.

I got up earlier than I wanted to.

I am practising for the upcoming week, my impending, doom, dum, dum, doom, drum beating in my head, of resuming work.

I have been out of my job now for a month.

It has felt like some odd dream that was lasting forever and then suddenly, today, I woke up.

Tomorrow life resumes its previous shape, though slightly altered.

“Look at those pink shoes!” She exclaimed, “I have never seen you out of your Converse,” slight pause, “unless you are wearing sky high platform heels.”

I am a creature of extremes.

I am out of my shoe comfort zone, but more comfortable for that, my ankle needs more support than the Converse can give and so, enter my Saucony Jazz sneaks in pink with lime green and pink shoe laces.

My feet look like candy colored slippers.

Excuse me while I gnaw on a green and pink taffy pull of lace.

I wrote a lot this morning, ate a nice breakfast, made my bed without the boot on or use of the crutches–both have been regulated to the back of the closet, where I wish them to stay forever and ever amen–with my foot wrapped up in an ace bandage to provide some extra support.

I made small plans today.

Went up to St. Annes and hung out there for an hour and was told I “lit up the room.”

Which made me smile.

Truth be told, I am a touch maudlin and a bit at a loss to express how this past month has took hold of me.

Perhaps it is just the waking up in my own bed this morning, rather than the one in the bedroom at the cabin on Lake 26, Town of Swiss, outside of Danbury Wisconsin, where the loons woke me up and the light through the pines needled itself into my heart.

I was sitting on my back porch having an early’ish dinner and the sun had finally plowed its way through the fog and clouds and I noticed a red splotch on my wrist, then another and another.

Fuck.

Poison ivy?

My best friend had pointed it out to me and described it quite well and I knew to avoid it, but I had gotten swept up into the blueberry picking madness, that at one point had me sitting in a patch like a little brown bear stuffing berries atlernately in my mouth and then into the bucket–a Cedar Crest ice cream pail–hazily waving away the flies and gnats that were descending upon me.

I had my snack and then, man, oh man, was the insect world having its meal.

The rash was not a rash, I realized, no itching, couldn’t be poison ivy, nope.

Rather.

Mosquito bites.

“Moquito” the littlest one said, dropping the s off the world in his soft lisp voice.

The first time I heard it I thought he was saying “mojito” and did wonder for a brief moment is his mom and dad had suddenly taken up with the ubiquitous drink rather than the craft beers which are more their style.

Though they both drank more Klarbunn fizzy water than anything else during the time I was there.

Speaking of which, I had forgotten how tasty that little beverage is–black cherry Karbunn sparkling water, I’ll take a case of that to Burning Man, yes please.

The nice thing about “moquito” bites is that if you can muster the will to not scratch at them, they will stop being itchy after a few moments.

But once I start the itching, it won’t stop until I have a scab and miracle of miracles, I was so distracted by the wild blue berry bushes I was pillaging to have not taken the time to do anything other than swat them away when I noticed them.

I shall return to work tomorrow with some red spots, a weak ankle, and a mind somewhat turned inward, perhaps more than I would like.

It feels as though today I got a bit introspective and a little sad too.

Is it enough to sit and listen to the hush of the ocean as it stirs through the air, the whistle rustle of thick black oily raven wings beating the sky, the bright purple wild geraniums in the yard dancing in the light breeze, is it enough to just notice these things?

I have an old fallacious idea that down time needs to be planning and doing time.

I am experiencing some chargrin that I have not done more with my time.

The alternative thought is that I allowed myself to heal as best I could without putting pressure upon myself to magically will it better.

The push to self-improve has not been as self destructive as it has in the past.

That is not to say that it isn’t there, it is, and it too, a dull roar smash of sounds that whirl in dust devil dervishes in the back of my head, with a occasional voice breaking through the jumble to admonish me for the lack of being further ahead with this aspect of my life or that.

I know my purpose though and I met it today and I let myself just be slow and have a simple day.

After St. Anne’s I went to the farmers market at 9th and Judah and bought four perfect, heavy, just ripened to perfection, yellow organic nectarines.

I had one today after lunch and cannot remember a better one in my life.

It was so good I put down the book I was reading to sit and savor it with complete and total concentration.

Yellow nectarines are my favorite fruit.

When they are just so.

And they are not often just so.

Not too ripe.

Not too under ripe.

Have to be yellow.

White ones are gross.

Cannot be a peach.

I dislike the fuzz and the textural difference is such that it really does drive me bats.

Peaches and nectarines are not the same.

One golden moment of bliss.

I also got organic broccoli and cauliflower, a deep purple burgundy red cabbage, a bunch of sweet organic carrots, and a pound of organic brussels sprouts, then I caught the train back home.

I made beans and rice to take to work for the week and also a large chopped red cabbage salad with carrots and broccoli, a small apple, cauliflower, olive oil and apple cider vinegar.

I wasn’t too fancy.

I don’t have fancy in me today.

Some slight sadness still lingering.

But I know it is enough.

This life by the sea, the sound of love cradling me deep.

I don’t have to know where this is going, just that I am well enough to put myself back up on the path.

The sadness will pass and before long this will be jus that time when.

I sat for a long time and was still.

And love came to me when I was least looking for it.

 

You just can’t pass it away, it’s love.

And love comes eager to stay, 

It just works out that way.