I was thinking this morning that our bodies are nature and our souls (thought? spirit? soul? mind?) live in them and over time adjust to the seasons of our physical life. What’s most shocking about this idea is that…
I’m not the first person who has had it.
Yesterday morning I got up to let the dogs out at 4:50 and then, uncharacteristically, didn’t go back to sleep. For some reason I HAD TO GET UP. Not long after I had begun the turn on the lights, make coffee, moment, I was hit by a migraine. My migraines are mostly of the visual kind, no throbbing pain on the crown of my head, no nausea, but they leave me pretty trashed once they pass. Yesterday’s was no different. I just push through and emerge on the other side feeling like a train wreck.
So whatever the spirit/mind had planned for the day didn’t happen. Wasn’t going to happen. Couldn’t happen. But, migraines can sometimes bring me vivid dreams and last night I dreamed I was in modern-day China (with a migraine) and talking on the phone to people who didn’t identify themselves (inscrutable orientals, right?) and ended up with a job as an art historian at the Guangzhou Museum of Western Art. I asked the unnamed voice on the other end of the “line” “What kind of art?”
“I don’t know. That’s why we’re hiring you. None of us know what they are or what they mean or where they came from.”
“So like the things around me at home that I brought back from China so long ago? The survivors of time?”
Good grief, Martha, GET UP!!!
So here I am. No migraine, only lingering tiredness. Those things are truly STORMS, but the trip to China was great.
It’s been a bad day. I was awakened at 7 by the dogs needing out — that’s OK, normal even. It means I get up and let the dogs out. If it’s not grimly cold I might leave the back door open. And, since I usually get up at 8, I was happy to leave it open (it was only -2) and go back to bed for a little while. I hoped for at least a half hour more sleep. The news last night of the assassination of the Iranian general and all the consequences to which that might lead to had kept me awake. I was filled with distrust for war-mongering Republicans and what seems to me to have been an act taken irresponsibly and unilaterally as a way to win an election. “You don’t vote against a sitting president during wartime,” said my office mate back in the GWB days.
Lots of people feel that way.
Just a few minutes after I put my head on the pillow, resolving to think good thoughts, my room had filled with a strong odor of diesel fumes. These fumes came from my neighbor’s strange and exotic SUV which has an exhaust pipe that points up into the sky, toward my house, as it happens. The pipe is next to the passenger’s side, front. When it is this cold, the light-weight warmer air (diesel exhaust in this case) is pushed down by the heavier cold air. Temperature inversion. Seeking a way to float, and finding some warmth coming out of my back door, the diesel exhaust took advantage of it and crawled along my floor to the warmest room in my house — my bedroom.
I understand that diesel engines need to warm up in winter because diesel kind of turns to jelly, but really? A tail-end exhaust wouldn’t do that. It’s an obnoxious and pretentious car and the whole family is a little odd (what might they say of me?), but nice. “Hell is other people,” Sartre so wisely pronounced.
I got up. Closed the back door. Made coffee, etc. the usual morning stuff. I worked on the “story that refuses to be born (so far),” and was pretty much hating life. I was Miss Grumpy pants, thinking about my up-coming birthday and how nice it would be to have a funny, handsome, loving guy to take me out for dinner (yeah right). Even though I am VERY aware of the downside of that, from time-to-time I wish…
Then, for no reason, as I got up from my chair and took ONE step, I fell and hit my head on the floor. It’s a pretty big bump and painful. I lay there for a bit and then got up thinking how good I am at getting up. I don’t think the diesel exhaust was enough to make me dizzy, especially an hour later. There is no major injury, but it was certainly demoralizing and tiring. I’d planned to take the skis out today…
I had to stop, ice my head, submit to the loving and hairy solicitude of my livestock guardian dog. I thought about my birthday and realized what I really want for my birthday is for the nordic club to groom my golf course for walking and skiing.
So the morning wound on unpleasant and strange. My friend called to make sure I was OK and didn’t have a concussion. I was able to ask about her family in Australia. My plans went out the window and I thought of a story my Aunt Jo told me once of a bad day when every time she turned around, she hurt herself, culminating in a fall down the two steps from their back door to the back yard. She told me she just lay there on the ground and said, “I just can’t hurt any more.” It’s kind of a funny story, but also not. It is definitely how I felt today.
Then, I decided to go get the mail.
Outside my door was a box about 24″ x 24″ x 4″. Big. I brought it inside. I saw it came from my cousin — someone I like but with whom I have had a problematic relationship since we were kids. What in the world?
Inside was a wooden platter with an Islamic design inset with mother of pearl. I knew it very well. I reached my palm to touch it, feeling time, my heart seeing a wall on which it once hung. My eyes filled with tears. It had been my Aunt Martha’s and had hung in her home in Colorado for twenty-five years. She bought it in Egypt in the 70’s. From there it went with her to Montana and when she died, it went to my Aunt Dickie where it hung over her fireplace until last year when she died.
This whole day seems like a metaphor for, or a compression of, life. At least here there’s a little guidance.
Anyone who genuinely and constantly With both hands, Looks for something Will find it.
Though you are lame and bent over Keep moving Toward the Friend With speech and silence, with sniffing about, stay on the track
When some kindness comes to you, turn That way, toward the source of kindness. Love-things originate in the ocean. Restlessness leads to rest.
This is my second time working with the new editor which you’ve hubristically named “Gutenberg.” Seriously? Frankly, it’s kind of annoying. I don’t like taking instruction (period? ever?) from my computer screen, and, at this point in my blogging “career,” I don’t need you to tell me to “add content.” I wouldn’t be typing here if I didn’t plan to add content. Right? Whomever this is designed for, I’m worried about them but it’s OK.
Of course you might have a different audience in mind than me, I know, I know… But here’s the thing. I just wanted to write a little blog post. Seriously little. Neither long nor meaningful. I’m tired, kind of brain-dead, and might have a sinus infection (again). Those conditions do not make a sharp tool out of my brain.
I see what’s going to happen. Every time I move to yet one more of your “add text or type/to add content” (I like that creative syntax by the way, very, uh, strange) I get a new “block.”
Listen, sweet cheeks, I’ve been through a few blocks in my time… This will be the third WP editor I’ve been privileged to use. Deep down in the bowels of WP Admin I find the original editor. I still use it sometimes — no no don’t take it away! Its simplicity is refreshing.
SOOOOO…since I have nothing of import to say this morning anyway, I slept in, the extra 30 minutes of snoozing led to some scary dreams, including the part where the demented child stole Bear and though I yelled, “Give me my dog!” loudly over and over it didn’t avail until I spoke French, “Donnez mois mon chien!” With that, the demented child calmly handed me the leash, and I got my dog back. I don’t think you can generalize from that. And no, I don’t know why I sometimes dream in French. Je ne parle pas français.