Doing the Laundry

Today is January 20, 2017, and at this moment, in Washington, D.C., Donald Trump is being sworn in as the 45th President of the USA. I need to do my laundry in town, since it is damp and foggy outside and the laundry has been piling up for a couple of weeks. However, I remembered the Laundromat I use always has three televisions blaring, with no option to change the channels, and as I was not wishing to reinforce Trump’s ego, as well as those of his backers, by watching the inauguration, I let go my plan to do my laundry today.

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February 8, 2017

Yesterday, I put on clean clothes, and picked out a pair of earrings, long, dangling earrings that my friend, Marianne, gave me seventeen years ago, in Santa Fe, when I visited her on my way to California.  I rarely wear jewelry, yet, for some reason, I picked this pair.  They have turquoise beads strung on silver, and at the bottom, hangs a small bird shape, abalone.  The woman at the store commented to me how pretty they are.  “A dear friend of mine gave them to me years ago.”  Later, when I got home and sat down to go online, the first time in a day, I took off the earrings and put them in a small catchall tray I keep, thinking I need to remember to put them back with the other pairs I so rarely wear.  I stayed up late, all night, really, falling asleep, waking up, sitting back down, and trying to stay interested in some series on Netflix.  I finally went to bed at four in the morning, knowing I would get only about four hours sleep.  Sure enough, the alarm went off and I ignored it.  A couple hours later I finally let go my dreaming.  As I opened my eyes, I had the strangest sensation in my crown chakra.  It was as though the top of my head had blood rushing through it, and I put my right hand to my head, slightly massaging it, feeling a numbing sensation in my skull.  I wondered if I might be experiencing an aneurysm, but it was not painful, and the rest of me was still working.  The sensation passed, and I did my leg stretches before sitting up on the bedside.

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I Adapt

I adapt.  What other choice do I have? Below-freezing nights and days, both outdoors and inside the cabin, when it gets up to forty degrees inside this cabin, I finally feel warm.  When it got down to 12 degrees last night, I worried about Henry freezing to death. Continue reading

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Moments

His life was eighty-three years of a series of moments. The person I knew for nearly half my life, E. Pope Goodson, my friend and neighbor, is no more.  A month ago, I saw him for the last time, as I stood by his hospital bedside and held his hand.  For me, it was a sweet moment.  He looked at me and moved his left hand to meet my right hand, and that was all.  I laughed and said to his daughter sitting on the other side of the bed, watching us, “We never hold hands!”  I had been there almost three hours. Continue reading

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Staying Simple in the 21st Century

I suppose I must accept it:  my attempt to live simply in this 21st century is delusional.  Being part of these times seems so complicated, full of contradiction, and sometimes, just frustrating.  I am starting to understand all those folks who use alcohol, drugs, and other sources for turning off their brains in order to be here.  In fact, I fall back on at least one source daily: the Internet.  I have been on here since I woke up this morning.

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As Time Passes

Where am I this day, as time passes?  It all depends on the thoughts I hear in my head.  My routine is to get the hot drink, either coffee or lemon juice, sit down with the Ipad and log on to see if there is anything new happening.  As the first couple of hours pass, I see many quotes posted online, most of them meant to be encouraging, spiritually edifying.  I share some of them, wondering if I truly believe any of them, since, as time passes, I know the moment will come when the thought will pop into my head that defies all that I shared.  I am not liberated.  I seem incapable of keeping the positive affirmations for very long.  I am not practicing the self-hypnosis I need:  “Life loves me;”  “I am my thought.”  The one thing I see, a quote from Jiddu Krishnamurti, strikes me as the most relevant:

“The highest form of intelligence is the ability to observe yourself without judging     yourself.”

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Being Retired

Being retired must be different for everyone.  Some plan for it, and some do not.  I did not.  I knew only that I could not keep doing what I had been doing for years: being at the beck and call of an employer.  Not known for having foresight, I blithely stopped working at a job in which I burned out, projecting that I could get by on what I deemed I had due me, a social security check.  How many others did this, only to find out it is not enough?  In my life, it is just barely enough.  It helps to be living in a part of the world that is far removed from the hustle and bustle of the city, its thousands of people, and traffic.

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The Goal of Being Happy

Being happy was all that I ever wished to be.  As a child, I was happiest when hanging out with our dogs, or tagging along with my dad out on the ranch.  I was in a learning mode, although I was not conscious of it.  I did not know I was supposed to be making decisions for my future as an adult based on what I was learning as a child.  I was simply doing what I loved.

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The Everpresent Unknown/the Void

The Unknown, the Void, is ever present.  I listen.  All is quiet as this new day dawns.  What this day brings, I do not know.

I do know that Spring is coming, for the little fig tree I bring in every winter is sprouting new leaves, despite having very little light.  The bright pink of new sprouts under the dead leaves in my flowerbed tell me that soon new peonies will shoot up.

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What is This Life?!?

What is this life?

Having fallen asleep in my chair, I wake up at 2 a.m. and go to my bed.  After an hour of not being able to sleep, I get up and make coffee and toast leftover biscuits.  I decide to build a fire in the wood stove and go to that corner of the room where it sits.  The wet puddle the cat left right at the edge of the plastic I keep under the litter box catches my eye.  What is it with this cat that she will not go in the litter box and do her thing?  The rage I feel at finding her urine on the floor causes me to forget building that fire.  I clean up the piss, growling loudly as I pour bleach on the spot I have just sopped up with kitty litter.  She knows I am angry.  When I go to find her on my bed upstairs, she sees me coming and runs under the bed.  I am determined I will catch her and throw her outdoors, this time for good.  She knows the drill and is not having it.  I go back downstairs and drink my coffee, eat my toasted biscuits, wondering if I will ever sit and eat at my table with a sense of peace.  I rarely sit at the table; I stand at the stove and scarf whatever I am having for breakfast.  That is because, ordinarily, my dining table is covered up with too much stuff: mail I have not sorted, wrapping paper I used weeks ago, pens, scissors, tape, clipboard, applications, books, purse, kerosene lamps, plants.  Two days ago I organized the stuff on the table, clearing a spot where I might sit and eat.  It makes no difference.  I know no peace, and I muse on how a cat can infuriate me so.

The few extra dollars from unemployment no longer come.  I look for a job online, daily.  I have had two interviews thus far.  It does not look promising, as I am a lousy typist and my nerves are easily frazzled.  I have considered relocating to Fayetteville in order to work, if I can actually land a job.  I met a fellow offering a room in his house but the room is taken already, so I applied with the Fayetteville Housing Authority, since my income is way below the poverty line.  When I went in person, after a two hour drive to get there, the woman I spoke with wanted my birth certificate to confirm who I am.  I told her my birth certificate had burned up in the clinic in Venezuela, where I was born, but that I have a passport.  “That’ll do,” she says brightly and takes it to make a copy of it.  She returns, saying, “Your passport has expired, so I can’t accept it as proof.”  I respond, “Really?!?  Am I not here in front of you, and that passport was given me, somehow, telling you I exist!  Really?!?”  She says, “My boss won’t allow it, and I can’t go behind my boss!”  She keeps my application and says “You will have to get the passport renewed before I can accept it as proof.”  I say, “It costs over $100 to renew a passport and I am here applying for low income housing.  This makes no sense!”  Inside my head I am screaming at her, telling her what idiots she and her bosses and all the bureaucracy of the government are.  She says, “There is a three to nine month waiting list.”  I look at her and say, “Thanks for nothing!”  I leave, wishing I could hear the heavy glass door slam loudly behind me.  Instead, I hear a muted thud as it closes.  Damn!  What is the point of trying to do anything?  I can’t even get a door to slam properly!

At least it is not zero degrees outside.  These last few days have been warmer, compared to two weeks ago when it was three degrees one morning.  Twice the sun has been out long enough to allow my going in to the woods behind the cabin to cut a couple of wheelbarrows full of wood.  I stacked it on the porch, quite high, so when the next cold front arrives, I will be ready.  I figure that weather is just around the unseen corner.  For now, I sit here in my leather jacket over the two layers of clothing I have worn for at least two days now.  In a way, it is almost easier to keep going on as I have, all these years.  I rough it through the winter months that, when it is so cold, feel interminable, but once signs of spring appear, I feel I may make it through.  If it were not for the fact that I am now closer to seventy and move with rickety knees, I would not even consider going to a city to live and work.  The carrying of water and not having a bathroom is nothing when I think about all the screwed up people I might run into in the city.  I am blessed to live here in these woods, in spite of the lack of amenities.  At least I do not have to talk to people who are not logical and are so fear-ridden they cannot see or hear anybody else.  I rev myself up to go work for an organization or a corporation, thinking I can stay focused and keep a clear mind and then I have encounters like the one a couple of days back and I think, “Right!  You are better off where you are, with or without money, with or without food!”  If necessity dictates, I will find a way to work with what I have already, which, in my estimation, is a lot.  I simply need to break free of my conditioning that judges how my environment appears, both to myself, and possibly, to others, although the latter does not really count, since nobody ever comes to visit me anyway!  What is this life?  It is a mess, a farce, a laugh, some woe, some awareness, a lot of solitude, and less sleep.

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