To Do or To Be, That is the Question

At last, I am beginning to find the edges of Peacefulness and Contentment, and am genuinely happy to be right here, right now.  Perhaps I needed the wounding to get myself to slow down a bit, and to consider the things ahead of me that I really do need to tackle.  I’ve had excuse after excuse to avoid many necessaries here on the home front, and now seems to be the perfect time.  My wobbly arms are not yet ready for yardwork and major furniture rearrangement, nor the final coats of paint in the kitchen, but they are quite able enough for housecleaning.  Ye gods, has it come to that?  Do I have to break both elbows in order to make actual time for cleaning of the domicile?  I certainly have to carry myself to extremes for the opportunity to “get it.”  It took me 10 years to get it that I was ruining myself with TG.  I evidently was born under the stop sign of Stubborn.  (Those of you who know the Queen Mum will agree that the nut didn’t fall far from the Mother Tree.)

And so I declare:  Sisyphus will no longer be my default muse.  I have many muses, actually, but I have no more time for SissyFuss, as I shall now call him, who spends all his precious time trying to push that stone uphill.  Well, I’ve carried a lot of rocks a long way to get them to where they needed to be, and while it might not have seemed the logical thing to do at the time, I do have a lot of fabulous rocks to show for it.  I once carried a rather large rock a long way in Colorado.  It was big, (for me), it was heavy, it was a celebration when I got it back to the car.  I had carried it for a goodly while, and it was a commitment, (and a damned nice rock.)  I was bringing it back to TG, as a gift from the beautiful mountains and rivers of Colorado.  He was such an ass that he didn’t get it.  Nor did he get the wonderful carved bear that I had purchased for him.  Not coincidentally, they both sit on my fireplace hearth.

So I think my SissyFuss tries to push water uphill – water being a thing to which I so relate anyway.

And speaking of water…. I took Cur Mudgeon and Custody Dog down to the lake yesterday.  It’s glorious to have the lake this year, after the horrendous drought we slogged through last year.  The water temperature is outrageously perfect, and even with the wimpy wings, I can float and paddle around in the wetness.  Cur Mudgeon, who was a foundling in the desert lands around Page, Arizona, has taken to the water well, but his payoff is in rolling in the sand after his dip.  He makes a fool out of himself rah-rahing around, woofling to no one and everyone, feet dancing in the air while he rubs his back in the sand.  Custody Dog, on the other hand, is all about the water.  She was somehow born to it, (that and running), and I don’t think I’ve ever seen this dog happier.  I know this to be at least her third home, (and the pound was another stop in there somewhere), and I think she has made it to Nirvana.  She did that thing “professional” dogs do – to run out on the dock and make a flying leap out into the water – quite the athlete.  She did it over and over again, along with generally checking out all aspects of the bank and other parts of the lake, engaging people and other dogs in the course of things, and for the most part very well behaved.  She only growled at those who had earned it, and she caused no trouble.  A stellar performance.  We all had a great time.

And so with all this in mind, I want to comment on this anniversary.  Today is the one year day when Queenie stood out on the south acre, toe to toe with TG, (who had been misbehaving on several levels), and said I wasn’t going on the road trip to Colorado, (now that is a really big deal, to turn down a Road Trip – to Colorado!), and to say none of this worked for me anymore.  No big drama.  No scenes.  No screaming.  Just the facts, ma’am.  It was just done, and I came in from the incredible event and began really writing my book.  That was the day I wrote about Hope, the longest and perhaps most personal of the missives, and the one that is likely to make people cry if they have a tendency toward that sort of thing.  The whole thing was a milestone.  (I won’t go for the obvious reference of the Millstone – that would be untoward and uncalled for.  Uh-huh.)

That day, a year ago, seems sort of like this day.  It’s warm, very warm in the mornings, and ramps up quickly to hot.  But in the mornings, out here in the swing on my deck, the sun’s not gotten around to bake yet, and it’s entirely tolerable, even pleasant, for a good many hours.  The south breeze is coming across, and feeling good – still cool instead of hot.  Some manner of insect has set up a constant, fairly high-pitched drone in the cedar trees, and several birds are calling across the property.  A huge RED dragonfly has just taken perch atop the now spent blooms of the yucca in the overgrown cactus garden below, and I know that is some sort of special blessing.  The red ones are rare, and the dragonfly means ILLUSION.  As quoted in my Medicine Card book:  Dragonfly is the essence of the winds of change, a harbinger of wisdom and enlightenment….  About damned time, I’d day.  It is also the symbol for the elemental world – Nature.  And for me, that says it all.  Nature is my home.  And my Saving Grace.  And my healer, and I aim to be right here for as long as I need to be.

I feel calm and content, even though I’ve got two gimpy arms, and not as much money in the bank as I’d hoped, but it’ll be alright.  Something will happen to get me through.  I’ve got two more months of swimming, and that will be enough.  I don’t have another big road trip till November, and that is just fine with me.  I’m ready to be home and healing for a while.  I don’t think I’ve taken time to heal for, say, about a year?  I believe I finally get why I broke parts of my body.  It’s time to stop for a while.  (Except writing, of course.)

I’m just fit enough to do the cleaning and sorting of the smaller variety of piles that need be done, and don’t need to be distracted by those big, enticing, PROJECTS.  The yard’s already out of control – it can’t get much worse, anyway.  It’ll be a while before I can manage loppers and saws and weed-eaters.  So be it.  Everything that awaits doing will keep till my arms are up to it, and by then this little everyday nattering stuff will be done.  Win win.

All right then.  The skeeters are wanting to feast on me, and I suppose I need to move on to those “chores” awaiting me.  There’s another bit of supporting news – today is Raul Malo’s birthday.  I honor my favorite songman and I aim to put on some righteous RM music and have a ball, and maybe a bawl if necessary, but I think not, while I flit around doing my spring cleaning.  Just a little late maybe, or a lot – but it seems that it’s on my time schedule just where it is.  Just like me.  And they say there are no coincidences.

Finally, I am seeing the distinct difference between doing, and being.  That Doing thing can be a little tricky.  It’s for some doers that someone coined the phrase “going through the motions.” You might look like you’re actually contributing something, doing the thing of the moment.  Unless you, (or should I say I), are involved in the being of it, in it for real, then it’s just an act, merely an imitation of the perceived action.  Or the doing of a zillion other things to avoid the consideration of What Must Be Done. Just Do It might be a worthy phrase, but I think I’m going to put a little more stock into Just BE it.  Somewhere in that, I decree, is the Truth. And the way out of Fear.

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