Looking at Posts

Wow, what a lot of typos, spelling errors and qustionable grammer. I would never send out a letter or pleading so full of mistakes. But here, it feels safe to just type. Probably an error in thought process, but it feels nice for now.

Also I am struck by how pleased I seem with the daily round of nature. I actually am that way. The sweetest part of most days is the early morning hour I sit in the living room with my coffee and my cat watching the world wake up. In that hour, the room goes from almost full dark to light enough to read small print without a lamp. The birds sing and flit around just beyond the big window. In the last half of my happy hour squirels play in the dogwoods outside the small windows and the crows have their morning business meeting. The cars, people talking as they walk, school bus and children's noises, dogs barking and the occassional very loud boom thump a lump from a passing auto take nothing away from the bluebirds and maple tree.

Day in and day out, rain and shine, cold and heat, spring green, fall's gold, winter frost, I watch them all. A few years ago I had a crisis, a serious one. The kind that makes your doctor prescribe antidepressents and make counseling and hospital noises. I flushed the prozac after I read the insert and just started sitting with myself in my living room. At first, I had to read to sit, but now I can just be there. I don't think about anything much, no life review, no mental juggling of bills, no rehashing of old arguments. I just sit, and look. Over time I got better. Crisis passed, life went on. I suppose its a little like mediatation, which I never could stick with for long.

Just so, I also have a morbid streak. I am able to see the dangerous bad thing lurking around any corner. You can put an eye out with a paper airplane. Ask my mother, ask my sons. Everyone knows this. I had a bad few days of chest pain a while back and all I could think of was how awful it would be to die with the kitchen half painted. I have an irrational fear of leaving things undone. I would prefer to know the exact moment I will die so I can be sure to have the house dusted, the yard mowed, all the laundry put away and the checkbook balanced.

Spouse believes that he is more or less immortal, a view I tend to not share, McClouds excepted. Last week I was bothered by the idea that if he died before me, and if his parents were still alive, they would want to take him back to the horrid place he sprang from and bury him in cold ground where the sun would not shine. See, morbid. Happy but morbid.