And when I lied it was for you.

I told myself it was for you.

so important to become aware of the stories we tell ourselves. It is hard to let go of the stories we tell ourselves.

What stories am I still telling myself?

I knew that you weren't specifically asking about w-l balance, but I thought I'd address it anyway.

As for this

How do you define balance in your life?

Bravo. Rays of light and happiness.

Thanks for the badge thenewgreen. I was hoping you’d notice the hockey reference.

!!!!

“Not uncommon”??? There is always April snow in Montreal - and occasionally June too. :) I heard that on CBC this morning.

I don’t believe in “work-life balance.” I don’t think our experience of living is binary. Life is life and can include work, nature, climbing, biking, picking up aluminum, parent care, child care, studying, and so on.

If we need, say, music in our lives and don’t have it, be attuned to the hunger. If you don’t feed yourself what you need (rest, contact with others, touch, hockey, whatever) you might become passive-aggressive, aggressive, or even develop panic attacks.

Mouth shut sounds like a plan. Don’t engage.

But if you did, don’t challenge or confront in any way. Maybe say, “I’m not sure what you meant by xxxx. Could you explain?

No sarcasm, no irony.

Or, “Thanks for your text. What I hear you saying is . . . then paraphrase the mean tweet giving her the most positive and generous interpretation, followed by - is that it?”

OK, I've read and circle-dotted everything up to 3:38 p.m. whether it made sense or not. Regarding mk's lament below, I'm on my way to walk to the clinic to pick up a lab requisition and small container to get a sample to take to my mom's as she might have a UTI. Maybe you do too, mk. A UTI can also cause delirium, so watch out. mk's comment below makes the USA feel even more like a very foreign country.

As for me, spring spring. Maybe. We'll see. While we do not have four 169-gallon steel feeding troughs for vegetable gardens, like goobster, we do find discarded furniture -- deep book shelves and chests -- in dumpsters and along alleys that we fill with soil to plant vegetables. Kale kale kale last year and cherry tomatos. This year, kale, snow peas (very exciting!), maybe cucumbers, and so on.

Onward!

Meanwhile, Covid continues to be worsening here and vaccines are slower coming than yours. In that way, you are FIRST WORLD. Booked for dose #1 on Saturday.

I’ll be home soon.

You were once a little girl

Hiding beneath the kitchen table.

Can you read the words you wrote when you did?

Until you do, the panic sets in.

-------------------------

As we've discussed.

Play hockey or panic...

Okay, here I am at the yearly checkin. Listening to thenewgreen's beautiful song, "Beneath the Table".

What you been up to?

   I'm a true sandwicher.  94-year-old mom is struggling:  greatly diminished, but even with aphasia and cognitive confusion, she values and appreciates life and love.  36-year-old daughter also struggling.  So what I'm up to is caring for each of them in various ways.

Did you ever finish that one thing you swore you were going to do this past year?

   I've had a few things on my list for a long while and getting to them now because anything can happen to anyone ANYTIME,  I've been looking after finances, wills, a trust, POA.  My older sister has bought herself a gravesite in her town in the Kootenay Mountains.  She even took a picture of herself at her gravesite and wrote a haiku about it.  Then sent me the haiku and the picture.

  Under a pine tree
  Buried but not forgotten
  Happy and peaceful

  Yes, I find this a little creepy, but I wrote her back saying I'd visit her grave after she's gone and sprinkle haikus.  She wrote back saying that she'd like that.  She's turning 72 next week.

How are things...really?

   As soon as my sister gets here -- if ever -- (she's pleading asthma and covid fear) -- I'm taking a vacation.  But how are things, really?  Things are good and happy.  BF is amazing.  and that makes all the difference.  It feels like I'm being my most authentic self in this relationship and life.  

   Though, to play hockey, as we say on hubski, that is to express ourselves creatively in order to avoid panic attacks -- I'm not doing so brilliantly, yet.  I'm still hiding beneath the table.

Also, a shoutout to all those who encouraged me to write this:

wasoxygen

thenewgreen

steve

_refugee_

mk

ButterflyEffect

and goldbludgeon

Welcome daffodil. It's spring and you are everywhere.

Is it spring where you are?

the sun don't shine

the moon don't stir

when I'm hiding beneath the table

the dogs don't bite

the shouting blurs

beneath the table

When I finally found my voice it was too late to say a thing

the terrors that I seen

seemed like tidal waves in dreams

-------------------------------------

I didn't get all the words . . . but finding your voice is so crucial --

So for me that invites these questions:

1. How do we find our voices IN TIME -- before "it's too late to say a thing"

2. When is it too late? Is it ever too late?

3. Every time we find our voice to declare our truth,we become vulnerable --- it terrifies people who want to silence us. Thus it is easier initially to hide under the table -- but while you're there, under the table, practice practice practice.

The caring loving parent, teacher, partner, or friend will open you to your own voice by showing their interest and willingness to listen.

4.

I will check in shortly.

Onward. Onward.

and remember, if the universe can create someone like you, the universe can create someone for you . . . but the universe takes her time.

Thanks Seahawk! I'll show up at 8:00.

Get steve or ref to text me.

I love the stream of consciousness stories and the sound effects. I’d love to do one, a stream of little unrelated memory pieces.

The line, “I wasn’t allowed to touch the tools, but I was expected to know how to use them” made me flinch. Things often feel stacked against us like that.

Intriguing. Suggestive. I see the music accompanying a video of a lonely figure walking down snow-covered, cold empty streets of a small town in Michigan. He is looking in café windows, icicles are hanging from roof edges. He’s carrying a long beat-up sports bag that he probably found in a dumpster.

At the edge of town, there’s a park where snow has been cleared, just by local kids and neighbours, and the area flooded to form a small ice rink.

The lonely guy sits on a bench and unzips the bag. He takes out some skates, kicks off his boots, and puts the skates on.

Then he takes an old hockey stick out of the bag. It’s so old that black tape is wound around the bottom.

He gets up off the bench. Looking around on the ground, he sees a pine cone. He hits it on to the ice.

The last scene shows the guy holding his stick above his head, spinning on the ice, smiling.

listening . . .

I just made a detailed analysis of these lyrics, then refreshed the page to hear the song again and all my notes disappeared . . . arrrgh

Maybe I'd better just ask you what it's about.

The music is compelling!

The basic message though is that she's unhappy. She needs poetry, but the car won't start and there's nowhere to go. She's leaving anyway, packed everyone off to foreign lands . . . but it won't change anything. As Faulkner said, "The past is never dead. It's not even past."

Bottom Line: Even a frigid wasteland is beautiful and full of the poetry we bring to it.

Bottom Bottom Line: Covid is driving people crazy, but there's nowhere to go.

Trauma is in the difficulties of the past. Anxiety is in the difficulties of the future. Peace is in the moments of the present. (Is that it?)