Well shit
This morning was lovely and snuggly and loving with Tucker.
Today I stepped outside and drew in a deep breath of probably the last real rain-scented air we'll have this year. It was lovely and I felt connected.
I got the work truck and fishtailed in 4hi down the Leo Creek road for 27km to get to my worksite. There was no real danger of going off the road but it was a medium-alert sort of driving situation. The road was bad enough that it was closed to logging trucks but it was tense.
On site it rained steadily, warmly, and peacefully while I scrambled up and down over trees fallen like a spilled box of toothpicks, measuring the diameter and length of each one. There were more trees than fit on the data collection card so I used multiple cards. The new podcast was playing, warning off bears and keeping me delightful company. I was dressed right and worked peacefully and methodically in the kind of situation I feel at home in: I was at peace with the world, interested, and my sense of self could take a break from the walls it needs to maintain in the human world and just rest peacefully.
Back at work I did data correction and sorting, fixing numbers on cards and maps and peeling wet rainproof paper apart. It was absorbing and just annoying enough to be satisfying.
I came home trepidatious and checked the gasket on the woodstove. Last night it had leaked and smoked, I'd opened the door and swept a piece of bark that was caught out of it, and it seemed ok. I wasn't sure if permanent damage had been done. It seemed to be fine and I rekindled the coals until the smoke came in invisible heat ripples up through the catalytic burner and up the chimney, then banked the stove down safely for the night: from anxiety to peace and contentment.
Everyone needed food so I slogged through the mud. My mind was sluggish and resistant: I'd determined this mud season was over and it turns out it wasn't. I felt guilty for not bedding the pigs down with more straw last night and for having them in the winter sacrifice pen which gets so muddy when it's not frozen, and for the mess it's making of my soil. They got bread and eggs as a treat and the light was dying as I finished feeding the new chickens and the old chicken coop. Coming in covered in sweat from slogging through mud with feed and water was a relief.
When I came upstairs finally the front door was open about an inch; I must have left it open last night and all day. I'm grateful to live in a place I don't need to worry about it but exasperated at myself and a little worried about my abilities these days.
Josh and I had a phone call with a range of emotions but mostly fun and comfortable/disarming.
Then I called my bank and asked why my bank card that they'd messed up on the first time and re-sent wasn't working. They'd messed up on it the second time too, and they still hadn't contacted me about some missing money. I haven't been able to access banking across the end of the month to pay bills or ensure my mortgage etc came out and I'm frankly livid. I got the number for their retention folks. I'm alternating between anger and wanting to cry out of sheer exasperation.
A friend I haven't seen in well over a decade shared a nice story with me on facebook and left me, together with that podcast, feeling connected to a community of people I rarely get to meet but like very much.
Then I looked up the first video posted by the guy who grows hardy peppers on the gulf islands. Turns out he's smokin' hot. This may be roughly 50% because he grows hardy peppers but still, I was not prepared for this. Now I'm soret of hysterical crying because I'm not sure what else to do.
I have had enough emotions for this day, please. How do I turn this thing off?
I guess I can't. This is why cups of tea exist.
Today I stepped outside and drew in a deep breath of probably the last real rain-scented air we'll have this year. It was lovely and I felt connected.
I got the work truck and fishtailed in 4hi down the Leo Creek road for 27km to get to my worksite. There was no real danger of going off the road but it was a medium-alert sort of driving situation. The road was bad enough that it was closed to logging trucks but it was tense.
On site it rained steadily, warmly, and peacefully while I scrambled up and down over trees fallen like a spilled box of toothpicks, measuring the diameter and length of each one. There were more trees than fit on the data collection card so I used multiple cards. The new podcast was playing, warning off bears and keeping me delightful company. I was dressed right and worked peacefully and methodically in the kind of situation I feel at home in: I was at peace with the world, interested, and my sense of self could take a break from the walls it needs to maintain in the human world and just rest peacefully.
Back at work I did data correction and sorting, fixing numbers on cards and maps and peeling wet rainproof paper apart. It was absorbing and just annoying enough to be satisfying.
I came home trepidatious and checked the gasket on the woodstove. Last night it had leaked and smoked, I'd opened the door and swept a piece of bark that was caught out of it, and it seemed ok. I wasn't sure if permanent damage had been done. It seemed to be fine and I rekindled the coals until the smoke came in invisible heat ripples up through the catalytic burner and up the chimney, then banked the stove down safely for the night: from anxiety to peace and contentment.
Everyone needed food so I slogged through the mud. My mind was sluggish and resistant: I'd determined this mud season was over and it turns out it wasn't. I felt guilty for not bedding the pigs down with more straw last night and for having them in the winter sacrifice pen which gets so muddy when it's not frozen, and for the mess it's making of my soil. They got bread and eggs as a treat and the light was dying as I finished feeding the new chickens and the old chicken coop. Coming in covered in sweat from slogging through mud with feed and water was a relief.
When I came upstairs finally the front door was open about an inch; I must have left it open last night and all day. I'm grateful to live in a place I don't need to worry about it but exasperated at myself and a little worried about my abilities these days.
Josh and I had a phone call with a range of emotions but mostly fun and comfortable/disarming.
Then I called my bank and asked why my bank card that they'd messed up on the first time and re-sent wasn't working. They'd messed up on it the second time too, and they still hadn't contacted me about some missing money. I haven't been able to access banking across the end of the month to pay bills or ensure my mortgage etc came out and I'm frankly livid. I got the number for their retention folks. I'm alternating between anger and wanting to cry out of sheer exasperation.
A friend I haven't seen in well over a decade shared a nice story with me on facebook and left me, together with that podcast, feeling connected to a community of people I rarely get to meet but like very much.
Then I looked up the first video posted by the guy who grows hardy peppers on the gulf islands. Turns out he's smokin' hot. This may be roughly 50% because he grows hardy peppers but still, I was not prepared for this. Now I'm soret of hysterical crying because I'm not sure what else to do.
I have had enough emotions for this day, please. How do I turn this thing off?
I guess I can't. This is why cups of tea exist.