Perchance to Dream

I spend an embarrassing portion of every day daydreaming, worrying, planning for imaginary (and, occasionally, real) contingencies, and, did I mention worrying?

Now, as Nicolas Cage once opined in Raising Arizona, “Y’all without sin cast the first stone,” but, as the surgery date gets closer, the worrying gets wilder.

I’ve been through enough procedures to not worry about what’s on the other side of this one. A day ago, I thought the angst might be mourning for the impending loss of fertility, but it was willingly surrendered fifteen years ago. The Big Guy and I had replaced ourselves and, having hit the jackpot and getting two moppets with great comedic timing, were pretty sure we had our share of miracles. Besides, my uterus and I have been — at best – frenemies for most of our lives. 

My worries are way dumber than kvetching over a piece of bodily equipment I’m not using anyway. They’re more along the line of hoping the anesthesia has truly kicked in before doctors start disconnecting wires. Or that they’re sure anesthesia’s safe for people my size (short and round). And will the Big Guy get Thing2 to bed before 2 a.m. if something goes really wrong?

And there’s the rub.  Rubs.

It’s not fear of dying or that, per chance, that you’ll dream. Or that you might not be dead when they start putting the nails in the coffin (Hamlet was an amateur). A few hours before launch, I’m trying to stop the dreams just to get to sleep.

Sleep will come just when the alarm goes off, and, once it does, the day will move too quickly for dreams to move in again. The other side of this is, hopefully, more energy and freedom. The Big Guy has been pulling me back to those, reminding that the best part about the other side is that it won’t be a dream.

I know I’ll get to sleep just in time for the alarm to go off, but, once it does, the day will move too quickly for dreams to move in again. The other side of this is, hopefully, more energy and freedom. The Big Guy is great at pulling me back to those, reminding me that the best part about the other side is that it won’t be a dream.

Summer of Storms

The last time we had a summer as saturated with storms as this one, Vermont got a visit from an angry lady named Irene. The ground was saturated and the rivers so high, that when Irene swept through, many towns in our little state saw seasonal streams turn into major waterways. Roads were washed out, with some towns only accessible by horseback.

The ratio of heavy equipment and work animals to people is pretty good here, and many places were on their feet before FEMA even looked our way. Recovery was so quick that sometimes Irene seems like a memory from someone else’s lifetime.

Then I drive by a favorite view – this one is Ice Pond Farm in Arlington – and see another line of clouds passing over, drenching the fields and mountains again. I love the storms, but I often wonder if they’re trying to tell us something.

Summer of Storms

The last time we had a summer as saturated with storms as this one, Vermont got a visit from an angry lady named Irene. The ground was saturated and the rivers so high, that when Irene swept through, many towns in our little state saw seasonal streams turn into major waterways. Roads were washed out, with some towns only accessible by horseback.

The ratio of heavy equipment and work animals to people is pretty good here, and many places were on their feet before FEMA even looked our way. Recovery was so quick that sometimes Irene seems like a memory from someone else’s lifetime.

Then I drive by a favorite view – this one is Ice Pond Farm in Arlington – and see another line of clouds passing over, drenching the fields and mountains again. I love the storms, but I often wonder if they’re trying to tell us something.

Down and In

Thanks to the boys’ “donated” labor last summer, my garden was mercifully easy to prep and plan this year. Thanks to the effects of my adenomyosis, it’s the only physical labor I’ve engaged in since May, but even though it’s kept me down on the bench, I haven’t been out.

Even before school finished, I knew I needed to paint again, but I wasn’t sure how it would work. I usually paint dancing in front of my easel, and the energy just hasn’t been there. An abstract course I was taking was too physically taxing, but it got me playing with acrylics, which unexpectedly presented a solution.

Knowing I needed more practice with the new medium, I dug out some old, smaller canvases.

Really small. Like playing card small.

I’ve had fun with small pictures in the past. You can put the paint and the canvas on the same palette board and do most of the work with a small brush or knife and minimal cleanup. And you can sit in a comfy chair in the living room while you do it.

This summer, going small has that even though I’m a bit behind the game, I’m still in it.