It’s a partly sunny Tuesday morning. Don’t be astounded that I know the day and date, it’s the prompt and calendar at the bottom of my computer screen. Truth is I thought it was Monday, or maybe Sunday. In whatever is my RAM – that short term, random access memory – is what guides me.
Going thru a day / night switch where, altho I cannot sleep at night, I don’t want to be up alone in the night. So I say my rosary – the new one, from Sam – and I write to-do notes that won’t get done, for whatever reason. I sort out the cards I will never send to the people I love.
Today is Farmer’s Market day and FTD Support Forum chat day. Bet I will be sound asleep when they come. It’s like it should be winter and I should be hibernating. Broke out of my coccoon yesterday, forced my way out, only to find out my mind was needing to be reclusive. I made one phone call, and my face began distorting, eyes rolling up into my head, eyelids pushing in so hard, maybe to keep my roving eyes inside my head? Speech was distracted by my contorting lips, curling, rolling under, stretching like the Joker, then clamping shut.
I need to let my body define how my hour-glass is set or turned over, half done, to start over again.
My friend on the phone prayed with me during that session. What did he hear? Probably groans as lips curled into my nostrils, or upper and lower jaw fought one another, like arm wrestlers. I don’t know how long it was, but when the meds kicked in, I was melted and exhausted. This time I listened – and basically slept the next 24 hours.
Today, much the same, just exhausted, mind empty of anything except wanting to rest. I will succumb. The mail won’t go out. The meds will be taken. With food. I will stay hydrated.
Wouldn’t it be a hoot that it is only having an ailing TV that could bring all this on? And it could just be that simple. A routine changed, the new big girl bed upstairs, the view from 2 stories up at sleep or upon waking? Who’s to know?
Papa, wake up! It’s me, Vicki
I’d just like to be able to bake 2 pies while the berries and rhubarb are ripe. I forgive you for erasing strawberries and asparagus from my mind, but enough is enough. Jesse, you listening? I need to feel the dough perform at my touch, the glint of the paring knife as it trims and cuts the fruits; the smell of the cinnamon & nutmeg, the fresh lemon’s colour as I squeeze the juice; the art of rolling out and crimping the crusts. The perfume that fills first the oven and then spills out througout the house. The ritual that says “this is life, which I share with you, and you will share with others….”
Love & prayers for my many families, and a special one for Jack Armstrong, my all-American guy, in Sparrow Hospital, who needs a break to go home and raise his grand daughters, whose mother (daughter) and wife have already gone home to God. And for Vivi Inglesias, as she undergoes surgery. Angels will be with you, Vivi.
Once again, thank you Vicki for inviting us into your world and giving us a vivid sense of your thoughts and experiences, and your heart. I wish you were making the pie – your description was so rich and sensory – and that we were there to share it. (You would share it, wouldn’t you?) LOL
And I join you in prayer for your families and for Jack Armstrong and for Vivi.
Share it?? Last year I made nearly 20 fresh strawberry pies, and never tasted any of it. Cooking is a gift, like Communion, that needs to be tasted and passed to the next. Else it only stays on the counter, beautiful, glistening, aromatic … and dies.
Yes. Without a doubt I would share my pies. They are the few gifts I bring to the world. thank you, Jim.