Down, but not out.

 I'm having a hard time writing blog posts. It's more inability than reluctance. 

I like to write first thing in the morning. However, I also try to exercise (biking, walking) in the morning as well. In the heat of the summer it is imperative to get out there very early, so my early morning creative routine is kind of shot until the Florida heat and humidity subsides.  

I will admit to being "a little" shell shocked of late. It's hard for me to focus. I should relax, ignore the political noise and re-center my self in this beautiful, yes beautiful, world.

Still, that hateful Trump and his evil cohorts try to distract us from beauty and goodness every damn day.  The unrealized poet in me is convinced he is the Devil, the anti-Christ. I am gobsmacked that people who think they are good Christians follow someone like him. In my fevered dreams they follow him straight to Hell.  

My Tennessee Grandmother was my own personal Pentecostal saint. She was known to talk in tongues when the spirit moved her. My Grandma was the personification of goodness, and she worked hard at understanding the difference between good and evil. She would never have voted for Trump. Like Kamala Harris, she knew a predator when she saw one.

Grandma taught me to say "Get behind me, Satan" when I was overwhelmed with worry or distraction. I haven't said that phrase in a long, long time. But I'm saying it today.

Unconsciously in Control

Sometimes I simply shut down. This happens when I'm overwhelmed but I don't realize I need a break. Then my unconscious mind steps in and takes charge. My UC mind is my BFF.  She loves me.

I rarely relaxed during my working years. There was so much to do, and it all seemed earthshakingly important. Then UC mind would swoop in like the super hero she is. I would find myself forgetting appointments and meetings. It was wicked, sinful, glorious. Letting your unconscious "have at it" is a bit like having a personal assistant.

Over time I had more demanding jobs, with increasingly difficult people to accommodate. I became a supervisor and you know how that goes (hint: STRESS and confrontation). I was a manager of large academic and research departments. These jobs were ridiculous. Ick. 

I have said this before, but I'll say it again because it is key to who I am in my dotage: For most of my life I had minimal control over what problem happened next, and maximum responsibility for resolving it.

In retirement I've stopped answering my phone. What a joy it is to let that sucker ring! I procrastinate with gusto. I'm good at this retirement thing.

When it is not hotter than Hell, I might power garden for hours at a time. Gardening is hard work, but it is also like meditation. Get your hands in the dirt and the cares of the world fall away. 

Sometimes that's what I consciously want, for all the cares of the world to fall away.

Grandma gets tired

I picked up my 6 year old grandson from school yesterday. My daughter asked me to take him to the mall to buy plastic animals for a diorama he was making. I'm an amiable sort. I said,"Sure!" O wa ta foo lie am!

Picking N up involves parking 2 blocks from school and walking to get him. Walking back involves dodging rotten older boys on bikes and getting N to keep moving. He's inclined to stop every few steps and pick something up to stick in his pocket, or pluck flowering weeds to make a bouquet for me. He also has a mania for collecting rocks. It was raining, so he had the pleasure of wielding his own umbrella, too. No one was safe.

Halfway to the mall he decided we must play the alphabet game. This involves each of us taking turns finding the next letter of the alphabet on a passing road sign. Try dodging traffic with children's music blaring and a kid screaming "It's your turn, Grandma, find a Z!"

We went to a craft store that sells plastic animals. He was enthralled by the children's aisles, and each step was a negotiation. He knows Grandma is a sucker. He kept disappearing behind stacks of toys, only to emerge with something in hand. Then I had to wrestle him to put those things back.

I agreed to buy one kit for him to bring home. He chose an unfinished wooden train set with acrylic paint and stickers. Yes, acrylic. I didn't realize that when I bought it. I assumed any child's kit would be washable paint. Wrong. Note to self, always read the box, especially when your daughter buys her son expensive designer t-shirts. 

At check-out he announced with the cutest damn smile, "Do I look different?" Well, that's code for "I have something in my pocket you don't know about." We retraced our steps to put it back when we saw a blank puzzle board where a brilliant child could design their own puzzle with markers. I really HAD to get that. When we finally made it to the cashier he yanked a wet umbrella out of the cart. Before I could yell "Stop!" he punched the button to open it in the store. Water spurted everywhere. 

One of reasons I buy him toys he doesn't need is that he will play quietly with them in the car on the way home from the mall. 

At home I collapsed, picked up my iPad and played solitaire at a manic pace. Grandpa took N to the lanai to paint. N kept yelling for me to come out and paint with them. I played solitaire all that much faster, yelling back "Grandma needs to rest, honey." When I forced myself to go and see what transpired, he was already covered with paint. What did I care?

After a much needed shower, he dove right into the puzzle. That would have been fine, except he became bored and decide to turn the puzzle over and draw on the back, too. I tried to stop him. I shrieked "No, don't do that! You'll never know what pieces go with which side!!!" He didn't believe me. I looked the other way and played solitaire with great vigor while he finished.  

I love this kid