|Fleur de sel caramels in a blue bowl.|
I have no plans to entirely stop this blog, but I haven't had appropriate concentration. And no, not because of depression as I have mostly been reasonably okay. Yea, there are the occasional piccolo slides from up to down, but truly the longest one lasts only a few hours. I just have not been able to concentrate on much of anything intellectual or spiritual or even particularly confessional, if those are three of the notes I hit here.
And now, though the formalities have yet to be observed, I understand I am going to work on a project that could lead to some work for a few months. I met with my "immediate superior" yesterday and received word from him today that he had a thumbs up from his "immediate superior."
This came out of the blue. And I will give you more details, such as what I am going to be doing and where and all, but I want it to be a little more formal. I think I start on Tuesday and will be busy through the end of April at least. And I expect to be busy busy busy, so having the mental space for this might be a challenge.
I am pleased even if I am not gushing here. It is work I haven't done for quite a long time and that will be a bit of a challenge, but I am up for that. I am more trying to conserve my energy and not go on some kind of manic high of relief and delight, because, although this is an unexpected and terrific turn of events, my larger life issues remain ahead of me.
But it has been a tremendous ego and self-esteem boost. And I could use that.
Was looking for a Rita Dove poem to share, but came across this instead
AN INTRODUCTION TO SOME POEMS
Look: no one ever promised for sure
that we would sing. We have decided
to moan. In a strange dance that
we don't understand till we do it, we
have to carry on.
Just as in sleep you have to dream
the exact dream to round out your life,
so we have to live that dream into stories
and hold them close at you, close at the
edge we share, to be right.
We find it an awful thing to meet people,
serious or not, who have turned into vacant
effective people, so far lost that they
won't believe their own feelings
enough to follow them out.
The authentic is a line from one thing
along to the next; it interests us.
Strangely, it relates to what works,
but is not quite the same. It never
swerves for revenge,
Or profit, or fame: it holds
together something more than the world,
this line. And we are your wavery
efforts at following it. Are you coming?
Good: now it is time.
— William Stafford
I hung my clothes on the line outside today. That was a pleasure. If it is warm tomorrow, again, I will wash my sheets and hang them out as I love the smell of sun dried sheets, although I don't think I will be sleeping here for a couple of nights. Emmylou came out, exploring the yard, avoiding the snow patches still on the ground. Cooder was asleep, probably in the sun on the bed upstairs.
Anyway, there's a lot to do tomorrow, and it is after 11:00 so I should goodnight you all now.
Thanks for sticking with me. Prayers and good thoughts for the next!