A book may not tell us exactly how to live our own lives, but our own lives can teach us how to read a book. Now when I read the novel in light of Eliot's life, and in the light of my own, I see her experience of unexpected family woven deep into the fabric of the novel—not as part of the book's obvious patter, but as part of its tensile strength. Middlemarch seems charged with the question of being a stepmother: of how one might do well by one's stepchildren, or unwittingly fail them, and of all that might be gained from opening one's heart wider."
— Rebecca Mead, My Life in Middlemarch, New York, Random House, 2014
Later that day
It is 1:43 pm and this is the lousiest time of day for me. I really lose my impetus to do anything, even exist kind of. This dolodrumdolor is not made any more inspiring with the continued overcast, but thankfully cool, weather.
I see some many chores that I tell myself, each night, that I will get to it tomorrow. And yet no. So, I am seeking to redirect some of my logy energy (wait, I am pretty sure that is a classic example of an oxymoron there) to head back to productivity. Perhaps I lack the requisite priority list. And goodness knows I can have the focus of a squirrel. I am going to see if I can't get the vacuuming done, but that is always a challenge due to the necessity of disturbing a sizable number of sleeping felines.
Pushing on ... did some laundry, did some vacuuming only to find Janet had spilled quite a bit of red wine and not mentioned it. Cleaned that up some.
Butterscotch jumped on the window sill that I sometimes open for the kitties (not so much now that there is a kitten). Instead of jumping out to puke up some freshly eaten kibble, she puked right on the window sill narrowly missing my David Lindley autographed copy of the Cooder/Lindley Family tour. About twenty minutes later, the same cat tried jumping through the same window with a (mostly) dead mouse in her mouth. No wonder she throws up.
And then goodnight ...
It was an eventfully small day. Things were accomplished, things left undone. Deep in a swimming groove and very near my biweekly goal, I was visited with a charley horse that caused me to stop in mid-stroke. And you know what, those lifeguards are watching as he down on the edge of the pool asking me what was wrong immediately. I can only imagine how boring it is to watch a single lap swimmer in a huge pool because I am bored by doing it.
Anyhow, some one/thing else took possession of me as I went back to swimming, kicking with just one leg. My arms are now strong enough, and I am plenty buoyant (spell check doesn't know that word) so I was able to swim in the partially disabled state. I am more amazed that I didn't just get out of the pool. Must have been the endorphins as I finished my lap (minus half a length) and also did my kicking.
FULL MEASURE
You will get your full measure,
But, as when asking fairies for favors,
there is a trick: it comes in a block.
And of course one block is not
like another. Some respond to water
giving everything wet a little flavor.
Some succumb to heat, like butter.
Others give to steady pressure.
Others shatter at a tap. But
some resist; nothing in nature softens up
their bulk and not personal attack works.
People whose gift will not break
live by it all their lives; it shadows
every empty act they undertake.
— Kay Ryan, The Best of It: New and Selected Poems, New York, Grove Press, 2010
I missed telling you about a baby girl, more than six months but less than a year, sitting on the edge of the pool, learning to jump in. She absolutely quivered with excitement and delight at the little exercise her mother and her swim coach were singing to her. She jumped into the water with pure joy and no fear. If only we ...
If only we indeed...
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