THE WHITE-STITCHED ROAD

59 of #100daychallenge

Nina is on the brick wall way too near the scrub jay nest in the neighbor's orange tree. A jay is attacking her, as well it should. The backyard critters miss the monster mass that was the overgrown bougainvillea and the colonizer passion flower vine. Undoubtedly, it looks bare and raw out there now, but the bougainvillea will come back and I will keep it in better trim. I already have some nice plants to populated that corner but I needs must get some digging done and put in some new dirt. There is a lilac and another wisteria in the plant-on deck circle as well as some plumbago. 

Well, time to put down the needlepoint and head to Patrick's for Sunday morning yoga. At least the coffee has cooled down enough to sip, so I have something to help me wake up a bit. There is something so seductive about the mind-numbing scale of needlework. 

Well that was yesterday and (about to be the day before yesterday), and yesterday's gone.

I am just in a needlework coma, kids. I think I am easing out of it as I was able to do some procrastinated housework (Isn't it all procrastinated housework?), go to yoga, and go grocery shopping. Then I sat down, flipped on the streaming device, and went right back to it. Well, I did put washed and sun-dried sheets on the bed.

The toughest part of the needlework coma, besides not getting more important things done, is that I am devoid of thought while I work. Perhaps I can transition to listening to Ulysses while I stitch. Right now, it is just another thing I am ignoring. And there are so many!

I did stream a lot of British history dramas. They really weren't bodice rippers. Very very few bodices were ripped and the steamy sex was thankfully sporadic. The White Queen, The White Princess, and two seasons of The Spanish Princess were all based on Phillipa Gregory novels. What I liked about them was the female perspective. Imagine watching anything about Henry VIII with very little hunting and jousting? Not even that much overt whoring. Refreshing, right? Plus, I was able to absorb a lot more about British history than previous, Shakespeare and HIlary Mantel started making even more historical sense, particularly the minor players. It was not a waste of time, much to my surprise. 

I did yoga classes three days in a row, notwithstanding some ... pain? oh well, discomfort in my hernia. Hard to do abdominal work with a high heel in your gut. However, I persevered. Heidi's class tonight almost got me to yoga nirvana, that state of blissed buzz and well-being. Good class, and so thankful to have an actual class to go to, at least one where I am not the least capable yogini in the vicinity. I suppose my hernia surgery will be a setback to march to yoga perfection again, but I certainly don't want to be in the pain I was in two years ago.

Just picked up my phone to see that I had missed many calls. That's what needlework addiction will do to you, kids. You'll ignore everything for that dull high and medium focus. 

I did do some significant gardening yesterday. And I am pleased to share with you my first two Brooks cherries. Feels like a gender reveal or a birth announcement, but I am well-pleased.

REAR VISION

The cars in the mirror come swiftly forward,

While I, in thought, move slowly back;

Time past (reflected) seems to wind

Along the boundaries of mind,

A highway cold, distant, and black.

Who knows to what the years have led,

And at which turning up ahead—

On the white-stitched road reflected back—

The furies gather in a pack,

While all the sky above burns black,

Unwinding still the darkening thread.

— William Jay Smith, The New Yorker Book of Poems, Viking Press, New York, 1969