THEN I WILL POINT MYSELF IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION

 94 of #100day challenge

The lilac I thought I had killed comes back with a vengeance. (And some beauty.)

The days just go by, to my continued amazement. Four days since I last wrote? 

Weird weather day, overcast and spitting precipitation, quite unusual for ALMOST SEPTEMBER!!

McCoy just bounced into the room with his little bell jingling and tiny meow. He missed the first round of dinner and is likely reminding me that he would like some wet food before I go to bed. Which could be at nearly any moment.

The last five or six days have been up and down, particularly Sunday, which was a low, possibly due to having imbibed some old vine Zinfandel. As much as I love it, those histamines don't like me. A sad state of affairs, as I switch to white more and more. I have been improving yesterday and today, but I am dragging. I feel the weight of the pandemic, Anita's death, and the road trip up to Oakland, which was hella-fun, but tiring nonetheless.

Yoga teaching days are all about preparing for class. It takes me three or four hours to write a one hour class. Somehow, I think it would be easier if I were teaching a more standard Hatha class where I could make people lie down and stand up and jump around. I need to up my own practice in anticipation of teaching that class which will start in December. Meanwhile, I have two months of chair yoga to learn through.

Vera takes a dim and non-supportive view of computer work.

I finally finished reading a book. My dear friend Bill Groshelle wrote and funded Operation Dragon, a WWII noir with a splash of fantasy and a soupçon of romance. I opened it last night before I went to bed and didn't get to sleep until I had finished it, only stopping for some called-for popcorn to complete the entertainment experience. Perhaps that will have broken my reading fast and I can get back to my usual self.

The book group is abandoning Ulysses. All of us are in some sort of reading funk and have little energy for such a demanding undertaking. We can't really even decide on the next book (although we are working on it). We are kind of lethargic cats in a bag halfway fighting our way to a decision and a new book.

Perhaps I am slow tonight having led my yoga chickadees through 15 minutes of breathing and slowing down today. I must have internalized my own message.  Also and perhaps I am echoing the energy level of Janet. No yelling, more helping. I still haven't contacted the Domineers to see what is up. Haven't really had the energy.

In better news, death certificates for Anita are coming so that I can try to apply to get David the pink slip. One of my friends suggested an on-line grief group. I don't know that I am ready to try to get over missing her. It is sad and painful, but it should be, no? 

Nina Serafina Wonderley in a happy place.

AND THE SCARS WILL BE COVERED

responsibility fell at my feet

like a dead bird

and I left it for the collectors of feathers

now I am leaving these words on sand

for the water

and when everything is gone

a voice will say

that’s home

where two paths cross without speaking

where a lost shoe full of darkness

is curled up

under the roots of the snow

then I will point myself in the right direction

alone I hope

I was never much for company

and start off down an empty road

toward winter and a silence

which no one will ever repair.

— Richard Shelton, Selected Poems, 1969-1981, University of Pittsburgh Press, Pittsburgh, 1982