well, here we are, at the end of November. Sitting pretty on a sturdy ladder, like some posed country whitegirl photoshoot. I’m even wearing buffalo plaid. (nah, i’m not.)
But anyhow, here I am, mid-way through the hardest two months of the year. Knowing my dearest lady may die soon is a humdinger, but I can’t do anything about it. I’m adding some more cooking to my list, so I can bring down food to her husband once in a while.
But all in all, I’ve survived well, more than I thought I was capable of, at this point. I had a kid-birthday party in which my ex and his nextwife were invited, and I survived and I weathered another death anniversary and an extended-family Thanksgiving which deflated because of Covid and devolved all the way into a sick kid meaning I couldn’t even go to the church fairs. I mean, my god.
And I’m laughing at myself because I am still so damn lucky. I recognize my complaints are utterly benign, sometimes funny, and I’m not exactly doing a ‘poor me’ post, but I wrote a little this morning about how and what a privilege it is to have faith. faith that everything works out somehow. I have that. I’m well aware that it is probably not going to look like I think it is, whatever the future is. . . And it is a sign and a symptom of my privilege, right? And since there is not much I can do about it, I’m going to sink down into it like I’m in a warm embrace, or a tub.
Okay, I’m off to make a sandwich for the sick kid, who I abandoned for three hours to go and do chickens, who are immeasurably harder when their water system freezes. The bitches ain’t happy, friends.
(said for humor only, although they were especially peckish today)
last day of the uber pressure-filled nanoblowrimomo.