Towl Park Journal Day 86, April 4, 2017

Towl Park Journal Day 86, April 4, 2017

After a brief peek of sunshine this morning, the clouds are back. I search for any patches of blue in the sky but find none. I am SO ready for a sunny day. I would also like one without wind, please. A cloudy day is bearable if there is no wind. Wind turns everything shivery unless it is a summer wind. It makes my eyes tear and my fingers cramp up.

 

And then, could it be? Yes! A patch of blue. I hold on to it with my eyes, sinking my heart into the cool clean of it. It is very pretty, that patch. It peeks between the trees. My eyes hold steady on it until clouds patch up the blue hole.

 

But you know, sometimes all one needs is a simple patch of blue to feel better about life.

 

I had an introspective morning, which is unusual. My days are purposefully busy. After I retired, I decided that I would absolutely do one thing and absolutely NOT do another. I would absolutely write every weekday without fail. I was lucky enough to see one of my favorite writers, John Grisham, speak last year. When asked what his secret was to writing well, he said, "I try very hard to write something every day, even if it is just a paragraph." I took that to heart. Now, I usually spend every weekday afternoon writing. I come to Towl Park first as my "warm up." I sit and write for one hour, even if it is just a paragraph. Then, I go to the library and work on my book for at least two, sometimes three or four hours. I write in long hand. I have tried using a lap top and while I can do it, I'd rather write and then transfer it to the computer.

 

One thing that I absolutely never try to do is let myself feel sorry for myself, either because of events new or events in the past. Like many Irish blooded folk, I tend to live too much in my head sometimes. I nurse my grudges. I think of past transgressions of myself or others and it is not hard for me to sink into guilt, anger, or sadness.

 

So, once I am up, dressed, and have sent T off to work, I have a routine. I do one chore. Clean a room. Clean all the mirrors in the house. Dust. Anything useful. Then, I allow myself one hour of reading. This is followed by a brisk series of exercises to help prevent lymphedema. After that, I meditate for a half hour. I have a list of friends and family members and each gets a turn whether they need it or not. I used to set a timer, but I've grown remarkably good (to the minute!) of knowing when the half hour is up. I hold their face in my mind and simply send love or concentrate on their good attributes. (Some are easier to find than others....) It's a small gift, but a nice one, I think.

 

This is followed by checking my email, writing or reading tweets, and catching up on what is going on in the world. Then, it is lunch time. After that, writing. Keeping this routine has thwarted my Irish tendency towards melancholy. I change things up sometimes. I will have breakfast with or catch a movie with my sister. Do some driving chores. Nothing is set in stone.

 

Except that today things went askew. I saw the news of the tragedy in Syria on CNN as T and I ate breakfast. I saw that every leader of almost every nation had responded with horror. Except for Donald Trump. He chose to tweet some more idiotic, unsubstantiated musings about being picked on. I was shocked at his narcissism. Don't ask me why. Surely, I should be unshockable by now, it seems. Or not. Instead of turning off the television when T left for work, as I almost always do, I sat coiled in my chair, watching. My heart ached. All those poor, innocent souls! Those children! And here we sit in America watching HGTV shows where whiny home buyers pout because they wanted DARK granite in the kitchen, not the white. We truly are a nation of good luck and prosperity. And we have a president who tweets about the ratings on a reality show and sulks about being picked on while he wears pinky rings that cost more than my home.

 

It was simply too much. I lost the morning to anger. As I headed out to write, I sighed as I felt the cold sting of wind on my cheeks.

 

But, look here! There it is again! A patch of blue. A small gift when it is needed most. Thank you.

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