Pre-dawn, and the robins are chirp-elling. Emmet hops up on the towel I keep for him by the computer and contorts his pudgy body for optimal ear-scritching. I’m back from a week of scary depression. Everybody here is feeling Life.
This morning I can pull my feet under me and stand up. After the rapid cycling that landed me in partial hospitalization, after my mom’s ordeal, after the stress of all that knocking me back into Crazy Land, I’ve strung together a couple of days of uprightness. It always feels tentative, rising up out of the carnage. Is it just a bubble of calm? A friendly town I pass through on my way to the next extreme? Or do I get to stop and take in the sights for a while?
Yesterday, we moved Mom to a nursing home near my sister. Mom will either get stronger and go home or not. Either way, she’s in a safe place. And my sister can check on her without driving an hour every day. And I don’t have to. I came home from that and slept for hours.
Now Henry is making his rounds, announcing his supremacy, eyeballing the birds in the one spindly tree outside the bedroom window. He lived on his own a long time before someone took him to a shelter. He’s got the battle scars to prove it—and the predator’s passion. He’s my hero.
So, today I’ll tour my own perimeter. I’ll revision, reset and restock. I’ll eyeball the juicy bits of my life and point my energy in that direction.
The birds are quieting now. The whoosh of traffic crescendos. Henry and Emmet settle into napping puddles. Sun’s up. Time to march.