Sometimes I make grand vows, though recently I just make them for this day. My day is often divided in two parts by an afternoon nap or at least restorative yoga (lying in a shambles on a yoga mat in my study with a lavender-scented eyepad), so I could just make my vows for half a day. Sometimes I spontaneously make a little vow, having seen myself do something I don't like. My vows often have to do with speech: "I will count to three before I speak. No, five." Sometimes I vow "It's Sunday - I get a day off." I am pretty good at keeping that one. Other times I vow not to try so hard. I usually make that vow very energetically. Lately, beyond vows, I am devoted to keeping my stress low. This one comes right from the center, that part that wants to stay alive. Avoiding stress. That's a funny thing to vow, if you think about it; animals don't have to vow that.
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There is only one reason we spell thought the way we do, custom. And lots of good reason to shorten it to "thot," which I do in my journal. I have my word processor trained to automatically spell it right. I mean, the regular way. It also knows how to spell wierd and protein. Weird, I mean. Protien. Protein.
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Today I graduated from my physical therapy and have NO FOLLOWUP APPOINTMENT with the musculo-skeletal (sports) doc, who said he's never seen my feet and ankles looking this good. Now I have to grrraaadually and sloooowwly accustom myself to my new semi-flexible orthotics, being more careful than I was last time. They did not give me balloons. One little balloon wouldn't hurt them.
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This morning from my kitchen window I could see in reflected sunlight a sort of bouquet formed by my red potted geranium, doing its last valiant bloom; the new orange pansy I bought, which is supposed to "rebound" in spring (as I myself do, too); and the last delicate white blooms on a hosta. I did like that reflection of the eastern light from the kitchen window, giving the plants a lovely portrait glow.
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What would make a pretty picture tonight? Oh, a rag rug from Vintage Chica (see image). Because I have signed up to take weaving, in hopes of making a ragged authentic rug, or something, the kind of using-up-every-last-scrap thing I have always admired.
And what I remember someone always used to say about this time,
Good night,
sleep tight.
Don't let the bedbugs bite.
. . . thus fostering in me at an early age a love of poetry.
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