Pressure Cookers and Pussy Willows
Tuesday became an 11 on a 1 to 10....10 being the lid is blowing off. I acknowledged my bad combination of frustration, anger and exhaustion and knew there was no more rope at the end of mine. Although it went totally against my well-used survival skills, I felt almost defeated, like last year’s blow up snowman....full of purpose and holiday air to a flat heap crumpled on the cold spring ground.
A whiner I’m not, but PTSD doesn’t always sit quietly and behave. It has this odd trigger feature that can sit with you for a cup of lemon tea one minute and blast you backwards into a mess of danger with the simple sound of a door banging shut. It can have you loving every second of a video chat with little grandsons.... to 30 minutes later being bent-in-half over cruel childhood memories.
Donald Trump has sent me flying backwards more times than I care to say. I can’t watch him, I can’t listen to him because I instantly get agitated about why he’s not held accountable. Why do cable networks alllow him so much free air time to spread hate and lies? Why does he have so many enablers? Why does he never suffer consequences? Why does nobody stop him? I can’t understand it.
That is what propelled me out the door on Tuesday. I had to find something that meant something. Something that was still the same. Something that was good and true. Within seconds I saw two crows. They’re part of a family of four that ate off my Dollar Store crow tray all winter. Little cooked rice, the last piece of meatloaf, some old banana bread. I love them.
I noticed a small stream of water coming off the neighbor’s pasture and followed it to my new patch of red bee balm just barely poking through the earth. There was a comfrey patch, a pile of old plant pots just waiting, the songs of the red-winged blackbird. A neighbor waved from his road-worthy tractor, I smelled the brook and heard its rushing. Over there were pussy willows, somewhat near fresh deer tracks. Apples. They were after last fall’s apples.
I walked the property with the determination to notice everything. Good things. Growing things. Renewed things. Things that fed other things. Things that healed. Therapy things.
On the way back around, I saw a red pickup with a Vermont maple syrup tank in the bed. Something to count on. Something standard. A tradition. A family thing.A young man hard at work thing.
The walk did some good. It offered proof that so many things I hold dear are still okay. I still had the everyday ordinary to cherish, in spite of that thug in Washington.
= new reply since forum marked as read
I have the same feelings about the Orange Thug in chief. I got a couple of bicycle rides in this week. Today I was admiring the wildflowers, lots of primrose, red Indian paint brushes and a real treat a couple of bunches that are yellow, showy purple thistles, dandelions and some I don't know. Fro some reason my part of the county has no bluebonnets or larkspurs. To make up for that the Louisiana irises are blooming in the back of the house. This picture is from a website but is much like ours.
Nature does heal our minds & souls for sure!
