There’s a word for the sound of wind blowing through the trees, which incidentally happens to be one of my pet sounds: “psithurism.” (That’s the word.) I can’t however, attain any psithurism presently because I’m in the house. I hope to be outside later, even if it’s just to eat at my picnic table…That said, I’m pretty melancholy today.
There are times when life is striking blows at everyone around you. You wonder if fate can be some whacked Dodge Ball tournament…I can almost hear the whispers of fate (I wonder if there’s a word for that…)
Fate talking: Wham! I shut down this hardworking guy’s business.
I’ll tip that guy into a near death, nearly comatose diabetes crisis.
I’ll take that woman’s health.
Let the car fall apart every few days with no money to fix it!
Let’s worry this guy’s loved ones, by having doctors throw the dreaded C word around.
Here’s a crazy thought. If there exists a word for ‘pretending fate has a voice’ then it’s most likely this one: C-R-A-Z-Y. I’ve been called worse. And besides, I like a little crazy in my life, in the people that surround me, in myself. Even when FATE hands you all the lemons I just listed (it did), then why can’t I employ crazy words that make tragic events at least SOUND like a party? Well i can and I will: Chaos, confusion, havoc, a full-out fracas, pandemonium, melees, a skirmish, a ruckus, a brouhaha. There, that feels somewhat better. I know an 89 year old lady who likes to say “If I’m hurting I must still be alive!”
I am really incredibly,fully, alive today.
All day yesterday two particular song lyrics played in me head ALL day without reprieve:
“You bleed just to know you’re alive!” – Goo Goo Dolls
“Just wait a minute, well it kinda fell apart. Things get so crazy, crazy!”-Matchbox 20
There is a danger in taking things for granted of course. It seems like a comfy cozy state of mind but the carpet can be ripped away any old time and then you’re on your ass wondering how this happened. So that’s the place I’m in. My speech pathologist, Judy once told me to have a picture in my head for every emotion because I’m a visual thinker. She figured that when I couldn’t put a name to what I’m feeling (like now?), then maybe the visual cue would pop up.
So I’m picturing spirals of mucky water sailing down a drain. Sounds like despair to me. Speaking of drains, look here:
and it’ll look back at you! You’ve probably seen this meme floating around the internet. Now, if you’ve read any of my stuff so far, you gotta figure I’ll say something Zen right about now, right? Wrong. I got nothing.
Just look at the picture of my actual sink drain I’ve got pictured here. There is a green sprout there. See it? My neglect has given way to something entirely unexpected. 
Life from muck. Life finds a way. That’s chaos factor. A person has to trust that out of chaos can come something new, something that’s really and truly living… (Perhaps only if it’s just a metaphorical kick in the pants to clean, REALLY clean the kitchen. That message isn’t lost on me, folks.) But first, I’m going to quote a little from a treasured book I’ve had since 1993. Instead of spiraling down a mucky hole, I’m going to dig in and hold on. Maybe hope trumps fate. I know plenty of people who are pretty sure it doesn’t. I know I have to do big things today (clean the kitchen and call it therapeutic meditation) and do small things (eat today out at the picnic table, just because).
The book I’m consulting before my day begins is called “Being Home” by Gunilla Norris with photography by Greta D. Sibley. Each chapter has titles like: Washing The Dishes, Taking Out The Trash, and about 68 other Daily Living and Housekeeping Activities. Each chapter is quite short as the book is written in prose, a book of meditations on housekeeping. I will share one with you here that’s called simply ‘sweeping.’
SWEEPING
Its an old friend, this broom.
I like how it’s made—
all these bits of brush sewn into one tool.
Together with the handle and my arms,
this becomes a unit
which can move sand and dirt.
I like joining this tool.
The arms move, the handle moves,
the broom head moves,
the dirt moves up and over the threshold.
We are sweeping–a kind of delicate dance
which results in this dirt being outside
now with the other dirt–moved on.
I want to be here with this moving on,
moment to moment, sweeping.
Let my concentration be the handle;
my body’s effort, the will;
the broom head like my thoughts
coming together into one willingness–
moving on, moving on–
not clinging to anything.
The foyer is tidier and my inner mudroom
more at peace. I am returned to You.
A clean sweep.
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I need a broom like that in my brain folds. What kind of emotion is that, Judy?
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