On my reading list this week:
Also, I found a local source for worms for the compost bin. Now I just need to coordinate a time to pick them up and maybe I’ll actually put the bin together this weekend (although I was kind of hoping to have the kids help construct it, and they’ll be at their mom’s this weekend. I guess I could wait until Monday). I’ve been saving veggie scraps, tea bags, etc. for a week and the amount is surprising. I mean, we are vegan, and we do cook mostly at home, but still!
Tomorrow I’m getting up at the crack of dawn to help with a Canada Goose bird count. So, most unfortunately, I have to attempt a highly unnatural bed time. But I feel it’s important that I help on this one—put some action behind my words.
A good Sunday:
- slept in a bit
- a little show research
- walked the butte with the kids (we’re on a great three times a week roll)
- took the kids to the Engine 2 Diet 28-Day Challenge orientation at Whole Foods
- came back, made potato salad
- went down to the studio for a couple of hours to record some individual segments, got bumped out of the studio at 7, which was great, since I couldn’t be tempted to stay longer
- came home, eldest step-daughter had made a great recipe from the Engine 2 Diet orientation packet, hubby and kids had deep cleaned the kitty boxes and much of the house
- had a glass of wine while hanging out with hubby, kids, and animals
- made tomorrow’s bread dough
- sent the kids upstairs
- baked some black bean brownies
- baked yesterday’s bread dough
- read The Tiger’s Wife on my Kindle while tending to the baked goods
- hung out with Caesar, tucked her in for the night
- hung out with Gordy, tucked him into his laundry room bedroom
- downstairs shut down, reconvened with hubby, 3 cats, and 2 dogs in the master bedroom
- blog post
- to do: finish The Tiger’s Wife and to bed early
I love the nighttime ritual we’ve settled into.
In spite of the fact that my husband and I have been sick for a week (is this turning into bronchitis?!) and I’ve been feeling crappy off and on for a few weeks now, I just had a great weekend. Sometimes a quiet weekend at home is exactly what I need. No need to leave the house (except for the yard, or a walk around the neighborhood), and certainly no reason to drive anywhere.
Hubby and I did mostly our own thing, except for watching Rome together, an old series we’re working our way through on Netflix discs. I read most of Will Potter’s excellent Green is the New Red, which I’m going to finish after this post. I caught up on a bunch of vegan podcasts while doing stuff around the house. I henna’d my hair. I started some lentils sprouting in a jar, which is something I’ve been wanting to try for a while.
It was a slightly warm and sunny weekend, so I was able to take Pip, Isis, and the dogs out into the backyard to hang out a little. (Gordy and Nevermore were not very interested, but Gordy logged some good time on the porch. Caesar even came out to the porch for a bit.) I took Ruby for a walk, trimmed the dog’s nails, and brushed Bubba and gave him a bath, which hadn’t happened for a looong time. Due to his health issues, his coat has not been in the greatest shape lately, and he seems to always be shedding and shaggy—half a pug of fur is now in the back yard. This evening I even had a little time to research some news for the next show.
Poor Pip, the pain med that the doctor gave her for the extraction seriously cracks her out. Fairly immediately, her eyes glaze over and she loses coordination. In fact, we’ve had to keep an extra eye on her. This ordinarily very agile cat is having problems judging the leap to the cat tree, etc. And she somehow banged herself up in the night—she has a divot of fur out next to each eye (worse near her right eye). It could be that she had a tussle with one of the other cats, but I don’t think so. So tonight we’ll make sure to confine her to the bedroom. I’d almost rather not give her the pain med if its going to mess her up like that, but then I don’t know how bad the extraction might be hurting and she can’t tell me. Yesterday she did seem to be uncomfortable eating, so it probably does hurt—a lot. At least I know she loves going outside and was able to do that for her.
Both days I began to feel tired after about 4 hours, so it was great to have nothing that had to get done. Hopefully it was enough rest to kick this and be able to start my work week feeling good.
reflect on this year and manifest what’s next
Defining Moment. Describe a defining moment or series of events that has affected your life this year.
I’ve been putting off answering this prompt all day. Haven’t I already responded to this question multiple times in slightly different ways all month?
It occurs to me that I’ve been rehashing loss ad naseum over the last two months; a series of losses that has defined 2010 for me. Losing Connecticut, Big Kitty, and Deimos has taught me I can’t deny death, and that I’m not really in control. That life can be snatched away on a whim, no matter how much love or time you have invested. You would think I would have already learned this. From the death of my mom, 20+ years ago. From the death of significant relationships. From losing my step-kids. From the death of several cat friends, nearly 10 years ago. 2010 has ripped one big aching hole in my heart with a jagged rusty knife. The good in this: Is there good in this?
I’d like to think there is. I’d like to think that it has made me stronger, has made me more resilient. I’d like to think that feeling this way opens me up to others who are feeling the same way. I remember after my mom died: I was 20 years old, walking around in amazement, suddenly acutely aware that there were others whose worlds had just been completely upended. It was beautiful, in a way. Every moment titrated down to a drop of concentrated feeling. Ordinarily, we travel through our days, eyes clouded by cataracts, blinding us to the bright pain of our friends, neighbors, coworkers, animals. Grief neatly excises the cloudiness. Sure, we’re momentarily blinded by shock, but soon we begin to stagger around, arms outstretched, and as we’re recovering, eyes adjusting, we begin to see that we’re not alone, far from it. So there it is. If grief makes me more empathetic to my fellow humans, and to my fellow non-human animals, then that’s something, if only until I forget, again.