Part 2 –Thursday, 11.26.15
In a Nutshell
Up early on Thanksgiving Day. No expectations, no sense of urgency. Procrastination perfected.
While examining my how-do-I-want-to-feel-at-the-end-of-the-day options, while working on three cups of coffee, I am visited by a variety of local animal life including, first, my cats who are, of course, entitled to a Thanksgiving treat of tuna and chicken. Later a wren appears (or a chickadee or a swallow), plus several blackbirds, a blue jay, a cardinal and an entire family of woodpeckers, right there outside my front window. I relish the experience, freezing the image in my frontal cortex or left brain lobe or right brain lobe or wherever memories reside.
Later still, before the desire to numb myself with wine takes over, I embark on a mission to make whole-wheat waffles for breakfast, a worrisome proposition considering my never-done-it-before level of experience. The waffle mix is at least three years old, and I’ve never used a waffle iron before. (I discovered both of these items recently, while on yet another pre-emptory packing-and-purging excursion.) My protein of choice is buried-in-the-back-of-the-freezer-leftover-from-the-days-of-ex-JB Scott-freezer-burned-maple-fake-flavored-breakfast-sausage). It will do.
And it is a success. My belly is full, my desire for drink quashed. For the time being.
Later, I receive an invitation from Tommy to join him and Jody in Albuquerque for dinner. Oh, though life was such that I could take a spontaneous (and perhaps permanent) road trip. Just as unlikely is the idea of them joining me for brunch, which they graciously and logically decline.
Next up, an invitation from my good friend, Dawn P., in Willow Springs. I know – I really know – that would be the very best thing for me – yet I decline. She pleads, guarantees entertainment by the in-laws, teases me with images of a Thanksgiving-from-Hell, how much fun would that be!, even offers wine, but I am not feeling sociable, I do not want to shower and shave and primp and dress. I have no doubt that she would welcome me as I am (!?), but I do not want to venture out into the big, scary world. Not this one, not the one here. I am already planning my next project (mainly to justify my excuse to stay home, alone). (One of the reasons [one of many!] that I want [need] to move to New Mexico – to my brother and my new brother-in-law – is because I know they won’t let me get away with this isolation attitude crap. I’ve warned them that I will be a project, and yet they are still willing to take me on, to love me unconditionally. That amazes me and impresses me and touches me.
So I need a project. Anything. Anything productive, time consuming, useful, forward-looking. On a whim, I decide to clean out my pantry. (Sound familiar, Melissa M.?) I manage to fill an entire contactor-sized trash bag, mostly with rusty coffee cans (a/k/a canisters) and really nasty, decomposed grains such as barley and wheat germ and yeast, all harking back to my farmer-woman days. Say good-bye, it is done, let it go, into the trash, don’t even take the time to sort and perhaps compost. During the process, I find jewels and gems…whole wheat pasta, marinades, seasonings and salad dressings. Pumpkin and pineapple. Cumin and coriander. Fennel seed and flax seed. I am inspired and curious. But I’m not hungry. I will sleep on it. Make a plan for tomorrow.
Pour myself a glass of wine.
Then my crazy, lovable friend, Tanner – visiting from Kansas City – pays me an unannounced visit. But, he will take way more mental and emotional and reminiscing energy than I can muster, so I promise him a visit later in the weekend. I still have three days to go.
All I have to do is hang on till the Packer game at 7:30. That’s another thing that is just not the same without my brother. I have so many memories…more mental and emotional and reminiscing energy than I can muster. But, the game will be a welcome distraction (bummer outcome, btw!) and a good excuse to just lie on the couch (was the Pack on the couch with me?). But I have hours yet to kill. (God, I hate killing time, yet I’ve become an expert, I am way too good at it. Yuck.)
Then a knock on the back door. OMG, do I really want to tell this next story?
Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow.
P.S. A whole other 24 hours has passed while I write this. I am now writing about yesterday, while I am still living fresh, alive and acutely aware, in the middle of today’s experience. Living in the past? Living in the moment? Living for tomorrow?
Living. That’s what’s important, right?