Another day of cold and drizzle and my hips ache like hell and so does my wrist and I just want to stay in and cocoon on the couch or on the bed and read but again, that is not my way and so I've eaten some sort of ancient grain granola and raisins and coconut milk and taken Ibuprofen and am waiting for some relief. All night I woke myself up, rocking these aged, aching hips in small cat motions, trying to rearrange the arm I broke the wrist of when I was seventeen to relieve the numbness and fiery needles shooting through my hand. Dream snippets of asking Phillip Seymour Hoffman to come and eat with our family, discovering that I'd posted a blog post entirely sideways, pictures and text, baby chickens drowned and swollen, telling my mother that really, go away, you're dead.
None of it quite as bad as it sounds. The one about the sideways blog post bothered me the most because even as I dreamed of the other things, I knew I was dreaming so it was okay. And Phillip Seymour Hoffman was as charming as could be.
No, this is not going to become My Awesome Dream Journal blog.
Even in the drizzle the blackbirds sing their rusty song and Elvis crows to be let out. I have to go to the store, I have more cleaning to do. The baby chicks' bedding needs changing. There is laundry. Always laundry, just as there are always going to be these days, wherein movement must be forced, wherein inertia must be overcome, wherein one must plug in the fancy lights and light the candles because the sun is hidden, wherein one must give thanks for the fact that there are lights, there is Ibuprofen, there is a washing machine, there is Goodwill cashmere to soften the cold, there are birds both wild and domestic who sing their own songs despite the weather, reminding us that life goes on, goes on, goes on and tasks must be attended to and spring is proceeding as it should and as it will, within us and without us and there is great comfort in all of that.