I got up early this morning because I have a dentist appointment at ten. I was shocked to walk outside and find that the temperature had dropped at least twenty-five degrees since I went to bed. Everything is dripping with that rain we got which brought us not just a cleaning, a clearing, but this cool, sweet morning.
While I was making our supper last night I was listening to NPR and a woman was talking about all of the exercise beliefs we have which have proven to be false and I learned something I liked a lot, which is that walking is the single best exercise humans can do with almost all of the benefits of running and none of the risk of injury unless you walk into something or trip, both of which I have done, of course, but usually not. Of course in Lloyd you also run the risk of snakes and rabid foxes and there were those bear tracks once...
I need to go on my walk and then get to town and go to the dentist, only for a cleaning but oh, how even that grabs my stomach and makes me anxious. It's a wonder I do anything at all these days that requires me to talk to strangers, requires me to submit myself to another human in any way unless that human is a child of mine or a grandchild, in which case I will submit myself to almost anything. I love my grocery store because they all know me there. I am Lily's mama. I am the grandmother.
My tick bite from yesterday itches but my poison ivy is quiet.
I think another church group is about to move into the little church next door. It has been unused for quite some time now and even when it was being used, it was a very, very small congregation of very, very white-bread Methodists who met politely for one hour on Sundays but I think this group may actually meet more than that. I am not sure of anything but isn't it odd that here I am, this woman for whom religion is an anathema with a church tucked up almost in the armpit of her yard? There are at least a dozen churches within a three mile radius of this house, mostly small ones, and one large one, a Baptist church built of red brick. I get flyers in the mail from a church a few miles down the road, big glossy things that extort me to come and let all things be new again. They meet in a modular building in what used to be the chlorine plant and so far, I have resisted their entreaties and content myself with making all things new by waking up early on a morning rain-washed and emerald-green, cool and as new as a morning can be on this old hunk of rock and water.