I’m not one with a sense of proportion

I’ve decided it’s time to get my blogs combined. My life isn’t a bunch of little compartments; it’s a swirl of all kinds of stuff, and acting as if any of it needs to be blockaded away from the rest is silly. I’m not ashamed of or embarrassed by any of it.

I’m making progress with my physical therapy; I’m up to 1 kg weights (about 2 pounds) and more reps. Mark the Shoulder Torturer is pleased, and is talking about adding another exercise to the routine. He also says this is as heavy a weight as I should be using for this purpose because of risk of injuring my wrists with more; from here on in, it’s more reps and/or added exercises. He said I’m advancing at a good pace given the nature of the injury; I do chalk that up to reiki (and hey, to my dedication to doing my homework, too!).

A friend who reads here pointed out that if she didn’t already know I’m in Scotland, she wouldn’t know it from the blog without some digging. She’s right. It might be more obvious if I were a better photographer, or inclined to become one. Maybe that’s a poet thing; I’d rather look at things directly through my eyes, and then if I want to hold them to look more closely at, I write them later. I’m sticking close to home when I walk, too, and will until the ground firms up a bit more; I’m not inclined to go tearing up the landscape when it’s still very soggy. I’m also not inclined to ever post photos that basically say “Here! THIS house! This is where I live all alone without even a dog now!” It’s a teeny village; it wouldn’t take much.

I also like to think it’s just because I’m at home here, and not inclined to write like a tourist any more. My friend’s observation came as Maman has been nudging me to think about what home is to me, a thing she’s often done. It’s surely more of a feeling than a place, though there are identifiable places where I feel at home. They don’t seem to have a great deal in common across the board — St. Paul, New Orleans, the Big Bend, the OBX, Edinburgh, Inverness — other than that feeling. Home comes from inside me, but there are places that strengthen the feeling and ones that don’t.

After a month or so of offerings (which are for them rather than to them), I had the first sense of communication in return from my ancestors — two sentences only, but I’ve been turning them over in my mind since: Your life is good. Why do you struggle as if it isn’t?

It’s certainly a fair question. A lot about my life is good — better than just good, mostly. I have a nice house in one of those home-feeling places, no financial worries, the freedom to do pretty much as I please, creative outlets. Not having other things I want doesn’t diminish any of the things I do have. But I treat them as if it does, and that does me no good — it does active harm, in fact, because it spoils my happiness in what I do have.

The dreams continue. I thought they might be about Alec again, but I don’t think so any longer. I don’t feel him there. It’s probably just good ol’ horniness, but I’m willing to take a wait-and-see stance for now.

don’t ask me
I’m just improvising
my illusion of careless flight
can’t you see
my temperature’s rising
I radiate more heat than light

(photo: Wikipedia)

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