The Art Of Recovery, Or, Saturday Morning at 10:30am

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I slept in this morning, and have dawdled through the day. I will not recover this time, but it’s in my belly or maybe behind my eyes. Time: unrecoverable, but embodied.

Anyway, I meant to be talking about the quiet after a holiday, or during for that matter, in the face of the absolute fungal chaos of these last few years. I use the term “fungal” to mean connected underground, flying through the air, and popping up where you least expect it. Inexact, but hey, we’re all friends here.

Wow it’s been a hard time. I am deeply thankful for every moment of okayness.

Thanksgiving this year was just my husband, me, my battered elbow tendon, and a disinclination to sit inside a restaurant for all the courses of a traditional meal. So I ordered a cooked turkey and the associated gravy, bought pre-cut butternut squash pieces and brussel sprouts to roast with red pepper flakes (squash) and soy (brussels), got myself some packaged stuffing and canned cranberry, made olive oil and garlic mashed potatoes, along with a green salad. Only lettuce and dressing. More than enough.

Also got us some Whole Foods’ cookies for dessert. Drank excellent old red wine. Everything was delicious. Compared to the effort involved in the menu of 2014, it was easy as making a turkey sandwich.

I was happy to cook alone, very slowly and carefully with my elbow whispering in my year, and did not miss the family hubbub until evening fell. But when quiet ceases to comfort and starts to trouble, it can be an opportunity to question why. To consider the meaning of family, now that my parents are both gone. I didn’t think about the losses themselves, more about the resettling and possibilities of what remains.

Answers are in process.

Which brings me to this. How much do you all question your lives?  Your relationships, work, patterns? On what kinds of occasion and with what sort of outcomes?

Just a couple tiny quessies (new slang, what say you?) for an early winter’s afternoon. LOL, as the kids used to say. I don’t even know the current argot, but never mind. I’m 66. Have a wonderful weekend.

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