Lunch at cheesecake factory.
Sunday: 62 degrees at the end of February. We must be outside, but I do not feel free to dictate in public. Sigh. Ego or just not wanting mothers with small children to move away from me. So I type with one hand. Slowly and with fewer capitals. We’re at Burney’s Beach, a tiny made-beach on our bay, after a special ed advocate’s meeting in a coffee shop. Julia is sculpting in the sand and I . . . I sit like a turtle in the sun craving the warm, gentle warmth. This is the time of year when I can imagine giving up the four seasons in favor of eternal spring.
The meeting: Politically, I am totally out of the educational policy loop. It will be an effort if I want to catch up. I need to if I want to figure out what I can contribute. Believing that the way to change is at the local level where passion lies, the spirit is willing . . . Continue reading
I broke my wrist on Sunday. Of course it was my left wrist, my dominant hand. Aside from the pain and the splint and the doc appointments and the craziness of trying to figure out how to hook a bra, button up jeans and open pill bottles with one hand, there’s a steep learning curve of another kind going on and I have to grudgingly admit, I’m grateful for it.
Excuse the disarray, gentle readers. A new year brings reorganization of the old and cluttered, rededication to particular journeys and diving into new long term projects. This year, these ideas are very exciting and before I leave my bed on New Year’s Day, I am appreciating the energy that seems to be at my disposal. I look forward to 2015 with a gentle enthusiasm which is almost a surprised but which has become familiar and comfortable. When I make my bed in the morning, I remember when all that I wanted was for the day to end and to return to my bed. I am still close enough to the years of grieving to viscerally remember being without the energy to begin a single idea. I am no longer there. Alleluia! 