Does Anyone Really Know What Time It Is?

I have decided that if I wrote a post on this blog every hour, each one of them would be totally different in emotional temperature. And, comparing one to another, you would all fear for my mental well-being.

The first post could be about the lack of order in my home. I have found, after 25 years of instructing my children to PICK UP, that suddenly I just drop things where ever they fall. That great force coined "gravity" just leaves the debris laying on the floor. In big piles. That make the house look like someone one brick short of a load has inhabited this house. Where are all these piles coming from? I've decided that in a way, I must be looking for D. Since finding the note he left me to discover about a trip to Italy (in yesterday's post), I find myself tearing through drawers and cabinets looking for his trail. What was he doing and thinking?  On some level I think I believe that I can connect the dots to what just happened by sifting through his left-behind stuff. Which is also a two-edged sword because D was a very private person and even opening his drawers made me feel a little guilty at first. 

The next post would be happy memories that are able to fight their way through the fog surrounding my brain. Remembering our first dates, for example. D asked me where I'd like to go one night. In my former marriage I was married to a minister who was opposed to dancing, but had no problem with unfaithfulness. (Cattiness is also surfacing in my thought life.)  So, my first request to D? Let's go dancing! We found this little country western place that was this side of a honky-tonk, tucked away in a mostly deserted shopping center that sold RVs in the parking lot. (Could I make this stuff up? Welcome to Texas.) Somehow, they were able to attract Big Named country stars at the time. We danced to Tracey Lawrence's "I See it Now" and Tracy Byrd's "Keeper of the Stars" as the real artists performed. (And did not go straight to hell for dancing as was the belief of minister mentioned above.)

Another hour may bring the story of my lawn. May it rest in peace. I have decided that trying to keep the grass green in 105 degree central Texas heat has become a survival sport that I am no longer willing to participate in. My neighbors will forgive me because they know what I'm going through, and will probably bring by another spiral sliced ham to cheer me up. 

Still another hour would find me cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. I told my daughter  that I spilled popcorn on the kitchen floor Saturday and it was still there. On Monday. She said not to worry, that critters would just carry it off and eat it if I left it long enough. So I found myself yesterday cleaning like  the house was the inside of my heart. Time to get rid of flowers that have long been dead, and the left over clutter of Hospice in our home.

One more hour pits my strategy of "staying quiet to hear God and my thoughts" against the strategy of "keeping busy and blocking out thoughts." It is a never ending scramble as I sometimes find myself eating, watching tv, reading a magazine and writing thank you notes for Memorial donations. All at once. (If your thank you note has some ketchup on it, now you know the rest of the story.) 

So. This hour by hour thing seems to be working for me. Some hours are just better then others. But all hours are necessary for this journey.