long after-dinner shadows
of gardening battles
blood smells of earth & lavender
tastes of tomato and lemon thyme
bathe away the thorn’s prickle
daub nose spray on mosquito itch
scrub nails to almost clean
rub skin with orange-scented cream
tomorrow more [dead] heads to roll
bushes to teach self-control
I realized after the last few therapy posts that the original format: thankful and self-like just ain’t going to hold together. The idea was for me to embrace the positive as much as a depressed jaded cynic can. Which means I write about the crap in my life rather than meditate on the little moments of bliss. Not that I’m ungrateful – I’ll take nano-seconds of bliss – or there is nothing much I like about myself (tho I tend to take my cues from others on that one).
So, I still want to try and find the positive, (even when I’m despondent to the point of atrophy), meditate on what’s okay about me (even when I hate myself down to atom/DNA level), but to give myself a break – a poem, a quote, a reblog and then some meditation of a sort can be my night/morning therapy too.
Like tonight, I wrote about being out in the garden after supper (and my 4th steroid pill; 2 day, then 15 more over 5 days) then coming in to literally lick my battle wounds. I hate wearing gloves of any sort – even in the winter. Something about having my hands encased (and I prefer bare feet, ugly toes and all) in plastic, wool, linen, cotton gives me the creeps. Think it’s a re-occurring nightmare from going to church with my Grandmother – crinoline scratching my legs, hat pinching my head and stupid white gloves. I look at white and it gets stained. I spent the sermons studying the stained glass windows and the plaques for war dead (including my great-uncle in WW1). I mouthed the hymns (my singing voice was not allowed – I’d be too embarrassed anyway).
I hated every minute; I knew very young that my grandmother was evil, so time spent with her was usually torture (in my mind; not physically) – and not just having to sit through sermons. I learned to like hats – ball caps, men’s hats, straw hats with flowers – but never gloves. So I get scratched, pricked.
Usually get contact dermatitis on my arms and legs from something I brush against in the garden, on the train, in the mall, anywhere. I was badly bitten by mosquitos in California in the mid-1980s – the bites didn’t go down for over 2 months, and often erupted again for a couple of years if I got too hot, so when a mosquito gets me good, I follow my dad’s “cure.” He got sensitive from time in South East Asia.
What do I like about myself: I can talk around what I should be talking about! Or, as one of my professors said, I could start to answer a question with no idea what the right answer was, and by the end convince my audience I knew it all along, and if wrong, somehow was still right. Not a bad skill to re-hone for blogging.
My kitchen, at night, while I write at the table.