Just felt the need to make it clear that there is no single day that I do with ease any more. It was tricky enough before the disasters with Addiction as my Motif in life. I had years of relief while I lived with Izzy and had Helpmeet and Deep Love.
Then he died and I entered the Dreaming of the Coma and the Emergence has been and remains EXTRAORDINARILY difficult. I wake in a morning and hope that I am ill and weak enough to just go back to sleep. I do not feel like getting up here with the situation as it is . Now its grey and rainy so the Pony Ride is not an appealing option. I am pretty much shrieking to the Heavens. HELP ME.
THE day passes and I decide NOTHING. Its still cold wet and grey. My kindle is low on batteries so I can’t read for a little.
ULTIMATELY this time will 1. be for my good and 2. change.
The thing is – with deaths like Izzy’s – total shock. No preparation at all. Devastation. Now and then my mind turns to the details. The things we were “in the middle of “. The things we had planned. All gone now. All gone now.
Then back I come into this day which is pleasant enough though lacking in joy and HOME. I love having a HOME in order in my taste. it can be a caravan – but not like this.
“All I want is a room somewhere “
The next will be dandy. That is how it has always gone so far. And if , in the meantime, I can’t think my way out of a paper bag – SO BE IT.
I am fiddling about. I have been to a meeting. ALL IS FUNDAMENTALLY WELL.
The Black Cockatoos are on the wing. Generally that means more rain. I would not be surprised. The North is a major disaster and the dickbrains didn’t see it coming on the Big Rivers. They did better in Cyclone Country. Now, they say, the rain is done with us. But It seems to me that the Black Cockatoos may think otherwise.
by Judith Wright ©
Each certain kind of weather or of light
has its own creatures. Somewhere else they
wait as though they but inhabited heat or cold,
twilight or dawn, and knew no other state.
Then at their time they come, timid or bold.
So when the long drought-winds, sandpaper-harsh,
were still, and the air changed, and the clouds came,
and other birds were quiet in prayer or fear,
these knew their hour. Before the first far flash
lit up, or the first thunder spoke its name,
in heavy flight they came, till I could hear
the wild black cockatoos, tossed on the crest
of their high trees, crying the world’s unrest.