“Nervous means you want to play. Scared means you don’t want to play.” ~ Sherman Alexie
Yet another day, I don’t feel like writing. No matter. It’s not hard to do, so why not. There’s a dark gray sky to inspire me toward the path I won’t take today, that being hiding at home, curtains drawn, nursing the ache of protest that feeds from the anxiety rushes from my heart chakra. Dammit, I have obligations. It’s physical therapy at 7:30. That’s a helper indeed when I feel like this. Push on through the stodgy reticence. Do it now. Arm bicycle first, then . . . ? I don’t know yet. It depends on which therapist I get today. Then it’s pick up a fresh box of insulin syringes for the cat. Syringes remind me of the benign yet scary condition I have in my spinal cord: syringomyelia, which is little cysts filled with spinal fluid, nestled within the spinal cord, in the channel that is supposed to be empty. These cysts are call “syringes”. If they start growing pressure is applied, from the inside out. The nerves become stressed. The neurosurgeon told me it would never give me trouble in this lifetime. Well, almost. He pulled it up from the internet and gave me a little seminar on the comparison of my cysts, displayed in an MRI, with the dangerous kind. I got his point. Yet it haunts me at times, like lately. I tend to slouch down and to the right, and it is a posture that might indicate that the condition ain’t quite so benign anymore. But I worry too much, right? No, I don’t think that the condition has become active. I’m just scared, of the poor state of posture I have allowed to set in, and of the behavioral, emotional field I have grappled with in striving to right myself, to stand tall as a matter of course rather than as a result of conscious effort. Yes, I would love to indulge my desire to stay home and hide. But . . . the finch that was singing earlier has ceased so the morning has become a tad more quiet. I was enjoying his chirpy song in the dark. Now, moving forward, I reach down to scratch the cat’s head, tell her she’s a pretty girl. I’ll have to feed and medicate her soon, because therapy time approaches. Shower. Maybe shave? Do I want to raggedy Don Johnson look today? Do I want to look sloppy instead? I think I will skip shaving today. My beard always looks like an afterthought anyway. Allowing a small bit of scraggly will be like wearing my heart on my sleeve, except it will be wearing my mood on my face. Gee, gosh, by golly, I wish I could stay home today.
Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.