Finally, after six months of looking, (rather, two months of catching breath one month of holidays and then three months of dedicated looking) I have found work. It's decent work, in the arena of the profession that seems to have chosen me. That is, I never sat as a small child and pondered... "I really want to work with addicts when I grow up...", but it is a satisfying and fulfilling career choice. My new position will give me a small income, the potential for advancement, and the opportunity to further my studies. What more could I want? Besides health insurance, of course. But that will come in time, and I am focusing on waiting. I can't really focus on patience because that is contrary to my basic personality, but I am learning about waiting. Waiting for work, waiting for spring, waiting for answers....
Last night was a celebration. Very fine dining with my delightful sisters and my lovable brother in law. Two cocktails. You would think that a grown woman with considerable experience would be able to have two celebratory cocktails, maintain my dignity, be relaxed but not ridiculous, etc. Nope. Not this grown woman. Two cocktails is clearly one and one half cocktail over my limit! I got giddy and silly and I'm sure I said things on the way home that I will live to regret! The sister has the memory of an elephant when it comes to dumb remarks!!!
However, today I am up before her, and there is a skiff of new snow under a brilliantly blue spring sky, the snow is melting already and I am gainfully employed. Life can be so blessed. Too bad I have a throbbing headache.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Spring cleaning
I've been spring cleaning this week. That means moving furniture, vacuuming the back side, underneath, wiping dust kitties off the walls and baseboards, vacuuming air returns and heat vents, etc. Good stuff. I feel very productive. I've hit a couple of bumps, like an achy ankle, but I am back after it today. The sister has no sympathy for the aches and pains of middle age. She's one of those stoic rocky mountain dwellers that wouldn't dream of complaining about an ache or pain. What she doesn't know is that for me, those aches I whine about generally are covering up a deeper, harder to ease ache. The kind of ache that goes deep into your soul and renders you motionless for hours at a time. I managed to shake it off and get back to the task at hand today.
Today's tasks involved moving a hardwood buffet full of dishes, a large chair, many knick knacks, water dispenser, rocking chair, dog dish... all shifted to one side of the room. I swept, and diligently got out the swiffer wet. I stood back, nostrils full of the weird apple scent of swiffer, and surveyed my work. Sigh. There was no apparent difference in the look of the floor. Part of the problem is that this floor has a history. This house was probably built in the twenties or thirties, then at some point in its dubious history, it was moved across town. It is a solid house, lovely old lathe and plaster walls, nice wood floors, but moving an entire house tends to jostle things around some. Cracks in the plaster and the flooring doesn't quite fit together right. That and it suffered the indignity of being covered with carpet for some unknown period of its life.
I gave up on the floor for the moment, having been distracted by the drapes. Upon close inspection, the bottom six inches of the drapes were completely covered in cat/dog hair. Gross. I decide to take them down and wash them. Drapes down, head to the basement for the laundry. Uh oh. The load of dish towels, dish rags and cleaning rags in the washer smells foul. The only cure for that is bleach. Do we have bleach? I text the sister..... probably not. Ok, fine. I want Pinesol anyway. So I sniff the armpit to make sure I'm not too offensive, slap my hair back in a headband and go to Walmart. Bleach, Pinesol, and scrubber.
Home again. Bleach in washer with smelly towels. Pinesol in a bucket of hot water, scrubber in hand. I get down on my knees and begin to scrub. Mind you, this floor hasn't had a finish in many, many years. It's on the long list of fixer up projects, but first we have to scrape the popcorn off the ceiling. Anyway, I find myself on my knees and the pity party begins. "What the heck am I doing down here?", a rhetorical question. I was quite surprised to hear a voice in my head reply, "Scrubbing the floor." "That question was rhetorical," I snapped. "Of course I know I'm scrubbing the floor. I just can't figure out why." Then the voice replies, "Because you didn't think it was clean enough." What the heck? Why can't I just scrub and whine to myself without being interrupted! "If this is God talking to me, I have a thing or two to discuss with you...." So, I scrub away, and whine away, and complain heartily. No further vocal interruption. Some time later, I'm mopping up with rinse water, and attempting to apply wax that may date back to Adam to a floor that has not one bit of finish on it. Furniture is then all shifted to the other side of the room, and the process repeated.
When the work was finished, I stood back and looked it over, satisfied with my effort. "Sometimes, swiffer just doesn't cut it." And the voice in my head says, "You're right. Thorough cleaning is done on your knees."
Today's tasks involved moving a hardwood buffet full of dishes, a large chair, many knick knacks, water dispenser, rocking chair, dog dish... all shifted to one side of the room. I swept, and diligently got out the swiffer wet. I stood back, nostrils full of the weird apple scent of swiffer, and surveyed my work. Sigh. There was no apparent difference in the look of the floor. Part of the problem is that this floor has a history. This house was probably built in the twenties or thirties, then at some point in its dubious history, it was moved across town. It is a solid house, lovely old lathe and plaster walls, nice wood floors, but moving an entire house tends to jostle things around some. Cracks in the plaster and the flooring doesn't quite fit together right. That and it suffered the indignity of being covered with carpet for some unknown period of its life.
I gave up on the floor for the moment, having been distracted by the drapes. Upon close inspection, the bottom six inches of the drapes were completely covered in cat/dog hair. Gross. I decide to take them down and wash them. Drapes down, head to the basement for the laundry. Uh oh. The load of dish towels, dish rags and cleaning rags in the washer smells foul. The only cure for that is bleach. Do we have bleach? I text the sister..... probably not. Ok, fine. I want Pinesol anyway. So I sniff the armpit to make sure I'm not too offensive, slap my hair back in a headband and go to Walmart. Bleach, Pinesol, and scrubber.
Home again. Bleach in washer with smelly towels. Pinesol in a bucket of hot water, scrubber in hand. I get down on my knees and begin to scrub. Mind you, this floor hasn't had a finish in many, many years. It's on the long list of fixer up projects, but first we have to scrape the popcorn off the ceiling. Anyway, I find myself on my knees and the pity party begins. "What the heck am I doing down here?", a rhetorical question. I was quite surprised to hear a voice in my head reply, "Scrubbing the floor." "That question was rhetorical," I snapped. "Of course I know I'm scrubbing the floor. I just can't figure out why." Then the voice replies, "Because you didn't think it was clean enough." What the heck? Why can't I just scrub and whine to myself without being interrupted! "If this is God talking to me, I have a thing or two to discuss with you...." So, I scrub away, and whine away, and complain heartily. No further vocal interruption. Some time later, I'm mopping up with rinse water, and attempting to apply wax that may date back to Adam to a floor that has not one bit of finish on it. Furniture is then all shifted to the other side of the room, and the process repeated.
When the work was finished, I stood back and looked it over, satisfied with my effort. "Sometimes, swiffer just doesn't cut it." And the voice in my head says, "You're right. Thorough cleaning is done on your knees."
Monday, March 21, 2011
Searching for spring
Yesterday was one of those truly fine days that happen as a rare moment in Wyoming. Beautiful sky, a bit of a breeze, warm, sunny, and just slightly humid lending a spring softness to the air. The dog, the sister and I went for a ramble along the river. The river is flowing quite swift, muddy, and to the banks. Not really with run off yet, it's still too early for that, but with melted ice, and water let out of reservoirs in preparation for run off. There were some geese waddling about making their rude goose noises, a few other birds flitting about and once we rose out of the river and flood channels, lots of pronghorn and deer. The wildlife is looking quite fat and healthy for early spring. Probably, they have been helping themselves to somebody's alfalfa bales all winter.
We looked over a sad pathway of memorial trees placed by parents for their children. It is always tragic when an infant or child dies, but in reading the dates and names on the memorial, I realize it is tragic to a parent no matter how old the child is when they die. We are not meant to outlive our children. I hope I don't.
The dog enjoyed his bit of "off-leash" freedom, but he is such a companion and such a city slicker that he doesn't wander far from my side. He runs ahead on the trail, stopping every few moments to look back and be certain that I'm still following. He rarely goes off the path, and seems skeptical when I do. He, like myself, has felt a certain sense of abandonment and fear of being alone.
There were very tiny tender new shoots of green pushing hard to get through the matted down grass. The grass was quite long and healthy at the first snow, so the flattened, dense mat is a challenge for spring to find its way through. But it prevails. New life, new growth, new opportunity for survival.
Searching for spring on the first calendar day of spring can prove challenging and futile in the harsh Wyoming climate. But it's there. That first glimmer of the summer to come. That first refreshing breath that doesn't freeze your lungs and make you cough. That first twitter of nest building birds, tentatively launching their nursery building. That first muddy flow in the rivers that promises a good growing season.
I had to look deep into my heart to find some glimmers of spring. It's been a long brutal wintertime in my soul, and I am weary of the dark, cold, lonely season. I need a new season, just like the earth. So I sucked in a deep cleansing breath, shook out my winter brain, and now am ready to bravely approach some new growth. I have a little muddy release from the reservoir of my heart in order to make room there. That mud wasn't benefiting me in any way, it was just preventing fresh water from coming in. It may be difficult to push up through last year's matted down, unharvested stuff, but if a tiny blade of crested wheat grass can make it, I am sure I can. And the dog may need to wander off the path a bit too!
We looked over a sad pathway of memorial trees placed by parents for their children. It is always tragic when an infant or child dies, but in reading the dates and names on the memorial, I realize it is tragic to a parent no matter how old the child is when they die. We are not meant to outlive our children. I hope I don't.
The dog enjoyed his bit of "off-leash" freedom, but he is such a companion and such a city slicker that he doesn't wander far from my side. He runs ahead on the trail, stopping every few moments to look back and be certain that I'm still following. He rarely goes off the path, and seems skeptical when I do. He, like myself, has felt a certain sense of abandonment and fear of being alone.
There were very tiny tender new shoots of green pushing hard to get through the matted down grass. The grass was quite long and healthy at the first snow, so the flattened, dense mat is a challenge for spring to find its way through. But it prevails. New life, new growth, new opportunity for survival.
Searching for spring on the first calendar day of spring can prove challenging and futile in the harsh Wyoming climate. But it's there. That first glimmer of the summer to come. That first refreshing breath that doesn't freeze your lungs and make you cough. That first twitter of nest building birds, tentatively launching their nursery building. That first muddy flow in the rivers that promises a good growing season.
I had to look deep into my heart to find some glimmers of spring. It's been a long brutal wintertime in my soul, and I am weary of the dark, cold, lonely season. I need a new season, just like the earth. So I sucked in a deep cleansing breath, shook out my winter brain, and now am ready to bravely approach some new growth. I have a little muddy release from the reservoir of my heart in order to make room there. That mud wasn't benefiting me in any way, it was just preventing fresh water from coming in. It may be difficult to push up through last year's matted down, unharvested stuff, but if a tiny blade of crested wheat grass can make it, I am sure I can. And the dog may need to wander off the path a bit too!
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