Progressions

It has been a while. Things got sidetracked a week after my previous post, when my father died unexpectedly in his sleep. A little more than ten weeks after my mother had done likewise.

My most recent reading is from the latest edition of my favorite Stress Management authors and rereading of favorite romance and science fiction authors, along with Sadder than Water. I did get my former business website domains up and running. thewrittenword.net is the primary, and quietspaces.net is parked there, so either one works. On the WordPress, journal.thewrittenword.net, I am doing NaPoWriMo stuff.

Since my second visit with the grief counselor, I am not pressing myself to complete any writing on time, and for some days, I have posted previous poems rather than write new ones.

My husband is enjoying the early spring weather, getting into some carpentry stuff, now. I have ordered wildflower seeds to plant in the new garden spot; they arrived with this week’s mail delivery. I hope to get the seeds sown early in the evening, and then water them before we lose the light. I am behind on washing dishes, and I still have to take a shower and brush my teeth.

Chives have come up along the side of the house, after we’d figured that the yard work two years ago had done for them. Also, both irises and tulips seem to be coming out.

I am hopeful.

 

New Year, Rubbing Off The New

I am not inclined toward New Year Resolutions. In college, I could not even adhere to my class–study schedule.  Retirement is much better, in that I usually have adequate time to do what I want, so long as I can push back the necessary tasks to a more convenient time.

I went through five different themes, I think, before settling on one for this new (decapitated and rebirthed) blog. It might even be the theme I chose for The Art of Disorder.  There is an inconvenience to versatility. Mostly, one just wants to slap up a blog and start writing. Doesn’t one?

Rereading life like worn, familiar books, I find retreaded disasters and rescues to be more welcome than a true unknown. There is lamenting abroad about all sorts of things.

All things in the hands of the one who created the universe. The end is sure, and everything between then and now is not immovable fate, good or ill fortune. In its broad sweep of actions,  while major patterns predominate, there are almost always smaller circles of action, stages rather than scenic movie sites, in which our limited actions have perhaps immediate consequences, reactions, reactions and comforts, is not reassurance.

We feel a need for everything to come out right, forgetting that the here and now, over which we have some care and options, we can take actions with positive responses and actual, existing improvement in conditions. There is no reason to panic about terrorism, nuclear threats, droughts or massive movements of people from certain soon or lingering death to unanticipated shores. We have before us each day that with which we make positive choices, decisions and outcomes in the world. Not always world shattering, but making our allotted sphere of influence a better place to live. With the positive, the feeling of progress and a victory of sorts among the small things of life, an encouragement for all to give also what they can without the fear that everything will be ripped from them, as a result, and their own lives and loved ones with it.

Rereading The Peshawar Lancers (S.L. Stirling) and reflecting on the differences in reactions and coping mechanisms of various populations in reaction to world cataclysm. We do what we should and what we can, and then we are done, at life’s end. What counts is what we were called to and able to do, not what other deeds or how much responsibility we were not assigned by God. We live until we die, and we cannot judge others because we are not them.