Wednesday, April 8, 2020

I'm an Orchid

Two cords of wood arrived nice and early yesterday morning; I was able to start stacking in the cool morning air. 
The two new cords are drier and lighter. I did five wheelbarrow loads before taking my first rest. I had some chocolate and Diet Coke and then did another five loads. Then I went for a walk with Sheba to loosed up my back, and then I had lunch.
After lunch I did another five loads. By then it was one o’clock and time for another rest. And after that, I did five more loads before going to meet Anna and Minjou for a romp in the park. Twenty loads done! I reckon that’s half the job done.
Stacking this second load of wood is not the bone crushing work of last week. I was so out of shape! Still, a full cord in one day is tiring.
I used to “own” Photoshop. It was an application that you bought (on discs or via a download) for a one-time-only, hefty, fee, but I could claim the fee as a self-employment expense in my taxes. But now the program costs $22.00/month and I won’t pay that for a toy. I’m not working anymore. But I loved the program.
Well, yesterday I downloaded a free (!) Photoshop-like image manipulation program called Gimp. Now I’ve got to learn how it. Old dog; new trick. 
They have tutorials on their website. In the near future I’ll watch them … probably twice. Old dog, remember.
I saw a fabulously interesting program on childhood trauma on our Knowledge Network the other night. I got the answer to a question that has come up repeatedly since my breakdown: Why did I have a breakdown when other kids, who endured even worse than I did, do okay … even well?
The doctors on the program were remarkably articulate about complex ideas in lay language. And they spent a lot of time talking about Dandelions and Orchids. 
Dandelions are hardy plants that can exist in virtually any environment; they are survivors and they’re resilient. Orchids are fragile and vulnerable species that only thrive in controlled and specific environments. I’m an Orchid. It’s genetic. I’m not guilty. 
By taking control of my responses, I’ve learned how to manage my condition. I can fail when something like Covid-19 comes along, creating a way of life unlike ever in our collective experience. But I’m strong and doing fine.
So what? Tomorrow is the fourth anniversary of my breakdown. 
The Downy Woodpecker—I call him Pinocchio—comes every morning when I am typing my daily posts. 
I wore shorts for the first time today and drove to both dog walk sites with the top down.
Last night I dreamed that I was negotiating with some huge performing arts talents, putting together a touring show that was going to knock the world out, and I commuted on a flying bicycle. 
We went for another sunset walk, Sheba and I, and it was as inspiring as yesterday. What absolutely kills you is the silence. You only hear the odd bird: A Robin, a Raven, an Owl. I did not her one motor. Not one scream. (Children not victims.) Nothing. There’s no nicer time of day, especially if I’m satisfied with my day. And what’s more satisfying than stacking a cord of wood?
Today … more stacking, of course. Will I complete the job?

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