Wednesday was another slow day. A day for Sheba’s feet to heal; a second day without going for a walk. A day of promise, however, because she looked so much better yesterday than the day before. It’s nice to go slow, to read and spa and watch TV—and to do it without snacking or baking. This new way of life without baking is still a novelty.
And guess what! I watched A Midsummer Night’s Dream by the National Theatre yesterday. I thought I’d check out the first few minutes, but it was so excellently done, by every actor, that I stuck with it. It was fabulous! Yes… fabulous! Even though it was Shakespeare!
In the last scene before intermission, when Oberon falls for Bottom, I wept at its exuberance, the bravery of the staging, the talent of the performers and the rapture of the audience that roared their approval at its conclusion. It’s a slightly twisted gender-bending masterpiece of a show! This is what it is to be alive.
Yesterday, after using a lot of water to feed my back gardens, I checked the water level in my cistern, and it was low. It didn’t surprise me as I’d just watered the garden, but it seemed awfully low. I went to bed, anxious—it gets fed by water from my well by a pump that can breakdown—and awoke anxious to measure its recovery.
This morning I went to discovered it hadn’t recovered at all. Not a drop of fresh water had replenished it. So, I hauled out the ladder and climbed up on top of the cistern, opened it up and did the only thing I know how to do—jiggle the floater switch.
Water started filling flowing immediately. Thank God! (Sometimes I hate having to be reliant on machinery/mechanics that I don’t understand and that must always be carefully monitored.) So today, I’ll be monitoring it until I am reassured that it is refilling.
Sheba is almost all better, but she still has more healing to do on one front paw, poor puppy. So, we’re hanging around Pinecone Park. But we did do a short walk this morning that went well (till she had to walk on the gravel of my driveway).
Most of today, I’ll be with Olive Kitteridge.