Thursday, July 22, 2021

Back Into the Gardens

Huzzah!  It clouded over yesterday afternoon, so I really enjoyed watering my gardens knowing that little water would evaporate and that my plant friends would get a good drink and some relief from the heat and dryness. A dark sky slows me down, calms me. Sunshine gets my adrenalin going. So, I got myself cozy on the chaise after watering, and opened a new book.

Steve, my ex, called. He’s coming to visit for almost five days in early September. I’m very, very happy he’s coming. 

I saw many things to do in the yard, and I didn’t want to do any of them. I wanted to just chill. I seem to love doing “nothing;” ‘nothing’ being eating, reading, walking Sheba, tidying up, doing dishes. Idling my day away.

My left arm is more valuable to me every day. As the incision on my left breast heals, I get more movement and far, far less pain and itching. 

Questions are massing. As I continue to parse my experience with the doctor who questioned me about my seizures. He called them “pseudo seizures,” presumed I made them purposefully or consciously (I’m not sure what word to use), and he asked me to fake one. Being shamed for an illness is an uncomfortable experience Dr. Shoja wrote in sympathy for my discomfort with being, basically, asked if I were a malingerer. I told her how dishonoured I felt.

Suddenly a lot of people with hobs are advocating that I take on a project. And what I do now, when offered a project is: Procrastinate! I’ll do it when it’s raining. I must make version final what to do when I die book/box. It’s like I have a new client: The in your best interest brigade, the as a person without next of kin subdivision.

Tick tock.

Today my goal is to do garden transplanting that I’ve been procrastinating about doing since before my crisis. It’s going to be a beauty of a day. And I’m going to rip out all my Strawberries in the edible garden. All they do is eat water and feed slugs. I never get to harvest any. The best way to grow good Strawberries here is in suspended or highly raised narrow beds that force the berries to dangle suspended over the edge of the planters. Or, to have ducks. 

Trompel'oeil wall in Quebec City.

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