Evening

I’ve written before about my sadness, almost to the point of despair, in the evening. The past few months have seen some improvement. Although still not very vivacious, I’m at least not so sad as the day ends. I grow quieter and there is still no desire to go out late in the day, or to be among people. The feeling of anxiety is not as prevalent but I’m still not feeling scoial.

Terry and I have early dinners, finishing with cleanup shortly after 6 p.m. We watch the news and then a couple of recorded tv shows. That’s about all I can handle, two programs. Then I read until 8:30 or so when I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, within moments of lying down. I am not one of those who cannot get to sleep.

Perhaps sleep is an escape mechanism for me. Perhaps that’s my method of coping with the stress of the day and the inability to end the day on a more positive note. I really would like to be able to have the same positive thoughts and behavior in the evening as I do in the morning. To be upbeat. To feel optimistic. It excites me to have the whole day ahead of me. I cannot feel the same about the night. I feel no excitement. Escape into sleep is my solution.

You will miss lunch if you stab someone with scissors

One of the really cute kindergartners was on the naughty bench when I went through the office. I’ve seen him around so stopped to ask him why he was there. He shrugged. Since few kids will automatically blurt out what malfeasance they have committed, I sit and chat, slowly drawing out the story.

After sitting and chatting for a moment, showing him a picture on my phone of a little boy I thought might be his brother, but was not, he told me he was hungry.

“Well, yes, you would be since it’s your lunch time. Why do you have to wait here?”

“I punched someone.”

“Oh, punching is not a good thing to do. Why would you do that?”

Another shrug. At which time the principal comes out of her office and informs me that the little guy’s mother is coming to pick him up. He stabbed someone with scissors.

When he looks back up at me, I ask him if he did this dastardly deed and he nods, yes. “So you punched someone and you stabbed someone. No wonder you’re on the naughty bench.” I start to rise.

“Where are you going?”

“To get lunch. I didn’t punch or stab anyone, so I’m free to move about. You’re not.”

Who understands opioid use and overdoses?

Can someone explain this to me:

The C.D.C.’s numbers show that 91 people in the United States die every day from opioid overdose.

The five states with the highest rates of death linked to drug overdose were West Virginia (41.5 per 100,000), New Hampshire (34.3 per 100,000), Kentucky (29.9 per 100,000), Ohio (29.9 per 100,000), and Rhode Island (28.2 per 100,000), according to the C.D.C.

Why?

Up and at’m again

It’s Monday after a lazy weekend. I’ll describe it as lazy because that sounds better than sad, malcontent, depressed.

I managed to grocery shop and do laundry on Saturday, but then fell on the couch and read my books all afternoon, sitting in a haze of dust. The wood in the room is calling for orange oil. I really should accomplish more. I can’t.

Sunday came early but I could not open my eyes and get out of bed. It was 7 o’clock before I finally joined Terry in the kitchen. He had arisen when the alarm went off, the obedient guy that he is. I was leaving an hour later than him for church so didn’t feel guilty.

After chairing the deacon’s meeting at church, I came home and again sat on the couch all afternoon reading from my stack of books. Finally, shaking myself free of the comfort of my couch cushions, I went outside, and although the sky was sunless, the temperature was warm, the air fragrant. I raked leaves, pulled some weeds and made a hasty retreat back inside to figure out something for dinner.

I spent much of the weekend hours thinking about the trump supporters. Reading about the proposed budget. Seeing a mean response on a blog. I’m trying to understand the thinking of our citizens who think the president is so great when I can barely tolerate his weird behavior. It has put me in such a funk.

After reading articles and books and even talking with my hairdresser, I am seeing how his supporters think; not why, though. For some reason, they see themselves as unsafe in this land. They believe they are losing, or have lost, something. Yet, they are well off, they have an abundance. Why is sharing that so terrible for them? They keep saying, “we shouldn’t be supporting illegal immigrants.” But they don’t say how that is hurting them.

The mean blog response talked about how our children will be crippled by the national debt. But no explanation as to what that looks like. The responder also wants parents to take care of their children and not accept government help. Well, that would be nice, if possible. It just isn’t for everyone.

This is the conclusion I presently have about trump supporters: they are afraid for their safety and they don’t want immigrants and/or poor people getting any government aid.  It’s the best I can do for now. This will be a busy week and I have to get my head in the game to do the work I am called to do. I am not fearful for my safety, and because I have an abundance, I am willing the share.

The end of the week

As the week ends, and so much anguish is felt, I decided to spend the afternoon here:


Sitting on the garden bench my son-in-law built and reading the books newly delivered from Powell’s. 


The cat joined me. She’s tired of all the bad news, too. Let’s just sit and be still and quiet. Until next week. 

Flowers make us happy

Remember the post last week about the flowers I took to the four first grade classes where I am school chaplain? They are still alive! One of the teachers pointed out that a bud in her vase had actually bloomed over the weekend while the class was away.  As she was pointing this out to me, one of the little girls in the class shouted out, “flowers make us happy!” Others in the class agreed. I’m thinking those flowers were a wise investment.

 

The car is not the dining room table

Another morning of driving in commuter traffic. The battery in Terry’s car gave up the ghost over the weekend and today was the first day we could get it into the shop so I was out in early morning traffic. I’m sure glad I don’t have to drive on those roads so early every morning. Usually 9 or later is my drive time, after the majority of workers have made their trek.

Today, while slowly creeping along a busy thoroughfare, I see the driver behind me tipping a bowl up to her face, like she’s drinking soup. I guess it must have been milk from her cereal. A little farther down the road and she’s using a spoon to get the remainder of the solids out of the bowl. I could only shake my head.

I had gotten up at my usual time of 6, had breakfast, read the newspaper, put on my makeup and dressed, and was still on the road shortly after 7:30. Oh, and I did my exercises. I wouldn’t think of eating cereal (or soup) in my car because I can be sloppy and would have spilled it all over my lap. What happens if you have to stop quickly, or make a fast lane change, or turn? I would be a mess by the time I got to work.

Maybe a dry cereal that I could eat out of a bag that I held in my lap. Maybe a cup of coffee or tea that I could put in my cupholder. Probably not, though. Eating and driving just don’t go together in my book. I would rather eat at the dining room table and drive my car without distractions. Gosh, the bad drivers are enough to keep me on alert.