Blue mood, glue mood, everything’s stuck in my brain mood

I am curiously contemplating the child across from me, carefully pulling glops of purple glue with pincher fingers from a plastic tube the size of his thumb, and painstakingly transferring it to seemingly random spots on the paper before him.

The process is fascinating and very little of the glue glop makes it in the original amount to its intended mark. Each finger, the sleeve of his shirt, the edge of the table all inherit a bit along the way.

It’s a wonder any glue makes it to the paper at all.

And then there are the feathers. Brightly and unnaturally colored feathers are carefully piled next to his paper.

Between each painful glue extraction and transfer, this sticky fingered child picks up a feather and pulls the fluffy bits off of the quill until he has tiny pile. This pile is half the size it ought to be. The other half of the fluffy stuff has become attached to various parts of this child’s fingers, forearm, belly, and the table.

There are random fluffs floating around us too, since noticing the now feather fluff covered hands, this child waves them furiously about in a vain attempt to shake them off.

The glue perseveres.

He is slowly taring and feathering himself.

It strikes me that this is exactly my mood. I’m in a bit of a blue mood and everything that enters the orbit of my mind, every unwelcome thought and worrisome moment becomes glued to my brain.

No matter how much I try to shake it off, I only seem to succeed in spreading it further like the fluff now sticking to my eyelashes from my small friends last frantic feathered hand waves.

I have been working with my little friend on mindfulness. Encouraging him to take his time and focus only on the thing before him, this allows the body time to cool down and elevated emotions time to ease.

He is certainly mastering this process as evidenced by the sheer concentration and pleasure on his face as his thickly glue and feather fluff encased fingers attempt a methodical placement of the remaining fluff to his picture.

But here I sit beside him, carelessly waving bits of feathers away from my face, admiring his work, yet unable to quiet my own brain, to convince my own emotions to ease.

I’m in a blue mood. Mindfully so. Watching this small person, a riot of color and rather sticky, and I’m thinking how perfectly he seems to depict my mood. All glue and feathers and loud thoughts and quiet bits of sadness, sticking to everything no matter how enthusiastically I try to shake them off.

Today is a blue day and some days are just going to be like that and that’s ok. So my picture will be a bit messy. I’ll be ok.

Laying in wait

Laying in wait. Waiting for my body to catch up with my spirit. It’s frustrating to feel helpless to your body’s need to rest and heal. Your brain ticks down the hours and days and feels like it’s time to be able to do whatever it feels the urge to do. A voice inside pushes and nudges and whispers and I cave and crawl out.

A little at a time is fine, it’s good to press just a little. Movement has always been my friend, keeping my mind occupied and pain pushed back into a box in the corner. I promise myself I will just do one thing and then lay low.

But it has only been three days since the injections, and I have never been good at stopping. I have never been balanced or metered in my approach to quick/little/easy tasks, frequently stoping only because I collapse in fatigue, or more likely because I have been caught in the act by my family and marched back to bed.

It’s rainy and grey outside of my window. Inside in this soft bed I am struggling to keep my eyes open, surrounded by warm, adoring pups curled close to my body. Their rhythmic and relaxed breathing, their complete and easy surrender to a day of slumber make me smile and I feel my own self surrender too.



Spine tingling

I have to be talked into wearing clothes home. Between the cold comfort of the ice pack against the injection sites at the base of my spine, the loosely fitting, hind view offering, billowy sexiness of my johnny, and the box cut mesh one size fits a walrus state offered panties, I am loath to move and feel that sweeping nausea that accompanies anesthesia rise up to greet me.

I am assured that green is a good color on frogs, trees, and grasshoppers, less so on me.

I am also encouraged to leave since apparently I get “chatty” under the influence and it’s just possible I’ve said things that are making it difficult for the staff to make eye contact with me. Things along the lines of ancient curses on the asses of those present while I screamed from the lightening bolt strikes of nerves meeting needles. The authorities may also have been alerted to a possible “situation with an unruly patient”.

I tried asking around to see who was causing all the trouble so I could see for myself and maybe get a good blog out of it but an orderly leaned close, cleared his throat and quietly explained that I was the patient in question and that he was the one who lost the staff pool and had to wrestle me into clothes and wheel me out one way or the other.

So here I am. I’ve been shot four times (injections to be honest), and dressed by a stranger who has asked me to leave his name out of anything I write because apparently he has “standards”.

I’ll be deposited into my own soft bed and packed in ice for a few days, sleeping and hugging a bucket. But by the weekend you can be damn sure I’ll be ready to be set loose on the world. It’s been a spine tingling experience. For everyone within ear shot.

To find grace

Sometimes it’s more challenging than others to mindfully move towards constructive thoughts, to focus forward and keep taking steps in that direction. My mind and my body and my emotions at war with each other.

Most of my day flowed like so much water, little effort needed to navigate the tasks and the hours. Abruptly the course of my river changed direction and I have struggled to reseat myself on this new current, to find grace in my body and spirit with so much tumbling against stones.

Today I feel bruised and breathless but I am determined to ground myself once more. I am listening to the sound of my heart beating, and counting the moments between, just breathing. Just breathing.








I spent today wandering the woods and breathing deeply. This time of year always enervates my senses and fills my heart with delight. Leaves glowing brilliant, boldly letting go and falling through the air, reminding me to do the same.

“Some of us think holding on makes us strong; but sometimes it is letting go.”~ Hermann Hesse




The greying year

Never in my life have I had such a year of steeping in the greys, the raw education of a feckless world given faces to in the children I kneel with and run to and hold and hear howl against the indignity of having no say in how they have come to be with me.

The first months were filled with shared tears and rage and desperate wanting. Wanting to absorb, to understand, to fix, to heal, to wreak vengeance for each one. The color ran high in my face, a constant sweep of crimson across my neck and chest when I wanted to spill every blackened thought and desire and flood the world with my fury.

But that place it isn’t a sustainable place to stay. There is no air to breathe there. There is no place to rest there. It is only meant to be a pathway.I had a conscious choice to make. I asked myself what gifts beyond passion could I draw on as a companion through this place?

I found that my greatest strength lay in a gentle heart. This heart that wants more than anything else to absorb and to heal knowing exactly what hell is, I’ve been there. I’ve been to some of its rooms and bled my way through them again and again. This heart chose a path to a gentling, to neutral moments where it could expand and contract and expand again.

I could have stayed inside of the fire and burned along with the ones I held, or I could walk into the fire, kneel, hold, feel my whole self blister in these moments and then walk with each child through this one fire, past the cooling of the ashes, show them where to find those places inside to look for water, for nourishment, for places to rest the mind. Places to breathe between the storms.

We picture colorful rainbows after storms. The truth is closer to grey. Grey is a neutral place where other colors mix and splash and subside. I love colors, vibrant and bold and enervating. My clothes are riots of bright pallets. My home is painted in passionate hues and intense pigments, but though I cloak myself in rainbows, inside I am greyness and stillness and peace.


Here. A moment suspended. A moment to close my eyes and slowly inhale salty air until I feel my very soul swell along with my lungs, feel it expand and spill out into the space around me.

Here. A moment to exhale and let it slide away from me, slip down my shoulders letting its weight fall from me, taking everything that is pulled tight inside my chest with it.

Here. A moment suspended from my routine. A day just to breathe, to immerse myself in only the space that I take up, the air around my body, the sand I am standing on, the water surrounding.