Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
Wednesday, May 09, 2012
Strange days here...
Not myself, no not at all. Up and down, roller-coaster ride of healing from the big wounding losses not that far away yet. And I notice that I will refuse to do anything that I love, that I know will raise me up out of my self-made mire of ickiness, not paint, or listen to music, or walk the dogs (now that Punk is ready to go after his last puppy shots). So, pulling my self up today, doing more on this painting, and ready to get out the last one to work on, as well. Much to do, and it is a big sucker. The old bugaboo of how-much-is-too-much has raised its gnarly head. Oh, just get over yourself, Cowwoman! Go let the Punk in the back door. Despite learning yesterday how to negotiate the dog door, he is back to one way only, out. I give him lots of breaks, he is only 4 months old. This is a good thing.