Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Dream of Night, and the Lemon Light of Fall

A day of memorializing the dead is problematic for me. I do that all the time. So I spent yesterday, either in the garden, or with friends in the program to keep my head on straight. And a nap. You know I had a nap.

The unicorn meat eating cats are quiet this morning, although the house is not. So I will lean on them for my serenity. Plus I get to call my sponsor in a bit. Georgia, yes, Miss Congeniality herself, has been playing with Pancake this morning. This is a miracle in two ways. Georgia hisses and growls at all other beings, except for humans, who she adores. Georgia seems to loathe the kitten. Georgia was caught in play with said kitten, and emitted hisses and growls the entire time.

I know what you're thinking: 'perhaps it wasn't play, you dunce head.' But no, when a full grown cat lies on her back and graciously extends her paws for a game of gentle patty cake, there is no doubt. Despite the hisses and spits that still issued from her mouth, Georgia then played with Pancake's tail. Gently. You learn something new everyday, don't you?

 Georgia, in the upper right, biding her time to 'make nice.' 

I have nothing more profound today than that the lavender is doing very well. Some ancestral memory told me to buy dahlias this year. They are a deep orange and yellow, with oblong petals, very symmetrical. They remind me of the summer version of chrysanthemums. 

I planted them with the yellow daisies. And, while I have potted the marigolds, I may yet un-pot them to plant around the tomatoes, that went in, yesterday. Max sleeps deeply, and growls in his sleep, so I wake him a bit, just to get him to stop. Pancake also sleeps profoundly now. She has played from 2 o'clock on, so she is due some sleep now that I am awake. Again. 

I have turned on NPR (National Public Radio) to drown the irritating noise coming unexpectedly from the upstairs apartment. I also have to keep re-typing what I have written, as small feet scamper across the keyboard, and distort what I think. 

I have forgotten what one group of my twelve step program taught me that HP means healing power, and it is deliberately not capitalized. Something about this group, and the literature that they use, is especially soothing to me. It is more of a woman's way to the twelve step program. It emphasizes acceptance of alternative views, understanding and tolerance, as no other group I have found.  I feel particularly forgiven and accepted in this group. My fears are understood, and transmuted into a creative force. 

But now, my thoughts turn toward the day, and away from the night. I dreamed of my father last night, dying as he did not, in the hospital. I was drinking in this dream. Despite my depression at drinking, I was happy to 'see' my father so real, and so clearly. It was an enlightening dream, and revealed a resentment I have kept on the back burner for a while. Not against my father. I think I have made my peace with him. I must let this resentment go. 

Almost time to call my sponsor...

I am grateful today that I do not have to wake and wonder where the first beer will come from. I will not have to shower, in the hope that it will dampen the smell of alcohol coming from my pores, but because I will feel clean afterward. I do not have to put on a bright, and perky face, complete with eye drops, to face a store clerk, where I buy case after case of beer. I do not have to try to stop the smell coming from my stomach, that makes the liquor store clerks look at me suspiciously. What a horrible look. What a terrible feeling! What a persistent and tragic scent to carry! 

What a terrible feeling! To feel the stomach tighten and sink, as I used to set out, with the knowledge that I had failed even before I woke! To know that the dawn, was a signal to turn the apartment, and my mind, black! But it is not inescapable. I know I don't have to feel that way, or smell that way. I don't have to feel my skin crawl, or break out into a cold sweat, in the middle of the heat.

There. That's enough of the night for me. I do miss, in this late spring, the frosty grass, and the sharp, iron-bar reflection cast by the trees and the sun. I do not miss the monotony of this winter, but a certain day in fall, when the sun's light turns to lemon, pale and complete.

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