Feeling in a bit of a daze but I'm sure that a lot of that has to do with the weather.
Over the last six weeks, I feel like I've had to get my act together in a hurry because of the holidays falling on the weekend or bad weather. I think that I've done a pretty good job of figuring out what to cook but I'm running out of ideas. Made Cheesy Chicken Fajitas and used the remainder to make a salad yesterday.
All of this cooking is wearing me out but also makes me think of this poet whose book centered around her brother's death. She wrote: He had washed his last dish.
I'm still here so I guess there are more dishes to wash etc...
Went to 11:00 a.m. yoga and saw one of the women who went on the yoga retreat. It was such a moment of delight because she's a nice person and because it brought up such nice memories...
The teacher at the helm of today's class is new and I totally liked it when she (Tracy) said No one needs anything from you for the next hour. You don't need permission to relax but it's nice to have a cue.
Also liked it when she had us do bee breath (minus the fingers in the ear)...
Wish that I could remember the name of the woman who wrote the poems about her brother's death. Recently someone announced, indirectly, a death in the family on social media and I wanted to leaving a comforting remark. Later on I pulled out You Don't Miss Your Water, a book of poetry by Cornelius Eady. Most of Eady's poems in You Don't... deal with the death of his father.
My father's a sealed tin of dust, riding in the trunk of
my rental car.
My sister and niece are in the back seat, and I
choose not to inform them of this.
Later, I will meet with my cousin at the church
where the memorial service was held.
I will set the box on the curb while we talk.
I am carting around the rubble of the man who
loved to call me stupid, who made my sister feel like
nothing, who drove my mother nuts.
I have done this in order to shave a few dollars off
the funeral costs, I tell myself, as a small part of me
gives in, fans the smoldering pleasure.