On awakening, I don’t want to be an adult today.
Just don’t feel like going against my feelings and doing all that needs to be done. Not sure what the weather has to do with it, but I feel pain in my temples.
Last night the weatherman spoke of ice, but this morning I see mist. Grayness and mist.
Mountains must have swallowed the sun. No light. No ice.
I guess it’s going to be one of those days when I tend to talk to myself.
“Okaaay,” I say to myself. “You have to get up and adult around. No one else will give the dogs their meds if you don’t get up. And what about Jimmy? You need to fix him something for breakfast. Get up and make his lunch-to-go. Oh, come on, get up, get up, get up….”
One foot, then the other. He’s up and has the coffee pot going. I mumble and stumble to the bathroom. Then check the scale to make sure I didn’t gain a full pound from yesterday’s scone.
A push. It’s a push to get going.
Dogs won’t go out until I step onto the porch. Their bladders last and last, ’til paw pads hit the ground. Then they chase, run, sniffle, look for wild hog clues, back to the yard, sniffle, then squat.
I stand there, intrigued by the river. Squawk! A great blue heron. A sight worth getting up for. The heron—full of grace. Especially in flight with those long, long legs dangling. They make you feel something, the opposite of duty and responsibility.
Whatever this something is, I can be an adult and still feel it.
Maybe that’s the mystery I hear people talking about. They say they may look old, but they don’t feel old on the inside.
Dogs come back inside. Allergy med for the little one who barks the loudest, pain meds for the bigger one who is certain she’s a lap dog.
Jimmy and I agree: rescue dogs are the best. They are grateful and protective. But when it comes to knowing their breeds, we don’t, not for sure. Neither, pure-bred.
Breakfast of oatmeal and toast, then I create a lunch of some sort. Jimmy checks the news and weather, half-hearing whatever I say. It’s part of our routine.
The dogs, however, hear every word. They’re the best secret-keepers. Probably true in all homes where there are dog lovers.
Looks like a bleak day ahead, and the computer agrees. Especially compared to yesterday’s sunshine and steady warmth.
Pressure in my head is mounting like fog, growing into a scarf and hanging in one place, behind my eyes. Rain, surely coming our way.
Jimmy and the truck head out the driveway.
Dogs pile onto the sofa. It’s their spot. This is a doggy house. One noses her way under a blanket. The other folds up like a tent to rest in front of the fire.
Like sisters. The big one has her back to the other one, but don’t misunderstand. They have each other’s back at all times. They operate as a team. One is barky and alerts the world to danger or owls. The other, on her feet ready to engage if necessary.
Reminds me of the military, where there's both plan and relationship.
A little like Jimmy’s and my relationship. He doesn’t hear that well, and I can’t vacuum or pick up more than four pounds. We jiggle and juggle to make the adjustments.
Neither of us get our way all the time. It’s a dance. Sometimes there’s a jerk in it, sometimes it’s smooth.
Every year, a little different from the year before.
Tomorrow is Saturday. Supposed to have sunshine. We’ll get up early and go with a group to see the swans in Heber Springs, Arkansas.
Adult and juvenile swans will be on a pond—adjusting, dancing, flying, just being a part of God’s world.
Meanwhile I live in today, letting the rains drag the day slowly from head to toe.
It’s all temporary.
I think on that from time to time. The dogs, swans, people, plans, the rain. All we can do is accept the things we can’t change (like nature’s ways, personalities, health, unknowns) and change what we can (like making that phone call, asking for what we need, holding our tongues).
God can use any of it. He’s trustworthy. That’s the adult in me talking.
Have a great day. May God bless the temporary, and may God bless you.
Sadie and Sweetie Pie on the porch.
Photographed by Pat Durmon, December 2019.