A good friend told me today that my
blogs of late have all been downers, complaints of one sort or another. Jordan
chimed in with “I’ve tried to talk her out of her depression.” I have mixed
feelings about this. Quite honestly, I admit I have whined a bit—my back hurt,
my house is in chaos, I got a rejection—and I shared those things. I think each
of us have periods of depression and discouragement, and if I’m going to do a
personal blog—which mine is, particularly for this year that I’m hoping to
compile them—then I think I should be honest about my feelings. Pollyanna isn’t
always at home.
On the other hand, a friend and I were
going into a restaurant for lunch the other day, and I saw a woman with
multiple physical handicaps pushing a small grocery cart (no matter she was
pushing it away from the drive-in window of a liquor store). I looked at my
friend and said, “I’m never going to complain again.” Guess I haven’t been good
about keeping that resolution, though I know some of my posts have been
thoughtful—i.e., the pope’s visit—and some joyful, like last night’s reunion
with old friends.
Still, maybe being sure I post
positively will help me improve my disposition as I go, and truthfully I’m a
happier camper tonight. I think mainly it’s due to the ministrations of my
brother, who did a lot of spasm relaxation techniques (lay person’s
description) on my low back today—for an hour and a half or so. When he’s
working to release your back, his hands may well be on your head, but it’s
magic, to me, that he can say, “Yeah, it all goes to that one spot” and point
to the place in my low back I knew hurt. I won’t fool—even his low impact
techniques sometimes hurt like fury, but by the time I got off the treatment
table my back was ever so much improved—pain free. John and Cindy, my
sister-in-law, do a two-man technique that involves pushing legs straight in
the air and gradually back toward my head. John said I tolerated it well, and
Cindy said she couldn’t believe how flexible I was. Music to my ears.
We went to Carshon’s for lunch—best Reuben
ever—and as we left, John observed that I was walking pretty well and that the
fact I didn’t hurt so soon after treatment was a good sign. Tonight I do feel
better than I have in a long time. A bonus; both during treatment and at lunch,
I had a great visit with both of them. John asked about my tremor and I said I’d
had it for a long time—it’s the reason I don’t take the juice in communion,
because I can see grape juice all down the front of whatever I’m wearing. He laughed
and laughed, but it’s true. I’ve always had shaky hands. It was that kind of a
visit—we caught up on kids and other things.
It was a hectic day at my house with
all kinds of workmen, loud saws, and noxious fumes. I can’t tell any progress
in the bathroom, except they were under the house and there’s a big hole where
the shower will be. But my kitchen counter went in, and I am thrilled with it—it’s
going to make my kitchen looks so much lighter and brighter—and speckled as it
is, it won’t show every spilled drop of everything like the old counter Formica,
a dead, dull gray, did. I stop every time I go in there and admire it. No
pictures—I don’t think pictures of vast empty counters tell you much. Lesson
learned as I cleared the counters for this work—I have way too much junk in my
kitchen. I will be judicious about what I put back.
So here I am, back to being a happy
camper. Bear with me, please.
