Yesterday

All my troubles seemed so far away

…that’s a lie but thank you Paul McCartney for the melodic interlude. 

My alarm dings at 3:30 am. Eyes red from interrupted stressy sleep over this day. This week. This month. To infinity and beyond. I have to finish planning my writers workshop material for tonight’s meeting before I leave for school. And I have to basically cram what feels like an entire day into the next two hours to make all of this work. 

I light the black candle in its brass bamboo holder that sits on my altar-desk against the far wall of my basement abode. I prefer to do my morning work in candlelight only. Since starting this it’s been impossible to return to anything artificial. Something about a warm glow in the dark lulling my soul to create while the world is asleep. 

I head upstairs to make a coffee. Knowing this will be one of my two allotments for the day. So I have to make it last. Reheating as needed. As of two weeks ago I had been on 4-5 cups a day. I didn’t bother complaining about sleep then. Kind of like regular drinkers quit complaining about a hangover. Nobody wants to draw attention to their own bad behavior. And no one else wants to give them sympathy for it. I fill my Nalgene bottle with room-temperature water. My acupuncturist tells me this is best for my blood type. I’ve quit eating spicy foods because my blood runs too hot, apparently. I started seeing an acupuncturist in hopes that I can heal myself enough to not need [to pay for] health insurance when I get dropped in a few months. I’ll keep you posted on the success rates of my efforts. 

Back downstairs I throw a blanket over my shoulders and take a few deep breaths with my eyes closed. Ask Spirit to show me how to thrive, to stay strong despite wanting to collapse in a heap on the stairs like a pile of clothes that hasn’t made it into the Donate” bag yet. I ask for a sign. Nay, demand it. The Universe prefers when I get spicy with it. And given this is the only spice I will experience for the foreseeable future, I seize it up. 

I slide my purple composition book over. College ruled with a black seam. And grab a black Micron pen. 20 minutes of emptying my woes onto paper later, and I am ready to finalize the lesson plan. I source the readings from notes I’ve taken in my phone from Women Who Run With The Wolves. The greatest book for women ever written. And hear the oven sound upstairs for 450 arrival. 

I come to a stopping point and heave a great sigh entering the kitchen. So much must happen in this small space in 90 minutes. I decide to move my feet slowly and focus on one task at a time. Which does and doesn’t go according to plan. 

First I take out the crockpot. Forest green with untrustable parts. A $20 deal at Target after our last one crapped out last week on Mississippi Pot roast day. My kids’ favorite day of the week. I got what I paid for. And the basin is barely big enough for the chuck to lay flat. I set the temp to low. And curse myself for not spending the extra $30 on a more sophisticated appliance that I use every day to feed my family. I tear open the requisite packets and sprinkle ranch dip dust and brown gravy powder over the top, adding 4 pats of butter and the dregs of a pepperoncini jar to seal the deal. And put the slidy glass lid atop its partner. I miss the security of side latches but leave it be. There is too much to do now. 

I take a blue canister of orange rolls out of the fridge and liberate exactly four into a pie pan lined with an uneven square of parchment. The remaining ones I wrap individually in saran and place in a door shelf of the freezer for tomorrow. I pull the griddle out of a bottom cabinet and plug it in next to the sink. Grab the blue bowl and the Bisquick, vegetable oil, one egg and some milk and whisk up a quick batch of pancakes to avoid any morning abrasions with my youngest who only likes cinnamon rolls every third day depending on the way the wind blows and how many degrees closer the moon is to the earth at that given scratch of time. 

I unscrew the lids of two turquoise and pink thermoses and pour chicken noodle soup into a bowl covered in plastic wrap to heat up. I repeat this procedure once more. The bowl is hot so some of the slimy noodles escape the wide mouth of the thermos. I stay focused and make peace with my losses. 

Snacks are placed in tupperware containers and water bottles filled with ice go into backpacks and I can’t forget the spoons or all hell will break loose. I laid the girl’s (favorite) clothes out the night before to save at least 20 minutes of back and forth about sock and armpit seam dislikes. The orange roll timer goes off and I flip the pancakes and zip the backpacks. Smear each pastry with orange icing all the way around to ensure it is eaten entirely. 

I run downstairs to get dressed and give myself the gift of two braids. One to avoid lice and two to avoid runny nose runoff. And three because braids are a symbol of strength. 

I put my own snacks in a Hello Kitty lunchbox and head down to heat up the car before we load up. We make it to school late but in one piece. I clock in and head to the toddler room for the day. Resolute in my determination to make it a good one. 

(Part II tomorrow)