About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Friday, April 23, 2010

Maybe she’s right.

Middlest commented yesterday: “You’re asking the question too loudly. Ponder it quietly without asking, and the answer will come.”

Except that we are exhorted to ask, to seek, to knock. And I have always struggled with how long to ask: when does it become nagging? And to seek: what if I have my ladder leaning against the wrong wall? And to knock: am I supposed to knock politely, once? to hammer on the door until my knuckles are bruised and bleeding? to search every square inch of door and door frame and adjacent wall for a doorbell?

And then there is the matter of pondering, quietly or otherwise. Pondering thrives upon quiet, chiefly internal quiet, but also a certain measure of external quiet. And the temple is frequently one of the best places for pondering, in those peaceful moments after I have consecrated a few coins of my life ~ my time ~ in service to others. It just wasn’t, Tuesday night, and I felt frustrated and sad. (Last night was better.)

I think. A lot. [I don’t know where I fit on the thinking continuum, compared with others of Heavenly Father’s children. Sometimes I feel as if my brain were a child hopped up on Easter candy, bouncing around the walls of my brainpan.] Back in the Bad Old Days when I cycled in and out of depression, thinking was one of the few things that I did. Some of it productive, much of it not.

I am trying to figure out what is going on with NintendoMan and me. Or if anything is. He’s busy. I’m busy. Our diurnal clocks are several hours apart. And then there is the matter of Guy Standard Time, and Girl Standard Time, wherein if a week goes by without conversation, they are perfectly fine, while we just know that something is wrong.

By the grace of Heaven, I have chipped away at old insecurities over the years, until most days my “baggage” will fit neatly into the small tool bag in which I carry my DP’s, my folding scissors, and my tapestry needles. I can usually subdue them by looking them squarely in the eye and wagging a finger at them. But for some reason, this week they have all ganged up on me, and they are brandishing spare DP’s, and they are shrieking.

Thankfully, this is payday, the really nice payday that I wait once a year for, and retail therapy is an option. I started making a list of needs and wants last night. Among the needs? new walking shoes, additions to my food storage, the health club membership, and a bunch of other things that I can’t remember at the moment. [This is why I write things down.] Among the wants? swim shoes. That way the happy chlorine in the pool at the health club can work its magic on my sore foot, without my sore foot making other people sore.

My attorney is taking me to lunch today, a combination of birthday lunch and Administrative Assistants Week. He told me I could have double portions of anything I want.

Fine. I'll take Sean Connery and Leonardo da Vinci. To go.

3 comments:

Jenni said...

So it's all your fault. I cannot turn off my brain most of the time. I think the only time that I am actually focused on one thing is if I am reading a book that I am really into or watching TV / a movie.
Derek cannot understand how my brain is just whirring away, even if sometimes I should be concentrating on something else.

Kristen said...

Same here. It's a woman thing.
I have some good thoughts and quotes about praying. I'll send them to you as soon as I get the chance.

Rorek said...

My chronic insomnia is generally spurred on by my minds inability to JUST STOP.

My recommendation is something that was told to me when I was seeking (screaming) questions too loud to hear an answer. I was prompted to pass it on to you.