Fall and the Michaelmas Moon
Sunday gratefuls: Hit and Run, Netflix. Sourdough toast. The freezer. Ruth at her first homecoming dance. Jon, Gabe, Sarah, BJ. Zooming. Jon’s antifungal meds. George Will. Whatta mind. Eggs at 8 pm last night. Max. All the babies, the true Replacements. Shelf pruning in the bedroom almost finished.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Fall.
Tarot: The Lady, #3 of the Major Arcana. Again.
Moments. Decided to cook myself fried eggs last night about 8 pm. As I stood there waiting to turn them over, I had a sudden feeling of lonliness, of aloneness. I could cook myself dinner (breakfast?) late because I live alone. Oh, yeah. So I do. Without. Kate.
Grief seems more insistent. Rigel barks upstairs each evening. I think she wants Kate to come down and go to bed. Sometimes Rigel paces. Into the bedroom, around the coffee table, upstairs, back down into the bedroom.
Thought about equanimity practice. Name the context. Name the feeling(s). Choose whether to experience them.
Realized I’d zoomed with Sarah, BJ, Jon, and Gabe at 4. Oh. Yes. Churning the still soft soil of Kate’s life. So. Aloneness. A twinge of sadness. Real. True to my situation. I lived into it a minute, got out my spatula, turned the eggs over, waited. Plated them and had a late, quirky meal.
Also. wearing out toward the afternoon. One guy said, in essence, “No T, no energy.” Maybe. This feels like more. I’ll have a better idea this week.
Blood draw on Monday. PSA. Testosterone. A blood panel. A metabolic panel. I see Kristie on Friday. Orgovyx can raise blood sugar and triglycerides. In addition to hot flashes and fatigue.
Ordinary life now with the manageable cancer. The good cancer. Though from my perspective? Still cancer.
Once in a while I brush my left hip with my hand. Think of those prostate cancer cells in the lymph nodes. Weird having a predator living inside your body. Not a great feeling.
Oh, dude. Painting with the gloomy brush here, eh? Nah. Life and its permutations. Mine for now.
The news happens outside my awareness right now. Even though I read the Denver Post, the NYT, and the Washington Post each day. Not sticking. Like the Teflon Don, that crucial information slides right off.
Cancer. Grief. New life aborning. Tend to push attention inward, away from the blooming buzzing confusion. (W. James) Down into the realm of the Tarot, Kabbalah, the Ocean of our collectivity.
Again. OK. Not permanent, nor would I want it to be.
Agency is critical to life. Right now, my agency has an inward, personal bent. Makes sense to me.
Tarot: The Lady, # 3 of the major arcana
