Sign

30.  Sign

A Few

29.  Your Favorite Thing

My favorite thing is peace of mind.  Which I do not have right now.  Which I do not see on the horizon.

I don't see Christmas.  I don't really see Thanksgiving.  I've put the worst knives away.

Another Sense

28.  Smell
Gardenias
Play-Doh
Grilling Beef
A Fireplace Fire
Crayola Crayons
My Daddy's Cologne
Leather(Especially In A Barn)
A Clean Baby
Freshly Mown Grass
Cedar
Original Jergen's Hand Lotion
White Shoulders Perfume
New Tennis Balls
Christmas Trees

Number

27.  Number
Do I talk about numerals or feeling more numb?  The numbness, the absence of feeling, of caring, are overrunning everything right now.

But my favorite number is "12."

Yes

26.  YES
Unfortunately, it's been mostly "no" around here for the past couple of months.  No energy, no motivation, no purpose, no results from either medication or therapy.

Everyone's lives, ideas, concerns, stories, questions come before mine.  When I begin to speak, people don't look at me --- they look at their computer or their phone or their watch or something on a wall.  When I stop talking (usually withing 10 seconds of beginning, because I see what's going on), it takes them a beat or two to realize I've even gone quiet.  Then there might be a "Hmmmm" or a "Yeah," which demonstrates that they heard not word one.  If I get the occasional, "I'm sorry --- what?"  I'm too disheartened to repeat myself.

Yesterday, I was ready to have a come-to-Jesus therapy session, full of tears and helplessness and the story of how, when slicing bread for toast in the morning, the thought of pulling it across my throat jumped into my mind.  Before I got very deeply into the story, but was crying buckets, her phone rang, and she had to go.

I'm used to getting pushed to the back of everyone's line.

Twenty-Five

25.  Sunday Morning

"Sunday Morning Coming Down"

Well, I woke up Sunday morning 
With no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. 
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, 
So I had one more for dessert. 
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes 
And found my cleanest dirty shirt. 
Then I washed my face and combed my hair 
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day. 

I'd smoked my mind the night before 
With cigarettes and songs I'd been picking. 
But I lit my first and watched a small kid 
Playing with a can that he was kicking. 
Then I walked across the street 
And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken. 
And Lord, it took me back to something that I'd lost 
Somewhere, somehow along the way. 

On a Sunday morning sidewalk, 
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 
'Cause there's something in a Sunday 
That makes a body feel alone. 
And there's nothing short a' dying 
That's half as lonesome as the sound 
Of the sleeping city sidewalk 
And Sunday morning coming down. 

In the park I saw a daddy 
With a laughing little girl that he was swinging. 
And I stopped beside a Sunday school 
And listened to the songs they were singing. 
Then I headed down the street, 
And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing, 
And it echoed through the canyon 
Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday. 

On a Sunday morning sidewalk, 
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned. 
'Cause there's something in a Sunday 
That makes a body feel alone. 
And there's nothing short a' dying 
That's half as lonesome as the sound 
Of the sleeping city sidewalk 
And Sunday morning coming down.

Huh?

24.  Hear
The house has been very quiet since I returned from the weekend in Atlanta.  All the clamor and excitement and applause needed to be followed by a little quiet.

There are still noises, though --- don't get me wrong.  There are clawed paws on the hard floors, and the snurfle of Rupert as he sniffs for just the right napping spot.  There are cars going by outside, and the wall clock is ticking, but it's about as quiet as it ever gets around here.

I don't know when the difference between "listening" and "hearing" became clear to me.  They are so vastly, deeply different to be used so interchangeably.  One of my mother's favorite taglines was, "Do you hear me?"  Of course, I did, but I now know she wanted me to listen to her.

One of my great, stomach-churning fears when I was little was loud noises.  Air raid drills were still being run when I was in elementary school, and that day used to fill me with such dread, I would beg not to have to go to school.  The siren went off at noon on the first Wednesday of each month, and I watched that clock with horror when that day came.  Once, I worked myself into such a state that I was sent to the nurse's office.  My teacher called my mother, who told her that it was my fear of the siren.  My teacher could not have been sweeter or more understanding or more comforting.  But I was so embarrassed, I can still feel the pain today.

Sometimes, all you do is hear, and it can send you in all sorts of directions that you may not even need to travel.  Listening, though, will almost always give you clear maps and better understanding.