I guess things are OK.  I’m staying put… my scooter arrives Thursday… hope I’m here to get it.  Dad says that Grandma has pretty much stopped eating, and most of what she eats is inhaled rather than swallowed.  Doesn’t look good.

I meet with my current therapiest tomorrow.  I don’t think it’s going well… he’s a nice guy, but seems to be unqualified to actually help.  I have an appointment with another therapist on Friday, we’ll see if that one works out.

V called a couple days ago, and I’ve just been too busy to call her back.  I hope she doesn’t think I’m mad at her.  Pam came over and spent several hours with me, we watched part of one movie (was too weird even for us) and then watched one of my favorite all-time movies.  She loved it, I knew she would.

Asheville Radical Mental Health Collective continues to grow in good ways.  We are trying new things as we get larger, getting almost “organized”.  After the meeting Monday, M. and E. and I went to Asheville Brewing Company and hung out for quite a while.

I’ve been cleaning my apartment.  It’s easier now that (a) I have given away my guinea pig (snif, I miss her) and (b) I got a new vacuum cleaner.  Cleaned off the entire kitchen cabinets and moved a few underused utensils into the cupboards.  Still need to clean the stove and oven… need a new (used) recliner, this one is falling apart.  Back to Habitat Home Store for that, I guess, soon as I get a few more $$$ at the first of the month.

I worked a lot on the Kindness Campaign’s website… one thing was beyond my abilities to fix, so I got Barry’s permission to get Robbie on the job.  He fixed it in just a few minutes, as I knew he would.  A couple of my other websites have gone fallow.  Don’t have any new ones to work on.

Guess that’s about it.

Hugs,
Me

=====

This is My Heart

This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Bones and a membrane of mist and fire
are the woven cover.
When we make love in the flower world
my heart is close enough to sing
to yours in a language that has no use
for clumsy human words.

My head is a good head, but it is a hard head
and it whirs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of this singing, it asks
and if there is a source why can’t I see it
right here, right now
as real as these hands hammering
the world together
with nails and sinew?

This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, “come here forgetful one.”
And we sit together with a lilt of small winds
who rattle the scrub oak.
We cook a little something
to eat: a rabbit, some sofkey
then a sip of something sweet
for memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water
climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with
vulnerability.

Come lie next to me, says my heart.
Put your head here.
It is a good thing, says my soul.

~ Joy Harjo ~