well, I’m a weak and lonely sort / though I’m not sailing just for sport

My father wrote it in his journal when he knew he was dying, the month before he was dying: “disappointed”. I’ve got a strong visceral reaction to that word. I don’t like it, I don’t like being there. Like self-pity; it’s fundamentally a dishonest place, really. The word reminds me of a friend telling me of her own upbringing, and how she never wanted to be “The Disappointed One”. Like, it was a role members of the family played at by turns. I didn’t find out more about what she meant but I think I have an inkling.

I don’t enjoy feeling Disappointed. Sometimes, it happens. Today is like that. So today I remind myself nothing is Bad News, it’s just News. Or like the story of the farmer and “Maybe” – a story I first heard, again – from my father. I don’t understand what is happening or why – so why get too troubled about any of it?

Errands, in the meantime.

Work found me. The washer died today – only a few days after the dryer did. By day’s end I manage to secure a washer but the parties responsible to deliver the dryer, do not. I’m shorter on cash than I’d hoped. Life Happens.

Paying bills. Picking up a prescription; groceries (coffee filters milk baking chocolate wax paper mint carrots rice noodles). Special garbage liners, two mailings at the UPS store, a deposit into my aunt’s account, securing rent, setting up bank accounts, arranging a volunteer commitment, buying Phee’s special hair dye, returning vases to the florist. Stopping at the (new-to-us) used record store; finding a Crosby, Stils, Nash & Young for $3 and putting that on tonight just before 11 o’clock when it’s time to fold my body into some yoga.

Tonight, asking for help. It took some guts. I’m waiting, now. To see.

The day brought other kinds of News. News that soothes my heart. A letter from someone dear. My own mother’s empathetic response to our laundry troubles (which, with one income, four humans, and five pets, is a bit of a pickle). The florist gifting my family five rather special carnations. A meal with family and a friend. The smell of my son’s hair as he walks alongside me, our arms around one another’s waist. My daughter’s laugh at something I said. Someone holding my hand in this really wonderfully firm way. My husband asking, more than once, “How can I help?”