Dickens's "Scoots": I blame and at the same time absolve myself. It goes something like this, "What caused this? I don't know. Should I have done something different? He's in an air-conditioned space. Did he walk too much in the heat? No, I've been careful to limit time and distance. Did he get into something? I don't think so. I'll have to watch him closer. Could I have done something different? Why didn't I do something different? He's a youngster, I should know better. Is he sorry he wound up with me? Am a good dog owner?"
Mom: Could I have made her more comfortable yesterday? Is she in pain? Can I do something to entice her to eat more? Did I get the formula right on her medication? Yes, yes, I did. Does she need more fluid? She did drink more yesterday. Is being at home the best situation for her? What if we had lost power yesterday? Am I doing enough?
The House: I've got to get on that lawn. I'm giving urban farming a bad name. What's wrong with those tomatoes? They been watered twice a day, why aren't they getting bigger? Maybe I should give up on urban farming? And look at those weeds. I've got to begin to get this house ready for winter. I'll make a list when I get home The inside doesn't look much better. I've got to throw this junk out of here. What happened to the interior painting project? The window project? Now, I'm a wreck.
|My angel, pre-weeds.|
The intervention snaps me from the jaws of self-recrimination, blame, and self-defeat about my efforts (or lack thereof). If anyone had told me a year ago that I'd be worried about my mother's end days (after just losing my father), a poopy puppy, and an overgrown urban farm, I would have told them they had rocks in their heads.
I don't know if the caffeine's finally kicked in, but I begin to believe that it'll be well and done well (at least to my standards). I'm just going to let the chatter go through me without believing it. That small inner voice, (whether she be my angel or whomever) can stay. She's keeping me sane at the moment and for that, I'm grateful.
I think Julian of Norwich was on to something...