Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Awaken, dress in clothes left by the bed last night, go to the bathroom, drink some water.
Life goes on.
Greet the kitties, pet and talk to them while opening up all windows and glass doors with screens on the outside.
Life goes on.
Stretch and walk for about forty-five minutes, this morning around some of the side streets off Butte Canyon Drive.
Life goes on.
Come home, shower, perform other cleaning and lubricating rituals, dress in clean clothes and decide not to do yoga today.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a piece of toilet paper to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Make coffee and stare out the kitchen window at the indigenous shrubbery and the early morning birds.
Life goes on.
Put out food and freshen water for the kitties for the day.
Life goes on.
Clean out litter box.
Life goes on.
Drink very strong coffee with lots of half and half and a little honey while taking my supplements, perusing the latest issue of The New Yorker and talking to the kitties.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Fix Arcadia door screen.
Life goes on.
Peruse local newspaper while the kitties tease the paper and me and we converse.
Life goes on.
Check list of things to do and select some for the day.
Life goes on.
Deliver books to friends and chat for a bit.
Life goes on.
Return a book to the library.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears with my hand.
Life goes away.
While waiting for the bank to open to deposit two checks, have a lively conversation with six strangers about politics and old movies.
Life goes on.
Buy a larger intermediary compost bucket, a mallet and some wildflower seeds at a local hardware store.
Life goes on.
Greet the kitties on my return and catch up on the apart-parts of our day.
Life goes on.
Go outside and admire an extraordinary stand of Butter and Eggs wildflowers in the front yard, then transfer food scraps from the small intermediary compost bucket to the larger one.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears with my hand.
Life goes away.
Return to the house and clean the kitchen sink with the help of the kitties.
Life goes on.
Remember that I need to pick up some screen clips and cedar chips at the hardware store and record them in my Companion Notebook.
Life goes on.
Toast and eat an onion bagel with onion and chive cream cheese, drink some pomegranate juice and take my midday supplements.
Life goes on.
Pet and talk with the cat who's crawled onto my lap.
Life goes on.
Write a check for a bill, enclose it in an envelope, stamp it and take it to the mailbox.
Life goes on.
Talk to a friend regarding a new approach for her query letter.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Spend some time in the yard deciding what to leave, what to cut back and what to pull up, discover some new budding wild flowers and check them out thoroughly.
Life goes on.
Return to the house and continue reading a library book.
Life goes on.
Play with the cat who's tearing through the house.
Life goes on.
Watch the first few minutes of yesterday's recorded television news and decide to delete both programs without further watching.
Life goes on.
Vacuum the living room, getting it ready for some furniture moving.
Life goes on.
Move the futon couch in the living room into a different position and set up a book shelf to help organize the usual floor clutter.
Life goes on.
Sit in my newly reordered surroundings and move books, papers, pens, etc., to the bookshelf with help from the kitties.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Experiment with a different, more flexible set up for my computer equipment.
Life goes on.
Get the mail from the mail box and drop the junk into the recycle bag.
Life goes on.
Decide to watch a movie I'd DVRed some weeks ago that I enjoy, Meet John Doe, decide to watch it and settle onto the couch with my feet up in a position that will attract kitties, which it does.
Life goes on.
Can't get into the movie and shut it off after 20 minutes.
Life goes on.
Notice that I'm hungry, go into the kitchen and decide what to eat for dinner.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Decide to eat a nuke-baked potato with Parmesan cheese, some steamed broccoli and Brussels sprouts with a home made Greek Feta dressing and while waiting for these to cook wash and stack the accumulated dishes from the day.
Life goes on.
Discuss the merits of people food versus kitty food with the kitties who sniff everything I eat, then eat and take evening supplements sitting on the living room floor with my food on my "Meal Table Box" and my kitties snuggled on either side of me.
Life goes on.
Take empty dishes to sink, wash and stack them.
Life goes on.
Turn on computer, play five minutes of Montana while the virus software scans the hard drive, check my email addresses, clean out the junk, consider responding to a few but don't, catch up on a few blogs, write a few comments, write a blog post, check to see if the movie I ordered yesterday for my brother-in-law has shipped yet, which it has.
Life goes on.
Pet a cat sitting in my lap and discuss the advisability of not clawing at the computer keys.
Life goes on.
Feel like I need to move so go out, gather up some grass straw from the yard, put it in the wheelbarrow, put the intermediate compost bin, filled with food scraps, in the wheelbarrow, head to the back of the property, add all the stuff to the primary compost bin, wet it and mix it with a pitchfork.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears with my hand.
Life goes away.
Scan through programs I've DVR'ed on TV, looking for something interesting. Decide to watch last Friday's Bill Moyers Journal.
Life goes on.
Look up a few things on the internet from the show that have piqued my curiosity.
Life goes on.
Roughhouse a bit with both cats.
Life goes on.
Continue reading yet another library book, this time one from which I'm taking notes, which the kitties help me take, while sipping a cup of herb tea to wash down my before-bed supplement.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Decide it's time to sleep for the night and head into the bathroom to perform sleep prep ritual.
Life goes on.
Decide whether I'm going to sleep in my bed or on the couch tonight, check my emotional under-state and decide on the couch.
Life goes on.
Strip, drop my clothes on the floor next to the futon couch, set up the pillows, comforter and kitty magnet blanket, talk to the kitties as they excite themselves about the prospect of sleeping on the couch with me then slip onto the couch.
Life goes on.
Talk to and pet the kitties as we settle in around each other, getting blankets and positions set for optimum sleep arrangements.
Life goes on.
Place my arms in a comfortable position, primp the pillows and lay my head down.
Life goes on.
Notice that the back of one of my earrings is stabbing my head, lift my head, remove the earring, place it on the floor underneath my clothes and settle back down.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears on the pillowcase.
Life goes away.
Fall asleep.
Life goes away.
Dream.
Life goes on.
Greet the kitties, pet and talk to them while opening up all windows and glass doors with screens on the outside.
Life goes on.
Stretch and walk for about forty-five minutes, this morning around some of the side streets off Butte Canyon Drive.
Life goes on.
Come home, shower, perform other cleaning and lubricating rituals, dress in clean clothes and decide not to do yoga today.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a piece of toilet paper to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Make coffee and stare out the kitchen window at the indigenous shrubbery and the early morning birds.
Life goes on.
Put out food and freshen water for the kitties for the day.
Life goes on.
Clean out litter box.
Life goes on.
Drink very strong coffee with lots of half and half and a little honey while taking my supplements, perusing the latest issue of The New Yorker and talking to the kitties.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Fix Arcadia door screen.
Life goes on.
Peruse local newspaper while the kitties tease the paper and me and we converse.
Life goes on.
Check list of things to do and select some for the day.
Life goes on.
Deliver books to friends and chat for a bit.
Life goes on.
Return a book to the library.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears with my hand.
Life goes away.
While waiting for the bank to open to deposit two checks, have a lively conversation with six strangers about politics and old movies.
Life goes on.
Buy a larger intermediary compost bucket, a mallet and some wildflower seeds at a local hardware store.
Life goes on.
Greet the kitties on my return and catch up on the apart-parts of our day.
Life goes on.
Go outside and admire an extraordinary stand of Butter and Eggs wildflowers in the front yard, then transfer food scraps from the small intermediary compost bucket to the larger one.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears with my hand.
Life goes away.
Return to the house and clean the kitchen sink with the help of the kitties.
Life goes on.
Remember that I need to pick up some screen clips and cedar chips at the hardware store and record them in my Companion Notebook.
Life goes on.
Toast and eat an onion bagel with onion and chive cream cheese, drink some pomegranate juice and take my midday supplements.
Life goes on.
Pet and talk with the cat who's crawled onto my lap.
Life goes on.
Write a check for a bill, enclose it in an envelope, stamp it and take it to the mailbox.
Life goes on.
Talk to a friend regarding a new approach for her query letter.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Spend some time in the yard deciding what to leave, what to cut back and what to pull up, discover some new budding wild flowers and check them out thoroughly.
Life goes on.
Return to the house and continue reading a library book.
Life goes on.
Play with the cat who's tearing through the house.
Life goes on.
Watch the first few minutes of yesterday's recorded television news and decide to delete both programs without further watching.
Life goes on.
Vacuum the living room, getting it ready for some furniture moving.
Life goes on.
Move the futon couch in the living room into a different position and set up a book shelf to help organize the usual floor clutter.
Life goes on.
Sit in my newly reordered surroundings and move books, papers, pens, etc., to the bookshelf with help from the kitties.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Experiment with a different, more flexible set up for my computer equipment.
Life goes on.
Get the mail from the mail box and drop the junk into the recycle bag.
Life goes on.
Decide to watch a movie I'd DVRed some weeks ago that I enjoy, Meet John Doe, decide to watch it and settle onto the couch with my feet up in a position that will attract kitties, which it does.
Life goes on.
Can't get into the movie and shut it off after 20 minutes.
Life goes on.
Notice that I'm hungry, go into the kitchen and decide what to eat for dinner.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Decide to eat a nuke-baked potato with Parmesan cheese, some steamed broccoli and Brussels sprouts with a home made Greek Feta dressing and while waiting for these to cook wash and stack the accumulated dishes from the day.
Life goes on.
Discuss the merits of people food versus kitty food with the kitties who sniff everything I eat, then eat and take evening supplements sitting on the living room floor with my food on my "Meal Table Box" and my kitties snuggled on either side of me.
Life goes on.
Take empty dishes to sink, wash and stack them.
Life goes on.
Turn on computer, play five minutes of Montana while the virus software scans the hard drive, check my email addresses, clean out the junk, consider responding to a few but don't, catch up on a few blogs, write a few comments, write a blog post, check to see if the movie I ordered yesterday for my brother-in-law has shipped yet, which it has.
Life goes on.
Pet a cat sitting in my lap and discuss the advisability of not clawing at the computer keys.
Life goes on.
Feel like I need to move so go out, gather up some grass straw from the yard, put it in the wheelbarrow, put the intermediate compost bin, filled with food scraps, in the wheelbarrow, head to the back of the property, add all the stuff to the primary compost bin, wet it and mix it with a pitchfork.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears with my hand.
Life goes away.
Scan through programs I've DVR'ed on TV, looking for something interesting. Decide to watch last Friday's Bill Moyers Journal.
Life goes on.
Look up a few things on the internet from the show that have piqued my curiosity.
Life goes on.
Roughhouse a bit with both cats.
Life goes on.
Continue reading yet another library book, this time one from which I'm taking notes, which the kitties help me take, while sipping a cup of herb tea to wash down my before-bed supplement.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and grab a tissue to wipe the tears.
Life goes away.
Decide it's time to sleep for the night and head into the bathroom to perform sleep prep ritual.
Life goes on.
Decide whether I'm going to sleep in my bed or on the couch tonight, check my emotional under-state and decide on the couch.
Life goes on.
Strip, drop my clothes on the floor next to the futon couch, set up the pillows, comforter and kitty magnet blanket, talk to the kitties as they excite themselves about the prospect of sleeping on the couch with me then slip onto the couch.
Life goes on.
Talk to and pet the kitties as we settle in around each other, getting blankets and positions set for optimum sleep arrangements.
Life goes on.
Place my arms in a comfortable position, primp the pillows and lay my head down.
Life goes on.
Notice that the back of one of my earrings is stabbing my head, lift my head, remove the earring, place it on the floor underneath my clothes and settle back down.
Life goes on.
Think about my mother and wipe the tears on the pillowcase.
Life goes away.
Fall asleep.
Life goes away.
Dream.
Life goes on.
Labels: Grief Routine
