Something is stirring again

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

Something is happening to me. I am becoming confident. Clark always told me I have substance, and I tried to believe him, but it all melted away when he died. Now it’s coming back, and I’m sure he’d approve.

Like this morning: yesterday I ran into the question on the Sacramento Utility site asking the square footage of my home. I felt stupid not knowing. I thought about 1,200 square feet, but I wanted to be sure. Today I called the Homeowners Association, and they acted all, “Now, now, lady, you know we’d have to come in and measure your walls, don’t you? We can’t know every unit’s area.” I didn’t get wimpy and weepy. I kindly (I hope) noted that in the entire building there are three floor plans, three square footages, and furthermore, shouldn’t they know this as our representatives? They admitted they should. Then, with a quick Google search I found the answer. (Mine is 1,261 square feet — and the others are 845 and 1,683.) When I told her she apologized. I  know this was just routine household business, but I felt my spirit stirring again, and I can hear Clark saying, "It's about time!"

Luckily, the end of the day was softer: Judy, Keith and I celebrated all our birthdays at Thai Basil  a midtown restaurant that is relaxed and busy — and delicious. I love getting together with them.

Love,

k

Always alive

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

This morning Zing and I were leaving the farmers market, bags full of grapes and fish and a beautiful loaf of whole wheat bread, when we noticed an almost-adjacent fair just down the alley. So we went. There were a few things for sale, yes, but this was not a market. Mostly the booths were memorials. “This is a tradition of indigenous Mexican people from before the Spanish arrived,” a man told me. He had stepped back to look at the placement of family photos and a ceremonial bottle of beer on his altar. “We celebrate our ancestors. You are not dead until you are forgotten.” 

Sounds sad, and it is, but there was candy and a bandstand and bright colors everywhere. Orange marigolds are the symbol for Día de los Muertos, November 2.

Love,

k

I'm beginning to act like my dog

Written last night:

Dear Friends,

First thing this morning, Zing and I were waiting for the light on Capitol Mall -- gold bridge to our right and the Capitol Building a couple blocks on the left, with the sun rising behind it like syrup. I squinted and waved at a man from our building named Bill, and when he crossed the street he said to me, “Whenever I see you, you’re smiling. That’s nice to see!”

He meant well. He had no idea he was describing me with the same words people describe my dog! I guess Zing the smiler must be having a good effect on me. Thanks, Zing, you little trouble-maker!

A long time ago someone told me I have a nice smile, and, perversely, I spent the next year trying to frown more. Really. I wanted people to take me more seriously. But now I’m happy I can smile.

After that I juggled the minutes, still trying to shape a routine, which is harder than you think when you are also shaping a life. I decided to have my coffee first, before training Zing. At last! That darn training has dominated our mornings. Surprisingly, the coffee made training more fun. Then exercise. (Do you think I’ll ever do a single pushup? I am dubious.) And so on … Finally, Zing had his happy pills (chicken cubes worked!) and I went out for a hot chocolate at Freeport Bakery. It was just the moment when the high school down the street lets out and they all head to the bakery. It was kind of fun to be surrounded by that old familiar teenage noise. 

I think Zing survived my absence. There was no note on the door, and no scratches on the woodwork. 

For a treat, I was going to take him to an Ash Wednesday blessing on the mall, just around the corner, but Zing told me he’d prefer to stay home and have a treat. No ashes for him.

Love,

k