When this goes live, I’ll have been home from the two-week trip to Galveston/Vegas for almost four weeks.
Four days after touchdown in the cornfields, the jetlag had barely had time to wear off (never mind the effects of the linen chute escapade), and BAM! Bad News.
The capitalized kind.
*gigantic shaky breath in, shaky exhale* Focus.
I should be thankful for those four whole days. Bad News happened two years ago after returning home from a different Vegas workshop. I was on the ground for four hours that time. Hours. Then BAM! Bad News. Even blogged lightly about it in “Then the Ducks.”
Bad News with capital letters and glowing radioactive fallout. I’ll leave it at that. But suffice it to say, the recent round has taxed what little bit of mental wherewithal I had left. Perhaps for the next trip, I’ll sublet an apartment in the desert where I can wait out the Bad News brewing here in Hoosierville.
Maybe fly home at Christmas via France or something silly like that.
Anyway, I haven’t even processed those two weeks; my brain can’t even.
As a matter of fact, I was so acutely aware of my misfiring nervous system before the trip that I gave my friend several warnings: I might possibly be… high maintenance. She was cool with my quirks, and we managed to conquer the Galveston heat wave, NASA, and Resorts World without phoning Couch Lady or the people in the white van with the straight jackets. (You’re amazing, RW 😊)
Upon my return, I revamped my gratitude journal in earnest. I’d dabbled with that practice occasionally, but I’ve not missed a day since being home. It’s become a compulsion. And not that toxic positivity stuff, either, where I write line after line about shining suns, food, shelter, clothing. You know. The Great Big Obvious.
Of course, I’m thankful for the Great Big Obvious. I know I’m quite spoiled. (I mean, as I write this on my touchscreen laptop, I have one fat spoiled kitty curled up against each of my legs and a third is bellowing up and down the hall with a toy, the air conditioning is ice-cold, the wifi is fast, the Hubs is home after a long day at a job that provides for us… I get it. All the Great Big Obvious stuff.)
What I’m after is more nuanced. I want to read between the lines of all that Great Big Obvious stuff. Do something a little left of center. See what else I can find.
I want to be where messy joy glimmers and swirls just a tick. A micro-moment or two that spark peaceful sighs and sprout genuine smiles.
I’m searching for those moments that make Bad News fallout a little less glow-in-the-darky.
I’m also trying to avoid “At Least Attitudes” in my journal:
- At Least I’m not in jail.
- At Least I’m not in a straitjacket.
- At Least I didn’t take anyone out with food poisoning (At Least not today)…
Not the vibe I’m after. Here on the blog? I’ll let the snark leak, but the gratitude project is off-limits.
When I dig through the day’s happenings to find the gems, sometimes bits and pieces of other happy memories from other days poke through the haze.
Like days from four weeks ago.
Like from the trip. That I haven’t processed yet. Because of the glow-in-the-dark stuff.
Even while away, to combat the brain fog and keep the good memories on top, I’d write little notes to myself each evening covering places we enjoyed eating, ocean stuff, shops, fun moments. At least that first week.
The second week, there was a lot of notetaking during the writing workshop that further fogged the brain and taxed the nervous system (this was a me problem, not a workshop problem; the workshop was amazing…) But I seldom remembered to jot down the cool non-workshop snippets.
- Like searching for a rainproof jacket in the middle of Vegas during the worst heat wave on record.
- Like stealing “we paid for it, didn’t we?” fruit from the fitness center.
- Like tiptoeing around the mini-bar setup in the room because that thing was alarmed and would charge you $28,332.24 if you knocked over the nuts, whether you ate any of them or not. (Very grateful I didn’t sleepwalk that week. Would’ve been more expensive than an Australian Walkabout. There were a lot of nuts.)
Or realizing the parking garage roof is a few floors below your window. Your roomy notices someone has had lots of fun—lots of dark circles, lots of melted rubber on that roof.
And then you spot a little white car parked just a little out of the lines.
And the next day, the same car can’t get it between the lines.
And the next. Not seeing the lines.
And the next. Nope. No lines for this car.
Not one time, no matter where that car parked, did the driver put it in the spot.
And I smile now because this memory will go in the gratitude journal.
I’m grateful this between-the-lines-or-not thing became our morning ritual.
I’m grateful that out there in Vegas, in the middle of the desert, I bet there’s a parking garage roof where a little white car still can’t get it between the lines.
Because maybe that human is working out some of their glow-in-the-dark junk with a foggy brain and a misfiring nervous system.
Maybe they’re working on their gratitude project, trying to avoid “At Least I didn’t drive off the roof” vibes.
Maybe the view’s better a little left of center, where messy joy glimmers and swirls between the lines.
Or maybe that swirling glimmer is an oil spill.
(Yeah, yeah… snarked the whole blog right off the track. At Least I didn’t blame Little Miss Muse…)
