The Spoonie Life

not-quite Journaling, 78

through gray clouds,
my nature sings bright
bits of blues

12/29/2024: I said: “I’m exhausted and in no mood to party. The last few weeks have been rough. But don’t worry, my stubbornness and I still hope for better.” 

She said: “Hopefulness, in the face of this much crap, has to be a type of mental illness. Only crazy people endure the same thing over and over and keep ‘hoping’ for something good. Is that the madhouse I hear knocking on your door? Ha!”  

I said: “Your crass pessimism (badly camouflaged as dark humor) is tiresome, unhelpful, and as unimaginative as you are. Ha, ha!” 

Then I sent this picture, this haiku, and this Brandon Sanderson’s quote: “Hope is a virtue--but the definition of that word is crucial. […] A virtue is something that is valuable even if it gives you nothing. A virtue persists without payment or compensation. Positive thinking is great. Vital. Useful. But it has to remain so even if it gets you nothing. Belief, truth, honor… if these exist only to get you something, you’ve missed the storming point.” 

She’d said nothing else. See? My virtuous hopefulness is paying off! 😁

 

I am back: hurt, changed, growing…

1/8/2025: I start a new fitness regimen on Saturday (again *cough*). It’s too cold outside (I don’t love winter); my chunkaliciousness makes everything more difficult (even if it warms my bits 😅); my neuropathy is acting up (everybody hates neuropathy). Still, beginning to exercise hard again is freaking exciting! I’ll start with hiking, move to walking/jogging, and hope to run a few times a week by midspring. Best birthday present--I hope… 

 

If life sucks (again), I’ll write
my Self full.

1/15/2025: Remember how I was supposed to start my new fitness plan last Saturday? Well, my bloody gut chose to show me who’s boss and altered my plans (again). Yep, for the next few days, nothing but therapeutic writing sessions, gentle calisthenics, and quality time with my softest foam roller (is it just me, or does that sound slightly kinky?). Anyhoo, my innards’ temper tantrum seems to be subsiding, so the hiking-to-walking/jogging-to-running plan shall resume soon(ish). That’s the spoonie life--unpredictability on steroids. 

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #160: Low Battery)

Endings… and Rebirths

In my heart, winter scribbles 

one more calming

tale of rebirth in the making-- 

pages and pages of lived endings,

showing that some deaths are just

another beginning. 

photo by Fabrice Villard, on Unsplash

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #158: Prioritize), where we are invited to “prioritize”. The first thing that came to mind, when I saw the word, was a list of all the things I have (want?) to do, and the best way to arrange them from least to most important. The task terrified me. So, I went for something smaller (or just abstract). Winter always brews melancholy in the depths of my heart and skull (and a whole lot of pain in my joints). Nature goes so quiet, so many things die. And too often, it takes me a while to remember that winter isn’t just a cold ending, but the lull that fuels the beginning of a spring to come. So, I’ll focus on that: I will remind my flesh and spirit and bones and me that winter is a death that brings rebirth… eventually.