The first iris opened yesterday.
It brought a big smile to my face as Garbo and I left for our morning walk. It also brought relief in a way because this solitary white bloom shifted something in my brain, providing the impetus for this blog post.
You see, I’ve been struggling. I hate to admit when I struggle, tending to fall back on a clichéd “fine” or “good”. I can convince myself that this is a minor obfuscation, because I am functioning — I am dressing myself, feeding myself, and keeping up with minimum maintenance. But it is also a gross understatement. Neither can I state that admitting that I am struggling here is much better, because well, throwing something out into the internet is simultaneously both obviously public and yet completely disassociated from daily life.
I am not looking for sympathy. Really. I need none.
But I do need to learn to admit when things are not good. Not in order to give in, but to relieve myself of pressure. I was raised in a home where appearances were everything, the belief was that if it looked perfect it was perfect. I know this is not true. I don’t expect perfection from anything in the world, and yet I still struggle with admitting when I am struggling. Ahh, the inconsistencies inherent in human nature.
So I admit to struggling. As I’ve noted before, I have lifelong back issues due to my scoliosis. They bothered me less when I was younger and more as I age. I have a congenital heart defect that has led to atrial flutter and bradycardia, which are ongoing, but usually only background inconveniences. I accept that my “normal” is not necessarily what many people would consider normal. I admit that it is often hard to determine what “normal” actually means. This perhaps means that I can forgive myself for sometimes being slow to recognize that I am struggling.
Yet the past weeks have been worse than normal. I let myself get dehydrated, and I’ve mostly recovered from that. I went through a spell of flutter, then a spell of prolonged bradycardia, but both seem to be settling down now and normal energy levels seem to be returning. Perhaps I will have enough brain power to write something intelligent soon. Perhaps not. I struggle with that as well.
Yesterday I felt good. I made a cheesecake for an event tonight and I baked a loaf of bread. There had been no bread in the house for a month. I puttered around the house and caught up on chores. It was a good day.
This morning I had a thick slice of bread with Comté cheese for breakfast, along with my normal morning espresso. It was incredibly satisfying in a deep way, not just physically assuaging hunger, but also soothing some psychological longing. I am ready to move forward.
Today I have time for an hour or two in the garden, then it is off to appointments, meetings, and social gatherings. This too will be a good day. I suspect a good day is a day I decide will be good. Each of us has that power, whatever our struggles may be.
I hope today is a good day for each of you.