Looking closely to the now...

Stress. It's a really evil part of the composition of most worlds. Those of us with autoimmune issues find out that stress simply sizzles the wires... And we're sick... Or done... Burned at the base of the brain. No good to anyone or ourselves.

Throughout my years as a teacher, my energy was five parts adrenaline, one part caffeine. Deadlines moved my world, including the big ones such as Christmas, grade cards, visitors!!

Ritual, routine, schedules, exercises--- "Not my style," I'd sneer like Might Casey at the Bat... (But hey, he struck out, right? Left all his fans in defeat and disappointment.)

Give me three days of "procrastinated work" and I could polish every smidgen of that up in one good all-nighter.

Individuals have pride in all sorts of things. Some can drink everyone under the table, I hear. Some color code their closets. Some boast about letting others save the day. Me? I bragged on the amount of work I could do if I poured enough stress into my psyche. Well. Wasn't. That. Dumb?

And I have the brittle spirit to prove it. And the illnesses. And the clutter. Filter in the absolute onslaught by the media to provoke abject despair, fear, and panic, thus ensuring the citizenry will 1. purchase, 2. purchase on credit, 3. purchase and waste .....because we actually didn't need it ..... or want it to begin with.

I look toward my roots, my solid, hard-working parents and grandparents. Despite brewing trouble, war, and hundreds of other very real pressures, I remember my grandparents as unusually collected, calm, happy people. Perhaps they put that face forward for me, their granddaughter, more than for others... But I sense their "happiness" relied more on the lack of selfishness, on the presence of work and hobbies, and on a more narrow perspective, if not a naïveté regarding the widespread misery of the whole freaking world...

My dad, more than once, began a huge project with just a small, insignificant step. I remember gazing in hopelessness at dozens of burned light fixtures after my school fire...  Bit by bit, he rubbed, polished, dipped, painted...reclaiming finally the whole lot. With a single stitch, my grandmothers initiated a quilt or blanket. I can see my mother's sparkle as she pressed a hopeful seed into the damp garden rows, yielding jeweled quarts of pressure canned vegetables for our winter' stable.

I turned my focus toward work, others, projects, and the spirit today.  I didn't hang on Facebook, or troll through the news... Just one pleasant double crochet after another... Listening to the inherent wisdom of the past. Dialing back the stress.