I've been mowing my yard since noon. It's now 2:38 p.m. I've been taking tons of breaks, drinking lots of water, sitting, wiping my sweaty face with a damp paper towel. My joke has been that I'm not going to push myself the way some public figures/Presidential candidates are pushing themselves because I don't want my image falling down one of my little slopes to be plastered on newspapers, to go viral on YouTube, with some caption about a weak woman attempting to do a man's job.
Ha. So funny. Ha ha.
This sitting in sweat is comforting. It reminds me that I have a capable—if out of shape—body, a vessel for my ridiculous thoughts, for my ponderings, for my stories and poems, even for the works I edit.
Bodies aren't magical, but they are sacred.
My friend weed whacks for me. I know he wants to finish up the bits of mowing I said I'm too tired to accomplish (I'll be back out there in about five minutes), but he hurt his arm a couple of weeks ago, an arm that's already been injured from too much drumming, too much piano over the 62 years of his life.
I'm not going to let a man with an injury do the job this woman should be doing since it's my yard and not his.
I'll buy him a burger as thanks for weed whacking.
I'm live journaling again, just typing into the window without a plan. Type, type, mutter, mutter, blather, blather.
My sweat is drying salty on my skin, and I perversely like the way it tastes when I lick my lips.
Another gulp of water, and I'm back to it. A long job, but it's my fault for "firing" my yard guy (by starting to mow myself when he didn't show up for too long) and by buying this wretched house with its yard that's bigger than it looks (twelve years I've lived here).
This movement is good for me, though. Movement gives me creative ideas. Later, I'll write something real, or start writing something real. And I'll continue to figure out what I want to do next to "thrive" and to continue to "serve."