This is from that Tiny Buddha link I posted a couple' days ago.
It smacks of Natalie Goldberg's writing instructions of allowing yourself freedom to 'write the worst stuff in the world'.
I like these little journal tips. I like reading them, posting them, even if I don't always follow instructions. (I'm not an instruction-follower. I honestly have real trouble even READING instructions. I'm that "expressive driver" personality that needs to figure it out for themselves. I learned this doing personality tests at work. Although I didn't really need the test to know this).
So...
Stream of consciousness, huh?
Here goes:
My sis sent me this someecard that I have to admit is true.
NONE of my exercise pants have ever been to, participated in, or tried, yoga.
ALL of my exercise pants have flared legs that are in tatters from running on pavement, year-round, in all weather, slush, rain, sleet, salt--they are in ribbons.
I love them all.
It's late Sunday afternoon and I ran, with my sister, what was for me a grueling 7-ish kilometres. Truly. I can hardly stand upright.
Note to self: Sleeping on floor, helping lift and move boxes, walking around the city, hill-running at night after said move, running in the wind, and another totally unnecessary run will guarantee pain at age thirty-eight. Also, today was f*cking freezing out. The wind seemed to be blowing in every direction all at once (right AT me) and it made the run almost unbearable. Except that I love to run. So I reminded myself of this with every single frozen step.
Came home, ate some sushi, drank a tonne of water, some tomato juice, and am now showered and waiting for my sister to come to dinner. Mike is at the store. This is the type of cold-Canada day he can't bear. I know if I'M cold, he's done. The heat is blasting in my condo.
Speaking of my sister, because I have been, she's been a huge help with my mom this weekend. I think it's the parent aspect of her that allows to reason with my mother in a less emotional way than I do.
Or it could just be that I have had raging pms for about four days, coinciding with the move, the buyer's bullsh*t, and the general emotional roller coaster of the last few days.
Never underestimate the power of a good sibling talk, and my sister and I have managed to squeeze in a few in these last few days.
While over at her place on our way out to go running, I was waiting for her to come downstairs, kind of aimlessly walking in her living room, looking at her family photos (a nice shot of my mom and dad, 2007 I know, holding my nephew R. as a baby in our church--I know it was 2007 because that's the year R. was born. They both look so proud, my dad especially, handsome and healthy in a suit. How could we know we had four years left with him?). I picked up another photo, a cute one of my sister and her two kids. Then my eyes fell on a book about meditation, with daily thoughts to ponder.
"When we die we do not go to sleep. We move to a nonphysical reality where we are very much awake". I liked this thought.
I flipped to the front of the book, which was inscribed to my sister, something I had missed when I so randomly opened it:
"Happy Mother's Day, 2011. Love, Dad".
In my father's familiar hand, his last month on earth.
My eyes fill even now.
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