Social media is a joke — a wildfire of chaos that toxifies people’s hearts and minds. It’s too much. And yet it’s digested, unfiltered, like air. Some people can differentiate between fact and flamboyance, but others are swimming in the deep end without the necessary skills or a flotation device.
More and more I’m clear it’s my job to protect and maintain my peace.
I’m on the front porch. How cute is this: a little girl perched on her daddy’s lap, “driving” a farm tractor down the middle of the road.
I feel a bit rushed to write, with an 8 p.m. deadline for a double session looming. Archie’s nose is making long sweeps through the air — he’s picked up a scent. I wish I had that sense. Is it like smelling a hamburger or elephant ears at the fair? Like passing a doughnut shop and having to go in?
It’s dry here. Abnormally dry — the land’s got that reddish, thirsty look. I’m running sprinklers twice a day (before sunrise and early afternoon) and hand-watering newly planted spots. I just rehung the Boston ferns, then took them down again to fertilize and water — rinse and repeat. These are manageable chores I take pride in.
A couple of months ago, I had 14 hummingbirds and was making sugar juice almost daily; that wasn’t sustainable. Now I’m down to six birds and the pace is much more reasonable.
I’m reminding myself to breathe. It’s such a simple ask, and yet whatever edge presses in always softens with a breath. Lately, I feel sensitized by certain people — that feeling of being under someone else’s control, even if only in my head, is yucky. Maybe I handed them that power, maybe it just happened; either way, I’m working on detaching. What if, when those thoughts show up, I simply release them with love — “Thank you for coming; I hope you are well. Go in peace.” I could exit them stage left repeatedly until they vanish completely.
We have an ant problem. Kitchen makes sense — the garage door opens to a hallway next to it, so the nosy little scavengers find food and sweets easily. But they’ve spread past the living room into the hall half-bath and even the bedroom closet. The invasion feeling is real. Still — it’s not bed bugs (that terror), not roaches, not termites. These are little ants. A bit of borax and sugar water should sort them in a day or two.
And finally, the mockingbirds are loving the birdbath. Every day, four or five flock in, some snag bugs from the flowers, while two take turns puffing their chests and flapping around like they’re showing off. I’m delighted it’s being used; right after their bathing party, I sneak out to top it off a couple of inches.
It’s late and I’m up to no good. The late night food hankering has me in its clutches, so I’m awaiting fifteen tater tots to toast up in the oven. I better go check them!
Thanks for being here. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 