What IS that Smell?

I feel sure my Nanny Brandon would be proud and my Nanny Byrd mortified at the housekeeper I have become.  I just now discovered that it is possible to clean baseboards AS YOU MOP!  I had never thought of this before, and all that baseboard gunk really gets me down.  I often find myself indisposed and thinking, "What IS all that goo?  From whence did it come?  And do I really have to bend down and wipe it off?!?"  Lo and behold, all I had to do was mop! Who knew?  I NEVER mop.  I have a hard time convincing myself to do housework of any kind with so many books to read, trails to ride and fun to have.  So, if you walk into my house, and find yourself wondering, "What IS that smell?" now you know.  No mopping.  There's the answer.  Maybe that sums up a lot about me:  Needs to mop more.  And now that I have strenuously exerted myself mopping my 6 X 10 bathroom, I'm off to ride Iron Mountain Trail and hike Grayson Highlands for the week-end.  When I'm outside, I don't notice that smell at all. 

Wake Up Little Amy, Wake Up

I must surely be on the way to a healthier psyche to be writing again.  For far too long I have felt like either I had nothing important to say or like I was too tired of hearing myself say the same old things over and over to keep repeating them.  Today, for the first time, I was able to write a poem again.  I will include it here at the end of this entry.  I'm sure these entries will seem disjointed and unedited (because they are), but as I begin to understand and realize things about myself, I am going to note them here for my own benefit, if for no one else's.

Jeff stresses often to me the importance of always being hopeful in every situation.  While I can rationally understand this viewpoint, it's not easy for me to be hopeful because so many times over the course of my adult life, the things I hoped for were the opposite of the things that happened.  I am glad that people are able to be hopeful, and I would like nothing better than for hope to become the default setting in my life.

And here is the poem that came to me as I read the section of Ellen Foster where her mother dies:

One more day,
Can I have one more day?
But the answer is always the same.
Her heart has stopped,
And mine goes on.

And I wish for some
Kind of reverse mothering,
Where I can keep her alive
With my body, like she
Kept me alive with hers,
But the answer is always the same.