168// Manually Adjusting

I woke up feeling quite sure I’d finally reached the weekend; it took a painful moment to adjust to the realization that it was actually only Tuesday, only 4:00 in the morning, and very much time for me to make my way out of bed and into the garage for a workout. The grogginess didn’t last long, thankfully. I have been practicing the art of manually adjusting my attitude so I can get the most of of these early morning routines.

Work was easy, too easy. It was nice to come back to my normal work location for the day. Everyone here takes the pandemic and the necessary precautions we are taking seriously, including taking temperatures at the door and wearing masks at all times.

I did what I could but by mid-morning I wasn’t feeling well and had to head home early. A quick meal and a nap later I’m feeling much better, still not myself, but better. I increased the dosage of the steroid medication meant to keep my flare to a manageable level so the infusion medication can do its job and I’m already seeing an improvement. And not a moment too soon because my foreseeable work schedule will not allow for many days of self-care or rest.

This evening I’m giving myself permission not to be productive. I’m listening to podcasts, reading old articles I saved, working on my logbook, and brainstorming over my essay project, and productive tasks, but I’m working with no rules, no timers, no goals in mind. Surprisingly, I’m writing better without the weight of expectation or limits. I have to do this more often.

Tomorrow I go back to CPR and First Aid teaching, but I’m only helping out and observing until Friday. I’m looking forward to a morning jog at the track, an afternoon of freewriting, and time to read.

169 // This is My Gift

Tonight we saw my dad for his father’s day celebration. As always, it was a wonderful visit, and as always I wish there wasn’t that strange gap between us. It’s a hole that opened between us the day I was born, I imagine, and though it’s width has grown no wider since that day its depth has gone beyond our ability to fathom and our courage to leap over.

Such gaps between parents and their children are common, but each one is unique. The one between my father and I, from where I stand, is made of all my love, and all my anger, and all my wondering and regret. Its depth is all he couldn’t give and all my incessant wanting.

I’m sure from where he stands it must look different. From his side it may be darker, made of much more past and much more pain. I know this and for this reason I hold his hand above the fissure and squeeze it in forgiveness. For this reason, I ask nothing more than what I know is possible. This is my gift.

Happy Father’s Day.

168 // There Isn’t Much More

I’m still recovering from the weekend. I know, I know, two nights should be enough but I’m getting older now. Not old, but older, and I don’t bounce back the way I used to. The end of my partying days are growing closer, I’m feeling it. I’m hoping I’ll be able to let them go gracefully when the time comes.

It was a good day though. I was productive and the work hours flew by fast. I was able to leave early and to come home to my fiance rather than an empty house. Plus plenty of leftover fajita fixings leftover from last night to make for dinner and a little time to write in before I’ll have to do it all again tomorrow. There isn’t much more I ask from life. There isn’t much more I can ask, I guess.