The short and sweet of it

It was another relentless deep freeze winter day in Northwestern Ontario—the kind that takes a brutal swipe at the tips of my fingers, smashing out all the warmth and feeling with the kind of excruciating pain I liken to crushing my digits with a hammer.
There are but a few external forces that can, at the drop of a hat, transform me into an angry and spiteful Medusa-like creature. The deepest, coldest day that reaches my fingertips before I make it from the house to the garage to start my car is one of those dark influences.
But on this particular deep freeze day, I only had been awake for about 10 minutes and was standing in my housecoat and “Don King” hair at the porch door letting off the steam that was collecting under my collar at 6:30 a.m. after reading an unjustified e-mail from another external force that shall remain nameless.
The hormone casserole I baked up for myself over that e-mail was worthy of the award given at the far opposite of the culinary scale to a mouth-watering delicacy created by the late great Julia Child.
By the time I was done vacillating the whole issue—three days had passed me by and my dish was an overcooked, crusty, black, dried up, salty carcinogenic mess.
My old friend, “Misery,” had arrived unannounced, overstayed his welcome, and, while he was skulking around in my neck of the woods stealing the scene, had buried my good karma in the manure pile behind the barn.
Then on the way down the other side of the roller coaster as I sped back to positivity and empowerment, I caught another sidecar and spent the next three days very angry with myself for allowing dismal internal dialogue to cook up such baloney.
Where did my inner guru go—the one who keeps waving a finger at me and chanting about accepting life change?
Song lyrics, titles, and book passages race through my mind all the time summing up months of denying and accepting life change, back and forth like a metronome.
“The battle of the heart isn’t easily won. Yes, I can. Half of my heart has a grip on the situation, and half of my heart takes time.
“They say there’s linings of silver folded inside each raining cloud. Well, I need someone to deliver my silver lining now. Are we there yet? Someday maybe all this will make sense.
“You’re like a dog at the dump . . . lickin’ at an empty tin can, trying to get nutrition out of it. And if you’re not careful, that can’s gonna get stuck on your snout and make your life miserable. So drop it.”
“Start again.”
I think I need yoga, mediation, and chocolate. Yep, that trio would suit me fine right about now.
Mind you, a visit from Mr. Jones would do nicely, too. But that’s another story.

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