Archive for the ‘disability’ Category

In all the fog, I write…

Thunder beings and Brain Fog

The Thunder Beings have roared and a hard rain is falling.  I sure am glad to be home.  I like being home with my dogs during a storm.  I also like knowing that as I write, my family are in safe places.   Shortly, I’ll be snuggling up with my furry family to watch a movie.  I can’t tell you which movie because I forgot the name of it, which brings me to the heart of this blog post.

I basically wanted to say hello to my blogging friends and readers.

I miss my blog.  I especially miss being able to think clearly enough to express myself through writing.

Normally, I can sit down and write ten pages about something and even though it might need editing, I’m able to communicate what is on my mind.  Lately, this is not the case.  I have a lot on my mind, much of which I’d like to write about in this blog, but I am simply too tired.   I’m also in a lot of pain.

I began this post last night and wanted to publish it while the Thunder Beings were here.  I finished it, which amazed me, but I couldn’t keep enough mental energy to tag it or put it in a category.

The Thunder Beings came back tonight just as I sat down in another attempt to write something that makes sense.  Another hard rain fell.

I don’t know who came up with the term, “brain fog,” but the condition is well understood by those of us who have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and/or fibromyalgia.

Brain fog attempts to describe a medical mental fatigue that robs us of our normal cognitive skills and abilities.  For the past six months I’ve battled this fog consistently.  Normally, the condition isn’t this persistent and instead comes and goes, giving me times when I can still think.

Writing is hard when this is happening and I usually don’t even try.  I forget my words and have to use the dictionary constantly.  I can’t spell words I’ve spelled since elementary school.  My sentences are choppy and things aren’t flowing.

Brain fog can make a person nearly incapable of verbal responses.  It can have an effect on a person’s speech.  Words might get disordered in a sentence or we use a word that sounds like the one we are intending to say.

I know the words I’m looking for when I lose them.  I can describe the meaning, sometimes the sound or the first letter.  Written words I’ve known since I was a child look unfamiliar.

Mostly I’m tired and sleepy, but I can’t stay asleep long enough for my body to restore itself.  I’m half awake and half asleep.  It isn’t a good place to act from.

My body is as tired as my brain is.  Moving around is hard.  Bending over takes tremendous energy.  I can’t keep up with my chores and that stresses me out.

I’ve missed deadlines.  Many of my obligations in life are compromised.  I don’t get to go visit my family.  I’m also getting a bit confused and my short-term memory is shot.

The fatigue alone is completely overwhelming.  Add to that widespread ongoing pain in the nerves, muscles and deep in the bones and it is one mighty difficult condition!

Life goes on though.  It doesn’t stop for me to be sick or it seems, for me to get proper rest, but then maybe I don’t know how to rest.  Maybe I forgot.

Much of the time, I feel stressed.

I have an adult son, whom I love with all my heart.  He has challenges that I haven’t learned how to accept in a way that doesn’t cause me grief and anxiety.  I believe that accepting things the way they are is the best place to start when you want to change something, but honestly, I don’t feel like I’m doing a good job at this with mine or my son’s circumstances.

Being unwell causes me to feel like I’m failing my son, the other members in my family, including my dogs and a community.  I can’t say that I have the latter, but if I did belong to a community, where would I fit in I wonder.

When I have brain fog, I don’t feel like I have anything to offer.  I do love my family and friends, so I guess love is the one thing I still have to give, no matter what.

I worry about what is happening in this country.  The cuts in our system are scary to me on a personal level.

Being a disabled American makes me feel like a misfit.  The taxpayer’s enemy.  I represent to some Americans the reason our country is in such bad shape.  Somebody, “living for free.”  A flaw in an otherwise well-functioning system.

The doctor wonders what is depressing me!

Chronic illness impacts my view of myself and the world.  It’s a view that’s been filtered through pain, mental fog and bewildering fatigue, along with a very long decade of chronic stress.

I have the dogs to keep things real.  Plus, of course, I love them and think they’re the greatest little creatures to have ever lived on the planet!

One of my dogs had to go out a little while ago.  I was lying on the sofa.  He came over and sat there beside me, patiently waiting.

I felt like a million pounds of sand was lying on top of my body and it hurt.  After about eight minutes, which seemed like forever, I got up.

Putting his collar on him, I just happened to look at the sofa where I had tried to rest.  I saw the pain.  I saw the fatigue.

I didn’t want to ever lie on that sofa again.  I hurt when I lie down.  For a moment, the difference between the way I felt standing and the way I had felt lying down was somewhat mentally shocking.

I feel some better when I get up, but it isn’t long before I’m completely exhausted and must lie down again.

My dogs continue to be good for my health.  They keep me from never getting off that sofa.  They need me and I need them.

They took me outside after the rain stopped tonight.  I needed a short little walk and some fresh air.  They always know this.

Thanks for visiting Dogkisses’s blog.

Image via drburtoni’s photostream, Flickr.

Freedom on wheels

magic is in the movement

The story I wrote about my having been confined to a wheelchair at age three was mostly true.  In this post, I’m going to tell you the whole truth and a little bit more.

I was supposed to tell 4 bold-face lies as part of this writing project, but I told more truth than lies.

Below is a copy of my story.   I underlined the parts that are NOT true.   The whole truth is in blue.

I was confined to a wheelchair, as a result of a childhood bone disease when I was a toddler.  The doctors told my mother I might never walk again.  I hated that chair! My brother, who is ten years older than me, used to take me and my little chair on wheels to the top of our steep road, which was deep in the mountains.  My two older sisters would stand at the top of the road, holding my chair, with me in it of course, until my brother made it to the bottom.  He would count to some number, which was their clue to let me go.  I would fly down that mountain in my little chair!  It was great fun!  The best I can remember, my brother always caught me.  My mother didn’t mind this game. I wasn’t happy the day I put my foot on the floor and was able to walk again because I had to give up my little flying chair.

The truth:

“A little doll’s chair,” is what my mother says the wheelchair looked like.  “It was just so small.   It didn’t look like it was for a person.”

I had Kohler disease, which is a rare childhood bone disease.  It attacked my ankle bone when I was three years old.  The doctors did tell my mother I may never walk again, but they also told her that it could go away as mysteriously as it had appeared.

I didn’t hate the wheelchair.  I’m pretty sure I loved it.  My mother says that I had crawled around for several weeks before she, “put her foot down,” and demanded that I be taken to the nearest hospital for x-rays.

Putting weight on my foot was intolerable.  The little chair gave me freedom to go outside and play.  At three years old, I guess you live in the moment.  I was too young to understand what never being able to walk again meant.   I was also too young to know the danger of flying down that road, but then sometimes, our memories play tricks on us.

About ten years ago, my mother and I visited the place we lived when I was in that wheelchair.  There was a housing complex with relatively small one story dwellings that was turned into offices for the Juvenile boys home.  My dad worked there and we had lived in the complex, which was for the employees and their families.

Mother and I were both a bit shocked.  The metal fence surrounding the property surprised her.  It was one of those tall fences with thick rolls of barbed-wire on top.  The place hadn’t been fenced in when we lived there.

I remembered the houses being massive with tall and wide dark windows.

“There’s our house,” Mother said.  There weren’t any big houses and the windows were those small rectangular ones you see in beach houses.

I remembered front porch being high up off the ground.  I sat on the steps every day, weather permitting, with my three year-old boyfriend, talking and waiting for the school bus to drop off my older siblings.  I remember being happy when he was there.  We were the best of friends and had terrific conversations about life.

There were only two steps, very close to the ground.  I couldn’t believe how much bigger things were in my memory than they were in reality.

I looked for the steep road where I took the wheelchair flights.  Mother pointed out our road.

“That’s it!”  I was completely astonished.  It was indeed a hill, but didn’t measure up by any means to the one I recalled.

I told her about flying down the mountain road.  She says she didn’t know anything about that.  I sure remember it.  My sisters say they remember too, but oddly, my brother doesn’t and he’s the oldest.  I think he forgot many things he did to his younger sisters.  Like the time he put me in a garbage can and rolled me into the road, but that was later and it was a country road.

I remember clearly the day I put my foot on the floor, which I did every morning, and it didn’t hurt anymore.  The pain was gone!  The bone disease went away just like the doctors said it might.

I didn’t mind giving up the little chair, but I did think I should get to keep it for a souvenir.  I remember wanting it.  Mother says she didn’t think I needed it and donated it to another family.

My ensuing enthusiasm for using my legs was grand.  At age five, I led a large marching band in the Christmas parade because the band leader said I was, “the best little marcher they ever had!”  I took jazz and modern dance classes, but then we moved to the country.  Dancing the way I had learned would have been considered a sin.  This disappointed me, but I soon discovered bluegrass and clogging, the latter of which was a required class in the elementary school I attended.

I didn’t have a bicycle though.  I’d had one when I was five, but then my brother got involved.  He let go of my bike before I learned to ride and I had a bad accident.  I was hurt pretty badly.  I heard my dad ask my mother if I would still be able to have babies.  I was confused.  She told him to shut up and get the car.

Because of that accident, my dad wouldn’t let me get near a bicycle for years, even though my brother always had one.  My two sisters never wanted one, which I always thought was weird and it didn’t help me when I pleaded for my own.  Finally, my dad gave in on my thirteenth birthday.

We went to the local bicycle shop, which was also an auto-parts and lawn-mower shop.  Everyone there knew my dad.  I’d been there with him plenty of times and they all knew I’d been begging for a bicycle for a long time.  I was often invited inside the owner’s house next door and his wife would give me milk and homemade cookies.  I loved her cookies and she made them the day I got my new bicycle.  It was a great day.  My dad let me ride it home, which was less than half a mile away.  You could throw a rock from there to our back door.

I loved that bicycle.  I could ride it fifty miles without thinking a thing about it and I did, often.  There’s a long story about what happened to that bike, but it is one sad story, so I won’t tell it here.

I grew up, had a son and bought us both bicycles when he was three years old.

His was a tricycle, but he begged me to take those two extra wheels off.  “Your bike doesn’t have them Mommy,” he said.

We took the wheels off, but I had a person at each end and several in the middle to catch him if he fell.  He did fall, but he didn’t have far to go and it was in the soft grass.  He didn’t get hurt.  He got up as fast as he could, before any of us could get to him and jumped back on the bicycle.  It was very funny.  I remember him looking back at us as he rushed to pick that little bicycle off the ground.  He never used those extra wheels and we had years worth of fun riding together.  We still enjoy riding together.  I like that.

I can’t go cycling like I could before being struck with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or fibromyalgia.

However, I do have a fun bicycle.  I call it my magic little bike.  It brings out the best in me when I ride it.   I absolutely love moving and feeling the wind on my face.  That’s part of the magic.  Being able to move without pain.  (The trick to that is being on a flat road.)

My little bike also has pink and white streamers and an awesome bell!

Occasionally, I’ll still take my hands off the handle bars and hold them in the air.  I like that too.

Thanks for visiting Dogkisses’s blog!

Mental illness, it could be you

shadows of the past may come alive to help us be better people

“Hi,” the woman said shyly.  “I’m calling about a butterfly garden.  I saw your ad in the paper.”

More than a decade has gone by since I received that phone call.  I still remember how I felt.

“I live on a fixed income due to a disability,” the woman added.  “I was wondering if I could get a small butterfly garden and how much that would cost.”

I remember how I felt then, but the way I feel now is much more powerful.  I feel terrible about the way I handled that call.

The woman told me where she lived.  I had heard of the place, but didn’t know much about it.  I knew only that the people who lived there had some type of mental problems.

I talked with my gardening mentor who encouraged me to go see the woman.  I wish I had taken his advice.  I can’t remember who else I consulted with, but I was most certainly influenced in the other direction.

The woman called several times telling me how much she loved butterflies.  I told her the price for a small garden.  She explained that she received her check each month and asked if she could make monthly payments.

People said things like, “those people who live there are crazy,” and I vaguely recall one person telling me that I would be making a mistake to get involved with someone like that.  I concluded that the woman wouldn’t be able to pay like she said she would.  I assumed several things that today I am not proud of.   I chose not to meet with her.

As I write, I really can’t believe that was me.

I wasn’t going to write about this memory when I began this post, which is one of my many challenges in writing.  I’ll start a story or some type of tale and the next thing I know, I’ll be back in time, ten or twenty years into my past.

I wanted to tell you about my dream of creating a healing garden for people fighting and living with mental illness.  A place for healing and community to happen.

I wanted to tell you about an outdoor bed of hay framed with sunflowers and chocolate cosmos laced around the pillow shams.

Sometimes the past meets the present and I get lost somewhere in the middle.

The apartments where the woman lived is a thriving community today, as it was when she called me all those years ago, back when life was much easier for me.  Back when I thought the problems those people had would never be ones I would face.  Oh no!  Not me or my family.

I was terribly wrong and completely ignorant.

Mental illness doesn’t discriminate.  It can strike any person, any family and in any place.

Ten years after I turned down the woman’s beautiful and brave request, I found myself at the same apartment building where she had wanted her little butterfly garden.

I was there applying for my adult son to get an apartment in that community.

I had forgotten about that phone call until one day when I went to visit my son there.  Several of his neighbors came outside.  We walked around the building together finding many places where we could plant, of all things, a butterfly garden.  The memory slapped me in the face.

I realized that my son was one of those people.

My bright intelligent son who had superior verbal skills by age three, was a good student other than talking too much from being bored, was in a grand way always enthusiastic about life, winning school awards in science and later in kayaking, was struck with a mental illness.

Today, I am a woman who must sometimes say, “I live on a fixed income due to a disability.”  

Today, I realize, I am one of those people too.

Turns out we are all the same and always were.  The differences I imagined came from cultured misconceptions of immunity derived from ignorance and stigma.

Thank you for visiting my blog,


In disability and poverty

by Dan Smith, Wikimedia Commons, CC Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic

“I can’t hear myself think,” my mother would say.  “Ya’ll hush up,” or sometimes, “Turn that noise down.”   Whatever, “noise,” it was, we turned it down.  Sometimes it was my sisters and I cutting up or maybe it was music, but when my mother spoke, we listened.

My mother pointed her finger at us when she was mad, which usually put a stop to any misbehaving on our part.   Testing her was not wise, but I guess like all children do, sometimes we abandoned our fear.

She only had to remind us one time to look on top of the refrigerator, at least in the Summer, where we could often see a switch lying on the top.  If there wasn’t one there, then one of us had to go out and pick one.  We had to pick three to make sure we got a good one large enough for switching.

“Don’t come back with a skinny one or I’ll…”  I don’t remember anymore what Mother said she would do.  I think she always said she’d switch us twice.   She grew switch bushes, which I would finally learn are Forsythia, also called Yellow Bells.

Switching us wasn’t the only reason Mother had for growing switch bushes.  It gave her a desperately needed bit of privacy from my father’s mother’s hawk-like watch from her front porch.  Mixed in with the Forsythia were Redbud trees, which eventually did protect my mother from my grandma’s invasive view.

I only got switched once and I didn’t deserve it but then, neither did my sisters.   None of us owned up to the misdeed, since we really were innocent, so one by one, we each went into the bedroom and got the switch.  I was five.  I was not as willing as my older sisters were.  I was much more rebellious.  I made my mother chase me around the house outside about ten times before I finally had to give in and go inside.  She couldn’t catch me so she told me the longer I stayed in the hiding place I’d found, the worse it would be for me.

There was a time later when my mother thought I deserved a spanking but it wasn’t switch season.  She asked my dad to use his belt.  He took me into the back bedroom at which point tears began streaming down his eyes.

“I can’t do it,” and he called me by his nickname for me.  “You are too sweet,” little dogkisses.  You don’t deserve this.  Can you just cry and tell your mother that I spanked you with the belt?  Tell her I gave you two licks.”  I shook my head yes, which is exactly what I did.  He had added, “Just don’t do it again okay,” and I didn’t, whatever it was.  I don’t remember.

Our family was somewhat dysfunctional.

I’m sure there are people who could find ways to say the dilemma I’m in now might stem some from the switch bushes my mother grew.  I dare say though that there were much worse things we had to deal with than switches, which I’m sure gave birth to my having a few emotional challenges in life.  With that said, I try hard not to blame my parents for my life today.  It’s a personal choice I made in my late thirties.

My dad passed on when I was only twenty-five years old and my mother is seventy-five.  My heart tells me to do the best I can with the years left that I have a mother, so that’s what I’m doing.

Perhaps I’ll come back to this writing one day and see how the switch bushes or my recalling this part of my childhood relates to me not knowing what to do about my current problems in life, but as I write, I don’t see a clear connection.   I don’t know why these memories return to my mind on this day when I can hear myself think.

I know how it feels to need to hear myself think, or rather want to hear it.   I don’t know if it does me that much good to hear my thoughts too much of the time.

One thing I hear clearly and often is the thought, I don’t know what to do. Not only do I hear myself thinking it, I hear myself saying it out loud.

Talking to myself, out loud, scared me until one day I heard an NPR show on self-talk.  Apparently, this is quite common and is I guess, one of many normal responses to intense and ongoing stress.  Sigh!  What a relief I thought.  I love it when I hear that my craziness is normal and common.  I remind myself of this if I start talking when I’m home alone.  Plus, every time it happens, I am under a lot of stress.

Some days, like today, I hear the thought until the day is finally over.  Some of those days I get a few things done and some of those days, I don’t get anything done because, I don’t know what to do, or rather, I think that I don’t.

Today I had the thought (and spoke it out loud — to myself) with my first cup of coffee.  Then immediately, I thought well, why the hell don’t I know what to do?  I’m closer to fifty than forty.  When will I know what to do!  Or do I know and am just not doing it?  Like writing in this blog.  Is writing what I’m supposed to do I wonder or am I avoiding doing by writing?

I want to write but I need to do a million other things, like call the hand surgeon.  I keep putting that off.

There are lots of things I could do and some, like calling the surgeon, is something I’ll eventually have to do.

I could write a letter about how my son should have graduated from Community Resource Court.  I’ve put that off a long time.  He didn’t graduate because his psychiatrist wrote the judge a note saying he had not taken the antipsychotic she had prescribed for him.  He had taken it but his family physician told him twice during that time to stop taking it and to never take any kind of antipsychotic again due to poor liver panels while my son was taking the medication(s).

He attended the court for one year and did everything they asked of him, except for one thing, which was to continue taking the antipsychotic.   The psychiatrist who had written the note was gone fishing the day he should have graduated.  It isn’t the first time she’s been fishing during an emergency and the ACT team she works with doesn’t have a back up psychiatrist when she goes on these trips where her cell phone doesn’t work. She had told me to fire that doctor anyway.  They sent my son back to criminal court.  I couldn’t believe it.  I think it’s an injustice and I doubt my writing a letter would do much good.

The judge asked me to stand up.  My son had been charged with possession of,  “half of a marijuana cigarette,” and as a result,  landed in the county jail for 28 days!  He had attended CRC for one year, and so did I.   None of that mattered though.

“Do you think your son is competent to understand this charge?”  the judge asked.

I can’t speak fully to what my son thinks about his charge.  I would be betraying his privacy.

What if I had said no?  That would have meant a judge’s order for a psychiatric evaluation, which would have meant an involuntary commitment at our state hospital, which is unstable and as a result, dangerous.  My saying no could have caused him to lose his rights, get locked up in that place until some really crazy doctor decided my son was rehabilitated.

“Yes,” I answered.  “My son is competent.”

His gavel came down and the day was done.  My son was charged and free to leave, which we did.

I could write about the injustice of…

Sigh…  There are about ten letters I feel like I need to write about injustices regarding my son.

Then of course there is me and my life.

I could write a letter to the teaching hospital where I receive most of my health care.  I could ask them if they would offer their, ‘charity care funds,’ which I qualify for, to pay their acupuncturist.  Four of their specialists have written me prescriptions for acupuncture, due to my sensitivity and adverse reactions to certain medications, along with a family history limiting my choices in the treatment for some serious health issues I have.

I could write a letter to my family doctor asking for Home Health services or be brave enough to finally ask for a handicap sticker for the days when I’m too tired to walk.  There are many days when I’m too tired to actually walk into the grocery store, much less walk around and shop.  I’ve gone to bed hungry a few times because of this, but not for too long.  I manage to keep up, obviously as I’m alive and writing, but sometimes, I’m hanging on by a thread.

“It makes sense,” my doctor said, after I asked him if people with fibromyalgia and/or Chronic Fatigue Syndrome qualified for any home health services.  He said he has never known anyone with these illnesses to ask for these services.  I wasn’t surprised but I’m quite curious.  Chronic Fatigue Syndrome kicks my ass.  It puts me down like a sick dog!   Why haven’t these intelligent well-respected medical doctors considered the notion that CFS and severe fibromyalgia patients might need some home health care services?  I wonder too why we, the patients, haven’t inquired about these services.  Are we ashamed to ask?  I’m ashamed to ask for a handicap sticker, even though I know I deserve to have one as much as anyone else does.

I have dogs and I feel like people will say if I can manage to take care of them then I must be able to do everything else, but this is not the way it is.

I’ve been blessed the past several months with neighbors who are helping me walk my dogs regularly.  After two accidents I don’t know what I would have done without their help.  I can take the younger dog to a nearby dogpark and sit on the bench while she exercises, but sometimes I’m too tired to drive there.  Our older dog is anti-social.  Can’t take him to dogparks!

In between my trying to figure out what to do today, I went online and visited a site about invisible disabilities.  It was wonderfully resourceful focusing on educating and informing people about how they can better understand and support a friend, family member or loved one who lives with an invisible disability.

I could send my family one of their brochures I thought, but then I thought better of it.  Here sis or bro, here is a way you can be more kind to me.   I don’t think so.

I could go through all the bills.  Bills I can’t pay.  Put them in a shoebox labeled unpaid and can’t pay, then store it in the closet.

I could call our MD and tell him my son is not doing so great, but what could he do?  I could call the housing specialist.  I could call the corporation who just bought all the properties around here that used to be owned by non-profits who rented to low-income people with disabilities.  I could tell them I’m still waiting  on getting all the paper work they’ve asked for.

I could call the federal weatherization program who would insulate my apartment, which would lower my power bills.  I could call the Catholic Social Services and ask if they might offer a little towards some of my utility bills — if I could find their phone number.  I could look it up in the phone book, if my brain worked right.

I could call my landlords and ask them to do some things they’ve promised to do but haven’t done.

I could call and cancel the doctor’s appointment I have at the ENT clinic.  I mean why am I trying to get help with my ears, while my disfigured finger hurts, I need new eye glasses and what feels like a million other things that I need to do?

Then, I recall the reason I called the ENT clinic.  Some days I can’t hear myself think because all I hear is ringing in my ears.  Aside from the ringing I can feel noise.  I’m hyper-sensitive to sound and sometimes it hurts.

Oh!  I know what I could do!  I could pay my auto taxes, get the receipt, oh wait!  I’ve got to have my car inspected before I can get my tags renewed.  Great ’cause the check engine light is on again.  It’s been on since my brother-in-law sold me the car four years ago.  I’ve spent hundreds of dollars every year getting it to pass inspection, and the engine light just comes back on.

I could call him and tell him to fix my car!  “It won’t be a problem,” he’d said.

There’s the power, the lights, the phones, this internet connection, two loan payments, a water bill, taxes, inspection, tags, gasoline and blah, blah, blah.  Oh yeah, food.  I forgot about that.

I bought food the other day.  I felt guilty for buying food!  How will I pay the bills I thought?

I did get one bill paid today.  I didn’t cancel the doctor’s appointment, which I don’t want and desperately wish I hadn’t made it.  I’ve canceled many of my medical appointments over the past year or more.  I managed to get my son an appointment with a private doctor who I know and trust.  This gives me a little hope, but I’m used to things blowing up in my face, most things in fact, so I don’t let my hopes get too high.  I did do things that needed doing today.  I was a mother, actively, for a little while.  I washed the dishes.  I did a lot, along with agreeing to more than I wanted, like providing transportation for a job the ACT team promised.

Mostly, what I do is try to manage the anxiety about all that I need to do, while feeling quite confident that I can’t get it all done.  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever get some of these things done.  I managed to sit outside in the shade and organize two baskets of mail.   Now, the bills are neatly stacked, and I guess they’ll stay that way for a while.

Still, there’s anxiety.  There’s so much I feel like I need to do.  Some things I can’t do but I can’t not do them either.  Some things I could do if I could concentrate or feel what I have to feel to get certain things done, such as writing about the psychiatrist’s fishing trip.

I know what I’d like to do.  I’d like to go camping like we did every summer when my son was growing up — when I had lots of energy — and more money.

I’d like to sit high on the mountain, at a nice campground of course, with a really nice mattress to sleep on, which I have, and I’d like to stay there until the heat has gone from this place I call home.  I’d like to wake up to the sun shining through the trees on my tent, drink lots of dark coffee, listen to the sounds of nature, rest, read, rest more, eat, lie on my back and watch the night sky and then, rest more.

I don’t know what to do, I heard myself say right before bed.  Today, I sure could hear myself think, all day, all too clearly!

Photo by Dan Smith