update on oatmeal

I am withdrawing my recommendation for the oatmeal. What tasted good in the morning was mostly mush by noon when I ate it. Maybe it was in the liquid for too long.

Today is my fifth day in a row of subbing. I have two more days left. I love the way people smile and say, "Oh, that's so good for you!" when I tell them. They should get a job trying to rassle young people to do things they don't want to do. Then we can talk again. Ha! It's been mostly fun but I am tried by the end of the day. I haven't been vertical for this many hours, this many days in a row for a long time.

I had one of those low blood sugar episodes last night (52) and went to bed after I felt better...about 6 o'clock. I slept until 5 am so I needed the sleep.

Regis and I went to the new Shopko last night and boy, the pickin's were slim. Lots of empty shelves. What's up with that? Christmas stuff really picked over a week before the holiday. Strange. I think I read something about retailers trying to go lean on inventory this year.

Tom and Betty, Woodrow dropped his cat bed (the one you gave him) off the cabinet yesterday and dragged it into the kitchen. We don't know if it was just something to do or if he had a purpose. The thing must weigh almost as much as he does.

Woodrow has perched himself right in front of the computer screen so he can watch the words appear and the cursor move. It's like television for him, I suppose. He is mesmerized.

The rune I drew today is Raido. It tells me to say a simple prayer for my soul's journey. It tells me to not be intent on movement, to be content to wait and while I wait, to continue removing resistance. As the obstructions give way, all remorse arising from "trying to make it happen" disappears. Timely advice for me.

I declined to get up and exercise this morning.  I have two days this week...gotten up at 4 am so I could go along but by afternoon, I am plenty burnt out and cranky. Better to conserve my energy.

Yesterday, this was the Writer's Almanac poem. I love, love, love it.

“The Journey,” by Mary Oliver, from Dreamwork (Atlantic Monthly Press).

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.

I don't know why the stupid thing makes this big space after the poem.

I'm going to find someone to laugh with today. That would be a good thing.