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The Dream Time
Either the meds or the meditation or the surreal out-of-time late May in late March weather has managed to turn me into a serene zombie.
Evidence 1: Assembled all my tax stuff with nary a tremor of concern. During last year's panics, the wibbles of getting tax stuff together cheered me by being at least a familiar anxiety. This year it was no more than a mild foot-dragging chore at the end.
Evidence 2: I have been sorting bills and such from my impromptu filing baskets. This usually makes me weep with an obscure vexation. Now it's just mindless sorting.
Evidence 3: Encountered the Chinese-I-think grandmother down the street on my rounds yesterday evening. She asked did I know anybody who helped students. Her granddaughter needed help with her homework. French homework. 'Oh,' said I without pause, 'I speak French.' 'Oh good, I bring her over.' Went home, tidied the messy front room table, put out grammar book at need, waited calmly. Grandma appeared, towing a silent and clearly reluctant nine-year-old who now towers over her, and we sat down to wrestle with the agreements of the past participle. As I might have guessed, child is in French immersion and is light years beyond my level, with an impeccable accent. So we spoke English, dommage, as I attempted to make sense of the rules in her French grammar book. Then passed on to decimals and fractions, which I can do even in French (thank you, Ursuline sisters.) They thanked me and left, and I went to chop ginger for my tofu marinade. I would never ever have done anything like this before now, or not as detachedly. It feels almost weird.
Evidence 1: Assembled all my tax stuff with nary a tremor of concern. During last year's panics, the wibbles of getting tax stuff together cheered me by being at least a familiar anxiety. This year it was no more than a mild foot-dragging chore at the end.
Evidence 2: I have been sorting bills and such from my impromptu filing baskets. This usually makes me weep with an obscure vexation. Now it's just mindless sorting.
Evidence 3: Encountered the Chinese-I-think grandmother down the street on my rounds yesterday evening. She asked did I know anybody who helped students. Her granddaughter needed help with her homework. French homework. 'Oh,' said I without pause, 'I speak French.' 'Oh good, I bring her over.' Went home, tidied the messy front room table, put out grammar book at need, waited calmly. Grandma appeared, towing a silent and clearly reluctant nine-year-old who now towers over her, and we sat down to wrestle with the agreements of the past participle. As I might have guessed, child is in French immersion and is light years beyond my level, with an impeccable accent. So we spoke English, dommage, as I attempted to make sense of the rules in her French grammar book. Then passed on to decimals and fractions, which I can do even in French (thank you, Ursuline sisters.) They thanked me and left, and I went to chop ginger for my tofu marinade. I would never ever have done anything like this before now, or not as detachedly. It feels almost weird.
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Sublime is the word I would use. Serene maybe, not so much the zombie.
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Zombie is it, though. I figure the histamine level in my blood is through the roof currently.
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Would the Wednesday after Easter be a good time to come down? Evening of April 11 to the following Monday?
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I have to do things leisurely anyway, if I care to breathe.
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