Lost and found

As stultifying as I find them, I attempt to maintain routines. Routine signifies, to me, the attempt to maintain order in the face of growing incompetency. Loss of order means I'm no longer competent. It's frightening.

I spent the morning weaving. I'd like another color to take to market in another week. Cerise is the current color. I'm down to the last row of bobbins, six, to finish the length. Then of course, the finishing, which also takes time. The time and motion measurer in me knows the cerise will join the inventory, but the skeptic wonders what else will interfere.

Last week I could not find my sunglasses, that lovely wrap around pair I've worn since the cataract surgery. My general remedy is to remember the last time I wore them, and try to retrace steps from there. I forgot this remedy, and just dithered. I even looked them up on Amazon, but the fifty dollar price tag made me pause.

There were some obvious places, and I looked there. I had little faith. The place for my sunglasses is on my head or in my purse. The point is being able to find them, no matter what. The same for my keys: in my hand, in the ignition, in my purse. Fortunately the very few times I could not locate them, they were in the door lock. 

I was folding laundry this week, and I saw the glasses, in the tool bucket. Now they are in my purse. I remembered leaving laundry in the dryer when I left for an appointment. My firm rule is finish the job at hand before leaving. Put it away. A place for everything, etc. It's the rule that steadies my life. But when I came home from my errand, apparently the sunglasses lived on top of my head, and to prevent falling, I stashed them on top of the tools while I got something from the dryer.

Even worse than the sunglasses, I only removed what I needed from the dryer that day. So, when I stepped from the shower yesterday, there was no towel on the rack, but out in the dryer in the hall. If I went out for it, I risked letting the cat into the bedroom before his time. Fortunately, you are not me, yes?

It's raining and too cold today. That means I needn't water, and it also means the right of center citizens hereabout will continue denying climate change. It won't be on their conscience. I am sleeping in a flannel winter nightgown in June! My next step will be the unconscionable job of wrestling the goose off the shelf behind the winter coats.

I have so many pictures to post I may need to join the Sunday Selections of Elephant's Child and Drifting, to post my extraneous pictures. But, not yet. The pot of zinnias up there is from from hand harvested seeds.  So far I see red and purple on the way to blooming.

These seeds I purchased. So far just leaves. I remain astounded by the pot of Gerbera daisies, up there. New blossoms unfurl their shy little heads daily. I deadhead them often, and new flowers look up. The Gerbera on the step above was a birthday gift, March 31st. In spite of a new pot and new soil, and a small jolt of Miracle Grow, my only reward is staying alive.

And I'm so pleased with my mandevilla, as you well know. Even a downed blossom makes me smile. Filled up by the rain like a little fairy pool, to sit on the edge and splash the feet.

Back to the loom. I'm listening to A Woman of no Importance. I must remember the chapter I'm on; it's one of those muddled books; the recording begins somewhere, but not chapter one. When I found chapter one, it reads chapter thirteen, so it's not a matter of that stupid skip function to jumble songs. It's a test of remembering, as if I need one more challenge.