I log on to social networking sites, but the truth is I don't trust a lot of people anymore. I don't trust them to not be cruel. I much prefer the few who know me here, along with any wandering strangers. It's a mess, you know. I feel caught in a jacob's ladder of second-guessing others' impressions. Some days I don't know who or what I am, other days I'm as sure as salt. I feel as though one mind occupying separate bodies of emotions & concerns.
So friends and strangers. I'll tell you what I couldn't tell fb or g+: I'm soaking oatmeal for the morning. Enough water to cover it and a bit of buttermilk to acidify it should be enough. I have high hopes for waking up early and fixing it all up before church. I know my record for high hopes, but I choose to have them regardless.
I greatly enjoyed the act of pulling out my little kitchen scale, the clink of the glass bowl on its glass plate. I love the word and meaning of tare. It makes things seem weightless - it seems to mess with the very physics that hold the world together. Anything can be nothing. It makes the world feel minorly unsolid.
I like the perfect numbers as well. One point zero zero. For a moment it read one zero one, but a generous pinch corrected it's error.
Scraping the smushed oats out of their cardboard cylinder bit by bit. It's a cousin to the feeling of plunging your hand into a bag of smooth grain, or scooping cool softness of a well-turned bed of earth.
Tomorrow I look forward to folding in dried fruit and pouring maple syrup into the thing and pressing it to the corners of my pyrex pan.
The baby burned his finger today. Just a little - on a pan that had been out of the oven a couple minutes. He was barely upset & I was glad for a real example of the word "hot."
The past couple weeks have felt so difficult, so full and heavy despite the fact I was off an extra two days. I feel so wobbly and tired. Now this house is making noises and it's freaking me out a bit.
So friends and strangers. I'll tell you what I couldn't tell fb or g+: I'm soaking oatmeal for the morning. Enough water to cover it and a bit of buttermilk to acidify it should be enough. I have high hopes for waking up early and fixing it all up before church. I know my record for high hopes, but I choose to have them regardless.
I greatly enjoyed the act of pulling out my little kitchen scale, the clink of the glass bowl on its glass plate. I love the word and meaning of tare. It makes things seem weightless - it seems to mess with the very physics that hold the world together. Anything can be nothing. It makes the world feel minorly unsolid.
I like the perfect numbers as well. One point zero zero. For a moment it read one zero one, but a generous pinch corrected it's error.
Scraping the smushed oats out of their cardboard cylinder bit by bit. It's a cousin to the feeling of plunging your hand into a bag of smooth grain, or scooping cool softness of a well-turned bed of earth.
Tomorrow I look forward to folding in dried fruit and pouring maple syrup into the thing and pressing it to the corners of my pyrex pan.
The baby burned his finger today. Just a little - on a pan that had been out of the oven a couple minutes. He was barely upset & I was glad for a real example of the word "hot."
The past couple weeks have felt so difficult, so full and heavy despite the fact I was off an extra two days. I feel so wobbly and tired. Now this house is making noises and it's freaking me out a bit.
