Turmeric

Pair of hard days, bad air, frigid. But my head continues to settle in to a more peaceful place, even as the ugliest thoughts surface. Funny, that. I kept stepping in to the memory, taking care of my child-self, not leaving her to suffer alone. Indulging some violent fantasies, the turning them, turning them again, until they become kinder. But I have to go through the process. That I learned with my guide, to flush the worst out, follow with cleaner feelings.

Cats continue to enjoy chasing. Moby still old and prefers to warm on the hotpad-through the cat-bed most of the time. But he also relishes a good cat-chase, now. We hear her high "Mew!" then her galloping run, then Moby's steady stalk shortly after. Sometimes, we hear a chase, then a Hiss, as Moby decides enough's enough, or that he's declaring himself the winner and that's that. Either way, he's simply being emphatic, not hostile.

It's been a long road, and not over. All in all, I think Eleanor has been good for us. I believe we've been good for her as well. She's calmer, and purrs when petted in the time before the chime goes off, and she gets a cuddle. As I get snuggled by my comical cat.

Picked up Moby when I got home, he purred and clung to me. No moaning, just happy to be hugged. I like to think the meds and the turmeric seem to help all of us.

Noticing the hands of one of my patients, today. Looked like he did physical labor, but without the staining of a mechanic or a rancher, the grease and dirt that tattoo the skin. So few jobs mark the hands, as so often in the past. A seamstress, a tanner, a dyer or a weaver, would all be marked by their work. I've had ranchers and mechanics apologize for their hands, I assure them I know they are clean, and the dirt is not dirt. This guy's hands were unstained, but still showed evidence of hard work, callused and dry, rounded fingernails.

I wonder if my own hands mark me, dry, hangnails, trimmed very short, a number of thin white scars.