May 23, 2013

Bad dreams. They started out well, but one by one bad things happened to me, snide comments, a bad choir rehearsal, incidents from the inconvenient to the tragic. Anger boiled inside. I hated the people around. The cats were scratching at the door (this probably was happening in real life) and I, magically, struck them through the wood. When I went out to look for them, I’d killed one of them by, apparently, turning her inside out. I understood the progress of the dream as I was dreaming it; it was a critique of the idea that we are solely responsible for our misdeeds. It was clear to me that Fate was the cause of my reverse of attitude, and though I probably could have avoided mood-change or retaliation, why should I? The lords of karma must be held responsible for the brutality of the acts to which the soul responds. Who is God to put us to the test? That rebelliousness has always been in my heart–Who is God to put us to the test, to withhold or grant in ways unrelated to our needs or achievements?–but seldom in so pure a form. A way to stop our bitterness is not to put us to the test; this needs to be part of the dialogue.

Spent 40 minutes weeding out formatting problems after I downloaded a Loves of Mr. Lincoln rehearsal schedule.

Wednesday, paradoxically, had been lovely. I rose and gathered my tools and before 7:30 was digging Jolene her garden. Pulled out a sprawling rose bush and a couple of weird trees and lots of pottery-related debris. The soil is stony and bad– I had to open it with a mattock before I could shovel-- so in went pounds and pounds of store-bought garden soil and fertilizer. When enough was prepared, I bought flowers: lupine, peony, ice plant, iris, phlox, hen & chicks, various succulents. Before noon I had done about 1/3 of what I conceive now to do. I was happy. I sang and hummed all through the doing. I was very dirty and sore when I got home, though both conditions have now been amended.

The day ended in paroxysms of rain.