Araminta,
Brewster has a message for you:  "I've got my eye on you!"

Total relaxation. I do this and fall on the floor on my head.

After all my ranting, after all my bitching, after all my "she doth protest too much" protesting...
...I have a Twitter account.
I read a very convincing essay on a women's blogging site that basically spoke to me as, If you want to get published, GET OVER your resistance to platform.
So I got over it.
And got addicted. Traded resistance for total submersion.
"Are you tweeting again?" my fully supportive, deeply encouraging, totally neglected husband asked me just five minutes ago. (I wasn't; I was checking Facebook!)
Ever since I started thinking that I might need to consider the possibility of having a Twitter presence, I've been thinking about my Twitter name -- JewellofaWriter -- and when I signed on and that name was available, well, obviously that is a sign.
Now everyone thinks I've totally lost my mind but really, I was hurting no one but myself by resisting Twitter. If that's part of the plan to get publish, then bring it on.
Here's something else, though: Having experienced the rapid pace and addictive nature of Twitter, I can see why there are so many articles about meditation and why people need to do it and why more people are doing it. We need to rest our minds. We need a chance to de-Twitter, de-Facebook, de-... I've run out of ideas but you get my drift.
I've added another monkey to the playpen that is my mind. Not sure if I can handle it or not but damn if "JewellofaWriter" ain't catchy!

We lost a hen yesterday -- but Abby tried to save it!
Happened while Mum and I were in Moncton (yes, shopping -- but not buying).
When we arrived home at 4:30, I said, "I'd better take Abby for a walk."
Dwayne said, "Oh, she doesn't need one. Abby, tell your mother what you did."
Dwayne said he was on the front deck and knew Abby was around back. When he went to find her, though, she was gone. 'One-armed Willis' jumped on the four-wheeler and went back the road to search for her. Finally, she responded to his calling by rushing out of the woods at the top of the field.
Since I needed a walk, we went anyway and on our way back, I decided to cut through the field instead of going back down the lane. That's when I spied feathers sticking to the dried grass.
I knew them immediately: They were Blondie's feathers.
Blondie was one of our two Americauna hens who lay green-shelled eggs. Both Blondie and Annie (she's orange, named for Anne of Green Gables) are excellent layers. They also are hens who fly out of the pen to wander around the yard. Abby runs after the chickens but I can't tell if she's chasing or herding. She stops as soon as I tell her to but she's quick and I worry she'll hurt the chicken by making it run too fast.
When I found the feathers in the field, I looked at Abby and said, "Did you kill a chicken? Did you?"
She did not answer but she looked upset. Guilty?
I showed Dwayne the feathers as soon as I got back to the house.
"Fox," he said.
"But maybe Abby -- "
"Nope. That's why she disappeared. She was chasing the fox."
She was trying to save one of her chickens.

The last of Blondie's feathers and the last egg she laid. 

Actual conversation, based on Mother being annoyed that a place she wanted to go for some shopping is -- shocking -- closed on Sunday during the winter season.

Me: "Well, we could go to Sunnyside Mall today [to shop for my Awards gala outfit] instead of Wednesday afternoon."
Mum: "Oh, no, you have lots of work to do."
Dwayne: "What's the difference if you go today or Wednesday? It's six of one, half dozen of another."
Long pause.
Me: "That's too much math for me."

So we're still sitting here not knowing what to do. But I have a crap load of work to do so I guess I'm going shopping for an outfit.

It's been a tough couple of weeks; too much chaos, too many deaths. My heart feels squeezed out.
Archie does his best to keep me smiling. He's so bad but you can't be mad at him 'cause he's so darn cute. 

Doing yoga with Mommy. I'm helping learn to ignore super-cute distractions.

Snuggles on Papa's recliner. Hey, you with heavy head!

You know when you sit down with an occupational therapist because you want an assessment of the ergonomics of your work space and the first thing he recommends is meditation that you might have a little too much on your plate.

"You're a little tightly wound," he said to me.
In my defense, I woke up with and still had a headache that made my head feel like it was being squeezed in a vice so I was desperate to find some relief for the neck and shoulder problems that I associated with that.
"How is it that when I go away for a week or I'm sick, and not doing any of my stretches, no yoga, my body feels its best? No pain in my back, no pain in my shoulders or neck, no headaches. We're supposed to exercise to be healthy and live a long time but I think it's killing me."
I was a tiny bit whiny by the time I landed in his office at 3 o'clock. 
The OT simply said, "It's stress."
Ah.
"You're doing too much."
Really? I hadn't noticed.

My To Do lists: Ongoing, and next week's appointments.

But he was right. As soon as he spoke about breathing, I realized I'd been breathing from my upper chest for weeks. Rushing through the stretching in the mornings, sick for two weeks, mind always thinkingthinkingthinking. I'd stopped breathing deeply and had lost the calming effect of getting enough oxygen infused into my body.
So for the next six weeks, my morning stretching time will become a morning mediation time and my exercise will be walking the dog -- which he claims is my "me" time -- and every night at bedtime, I'm writing 5 things I'm grateful for in a journal. Which simply reminded me that I'd also been rushing, or eliminating, my morning prayers and daily intention from the end of my yoga practice. More "me" time swept away by doing too much.
It's so hard to accept when a complete stranger takes one look at you and tells you what's wrong -- especially when there's nothing you can or WANT to do about it because all of the stuff that is making me busy, all of that stuff on the To Do lists, are in pursuit of what I really want to accomplish.
Short term pain for long term gain.
Funny thing is just hearing him identify the real source of my shoulder and neck pain (which resulted in the head pain) helped to relieve the pain and strain. Knowledge is a powerful cure.
But I still did my meditation and walk this morning and it was very nice to feel like myself again.
There's still something wrong with my office chair, though. It's not all in my mind!

Watching the Masters will his two favourite "nurses" helps take Dwayne's mind off the pain, or at least, puts his mind on the fact his legs are falling asleep:

As soon as the spring equinox arrives, Dwayne waits for the true beginning of our spring: The arrival of our ospreys around the 12th of April.
And they were right on schedule: First sighting of an osprey on the nest was Thursday around noon.
It's amazing what lift to the spirit it is to see that familiar shape up there against the sky, to know that they survived the flight to Texas and back, but also that they returned to us yet again.
The difference this year is that they both returned together. Usually one osprey arrives and a week later the other one does.
Guess they wanted to get right to mating since they're doing that. A lot.

The Other People living in this house do not get up early enough. I am awake at 5:30 but if I don't have to go to work, I don't jump right out of bed. Wish I could be that disciplined because early morning is the best time for Thoughts.
Of which I had several Important Ones this morning.
Mum and I attended an Alzheimer's support group yesterday afternoon, not because we need it but because I'm writing a column about it and the coordinator wants to help me spread my message about the spirituality of Alzheimer's. So the sleeping hours, which for once were plenty and deep, produced some excellent Thoughts after I got out of bed, made my chai tea and sat in a chair to drink it (still not well enough to sit on the yoga mat).
That ritual is like flicking a light switch. It starts the thought process and I start writing it all down.
By seven o'clock, I could wait no longer to tell my mother what I had come up with and went upstairs to rap gently on her door. She answered, and she let me come in. She was still in bed but awake; I hadn't disturbed her. Not until I entered with my entourage who proceeded to jump onto the bed and all over her.
"Next time I scratch on the door, you won't answer," I said.
"No, there will just be silence," she answered.
"Well, then, I'll have to come in to make sure you're dead."
Pause.
"I mean, to make sure you're not dead."
It's not a Freudian slip, really, it's not.

Been so sick, I haven't been using the camera like I should. But I did catch this photo of Willis ("Whatchu talkin' 'bout?") the One-Armed-Man resuming his housecleaning duties.

Aaaaargh!
What does it take to get this guy to convalesce??

(Please note the disembodied hand hanging down.Gets really weird when it waves at you!)

Guess what I'm eating?
A piece of toast.
Even though it's been almost a year since I ate a wheat product of this size, I feel soooo crappy, I finally gave in and eat a slice of the raisin bread my mother bought yesterday. She was the only one of us well enough to leave the house for supplies.
Did I mention she has my cold, too?
These are Dwayne's nurses. We lie in bed all day, letting the poor, one-armed boy fend for himself. He's getting better care from the puppy and kitten. It helped -- us -- that I switched his extra-strength Tylenol with extra-strength Tylenol with a sleep aid so he slept for twelve hours last night. I'm sure he's feeling much more like taking care of himself today.
Aside from the excrutiating pain in his right shoulder.
I can't believe I don't feel any better today but you know what? The toast is helping. Maybe I'll have another piece.

Glad to report that the surgery is done and we're back home, doing our usual evening routine: Dwayne is eating chips and dip and I'm drinking hot lemon water while watching "Blue Bloods". Ah, home!

Dwayne took a Tylenol with a sleep agent last night and slept like a baby so I got to lie there all night and listen to him breathe and hope his cold wasn't getting worse. Unlike mine which slowly grew to a major sinus cold with laryngitis. Niiiiice. 

It was a longer than expected day at the hospital because Dwayne thought his surgery was at 9, turns out it was 10 but he didn't go in until 11! I had taken the first 68 pages of my novel with me so managed to get 2/3 of the way through it in a quiet cafeteria. 

What Dwayne had done was basically a shoulder refit. He has three pins to which the bicep muscles are reattached and his collar bone joint or something along with his rotator cuff were fixed. Between his stoned-baby impersonation post-op in the hospital and my fuzzy head, the details might be a little sketchy! All we care about is that the surgery is finally done, with no surprises, no complications, and now Dwayne can start healing. I'm surprised at how quickly the surgeon wants him moving his right arm and returning to physio.

Ah! Just went to take a photo of Dwayne sitting in his recliner, wearing in his elaborate sling and eating chips -- but the batteries in both cameras are dead!

"Draw a picture," Dwayne said. 

Dwayne's shoulder surgery is tomorrow at 8 am.
We both have colds, which is terrible timing, but hopefully his will have no impact on his surgery tomorrow.
I will be taking the first 68 pages of my novel with me for the first read-over/edit so hopefully, I'll get a couple of hours to work on that. I know, I know: be careful what you wish for -- I don't want many, many hours, just the regular amount for a routine shoulder surgery.
Mum is in charge of the two dogs and the two cats, the 12 chickens and one rabbit. No idea what the house will look like by the time we get home Friday evening but at least it's not cold enough for her to want to bring the chickens into the house.
Can't believe the surgery has finally arrived. Took a photo last night of his shoulders, as proof of how much his right shoulder has dropped and it's pretty amazing, the slope on it. Trying to collect evidence for what will likely be a fight for appropriate compensation. But Dwayne was told yesterday by the physiotherapist in Halifax, who was getting him fitted in his sling -- will have to show you a photo of that amazing system -- he wakes up with it on -- he was told that he has the best surgeon. Nice to hear.
Let's get this done.

Why everyone's life should include a young, male marmalade cat:

I miss my free writing days. Have I said that before, over and over and over? That's why there isn't much to read here.
I'M TOO BUSY ACTUALLY FREAKIN' WRITING NON-FREE STUFF.
Which is good but I guess you can it puts me slightly on edge. In a good way, I assure you.
Because now I have a new book project.
What? you ask. A completed memoir and one-quarter of the first draft of a novel aren't enough on top of the four columns a month you write for the newspaper and the Facebook stuff you post?
Well, um, no.
Because this one is The Mother Lode.
But, surprisingly, not about my mother. (Not at the moment, at least. I'm sure I can work her in.)
Now that my Field Notes column has been nominated for an award, I am going to try to leverage that into a collection of my Nova Scotia-inspired writing from the last ten years. That's quite a body of work, my friends. All to be pitched to a LOCAL publisher.
This is a bloody brilliant idea but I don't have to tell you that because you already know I am full of bloody brilliant ideas. It's the rest of the world that doesn't know that. The subtitle is lame but mine usually are. Then again, Maritimers aren't really known for being edgy. And, well, neither am I. SO IT'S ALL GOOD.
(Who am I channelling with all these capital letters?)
But where was I? Oh, yes, new book project.
This is called throwing rocks up into the trees and seeing what you knock down. I am now throwing LARGE rocks and hoping none of them hit me in the head on their way back down.
I would much rather be struck by a publisher.
Ha ha.