Twigs

This morning I checked with the owner of the window washing company to see if I had chosen the right stuff to use on the deck, and he said he thought another thing would be more appropriate; he thought the Deck Correct would be overkill. The deck wood looks pretty bad to me, but worse must exist somewhere. I was on the deck pondering the colors for the other product, of which there appeared literally to be a thousand, when I got a text message from the realtor saying she had sent the closing paperwork. I’ll have to get back to deck colors tomorrow. It was off to Dad’s desk to read documents and make notes and talk to the realtor and examine my bank account and communicate with my siblings.

The paperwork included the Bill of Sale, indicating that Bugwalk (“Seller”) hereby sells to Bugwalk (“Buyer”) the property located at such-and-such spot. 

The plant had never sounded louder than on this day, of course, which fortunately was otherwise lovely, and of course anxiety arose and my head began to ache a little and a knot began to form in my gut, all to be expected as the momentous occasion approaches.

I wasn’t able to connect with the person at the title company today regarding the actual transfer of funds, so that will likely be tomorrow.

I went out for a walk in the afternoon and passed an apartment complex with a very loud piece of machinery running just outside the units of rent-paying tenants, likely an air conditioner. And then there are people who live right on Washtenaw and listen to the roar of traffic all day long. It could definitely be worse.

Except as noted above, I am on an even keel emotionally today, and I am trying to remember Sayadaw U Tejaniya’s words: Objects themselves (in this case, this sound) are not good or bad. The investigation is of what’s going on in our minds, noticing if there is aversion or grasping or if we had become lost in thought and are just now aware again.

My sister, that sly dog, very casually mentioned that our mother liked the power plant, feeling that it was a suitable object for an engineer to gaze upon. If she liked it, then (gulp) I like it!

My ritual after getting in bed includes offering gratitude to my parents. I say their whole names, then their less formal names, then “Dad” and “Mom.” This generally leads to my feeling sad or even very slightly panicked, or kind of shocked: How can this be? Last night I suddenly wanted to see a video of my mother, and alas then was up for 90 minutes in the middle of the night watching videos of my mother in memory care, but must say that some of those gave me joy without an ensuing wave of sorrow, which is what happens almost every time I think of either parent. She was so funny. In one video, she says something like, “Because I am young and beautiful, I do not need to grovel before a little pile of twigs.” I should think not.