Looking out my Backdoor: Sometimes life - Soup or salad?

First serving: soup. When I hug friends goodbye, friends whom I see once a year or less frequently, I go into a three-day funk. My life feels like metaphorical soup, seasoned with a dollop of melancholy and a pinch of abandonment.

The day after Jerry and Lola left, I came the closest to a panic attack that I’ve been since the ’80s. Jerry and Lola are innocent. All they did was go home to Idaho.

My friends, whom I love, were tasty ingredients in my soup. I’d been six weeks gathering ingredients. Six weeks of guests, of going places, of visiting, of being with friends; all of this is good, positive stuff. Three weeks with Don and Denise. One week with friends in Mazatlan. Two weeks with Jerry and Lola. It’s all good. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

But my energy level had scraped bottom; the chicken broth simmered nearly dry in the pot. Say it however you wish, I was tired. Not quite scorched but close. Bitter herbs.

Jim rang the goat bell at my gate. He’d come to walk me over to Qi Gong. Twice a week we gather in the “park” for lessons. Qi Gong is a Chinese energy movement exercise. I don’t want to go. I want to crawl in bed and cover up my head. Not the healthiest move and I know it. So I go. For the energy.

First thing, Bonnie, then Samantha, who is our teacher, greet me with excitement. I would get to meet Anna, new in town, who wanted someone to help write a blog for Etzatlan. Bonnie and Sam knew the perfect writer for the project and, with the best intentions, volunteered me. I grimaced. Shriveled potatoes.

Then John and Carol asked me if we could resume daily morning Qi Gong in my yard like we did last year. I side-stepped the request. By this time I am shallow breathing. Too much salt.

Anna, immediately upon being introduced to me, began introducing her exciting new project she wanted to launch with a man whom she knew I’d like, blah, blah, blah, and I’m looking for the exit. The chicken tough, soup inedible.

Everybody is standing around listening. I want to say, “No! No! No!” But a part of me wants to be nice and consider the requests — maybe it would be fun — while the bottom of my gut said, “I just need to rest.”

My emotional response was out of proportion to the requests. I had given all I could give. I had irreparably damaged my overdrive gear. Mentally, I snarled. Overcooked my metaphorical soup.

Meanwhile, for dinner, I made real chicken vegetable soup. While standing over the sink, pan of simmering soup in one hand, bowl in the other hand, something flickered past my window and distracted me; a bird, a butterfly, a bat, who knows? I poured hot soup over my left hand, which immediately blistered. A metaphorical message?

I stepped out my door and ripped a sizable chunk of aloe from my plant and smeared my hand. The next morning my skin was smooth and I had no pain. But, I paid attention.

I let Anna know I’m not the person to write her blog. I walked to see John and Carol, to tell them I needed days to myself to rest and relax before making any decision about a group venture. Word got around quickly that “Sondra needs timeout.” My friends gave me that gift.

Emotions are not rational. When I tell my story, it seems a big fuss about very little. But for several weeks I had been jogged out of my routine. I was away from my home, my resting place, my solace.

After a few days of quiet, sitting on my back patio, contemplating the beauty of my flowers, or reading, or creating order in my little world, I feel almost ready to venture out. I dumped my metaphorical soup made with overcooked emotions. With rest I was able to reconsider the ingredients.

Last night I made a salad for dinner; lettuce, bell pepper, avocado, and tomato. I added a packet of tuna. At the last minute, I cut up a mango that needed to be used and tossed it all with oil and vinegar. Oh, my, that bit of mango made the vegetable salad sing and zing.

I think my life is back on track. I wonder if Pat and Nancie have the coffee pot perking. Only one way to find out. I’ll be back in a while.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].