Looking out my Backdoor: Overload-Where's the off switch?

It’s my own fault, of course. I’ve hit the wall. Can’t go any further. A day of rest would do wonders. Two days might put me back to myself.

If I’m not myself, who am I? I feel like a brainless blob. A wart on a toad. A knot on a log.

For one thing, Jim and Crin and I have been having too much fun. Since both of them are here for only a few weeks, we try to cram the time with explorations and adventures, fun along with our designated projects.

Jim alternated building a fountain, think babbling brook running over rocks, against a hillside for Bonnie with getting my therapy tub up and running. We had to wait for a heating element to arrive from the States. The element arrived four days early rather than my guess of three weeks late. I lost the bet.

Got the hot-tub working. Hooray! I had an afternoon soak as well as an evening soak. Ah, wonderful world.

Jim came over late in the evening, climbed in the water, hit the button to turn on the light and the whole caboodle up and died. Back to square one. Jim, however, left Monday, without time to figure out where the short originated.

This was harder on Jim than on me. Man-ego stuff, you know. I can wait. He had an expensive five minute soak. I had at least an hour. I’m neither comparing nor complaining. Jim took drawings, pictures, schematics back with him and is determined to return in the fall with parts plus knowledge of the inner workings of hydro-tubs.

Crin brought small quilting projects with her for us to sew together. We set up our machines in Crin’s casita and enjoyed hours stitching, talking and working with beautiful colors complimented by coffee and pastries. We didn’t finish our quilts so put aside the project for fall when she returns. She left this morning.

In the last several days we seem to have gone into social panic. We’ve been to Tonola, made a day trip to Tequila where we were fortunate to see the dancers fly from the pole set up in the plaza, twice. We’ve been to San Marcos, to Ahualulco, to Oconahua to see the dig at the ruins there, to the Mirador which is an incredible lookout on the mountain above our town, complete with a beautiful shrine, to Guamuchil, a nearby waterpark.

Every trip requires a meal, of course. And to this largess, we’ve added several trips into Etzatlan specifically to eat in places special to us.

As if enough isn’t happening, I decided to re-varnish my twenty boxes which stack into shelves for books and art objects, a never-ending project. Each box is made of heavy local pine from our region.

One good clean deserves another. All the books must be wiped down and the art objects and keepsakes washed. Have you any notion how filthy simple woven baskets can get? Windows behind the shelves must be cleaned; let’s do it while the shelves are down. Oh, and the cupboard between the two sets of boxes; ten stack on each side. Clean and re-arrange all the contents.

Of course, this leads me to deep clean of the rest of the house, why not?

I’d be fine with all the activity, love it, in fact, if I hadn’t done some sort of twisty-hurty to my hip. Felt like it slid out of the socket and back in again. I know that’s not possible. But I felt huge pain. And Fear. Yes, with capital “F.”

Did I stop activity for a few days to heal? Of course not. It’s not my way. Push on, woman, there is too much to do. Too much I want to do. Ha — there’s the kicker. Want.

Pain is a marvelous teacher. It pays no attention to my whining. In my life, because of past physical damage, pain tends to partner with fear. Together, they slammed on the brakes. I’m not at a stop — yet. But I’m moving in slow motion, searching the mental/physical/emotional “wall” for that elusive off switch.

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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]/.