Looking out my Backdoor: Sweat the small stuff!

I am unhinged. This morning my daughter sent me a picture of a lap blanket she bought me.

I am in tears. The blanket, purple and turquoise, with feathers and butterflies and such, is beautiful. Beautiful.

You know who uses lap blankets?

Old women, that’s who! Old women! A few days ago I had another birthday. The good news is that this morning I woke up still alive and grateful. The other side of that coin feels like a slap in the face.

These last couple weeks have been hard. I rappelled down the steep cliffs into a pit of depression, dragging along all my niggling fears and worries in my backpack, knowing I could feed and grow them in the fertile pit.

Lethargic days. No energy. Nights my mind managed to find some unsolvable problem, danced around a Mobius Strip from whence it could not jump off.

Maybe my birthday precipitated it. Maybe not.

I muddled around in the muck and mire a few days, lying awake through the dim hours of the nights. I tell it like it is. One night I said aloud, “I’m scared.” “Scared of what?” the saner part of me asked. And answered, “Scared of dying alone in poverty.”

Talk about a slap in the face. But that is what it took for me to begin the arduous climb back out of the pit, leaving my backpack behind.

I had to ask for help along the way, of course.

Josue came to talk with me. We both ended in tears, talking about being scared. When he left my patio, I felt better just for the talking.

Charlotte sent me a link to watch, live, an osprey nest in Missoula. Seeing an osprey hanging out in a spot familiar to me brought memories from when I’d lived in Missoula, as well as the pleasures of simply watching ospreys hang out.

Crin took me for a walk in her neighborhood park in Victoria, via a series of photos. Seeing the daffs and tulips and primroses and especially the forsythia perked up a little piece of my heart.

Kathy, who got stuck in Banff, not by her choice, and not a hardship, not to be outdone by her sister, took me on a walk along an icy mountain stream. I could feel the cold, smell the ice and the pines and firs.

Gary wrote me about an “ah-ha” moment. After 27 years of slogging in real estate, he said that staying home is powerfully healing, stripping away his workaholic guilt, allowing him to truly enjoy those close to him. It is good.

Pam, with whom I shared that I dragged my painting supplies out of storage, set up an easel, selected a canvas, sent me a link to a Havre artist who shares her insights and perceptions. A gift.

Janet and Tom, my only remaining gringo neighbors, who chose to stay on the Rancho, said she and Tom express gratitude daily for simply being here, a place beyond any dreams they’d ever had. Those simple words touched me and reminded me, to not compare my insides with somebody else’s outsides. I’m always wrong. We share a living dream.

Michelle from Oconahua, up the road a piece, emails daily; Are you OK? Need anything?

Ben reminded me that most of my worries are none of my business. Blunt. But correct.

Dee observed, in the midst of all my angst, “You are reading national news, aren’t you.” It was not a question.

“News? What news? It is all speculation. Maybes. Dire predictions. Conspiracies. Idiocies. Gossip. The sky is falling.”

“Quit it,” were her words of advice. “I think I will,” I agreed. I’m not one to capitulate easily to my bossy daughter but I recalled how many times over this last year I’d said to her, “Don’t watch the news! It makes you crazy.”

What makes me feel good today? Getting up in the morning, still alive. Making cowboy coffee. Planting another pot of lettuce. Walking the Rancho lanes. Gorditas for lunch. Dabbing paint on canvas. Picking a papaya from my tree. Talking with friends.

Waiting for my old-woman lap blanket. It’s all small stuff.

——

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 http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].