I am a die-hard. I don’t give in. I don’t give up . . . unless it seems impossible to make inroads to my health and safety. It’s not only the mental health and physical health. There is that all important part of me that no one else is privy to . . . my soul that feeds my spirit.
In younger days it was who of us four kids would stick it out as we stacked bales of straw and hay in the hot stifling hay loft. In the 60s it was a matter of helping in clearing an acre in Texas so we could make a home out of a chicken shack. In the mid 60s it was stepping up for milking cows, helping with farrowing piglets while I was cumbersome waiting for my own babies to be born.
It has continued in my life. It is very difficult, almost painful for me not to take care of what each and every day brings. It is not a chore. It does not bring me a heavy heart to make those decisions and those decisions come swiftly. Done, finished and on to the next best part of the day. I have many “best days.” Sometimes I have to pinch myself as to the life I have. It is sweet and each night I say a prayer of thanks for it.
I have watched many, many snowflakes this winter sitting in Dennis’ chair in our west porch looking out the windows. How wonderful and precious that there was not one flake that had been duplicated. How wonderful and precious that there is not one single duplication of . . . me. I know myself well, and seriously, I don’t think the world could take it.