I’ve been doing a variation on gratitude journal. I’ve been blogging about things that delight me. I started doing it just before the world began to implode.
It’s an interesting thing because it requires attention. Delight I find to be a fleeting thing. A quick moment that makes me smile, or a moment where the brain grenades recede because I found some sensation that overwhelmed them, like the soft fur on my cat or the smell of bread baking.
I think the attentiveness of it is part of it’s therapy. Of trying to notice those tiny moments of delight that exist but are often as quickly forgotten or not given the importance they deserve.
It’s becoming a bit harder as the numbers of infected increase. I have a tendency toward hypochondria, so I’m just waiting for the symptoms. No. I’m looking for the symptoms. When I’m home I take my temp 5 or 6 times a day. I’m not helped by having spring hay fever.
But as I look at how my brain has been dealing with this pandemic, I’m fairly pleased. I have not fallen into a stillness. The brain grenades have stayed mostly at a distance. The worst part is the hypochondria. And I am wondering if some of it is my attention to delights. Of course Spring is here and that presents me with lots of moments of delight. Walking outside to sunny skies and 60 degrees is just a rush of delight. Seeing flowers growing all over the place when I take my walk is lovely.
I have had times in my life where I went through the whole spring without paying the slightest bit of attention to the white puffs of pear trees and cheerful dandelions and laughing daffodils. And I think it’s not good for me. I’m glad I’m noticing the delights of life.
I’m not being sardonic, ironic or sarcastic. I truly love Broccoli, although I keep misspelling it, so my delight does not extend to all it’s aspects apparently. Thank you, Spell Check for your minatory corrections. I’m frankly also glad for spell check, although I mostly express my annoyance with it. Having grown up and lived my young adulthood in a time before it’s existence, I know the suffering, the embarrassment of being a poor speller.
But back to the Broccoli. I love it. Raw or cooked. Frozen or Fresh. I don’t think I’ve ever had it canned. I’m mostly not a fan of canned veg so probably wouldn’t love it. But maybe?
I use broccoli slaw on my sandwiches instead of lettuce. It provides crunch and a marvelous taste. And so many more nutrients than lettuce.
I often take mashed potatoes and broccoli to work as my lunch. It’s marvelous in a soup. It’s a lovely additive to nearly any casserole. Particularly those Mid American casseroles that generally feature Campbell soup of some variety.
Of course I love a lot of foods. But what makes broccoli special is that it’s GOOD FOR ME. This is what makes it delightful. To love something that is actually good for you is so rare that it’s nearly like finding the Hope Diamond, fully cut, in your backyard.
I felt it had to be celebrated. Broccoli. It’s Good.
Last week was a particularly craptastic week but was relieved by one moment of light. A tiny very brown puppy with floppy ears and enormous eyes arrived in a box sitting on a red tea towel and looking slightly worried.
Buster Brown, as he was later christened, had been temporarily part of one of the dispatcher’s households but the extant dog was violently against the puppy and it was deemed safer for the puppy and the children playing with said puppy if it did not stay. So, an empty nest couple who work evenings agreed to adopt Buster. Consequently, he arrived in his box looking a bit nervous and cowed.
And thus I was introduced to him. After spending a day in near tears, suddenly all the anxiety and exhaustion that had plagued my day fled in the face of a brown face with large eyes.
Buster is never going to be big. He’s a dachshund/chihuahua mix. He is a gorgeous chocolate brown color that I have rarely seen so perfectly and beautifully grown in a dog’s coat. He has lovely soft ears and is calmer than I would have ever assumed any offspring from those two breeds could be. And right now he is just about the size of a man’s hand.
Happily, Buster was surreptitiously brought back again the following evening, after the big bosses had left. He’d had time to be recognize the safety and love that was his new home and had lost the sad worried look. One of the girls in the office took him off his leash and ran him up and down the office space and he had all the spunk and happiness that is puppies.
I hope that Buster visits us regularly. He is a boon to my mental health. A temporary relief to anxiety and sadness. Joy is his vocation.
I’m sorry I don’t have a picture of the Joy of Buster. Perhaps I will remember to take one this week if he visits, instead of just enjoying him.