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what a sorry sort

I have to admit that I can find problems even in the most idyllic situation if I let myself. Today I am letting myself whine about the pain in my right hand, probably a surge of arthritis there. I also feel rather tired and achey, maybe getting a cold. I look in the living room and see paper strewn about, cut in various galands by my grandson and taped to the walls and whatever else will have it, and I see cut magazines (I started that trend) and tissue paper bits. The dining table is piled with clothes I just folded, the kitchen counter has various crafy projects spread out on it.

A part of me is freaking out. Mess! OMG, as the grandson would say. Can I get it cleaned up all right? Has he done any permanent damage? And me, I hurt, and someone should feel sorry for me. I also fret that I can't think, can't concentrate, with others commanding my attention, either directly or indirectly. I make the excuse that I can't get stuff done because I am being interrupted.

And yet and yet. How many people can look around  at their new home, all new, and enjoy the company of a bright strange little grandson, and have the time to fret about the arthritis, and be able to take bike rides near the ocean, and to write journal posts about whatever I like...?

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Judith Lautner
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