Thoughts from my journal...

Sunday 2/01/2026 = 4

It snowed. Probably 6" - 7." 

I would like to go out in it.

But the experience is not worth the price. 

So, I remember...

Sledding and snow skiing. Snow forts, snowmen. Snowballs, that I would sometimes freeze in the refrigerator freezer. Collecting freshly falling snow to make snow cream. Lying down and making snow angels.

I long for days of clarity. 

From my observation, the state of my fatigue determines the state of my clarity.

What determines the state of my fatigue?

Many factors, I think...

Sleep quality.
Pain level.
Lacking purpose beyond selfcare.
Feeling anxiety, uncertainty, unprepared.

Will I ever feel or be prepared?

Yet am not I preparing by writing out these thoughts?

This is my journal. 

I am free here.

~*~

Monday 2/02/2026 = 14 = 5

I long to be pain free. 

There are times I don't feel pain...

Well, actually the only times I don't feel pain are when I sleep.

And that is an improvement. I seldom feel and get woken up by my pain. (knockonwood to the good fairies)

Are fairies real?

How about the Velveteen Rabbit? 

It became real.

Settle Carol.

Others seldom think of you. And when and if they do, you don't know what they are thinking. You can speculate and make educated guesses.

But why? Why put my energy into that?

I don't want to put my energy there. 

But too often, that is what creeps in and sometimes screams...

And I don't hear praise and goodness.

Instead, I hear criticism, harsh judgment, false accusations, and the derogatory labels that go with them.

Others have lived that too and in far, far worse, worse situations.

I still have my family, a few close friends, a few close acquaintances, and my ever-faithful love -- Nature.

I hope to again be able to commune with Her on Her turf. 

Love strokes...

Bedtime: Monday, 1/12/2026 = 5

How do you feel, my love?

Disturbed, by what is happening in the country, in the world. 

Authoritarianism -- "We're always right (and righteous); and if you disagree with us, you are a traitor." "Our motives are good; yours are evil." "We have the truth; you are brainwashed." 

Thing is, if someone accused me of such, I would probably cower. 

But I wouldn't have to. 

Nor would I have to attack.

I can take the statements apart with neutrality...

Thus began my journaling with ink and paper last night. Strokes across lined pages -- shorthand, cursive, italic. Black ink on white paper. 

The cardboard cover is black, dappled with white spots, and bound with a black-tape binding. "Composition Book" is printed on the front cover. Printed on the inside of the front cardboard cover is a nine-lined, Monday-through-Friday grid. The title printed above the grid states, "CLASS SCHEDULE" 

Printed across each 9.75x7.6-inch page are 25 horizontal blue lines on which to write and a vertical red line down the left side of each page delineating a margin. There are 100 sheets of paper in the journal, totaling 200 pages. I number each page. Next page up? Number 100, a century of days. Haha. I began this particular journal on 10/27/25. 

Printed on the back inside cardboard cover are a variety of small grids that contain a variety of conversion tables. And a multiplication table; I hadn't seen one of those in a while. Printed at the top, "USEFUL INFORMATION." 

On Christmas Day, 2025, my nineteen-month-old granddaughter came knocking on my closed bedroom door calling, "Meemaw. Meemaw." Hubby, who was with Granddaughter on her side of the door, opened the door to let her in with him following. He plopped her up on the king-size mattress and spotted her as she roamed around like a little lion cub, curious and delighted. I set aside my cushioned lap-desk and pen and journal. We then played kisses and peek-a-boo, and we giggled. 

She picks up my ballpoint pen.

I instruct her, "That is Meemaw's pen. It is a tool; it's not a toy." 

She looks at me like she is saying, "Okay. I know what a tool is." 

Son has been remodeling their home for sixish months and is still in process. Granddaughter has heard him say "tool" often, explaining that they aren't play toys. 

But it has a button! How exciting!! She pushes it and the ballpoint comes out. I say, "On." Another push and the ballpoint retreats. I say, "Off." We play this a dozen times as she watches the pen pop out and pop in. 

I show Granddaughter my journal, "This is Meemaw's journal where I write my thoughts." 

She seems curious. I show her how I use the pen to draw and write. I draw a picture of her and print her name under the picture. Then I hand her the journal.

With focus, she turns the pages. Pausing, perusing, like she is studying them. Using the pen, she draws scribblies across some of the pages over my writing. I am fine with that, actually happy. We have journaled together.

Art...

From little hands...

Love strokes...