Finding the Floor

I am okay, but sometimes I still cry. Tears are okay.

I stayed home this  morning and rummaged through the chaos that was once my bedroom. Low, slanted ceilings and lack of storage space (not to mention wall space), along with a hectic work schedule, makes keeping up a challenge. I'm not saying it's impossible, only that I'm not doing a spectacular job of keeping the place neat and tidy. It's not like I can spread myself and my belongings all through the house, although I've done a bit of that too. I have mounds of stuff to sort, some of which I left behind two years ago.

I am attached to things. It can be a character flaw of sorts, but I am working on it. This morning I tossed an old music box in the trash. The wood was cracked where the hinge attached to the lid, it was missing a decorative knob, and when I wound it up no music played. I tied it in a bag with some other junk even though deep inside I could still feel the emotions experienced when it was given to me. A gift by my parents when I was a young teen. Half an hour or so later it emitted a cry for help by playing a few straggling notes here and there. I did not rescue it. Baby steps.

It's been a quieter than usual weekend so far. I stayed home more, even attempted a nap this afternoon. I had a very nice lunch meeting with a friend. We sat and talked for two hours. And this evening when H and S went out to the mall, I went to the air conditioned Barnes and Noble, sat in one of their comfy chairs, and perused a book before coming back home for the night. Coming up to my room is much more enjoyable now that I can see the floor. And I have my "fan club" here to keep me cool.