It’s two-thirty in the afternoon, and I’m listening to Rod Stewart. You know Rod–Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?–Stewart. Honestly, I’m not a huge fan. It’s not like I have his poster ticky-tacked to my bedroom wall. But on certain days there’s something comforting about his voice. Wake up, Maggie, I think I got something to say to you. Every time I hear that lyric, I feel like I’m slipping into crushed velvet or pulling into my driveway after a hard week on the road. I can’t say why exactly. I guess it makes me smile and let down my defenses at the same time. I guess it helps me let go.

I was just doing this, blogging, a mere twelve hours ago. After I posted last night, I watched a documentary about Deepak Chopra on Netflix, then fell asleep to the sounds of a guided imagery/positive affirmation program. (Sometimes I multitask.) Anyway, not much else has happened since the last time we spoke–er–since the last time I spoke to myself. When I woke up this afternoon, I made breakfast, wrote in my journal, did my meditation. Now I’m back here blogging because I’m going out to eat with friends tonight and don’t want the pressure of having to write hanging over my head.

Lately I’ve been mentally comparing my parents’ home to Charlie Bucket’s house in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. You remember Charlie–he lived with his mom and both sets of grandparents, and all four grandparents were bedridden. In the same bed. Talk about a close-knit family. Anyway, they were all sick, at least until Charlie got his golden ticket and Grandpa Joe was miraculously healed. Well, around here, we’re all sick too. In addition to her clinical depression, Mom’s dealing with the effects of her cancer and its treatment. A couple days ago Dad started fighting a nasty cold or something. (He’s hacking a lot.) And I’m up-and-down with whatever it is I can’t get over–even though (God knows) I’m trying. Despite my best efforts and all that time in bed last night, I’m currently wiped out.

Cheer up, Charlie.

Earlier this week my mom’s doctor removed the “drain ports” that were put in a couple weeks ago during her mastectomy. Well, I don’t know if the ports were taken out too soon or if her bandages weren’t put on right, but yesterday when Mom came into the kitchen, I noticed a dark stain on the back of her nightgown. She didn’t realize it, but she’d been bleeding in bed. My aunts came to the house and helped Mom get cleaned up, but for Mom, the bleeding was the last straw. She broke down. “Why is it that when you think you can’t handle anything else, you’re given something else to handle?” she said.

Seriously.

The picture for today’s blog is of my sock monkey, Nick. I got Nick several years ago for a dance routine in which my dance partner Janie and I pretended to be kids and danced in footed pajamas. Nick was fastened to my outfit, and Janie’s sock monkey, Nora, was fastened to hers. Anyway, Nick was the only stuffed animal I kept when I had the estate sale and started over. I keep a Curious George button on Nick partly because–monkeys–and partly because it reminds me to stay open to whatever life brings me, to not get set in my ways.

A few nights ago I dreamed about Janie. We were watching a dance routine we’d performed, on someone’s phone. The video was eleven minutes long, which by anyone’s standard’s is a ridiculously long time for a dance routine. But it was a dream, so I guess anything goes. Toward the end of the routine, we did an aerial combination. In reality, the combination should have only taken a few seconds, but it went on and on in the dream because we were holding poses. First I held her upside down and above my head for a full minute, then I held her, somehow, behind my back for another. Had you been watching the routine, you would have thought what I was thinking while watching it in the dream–Impossible.

Yesterday, after reading one my blogs, a friend told me she thought I was brave. Y’all, I’ve never used that word to describe myself. For all the bullshit I’ve been through in life, I’ve never thought of myself as brave or strong. But as I’ve chewed on the dream this week, I’ve realized it was about seeing my inner strength and about recognizing the impossible things I’ve overcome. It was about all the times I thought I couldn’t handle anything else–and then did. In Maggie May, Rod Stewart says, “I’ll get on back home one of these days.” Maybe this lyric is why hearing this song feels like pulling into the driveway. It reminds me that not only am I on the right path–the path back to myself (my brave, stronger-than-I-realized self)–but also that there’s no hurry to get there.