No Chill

Have you ever had so much to do that you become paralyzed by it all? I am surrounded by 'reminder' sticky notes, pink, blue, and yellow slips of paper with loads of exclamation points telling me what to do -- notes I wrote -- that I huffily ignore, like, the dang sticky note isn't telling me what to do! But they were written for a reason -- many reasons -- and the weight of those notes equal the weight of 10 full-grown elephants in terms of how they press the vigor out of me. It's the chaos inside doing this. Chaos I cannot seem to tame.

The newest incense is sitting in a ball waiting for my hands to shape it. It must be done today before the wet paste decides to mold and forever ruin a beautiful batch using my own extracts. This one is called 'Bourbon & Firelight'. It's warm whiskey, smoke, and leather with a touch of sweetness. This incense is getting rolled into sticks -- not onto sticks, but into sticks as in there isn't a bamboo or wood stick in it, as it is the stick. 

Then I have to finish the student evaluation submissions, mail a package, work on tomorrow's course lesson, figure out my new Scrivener program, outline a couple of class booklets and a story, prep for the full moon plant and book exchange at the farm, pick roses and calendula for drying, wash dishes, wash a load of laundry, tidy up the kitchen, cook a pot roast, meditate for a minute, get in some reading, start a new batch of incense and soap . . . it is never-ending. 

On the less stressful and lighter side of things, I'm going back to Oregon this summer. From July 5 to the 20th I'll be in Salem, Oregon visiting my family. I am so excited about it. Last time was spent doing loads of nothing, just sleeping and reading, and a few nature hikes, but this time there's an itinerary of fun things the fam wants to explore, and hopefully we can squeeze in a few days of nothing. 

I recently discovered that one of the local wineries just a few miles from here sells grape alcohol (spirits) by the gallon. $125 a gallon, to be precise, but it's pick-up only. I haven't yet gone to get any, but it's on a sticky note somewhere . . .

Someone in our neighborhood left a handmade card on one of our cars yesterday that had "Bobby Appreciation" written on the cover. Bobby is our outdoor porch foundling cat who adopted us about a year ago. Prior to living on our porch, Bobby would sneak up and steal our other outdoor cat's food (Mr. Licorice), and sometimes get into fisticuffs with Mr. Licorice. My son took pity on him after seeing his frail little body huddled under a bush and coaxed him up to the porch for his very own bowl of top-quality chow. He's been with us ever since. He is the sweetest, most calm and mellow, loving, cuddly cat I've ever known. He's an American Bobtail, and we think he was dumped in the neighborhood after being picked up and neutered as a feral (he's got the tell-tale clipped ear of a fixed feral and the family jewels are missing). But he is no feral, and I doubt he ever was. Lost during a move? Maybe. Escaped? No way. Dumped? The odds are high. The card went on to say that Bobby the Porch Cat is the sweetest, cutest cat on the block and that we should always give him extra treats and scratches. We do! And apparently, someone in our neighborhood does too. You may be wondering why we don't have Bobby inside, which I for one would love, and the answer is pretty simple, our indoor queen cat, Spaghetti, is content to beep and chirp at Bobby through the screen door, but is in no way welcoming of his presence within her domain. Bobby is Mr. Chill, and Spaghetti's got no chill at all.