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Anxiety takes many forms. The other day I spoke with a friend who chooses the tight spins of ruminating. Oh God, do I know them well.

We started listing some of the strategies we might try instead to knock us off the loop of the same old same old:

Do something, anything, physical. Walk. Ride a bike. Stretch. Do yoga.

Talk out loud to myself or someone else or even God. What a concept.

In the spirit of minimizing harm, chew ice or gum, instead of numbing with drugs or alcohol or eating everything in sight.

Write…maybe a playlet with dialogue between parts of myself?

Do something for someone else. Write a card. Make cookies and freeze them until delivery is possible.

Create a Vesuvius with my body. Tear up a phone book or the like. Growl.

Take a hot (or cold) shower or bath. Play music. Light candles.

Make a mix to match my mood. Dance to it.

Sing. Whistle. Play an instrument.

Just be unsettled. Accept it. Breathe. Rest in being.

Deliver self-touch which comes in many forms…maybe try Reiki?

If procrastinating is contributing, see if I can act on a concerning issue. Do the damn pros and cons chart if I must.

Pray (there it is again).

Etc.

My husband is an original, people, maybe the original in terms of Reduce, Reuse and Recycle. His shenanigans over the years have resulted in a few of our big fights. Like when we finished the basement including laying linoleum under a leaking washing machine. Rob insisted on jerry-rigging a fix and putting a drip pan under it. Not my favorite solution but we saved some money and did get ten more years of life out of ‘er.

So this week our century-old home is in surgery—we are having an electric heat pump installed—and I’ve had ample opportunity to see evidence of Rob as Earth Steward. To prepare we had to clear out the furnace room. My word! For the most part, that workshop area has been his purview and I have stayed clear.

I was surprised to find box after box of used packaging—styrofoam, soft plastic, cardboard plus pill bottles—and realized he was waiting for a better plan for disposal. Bless Jesus! We found Ridwell, a local service that carts material away to reuse and recycle.

Thus I am enjoying the satisfaction of moving what’s accumulated along and out-of-here! I know there are oodles of issues remaining. For example, are we really avoiding landfill? And the proverbial: the rest of our house remains packed-to-the-gills with belongings we rarely use; how can we keep rid-welling without motivation from a big project?

For now we are moving in the right direction. We are digging through it. Even after all these years, I’m still getting to know and appreciate this ol’ house and my old man.

Usually I resist buying hard covers but I had heard a favorable review on NPR about Ann Patchett’s newest novel. So when I stopped by our neighborhood bookstore for something else and saw first edition, signed copies, that sealed the deal. I was thrilled with my purchase. Then my friend’s mother went on hospice, a friend who is also one of three girls, like the daughters in the book, and I gave it to her.

Later the next day I was with Mom and stopped to buy sunflower seeds for her bird feeder, along with another photo album. She complained that those purchases weren’t necessary but when I asked if she’d feel better if I bought them with her credit card, she said, “Sure, and I hope you’ll buy something for yourself from me too.”

The only thing I could think of that I wanted was my own copy of Tom Lake. I secretly hoped I could still get a signed copy but that didn’t matter as much as having a good book for a luxurious nonstop read when we got to the beach. Mom replied that was a great idea and she hoped I’d pick one up for her too at her expense. I don’t care what they say about Alzheimer’s; she’s still got it when it counts.

Such luck. When I got back to the bookshop there were four signed copies left so I, meaning Mom, bought them all. My sisters each have one coming their way.

And, once again, Annie P. does not disappoint. I cracked the book yesterday and have happily galloped through, sunk still and deep into a good story, marveling at her writing prowess.

Thanks, Mom. We now have our own sweet story about this book. And here’s to supporting independent bookstores and good literature.

The two most elder in this photo (not counting Santa) are three years apart in age and in their nineties. The next generation, their daughters, are three years apart in age too, the very youngest being me. Each of these two are the oldest of three girls. I love sharing that sibling configuration with my friend, Jeanne.

Tinky died yesterday at almost 99. Mostly, to be honest, I am happy for her. She lived a long and fascinating life, was well-loved and died peacefully.

For this, I am encouraged. I hope we can live into such a graceful and swift passing when my mother’s time comes.

As I remember Tinky and wrap my arms around Mom tomorrow, I will bless the day I was born. How grateful I am to love these nonagenarians, especially the one who gave me life.

It is still early. I am in the Indy airport waiting to head home to Seattle.

I am enjoying watching and listening to these friendly Hoosiers. I enjoy my wonderful sister most of all. Again, she has made a wonderful home for herself.