Waiting for the sparkle

It’s a slime mushroom! It’s growing on a stalk, so not a slime mold

On Saturday, I had my day all planned. Does this sound like famous last sparkle-words? I was pleased with myself, look at me recovering from a bad couple of days with pain in my back, diving back into what needed to happen to keep things on track. A vertical me was more hopeful and more likely to achieve than a horizontal one. I set my alarm, got up early, did my spiritual work, and then wrote. I was having such a great time in my novel, the Jorrie-world, that I managed to burn my oatmeal, which takes some doing. It still tasted good. Maybe I was hungry.

The day before, I’d organized two bags of garbage in the car to take to the depot on the island. I was going to the library, and I had a parcel to drop off at the post office returning two of the least-flattering dresses I’ve ever tried on, shudder, I don’t look like that. Really. Everything was in the car, all organized. I even had a grocery list. The last couple of times I’ve stopped in at the Tru-Value, whole shelves were stripped bare. This is part of the charm of living on a small island. Groceries only come twice a week. And sometimes what I’m looking for—yogurt, for example—doesn’t arrive at all.

After I cleaned up the stuck-on oatmeal pot, I did every single last one of my stretches and listened to a podcast about the state of the publishing world and part of an interview with an editor. I was waiting for my tech guy who’d said he’d arrive “late morning.” I took that to mean as 10:30. My tech person is a lovely man. However, I understand that with him, time can be elastic. But surely after he finished, I’d have time to stop off at the farmers’ market, too, and see if the taco guy was there. By the time I got my other chores done, it would be lunchtime. Tacos at the market sounded like a fine idea.

At 11:30, I texted my tech person. “I’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” he texted back. “Read late and slept in.”

Okay. I’d give up the idea of the post office, which closes at noon on Saturdays. But he’d said a few minutes. I could still get tacos before the market closed.

While I waited, I could strip the chicken from the bones of the spatchcock chicken I’d had for supper the night before. It had been madly disappointing; I’d have to turn it into something delicious as well as soup. That would be a good use of my time. So I did that, expecting at any moment, I’d see my tech guy walking down the driveway. I even had paper towel at the ready so that holding a square of it, I could open the door for him and not get the lever greasy.

It was going to be a squeaker for me to get to the farmers’ market before it closed at 1:00.

Instead of standing around, I might as well make chicken stock. When I’d defrosted my chest freezer earlier in the week, I’d discovered a frozen chicken carcass. I scooted out to the toolshed where the freezer lives, retrieved the chicken, and put it in a big pot with the remains of the previous night’s supper.

Hmm. Still waiting. What did I have for vegetables to add to the stock? Oops, let me throw the pinch of sad-looking cilantro into the compost pail.

Seeing how I now had everything out of the crisper, it would be a shame not to take the drawer out. Yikes, was that mummified grapes in a tiny glass dish hiding at the back? How on earth did it slide down? I’ve been looking for that dish. I roughly chopped carrots, celery and onion to add to the stock later.

The Mediterranean Dish, How to make chicken stock

I was reminded of the song that used to delight me when I was a kid, “There’s a hole in the bucket, dear Eliza. . .” Each thing led to another, alright, but none of it was taking me where I’d planned.

By the time my tech guy had come and installed a switch on a router, my stock had come to the boil, I’d missed the market, and I was starving. My back was bugging me again. I now had to unearth something to make lunch. Definitely, I was not up to a dart-to-the-library and grocery shop. All my careful plans had gone south.

But was it the end of the world? I felt fortunate to have someone who lives around the corner who comes when I need tech help. We’re part of a community of neighbours and we wish one another well. Earlier in the year, I’d tried a recommendation from a friend. “This woman comes on time,” she told me. When I emailed, her person told me crisply that her client list was full, good luck.

Don’t worry, honey, it’s very grown-up to make plans and then hope to hell the other person cancels them. The New Yorker

Later on in the afternoon that went unexpected places, I enjoyed a cup of tea. Sometimes tea is meh and sometimes it’s delicious. This was the latter. I was surprised; why wasn’t I more annoyed? Was it the smell of really good chicken stock that filled the house? I was thinking about sparkly and how often my life veers sharply sideways. I’ve had to learn to be forgiving of myself. I continue to learn this. Daily.

Today was not what I had expected. Yup, sounds like life, alright. As Taylor Swift says, “Just because you make a good plan, doesn’t mean that’s what’s gonna happen.” I’m not her age, with enough energy to power a small village. I’m a vintage being with some health challenges. Comes with the territory. As Lou Reed tells us, “There’s a bit of magic in everything and some loss to even things out.”

The sparkling things that came out of the sideways day were a clean crisper drawer, a bowl of chicken meat ready to use, a found glass dish, and a large pot full of delightful chicken stock. More spiritual practice (yay!) in accepting myself as someone who does the best I can. And writing. I had that planned and the alarm was set so I’d have time to write and do my stretches.

There’s planning and then there’s flexibility, right? Learning to dance with them both is where the magic comes in.

How do you handle going sideways in your day?

Port Washington, Pender Island