I decided to sit in the front yard with Lloyd finally asleep and Dallas just waking up but realizing wakefullness for awhile, two fingers in his mouth-style. The front yard because my neighbor was in the back. She's very pleasant ... when not drunk. Intrusively talkative when drunk. Intrusively talkative often. She must have the day off. And with so little time to sit by myself, the front yard would do.

My front steps face north and shade until late day so I have to sit on the stone path or the driveway when taking the quick respite. The long respite is the soft swing in the backyard. Respite because life as me can be difficult.

In five or so minutes outside, Pema Chodron taught me the buddhist slogan, "Whatever you meet unexpectedly, join with meditation," and I did. A tiny, legged worm, a centipede of a kind, but not the stinky one, crawled upon the stone where I sat, in search of something. I of course didn't want it touching me, but it was unexpected so met with meditation.

My journey inward was the usual: like staring at the sun, but halted this time by a keep out sign before my heart. It was meant for me and put there by me, which is incredibly sad and nothing I would like any of you to do to yourselves. I wasn't letting myself in because of how I reacted to my husband's behavior in the past two days. I didn't know how deep it ran until I tried to let go of everything.

His grandpa died. The stress on his chemically-abused brain caused noticeable forgetfulness: asking how his grandpa was and was our car that he drove home from the mechanic's fixed. I lost it. What "it" did I lose? I lost my focus on myself so necessary for my serenity. I assumed a relapse. I imagined life without him. I was mean. My reaction was fine and maybe normal. Problem is that I was harboring resentment against myself for it, like a weed picked off the surface with roots still imbedded.

All this from meditation spurred by a bug I can't even identify. A bug looking for a hole to slide its life down into.