good enough is not good enough

I don’t want to merely survive (a "survivor" is a bar-set-too-low category, hrrmph) - I want to thrive. In relationships that are solid, mindful and safe. In works that feel purposeful. In some way better than I started before each kick in the face. What really kicked me about the fire is the loss of those people. The owner, the ex-Marine with the PTSD body like a box of rocks he’s been re-mastering for years, and the instructor who went through the windshield of his car and at 24 years old has had to re-learn to walk already as one of his lifetimes . . . all those people who were concentrating too.

But. If I’m standing in shit, I don’t feel like sitting down much. So I went out to the bale site and made clay slip and then plaster all day long and practiced how to trowel and had coffee with Bale-D and the pastor, both of whom are on their 2^nd or 3^rd lives of what they expect to be a pile of them. Like the yoga people, they talk about their lives like they would about a house they’re building, and swear at it when something doesn’t work right and re-arrange it endlessly and grunt and shove at it. And like the work. Mostly. Or try to anyway.

I can’t say as I ended up “la la la if at first you don’t succeed” these last few days – I was and am pissed as hell that I have to sustain any more losses and get around another impasse as I try to get to some kinda HEA (Happily ever After). But when we couldn’t find the comb I scored plaster with my fingernails:

It's gotten another coat since this pic, and the corners are being built up to taper at the top, and those are pagoda-style trough gutters made of wood - I'm not sure how those carry the water properly, but I'm scheduled for carpentry this coming weekend so I guess I'll find out.

p.s. Doug's eating, not much but he can't resist KFC entirely.