Dangerous Compassions


The swamp cooler sounds bad, like there’s a problem with a belt, so Ming turned it off.  I’m uncomfortable and unhappy.  Up in the night.

Zillions of things to do.  I was haphazard.  What a mess.  There’s no good place to look.

Ming is chipping away at the mountain of dishes.  It seems to take forever.

The mats are still at the church, which looks bad.  The administrator doesn’t answer our emails or calls.  So we’re just going to show up before church on Easter Sunday and load up the minivan. 

I feel upset it’s come to this.  I was supposed to have a sabbath.  Maybe someone else can go with Ming.  Just thinking about it is too much.

I asked someone for help.  He said he was busy.  Of course–tomorrow’s Easter.  I wanted to say, yeah, I’m busy too, but I’m doing it anyway. 

I’m sacrificing myself for a relationship between the church and the non-profit.  Why am I doing that?  I’m thinking of the greater good and the future.  It hurts, not to take care of myself, but the alternative hurts more.

We need to buy a new landline phone.  We have two broken ones.  The arrested people wrote the landline’s number in sharpie on their arms beforehand.

Get rid of two broken phones, buy a new phone, return this working phone we borrowed to the Catholic Worker.  Just those three things are too much.  There are a zillion other tasks too.

I feel like the things to do are endless and killing me.   I guess this is burnout.

I need privacy, quiet, and solitude.  I need sleep.  I need a good place to be.  I need a clean kitchen so I can cook and feed myself decently.  I need the energy to take a shower and wash my hair.  I need a working swamp cooler.  It’s supposed to hit 96 on Thursday.

I’m not getting up on the roof.  Seems like swamp coolers are always broken, like they’re a project.  I feel like giving up.

“What can heal me?” I asked Ming as he fell asleep.  He answered something in sleep language.  I’d like to sing myself well again.  I don’t want anyone to hear me singing, though.

The dishwasher is whooshing, and I wonder if I could sleep again.  There’s not enough help in this world.

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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