Dragonflies, Butterflies & Lady Bugs

Jobs & Jasmine

I did it -- it didn't happen quite like I wanted it to, but I'm no longer worrying about unusual piercings or shiny unnaturally-colored hair. Yesterday about thirty minutes after I posted one of K's helpers called to see if I could come in earlier for the third day of orientation. I realized it would be bogus for me to act as if everything were okay, so I asked if K were there. Although I had planned to go in and talk to her in person, this sort of trumped my plans. Long and boring dialog in a nutshell -- she was disappointed and perhaps a little frustrated that she'd have to hire someone else, but understood the choice I made and appreciated that I let her know sooner rather than later.

I also started my morning pages, which are actually evening pages. Rekindled my Artist's Way e-list. Did some work on writing and made a date to meet with a friend of mine who actually has stuff published. This morning I remembered that I had some poems published in Reclaiming Quarterly, so I guess technically I have been published. I wasn't paid for it and it's under my Craft name, but it's out there. So I'll refine my goal of publication to a goal of being paid for publication.

I had a weird... experience last night. It's funny because last week in my book discussion/study circle, a question about psychic experience was asked. I said that I've had experiences that I knew in the moment were psychic, but later talked myself out of believing. Last night falls into that category.

I pushed myself past my point of tired and stayed up till 2 AM. This night shift thing with Jeff is shit -- I never get to sleep in -- so I knew I was making a dumb choice, but there it was. I resolutely turned off the tv at 2 AM, following an interesting episode of Angel and rolled over. I started to doze, but woke up when I sensed one of the girls come into the bedroom and stand at Jeff's side of the bed. Too short to be Gab, too tall to be Nina (who hasn't figured out how to get out of the crib yet anyway), I blinked in the darkness and responded automatically.

"What's wrong, honey?"

She shifted. I sat up and peered into the shadows made deeper and blurrier by the fact that I can't see a damned thing without my contact lenses.

I tried to focus on her and asked again, "What's wrong?"

I scooted closer to the edge of the bed where she was standing, only to realize no one was there. I sat up and swung my legs over the side, groping backwards for my glasses. Nothing. A cold sense of Jasmine.

The figure had been standing on the side of the bed where we keep her altar and ashes, ashes in a box that I had caressed before going to bed. Was it Jasmine? If so, she must be going crazy trying to get through to me, knowing that I believe it for a split second and then talk myself out of it in the cold light of day. Why does it never occur to me to directly address her when I feel her?

Previous | Next