More than once in the bedlam of life, I pause midst the turmoil and dream of the calm respite and peace of a sanatorium. In my mind’s eye I can picture it, a scene of serenity—of oblivion, a fluffy white robe and solicitous persons wheeling me about in a garden of quiet fog. I envision a peaceful existence far, far away from the cares and concerns of a life careening out of control. I can almost hear the music of songbirds in the distance…
Dear Me, Today, it’s the squawk and screech of two boys chasing a bird loose in the house, flapping about hither and thither while the stereo blasts and teenage girls dance over my head to a television, telephone and doorbell accompaniment.[1] Manic me, T.
What would be the downside of having myself committed for a week or two? I hear stories from the mother-in-law when she was a nurse, of a woman who was admitted to the hospital for a week’s stay…with her sewing machine. Her physician’s order was to serve her food and leave her alone. Why not me? I’m already a prisoner of my own volition—I deserve the sentence because I committed the crime—children. I brought them on myself.
Whenever my world is at its wildest, I imagine a reprieve. It doesn’t have to be in the form of full clemency, but just enough to grant me a momentary glimpse of peace—a respite from the iconoclastic[2] world of progeny. I need to be bored again with life… if only for just a moment!
[1] The internal debate topic today is: electricity, curse or blessing.
[2] One who seeks to overthrow traditional institutions. (so appropriate here)
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