In chains

(The post title refers a boat having lost the wind and now sits idle in the water.)

I've failed my saving throw; I've gone adrift, I am forced to admit.

Those familiar with Dungeons & Dragons will recognize this as the statistical probability that a magical attack (in this case Sloth) will succeed. For the past three weeks or so, I've not written a thing in my spiritual journal. I've kept up with the readings, but only just. I've prayed, but haven't written about my experience.

The essence of the Ignatian method is colloquy--writing while praying. You are not supposed to use any other method, like mindfulness knitting, which I've been doing obsessively, therapeutically, for a couple of weeks.

My first girlfriend had a thing for balance--I've lost it. I have been more sociable with my family and have been more focused, when not knitting. This knitting is not an entire new thing; I learned when I was a teenager, at my mother's knee. Thus the practice of knitting is both soothing because it is a tactile experience, the occasional pressure of the needle points and the feel of the yarn, and because it is something positive to remember of my mother. It is something to remember. My memory plays me false. I fail to cue. It is not that I don't remember things, although that is the appearance. Once I am cued--whether by myself or others--I remember that I remember. That is the problem with my mother. She has dementia. My grandmother had it. Every time I forget something, I fear it.

The break in spiritual journalling started when I had a meltdown and was emotionally and physically exhausted for several days. Meltdown=psychiatric drama. Enough said. I've used enough energy having the (I hope) occasional temper fit.

Then we had bad weather and I was tired from having to prepare: wood on the deck (I am not the acme of fitness) and new shingles on the roof.

I lost the initiative, to use another phrase from D&D. That's my excuse.

Now the whole world knows.