In just a few hours, there will be probably about 25 people here in our home. Plus our five, that makes 30. Or more. And we haven’t even yet met many of them.
Not long ago, this thought would have filled me with such anticipatory anxious dread that I would have been in a state akin to the proverbial chicken. You know, the one missing its head.
My mom tells a story, by the way, about when she was maybe 4 years old. Her family, or maybe the family next door (who happened to be her aunt and uncle) kept chickens. This was during probably the war, which to people my age and older means World War II (which must seem like real ancient history to anyone much younger than me, oh god am I showing my age here?). Anyway, I get the impression that those chickens provided not only amusement and eggs, but also Sunday dinner on occasion. And of course, one time, very vivid to my mom, one unfortunate chicken went to the guillotine and then got up again, missing of course everything from the neck up, and lurched drunkenly (well, wouldn’t you?) around the yard. Me, I’d be swearing off chicken after that for awhile, maybe like ever.
Speaking of swearing off chicken, there was a span of years in which I avoided eggs. It was all due to my biology class and an extra-credit assignment that had to do with observing fertilized eggs at various intervals in their development. Need I say more? To think that the egg you’re about to crack contains not just gooey yellow and clear stuff that we can all ignore and pretend it just “egg stuff”, makings of brownies or cookies or quiche or whatever, but perhaps instead the beginnings of a creature with feathers that may eventually lurch drunkenly around the yard, does make one think twice or maybe even three times before cracking said egg.
Ew.
So I can now neatly segue into another story about my mother, the one in which she’s outside taking down window screens and washing them and the windows under them, and we ask her, “Who’s coming over?”. My own children, in seeing me in the past attempting to declutter the cluttered and definitely un-feng shui’d house that we used to live in, would also ask, “Who’s coming over?”. It used to matter so much that I hated my house, hated that clutter and swirling unattractive energy that was in it despite my every effort to undo it, that I never, repeat NEVER, had anyone come over to my house. Not even my best friends. Which must have seemed strange to them, to say the least, but I was so very embarrassed that I couldn’t possibly let them see where I lived.
So when we moved here to Colorado, minus the source apparently of the swirling dark energy (that would have been, come to find out, the husband I left behind), all of a sudden not only am I not afraid to have people come over and see my house, but I even welcome it*.
So to you, everyone coming today: Welcome. And I really mean it.
* Except I’m finding as the morning progresses I’m becoming nauseated. Hmm. Anxiety? Oh well. Some things never change. But you can still come over.
entertaining,anxiety,phobia,feng shui,chickens
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