Temples in a locked-down vise. Circus elephant balancing on one foot, spread across my forehead and nose. Head like Fred Flintstone’s big toe after he’s dropped a bowling ball. Ears as sensitive as cheese grater-bitten fingers. Nausea that could only be induced by deep sea fishing. Skin and scalp beaten with a meat mallet, just like the chicken breast I made for dinner. Poor chicken.
I want to go home. “Home,” that safe haven where agony is forbidden. Burrowed under the covers of my bed.
Trying to put my mind in the northwest corner of New Zealand’s south island. Under an arch that water carved from stone. A still section of the creek holds water turned red by minerals. Trees and giant ferns providing a respite from the sun. As soon as I squeezed through the small opening in the ground, I knew it would become my meditation spot. Too bad the mosquitoes are eating me alive.
The wiring of my 102-year-old house has been replaced with something less fire-prone. Where’s the electrician who will do that in my 29-year-old brain?