Roundup, the River Styx, Satan and the Great Apple Conspiracy.
All I wanted was a guilt-free day working on Mystique.
Was that too much to ask?
Apparently.
First, I had to complete every domestic chore known to humanity. Shopping, gardening, mowing, spraying weeds, attending to everyone's needs. All on precious little sleep from 2 sleepless nights, in my 3rd job , of sleepover disability support work.
Because heaven forbid I should sit down and create something magical while a weed remained alive in the garden, while the street of pristine neighbours are watching, …my sense of duty wasn’t going to let this property down!
Armed with 5ltrs of Roundup for the fire weed (and others) slowly taking over the yard, Neem wasp spray for the deforming leaves of the Box hedges and a thoroughly misguided sense of invincibility, I launched myself into the domestic Olympics 3 loads of washing, lunch & tea service, mowing & edging and 2 rounds of spraying.
And then my body staged a rebellion.
For the next 24 hours, I felt as though an entire convoy of trucks had mowed me down.
Sweats. Pain. Weakness. Dehydration. Hallucinations.
Whether the Roundup, exhaustion, dehydration or a ‘perfect storm’ combination of the lot was responsible, I can't say. But I was certainly experiencing my own personal dark night of the soul. I don’t often get sick , but this kicked me sideways.
Somewhere in that dreadful haze, I wondered whether I'd crossed over.
Had I drifted down the River Styx?
Was that Charon approaching in his ferry?
….Did he accept Visa?
And was that Satan's hacienda overlooking the river?
Back from the Dead. Access Denied.
Having survived my 24-hour ordeal - only just, but still languishing duties like taking Dougie for a walk off the property because I banned him from sniffing and toileting while the Roundup fallout zone was still active, I was finally ready to work on Mystique.
The chores were done. The garden was subdued. I needed to be productive, though I was only 70% by now..
I opened my Mac.
ACCESS DENIED.
Excuse me?
Apparently, my password was no longer acceptable.
Three unsuccessful attempts later, the gatekeepers delivered their verdict.
LOCKED OUT FOR THREE BLOODY HOURS.
Naturally, I suspected Mercury.
After weeks of correcting planetary glyphs on my Tarot cards, perhaps the planets had formed a union.
Mars was refusing to cooperate. Venus was filing her nails. Saturn was enforcing the rules.
Then Apple demanded a recovery key.
A WHAT?
Where was it? Had I ever possessed one? Never heard of it ! A 28 letter / number code??
And suddenly, everything made sense.
And then came the biblical revelation. FORBIDDEN FRUIT!
THE APPLE!
The Garden of Eden. The serpent. The forbidden fruit. The fall of mankind.
And here I was, thousands of years later, being expelled from my own computer….after my Dark Night of the Soul & brush with death!
Coincidence? I think not.
The serpent had clearly diversified into consumer electronics.
Eventually, somehow I found my recovery key….
On my iPhone.
ANOTHER BLOODY APPLE!
The very instrument of my salvation had been concealed inside a second piece of forbidden fruit.
I could almost hear Satan calling from the Hacienda balcony…“Darling, have you checked your phone?”
Well, actually there are two Recovery Keys ! - I first tried a 28 key found in the bowels of Systems , but apparently my MAC spaces didn’t like 28 letters AND hyphens… I cursed Mercury again. Then a whisper in my ear said “look for devices” … I really didnt know my MAC is hiding info in my iphone?
I finally regained access, after exhausting every prayer, re-entering passwords 3 times and uttering every profanity known to humanity.
I had to resort to Satan and put 666 in my password - & - volia !
Apparently, Apple's security system recognised senior management.
Meanwhile, in the Kitchen…
During my three-hour exile, I refused to be completely unproductive.
I pickled eggs.
Then I went shopping to replenish the eggs I'd pickled.
By the end of the day, my publishing empire had made absolutely no progress, but my kitchen was developing a promising sideline in preserved poultry products.
House of Mystique: Realms of Imagination and Refrigerated Eggs.
Has a certain ring to it.
The Moral of the Story?
Somewhere between my brush with the underworld, the forbidden fruit and the pickled eggs, I realised something.
Why do I insist on finishing everything for everyone else before allowing myself to do what I love?
Perhaps the weeds can wait.
Perhaps the washing can wait.
Perhaps creativity doesn't need to be earned through exhaustion.
And perhaps the universe was trying to tell me something after all.
Although its communication methods leave a great deal to be desired.
So, dear reader, if you ever find yourself drifting down the River Styx, remember to check your pockets before boarding the return ferry.
You never know when you'll need a recovery key.
May the Lord forgive me. I know not what I do.
Although, in fairness, neither does Apple.
Keep a little magic in your life, beware of forbidden fruit, and always maintain a healthy supply of vinegar.
Zen Jen 💜
House of Mystique® — Realms of Imagination
