Mikki Brisk

I’ve been open about the fact (fact!) that Mister and I live with a ghost. Miss Harmon is mostly laid-back, but once in a while she becomes a wee bit assertive. When that happens, we I do my best to acknowledge her and send some attention her way. It mostly works, and peace is generally kept.

With Miss Harmon, it’s easy. With other ghosts, not so much. In working through the nut-job bullshit that makes up my life, I very often forget just how many ghosts are floating around in my psyche, futzing about and causing a general ruckus. Sometimes the ruckus is anything but general, and I lose whatever weak grip I have on my sanity and only when I remember the root causes of my thinking/feeling/hurting, am I able to cease wobbling and find some semblance of balance. Ghosts. They’re little assholes sometimes.

But that’s not what I’m writing about today. Today I want to share a recent Miss Harmon experience, as that broad can be a little persnickety. Case in point – when an orchid plant in the house reached the time of dropping its blossoms, logic would have seen said blossoms falling randomly to the floor. But when Mister and I found the withered blooms, they had been arranged in a perfect arc. I don’t have any idea why that was necessary, but I don’t have to know. That’s Miss Harmon’s business. I just have to clean up her messes. Like I said – little asshole.