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    Last night, Cowbirders were fighting on Facebook. Perhaps fighting is too strong a word, but the banter felt like screeching to me which sent me to sleep dreaming disturbing dreams. I woke up in a fog, unresolved. Not certain whether this new group space is a room in which I want to hang. It had gotten too loud, and I know I am a bit oversensitive.

    First thing this morning, on the radio, is news of the shooting in a Colorado movie theatre last night. 12 confirmed dead, 38 injured. A 24 year old assailant who did not resist arrest, and told police of the bomb(s?) he also has stashed in his apartment. Immediately my mind races to my own two teenaged sons and husband who were discussing last night seeing "Batman" on opening night. They decided not to go, and we live 1745 miles away from Denver so while I realize there is no actual threat, what about the copycat antics that seem to always erupt after tragedies like this? What other horrific circumstances might my boys find themselves walking into unexpectedly in their futures? Can't I just keep them home, here, with me, forever? I am wishing it at the core of my being. Ridiculous, I know. But again, I am oversensitive.

    Driving to work I then witness an accident. A car had spun out of control in the rain, was slammed up and onto the sidewalk, off the road. The driver, an elderly man, was standing outside looking utterly confused, forlorn. My heart was breaking for him, envisioning him calling his daughter or wife or sister, asking if they could come pick him up. Traffic slows immediately, as people gape, look to see what's going on. Is it curiousity or fear I wonder? Do they suddenly realize that could be them? Be careful, take it easy. Just get to where you need to be in one piece. Or maybe it's only me who thinks that way - who worries about the man, proceeds to work with caution, who is so oversensitive.

    I arrive to the office on the verge of tears, flip on the lightswitch and email my husband, telling him about my disturbing night and morning. He tells me not to worry.

    "You are a delicate flower darling, you feel too much, are too permeable. None of these things are your concern, your worries. Chin up and have a good day - it's Friday! I'll see you at home tonight."

    Sensible advice, always.

    Wandering over to the windows I check in on my plants - a growing collection of fancy leaf begonias and orchids. Friends bring them to me on the brink of death, asking if I can save them, and almost always I do, I can. They are afraid to take them back, tell me to keep them.

    "You have the knack, a green thumb" they say.

    "There's no magic involved in watching them, moving them around for better lighting and air circulation. Watering as needed" I answer.

    "No, but you KNOW, whereas I don't..." they insist.

    It occurs to me now that maybe there is something to that. Maybe the knowing is the same thing as the feeling too much - being oversensitive to extremes, to subtle changes in climate. To needing just the right growing conditions in which to thrive.

    Oh, these delicate flowers - perhaps it just takes one to know one.
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