This is a hard day. Mom would have been 94 had she not died this year. My brother and I had been visiting her for two weeks, and she was doing great. We went out to lunch, went on long walks, but she kept saying that when Nan, our sister got home from a well-deserved vacation, she would die. We didn't believe her. But by golly, that's exactly what she did. She waited for Nancy to come home and my brothers and I to be gone and Nan and her husband went though all of that alone.
My husband and I had gone for a long weekend to Savannah. I could have been there. We could have put off that little get away, but I didn't see any urgency with Mom. She was fine a few days earlier. I called Mom before my husband and I left and she didn't answer. That wasn't unusual. It usually meant she was out and about. But she fell sick, and the assisted living place didn't call me. They waited for Nan to come back.
Mom couldn't keep food in her, just a little tummy bug, but Mom had an ileostomy and was ready to die. One angel of an aide sat by her feeding her spoons of broth. Nan got there just as it was time to get Mom to hospital where she bled out.
She asked Nan, "How are my kids?" Nan assured her that we were all fine and that we loved her. Mom asked, "How much longer is this going to take?" She was not patient once she'd made up her mind. It didn't take long.
Oh, I was angry. I just didn't know at whom or what. That's the hardest kind of anger to let go.
It's the kind of anger I'm feeling now when I'm finding it very hard to understand things I'm trying to read. The words sometimes fall off the road on the way to my brain. And my fingers, that usually type faster than I can speak, have lost their confidence.
I'm hopeful that this is just a dip and that tomorrow will be better, because I've so much more to write. I have so many more people to meet and love. So I ask all my better angels to take this unpointed anger and dump it in the nearest bottomless pit. Just get rid of it.
Someday, it will all make sense. Of that I'm sure and for that, I'm grateful.
It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
Tuesday, December 27, 2016
Monday, December 26, 2016
Scarier Than Rats in the Attic
We had a laid back Christmas, which is the way I prefer it, if I'm not allowed to skip it completely. A friend came over for Christmas Eve dinner and we began working on a jigsaw puzzle. She came over for Christmas afternoon and dinner and brought more desserts. We are a bit over run with desserts. An embarrassment of riches.
On Christmas I presented her with a joke gift that she reminded me I'd presented her with the night before. I realized I didn't remember the night before. It was just gone.
It's so easy, when I'm doing well, to believe this is all a mistake, that there's really nothing bad going on in my brain except a little forgetfulness now and then. And then something like forgetting a whole festive evening happens and I'm reminded. I don't like being reminded.
I took pictures with my phone of a table I want to sell this afternoon. I spent an hour trying to remember how to get it from my phone to the computer. Okay, so I've never been an electronics genius, but I used to know how to do stuff like that.
I admit that these things bring me to tears. My husband held me and I blubbered, "What are we going to do?" He said that we'll come up with something.
We're going to have to come up with something sooner rather than later. He's 75 and currently has a broken ankle and a history of heart attack. We aren't looking into expensive retirement communities. That's not possible for us. I focus on being positive and using positive words and forgiving and cleaning up lose ends with people and getting rid of stuff, but honestly. . . . . what happens if the time comes when I dunno what's going on more often than I do? What then?
I'm not so much worrying as I am thinking about these things and it's a bit . . . oh, what's that word. . .
oh, yeah terrifying.
Still, right now, I am breathing, I am writing, maybe my writing even makes a bit of sense. So I reckon I have way more than I need. As Papa used to say, sure it will kill me, unless I get hit by a truck first. There's always that glimmer of positivity.
I'm grateful. T
On Christmas I presented her with a joke gift that she reminded me I'd presented her with the night before. I realized I didn't remember the night before. It was just gone.
It's so easy, when I'm doing well, to believe this is all a mistake, that there's really nothing bad going on in my brain except a little forgetfulness now and then. And then something like forgetting a whole festive evening happens and I'm reminded. I don't like being reminded.
I took pictures with my phone of a table I want to sell this afternoon. I spent an hour trying to remember how to get it from my phone to the computer. Okay, so I've never been an electronics genius, but I used to know how to do stuff like that.
I admit that these things bring me to tears. My husband held me and I blubbered, "What are we going to do?" He said that we'll come up with something.
We're going to have to come up with something sooner rather than later. He's 75 and currently has a broken ankle and a history of heart attack. We aren't looking into expensive retirement communities. That's not possible for us. I focus on being positive and using positive words and forgiving and cleaning up lose ends with people and getting rid of stuff, but honestly. . . . . what happens if the time comes when I dunno what's going on more often than I do? What then?
I'm not so much worrying as I am thinking about these things and it's a bit . . . oh, what's that word. . .
oh, yeah terrifying.
Still, right now, I am breathing, I am writing, maybe my writing even makes a bit of sense. So I reckon I have way more than I need. As Papa used to say, sure it will kill me, unless I get hit by a truck first. There's always that glimmer of positivity.
I'm grateful. T
Thursday, December 22, 2016
The Whole Picture
I've looked at the same picture many times. In fact, many times daily for many days. I never totally understood it, and I didn't much like it. I don't mean I disliked it, I just sort of felt nothing about it, other than a bit of confusion. I thought I knew what it was meant to be and I didn't think it was a very good illustration of it.
This morning I saw the entire picture. I'd been seeing it cropped - just the middle of it. It suddenly made perfect sense. I like it very much.
Well, isn't that the way of it? Life, I mean. I see a bit of it here, a bit of it there, and it doesn't always make sense to me. But if I were a betting man, I'd bet the farm that at the end of life - this physical part of life, I mean - that it's all going to make perfect sense.
It's sort of like doing a jigsaw puzzle without looking at the picture on the box. It's nearly impossible to figure out the whole picture until you get all the pieces put together, and it's not very easy. You may think it's going to be an old covered bridge in the woods at one point. A few more pieces put in, and you may be sure it's a lighthouse. Sure, you've got the corners and the smooth edges, but when it gets into the thick of it, it's a bit of a blur.
Should you try to match the pieces according to color, to lines, to shapes? Sometimes you may feel like taking a mat knife or a hammer to a puzzle piece to make it fit where you think it should go. That won't work.
I love a good mystery. I love a great adventure. I look forward to seeing the whole picture, but right now, I'm enjoying putting the puzzle together.
This morning I saw the entire picture. I'd been seeing it cropped - just the middle of it. It suddenly made perfect sense. I like it very much.
Well, isn't that the way of it? Life, I mean. I see a bit of it here, a bit of it there, and it doesn't always make sense to me. But if I were a betting man, I'd bet the farm that at the end of life - this physical part of life, I mean - that it's all going to make perfect sense.
It's sort of like doing a jigsaw puzzle without looking at the picture on the box. It's nearly impossible to figure out the whole picture until you get all the pieces put together, and it's not very easy. You may think it's going to be an old covered bridge in the woods at one point. A few more pieces put in, and you may be sure it's a lighthouse. Sure, you've got the corners and the smooth edges, but when it gets into the thick of it, it's a bit of a blur.
Should you try to match the pieces according to color, to lines, to shapes? Sometimes you may feel like taking a mat knife or a hammer to a puzzle piece to make it fit where you think it should go. That won't work.
I love a good mystery. I love a great adventure. I look forward to seeing the whole picture, but right now, I'm enjoying putting the puzzle together.
Singing On In Dream Time
I have always been blessed with amazingly vivid dreams. I'd guess over 99% have been good ones. If a dream is going south, I usually change it somehow. Last night, I asked for a significant dream. I didn't ask for a specific topic, but I thought I knew what direction it would go. I certainly got a wondrous, significant dream, but it certainly went off on an unexpected tangent! I'm not going to try to recount all the details of the dream here, because they would only be important to me. I will hold them in my heart.
One good thing about BBD (Big Bad Diagnoses) is that it's really helped me whittle away things that aren't important and to have the courage to share things that I think are important or may be helpful to others. Part of that is really considering a bucket list. One thing on my bucket list has been to sing with a band again. A really good band. I joke about it often, but the desire to do so is real enough. Last night, I did it! Albeit in Dreamtime, it was incredible and I'm so very grateful for it.
The first set included a lot of music I've been listening to lately, which isn't surprising, but the arrangements were really my own. I mean they must have been mine because it was my dream, of course, but the arrangements were different from those I've been listening to. And they were very good arrangements. We even had some slight lyric changes to make the songs fit us better.
My voice was as clear as when I was 18, as strong as when I was 35, but had the wisdom of this ripe woman. Trust me, it worked. And the band was tight. Amazing! And I was full - absolutely full - of joy. In the middle of one song, that I don't particularly love but which I've sung a lot, tears ran down my face and I stopped singing. But someone else in the band picked it up without missing a note. Everyone in the audience sang along. And that's really what music is, isn't it?
So it was a dream in which I fulfilled a dream. It was more than enough. I'm grateful.
One good thing about BBD (Big Bad Diagnoses) is that it's really helped me whittle away things that aren't important and to have the courage to share things that I think are important or may be helpful to others. Part of that is really considering a bucket list. One thing on my bucket list has been to sing with a band again. A really good band. I joke about it often, but the desire to do so is real enough. Last night, I did it! Albeit in Dreamtime, it was incredible and I'm so very grateful for it.
The first set included a lot of music I've been listening to lately, which isn't surprising, but the arrangements were really my own. I mean they must have been mine because it was my dream, of course, but the arrangements were different from those I've been listening to. And they were very good arrangements. We even had some slight lyric changes to make the songs fit us better.
My voice was as clear as when I was 18, as strong as when I was 35, but had the wisdom of this ripe woman. Trust me, it worked. And the band was tight. Amazing! And I was full - absolutely full - of joy. In the middle of one song, that I don't particularly love but which I've sung a lot, tears ran down my face and I stopped singing. But someone else in the band picked it up without missing a note. Everyone in the audience sang along. And that's really what music is, isn't it?
So it was a dream in which I fulfilled a dream. It was more than enough. I'm grateful.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Stop, Children, What's That Sound?
Nature is the context for human existence, whether or not people realize it. Earth is the only option at present, but we act as if She is one of those cheap plastic containers that hold our leftovers. We act as if we'll just get a new one when this one no longer keeps our pre-processed foods "fresh."
I really fear that it's too late, that we've pushed Her too far. What should we assume will happen as we continue to squeeze fossil fuels from Earth, leaving voids, then burning in a generation what has taken millions of years to create? Earthquakes, sinkholes, pollution are the natural consequences. Evidently human greed and war are not only consequences but causes.
We pollute water daily, but what resources to we use to learn to clean it? There are alternatives. It's not as if our lives depend on maintaining our current lifestyle and ways of doing things.
That's just not good enough.
And while it often seems to me that there is an evolutionary leap happening now in terms of spirituality and understanding, all it takes is watching the news one evening to see that the human species as a whole has gone absolutely mad.
We have this magical Internet. We can communicate with people around the world instantly. We can see cell phone videos of what's actually happening so we don't have to rely on the media anymore for information, which is good, because the media is only interesting in entertaining, not informing. Of course, we can also fake information easily, so knowing whom to trust is always an issue, whether individuals or organizations.
And honestly, who trusts governments? Who is in charge, anyway? Can we have a real election? Does it really matter if I vote? Has everything been arranged by extraterrestrials who are watching us implode for their entertainment? It's just all so discouraging. We are so lazy that we put the outhouse right next to the well, and worst all we expect "them" to fix it.
I'm often sure I'll wake up and find that all this chaos is just a dream. Because my grands need Earth, too.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Skyclad at This Age?
One recent winter night I went to my backyard naked to put my feet and hands on Earth and wrap myself around a grand oak tree whose roots reach deep into earth and whose branches touch the sky.
Of course, of course, it's a totally insane thing for a 61 year old to do and frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. You will either understand the reasons I did so without explanation, or you will not understand. Makes me no nevah mind.
And I guess that's the point. It may be my age. It may be the BBD (big bad diagnoses), or perhaps I've just always been bit quirky. I mean, this certainly isn't the first time I've done this sort of thing. It's just that now, I really don't care whom I tell about it. It was a lovely thing.
A friend of mine, who has had a mastectomy and wears a breast prosthesis, recently related a really funny story about guys smiling at her in the grocery. Only later she realized that her "breast" had flipped out. She spoke about how guys finds ANY breasts intriguing. I couldn't agree more. Not only with her perception of men and breasts, but with her openness about sharing the story. After all, it's just a breast. And in this case, a fake one. Men will always be a source of laughter for us if we let them.
In the summer, should it please the Universe, my daughter and I will visit Scotland. While there I will participate in an art project involving photographs of naked women over 50. Well, I'm over 50, and under my jimmies, I'm naked, so I reckon I qualify. The goal will not be make us look like we're 30, but to proudly show our years.
I'm recently coming to love this body. I'm sorry that I didn't appreciate it my whole life. There were a couple of times in my adult life when my 5'8" frame sported 97 pounds. Not 96. Not 98. Had to be 97. OY! I have a whole lot more pounds than that now and fewer inches in height. I don't bother to weigh. What difference would it make? I'm round. I'm soft. It's not bad. One would think, however, that having had so many bits removed would have made me smaller. Biology and physics haven't a very close friendship, it seems.
My big brown eyes are still there, though contacts are no longer an option, so they are behind some funky lenses. Eye lids, like the rest of me, have succumbed to that ol' gravity thang. But trust me, the actual eyes are still in there, and they are still beautiful.
Once I had legs up to here. Now they serve to get me from here to there and for that I'm extremely grateful. I'm no longer interested in depreciating my body. It's served me very well. Whew! The stories we could tell.
As far as my actions and beliefs go. I'm no longer interested in proving that my way is the right way. I am, I think, right for me, now.
Let's all forget who's watching and just dance. Whatcha say?
Of course, of course, it's a totally insane thing for a 61 year old to do and frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. You will either understand the reasons I did so without explanation, or you will not understand. Makes me no nevah mind.
And I guess that's the point. It may be my age. It may be the BBD (big bad diagnoses), or perhaps I've just always been bit quirky. I mean, this certainly isn't the first time I've done this sort of thing. It's just that now, I really don't care whom I tell about it. It was a lovely thing.
A friend of mine, who has had a mastectomy and wears a breast prosthesis, recently related a really funny story about guys smiling at her in the grocery. Only later she realized that her "breast" had flipped out. She spoke about how guys finds ANY breasts intriguing. I couldn't agree more. Not only with her perception of men and breasts, but with her openness about sharing the story. After all, it's just a breast. And in this case, a fake one. Men will always be a source of laughter for us if we let them.
In the summer, should it please the Universe, my daughter and I will visit Scotland. While there I will participate in an art project involving photographs of naked women over 50. Well, I'm over 50, and under my jimmies, I'm naked, so I reckon I qualify. The goal will not be make us look like we're 30, but to proudly show our years.
I'm recently coming to love this body. I'm sorry that I didn't appreciate it my whole life. There were a couple of times in my adult life when my 5'8" frame sported 97 pounds. Not 96. Not 98. Had to be 97. OY! I have a whole lot more pounds than that now and fewer inches in height. I don't bother to weigh. What difference would it make? I'm round. I'm soft. It's not bad. One would think, however, that having had so many bits removed would have made me smaller. Biology and physics haven't a very close friendship, it seems.
My big brown eyes are still there, though contacts are no longer an option, so they are behind some funky lenses. Eye lids, like the rest of me, have succumbed to that ol' gravity thang. But trust me, the actual eyes are still in there, and they are still beautiful.
Once I had legs up to here. Now they serve to get me from here to there and for that I'm extremely grateful. I'm no longer interested in depreciating my body. It's served me very well. Whew! The stories we could tell.
As far as my actions and beliefs go. I'm no longer interested in proving that my way is the right way. I am, I think, right for me, now.
Let's all forget who's watching and just dance. Whatcha say?
Sunday, December 11, 2016
Compelled
I don't know if this has anything to do with anything, but it is real enough for me
Tonight I felt a strong compulsion to tell people this:
Get yourself rightside up. Don't be angry at or hate religion, though I think it has all gone mad. The base of them are with truth. Find the truth and pitch the rest.
All that remains, all that matters, is love and knowledge.
*I don't know what that means - "Get yourself rightside up." That's just what came to me. Sort of like a handful of salt when asked "How much salt in the water?"
Tonight I felt a strong compulsion to tell people this:
Get yourself rightside up. Don't be angry at or hate religion, though I think it has all gone mad. The base of them are with truth. Find the truth and pitch the rest.
All that remains, all that matters, is love and knowledge.
*I don't know what that means - "Get yourself rightside up." That's just what came to me. Sort of like a handful of salt when asked "How much salt in the water?"
Friday, December 9, 2016
Very Dull Moments
I've caught myself a few times in the past week or so just sort of waking up staring. I blame the holidays.
I was working in the kitchen today and "found" myself staring into an open cabinet - the one with the soup and beans in it. This experience is not quite the same as opening the cabinet and not remembering what I came for. This is more like, "Huh? What's going on? Is this drool on my chin? Sheesh."
It takes a minute. I looked around and remembered I'd been getting veggies ready to roast for dinner. I didn't remember going to the soup cabinet or why I was there. But, truth be told, going to the soup cabinet is not that memorable, is it?
Tomato rice, chicken noodle, black beans, garbanzo beans. Ramen noodles? I sure as heck didn't buy those!
It's more than likely that every time I do something weird now - that would be approximately 8 gazillion times per day - I'm going to wonder if it's a bit more of my favorite organ fading away. More than likely it's nothing. Or you know. . . . the holidays.
I guess as long as I'm waking up from these moments, it's all good, right? I'll let you know if I don't wake up.
*wink*
I was working in the kitchen today and "found" myself staring into an open cabinet - the one with the soup and beans in it. This experience is not quite the same as opening the cabinet and not remembering what I came for. This is more like, "Huh? What's going on? Is this drool on my chin? Sheesh."
It takes a minute. I looked around and remembered I'd been getting veggies ready to roast for dinner. I didn't remember going to the soup cabinet or why I was there. But, truth be told, going to the soup cabinet is not that memorable, is it?
Tomato rice, chicken noodle, black beans, garbanzo beans. Ramen noodles? I sure as heck didn't buy those!
It's more than likely that every time I do something weird now - that would be approximately 8 gazillion times per day - I'm going to wonder if it's a bit more of my favorite organ fading away. More than likely it's nothing. Or you know. . . . the holidays.
I guess as long as I'm waking up from these moments, it's all good, right? I'll let you know if I don't wake up.
*wink*
Thursday, December 8, 2016
How the Right Shade of Lipstick Changed My Life
When my mother was playing Chutes and Ladders with dementia, I'd been spending extended periods of time with her. She had fired me a few times, sent me back to the kitchen to "get back to work," told me I could leave now, and by the way, I didn't need to come back, she'd ask my name - a lot of stuff like that went down that could have been either funny or devastating. I think at those times she had me confused with "the help." Other times, she was right on, inspecting my quilting (in)ability, giving not so subtle pointers, but encouraging me all the same. She'd ask about her friends back in Illinois and radiated love for her grands and greats even though she could't always keep the generations and names straight. In our family, that's a tough task for anyone, actually.
One day, at a friend's encouragement, I wore bright red lipstick - something I can't remember ever doing before, when my sister and I went to visit Mom together. Maybe she knew who I was, since I was with Nancy, or maybe she thought that I was some friend of Nancy's. Anyway, she exclaimed over and over again about how beautiful I was. She said I was getting more beautiful all the time. It was amazing and I ate it up - every single crumb, licking the plate. Mom often told me I had a beautiful complexion, (which is fairly true, btw) but she'd never come out and said I was beautiful before. Never.
Mom, especially in her golden years, was a hottie. She knew it. She rocked it. and somehow coming from her - even though I knew she was a bit confused - I owned that compliment and continue to hold it in my heart.
On the way home, I asked Nan to stop at a Walgreens, so I could buy another tube of bright red lipstick.
Sometimes lately, I've noticed that totally inappropriate stuff comes out of my mouth. It's not even logical or true stuff. It's like it's coming from some passer by and just got confused and came out my mouth. Who knows. I don't plan on saying anything hurtful to my children or others I love, but if I do, I pray to God they put on some red lipstick and roll with it.
Wednesday, December 7, 2016
Happy, Silly Memory
Today I HAD to go to the grocery and drop off a big package for UPS to deliver to my son. I put on some leggings and a tunic and covered what's left of my hair and set out.
About half way through the grocery, I felt it begin. My panties were sliding down inside my leggings. I was confident that no one else would notice, due to the long tunic, but that didn't keep me from laughing in the aisles. People must have wondered what the heck.
But just now I chatted with a friend and while relating the story, a big memory came bouncing back, like a Labrador Retriever pup with a ball. It was a happy memory, and a bittersweet one.
A few decades back, in a different life, my parents came to visit me. I took some vacation days and we set out to paint our house. Dad taught me about caulking and sealing, and pretty much directed from the ground. Actually, at one point, he took the ladder away, while I was on the roof. Now you know where I get it, eh? Also, it was the last time he climbed a ladder. He was dying very slowly from a mysterious disease that took a bit of him at a time. It was cruel and unusual, and he fought so damned hard before he gave up any little thing. But he fell from a step ladder during that visit and cried. I knew it was partially from physical pain - he had enough of that for ten men - but it was also from loss. He knew that would be his last ladder climb.
But this was before Mom started being forgetful. Long before. We'd get up early each morning and prep and paint. We only stopped for food. One morning, Mom and I went to the grocery early. I pulled on my sweat pants from the day before, She took one side of the store and I took the other. It was all about maximizing painting time. She came running when she heard me laughing very loudly and a bit out of control in the dairy section.
By the time she got to me, I was stuffing yesterday's undies into my pocket. They'd fallen out of my sweatpants leg. Luckily (or perhaps, unluckily) it was a small town, so everyone, including the grocery store people, knew me and . . . . . well, they knew me.
It's hard to know whether it is better to lose one's body and keep ones mind till the end or the other way round. I've seen it go both ways and neither was preferable. However, it matters little, since I reckon we just don't get to choose.
I think the trick may be to grieve what we lose and move along, concentrating on the project - painting or other - ahead.
About half way through the grocery, I felt it begin. My panties were sliding down inside my leggings. I was confident that no one else would notice, due to the long tunic, but that didn't keep me from laughing in the aisles. People must have wondered what the heck.
But just now I chatted with a friend and while relating the story, a big memory came bouncing back, like a Labrador Retriever pup with a ball. It was a happy memory, and a bittersweet one.
A few decades back, in a different life, my parents came to visit me. I took some vacation days and we set out to paint our house. Dad taught me about caulking and sealing, and pretty much directed from the ground. Actually, at one point, he took the ladder away, while I was on the roof. Now you know where I get it, eh? Also, it was the last time he climbed a ladder. He was dying very slowly from a mysterious disease that took a bit of him at a time. It was cruel and unusual, and he fought so damned hard before he gave up any little thing. But he fell from a step ladder during that visit and cried. I knew it was partially from physical pain - he had enough of that for ten men - but it was also from loss. He knew that would be his last ladder climb.
But this was before Mom started being forgetful. Long before. We'd get up early each morning and prep and paint. We only stopped for food. One morning, Mom and I went to the grocery early. I pulled on my sweat pants from the day before, She took one side of the store and I took the other. It was all about maximizing painting time. She came running when she heard me laughing very loudly and a bit out of control in the dairy section.
By the time she got to me, I was stuffing yesterday's undies into my pocket. They'd fallen out of my sweatpants leg. Luckily (or perhaps, unluckily) it was a small town, so everyone, including the grocery store people, knew me and . . . . . well, they knew me.
It's hard to know whether it is better to lose one's body and keep ones mind till the end or the other way round. I've seen it go both ways and neither was preferable. However, it matters little, since I reckon we just don't get to choose.
I think the trick may be to grieve what we lose and move along, concentrating on the project - painting or other - ahead.
Monday, December 5, 2016
Energy Crisis
I am letting people down. It seems everyone wants something from me and I want to give it all to them, but I just forking can't.
I'm sick of feeling sick. I'm always tired and confused and I don't like it. I am going to have to prioritize a bit better if I'm going to . . . going to what? What's the goal here? Is it just to keep putting one huge flat foot in front of the other? That's not good enough by a long shot.
I want to produce. I need to keep writing as long as I can and each one of these little posts takes so damned much. I want to spend time with my babies, just looking at them, breathing them in, sharing jokes. Bump is beginning to understand puns. How miraculous is that? Bell has her environment in hand. It makes me happy to see how well she does her two-year old job.
I want to be relaxed with my relaxed children. Those two share a gene pool, grew up in the same house with the same parents, and I really don't see many ways they could be more different. Each of them perfect. I need them to be happy. I need to know they forgive me for not giving them absolutely everything they deserved. I need to not let them down.
There are friendships I would loved to have rekindled and it's sad to know that it won't happen. It takes two, and it takes energy. I'm happy with communicating electronically with those who have the desire and energy. I've reached out to a bunch. Some don't have the desire, and others want more of me than I can give.
I wish I could be a better wife. James isn't big on allowing me to help him, even with his broken ankle. But I can see frustration in his face because things aren't getting done to his liking. And what happens as I continue to become less help and more burden? How is that fair? How is that going to work?
The world is a mess and my little problems don't amount to enough beans to fill my nose. I know that. And I have to remember that I just got my gluteus maximus shot full of steroids today trying to make breathing easier and those nasties always tend to make me a bit wicked. It's entirely possible that tomorrow will actually be a new day and I'll be new, also.
In the mean time, in place of cheer, I offer honesty. And at the bottom of it all, I am still grateful.
I'm sick of feeling sick. I'm always tired and confused and I don't like it. I am going to have to prioritize a bit better if I'm going to . . . going to what? What's the goal here? Is it just to keep putting one huge flat foot in front of the other? That's not good enough by a long shot.
I want to produce. I need to keep writing as long as I can and each one of these little posts takes so damned much. I want to spend time with my babies, just looking at them, breathing them in, sharing jokes. Bump is beginning to understand puns. How miraculous is that? Bell has her environment in hand. It makes me happy to see how well she does her two-year old job.
I want to be relaxed with my relaxed children. Those two share a gene pool, grew up in the same house with the same parents, and I really don't see many ways they could be more different. Each of them perfect. I need them to be happy. I need to know they forgive me for not giving them absolutely everything they deserved. I need to not let them down.
There are friendships I would loved to have rekindled and it's sad to know that it won't happen. It takes two, and it takes energy. I'm happy with communicating electronically with those who have the desire and energy. I've reached out to a bunch. Some don't have the desire, and others want more of me than I can give.
I wish I could be a better wife. James isn't big on allowing me to help him, even with his broken ankle. But I can see frustration in his face because things aren't getting done to his liking. And what happens as I continue to become less help and more burden? How is that fair? How is that going to work?
The world is a mess and my little problems don't amount to enough beans to fill my nose. I know that. And I have to remember that I just got my gluteus maximus shot full of steroids today trying to make breathing easier and those nasties always tend to make me a bit wicked. It's entirely possible that tomorrow will actually be a new day and I'll be new, also.
In the mean time, in place of cheer, I offer honesty. And at the bottom of it all, I am still grateful.
Friday, December 2, 2016
Faded Photography
My husband gave me an early birthday present this year. He gave me a great digital camera with a couple of lenses and a couple of books about how to use it. I got filters, and lights, and a tripod, and extra batteries - the works. I was getting ready for my trip to India during which time I was going to interview women.
I spent quite a bit of time not only reading about and playing with the equipment, but also consulting with my college roommate's little boy who grew way up and became a videographer, and with other friends who are great photographers. It was so much fun.
My health didn't quite hold up for the trip to India and that was sad on several levels. But what really bothered me recently, was that at Thanksgiving, with all the family about, I got out my camera and had no idea how to use it. It's not all that complicated. There is a way to sort of make it into a point and shoot, but heck if I could remember how to do it.
"What a waste, what a waste," I kept mumbling to myself. My nephew showed me a couple of things about the camera, but they didn't sink in. I ended up taking a few shots of people with my phone camera. Even getting the pictures from my phone to my computer proved to be a major undertaking and I'm fairly sure that the way I finally did it isn't the way I used to do it. But who knows?
It just really pisses me off when I can't remember stuff like that. New stuff. It just doesn't seem to stick.
A couple of decades ago, I set out on a new life and got myself a really nifty Canon SLR camera. Of course, this was pre-digital, but I've to to say, I took some really good shots. I think I had an eye for it. I took the picture that adorns this blog while on my belly in some mud in the bush of SW Australia. With the lens, I could see a little family in the circle of the curled fern. I have a picture of a single crow flying over StoneHenge that is so perfect, if you saw it you'd think it was photoshopped. But it wasn't. It was just me and my camera that caught it. I have a very colorful closeup of a boy in a dragon costume, catching a breath while he and whoever is the back end of the dragon, dance down a street during a celebration in China. The photo is full of motion, though it is just a still. One of my favorites is a picture taken from the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor. My camera and I captured a perfect Hawaiian sky reflected in a rainbow oil slick, created from oil still escaping from the sunken ship below. To me it spoke volumes.
I remember taking all those shots years ago, but dad gum it, I can't remember how to use my flipping new camera now.
This experience is just odd. I remember my mother saying that she was "getting stupid." I kept assuring her that she wasn't, she was just getting forgetful, but now I understand what she was saying. There is a disconnect. Something that doesn't quite work in storing and retrieving new stuff.
It's sort of like all the old file cabinets are still working quite well and are very well organized, but the newer file cabinets have holes rusted in the bottoms of the drawers. Mice have gotten in and gnawed up information. Dang mice.
For me, it's much easier to communicate in writing than in speaking. That's a loss in itself because those who know me know I'm a talker. But I'm also so fortunate to be a fast typist and a good writer. Here's the weird thing though. I'll look back to three blogs ago and read it and I'll have no memory of writing it. I still lose words when typing, but I lose them less often than while talking. I also write in the morning or early in my day because when I try to do it late it may day, I end up with nuttin honey. I don't know why that is.
So, much of this recorded journey is for you, the reader, but I must admit, much of it is for me, too. I want to keep knowing how to write, and I want to be able to read what I've written.
And I'm so very ding dang grateful for not only the photographs but for the adventures I've had taking them. Life has truly been amazing, and though it's a bit different now, I've no reason to think it won't continue to be amazing.
I spent quite a bit of time not only reading about and playing with the equipment, but also consulting with my college roommate's little boy who grew way up and became a videographer, and with other friends who are great photographers. It was so much fun.
My health didn't quite hold up for the trip to India and that was sad on several levels. But what really bothered me recently, was that at Thanksgiving, with all the family about, I got out my camera and had no idea how to use it. It's not all that complicated. There is a way to sort of make it into a point and shoot, but heck if I could remember how to do it.
"What a waste, what a waste," I kept mumbling to myself. My nephew showed me a couple of things about the camera, but they didn't sink in. I ended up taking a few shots of people with my phone camera. Even getting the pictures from my phone to my computer proved to be a major undertaking and I'm fairly sure that the way I finally did it isn't the way I used to do it. But who knows?
It just really pisses me off when I can't remember stuff like that. New stuff. It just doesn't seem to stick.
A couple of decades ago, I set out on a new life and got myself a really nifty Canon SLR camera. Of course, this was pre-digital, but I've to to say, I took some really good shots. I think I had an eye for it. I took the picture that adorns this blog while on my belly in some mud in the bush of SW Australia. With the lens, I could see a little family in the circle of the curled fern. I have a picture of a single crow flying over StoneHenge that is so perfect, if you saw it you'd think it was photoshopped. But it wasn't. It was just me and my camera that caught it. I have a very colorful closeup of a boy in a dragon costume, catching a breath while he and whoever is the back end of the dragon, dance down a street during a celebration in China. The photo is full of motion, though it is just a still. One of my favorites is a picture taken from the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor. My camera and I captured a perfect Hawaiian sky reflected in a rainbow oil slick, created from oil still escaping from the sunken ship below. To me it spoke volumes.
I remember taking all those shots years ago, but dad gum it, I can't remember how to use my flipping new camera now.
This experience is just odd. I remember my mother saying that she was "getting stupid." I kept assuring her that she wasn't, she was just getting forgetful, but now I understand what she was saying. There is a disconnect. Something that doesn't quite work in storing and retrieving new stuff.
It's sort of like all the old file cabinets are still working quite well and are very well organized, but the newer file cabinets have holes rusted in the bottoms of the drawers. Mice have gotten in and gnawed up information. Dang mice.
For me, it's much easier to communicate in writing than in speaking. That's a loss in itself because those who know me know I'm a talker. But I'm also so fortunate to be a fast typist and a good writer. Here's the weird thing though. I'll look back to three blogs ago and read it and I'll have no memory of writing it. I still lose words when typing, but I lose them less often than while talking. I also write in the morning or early in my day because when I try to do it late it may day, I end up with nuttin honey. I don't know why that is.
So, much of this recorded journey is for you, the reader, but I must admit, much of it is for me, too. I want to keep knowing how to write, and I want to be able to read what I've written.
And I'm so very ding dang grateful for not only the photographs but for the adventures I've had taking them. Life has truly been amazing, and though it's a bit different now, I've no reason to think it won't continue to be amazing.
Tuesday, November 29, 2016
Is It Just Me?
I have been feeling a sense of urgency to set things right lately. I attributed it to the big bad diagnoses. I want to make sure I tell people things I want them to know and then let them go. I want to pass on knowledge before I forget it all. I want to check things off my bucket list.
But yesterday I watched a bit of news on TV - always a mistake - and I started to wonder if maybe I feel this urgency because the whole dang world is actually falling apart.
I just can't quite get my mind around all that's going on. My country is bombing and warring indiscriminately, because. . . . . well, I near as I can actually figure it out, it all comes down to oil. My government is attacking unarmed Native Americans on their sacred land, because of oil. Great rivers all over the globe are being killed by oil spills and the oceans are full of floating plastic islands Oh, yeah, plastic. A petroleum product. Places, including Oklahoma, which once only worried about the occasional twister, now have daily earthquakes due to drilling and fracking. There is no such thing as "normal" weather anymore, because our misuse of resources, primarily oil, is screwing up the planet's natural protection.
Of course, I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier but I know a few common sense things.
But yesterday I watched a bit of news on TV - always a mistake - and I started to wonder if maybe I feel this urgency because the whole dang world is actually falling apart.
I just can't quite get my mind around all that's going on. My country is bombing and warring indiscriminately, because. . . . . well, I near as I can actually figure it out, it all comes down to oil. My government is attacking unarmed Native Americans on their sacred land, because of oil. Great rivers all over the globe are being killed by oil spills and the oceans are full of floating plastic islands Oh, yeah, plastic. A petroleum product. Places, including Oklahoma, which once only worried about the occasional twister, now have daily earthquakes due to drilling and fracking. There is no such thing as "normal" weather anymore, because our misuse of resources, primarily oil, is screwing up the planet's natural protection.
Of course, I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier but I know a few common sense things.
- Oil, which runs in the veins of Mother Earth, took millions of years to make and we are using it faster than it's being created. We're going to run out.
- People can't drink oil, but we can't live without clean water.
- If you're driving full speed toward a cliff, it would be wise to take your foot off the accelerator.
So why is it that we can be horrible people in order to pipe oil, but can't figure out how to get water to places in drought and being burned by fires? Why don't we have solar collectors on every house? How is it that 54% of my country's budget is spent on defense? Our infant mortality rate is 6 per 1,000. The UK's is 3.8 per 1,000 and Japan's rate is 2.1 per 1,000. Huffington Post says 14% of my country's adults can't read. After teaching in a public high school, I am not surprised.
We have some serious problems and they aren't going away.
Still. . . .what are we spending our money on? "Defense." Actually, that's a very bad word for military spending. And what really bothers me is that even if we changed that budget item to "Waring for oil," which would perhaps be more correct, I don't think anyone would give a damn.
But what do we watch on TV? We keep up with people who are famous for being famous. The channels are covered in the glorification of violence and disgusting behavior. We are addicted to the drama, I guess. We're concerned about who loves whom to the point of hatred. We abdicate our responsibility to think to organizations who tell us their god is right and everyone else's god is dangerous.
Not to put too fine a point on it, but everyone is nuts. So I ask you, what do we do?
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Holding on Tight
As usual, my sister and BIL hosted an incredible Thanksgiving. It was our first without our mother. We'd planned to all come to my house the day after for a wiener roast in the Garden of Many Groovy Things, an ongoing project I've been working on for many years.
My daughter and her family and I came back earlier than the rest of the group to prepare. We did a bit of prep and we managed to get my hubs to urgent care. He'd fallen and broken his ankle. I was excited about people coming to my house, about my babies being there, and I was anxious about my husband's injury. And to say I dropped the ball about the meal would be an understatement.
I didn't think about getting the buns out of the freezer or putting food in bowls, etc. I didn't think about it. Here I was with 11 people at my house, some of the most important people in my life, and I was supposed to be feeding them, but it wasn't in my head.
But get this, no body starved. I didn't really get a chance to feel panicky. My family just did what needed to be done and we had such a fun time. Never were there tastier hotdogs than these cooked on forks held over a fire, expertly tended by Brother Paul. Jan brought outrageously good baked beans. We all forgot the potato chips, but Nan brought yummy slaw. We somehow remembered the recipe for S'mores. We told the same jokes we've been telling for years and teased and loved on each other. The wine flowed and the beer was cold. The weather was absolutely perfect and the faerie lights on the rose arbor came on exactly at dusk. As the evening cooled, we scooted closer to the fire and to each other.
Tim pronounced one of my lanterns dead before the gang gathered and another pooped out during the evening, but there were tiki torches and so many candles. Bell fell asleep on her mom's lap, but Bump got to blow out the last of the candles as we put out the fire at the end of the night.
It was simply perfect. This family is so goofy and so accepting that I think they don't care much that I have some holes in my brain. In fact, they may not even notice. I reckon I've always been a bit clumsy and absent minded. To have siblings who can laugh at their own and each others imperfections is amazing. We can do that because we all "own" each other.
Is that maturity? Gathered around a campfire, laughing about belches and farts, we surely don't sound mature! Maybe it has something to do with us being orphans now. There are just the four of us, but there are ALL FOUR of us, and to me we feel like a unit more now than ever. We're all aware that we aren't spring chickens so every moment we can celebrate together is precious. Whew! It's a good thing we're all still so good-looking!
I love, love, love my brothers and my sister. I love my extended family who could be with us and those who couldn't. And I know that if one of us drops a ball, another of us will pick it up without even thinking about it. Nobody has anything to prove, we're just too busy loving.
My daughter and her family and I came back earlier than the rest of the group to prepare. We did a bit of prep and we managed to get my hubs to urgent care. He'd fallen and broken his ankle. I was excited about people coming to my house, about my babies being there, and I was anxious about my husband's injury. And to say I dropped the ball about the meal would be an understatement.
I didn't think about getting the buns out of the freezer or putting food in bowls, etc. I didn't think about it. Here I was with 11 people at my house, some of the most important people in my life, and I was supposed to be feeding them, but it wasn't in my head.
But get this, no body starved. I didn't really get a chance to feel panicky. My family just did what needed to be done and we had such a fun time. Never were there tastier hotdogs than these cooked on forks held over a fire, expertly tended by Brother Paul. Jan brought outrageously good baked beans. We all forgot the potato chips, but Nan brought yummy slaw. We somehow remembered the recipe for S'mores. We told the same jokes we've been telling for years and teased and loved on each other. The wine flowed and the beer was cold. The weather was absolutely perfect and the faerie lights on the rose arbor came on exactly at dusk. As the evening cooled, we scooted closer to the fire and to each other.
Tim pronounced one of my lanterns dead before the gang gathered and another pooped out during the evening, but there were tiki torches and so many candles. Bell fell asleep on her mom's lap, but Bump got to blow out the last of the candles as we put out the fire at the end of the night.
It was simply perfect. This family is so goofy and so accepting that I think they don't care much that I have some holes in my brain. In fact, they may not even notice. I reckon I've always been a bit clumsy and absent minded. To have siblings who can laugh at their own and each others imperfections is amazing. We can do that because we all "own" each other.
Is that maturity? Gathered around a campfire, laughing about belches and farts, we surely don't sound mature! Maybe it has something to do with us being orphans now. There are just the four of us, but there are ALL FOUR of us, and to me we feel like a unit more now than ever. We're all aware that we aren't spring chickens so every moment we can celebrate together is precious. Whew! It's a good thing we're all still so good-looking!
I love, love, love my brothers and my sister. I love my extended family who could be with us and those who couldn't. And I know that if one of us drops a ball, another of us will pick it up without even thinking about it. Nobody has anything to prove, we're just too busy loving.
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Pressed Between the Pages of My Mind
I've been thinking about the weird stuff I remember. I think I remember distant things more acutely than the average bear. I wonder if there is a connection. Any neurologists reading this?
In first grade, one day Mrs. Read was out and we had a substitute teacher. She wore a white dress with black polka dots and a black patent leather belt. She had the tiniest waist ever.
Mrs. Munson lived in an apartment in the back of Dr. Kibbe's house. She always caught me on May Day when I left a basket of violets on her doorstep and invited me in for tea.
I could draw a floor plan for Dr. Jones' apartment. Her dog, a Boston Terrier, was named Molly. I visited her now and then when I was in wee grades.
At age 15, sitting in the Woodbine Theatre with Mark, I became acutely aware that my elbow was rough and dry, and silently vowed to always lotion my elbows.
I was on a ferris wheel with some stranger downtown Carthage for the Bicentennial and the wheel stopped. I saw my father on the ground talking to someone as he waited for me and I wanted to call to him, but I didn't want that strange boy to think I was a baby. So instead of calling, "Papa," I called "Dad" and sort of tried to make it sound like "Dan."
Mom told me we didn't use Ivory Soap because in our water it would turn milky.
These are not significant, life-changing things. I didn't even remember to always lotion my elbows. I still don't. These memories - and thousands more - are just snips of film that can be played in HD any ol' time. So why can't I remember how long I worked at the place I last worked? I know I couldn't find the office building now. I remember some things from when I first worked there, but not the latter part. I used to drive all over the upstate to jails and talk with prisoners and jailers and attorneys and judges and cops. I couldn't find those jails now. I couldn't even tell you what towns they were in.
Of course, I remember some significant things. I remember a bad guy jumping across a table at me. I remember being locked in a cell with a prisoner and no guard anywhere near. I remember telling the "powers that be" not to let a certain man out. But they did. It was very bad. I just don't remember the bulk. I only remember the names of a few people with whom I worked and that's because I'm in touch with them. Someone recently asked me how long it's been since I worked there and how long I worked there. I really don't know. I just don't. Time is one of those things that my brain has not seen fit to hold onto well.
My neurologist says that I won't regain any of the memories I've lost but that the meds should help slow down losing more. I don't routinely just believe what I'm told without questioning it. So I'm thinking there must be things I can do (besides taking these pills) that will help.
I play Words with Friends. I sing things I need to remember. I constantly tell myself not to panic, it will be okay. I have GPS. I have a cell phone. I have friends. I savor memories, that is I purposefully remember things I can in great detail. I remember how Dr. Jones' apartment smelled and how her voice sounded. I make plans. I make myself go places. I try to learn new things.
But things take so much time and energy now. Even writing this blog, which I think is important and which I want to do, takes so ding dang much of me. I have to check everything. I'm sure misspelled words are getting through as well as punctuation errors. I felt so silly when I had to check whether the word was waist or waste. I feel stupid when things like that happen and I know I'm not stupid. I just forget the weirdest things. And the things I remember are odd, too. They often seem so unimportant, but I'm very grateful for them.
And even when I press the "publish" button, I'm a little afraid that I've written gibberish, or that I'm repeating myself. I don't re-read the last five posts before I write. I probably should, but that would be stressful. I recognize my writing style, but I don't remember writing things.
But you know what? As scary and sad as this whole thing is for the most part, it's also a bit intriguing. I'm amazed at how a brain works - and how it doesn't. I would like for the progression of this memory thief to be slow. Perhaps recording my experience will be helpful to brain scientists everywhere. Hey, maybe my grandkids will become neurologists and cure this thing.
Damned near anything could happen. And I'm grateful.
In first grade, one day Mrs. Read was out and we had a substitute teacher. She wore a white dress with black polka dots and a black patent leather belt. She had the tiniest waist ever.
Mrs. Munson lived in an apartment in the back of Dr. Kibbe's house. She always caught me on May Day when I left a basket of violets on her doorstep and invited me in for tea.
I could draw a floor plan for Dr. Jones' apartment. Her dog, a Boston Terrier, was named Molly. I visited her now and then when I was in wee grades.
At age 15, sitting in the Woodbine Theatre with Mark, I became acutely aware that my elbow was rough and dry, and silently vowed to always lotion my elbows.
I was on a ferris wheel with some stranger downtown Carthage for the Bicentennial and the wheel stopped. I saw my father on the ground talking to someone as he waited for me and I wanted to call to him, but I didn't want that strange boy to think I was a baby. So instead of calling, "Papa," I called "Dad" and sort of tried to make it sound like "Dan."
Mom told me we didn't use Ivory Soap because in our water it would turn milky.
These are not significant, life-changing things. I didn't even remember to always lotion my elbows. I still don't. These memories - and thousands more - are just snips of film that can be played in HD any ol' time. So why can't I remember how long I worked at the place I last worked? I know I couldn't find the office building now. I remember some things from when I first worked there, but not the latter part. I used to drive all over the upstate to jails and talk with prisoners and jailers and attorneys and judges and cops. I couldn't find those jails now. I couldn't even tell you what towns they were in.
Of course, I remember some significant things. I remember a bad guy jumping across a table at me. I remember being locked in a cell with a prisoner and no guard anywhere near. I remember telling the "powers that be" not to let a certain man out. But they did. It was very bad. I just don't remember the bulk. I only remember the names of a few people with whom I worked and that's because I'm in touch with them. Someone recently asked me how long it's been since I worked there and how long I worked there. I really don't know. I just don't. Time is one of those things that my brain has not seen fit to hold onto well.
My neurologist says that I won't regain any of the memories I've lost but that the meds should help slow down losing more. I don't routinely just believe what I'm told without questioning it. So I'm thinking there must be things I can do (besides taking these pills) that will help.
I play Words with Friends. I sing things I need to remember. I constantly tell myself not to panic, it will be okay. I have GPS. I have a cell phone. I have friends. I savor memories, that is I purposefully remember things I can in great detail. I remember how Dr. Jones' apartment smelled and how her voice sounded. I make plans. I make myself go places. I try to learn new things.
But things take so much time and energy now. Even writing this blog, which I think is important and which I want to do, takes so ding dang much of me. I have to check everything. I'm sure misspelled words are getting through as well as punctuation errors. I felt so silly when I had to check whether the word was waist or waste. I feel stupid when things like that happen and I know I'm not stupid. I just forget the weirdest things. And the things I remember are odd, too. They often seem so unimportant, but I'm very grateful for them.
And even when I press the "publish" button, I'm a little afraid that I've written gibberish, or that I'm repeating myself. I don't re-read the last five posts before I write. I probably should, but that would be stressful. I recognize my writing style, but I don't remember writing things.
But you know what? As scary and sad as this whole thing is for the most part, it's also a bit intriguing. I'm amazed at how a brain works - and how it doesn't. I would like for the progression of this memory thief to be slow. Perhaps recording my experience will be helpful to brain scientists everywhere. Hey, maybe my grandkids will become neurologists and cure this thing.
Damned near anything could happen. And I'm grateful.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Grief and Groceries
Today I did something I haven't done in quite a while. I did a major grocery shopping trip. It wasn't pretty.
I had my list and it was pretty much arranged in order of the store. However, the first thing on my list I couldn't find. Finally, with help from the produce dude, I discovered that the store was out of ginger root. Well, that threw me.
"Okay, calm down, Fay. It's a flipping grocery, you can do this."
So on I went, talking aloud to who knows what, just sort of encouraging myself down aisles of tons of stuff that no one actually needs. I was befuddled by the variety of marshmallows. It actually stopped me in my tracks.
"You only need marshmallows for S'mores. So just get a bag of large ones."
"Why are there seven hot dogs in a package of Hebrew National? Why seven? Okay, so how many hot dogs do I need? No! I'm not going to cry. Just grab some hot dogs and get on with it. What's this? Twelve hotdog buns in a package. God, help me."
I'm sure that for most of my life I breezed through a grocery with very little thought or angst. But those days are gone. It's a major thing now. It takes a long time to make a list and a very long time to negotiate my way through the grocery. I was aware of people looking at me oddly. Well, okay, I'm sort of used to that, but for different reasons, I guess.
I called my husband a couple of times for orientation. He's good about that. I had to crouch down to investigate cans of pumpkin. Wouldn't you think they'd have that at eye level this time of year? And for crying in a bucket, we're about to have Thanksgiving, put cans of French cut green beans, cans of cream of mushroom soup, and cans of French fried onion rings in one place. How tough is that?
By the time I got to the checkout, the young woman checker probably realized she was earning her $9 per hour. I was still talking to myself. But by then I was sort of laughing to myself about talking to myself. I told the bagger that I could bag the stuff myself, in my own bags, because I'd read "Principles of Bagging." I actually did read that pamphlet when my daughter was a teen and worked at a grocery. Why I needed to say that aloud to a complete stranger who was only trying to do his job is a mystery. It just popped right out of my mouth.
I made it home okay, but I was embarrassed. This isn't a village, but it isn't a city either. People are going to recognize me and realize that i'm a bit verklempt. I suppose that's something I should be embarrassed about. I dunno, really.
But I made it. My husband picked up the few things I needed that I forgot to get, and no one is going to starve at our day after Thanksgiving wiener roast. It makes more sense to me now, however, that I'm so consistently tired. It takes so much energy to do things that I used to do by remote control - eyes closed. Now I have to question decisions about things like what sort of marshmallows are appropriate or doing math to make buns and hotdogs come out even.
This is tough. It's a loss and I grieve it. But let's face it, it's also sort of funny. I mean it would be really funny if it weren't so damned real. I think I'll just pretend like it isn't real and laugh instead of cry.
I'm grateful I'm so dang cute.
I had my list and it was pretty much arranged in order of the store. However, the first thing on my list I couldn't find. Finally, with help from the produce dude, I discovered that the store was out of ginger root. Well, that threw me.
"Okay, calm down, Fay. It's a flipping grocery, you can do this."
So on I went, talking aloud to who knows what, just sort of encouraging myself down aisles of tons of stuff that no one actually needs. I was befuddled by the variety of marshmallows. It actually stopped me in my tracks.
"You only need marshmallows for S'mores. So just get a bag of large ones."
"Why are there seven hot dogs in a package of Hebrew National? Why seven? Okay, so how many hot dogs do I need? No! I'm not going to cry. Just grab some hot dogs and get on with it. What's this? Twelve hotdog buns in a package. God, help me."
I'm sure that for most of my life I breezed through a grocery with very little thought or angst. But those days are gone. It's a major thing now. It takes a long time to make a list and a very long time to negotiate my way through the grocery. I was aware of people looking at me oddly. Well, okay, I'm sort of used to that, but for different reasons, I guess.
I called my husband a couple of times for orientation. He's good about that. I had to crouch down to investigate cans of pumpkin. Wouldn't you think they'd have that at eye level this time of year? And for crying in a bucket, we're about to have Thanksgiving, put cans of French cut green beans, cans of cream of mushroom soup, and cans of French fried onion rings in one place. How tough is that?
By the time I got to the checkout, the young woman checker probably realized she was earning her $9 per hour. I was still talking to myself. But by then I was sort of laughing to myself about talking to myself. I told the bagger that I could bag the stuff myself, in my own bags, because I'd read "Principles of Bagging." I actually did read that pamphlet when my daughter was a teen and worked at a grocery. Why I needed to say that aloud to a complete stranger who was only trying to do his job is a mystery. It just popped right out of my mouth.
I made it home okay, but I was embarrassed. This isn't a village, but it isn't a city either. People are going to recognize me and realize that i'm a bit verklempt. I suppose that's something I should be embarrassed about. I dunno, really.
But I made it. My husband picked up the few things I needed that I forgot to get, and no one is going to starve at our day after Thanksgiving wiener roast. It makes more sense to me now, however, that I'm so consistently tired. It takes so much energy to do things that I used to do by remote control - eyes closed. Now I have to question decisions about things like what sort of marshmallows are appropriate or doing math to make buns and hotdogs come out even.
This is tough. It's a loss and I grieve it. But let's face it, it's also sort of funny. I mean it would be really funny if it weren't so damned real. I think I'll just pretend like it isn't real and laugh instead of cry.
I'm grateful I'm so dang cute.
Sunday, November 20, 2016
Perfectly Letting Go
I had such a very hard time getting with it today. I really don't know why, except that, it's just what I do all too often. This afternoon I got out to the GMGT and decided I'd lay some pavers. I figured it wouldn't be that bad, since I already had pavers there with large spaces between them. All I had to do was rearrange and add some more pavers. I really should know better than to think any piece of the GMGT is going to be easy.
I'm sure you'll find it difficult to imagine, but the ground wasn't level. Not even close. And I soon remembered that the reason I left "planting" spaces between pavers in this section was because there were serious roots and rocks that would have to be removed before I could make the area anywhere near level.
I say "anywhere near level" now. When I started out building the first patio section. I trusted my level completely. I was a bit compulsive about it. Somehow by the second, and now third area of patio, I don't so much care how level things are. Level enough is plenty good enough.
My B.I.L. and my brother Paul, do things perfectly. But they know me, and they know I don't do things perfectly, and I'm pretty sure they love me anyway. You see it isn't that THEY are perfect (well, they are pretty close, it's true) but they do projects like this perfectly.
While trying to make my first patio section perfectly level, I often though of the time when one of my perfectionist nephews would see the patio, and I'd try to see it through his eyes. I was genuinely anxious about what he would think about my work. Yep, I'm laughing now for a few reasons.
1. Since it's taken several years for me to build the Garden of Many Groovy Things on my very steeply sloping back yard, things have settled. What was once level is no more.
2. The original plan for the garden bears absolutely no resemblance to the garden as it is now. I decide often to change or add or move things and I do. That's perfectly fine with me. I don't expect it to ever be "done." It's the building of it that is the joy.
3. It doesn't matter anymore whether or not I get the approval of anyone. I love my family. Always will. What they do with that knowledge is none of my damned business.
So I continue to build a little bit at a time, as energy permits. I've raised the back retaining wall, which had sunk a bit and added more dirt and planted more plants. Now I've begun covering the back wall, which is made of concrete block, with rocks that I continue to collect. I've learned so much while doing this. Things about building with concrete blocks, and stones, and cement, and pavers; and things about dirt, and clay, and roots, and rocks, and plants. And lots and lots of things about me.
I don't need perfection. In fact, I really like funky. There are little surprises and secrets all about the GMGT. There are gaps in the walls just right for a bird nest or two. There are initials of people and faces and symbols of all sorts hidden about. People will either see them or they won't. It doesn't matter. I had fun putting them there.
In five days, about a dozen of my fam will gather in the garden for a wiener roast. We'll have candles and lanterns and torches and a fire in the fire pit, of course, but I reckon the warmth will come from this collection of imperfect people being together in my perfectly imperfect Garden of Many Groovy Things. We'll eat very common, simple food (yay S'mores!), and we'll laugh.
Life is so short. My advice is to always choose groovy over perfect. Perfect takes up way too much time and is so much less fun than groovy. Put some funk in your junk.
I’m grateful for it all.
Thursday, November 17, 2016
Mom and Me
Was it just a year ago that I was staying at my Mom's house? I'm really bad with time. And so very much has happened in the past year. Anyway, for a while I spent time with Mom in her house when she was deciding to move to an assisted living apartment.
She had a very nice house, in which she lived for 15 years, by herself. She had great neighbors and a special friend, with whom she shared a dog, Baxter. Her friend, Derwood, would come in the morning and take Baxter, surely the most spoiled dog ever, out for a walk. He'd spend the day with Mom and Baxter and then return to his farm house. It was a good arrangement. Sometimes after dinner and after Derwood went home, Mom would have dessert with her next door neighbor, an extremely nice widower. In other words, Mom had a good thang going.
Then, as happened in her family, she began to get a bit confused. Not always. Mostly she was very sharp. She continued to create beautiful quilts for all her grandchildren and great-grand children. She continued to cook meals for herself and Derwood and Baxter, and she continued to have a very active life.
She was 92 when I went to stay with her for extended periods. I wanted to spend time with her and she wanted help going through and getting rid of stuff. Of course, she had shed most of her belongings when she moved from her Illinois home of 42 years, but she'd been in her North Carolina home for 15 years and you know how stuff accumulates.
In late summer and autumn we began encouraging her to consider assisted living apartments. Most of the time she was fine, but now and then she'd forget to turn off the stove. Eventually she sold her car. I spent more time with her. Nancy, my sister, was always Mom's anchor. Nancy went to all Mom's doctor appointments with her, and she and her husband, Chip, enabled Mom to stay in her home long past the time when she would have been able to if Nan and Chip hadn't been so willing and able to assist her.
My position, my job in all this, was different. Mom trusted Nancy completely, which is only right. Nancy, who is a saint, made the drive through the mountains near daily to check on Mom, take her shopping, to see her doctor, etc. I would go stay for a week or two at a time and observe Mom 24/7. Because there were gaps in the time I spent with her, I noticed more, I think, than Nan. It's sort of like that horrid experiment when you put a frog in a beaker of water and slowly raise the temperature until the frog boils. It's easy not to notice the gradual decline of mental function when you are with it all the time. I, however, would see changes.
There are a couple of other factors that came into play. Nancy is just a kinder, gentler person than I and had a closer relationship with our mother. Also, our mother, though she didn't finish high school, was one of the smartest people I've ever known and she could fake it with the best of them.
During the times I stayed with Mom, she often thought I was "the help." She fired me more than once. She told me to "get back to the kitchen and get to work." She asked me my name. It can be funny, or it can be devastating, when your mother asks you what your name is. I once yelled at her when I caught her about to take a drink from a bottle of hand cleaning gel. She was very angry with me for yelling. She constantly asked me when Nancy was going to come back.
The three of us went to her primary care physician during that time. Her physician loved Mom and the feeling was mutual. Mom would be dressed up nicely - she was quite the fashion plate - and really with it when she went to see the doctor. I stayed in the room after Nan and Mom left and talked to the doc. I told the doctor about forgetting to turn off the stove, about asking my name, about asking what cottage cheese was. It's just so easy to want people to be well so badly that we overlook some things. Mom was angry at me for "telling on her."
Nancy found a wonderful apartment for Mom and at the last minute Mom decided that she was just going to stay in her house. We arranged help for Mom over and over again and she'd fire them over and over again. She was as independent and stubborn as only a Shubert can be. So Nan and I did what we had to do. We brought in the big gun - Number One - Paul, her first born. He talked to her on the phone and by the time Nan and I arrived at her house, Mom was ready to move.
This is all so poignant now because I see so much of Mom in me. I've taken over the pie baking for Thanksgiving. I've saved so much of her fabric to make my opus quilt. I even have her sewing machine, though I'm sure it will never perform for me the way it did for her for so many decades.
It's painful for me to admit that I've left the hose on over night. I'm normally a bit of a nut about water conservation. I sold my car because I had trouble with shifting and all the other details one has to do to drive. I couldn't find my way across town anyway. I got lost on many occasions. I have stood in the shower crying because I didn't know what I was supposed to do. But for the most part, the simplification of my life, medication, and the endless support of my husband, family, and a few close friends, enables me to carry on, faking it with the best of them. I've relearned much and I now drive an automatic transmission car around town using GPS.
I consider myself a pioneer in navigating this shit because I fully intend to continue writing about it. There is also a whole other dimension to my condition, that I may get into at another time, but right now, I'm content to report how it feels to have my thinking dulled and my memories gone.
I can still be quite bitter about stolen memories. I don't remember the first time I held Bump, my perfect grandson. I have glimpses of memories from the past six or so years. Much of it is just blank. I'm not going to get that back. I understand that. But I really work at keeping those neurons popping now. I do what I can do. I remember chuckling at work when I realized the true meaning of the phrase, "I've forgotten more about therapy than you know."
A friend told me today that he thinks I'm very fast-witted and sharp. It's true. I am. Much of the time I am. And I can tell you in detail what was going on in rural America in the 1970s, but don't ask me me too much about two weeks ago. And as I said, I take after my Mama. I started out smart and I am one hell of an actress. I'm an expert at interpersonal communication and the nuances that make all the difference. But I can't trust that the words that come out of my mouth are what I intend and I can't remember squat from recent times.
I intend to continue to have adventures. I intend to continue to travel and learn and experience. I just realize now that I may need to take more pictures in order to remember my adventures. I'm working on my photography skills. (See, that was a bit of a joke, and you can laugh now.)
Whew! Overall, it's just ding dang good that I'm still relatively smart, good looking, and fun to be with, eh? I am grateful. This is interesting, albeit confusing and frustrating and more than a bit sad. Let's focus on the interesting.
She had a very nice house, in which she lived for 15 years, by herself. She had great neighbors and a special friend, with whom she shared a dog, Baxter. Her friend, Derwood, would come in the morning and take Baxter, surely the most spoiled dog ever, out for a walk. He'd spend the day with Mom and Baxter and then return to his farm house. It was a good arrangement. Sometimes after dinner and after Derwood went home, Mom would have dessert with her next door neighbor, an extremely nice widower. In other words, Mom had a good thang going.
Then, as happened in her family, she began to get a bit confused. Not always. Mostly she was very sharp. She continued to create beautiful quilts for all her grandchildren and great-grand children. She continued to cook meals for herself and Derwood and Baxter, and she continued to have a very active life.
She was 92 when I went to stay with her for extended periods. I wanted to spend time with her and she wanted help going through and getting rid of stuff. Of course, she had shed most of her belongings when she moved from her Illinois home of 42 years, but she'd been in her North Carolina home for 15 years and you know how stuff accumulates.
In late summer and autumn we began encouraging her to consider assisted living apartments. Most of the time she was fine, but now and then she'd forget to turn off the stove. Eventually she sold her car. I spent more time with her. Nancy, my sister, was always Mom's anchor. Nancy went to all Mom's doctor appointments with her, and she and her husband, Chip, enabled Mom to stay in her home long past the time when she would have been able to if Nan and Chip hadn't been so willing and able to assist her.
My position, my job in all this, was different. Mom trusted Nancy completely, which is only right. Nancy, who is a saint, made the drive through the mountains near daily to check on Mom, take her shopping, to see her doctor, etc. I would go stay for a week or two at a time and observe Mom 24/7. Because there were gaps in the time I spent with her, I noticed more, I think, than Nan. It's sort of like that horrid experiment when you put a frog in a beaker of water and slowly raise the temperature until the frog boils. It's easy not to notice the gradual decline of mental function when you are with it all the time. I, however, would see changes.
There are a couple of other factors that came into play. Nancy is just a kinder, gentler person than I and had a closer relationship with our mother. Also, our mother, though she didn't finish high school, was one of the smartest people I've ever known and she could fake it with the best of them.
During the times I stayed with Mom, she often thought I was "the help." She fired me more than once. She told me to "get back to the kitchen and get to work." She asked me my name. It can be funny, or it can be devastating, when your mother asks you what your name is. I once yelled at her when I caught her about to take a drink from a bottle of hand cleaning gel. She was very angry with me for yelling. She constantly asked me when Nancy was going to come back.
The three of us went to her primary care physician during that time. Her physician loved Mom and the feeling was mutual. Mom would be dressed up nicely - she was quite the fashion plate - and really with it when she went to see the doctor. I stayed in the room after Nan and Mom left and talked to the doc. I told the doctor about forgetting to turn off the stove, about asking my name, about asking what cottage cheese was. It's just so easy to want people to be well so badly that we overlook some things. Mom was angry at me for "telling on her."
Nancy found a wonderful apartment for Mom and at the last minute Mom decided that she was just going to stay in her house. We arranged help for Mom over and over again and she'd fire them over and over again. She was as independent and stubborn as only a Shubert can be. So Nan and I did what we had to do. We brought in the big gun - Number One - Paul, her first born. He talked to her on the phone and by the time Nan and I arrived at her house, Mom was ready to move.
This is all so poignant now because I see so much of Mom in me. I've taken over the pie baking for Thanksgiving. I've saved so much of her fabric to make my opus quilt. I even have her sewing machine, though I'm sure it will never perform for me the way it did for her for so many decades.
It's painful for me to admit that I've left the hose on over night. I'm normally a bit of a nut about water conservation. I sold my car because I had trouble with shifting and all the other details one has to do to drive. I couldn't find my way across town anyway. I got lost on many occasions. I have stood in the shower crying because I didn't know what I was supposed to do. But for the most part, the simplification of my life, medication, and the endless support of my husband, family, and a few close friends, enables me to carry on, faking it with the best of them. I've relearned much and I now drive an automatic transmission car around town using GPS.
I consider myself a pioneer in navigating this shit because I fully intend to continue writing about it. There is also a whole other dimension to my condition, that I may get into at another time, but right now, I'm content to report how it feels to have my thinking dulled and my memories gone.
I can still be quite bitter about stolen memories. I don't remember the first time I held Bump, my perfect grandson. I have glimpses of memories from the past six or so years. Much of it is just blank. I'm not going to get that back. I understand that. But I really work at keeping those neurons popping now. I do what I can do. I remember chuckling at work when I realized the true meaning of the phrase, "I've forgotten more about therapy than you know."
A friend told me today that he thinks I'm very fast-witted and sharp. It's true. I am. Much of the time I am. And I can tell you in detail what was going on in rural America in the 1970s, but don't ask me me too much about two weeks ago. And as I said, I take after my Mama. I started out smart and I am one hell of an actress. I'm an expert at interpersonal communication and the nuances that make all the difference. But I can't trust that the words that come out of my mouth are what I intend and I can't remember squat from recent times.
I intend to continue to have adventures. I intend to continue to travel and learn and experience. I just realize now that I may need to take more pictures in order to remember my adventures. I'm working on my photography skills. (See, that was a bit of a joke, and you can laugh now.)
Whew! Overall, it's just ding dang good that I'm still relatively smart, good looking, and fun to be with, eh? I am grateful. This is interesting, albeit confusing and frustrating and more than a bit sad. Let's focus on the interesting.
Losing My Mind
I've been diagnosed with dementia and I take medication to slow it down. It's a very strange thing to be aware of my brain fading.
I want to share it, record it, while I can. Maybe that will be for decades more, who knows? I'm already afraid that sometimes I don't make sense and I'm embarrassed by the frequency of discovering, one way or another, that I'm repeating myself ad nauseam. But the worst part is when I have moments of panic because I'm just lost. Fortunately, it's not a frequent event. But sometimes, in the shower or in the kitchen or even in bed at night, I just don't know what the heck I'm doing. I can't orient. It's bad enough to stand in my kitchen and have to think which drawer the flatware is kept, but it's downright terrifying to not know what flatware is about.
It's just my brain though. Just as the other stuff that's going on is just my body. The real me, the core of me is still in here. Perhaps it can be thought of as an onion. The outer skins are crinkly and brittle and falling off. Big deal. It happens. A few layers down the juicier layers of the onion are starting to be brown and soft and not so great. Eh. . . . . . so. . . . . it happens. Sometimes though, when one cuts into a seemingly good onion, one finds that the outer layers seem okay, but the core of the onion is yuck. I am thankful that at present, that is NOT me.
I think I'm thankful for that. It's rather petrifying to think that there might come a time when the outer two thirds of the onion are rotten but the very center is still in here, trying to be oniony. Possibly the worst thing I can think of is to be unable to communicate.
But if that is my lot, my destiny - whatever you want to call it - my lesson, then I will try to learn it. My life has been so amazing that if now I fade away slowly rather than just have an aneurism blow suddenly or be hit by a meteor or something, I guess that, too, will be a worthwhile adventure.
That's a new concept for me and perhaps it will be a temporary one, but I believe there is a reason for even the silliest bits of life. As my Hindu friend, Sushil, puts it, we should indulge Mother's play. I don't know. And I know I don't know.
I do want to try to take you along on this journey, however. If I rewrite the same thing 47 times in a row, please forgive me. I actually can deal with that better than when I can't remember the word I want. And I can handle that better than when I can't remember what writing is about.
There is just so much of us that is not attached to words, and that is the part that I want so to communicate to you, in hopes that it will help someone else along the way. I'm not much of a painter or sculpture. I'm more of a wordsmith. Irony. Sometimes it sucks in a bad way.
There is another scary thing that is happening. My personality is changing. My emotions aren't always in order. I don't know how else to explain it. I don't like it, but I don't think I dislike it as much as those around me. I'm pissing people off without meaning to. Part of it is that I've lost my filter. I never had a very good filter, but it's pretty much gone now. Things just pop out. Why did I tell my internist that his tie was awful? We weren't discussing ties or fashion or anything along that line. I just happened to notice it. It was really very ugly. And instead of just thinking it, it came right out of my mouth.
That's weird, because often the things I want to come out of my mouth just won't. And sometimes something totally unrelated comes out. It used to be just words. I told my brother to bring his lawn chair, when I meant I wanted him to bring his chain saw. But now sometimes a whole sentence, or string of words comes out and I only realize when I hear them that they have seemingly no relationship to what was in my head. And all too often I say things that aren't even my words. It's as if there are strings of words flying by all the time and now and then a string gets caught up and comes out of my mouth. They aren't my words. Just my mouth.
It's embarrassing and scary to write this stuff because I know how crazy it sounds. Trust me, it sounds crazy because it is crazy. All the little sparks and snaps and miracles that happen constantly in that grey and white organ in our skulls - all those things we never understand, but take for granted, are no longer things on which I'm able to rely. It'll make a person a bit skittish, let me tell you.
But I hope to hang in here. I'm so grateful that I'm so smart. I think that will somehow help me explain what is happening. Who knows, maybe it won't help at all. We'll see, I guess. I feel an urgency to try to share the journey.
I want to share it, record it, while I can. Maybe that will be for decades more, who knows? I'm already afraid that sometimes I don't make sense and I'm embarrassed by the frequency of discovering, one way or another, that I'm repeating myself ad nauseam. But the worst part is when I have moments of panic because I'm just lost. Fortunately, it's not a frequent event. But sometimes, in the shower or in the kitchen or even in bed at night, I just don't know what the heck I'm doing. I can't orient. It's bad enough to stand in my kitchen and have to think which drawer the flatware is kept, but it's downright terrifying to not know what flatware is about.
It's just my brain though. Just as the other stuff that's going on is just my body. The real me, the core of me is still in here. Perhaps it can be thought of as an onion. The outer skins are crinkly and brittle and falling off. Big deal. It happens. A few layers down the juicier layers of the onion are starting to be brown and soft and not so great. Eh. . . . . . so. . . . . it happens. Sometimes though, when one cuts into a seemingly good onion, one finds that the outer layers seem okay, but the core of the onion is yuck. I am thankful that at present, that is NOT me.
I think I'm thankful for that. It's rather petrifying to think that there might come a time when the outer two thirds of the onion are rotten but the very center is still in here, trying to be oniony. Possibly the worst thing I can think of is to be unable to communicate.
But if that is my lot, my destiny - whatever you want to call it - my lesson, then I will try to learn it. My life has been so amazing that if now I fade away slowly rather than just have an aneurism blow suddenly or be hit by a meteor or something, I guess that, too, will be a worthwhile adventure.
That's a new concept for me and perhaps it will be a temporary one, but I believe there is a reason for even the silliest bits of life. As my Hindu friend, Sushil, puts it, we should indulge Mother's play. I don't know. And I know I don't know.
I do want to try to take you along on this journey, however. If I rewrite the same thing 47 times in a row, please forgive me. I actually can deal with that better than when I can't remember the word I want. And I can handle that better than when I can't remember what writing is about.
There is just so much of us that is not attached to words, and that is the part that I want so to communicate to you, in hopes that it will help someone else along the way. I'm not much of a painter or sculpture. I'm more of a wordsmith. Irony. Sometimes it sucks in a bad way.
There is another scary thing that is happening. My personality is changing. My emotions aren't always in order. I don't know how else to explain it. I don't like it, but I don't think I dislike it as much as those around me. I'm pissing people off without meaning to. Part of it is that I've lost my filter. I never had a very good filter, but it's pretty much gone now. Things just pop out. Why did I tell my internist that his tie was awful? We weren't discussing ties or fashion or anything along that line. I just happened to notice it. It was really very ugly. And instead of just thinking it, it came right out of my mouth.
That's weird, because often the things I want to come out of my mouth just won't. And sometimes something totally unrelated comes out. It used to be just words. I told my brother to bring his lawn chair, when I meant I wanted him to bring his chain saw. But now sometimes a whole sentence, or string of words comes out and I only realize when I hear them that they have seemingly no relationship to what was in my head. And all too often I say things that aren't even my words. It's as if there are strings of words flying by all the time and now and then a string gets caught up and comes out of my mouth. They aren't my words. Just my mouth.
It's embarrassing and scary to write this stuff because I know how crazy it sounds. Trust me, it sounds crazy because it is crazy. All the little sparks and snaps and miracles that happen constantly in that grey and white organ in our skulls - all those things we never understand, but take for granted, are no longer things on which I'm able to rely. It'll make a person a bit skittish, let me tell you.
But I hope to hang in here. I'm so grateful that I'm so smart. I think that will somehow help me explain what is happening. Who knows, maybe it won't help at all. We'll see, I guess. I feel an urgency to try to share the journey.
Tuesday, November 15, 2016
Need
I was told by a lifelong friend today that I am needy. Too needy. In so many words she told me that I'd forgotten what it's like to be part of the real world, since I no longer work full time. I no longer have to be nice and polite all the time. She doesn't have the time nor energy to spend nurturing our friendship. The strange thing - well the strange thing to me anyway - about this all is that I know she's right.
Since the diagnoses and the aging and the deaths and all the changes in the past year, I have felt an urgency - a need - to make things right with family and friends. This transaction with my friend reminded me that perhaps that is not the need of my family and friends. Maybe they are just fine with letting me go as things are.
Could it be that I am not actually the center of the Universe?
Of course, I've realized this before, probably even written about it, but you see I forget. I forget all sorts of things. I relearn lessons daily. Sometimes hourly. It's not unique to me. It's unique, I think, to people who are willing to relearn.
So I step back and I look at my wants, behaviors, communications with as little ego involvement as possible and I realize that I'm okay with my neediness. Actually it's more wantiness, I guess. I would like to leave everyone I love on a good note. A good, pure, perfect chord. All I can actually do is sing my note. I can't force anyone to chime in.
Oy, enough of the music analogies already. And you see, I realize that if my ego were totally out of it, I wouldn't care. And I have been told that releasing my ego should be a goal. I guess this all means that I'm not totally enlightened. I'll just have to add that to a few other interesting imperfections.
Because you see, I'm not going to stop trying to make things right with people. Oh, I'll stop nagging people who tell me they haven't the energy to spend on our friendship. Unless I forget they told me to stop. But my friendship and my love remain. So sue me.
I'm grateful for the friendly and family times I've had. That's all. I'm just imperfect and grateful.
Since the diagnoses and the aging and the deaths and all the changes in the past year, I have felt an urgency - a need - to make things right with family and friends. This transaction with my friend reminded me that perhaps that is not the need of my family and friends. Maybe they are just fine with letting me go as things are.
Could it be that I am not actually the center of the Universe?
Of course, I've realized this before, probably even written about it, but you see I forget. I forget all sorts of things. I relearn lessons daily. Sometimes hourly. It's not unique to me. It's unique, I think, to people who are willing to relearn.
So I step back and I look at my wants, behaviors, communications with as little ego involvement as possible and I realize that I'm okay with my neediness. Actually it's more wantiness, I guess. I would like to leave everyone I love on a good note. A good, pure, perfect chord. All I can actually do is sing my note. I can't force anyone to chime in.
Oy, enough of the music analogies already. And you see, I realize that if my ego were totally out of it, I wouldn't care. And I have been told that releasing my ego should be a goal. I guess this all means that I'm not totally enlightened. I'll just have to add that to a few other interesting imperfections.
Because you see, I'm not going to stop trying to make things right with people. Oh, I'll stop nagging people who tell me they haven't the energy to spend on our friendship. Unless I forget they told me to stop. But my friendship and my love remain. So sue me.
I'm grateful for the friendly and family times I've had. That's all. I'm just imperfect and grateful.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Nurturing Nerds
This past summer I gave my grandson, Bump, a book I got when I was a kid, Answers and More Answers. It's a science book, but of course, it isn't quite up to date. I thought that perhaps he'd get a kick out of it. He said, "I think we should keep this at your house, Nana." It awaits him at my house.
But today, I ordered Nat Geo for little kids for him and his sister, Bell. I also ordered a journal for him that gives a weird fact per day and encourages him to write something weird he experienced each day. I also ordered a couple of DVDs about animal facts.
I think it's important to feed, not only the saxophone and piano players in my grands, but to also feed their nerddom in general. They are already facing so much culture via electronics, traditions, and school. I want to balance all their coolness with a hearty dose of nerd.
Their lives are already so full, at ages two and five, that I wonder if there is much room left for wonder. Wonder is, after all, the basis of all nerddom. I mean, everyone falls and scrapes a knee, but to be able to watch the blood first come out and then coagulates and then forms a scab, and wonder at the body's healing process - THAT is something. Everyone eventually learns to blow across the top of a bottle to make a sound, but to experiment with different levels of liquid to create different sounds - That is special. Spinning a globe is great fun. Realizing what a teensy, tiny speck we are in the galaxy even before we have the words to describe the sheer power of that realization - THAT is enlightenment. Well, it's as step toward enlightenment anyway.
I think all babies are born enlightened, gifted, brilliant. Unfortunately, I think it's usually taught right out of them. Out of us.
My advice is this. Learn to read, then never quit reading. Read up high in trees and with your feet in mud and on the roof under stars. Write about it. Love yourself and others enough to read and write to and about them. Embrace your nerddom. Be proud of it. Listen to all the music and wonder. Never stop wondering.
But today, I ordered Nat Geo for little kids for him and his sister, Bell. I also ordered a journal for him that gives a weird fact per day and encourages him to write something weird he experienced each day. I also ordered a couple of DVDs about animal facts.
I think it's important to feed, not only the saxophone and piano players in my grands, but to also feed their nerddom in general. They are already facing so much culture via electronics, traditions, and school. I want to balance all their coolness with a hearty dose of nerd.
Their lives are already so full, at ages two and five, that I wonder if there is much room left for wonder. Wonder is, after all, the basis of all nerddom. I mean, everyone falls and scrapes a knee, but to be able to watch the blood first come out and then coagulates and then forms a scab, and wonder at the body's healing process - THAT is something. Everyone eventually learns to blow across the top of a bottle to make a sound, but to experiment with different levels of liquid to create different sounds - That is special. Spinning a globe is great fun. Realizing what a teensy, tiny speck we are in the galaxy even before we have the words to describe the sheer power of that realization - THAT is enlightenment. Well, it's as step toward enlightenment anyway.
I think all babies are born enlightened, gifted, brilliant. Unfortunately, I think it's usually taught right out of them. Out of us.
My advice is this. Learn to read, then never quit reading. Read up high in trees and with your feet in mud and on the roof under stars. Write about it. Love yourself and others enough to read and write to and about them. Embrace your nerddom. Be proud of it. Listen to all the music and wonder. Never stop wondering.
Thursday, November 3, 2016
Food for Thought
When I was growing up, it wasn't unusual for kids to go home from school for lunch. Now, of course, that would be impossible. Now kids are put on conveyor belts and run through a cafeteria that serves them a bunch of stuff that they eat very quickly because time can't be taken away from teaching. And we've all seen how time spent teaching correlates with learning, right?
Why couldn't we try this? Why couldn't we treat school lunches like something really important. How about we serve really nutritious tasty meals and do it over the course of 75 minutes. A teacher could sit with each table of students and they would learn table manners, nutrition, patience, and well, just a gazillion things in this relaxed environment.
I've heard people say that kids won't eat weird, nutritious meals, so why serve them that stuff? Really. I've heard parents say that. Hmmmm. Using that logic we could say that we don't use proper grammar at home, so why teach it at school? We could say, no one at my house can do basic arithmetic, so why should my kids have to learn it? Yep. And pretty much that's what has happened.
I think we need to approach the whole school problem with this stuff called common sense. Get rid of tenure. Get rid of standardized tests. Have a big garden at every school so the students produce much of their own food while learning. What can't be taught in a garden? Be consistent in our messages - that is, don't tell kids in nutrition class why they shouldn't drink diet soda but sell it to them in the hallway. Teach kids to be respectful by being respectful.
We need to learn basic skills. We need to learn to read, use the web and other resources around us, but most of all we need to learn how to think for ourselves. It seems to me that too much if focused on giving the right answer, and not enough focused on how to obtain the answer. Life doesn't come with text books containing all the right answers.
And it seems to me that a good place to begin using common sense in schools is with lunch. There really isn't much more basic to our lives than eating, we might as well learn to do it well.
Why couldn't we try this? Why couldn't we treat school lunches like something really important. How about we serve really nutritious tasty meals and do it over the course of 75 minutes. A teacher could sit with each table of students and they would learn table manners, nutrition, patience, and well, just a gazillion things in this relaxed environment.
I've heard people say that kids won't eat weird, nutritious meals, so why serve them that stuff? Really. I've heard parents say that. Hmmmm. Using that logic we could say that we don't use proper grammar at home, so why teach it at school? We could say, no one at my house can do basic arithmetic, so why should my kids have to learn it? Yep. And pretty much that's what has happened.
I think we need to approach the whole school problem with this stuff called common sense. Get rid of tenure. Get rid of standardized tests. Have a big garden at every school so the students produce much of their own food while learning. What can't be taught in a garden? Be consistent in our messages - that is, don't tell kids in nutrition class why they shouldn't drink diet soda but sell it to them in the hallway. Teach kids to be respectful by being respectful.
We need to learn basic skills. We need to learn to read, use the web and other resources around us, but most of all we need to learn how to think for ourselves. It seems to me that too much if focused on giving the right answer, and not enough focused on how to obtain the answer. Life doesn't come with text books containing all the right answers.
And it seems to me that a good place to begin using common sense in schools is with lunch. There really isn't much more basic to our lives than eating, we might as well learn to do it well.
Monday, October 31, 2016
The Significance of Lighting Farts
It's not that I can't hear, it's that I hear too much. That constant buzzing noise, phantom cicadas. Is that a car, a plane, the ceiling fan? I can't say.
And it's not that I have nothing to write about. I have too much to write about. The life-changing rays of enlightenment that shine like a 100 watt, unshaded bulb in my mind when I should be sleeping, just bounce around like numbered ping pong balls, waiting for their chance to be memorialized in a blog. So, of course, it's difficult to focus on just one thing
Which leads me to the significance of fart lighting.
I am so happy that our spaghetti group didn't burn down Jacque's parents' new house. I'm sorry that Julie's jeans were singed. They were groovy jeans. But dang! Every time I remember it, I laugh until tears roll down my cheeks. We were such nerds. We were a bunch of teenaged girls whose worst sins included getting together on weekend nights for a sleepover and spaghetti and lighting farts. It's just amazing how much methane a 100 pound girl can muster, when she's adequately challenged.
Yeah, okay, so we lived on a tiny island in a sea of corn and bean fields. There wasn't all that much to do. We stayed busy, though. We'd pile in Honey, my '66 Ford, turn up the Philco and hope to catch some Carole King as we did the lake, the strip, the square, the college, the lake, the strip, the square, the college. We could tell by head or tail lights who was coming or going and we could guess where.
The lake, the square, the strip, the college. . . . .
We'd go bushwhacking to see whom we might catch parking. Even when we dated, we ended up together somehow. Jacque and Jerry would ride in the back of Dan's bean truck. Well, that's sort of a date, right? Riding around? And pre-bucket seats and consoles, you could tell how serious a relationship had become by if the girl sat right next to her boy as he drove around the lake, the square, the strip, the college.
Burlings had a rubber raft and sometimes we'd schlepp that out to the lake and paddle around. The town had a softball league and I sometimes would climb up into the box and announce the game, even though I didn't have a clue what was actually happening. Once - I swear to you this actually happened - Carol and Nichols and I were all drinking Pepsis and blew into our bottles and made a perfect chord!
It was 1972 and there was just so very, very much to do. And if we got bored, we could always light a fart.
And it's not that I have nothing to write about. I have too much to write about. The life-changing rays of enlightenment that shine like a 100 watt, unshaded bulb in my mind when I should be sleeping, just bounce around like numbered ping pong balls, waiting for their chance to be memorialized in a blog. So, of course, it's difficult to focus on just one thing
Which leads me to the significance of fart lighting.
I am so happy that our spaghetti group didn't burn down Jacque's parents' new house. I'm sorry that Julie's jeans were singed. They were groovy jeans. But dang! Every time I remember it, I laugh until tears roll down my cheeks. We were such nerds. We were a bunch of teenaged girls whose worst sins included getting together on weekend nights for a sleepover and spaghetti and lighting farts. It's just amazing how much methane a 100 pound girl can muster, when she's adequately challenged.
Yeah, okay, so we lived on a tiny island in a sea of corn and bean fields. There wasn't all that much to do. We stayed busy, though. We'd pile in Honey, my '66 Ford, turn up the Philco and hope to catch some Carole King as we did the lake, the strip, the square, the college, the lake, the strip, the square, the college. We could tell by head or tail lights who was coming or going and we could guess where.
The lake, the square, the strip, the college. . . . .
We'd go bushwhacking to see whom we might catch parking. Even when we dated, we ended up together somehow. Jacque and Jerry would ride in the back of Dan's bean truck. Well, that's sort of a date, right? Riding around? And pre-bucket seats and consoles, you could tell how serious a relationship had become by if the girl sat right next to her boy as he drove around the lake, the square, the strip, the college.
Burlings had a rubber raft and sometimes we'd schlepp that out to the lake and paddle around. The town had a softball league and I sometimes would climb up into the box and announce the game, even though I didn't have a clue what was actually happening. Once - I swear to you this actually happened - Carol and Nichols and I were all drinking Pepsis and blew into our bottles and made a perfect chord!
It was 1972 and there was just so very, very much to do. And if we got bored, we could always light a fart.
Monday, October 24, 2016
Out Catted
This afternoon I was working on the copper roof of the grotto in the Garden of Many Groovy Things, when Margaret got into a tussle with what at first I believed to be a cougar, bobcat, wolf, or fox. I was immediately at her side to save her, yelling as any mother would, at whatever was fighting with my baby. The monster that was making Margaret yelp loudly enough for James to come running out of the house turned out to be . . . .. duh duh duh daaaaaaaaa!. . . .a killer kitten!
The golden yellow kitten, has white rings around it's tail and body. On either side, she has a white circle. She has strange yellow eyes, and by now, we are great friends.
But a lot went down before that came to be.
First of all, the kitten got free from Margaret (or vice versa) and the feline went up an oak tree. James took Margaret inside to inspect her booboos and keep her occupied while I tried to coax the terrified kitten out of the tree.
Yes, I stood at the base of the tree, reasoning logically and emotionally pleading with a feral cat for a long, long. . . . long time. Finally she came down, the last bit was a jump into/onto my arms, all claws extended.
That was when I noticed that this charming little monster was pretty fur over bones. So I snuck into the house and borrowed some of Margaret's special food. I set the food and some water out for her and then just sat back in the garden and read my mail.
Did the cat disappear? Nope
She came closer and closer to me until she was routinely rubbing against my hand, making occasional eye contact. Throughout this bonding time, I kept thinking that I heard another cat mewing. But I wrote that off as the imprint on my brain of the recent kitten rescue.
Later in the day, I was once again working in the GMGT and heard an increasingly loud mewing. My hearing isn't quite as acute as it used to was, so it's not always easy for me to track down a sound. But I finally pinpointed the noise. Yep. A yellow kitten way up in the oak tree. This time, the kitten was farther up the tree and much more timid. Why? I didn't know. I thought we'd become great pals.
I pleaded, I debated, I reassured. I told her she was a very strong, brave, kitty. I moved a hammock against the tree as a ladder. Did she come down the trunk?
Nope. She went out on the proverbial limb. I gave up several times and told her so. I sat down on my garden bench and tried to ignore her crying.
But this was no ordinary feline. This was a member of a gang of con kitties. An expert in the art of manipulation and emotional torture.
So I followed the kitten to the end of the limb, which hung low over the thyme garden. On my tiptoes, I reached up and grabbed larger and larger twigs, all the while encouraging, coaxing, pleading with the kitten to come down once again.
During one of m neck relief sessions, still holding down the limb, I noticed, a yellow kitten with white rings around it's tail and body, standing nearby, watching the whole fiasco.
What? Who?
So! There are two such strange kittens. One, who was rubbing against my ankles and purring, while her presumed sibling was crying just a foot out of my reach in the tree.
ARRRGGGHHHH! I'd been duped. . . . . . . Again.
One last reach and I grabbed (or was grabbed by) Yellow Kitten #2, who was quickly returned to terra firma, and scooted back into the woods.
Yellow Kitten #1, remained rubbing against my ankles. I asked her her name and she told me, "Miel," which is one of my favorite names and very appropriate for such a sweet, honey-colored kitty.
I made a comfy, cozy bed with a crocheted fluffy thing in a bucket in the grotto, fed her again, showed her where her fresh water was and gave it up for the night.
I may be hard-headed, but I know when I'm beat.
I'm grateful.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Two Autumns
As I sit here with my coffee, munching my granola of oats, nuts and dried fruit, I can't help thinking how the change of season makes me want to eat things made with Velveeta and cream of something soup. Oooooh, or with condensed cheddar cheese soup and sour cream. Maybe there is some way to get some home made egg noodles in there, too. I don't have any particular recipe in mind, you understand. I just want a bunch of stuff that isn't really good for me. This urge must be left over from when humans had to fatten up for the winter - you know, before pizza was delivered.
Maybe it has more to do with my mood, which on a scale of one to ten has lately been stuck on suckwad. Can't sleep then sleep through a day or two, I'm pretty sure the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train, and I'm surrounded by things I have to do and I don't have the energy or the focus to do them.
Honest to gourd, it took me two hours to figure out how to return a dress. Let me just add that the reason I had to return it is because it is too small and the only dresses I can find for an upcoming event that will fit me look like they're made for a sixty year old woman! Oh, yeah, and then there's that. Sixty? Really? Who in the world said that it would be okay for my next birthday to be sixty?
My phone is dead because I left my charging cord at my sister's house. I can't tell you how many times I've tried to call her to tell her that. And the ants that are moving into the kitchen refuse to pay rent.
I promised myself that if I got up and had a cup of coffee, I could go back to bed. My purple desk, where I'm now having my second cuppa, is under two windows where birds often come to visit and which give me an excellent view of the area from the shoulders up.
The leaves are now mature green, not the chartreuse green of spring which look ever up to the sky, but a confident, emerald green. Here and there are clusters of bright orange or yellow and against the pure, clear blue sky they look almost too real. With the slightest hint of a breeze, the leaves turn to encourage their neighbors. They whisper among themselves about the next big adventure. Then they look back down toward Earth without hurry, without angst, but with surety and confidence.
I should live long enough to be as wise as these old oaks.
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Do It Yourself
I just watched a youtube video about how to replace a toilet. I know, I know. . . . . . how sexy can I get, right? Anyway, I'm going to attempt it tomorrow, I think. A brand new low flow, dual flush toddy.
I told my daughter I was going to attempt this and she quite strongly advised against it. However, I know where the water shut off thingie is and there are a couple of other toidies in the house, so really, the worst that could happen is that I get stuck and have to call the plumber dude.
While I was talking to my daughter, I could hear my father laughing. He's been gone for a couple of decades now - since before youtube self-help videos. But when H1 and I bought our first home, a 130 year old "cottage," there were many, many fix ups we needed to do. When I told Papa that we were going to do them ourselves, he laughed and asked me why I thought that would work. I always told him that I'd read a book and then he'd laugh and laugh.
"So you're going to refinish the oak floors yourselves?"
Yes. I have a book about it. . . . . "
"Hahahahahahahaha!"
It wasn't long before I understood what was so funny.
One of our fix up projects involved moving a claw foot tub from one side of the 4' X 14' bathroom, to the other side. How tough could that be, right? There was a bit of a cellar, but not under the bathroom. To access that, one had to crawl through a long, scary, narrow crawl space. So, of course, we waited until our friend, Hal, all 6'7" of him, came to visit. He knew about plumbing and construction, etc. The bathtub got moved and miraculously, Hal still speaks to us!
But the house really was an adventure in which ignorance provided quite a bit of the bliss.
The master bedroom on the first floor had water damage to the plaster beneath the windows. No worries, right? Just tear out the plaster and replace with drywall. We got a cart from somewhere and put it outside the window to hold the bits of plaster that we knocked down. Ancient, horse hair plaster, it turns out, weighs about the same as concrete. So long before the cart was full, the wheels were sunk into the ground.
(Sound track of Papa laughing.)
And don't even get me started on drywalling! Who knew? We eventually hired my boyfriend from first grade to do that. He came in with stilts and everything. It's an art. One I've appreciated ever since.
When we first moved in, I could stand flat footed and palm the kitchen ceiling in some places. The kitchen was a step down from the rest of the house, and we discovered that it had been an old summer kitchen that was just sort of slid up to the house and roofed over. Okay, so we'll raise it - make it a cathedral ceiling.
(Run the sound track)
The cabinets weren't anything close to "standard" of course, and they were sort of connected to the ceiling as well as the walls and. . . . well, it was a mess. When the ceiling came down, we discovered that the attic space above the kitchen was full of cinders and old ashes from a previous wood and/or coal stove. Lovely. And nothing - not a single corner - in the house was square. But how difficult could it be to build new cabinets to match the old ones. They are just wooden boxes with doors, after all.
(Turn up volume on sound track)
I so loved that house with it's arched doorways and glass door knobs. It had a really good vibration and
I'm sure, an excellent sense of humor. I will think about it and Papa tomorrow while changing out the toilet. I'll let you know how it goes.
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