Random thoughts! Random thoughts! Oh my goodness! The Department of Social Services is coming to our house tomorrow. No! Not all of them! Two of them! A social worker and a nurse! The person who generally runs the show in my head is having a panic attack. Pacing back and forth inside the cerebellum from lobe to lobe searching for someone, anyone, resembling an adult who likes to clean-up. Likes?! O,K. that is asking more than possible. Put out the SOS. "People in my brain! Would one of you kindly step up to the plate and organize this entire freaking residence in the next five to eight hours?" Counterproductive! That was counterproductive. Everyone left out the back entrance.
(Let me be clear for a moment.) Ahem! I know there is only one of me. See? But I cannot deny that the words Department of Social Services and coming to my house provide fertile ground for a meltdown of my mental health. I'm sure one or two of whomever reads this post will understand.
Oh dear! I just brought my own self down. I am my own "debbie downer". Unthinkable! There is only one of me but what a "me" she proves to be when there are things to be done of the organizational variety. Deep breath! Tomorrow is a good day. People are coming to help my husband and I have a better quality of life as he progresses in his dementia. That is a wonderful thing. A blessing! (I need to take a moment! One of the other me's who is not really anyone but me is tapping me on the shoulder.)
The freaking Department of Social Services is coming to my house tomorrow and they are actually going to come in my house. I feel faint at the thought. Who shall I say is responsible for all this stuff? Should I blame an errant house guest who's just left me with this mess to be cleaned up?
(several days later and the drama queen or dare I say it the Queen of Histrionics reports from the field)
Dear viewers, there was a small misunderstanding. The resident in charge went into a full blown freak attack in anticipation of the Department of Social Services coming to the house. The meltdown drove a dusk to dawn night of frenzied and non-productive cleaning that was without merit.
When the Department of Social Services came to the house they were not the Department of Social Services. They were affiliated with the Department of Social Services. They asked questions, filled out paperwork, left and came back with more paperwork. A nurse arrived and took baseline vital signs and she left. Not a single one of these professionals so much as used the bathroom while in residence.
I, the madame of the afflicted cerebellum lost my cool for nothing. No reason. Not one moment of the meltdown made an iota of a difference. No drama. Paperwork completed. Phone calls made. Approval obtained.
Approval in hand, "I,Me Us"leave the room with a sheepish grin and a heavy sigh of relief!
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Sunday, December 18, 2016
It is late or It is early!
The past few days have been somber days. Just thinking; maybe the past two weeks have been somber. I am not a Christmas lover. I get a warm, fuzzy feeling about two days before Christmas and am happy with that for myself.
The past couple of days with my husband have been difficult. Not because of what is happening but because of what is not happening. Frontal Lobe Dementia is a particularly cruel form of dementia for the patient. It is not like Alzheimer's which is horrific for anyone experiencing it. Frontal Lobe Dementia does not take the memory as thoroughly as Alzheimer's. This means the person with FLD realizes, on their good days, what is happening mentally and physically. Being home with my husband and seeing the depression, frustration and resignation play out is incredibly difficult. Anyone who has dealt with dementia in their family, and there are many, know the heart wrenching sense of loss that happens far ahead of an actual loss. The daily care giving is nothing when compared to the acceptance that has to happen in both of us. We don't talk about it often. Usually, conversations start because I try too hard to find ways to make things better and he reminds me there is nothing I can do to make things better. He has Frontal Lobe Dementia, and it is incurable.
He has probably had symptoms far longer than I originally believed. After researching on the internet and sharing with support groups on the internet I can see the beginnings of symptoms probably three years before he began to feel physical symptoms. I now wonder if many of the visits to the hospital for depression and confused thinking were really this slow, degradation of his frontal lobe. There is no one to be angry with because early symptoms resemble a number of mental illnesses or emotional disturbances. I cannot imagine who would have thought to do an MRI or test in other ways for this dementia. Maybe they would not have been able to identify it that early anyway.
Part of me is reeling inside. Part of me is calm and performing the tasks required each day. We spend a great deal of time together now. In that respect we have grown closer and care more for one another than at any other time in our marriage. But it is not a romance as much as it is a reaching out towards each other in our own way to blend our efforts to walk this awful illness out together. It is not pretty. We could not possibly find a musical score that would be appropriate. I get frustrated with washing sheets and helping him get up and down and watching what he wants to watch on t.v. He gets frustrated with my adhd self and my need to help what cannot be helped and not being able to be away from me and on his own. He was a fiercely independent man. He fished hours and hours at the pier. Now he is home or at the doctor's office and he cannot walk far without help or remember how to use the remotes or remember where I went or when I will be back except for the days when he can remember those things part of the day and not on the other part of the day.
The day we let someone buy his car was awful. It had been sitting in our driveway for over four years as a hope and symbol of possibilities that we both knew would not come. The day it left the driveway he withdrew for two days and almost cried. I hurt so much that I wanted to run off after the man who bought it and ask him to bring it back. I think we all want to believe that we can reverse the irreversible by the sheer force of our wills. Sorrow drapes itself over my shoulders on days when I have magical thinking. Magical thinking is wicked. It cuts like a knife.
This is just me thinking and is in no way a power of example or an effort to convey wisdom on any level. I count on God to be wise and to guide us through the fierce, dark forests and the days and days in the desert. I believe God redeems the time for us. At some point between here and there I will be redeemed and so will Robert. There is a better than good chance that we won't know it when it happens. Redemption is a quiet, precious gift We will notice that the entire trip seemed to take only five minutes and you can flat believe that will get our attention.
The past couple of days with my husband have been difficult. Not because of what is happening but because of what is not happening. Frontal Lobe Dementia is a particularly cruel form of dementia for the patient. It is not like Alzheimer's which is horrific for anyone experiencing it. Frontal Lobe Dementia does not take the memory as thoroughly as Alzheimer's. This means the person with FLD realizes, on their good days, what is happening mentally and physically. Being home with my husband and seeing the depression, frustration and resignation play out is incredibly difficult. Anyone who has dealt with dementia in their family, and there are many, know the heart wrenching sense of loss that happens far ahead of an actual loss. The daily care giving is nothing when compared to the acceptance that has to happen in both of us. We don't talk about it often. Usually, conversations start because I try too hard to find ways to make things better and he reminds me there is nothing I can do to make things better. He has Frontal Lobe Dementia, and it is incurable.
He has probably had symptoms far longer than I originally believed. After researching on the internet and sharing with support groups on the internet I can see the beginnings of symptoms probably three years before he began to feel physical symptoms. I now wonder if many of the visits to the hospital for depression and confused thinking were really this slow, degradation of his frontal lobe. There is no one to be angry with because early symptoms resemble a number of mental illnesses or emotional disturbances. I cannot imagine who would have thought to do an MRI or test in other ways for this dementia. Maybe they would not have been able to identify it that early anyway.
Part of me is reeling inside. Part of me is calm and performing the tasks required each day. We spend a great deal of time together now. In that respect we have grown closer and care more for one another than at any other time in our marriage. But it is not a romance as much as it is a reaching out towards each other in our own way to blend our efforts to walk this awful illness out together. It is not pretty. We could not possibly find a musical score that would be appropriate. I get frustrated with washing sheets and helping him get up and down and watching what he wants to watch on t.v. He gets frustrated with my adhd self and my need to help what cannot be helped and not being able to be away from me and on his own. He was a fiercely independent man. He fished hours and hours at the pier. Now he is home or at the doctor's office and he cannot walk far without help or remember how to use the remotes or remember where I went or when I will be back except for the days when he can remember those things part of the day and not on the other part of the day.
The day we let someone buy his car was awful. It had been sitting in our driveway for over four years as a hope and symbol of possibilities that we both knew would not come. The day it left the driveway he withdrew for two days and almost cried. I hurt so much that I wanted to run off after the man who bought it and ask him to bring it back. I think we all want to believe that we can reverse the irreversible by the sheer force of our wills. Sorrow drapes itself over my shoulders on days when I have magical thinking. Magical thinking is wicked. It cuts like a knife.
This is just me thinking and is in no way a power of example or an effort to convey wisdom on any level. I count on God to be wise and to guide us through the fierce, dark forests and the days and days in the desert. I believe God redeems the time for us. At some point between here and there I will be redeemed and so will Robert. There is a better than good chance that we won't know it when it happens. Redemption is a quiet, precious gift We will notice that the entire trip seemed to take only five minutes and you can flat believe that will get our attention.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
A World Full Of Dangers
A World Full of Dangers
My cats surge around me as I walk. I turn to step towards the refrigerator. Oops! YEOW! Move your dadgum tail you piece of feline destruction. It was you or me!
Glorified Plastic Shoes, known as Crocs, conspire to send me into a head first vault down the damp wooden ramp at the front of the trailer. Who knew the smooth sole of a Croc would need little encouragement to skid me into a short but fierce burst of life and death defying contortions in a frantic effort to maintain my upright position.
Crocs again...when they catch on a tiled floor in a store and they stop with my feet in them but I don't stop because who knew it was going to be that particular step? Refer to slipping on the porch for a description of contortions, upright position, etc.
Tiny food items that manage to go down my windpipe when I swallow while laughing or inhaling from a laugh. They cling tight to my lungs with the tenacity of tiny little crabs. I cough and cough, drink water, cough some more, clear my throat. ACK! ACK! Sorry! Sorry! What? No I'll live. Thank you!
That sorry excuse for a tub they put in mobile homes. Step up and into the tub. Warning! Warning! The "classy" plastic tub, wet with water and soap, morphs into the equivalent of a snow covered, icy advanced ski slope Each encounter is fraught with peril. In addition, the recessed step is rounded at the edge and at least two inches short of allowing feet to stay put on it. I avoid the step in favor of a large step from the bath mat, over the step, over the side of the tub and onto the mat inside the tub. There are hazards in that approach but none so blatantly designed to bring on death as the dreaded tub step.
Last, and far from least, grabbing up a cat who is outdoors and looks kinda like my cat and holding it by the skin behind its neck and tight against my chest while it makes inhuman noises as I tell it who the boss is while my husband stands at the door saying repeatedly, "That is not our cat!" only I don't hear him because I am yelling for him to "OPEN THE DOOR FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THIS &^%$ WORLD". When I get to the door, he repeats himself as he opens the door. My cats go native and lunge towards me just as I realize my husband was yelling, "That's not our cat!" I let go! Stray cat flies away, home cats stand down and husband says I'm crazy and I'm like, "You say that like it's a bad thing!"
Who knew?
My cats surge around me as I walk. I turn to step towards the refrigerator. Oops! YEOW! Move your dadgum tail you piece of feline destruction. It was you or me!
Glorified Plastic Shoes, known as Crocs, conspire to send me into a head first vault down the damp wooden ramp at the front of the trailer. Who knew the smooth sole of a Croc would need little encouragement to skid me into a short but fierce burst of life and death defying contortions in a frantic effort to maintain my upright position.
Crocs again...when they catch on a tiled floor in a store and they stop with my feet in them but I don't stop because who knew it was going to be that particular step? Refer to slipping on the porch for a description of contortions, upright position, etc.
Tiny food items that manage to go down my windpipe when I swallow while laughing or inhaling from a laugh. They cling tight to my lungs with the tenacity of tiny little crabs. I cough and cough, drink water, cough some more, clear my throat. ACK! ACK! Sorry! Sorry! What? No I'll live. Thank you!
That sorry excuse for a tub they put in mobile homes. Step up and into the tub. Warning! Warning! The "classy" plastic tub, wet with water and soap, morphs into the equivalent of a snow covered, icy advanced ski slope Each encounter is fraught with peril. In addition, the recessed step is rounded at the edge and at least two inches short of allowing feet to stay put on it. I avoid the step in favor of a large step from the bath mat, over the step, over the side of the tub and onto the mat inside the tub. There are hazards in that approach but none so blatantly designed to bring on death as the dreaded tub step.
Last, and far from least, grabbing up a cat who is outdoors and looks kinda like my cat and holding it by the skin behind its neck and tight against my chest while it makes inhuman noises as I tell it who the boss is while my husband stands at the door saying repeatedly, "That is not our cat!" only I don't hear him because I am yelling for him to "OPEN THE DOOR FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THIS &^%$ WORLD". When I get to the door, he repeats himself as he opens the door. My cats go native and lunge towards me just as I realize my husband was yelling, "That's not our cat!" I let go! Stray cat flies away, home cats stand down and husband says I'm crazy and I'm like, "You say that like it's a bad thing!"
Who knew?
Friday, December 2, 2016
Security Wherefore Art Thou
IF I HAD AVOIDED DANGER I WOULD NEVER HAVE BECOME WHO I AM TODAY NOR LOVED THE WAY I DO TODAY.
LOVE IS DANGEROUS, DARING AND ADVENTUROUS OR IT ISN'T LOVE AT ALL.
LOVE IS DANGEROUS, DARING AND ADVENTUROUS OR IT ISN'T LOVE AT ALL.
I CHOOSE TO LOVE "LIKE A FREE SPIRIT IN THE FACE OF FATE"
Sunday, November 27, 2016
I Want
I want to be a poet or a laureate or a poet laureate.
I want to be an acclaimed singer posing as a man like I saw Lily Tomlin do one time long ago.
I want to make a difference in the lives of those who have no others to make a difference in their lives.
I want to lose weight and be tall and thin with my hair long and braided down my back.
I want to own property and rescue dogs and hire people who were rescued to love the dogs back to health while the dogs love them back to health.
I want to teach Miss Nibbles, the parrot who loves me, to say "I love you".
I want to take a boat ride far enough out to sea at night that I cannot see the lights of land and blackness crowds round until the stars fill the sky above and the flecks of surf flowing along the top of the water catch the reflection of the stars and twinkle.
I want to draw a deep breath full of the smell of heather and grasses and fresh turned earth. I want the rain to fall afterwards as I stand with my face turned up to catch the drops.
I want to love a child who has forgotten how to be loved.
I want to die tonight and I want to live forever and I want to laugh and hurt and find myself falling onto the ground and rolling over and over in the throes of an ecstasy both frightening and glorious all at once.
I want to plead with the wounded souls who bring terror into the darkness of the night to put down their weapons and to stand still for moments and moments until they feel themselves breathing and they know the wonder of that breath and the joy of that breath so that they would never choose to take it from another soul.
I want to serve and love and serve and love in the service of Christ the Lord until there is nothing left of me but the bondage of my surrender in His service and all that I can do is cry out with joy, cry out with this fearsome peace that passes all understanding and cry out with this love that will not let me go.
I want to show someone who has never dreamed it possible that they are loved by the creator of the universe, by the alpha and omega and they are loved by the creator with such a jealous love that they cannot escape that love nor wish to be in the presence of another god forever and ever.
I want to sit perfectly still. Close my eyes. Be silent and listen to the sounds of my home. The sound of warm air flowing into my room from the heater down the hall. The sounds of my cats breathing deeply in their sleep. The sound of the clock ticking. And finally, the sound of myself drawing in the breath of life right here in my home among all the things I love. I, yes, even I can draw in the breath of life.
I want to stop now. I am finished.
I want to be an acclaimed singer posing as a man like I saw Lily Tomlin do one time long ago.
I want to make a difference in the lives of those who have no others to make a difference in their lives.
I want to lose weight and be tall and thin with my hair long and braided down my back.
I want to own property and rescue dogs and hire people who were rescued to love the dogs back to health while the dogs love them back to health.
I want to teach Miss Nibbles, the parrot who loves me, to say "I love you".
I want to take a boat ride far enough out to sea at night that I cannot see the lights of land and blackness crowds round until the stars fill the sky above and the flecks of surf flowing along the top of the water catch the reflection of the stars and twinkle.
I want to draw a deep breath full of the smell of heather and grasses and fresh turned earth. I want the rain to fall afterwards as I stand with my face turned up to catch the drops.
I want to love a child who has forgotten how to be loved.
I want to die tonight and I want to live forever and I want to laugh and hurt and find myself falling onto the ground and rolling over and over in the throes of an ecstasy both frightening and glorious all at once.
I want to plead with the wounded souls who bring terror into the darkness of the night to put down their weapons and to stand still for moments and moments until they feel themselves breathing and they know the wonder of that breath and the joy of that breath so that they would never choose to take it from another soul.
I want to serve and love and serve and love in the service of Christ the Lord until there is nothing left of me but the bondage of my surrender in His service and all that I can do is cry out with joy, cry out with this fearsome peace that passes all understanding and cry out with this love that will not let me go.
I want to show someone who has never dreamed it possible that they are loved by the creator of the universe, by the alpha and omega and they are loved by the creator with such a jealous love that they cannot escape that love nor wish to be in the presence of another god forever and ever.
I want to sit perfectly still. Close my eyes. Be silent and listen to the sounds of my home. The sound of warm air flowing into my room from the heater down the hall. The sounds of my cats breathing deeply in their sleep. The sound of the clock ticking. And finally, the sound of myself drawing in the breath of life right here in my home among all the things I love. I, yes, even I can draw in the breath of life.
I want to stop now. I am finished.
Tuesday, November 22, 2016
Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Today
Today I took my husband to the doctor. Today I went to the grocery store. Today I went to the pharmacy. Today I learned of illness and misfortune in the lives of a fair sampling of the people I know and trust. Today my dear friend knows her brother in Washington state is dying. Today my friend's brother may well die. Today I formed an opinion about life and forgot that opinion along with a number of other excursions down the rabbit hole. Today I made an effort to refrain from analyzing myself. Today I judged a number of people. Today I wanted to get high. Today I turned to another radio channel to wipe away the thought of "I want to get high." Today I experienced vulnerability. Today I sought and I found, I called out and I received an answer. Today I made the daily commitment to follow Christ. Today I read scripture. Today I made the daily commitment to stay sober. Today I made a conscious decision to love my husband unconditionally. Today I chose to let God love me unconditionally. Today I chose not to fear. Today I stood at the edge of the gaping maw of the abyss. Today I walked away from the abyss. Today I sang beautifully for several seconds in a row.
Today I chose to live in such a manner that I could be reasonably sure to wake up at peace tomorrow.
Friday, November 11, 2016
Waxing and Waning
Waxing and waning are two words that when said together cause me to fight a compulsion to quote lines from Monty Python and The Search for The Holy Grail or Elmer Fudd.
This is at least 6 times I have begun a post. I attempted a philosophical post. Silly me! I attempted a casual post. Boring! I attempted a stream of consciousness post. The stream ain't streaming. I stopped attempting. Gonna do it this time. For me. I cannot let my mojo walk off and find another home. And, I will confess, I have been trying to write with the people who may be reading this post in mind...a little. Not my original intent and I think it has blocked me because I am a natural born people pleaser. I am going to make an honest attempt to return to my original intent. The reality is that writing, like acting, is only one hnaad clapping without an audience. It appears that a small group of folks stop by and I like that and I need it. Ouch! I hate that admission. My job is to write free of knowing you are there and being happy you are there, see?
I need to get back to a character I birthed a few posts back. I think I titled it, "She Is Me". I could have titled it, "I Am It" , but there is a book, true story, about a man who grew up as "It". It is a disturbing and awful story of abuse. Why did I read it? At one time I was looking for an understanding and a validtaion related to personal issues. I do not read books in that genre now. And, I got over reading self-help books, diet books, extreme motivation books..well you get the idea. I read the Bible now and from an entirely different perspective because of the way the Bible is taught in my church family. My reading choices are ecletic. My music tastes are ecletic. I could make the title " She is Ecletic " but the character is not ecletic. Not by a long shot. It may be that my ecletic persona stymies my creativity. There would be truth in my opinion that ADHD, be it ever so humble, robs me of narrowing down my scatter-pattern. But, that's cool. It takes all kinds.
Would ya look at that clock? Time to begin the process of a gallant effort, on my part, to go to bed before daylight is beginning to appear through the blinds. Two nights in a row I slept four to six hours. Darn! Two times are not enough to establish a pattern or indicate a trend. Talk amongst yourselves.
Sweet dreams all y'all!
x
This is at least 6 times I have begun a post. I attempted a philosophical post. Silly me! I attempted a casual post. Boring! I attempted a stream of consciousness post. The stream ain't streaming. I stopped attempting. Gonna do it this time. For me. I cannot let my mojo walk off and find another home. And, I will confess, I have been trying to write with the people who may be reading this post in mind...a little. Not my original intent and I think it has blocked me because I am a natural born people pleaser. I am going to make an honest attempt to return to my original intent. The reality is that writing, like acting, is only one hnaad clapping without an audience. It appears that a small group of folks stop by and I like that and I need it. Ouch! I hate that admission. My job is to write free of knowing you are there and being happy you are there, see?
I need to get back to a character I birthed a few posts back. I think I titled it, "She Is Me". I could have titled it, "I Am It" , but there is a book, true story, about a man who grew up as "It". It is a disturbing and awful story of abuse. Why did I read it? At one time I was looking for an understanding and a validtaion related to personal issues. I do not read books in that genre now. And, I got over reading self-help books, diet books, extreme motivation books..well you get the idea. I read the Bible now and from an entirely different perspective because of the way the Bible is taught in my church family. My reading choices are ecletic. My music tastes are ecletic. I could make the title " She is Ecletic " but the character is not ecletic. Not by a long shot. It may be that my ecletic persona stymies my creativity. There would be truth in my opinion that ADHD, be it ever so humble, robs me of narrowing down my scatter-pattern. But, that's cool. It takes all kinds.
Would ya look at that clock? Time to begin the process of a gallant effort, on my part, to go to bed before daylight is beginning to appear through the blinds. Two nights in a row I slept four to six hours. Darn! Two times are not enough to establish a pattern or indicate a trend. Talk amongst yourselves.
Sweet dreams all y'all!
x
Monday, October 31, 2016
Feline Ruminations
No format. Streaming along at will and whim. I have trapped myself by feeding a rogue cat who stays in our neighborhood. He intimidates my cat and has taken up residence on our deck. My intentions were good. Not thought through but good. Tonight my cat came towards me and then ran away when he saw the other cat and we did this for about 20 minutes during which time I tried to stuff the rogue cat into a cat carrier to buy me some time to get my cat in the house. But...as might be expected, that cat would have no part of that cat carrier. The thought of the carrier did slow his roll a bit giving me just enough time to scoop up my cat and go inside.
Cats can go from regular flesh and bones to boneless with no form in about one second. When they go limp they slide from your arms in one fluid motion, land on the ground and walk off with a smug, shape-shifting grin on their mugs.
Or, and this is much the less desired one, they become a cat body with stiff, outstretched legs and claws extended. It is impossible to deal with them in this mode. This is the posture the rogue cat chose when I tried to put him into the cat carrier.
Cats aside, tongue in cheek, because they are never aside. It is diabolical to suggest that elderly people would benefit from the companionship of a cat. Cats have perfect timing. Mine casually stroll in front of my feet as I am walking through the house. I grab anything in sight to keep from falling and I give that cat a lecture. The cat's eyes get huge and his tail goes upright, swishing and swaying back and forth. There is no way this creature is hearing what I am saying to him. I don't think he cares because when he takes a notion, and he takes a notion often, he strolls into my path again.
There is information available with suggestions on how to give a cat a bath. Those directions are for super humans who have no fear. I am average and deeply respect the opinion of the cat on the subject of a bath. If necessary I could represent the cat in a court of feline peers. That is how much I am not planning on giving any cat, much less mine, a bath. Case closed.
Who knew I was going to talk about cats? A show of hands, please! Well, I sure didn't know it. I am always the last to know.
Cats can go from regular flesh and bones to boneless with no form in about one second. When they go limp they slide from your arms in one fluid motion, land on the ground and walk off with a smug, shape-shifting grin on their mugs.
Or, and this is much the less desired one, they become a cat body with stiff, outstretched legs and claws extended. It is impossible to deal with them in this mode. This is the posture the rogue cat chose when I tried to put him into the cat carrier.
Cats aside, tongue in cheek, because they are never aside. It is diabolical to suggest that elderly people would benefit from the companionship of a cat. Cats have perfect timing. Mine casually stroll in front of my feet as I am walking through the house. I grab anything in sight to keep from falling and I give that cat a lecture. The cat's eyes get huge and his tail goes upright, swishing and swaying back and forth. There is no way this creature is hearing what I am saying to him. I don't think he cares because when he takes a notion, and he takes a notion often, he strolls into my path again.
There is information available with suggestions on how to give a cat a bath. Those directions are for super humans who have no fear. I am average and deeply respect the opinion of the cat on the subject of a bath. If necessary I could represent the cat in a court of feline peers. That is how much I am not planning on giving any cat, much less mine, a bath. Case closed.
Who knew I was going to talk about cats? A show of hands, please! Well, I sure didn't know it. I am always the last to know.
Thursday, October 27, 2016
I Am She (Revised and to be continued)
She sat hunched over a hot mug of coffee, sweetened with sugar and mellowed with creamer. Her intentions had been good. Today was going to be an ordered day. Things would get done at home. Problems would be solved.
In the time it took her to lift the coffee cup to her lips a list of tasks to be done filled her mind In the time it took her to take a drink of the coffee and place the mug back onto the table she forgot the tasks, forgot her list of first things first and fell into a reverie of random memories. Getting still in body and mind created a hole in her soul from which all manner of whimsy, drama, quilt, shame and magical thinking often poured. Frenetic activity closed off the hole and lessened her vulnerability. For this reason she doubted the diagnosis of ADHD. She believed her incessant moving of arms and legs, her procrastination, her impulsiveness and tender heart, linked together with a vivid imagination were the tools she used to stay away from that awful hole in her soul. Intuitively she knew her perspective was flawed. There would be a day of reckoning when her energy would run low, when magical thinking would not work and she would be left vulnerable and frightened.
Thinking of herself as vulnerable shifted her mood. She dug deep within to access the anger to mask the vulnerability. Even this tried and true skill was becoming difficult. She felt rather than knew the control slipping away from her. A sharp pain of angst knifed through her heart. Time was short. The day was coming when she would have to face herself without an armor. Or so she thought on that particular day.
In the time it took her to lift the coffee cup to her lips a list of tasks to be done filled her mind In the time it took her to take a drink of the coffee and place the mug back onto the table she forgot the tasks, forgot her list of first things first and fell into a reverie of random memories. Getting still in body and mind created a hole in her soul from which all manner of whimsy, drama, quilt, shame and magical thinking often poured. Frenetic activity closed off the hole and lessened her vulnerability. For this reason she doubted the diagnosis of ADHD. She believed her incessant moving of arms and legs, her procrastination, her impulsiveness and tender heart, linked together with a vivid imagination were the tools she used to stay away from that awful hole in her soul. Intuitively she knew her perspective was flawed. There would be a day of reckoning when her energy would run low, when magical thinking would not work and she would be left vulnerable and frightened.
Thinking of herself as vulnerable shifted her mood. She dug deep within to access the anger to mask the vulnerability. Even this tried and true skill was becoming difficult. She felt rather than knew the control slipping away from her. A sharp pain of angst knifed through her heart. Time was short. The day was coming when she would have to face herself without an armor. Or so she thought on that particular day.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Snippets and Maybe More
As a bonafide insomniac my days are long and it is a good thing because I could never fit all of my day into just one day.
I guess it is safe to say that life is a bit out of whack at the moment. When I cannot remember if I slept at home or at my mom's or if I slept for real or on the couch in brief naps followed by waking moments followed by brief naps there is a disconnect. My today life is scattered out over two counties. I experience a sense of being suspended in mid-air with no way up or down. I ponder the gravity of my situation and immediately avert my eyes from the truth. Truth is a mean spirited bitch at times like these and truth will preserve my sanity. So, is truth schizophrenic? I know I am not and neither am I. (Levity at a time like this, dear ones)
The sorrow wrapped itself around me as I left the rehab/nursing home this afternoon. On the way to the parking lot I heard a bird calling out in a loud sing-song warble. I stopped to find the bird in the adjacent trees. It called out again. I could not see him through the thick foliage. The moment I said, "Well, I can't spot him!" (said to myself, that is) he swooped from one tree to the tree beside me. Much larger than I expected and silent now he seemed to have flown close to me just because he could and I liked him for that; I surely did like him for that.
One hundred years later...or two days, but who's counting.
We had the exit interview at the rehab/nursing home. October 20th is the come home date. Mixed feelings. Mine. Not his. Nursing homes have given me a new appreciation for the life I have outside them. The child in me is intimidated by all the suffering. The adult in me is in wonder at the graciousness of many of the people who are there long term.
I gasp as a pang of sorrow tears through me. If the doctor's are accurate there is not much time left of the option to come home. Well, I assume the option is always available. The hellish part is making the decision when it is an option and the person you love is the person for whom you must decide that option.
A few days later....it is early in the a.m. and I am not in bed yet. I am on the bed and I have done all but get in it. There is so much happening each day. I forget that I am 65 and I, accustomed to the constant changes as a child, young adult...o.k....constant changes since birth, find this change challenging beyond what I can think or imagine. I want to freeze time until I can catch up with it. Pipe dreams, magical thinking, the imaginings of a woman who craves for a simple answer to an equation which totaled up bears grim news. I cannot get the look on my husband's face to fade. I crave solace. I crave a long, deep hug and a lap to place my head on. Star light, star bright, first star I've seen tonight.....
I guess it is safe to say that life is a bit out of whack at the moment. When I cannot remember if I slept at home or at my mom's or if I slept for real or on the couch in brief naps followed by waking moments followed by brief naps there is a disconnect. My today life is scattered out over two counties. I experience a sense of being suspended in mid-air with no way up or down. I ponder the gravity of my situation and immediately avert my eyes from the truth. Truth is a mean spirited bitch at times like these and truth will preserve my sanity. So, is truth schizophrenic? I know I am not and neither am I. (Levity at a time like this, dear ones)
The sorrow wrapped itself around me as I left the rehab/nursing home this afternoon. On the way to the parking lot I heard a bird calling out in a loud sing-song warble. I stopped to find the bird in the adjacent trees. It called out again. I could not see him through the thick foliage. The moment I said, "Well, I can't spot him!" (said to myself, that is) he swooped from one tree to the tree beside me. Much larger than I expected and silent now he seemed to have flown close to me just because he could and I liked him for that; I surely did like him for that.
One hundred years later...or two days, but who's counting.
We had the exit interview at the rehab/nursing home. October 20th is the come home date. Mixed feelings. Mine. Not his. Nursing homes have given me a new appreciation for the life I have outside them. The child in me is intimidated by all the suffering. The adult in me is in wonder at the graciousness of many of the people who are there long term.
I gasp as a pang of sorrow tears through me. If the doctor's are accurate there is not much time left of the option to come home. Well, I assume the option is always available. The hellish part is making the decision when it is an option and the person you love is the person for whom you must decide that option.
A few days later....it is early in the a.m. and I am not in bed yet. I am on the bed and I have done all but get in it. There is so much happening each day. I forget that I am 65 and I, accustomed to the constant changes as a child, young adult...o.k....constant changes since birth, find this change challenging beyond what I can think or imagine. I want to freeze time until I can catch up with it. Pipe dreams, magical thinking, the imaginings of a woman who craves for a simple answer to an equation which totaled up bears grim news. I cannot get the look on my husband's face to fade. I crave solace. I crave a long, deep hug and a lap to place my head on. Star light, star bright, first star I've seen tonight.....
Monday, October 10, 2016
Two Sides of The Same Coin
I searched for some time before I found these two items, a cartoon and a quote. They do not appear to be related but the minute I placed them in this post I realized they are the perfect representation of the dichotomy that is me.
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Hurricanes, Nursing Homes and Insomnia
Monday, October 3, 2016
So Today...
Days have passed. I begin to write and change my mind. The conversations in my head run off in different directions like giddy children released from school on a Friday afternoon. Tonight I am staying at a friend's house. She is out of town so I have the place to myself. It is a luxury and a much needed break in the action.
Today I was in traffic on several occasions. On the way to New Bern I encountered a traffic jam. It was obvious there had been an accident far enough ahead that I could not see the emergency vehicle lights at first.
Oh dear, I have writer's block again and again and again. Writer's block is frustrating. I am going to flow randomly (which is a surprise to no one says she).
Tree tops full of tiny birds singing and chirping with vigor. Any alien noise silences them. Often they lift up in unison leaving a tree for an adjacent shrub. A glimpse of one intrigues me. Their feathers reveal subtle colors as the sun highlights them. The moment is brief. Their singing is joyous, incessant and often the only evidence that a tree or shrub is full of tiny birds.
my cat sat with his face against the living room window as i walked to the car. he knew, long before I finished gathering items, that he was going to be left inside and that I was going away for the night. He mouthed a meow my way. Clever feline knows I have a heart easily melted by sad looks and plaintive meows. I averted my eyes as I climbed into the car. When the engine came alive I glanced towards the window. My cat had moved away. I was relieved and disappointed. Emotions are capricious. mine follow a predictable path. i know my cat resigned himself to his fate earlier than i was prepared to let him off the hook. when i glanced to see him in the window he was, no doubt, making himself happy at the food bowl. funny how a cat can flip a finger in our direction when he has no fingers at all. i drove out of the park with a taste of humble pie in my mouth. a bit of envy i experienced reflects my own wish to resign myself quickly to unpleasant moments yet manage to convey disdain.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Uncharted Territory
I move as in a dream.
The space around me fills with faces and voices.
I smile.
I show an interest.
The walk from the entrance to the elevators is long.
I feel myself moving along the hallway.
I wonder how we have come this far.
The journey has become the destination.
I wonder how I look.
Did I check myself in the mirror in the morning?
A sharp fear thought catches me.
The electric bill is due.
Need to call the clerk of court about that ticket.
Money needs tighten my chest.
I am gripped by fear.
Lonely.
Feeling childlike in an adult life.
I wonder that my feet are moving towards his room.
I have the treats he requested.
I wonder how I am going to pay that electric bill.
He sees me and I wave the small bag at him and make a joke.
I don't tell him the adult stuff.
He gets concerned and depressed
and he hears me telling him not to worry
because I have taken care of it and he should
relax.
A man yet a child yet a man.
Sorrow fills me threatening to overflow onto
the floor.
He looks at me. I inhale the sorrow. I ask
what's on the t.v. and he says he is lonely
and I say I know
and I say I will find out how long before he
can come home and
I hear myself talking. Random thoughts
flutter around in my mind. Call the clerk of court.
Find money for the electric bill.
Gosh darn it all! I need to get the
power of attorney and DNR and some other paper
signed in front of a notary.
Someone said a day or so ago that I should
take care of myself.
I pray. I tell God and I ask God and I thank God
and
I take the down elevator headed for the
cafeteria.
He wants some candy.
His melancholy drips darkness as he asks
for a treat. Like a child, he asks me
for the fourth or fifth time
how things are at home and how are the cats.
I tell him funny cat stories. I poke fun at him.
I promise to find out how long before he leaves.
Good-bye!
I take the elevator down and walk out the exit.
Where is the car parked?
Oh!
Not so far away.
I see it now.
Ambulances scream out as they arrive at the ER.
The air is humid.
I head back home.
I walk in the door.
I turn on a light.
I wonder if I can go without electricity for a week.
I realize I have no idea.
Something will work out.
It always does.
I think of him and the sorrow tightens my chest.
I ask for strength. I ask for wisdom.
I don't ask why.
What's this on my lap?
A black cat draped across my legs
relaxed in that "I ain't got no bones"
thing that cats do so well.
Home.
Honey, I'm home.
The space around me fills with faces and voices.
I smile.
I show an interest.
The walk from the entrance to the elevators is long.
I feel myself moving along the hallway.
I wonder how we have come this far.
The journey has become the destination.
I wonder how I look.
Did I check myself in the mirror in the morning?
A sharp fear thought catches me.
The electric bill is due.
Need to call the clerk of court about that ticket.
Money needs tighten my chest.
I am gripped by fear.
Lonely.
Feeling childlike in an adult life.
I wonder that my feet are moving towards his room.
I have the treats he requested.
I wonder how I am going to pay that electric bill.
He sees me and I wave the small bag at him and make a joke.
I don't tell him the adult stuff.
He gets concerned and depressed
and he hears me telling him not to worry
because I have taken care of it and he should
relax.
A man yet a child yet a man.
Sorrow fills me threatening to overflow onto
the floor.
He looks at me. I inhale the sorrow. I ask
what's on the t.v. and he says he is lonely
and I say I know
and I say I will find out how long before he
can come home and
I hear myself talking. Random thoughts
flutter around in my mind. Call the clerk of court.
Find money for the electric bill.
Gosh darn it all! I need to get the
power of attorney and DNR and some other paper
signed in front of a notary.
Someone said a day or so ago that I should
take care of myself.
I pray. I tell God and I ask God and I thank God
and
I take the down elevator headed for the
cafeteria.
He wants some candy.
His melancholy drips darkness as he asks
for a treat. Like a child, he asks me
for the fourth or fifth time
how things are at home and how are the cats.
I tell him funny cat stories. I poke fun at him.
I promise to find out how long before he leaves.
Good-bye!
I take the elevator down and walk out the exit.
Where is the car parked?
Oh!
Not so far away.
I see it now.
Ambulances scream out as they arrive at the ER.
The air is humid.
I head back home.
I walk in the door.
I turn on a light.
I wonder if I can go without electricity for a week.
I realize I have no idea.
Something will work out.
It always does.
I think of him and the sorrow tightens my chest.
I ask for strength. I ask for wisdom.
I don't ask why.
What's this on my lap?
A black cat draped across my legs
relaxed in that "I ain't got no bones"
thing that cats do so well.
Home.
Honey, I'm home.
Monday, September 19, 2016
I Don't Stop For Red Lights Anymore
I got my first ticket in a very long time from a North Carolina Highway patrolman. I pulled a red light and he was the car behind me. I was following the cars that were going through on the green light and I was proud of the turn I made figuring it would impress the highway patrolman. He was impressed but for the wrong reasons. He pulled me and asked if I knew that I pulled a red light. I told him I did not and that I was following the cars that were turning left. He said I should watch the light and not the cars in front of me. I agreed. I was exhausted and full of the concerns about Robert. The ticket was far down the order of importance. I saw it as a wake-up call. I did not try to get out of the ticket. I have a great driving record which he mentioned and I did not think to ask him if he would forego the ticket. My mind and my psyche were completely unalarmed. But, I knew, as the policeman drove away, that I needed to regroup and pay attention in the real world.
Many routines, responsibilities, appointments and such have gone undone over the past two years. It is a long list. I figure there will be plenty of time to clean up the wreckage later on when things settle down.
The sorrowing grips me taking my breath away at times. Watching
Robert lose himself a piece at a time is a task for brave people and I am not feeling brave these days. The sorrowing seeps into the fabric of every day. It holds me in a tight embrace blinding my thoughts from daily routines, Nothing seems important compared to this deep sorrow. Anger flares from time to time and I believe I can beat this illness out of Robert. I have flights of fantasy when I forget there is a day coming that will break my heart. Maybe the certainty of the diagnosis and the irrefutable progression of symptoms alarms both of us. We rarely discuss it. This past week's hospitalization and subsequent talk with the hospitalist tore the veil of denial. I have never found a way to bargain with the truth.
So, the truth it is and the truth it shall remain. Sorrow washes over me. Robert is confused and depressed. l am numb. Ain't we a pair?
-
Many routines, responsibilities, appointments and such have gone undone over the past two years. It is a long list. I figure there will be plenty of time to clean up the wreckage later on when things settle down.
The sorrowing grips me taking my breath away at times. Watching
Robert lose himself a piece at a time is a task for brave people and I am not feeling brave these days. The sorrowing seeps into the fabric of every day. It holds me in a tight embrace blinding my thoughts from daily routines, Nothing seems important compared to this deep sorrow. Anger flares from time to time and I believe I can beat this illness out of Robert. I have flights of fantasy when I forget there is a day coming that will break my heart. Maybe the certainty of the diagnosis and the irrefutable progression of symptoms alarms both of us. We rarely discuss it. This past week's hospitalization and subsequent talk with the hospitalist tore the veil of denial. I have never found a way to bargain with the truth.
So, the truth it is and the truth it shall remain. Sorrow washes over me. Robert is confused and depressed. l am numb. Ain't we a pair?
-
Monday, August 22, 2016
Fifth Grade in Raleigh, N.C.
A brief history of the years before fifth grade will explain my innocence when entering fifth grade in Raleigh.
For the sake of brevity:
School history consisted of the first grade in rural Virginia in the late 1950's. Our school was a two or three room whitewashed wooden building with outhouses. The playground was dirt with all the customary play equipment. By today's standards they were death traps yet I do not remember anyone being killed or injured in any remarkable way. I could walk to the school from our house. I remember spring with the dogwood tree in our front yard and learning the story of the dogwood and the blood of Jesus. I remember winter with snow knee deep and school held as usual.
Second, third and fourth grade I was home schooled by my mother. My parents were missionaries to Ghana, West Africa. We lived
in the country outside of Kumasi, Ghana at a Baptist boarding school for local African teenagers. Our school materials were shipped to us by the Calvert Home School program out of the University of Maryland. The shipments included everything we would need including pens, pencils, paper, crayons, textbooks, teacher's manuals, etc. That program is in existence current day. We could have attended a local British school but my mother did not want us to get confused by the metric system nor to be subjected to the rigidity of the British way of doing things at that time in history. My brother started first grade and I went into the second grade. The Calvert School education was first class. I excelled in everything except math which was, coincidentally, my mother's weak subject. Our tests were sent on schedule to the United States to be graded and approved by a stateside Calvert School teacher. When we returned to the U.S. we were a grade ahead in every subject except math. The concentration on history, geography and reading put both my brother and myself ahead of the schools at home. ( Re-reading this and I decided to add a couple of things I remembered about my time in Africa while watching a documentary recently.) My reading and comprehension were excellent. I read everything I could get my hands on and I listened to adults talk. No credit to me, that I listened, in those years children did not normally join in or interrupt adult conversations. I remember when Adolf Eichmann was captured. I remember the front page of the newspaper. I knew he was a bad man and I had a feeling of relief and happiness that he had been captured. I sensed that his crimes were heinous. I remember hearing that missionaries were being murdered in neighboring African countries and that the weapon of choice was hacking them to death with a machete. I had a low level of fear and apprehension with that knowledge in my head. It has stuck with me throughout my life. Death by machete? It sounded horrible. If any of the adult missionaries were concerned about safety I did not hear it discussed. Daily life was not impacted.
It is with this background that I entered Fred A Olds elementary school in Raleigh, N.C. There were several hundred students in grades one through six, I believe. It was a two story brick building with children everywhere. I am sure my mother took us to sign up and to an orientation. My class had at least twenty students of whom. all but one other student, had ben raised in the city of Raleigh. The other student was a girl who had lived in Alaska all of her life. She and I spent a long time adapting to our new world a school. I was innocent and she was more innocent than I, if such a thing was possible. It did not take long for the boys in the class to pick upon that tidbit. One boy in particular took great pleasure in writing words in the sand that I did not understand. My confusion threw him into spasms of laughter ending with him repeating the written words out loud. My mother explained each word to me. She remembers that I was bewildered and wondered aloud why anyone would use those words. With no reference of vulgarity at that point in my life those words were simply dictionary words plain and simple. We walked to school. There were crossing guards at the intersections. I loved having crossing guards. They added another layer of mystery to my growing collection of mysteries.
I have snippets of memory from that school year. Our classroom was on the second floor. The floors were wooden, the windows were tall and wide paned. We could look out to the front of the school and onto the street in front. I remember this because soon after I arrived I noticed that one of the girls in my classroom stood apart. Not comfortably so but more as a curiosity. I thought she would have given anything to be part of the crowd. I learned that her mother was famous and left her daughter with the grandmother who lived in Raleigh. Once in awhile her mother would come to the school to pick her up during the school day. I believe her mother was the famous, at that time, singer named Anita Bryant. You know how children whisper and gossip. It must have been awful for this girl. I did not get to know her and she remained aloof. She was a bit heavy-set. I learned years later that Anita Bryant did not approve of being overweight. There have been many times when I have see Anita Bryant's daughter sitting in our classroom knowing when she left to meet her mother in the car parked along the road that she had at least twenty pairs of eyes following her every move. Everyone wanted Mrs. Bryant to get out of the car. During my year at Fred A Olds that did not happen. Indeed, if I remember correctly, her daughter was taken out of class by her mom and moved away with her mother or a nanny or something. Sad story and my first lesson in the myth of money buying happiness.
My fifth grade year was the only year we were to live in Raleigh. Writing about it brings back more memories than I knew were knocking around in my head. One of them is impacted my life until this date and time in my life. I will save it for later. Enough for now.
Raleigh - we lived in a campground, an elderly couple's home and two houses that we rented. By the beginning of the sixth grade we moved again.
For the sake of brevity:
School history consisted of the first grade in rural Virginia in the late 1950's. Our school was a two or three room whitewashed wooden building with outhouses. The playground was dirt with all the customary play equipment. By today's standards they were death traps yet I do not remember anyone being killed or injured in any remarkable way. I could walk to the school from our house. I remember spring with the dogwood tree in our front yard and learning the story of the dogwood and the blood of Jesus. I remember winter with snow knee deep and school held as usual.
Second, third and fourth grade I was home schooled by my mother. My parents were missionaries to Ghana, West Africa. We lived
in the country outside of Kumasi, Ghana at a Baptist boarding school for local African teenagers. Our school materials were shipped to us by the Calvert Home School program out of the University of Maryland. The shipments included everything we would need including pens, pencils, paper, crayons, textbooks, teacher's manuals, etc. That program is in existence current day. We could have attended a local British school but my mother did not want us to get confused by the metric system nor to be subjected to the rigidity of the British way of doing things at that time in history. My brother started first grade and I went into the second grade. The Calvert School education was first class. I excelled in everything except math which was, coincidentally, my mother's weak subject. Our tests were sent on schedule to the United States to be graded and approved by a stateside Calvert School teacher. When we returned to the U.S. we were a grade ahead in every subject except math. The concentration on history, geography and reading put both my brother and myself ahead of the schools at home. ( Re-reading this and I decided to add a couple of things I remembered about my time in Africa while watching a documentary recently.) My reading and comprehension were excellent. I read everything I could get my hands on and I listened to adults talk. No credit to me, that I listened, in those years children did not normally join in or interrupt adult conversations. I remember when Adolf Eichmann was captured. I remember the front page of the newspaper. I knew he was a bad man and I had a feeling of relief and happiness that he had been captured. I sensed that his crimes were heinous. I remember hearing that missionaries were being murdered in neighboring African countries and that the weapon of choice was hacking them to death with a machete. I had a low level of fear and apprehension with that knowledge in my head. It has stuck with me throughout my life. Death by machete? It sounded horrible. If any of the adult missionaries were concerned about safety I did not hear it discussed. Daily life was not impacted.
It is with this background that I entered Fred A Olds elementary school in Raleigh, N.C. There were several hundred students in grades one through six, I believe. It was a two story brick building with children everywhere. I am sure my mother took us to sign up and to an orientation. My class had at least twenty students of whom. all but one other student, had ben raised in the city of Raleigh. The other student was a girl who had lived in Alaska all of her life. She and I spent a long time adapting to our new world a school. I was innocent and she was more innocent than I, if such a thing was possible. It did not take long for the boys in the class to pick upon that tidbit. One boy in particular took great pleasure in writing words in the sand that I did not understand. My confusion threw him into spasms of laughter ending with him repeating the written words out loud. My mother explained each word to me. She remembers that I was bewildered and wondered aloud why anyone would use those words. With no reference of vulgarity at that point in my life those words were simply dictionary words plain and simple. We walked to school. There were crossing guards at the intersections. I loved having crossing guards. They added another layer of mystery to my growing collection of mysteries.
I have snippets of memory from that school year. Our classroom was on the second floor. The floors were wooden, the windows were tall and wide paned. We could look out to the front of the school and onto the street in front. I remember this because soon after I arrived I noticed that one of the girls in my classroom stood apart. Not comfortably so but more as a curiosity. I thought she would have given anything to be part of the crowd. I learned that her mother was famous and left her daughter with the grandmother who lived in Raleigh. Once in awhile her mother would come to the school to pick her up during the school day. I believe her mother was the famous, at that time, singer named Anita Bryant. You know how children whisper and gossip. It must have been awful for this girl. I did not get to know her and she remained aloof. She was a bit heavy-set. I learned years later that Anita Bryant did not approve of being overweight. There have been many times when I have see Anita Bryant's daughter sitting in our classroom knowing when she left to meet her mother in the car parked along the road that she had at least twenty pairs of eyes following her every move. Everyone wanted Mrs. Bryant to get out of the car. During my year at Fred A Olds that did not happen. Indeed, if I remember correctly, her daughter was taken out of class by her mom and moved away with her mother or a nanny or something. Sad story and my first lesson in the myth of money buying happiness.
My fifth grade year was the only year we were to live in Raleigh. Writing about it brings back more memories than I knew were knocking around in my head. One of them is impacted my life until this date and time in my life. I will save it for later. Enough for now.
Raleigh - we lived in a campground, an elderly couple's home and two houses that we rented. By the beginning of the sixth grade we moved again.
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Contemplative Innonence
The wisest choice I have made in many a year came on the heels of quiet contemplation innocent of manipulations or contrived efforts on my part to impact the outcome.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Snow in the Trees
I was ten the year we returned from a three year mission trip to Ghana, West Africa. It must have been in late summer. We arrived in New York City. I have a vague memory of my father toying with the idea of living in New York and going to school. I have one of those memories that are old enough to have lost their color. The memory is in black and white. We were with my mother and father looking at an apartment. The next memory I have is our drive down the country two lane road that led to my paternal grandparent's home. They were tobacco and cotton farmers. My father thought it would be fun to surprise them. We were the ones surprised. Both of my grandparents had gone to South Carolina and had their teeth pulled and been fitted with dentures. They were not home when we arrived. My father did not enjoy losing the surprise factor and my grandparents arrived back home with mouths throbbing with the intrusion of new teeth. In retrospect my father's failed surprise and my grandparent's surprise of new teeth in tender mouths plus the appearance of the five of us fresh from Africa must have made for, in the adult world, an awkward day.
My father helped my grandfather with the farm for a short while. They became tired of each other and my father decided we would move to Raleigh. No jobs, no place to live except for the kindness of at least one family that took us in for a short time. I remember doing homework in their home.
My dad bought camping equipment and we moved to Umstead Park just outside of Raleigh. I cannot say how long we camped out, went to school, did our homework by lantern light and slept in tents. I know we ended up in a small, white house for a brief period of time and moved from there to a larger brick home near the N.C. State University campus. The weather was getting cooler as fall and winter took the place of summer. There are so many memories from that period of time but the best memory of all was a winter surprise of momentous proportion.
Darkness fell one evening without a hint in my ten year old mind of what might be happening outside the back door. I remember my mother calling us to go outside. I remember she was excited. I remember stepping outside. A porch light was on and probably a streetlight was nearby. After a brief adjustment to the darkness I remember noticing that the air was filled with flakes falling one after the other to the ground. I was taken off guard. My mother was laughing in her own excitement of watching each of her children respond to her one word, "SNOW"! Snow? A thrill swept through me. I tilted my head toward the sky, stuck my tongue out and let the flakes fall onto it as amazement flooded me. The snow deepened. My mother made snow cream and let us dress for further adventures in that wondrous, silent downpour of big, fluffy snowflakes. I remember looking up into the falling snow as the streetlights and the light from the windows of our home cast patterns of shadow and light across the yard. I remember feeling happy in a deep, personal way. We were home!
My father helped my grandfather with the farm for a short while. They became tired of each other and my father decided we would move to Raleigh. No jobs, no place to live except for the kindness of at least one family that took us in for a short time. I remember doing homework in their home.
My dad bought camping equipment and we moved to Umstead Park just outside of Raleigh. I cannot say how long we camped out, went to school, did our homework by lantern light and slept in tents. I know we ended up in a small, white house for a brief period of time and moved from there to a larger brick home near the N.C. State University campus. The weather was getting cooler as fall and winter took the place of summer. There are so many memories from that period of time but the best memory of all was a winter surprise of momentous proportion.
Darkness fell one evening without a hint in my ten year old mind of what might be happening outside the back door. I remember my mother calling us to go outside. I remember she was excited. I remember stepping outside. A porch light was on and probably a streetlight was nearby. After a brief adjustment to the darkness I remember noticing that the air was filled with flakes falling one after the other to the ground. I was taken off guard. My mother was laughing in her own excitement of watching each of her children respond to her one word, "SNOW"! Snow? A thrill swept through me. I tilted my head toward the sky, stuck my tongue out and let the flakes fall onto it as amazement flooded me. The snow deepened. My mother made snow cream and let us dress for further adventures in that wondrous, silent downpour of big, fluffy snowflakes. I remember looking up into the falling snow as the streetlights and the light from the windows of our home cast patterns of shadow and light across the yard. I remember feeling happy in a deep, personal way. We were home!
Monday, August 1, 2016
A Ramble
Many times in the past couple of weeks I have sat here trying to put something in writing. Each time I lost my way. If this were paper I would have a trashcan full of crumpled pages. Tonight is a ramble night. I'm gonna ramble.
Leaving a friend's at night I often am drawn into reverie of one kind or the other. The apartment buildings, full of families going about their business, and the streetlights casting shadows on the pavement draw me towards a place of melancholy. The moon shows herself as I pull out of the parking lot. It hangs a little over the skyline. If there has been rain the sounds of hundreds of small frogs hidden in the marshy woods behind the apartments combine in a rhythmic, loud, incessant croaking. I am tempted to chunk a rock over into the nearby woods. I know the sounds will go silent the moment the rock lands. Time will pass. At some point a brave few will begin their croaking again. Within seconds of the clarion call the cacophony of croaking will return.
I once spent an entire night beside a beautiful shoreline south of St. Pete, Florida on an island of great beauty and solitude. We had no tent and had packed very little for the week-end. My daughter was two years old and sleeping in the car. The night seemed quiet and calm. Gentle waves slapped up onto the shore. As they pulled back into the bay I heard a delightful tinkling. As they came in from the bay I heard a delightful tinkling.
The evening began to lose it's charm. Where was the anticipated breeze blowing in from the bay? I was exhausted. The air was warm and humid. Mosquitoes flew in targeting my sleeping daughter. I fought a battle with them for most of the night. The tinkling sound created by small waves as they hit the shoreline began to annoy me.The predictability of wave in, wave out annoyed me. I began waiting for the waves, listening for the tinkling, obsessively marking the time between the coming in and going out. What could be tinkling with every wave for an entire night? At long last the sun came up shining on the blue water of the bay, palm trees lined the shore, the mosquitoes disappeared and a soft breeze began to blow. The gentle waves and tinkling continued. I walked towards the water, looked down and saw the source of the tinkling. There were hundreds of cochina on the sandy shoreline. They were alive, tiny, pushed up and out of the sand when the waves flowed in and covered with the sand as the waves pulled away. They tumbled over each other sending out a light tinkling sound with each wave.
Morning revealed a breathtaking world. Warm bay water, shallow for a long way out, gentle waves and a welcoming sun drew my daughter and I into the water where we remained for several hours. The torturous evening was forgotten. At that time in my life and in my daughter's life we lived in bikinis, our tans became deep, her hair faded from blonde to white. For a moment, a precious moment, life was sweet. The restless, self-destructive part of me held back allowing a reprieve before the coming storm.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!
Leaving a friend's at night I often am drawn into reverie of one kind or the other. The apartment buildings, full of families going about their business, and the streetlights casting shadows on the pavement draw me towards a place of melancholy. The moon shows herself as I pull out of the parking lot. It hangs a little over the skyline. If there has been rain the sounds of hundreds of small frogs hidden in the marshy woods behind the apartments combine in a rhythmic, loud, incessant croaking. I am tempted to chunk a rock over into the nearby woods. I know the sounds will go silent the moment the rock lands. Time will pass. At some point a brave few will begin their croaking again. Within seconds of the clarion call the cacophony of croaking will return.
I once spent an entire night beside a beautiful shoreline south of St. Pete, Florida on an island of great beauty and solitude. We had no tent and had packed very little for the week-end. My daughter was two years old and sleeping in the car. The night seemed quiet and calm. Gentle waves slapped up onto the shore. As they pulled back into the bay I heard a delightful tinkling. As they came in from the bay I heard a delightful tinkling.
The evening began to lose it's charm. Where was the anticipated breeze blowing in from the bay? I was exhausted. The air was warm and humid. Mosquitoes flew in targeting my sleeping daughter. I fought a battle with them for most of the night. The tinkling sound created by small waves as they hit the shoreline began to annoy me.The predictability of wave in, wave out annoyed me. I began waiting for the waves, listening for the tinkling, obsessively marking the time between the coming in and going out. What could be tinkling with every wave for an entire night? At long last the sun came up shining on the blue water of the bay, palm trees lined the shore, the mosquitoes disappeared and a soft breeze began to blow. The gentle waves and tinkling continued. I walked towards the water, looked down and saw the source of the tinkling. There were hundreds of cochina on the sandy shoreline. They were alive, tiny, pushed up and out of the sand when the waves flowed in and covered with the sand as the waves pulled away. They tumbled over each other sending out a light tinkling sound with each wave.
Morning revealed a breathtaking world. Warm bay water, shallow for a long way out, gentle waves and a welcoming sun drew my daughter and I into the water where we remained for several hours. The torturous evening was forgotten. At that time in my life and in my daughter's life we lived in bikinis, our tans became deep, her hair faded from blonde to white. For a moment, a precious moment, life was sweet. The restless, self-destructive part of me held back allowing a reprieve before the coming storm.
Tinkle! Tinkle! Tinkle!
Sunday, July 10, 2016
And so it began...
So, a new life has begun for us. My husband's illness has been progressing for well over five years. It began with subtle symptoms, puzzling changes that could be explained by age, long hours fishing at the pier, my husband's long term and severe depression and a myriad of other reasons we all come up with when normal begins to slide slightly off kilter. His legs were tired. They did not hold him up for an entire day of fishing. He seemed a bit more forgetful as he made decisions at times that did not make sense when compared to his past decisions.
I will attest right up front that I was full of anger and resentments towards this husband of mine. I did not respond to his initial observations about his body or the touch of fear I heard in his voice at times. This was a man whose choices often brought extreme chaos into our lives. So I listened with half a heart and suggested that he rest more rather than fishing or looking for bait for hours and hours at a time. I don't blame myself. The only reason I was still around was that the God of my understanding...Jesus...was clear with me on what He wanted me to do and that was, one hundred percent of the time, "love him (my husband)" and so I stayed in the marriage. It is tempting to paint myself as a long suffering wife and take a deep, meaningful sigh as I speak of staying in the marriage. I won't dwell on it but my issues and broken places warped me into a woman who could not be married in any reasonable way so I have come to understand that my husband and I had far more in common than I dreamed at the time.
My relationship with Christ was growing, slowly and with a great deal of resistance on my part. It seemed love was the single most important part of that relationship and my marriage was God's plan for my life until death parted us. This pissed me off. I was struggling with my sense of loss, the pain of unfulfilled expectations and a strong case of entitlement to a "fair" hearing from this God of mine. But when I prayed and asked what I should do about this painful marriage I always heard the same two words, "love him". Looking back I can see how I was being changed into the woman I am today. God was doing a work in me so that His plan and His love for my husband could be fulfilled. My grand prize has been finding out that I can, without anger or resentment, "love him".
And, that brings me up to current day and our new life.
The illness Robert has is a slow, slow process of losing part of the frontal lobe of his brain. It is called "frontal lobe atrophy". In the past five years he has lost the ability to walk at times and walked poorly at other times. His mind has been clear and then confused. He has been in a rehab/nursing home twice in order to be rehabbed to improve his motor skills. Many tests have been done and we have often wondered what was next. My own health has been a problem and I have had two surgeries on my wrists related to helping Robert get up when he began falling. The progression of the atrophy has moved so slowly that we did not catch on when it sped up.
We recently ended up in the emergency room because Robert had suddenly lost the use of his legs and he was frightened. This did not last long but was enough for us to seek medical attention.
This time the doctor did not admit him. He told us that unless there were new symptoms there were no further tests to be run and no defensible reason for admitting Robert to the hospital.
We asked this doctor to give us the truth about what on earth was happening to Robert. He did. He explained that the good days would become fewer and the bad days more frequent. He explained how this illness can impact other parts of the body and for that reason far more serious medical events could occur. After a bit of conversation he told us that, based on his experience and the medical data associated with frontal lobe atrophy he believed Robert has about a year to live. Of course he stressed that his statement was not exact. Other factors could work to give Robert more years but based on his medical opinion we should act as if one year was our reality.
Boom! We were blown into a new life in a few seconds time. Shell-shocked by the news we drove home as if we had gone to the emergency room on firm, steady pavement and were returning home on an unstable and dangerous road.
A visit with the family doctor confirmed the emergency room doctor's diagnosis. Again, he stressed that no one can predict for certain but, based on his opinion, Robert should get busy living and doing what he loves while he still has the ability.
This is our new life. Our new reality. We are still coming to grips with the news. I have no idea what Robert will choose to do as regards getting on with life. Depression is a wicked mental illness. It strangles dreams and convinces us that there is no hope. This may be what will determine how Robert chooses to spend his time. We may end up watching t.v. and taking small forays from the house.
I have no idea how to negotiate the months to come or what happens next. I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. I am just gonna love him and participate with him each day. God's plan has won the day. I love Robert and I'm not mad about it. That one sentence sums up the love God has for me and the depth of change He has made in my heart.
So, I am burnt out from writing all of this stuff. I'm going to do a wee bit of random writing before signing off.
I dyed my hair with the huge help of a friend of mine. The grey is gone. I have a younger look. Both Robert and my grandson wanted me to dye my hair. I am glad and they were right.
It is hot outside. I will be 65 years old in September. The knowledge makes me dizzy. 65 years old. Unfreaking believable. I planned to be a wiser older woman when I got to this time in my life. I have arrived a bit worse for the wear and a wee bit wiser.
65 is just a number. I can get medicare and that ain't so bad and I can look time after time for my glasses or ipad or pocketbook or clean clothes to wear and I can find them all in the oddest places. At times I stop to wonder what crazed person is moving my stuff around. I was going to arrive at this age with long, grey hair and a slender body. Blew it! Big time!
More to come if you are sticking around....peace!
I will attest right up front that I was full of anger and resentments towards this husband of mine. I did not respond to his initial observations about his body or the touch of fear I heard in his voice at times. This was a man whose choices often brought extreme chaos into our lives. So I listened with half a heart and suggested that he rest more rather than fishing or looking for bait for hours and hours at a time. I don't blame myself. The only reason I was still around was that the God of my understanding...Jesus...was clear with me on what He wanted me to do and that was, one hundred percent of the time, "love him (my husband)" and so I stayed in the marriage. It is tempting to paint myself as a long suffering wife and take a deep, meaningful sigh as I speak of staying in the marriage. I won't dwell on it but my issues and broken places warped me into a woman who could not be married in any reasonable way so I have come to understand that my husband and I had far more in common than I dreamed at the time.
My relationship with Christ was growing, slowly and with a great deal of resistance on my part. It seemed love was the single most important part of that relationship and my marriage was God's plan for my life until death parted us. This pissed me off. I was struggling with my sense of loss, the pain of unfulfilled expectations and a strong case of entitlement to a "fair" hearing from this God of mine. But when I prayed and asked what I should do about this painful marriage I always heard the same two words, "love him". Looking back I can see how I was being changed into the woman I am today. God was doing a work in me so that His plan and His love for my husband could be fulfilled. My grand prize has been finding out that I can, without anger or resentment, "love him".
And, that brings me up to current day and our new life.
The illness Robert has is a slow, slow process of losing part of the frontal lobe of his brain. It is called "frontal lobe atrophy". In the past five years he has lost the ability to walk at times and walked poorly at other times. His mind has been clear and then confused. He has been in a rehab/nursing home twice in order to be rehabbed to improve his motor skills. Many tests have been done and we have often wondered what was next. My own health has been a problem and I have had two surgeries on my wrists related to helping Robert get up when he began falling. The progression of the atrophy has moved so slowly that we did not catch on when it sped up.
We recently ended up in the emergency room because Robert had suddenly lost the use of his legs and he was frightened. This did not last long but was enough for us to seek medical attention.
This time the doctor did not admit him. He told us that unless there were new symptoms there were no further tests to be run and no defensible reason for admitting Robert to the hospital.
We asked this doctor to give us the truth about what on earth was happening to Robert. He did. He explained that the good days would become fewer and the bad days more frequent. He explained how this illness can impact other parts of the body and for that reason far more serious medical events could occur. After a bit of conversation he told us that, based on his experience and the medical data associated with frontal lobe atrophy he believed Robert has about a year to live. Of course he stressed that his statement was not exact. Other factors could work to give Robert more years but based on his medical opinion we should act as if one year was our reality.
Boom! We were blown into a new life in a few seconds time. Shell-shocked by the news we drove home as if we had gone to the emergency room on firm, steady pavement and were returning home on an unstable and dangerous road.
A visit with the family doctor confirmed the emergency room doctor's diagnosis. Again, he stressed that no one can predict for certain but, based on his opinion, Robert should get busy living and doing what he loves while he still has the ability.
This is our new life. Our new reality. We are still coming to grips with the news. I have no idea what Robert will choose to do as regards getting on with life. Depression is a wicked mental illness. It strangles dreams and convinces us that there is no hope. This may be what will determine how Robert chooses to spend his time. We may end up watching t.v. and taking small forays from the house.
I have no idea how to negotiate the months to come or what happens next. I know one thing beyond a shadow of a doubt. I am just gonna love him and participate with him each day. God's plan has won the day. I love Robert and I'm not mad about it. That one sentence sums up the love God has for me and the depth of change He has made in my heart.
So, I am burnt out from writing all of this stuff. I'm going to do a wee bit of random writing before signing off.
I dyed my hair with the huge help of a friend of mine. The grey is gone. I have a younger look. Both Robert and my grandson wanted me to dye my hair. I am glad and they were right.
It is hot outside. I will be 65 years old in September. The knowledge makes me dizzy. 65 years old. Unfreaking believable. I planned to be a wiser older woman when I got to this time in my life. I have arrived a bit worse for the wear and a wee bit wiser.
65 is just a number. I can get medicare and that ain't so bad and I can look time after time for my glasses or ipad or pocketbook or clean clothes to wear and I can find them all in the oddest places. At times I stop to wonder what crazed person is moving my stuff around. I was going to arrive at this age with long, grey hair and a slender body. Blew it! Big time!
More to come if you are sticking around....peace!
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Unraveling
The time finally came for me to unravel. Every message in my psyche is geared to surviving, standing strong, enduring the unendurable. Over the years I have managed to meet that expectation to a greater or lesser degree. There have been times when I sensed myself slipping towards an abyss. There have been times when I pulled myself along inch by inch fighting to meet the expectation programmed into me before I could fully speak.
I did not know I had options, choices or the freedom to change an unyielding legacy. I learned to adapt. I learned to hide behind one mask after the other. I was attracted to people and situations that kept my self-esteem low and my survival skills on high alert.
Years have passed. I have been sober a long time. I have been drug free for a long time. I have allowed myself to seek psychiatric help for a long time. I am not the same woman I was years ago. Yet, I have continued to experience extreme stressors in my life. I believed I was condemned to the burden of an unyielding expectation that I could bear anything no matter the harm done to myself.
This year that belief system has been challenged. My mental health and my faith have caused me to look at my behavior. Friends have pointed out my Achilles' heel of a false belief that I could do all things.
Today the first crack in my armor began when I was at the doctor's. I was exhausted, out of resources, terrified of what would become of me and how I would manage my responsibilities. I could not see my way out.
For those of you who have been in that position you know the fear that comes with loss of control. Complete and utter loss of control. I could not think of who would look after Robert were I to be hospitalized or unable to regain my composure. I was sick with a virus that would not go away and my husband was diagnosed with an incurable neurological illness that had been ever so slowly taking part of him away for over five years now.
I cried and cried. My doctor wisely shot me up with an antibiotic and a steroid and sent me to see my psychologist.
The steroids kicked in, the love of doctor's and my friends, the many prayers pouring my way began to lift me up. I sensed myself regaining a bit of strength, a ton of humility and gratitude beyond measure.
Little did I know that I would soon understand the grace of God in bringing me to my knees at the perfect time. This post will end now and I will begin a new post. A new post that is the beginning of a new reality in my husband's life and in my life. Were it not for unraveling, being humbled, resting and trusting God this new time to come would have broken me. God is good. He is wise. He is love. His mercies endure forever and I will praise His name for eternity.
I did not know I had options, choices or the freedom to change an unyielding legacy. I learned to adapt. I learned to hide behind one mask after the other. I was attracted to people and situations that kept my self-esteem low and my survival skills on high alert.
Years have passed. I have been sober a long time. I have been drug free for a long time. I have allowed myself to seek psychiatric help for a long time. I am not the same woman I was years ago. Yet, I have continued to experience extreme stressors in my life. I believed I was condemned to the burden of an unyielding expectation that I could bear anything no matter the harm done to myself.
This year that belief system has been challenged. My mental health and my faith have caused me to look at my behavior. Friends have pointed out my Achilles' heel of a false belief that I could do all things.
Today the first crack in my armor began when I was at the doctor's. I was exhausted, out of resources, terrified of what would become of me and how I would manage my responsibilities. I could not see my way out.
For those of you who have been in that position you know the fear that comes with loss of control. Complete and utter loss of control. I could not think of who would look after Robert were I to be hospitalized or unable to regain my composure. I was sick with a virus that would not go away and my husband was diagnosed with an incurable neurological illness that had been ever so slowly taking part of him away for over five years now.
I cried and cried. My doctor wisely shot me up with an antibiotic and a steroid and sent me to see my psychologist.
The steroids kicked in, the love of doctor's and my friends, the many prayers pouring my way began to lift me up. I sensed myself regaining a bit of strength, a ton of humility and gratitude beyond measure.
Little did I know that I would soon understand the grace of God in bringing me to my knees at the perfect time. This post will end now and I will begin a new post. A new post that is the beginning of a new reality in my husband's life and in my life. Were it not for unraveling, being humbled, resting and trusting God this new time to come would have broken me. God is good. He is wise. He is love. His mercies endure forever and I will praise His name for eternity.
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Sleeping With Cats
Yes, it is true! I spent the last couple of nights sleeping with two to three of my four cats. I fell asleep on the sofa. I woke up with Max on my chest in a deep sleep and Zeus asleep with his head in my lap. Kitty Kitty was asleep on the back of the couch close by my head. Tigger was in another room ignoring us.
At times Tigger will come close by and schmooze with me when the others are busy. Often I turn and find him staring at me intensely through the lens of his large, orange eyes that match his equally orange coat of fur. He is skittish and yet craves to be close on his own terms and in his own time. He will drape himself over the top of the couch placing one paw delicately on my shoulder as he sleeps.
I am a dog person. It's true. All four of these cats are adopted. I love them yet I am a dog person. I want a dog. My lifestyle does not leave room for the attention a dog needs but does leave room for the felines of our home. They are independent, opinionated, quick to judge and slow to forgive. Except when they are not that way, and they set that schedule, and they become soft, cuddly, possessive, demanding lap space, neck space, head scratching time, and my complete commitment to staying in the same position until their time is done and, you guessed it...they set that schedule. I have become, without malice or forethought, a cat person. They are perfect for this time of our lives. It must have been divine intervention.
As I write this the grey cat is asleep on the table behind the laptop, the orange cat is asleep at my feet, Max, the adventurer, is outside and curled up on a step snoozing and observing the neighborhood and the Siamese, kinda sorta Siamese, is slacking in a chair near me. I am surrounded by snoozing, feline love. I need it. They offer it. For now, until tonight, when they become possessed by the spirit of ferocity, chasing one another, waiting for a chance to pounce on each other, leaping over chairs, sliding on the slick, kitchen floor, crouching around a corner with their backsides arched into the air and their tail hair flared out as the tail snaps back and forth. Their backside begins to swing in a slight side to side motion. The intensity is palpable. The pounce is quick, quiet, effective and the victim's loud meow a reward for the victor.
It is a day later and after midnight. I went outside to call Max home. Wherever he had gone it took him awhile to come running to me. The moon was and still is, I assume, full and bright. A wind had come up since I was outside earlier in the evening. The night evoked a yearning in me. I do not have a name for it. Max is a black cat. He moved towards me blending with shadows then visible on the pavement as he passed through a patch of moonlight. Branches swayed to and fro in the warm late night wind. I scooped Max up into my arms nestling his head under my chin, nuzzling his warm cat hair while murmuring my love of him into his ears. I was rewarded with a soft purring sound. As I stepped up the deck steps I glanced in through the living room window into two pair of cat eyes watching my every move, anticipating this nightly ritual of the door opening, Max sliding from my arms into the living room, the door closing as these cats of mine and I head to their food bowls. Late night feed and maybe some cuddle time on the couch or not. It is their decision. Anyone who attempts to cuddle a cat who does not welcome it gets what they deserve.
This tiny evil thought of how much a puppy would humble these arrogant creatures passes through my head. It is enough for me that I have the secret knowledge of how to gain payback should I choose that option. I pretend that knowledge evens the playing field.
At times Tigger will come close by and schmooze with me when the others are busy. Often I turn and find him staring at me intensely through the lens of his large, orange eyes that match his equally orange coat of fur. He is skittish and yet craves to be close on his own terms and in his own time. He will drape himself over the top of the couch placing one paw delicately on my shoulder as he sleeps.
I am a dog person. It's true. All four of these cats are adopted. I love them yet I am a dog person. I want a dog. My lifestyle does not leave room for the attention a dog needs but does leave room for the felines of our home. They are independent, opinionated, quick to judge and slow to forgive. Except when they are not that way, and they set that schedule, and they become soft, cuddly, possessive, demanding lap space, neck space, head scratching time, and my complete commitment to staying in the same position until their time is done and, you guessed it...they set that schedule. I have become, without malice or forethought, a cat person. They are perfect for this time of our lives. It must have been divine intervention.
As I write this the grey cat is asleep on the table behind the laptop, the orange cat is asleep at my feet, Max, the adventurer, is outside and curled up on a step snoozing and observing the neighborhood and the Siamese, kinda sorta Siamese, is slacking in a chair near me. I am surrounded by snoozing, feline love. I need it. They offer it. For now, until tonight, when they become possessed by the spirit of ferocity, chasing one another, waiting for a chance to pounce on each other, leaping over chairs, sliding on the slick, kitchen floor, crouching around a corner with their backsides arched into the air and their tail hair flared out as the tail snaps back and forth. Their backside begins to swing in a slight side to side motion. The intensity is palpable. The pounce is quick, quiet, effective and the victim's loud meow a reward for the victor.
It is a day later and after midnight. I went outside to call Max home. Wherever he had gone it took him awhile to come running to me. The moon was and still is, I assume, full and bright. A wind had come up since I was outside earlier in the evening. The night evoked a yearning in me. I do not have a name for it. Max is a black cat. He moved towards me blending with shadows then visible on the pavement as he passed through a patch of moonlight. Branches swayed to and fro in the warm late night wind. I scooped Max up into my arms nestling his head under my chin, nuzzling his warm cat hair while murmuring my love of him into his ears. I was rewarded with a soft purring sound. As I stepped up the deck steps I glanced in through the living room window into two pair of cat eyes watching my every move, anticipating this nightly ritual of the door opening, Max sliding from my arms into the living room, the door closing as these cats of mine and I head to their food bowls. Late night feed and maybe some cuddle time on the couch or not. It is their decision. Anyone who attempts to cuddle a cat who does not welcome it gets what they deserve.
This tiny evil thought of how much a puppy would humble these arrogant creatures passes through my head. It is enough for me that I have the secret knowledge of how to gain payback should I choose that option. I pretend that knowledge evens the playing field.
Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Lightening Bugs
For the past two nights I have seen lightening bugs along a nearby ditch. I turned to look for traffic and there were the glittering bugs. Lightening bugs evoke the childhood years I spent in the mountains of North Carolina Were there a contest for favorite memories the evenings spent outside in the Weyehutta Valley in Jackson County N.C. would win by a landslide.
Our family rented a small, white house tucked close against the bottom of the slope of an old, worn down mountain. Our landlord had a large run-down barn on the property. A fence ran behind our house at the place where the slope began the rise that led to the top of the mountain. On the other side of the fence a wide swath of land had been forested. The earth was red clay, scattered with rocks and patches of rough, survival grasses. A trail crisscrossed back and forth on itself ending further up the slope where the forest began.
The sweetest, cold spring water flowed from that mountain and into our home. I have not experienced delicious water again since that time in my life.
Lightening bugs always send me hurtling back to the days spent in the little house in the valley. Green grass grew thick and plentiful in our front yard. A plowed field of red clay soil was adjacent to our house. When I close my eyes and travel back to the twilight evenings spent in our yard I immediately inhale the intoxicating smell of sweet grass, earthy soil and the water flowing in the creek located between our home and the paved road. I believe I knew intuitively that I would return many times, in the years to come, to those magical evenings.
Lightening bugs blinked and drifted through the darkening evening. It seemed there were hundreds of them. We caught them in mason jars releasing them later to join their kind. At some point the lightening bugs simply vanished to reappear the next night.
Lightening bugs, flowering honeysuckle, sweet grasses, pungent soil and a faint smell of manure from the nearby barn combined to create an entire world in my heart and mind. Within that world I hear the sound of children laughing and calling out insults as a game of touch football became challenging. Nature provided the sound of the cicadas, various birds calling out to one another, small frogs and larger bullfrogs harmonizing as the lights of home appeared in the window and our names were called for supper.
Later I would lie in my bed listening to the silence of the night. There was no air conditioning. Our windows were open with only the screens between us and the outside world. Light breezes brought the outside inside as we drifted off to sleep.
It will be fine with me if heaven is a mountain valley formed from my memories just for me for eternity.
Our family rented a small, white house tucked close against the bottom of the slope of an old, worn down mountain. Our landlord had a large run-down barn on the property. A fence ran behind our house at the place where the slope began the rise that led to the top of the mountain. On the other side of the fence a wide swath of land had been forested. The earth was red clay, scattered with rocks and patches of rough, survival grasses. A trail crisscrossed back and forth on itself ending further up the slope where the forest began.
The sweetest, cold spring water flowed from that mountain and into our home. I have not experienced delicious water again since that time in my life.
Lightening bugs always send me hurtling back to the days spent in the little house in the valley. Green grass grew thick and plentiful in our front yard. A plowed field of red clay soil was adjacent to our house. When I close my eyes and travel back to the twilight evenings spent in our yard I immediately inhale the intoxicating smell of sweet grass, earthy soil and the water flowing in the creek located between our home and the paved road. I believe I knew intuitively that I would return many times, in the years to come, to those magical evenings.
Lightening bugs blinked and drifted through the darkening evening. It seemed there were hundreds of them. We caught them in mason jars releasing them later to join their kind. At some point the lightening bugs simply vanished to reappear the next night.
Lightening bugs, flowering honeysuckle, sweet grasses, pungent soil and a faint smell of manure from the nearby barn combined to create an entire world in my heart and mind. Within that world I hear the sound of children laughing and calling out insults as a game of touch football became challenging. Nature provided the sound of the cicadas, various birds calling out to one another, small frogs and larger bullfrogs harmonizing as the lights of home appeared in the window and our names were called for supper.
Later I would lie in my bed listening to the silence of the night. There was no air conditioning. Our windows were open with only the screens between us and the outside world. Light breezes brought the outside inside as we drifted off to sleep.
It will be fine with me if heaven is a mountain valley formed from my memories just for me for eternity.
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Surrender And Then Surrender More
Contempt prior to investigation. I was dwelling on a conversation I had today with a friend. We talked about spiritual perspectives, opinions we share and opinions in which we differ. Upon reflection God's Word does not lend itself to opinion though opinion is offered enthusiastically as the Word of God. I saw myself in that framework. I realized how much of my spiritual life has been built and supported by opinions rather than scripture plain and simple.
I believe this bent towards opinion as opposed to the acceptance of the Word of God at face value stems from my desire to find a detour around the untarnished truth.
I thought of David and Saul. David would not speak against Saul because Saul was a man of God and David's king. David surrendered himself to the admonition in scripture regarding the respect due God's anointed. This is the point at which I saw my opionated and arrogant self speaking of the various virtues and vices of people in leadership in our church or in other churches. The well-meaning gossip that comes so easily to mind, the smug glance and unspoken judgement passing through my thoughts fly in the face of God's will and instruction. Who am I that I should judge the God of the universe?
In one form or another I am continually at the point of surrender. At first that sounds repressive and controlling. Submission of my will was not a plan I had for my life. Even a cursory look at my life thus far would prove conclusively that I submitted my will on a whim. Indeed I seemed determined to exercise an anti-will campaign for years. Yet I saw myself possessing a strong will that I would not surrender. My nature held a cunning and baffling ability to lie to myself. Years later, when all my efforts had been exhausted, I found a total surrender and submission of my will to be filled with the freedom I sought most of my life. It is a bit of a mental exercise to find, after years of resistance, that the prison I saw in surrender did not exist. I had to escape the actual prison my self-will had built. Escape the bondage of self-will and run towards the freedom of surrendering my will.
The task set before me each day is to surrender yet again and again with joy and of my own free will. In that choice I am found.
I believe this bent towards opinion as opposed to the acceptance of the Word of God at face value stems from my desire to find a detour around the untarnished truth.
I thought of David and Saul. David would not speak against Saul because Saul was a man of God and David's king. David surrendered himself to the admonition in scripture regarding the respect due God's anointed. This is the point at which I saw my opionated and arrogant self speaking of the various virtues and vices of people in leadership in our church or in other churches. The well-meaning gossip that comes so easily to mind, the smug glance and unspoken judgement passing through my thoughts fly in the face of God's will and instruction. Who am I that I should judge the God of the universe?
In one form or another I am continually at the point of surrender. At first that sounds repressive and controlling. Submission of my will was not a plan I had for my life. Even a cursory look at my life thus far would prove conclusively that I submitted my will on a whim. Indeed I seemed determined to exercise an anti-will campaign for years. Yet I saw myself possessing a strong will that I would not surrender. My nature held a cunning and baffling ability to lie to myself. Years later, when all my efforts had been exhausted, I found a total surrender and submission of my will to be filled with the freedom I sought most of my life. It is a bit of a mental exercise to find, after years of resistance, that the prison I saw in surrender did not exist. I had to escape the actual prison my self-will had built. Escape the bondage of self-will and run towards the freedom of surrendering my will.
The task set before me each day is to surrender yet again and again with joy and of my own free will. In that choice I am found.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
I Steal A Peek
This child has captured me from the beginning of his life. He did not allow me entrance for a time. He held me at bay with his need for his mama or his dad. But I would steal a peek at him and know that one day he and I would be the best of friends.
Time passed. Our moments together grew longer. I thought my heart would burst with pleasure and with joy. He would be the mailman and I would wait for him to bring the mail. He would ask for the hundredth time for me to read his favorite book called "Piggy Pie". His eyes would slowly close as sleep came softly to him and I, in that sacred moment, would steal a peek of rosy cheeks, long eye lashes and the patterned breathing as his chest rose and fell with deepening breaths.
The day he knew his dad was not coming back home to live, dear God in heaven, his pain and his sense of loss tore my heart from my chest. A helplessness like none I have ever known crushed my heart. He stood so small and crying said good-bye. I stole a peek and made a silent vow to stand in the gaps with him if God allowed. God allowed.
Today we rode to church together. Almost 10 years from the day he was born and 8 years from my vow. We laughed and talked and fussed over music. He spoke of a girl at school and we day dreamed a bit of summer possibilities. He knows I think he is wonderful. He knows that I will love him until forever. He gave me a grin, turned his attention back to the game he was playing and I stole a peek. My heart is full. Another peek and I am content to let him be as I drive to church.
God loves me some kind of good and he loves my grandchild in the fierce way that God loves children and that is when I steal a peek at the heart of my Father God. I am blessed to be a blessing.
Time passed. Our moments together grew longer. I thought my heart would burst with pleasure and with joy. He would be the mailman and I would wait for him to bring the mail. He would ask for the hundredth time for me to read his favorite book called "Piggy Pie". His eyes would slowly close as sleep came softly to him and I, in that sacred moment, would steal a peek of rosy cheeks, long eye lashes and the patterned breathing as his chest rose and fell with deepening breaths.
The day he knew his dad was not coming back home to live, dear God in heaven, his pain and his sense of loss tore my heart from my chest. A helplessness like none I have ever known crushed my heart. He stood so small and crying said good-bye. I stole a peek and made a silent vow to stand in the gaps with him if God allowed. God allowed.
Today we rode to church together. Almost 10 years from the day he was born and 8 years from my vow. We laughed and talked and fussed over music. He spoke of a girl at school and we day dreamed a bit of summer possibilities. He knows I think he is wonderful. He knows that I will love him until forever. He gave me a grin, turned his attention back to the game he was playing and I stole a peek. My heart is full. Another peek and I am content to let him be as I drive to church.
God loves me some kind of good and he loves my grandchild in the fierce way that God loves children and that is when I steal a peek at the heart of my Father God. I am blessed to be a blessing.
Monday, May 2, 2016
Say What?
A friend of mine who knows my family dynamics well was talking with me today about my mom. My mom is 87 years old. She lives near me and I spend a lot of time with her. My father died several years ago and I have been looking in on my mom all of that time. She and I are often at odds. Nothing dramatic and loud but silent and passive aggressive. My friend has a unique position in our lives so, over time, she has made her own observations of my mom and her relationships with her three chuldren. I am the oldest. My brother is the middle and my sister is the baby.
To keep a long, long story short, my mom identifies most with my sister, adores her son who is bi-polar and has conquered many challenges and has, as long as I can remember had an ambivalent response towards me. I don' t even want to know what birthed her response to me but I have felt it for years.
Time has passed and in my life today my mom's preferences have become visible to my friend. I did not think anyone knew or noticed. I felt foolish like a petulant, jealous child as this woman told me one day how much she admired my involvement with my mother and how she did not think she could handle it. I was shocked. Since then we have talked about my mom and I have had the opportunity to get out of denial about my relationship with her. I have struggled with the truth and grieved it.
Today I was talking with this dear friend about a recent event with my mom. We were both laughing when she said, "In your mom's eyes your sister was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, your brother is the son and you? You are shit outta luck!" I realized how far I have come when both of us burst into laughter without an edge to it or resentment in my heart. My friend told the truth! Giggling. And I found the truth hysterically funny.
Say What?!
To keep a long, long story short, my mom identifies most with my sister, adores her son who is bi-polar and has conquered many challenges and has, as long as I can remember had an ambivalent response towards me. I don' t even want to know what birthed her response to me but I have felt it for years.
Time has passed and in my life today my mom's preferences have become visible to my friend. I did not think anyone knew or noticed. I felt foolish like a petulant, jealous child as this woman told me one day how much she admired my involvement with my mother and how she did not think she could handle it. I was shocked. Since then we have talked about my mom and I have had the opportunity to get out of denial about my relationship with her. I have struggled with the truth and grieved it.
Today I was talking with this dear friend about a recent event with my mom. We were both laughing when she said, "In your mom's eyes your sister was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, your brother is the son and you? You are shit outta luck!" I realized how far I have come when both of us burst into laughter without an edge to it or resentment in my heart. My friend told the truth! Giggling. And I found the truth hysterically funny.
Say What?!
Measuring Out My Day
I played with a squirrel yesterday. He was chattering in the water oak tree by my mother's porch. At first I thought it was a loud and intense bird. It dawned on me the mad chattering could only be coming from a squirrel because squirrels fuss with great vigor and this squirrel was letting me have it. So, I talked back. Well, I talked back in my secret squirrel talk learned in the wild woods of .....o.k., maybe not a squirrel language. I talked back in an attempt to calm this furry creature down. While looking for this gray and angry fellow I discovered, high up in the top limbs, the squirrel's nest. The squirrel was fussing like a banshee in order to drive me from the nest. I caught a brief glance of him, smiled to myself and did the right thing. I walked away.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Sadness and Grief Deeper Than The Deep Blue Sea
waiting inside suspended animation, bathed in the numbness of sadness mixed with the heat of grief building upon itself. No answers. No way out. "So brave," they say, "to stand your ground." I hear "so brave" as a distant voice shouted towards me from far away. I am confused. Who is so brave? Not me. Not me inside this silent place waiting for a reprieve, a momentary release from the exquisite, laser sharp focus fueled by sadness and grief. A sense of loss intrudes. I look around me. I am a stranger in this place. I wish to be excused, please.
Saturday, April 2, 2016
Where is my darn pocketbook?
It is a rarity for me to lose something for a long period of time and more of a rarity for me to lose something and not find it again. Having made that statement I am constantly misplacing items. This results in late starts as I frantically search for my keys or my glasses or my pocketbook. In addition I plan to decide what I am going to wear and lay it out so I can get dressed quickly. This does not happen either. The plan is made. The execution of the plan remains an attractive option to throwing clothes into the air as I search for two things that will fit and match. I have gained weight. My clothes refuse to comply with the extra pounds. They are so stubborn in that respect. My tops have blotches of this or that on them. I often find those blotches when I see myself in the bathroom mirror of the doctor's office or the restaurant. This is when I adopt my, "I don't care how I look because I am in the middle of a potential mental breakdown" pose. I drop a few sentences by way of explanation. This is a creepy mind-set. Since I have gained weight I go out less, dress with little consideration for how I actually look, buy no clothes and think about losing weight one day. Always gonna start tomorrow. I don't know if this depresses me so much as it surprises me. Like so many things in my world at this time eating and weight take place far in the back of other concerns. I am more puzzled by my lack of self-discipline. I greet that character trait with a hesitant hello. Yes, I understand. Yes, I know, I know! I mutter to myself during my quest to find first one thing and then the other. Our cats are well versed in my chatter as I roam from room to room and back again. If my husband is awake he asks once in awhile if I am talking to him. When I say I am looking for one thing or the other he is not surprised. He volunteers to help find the lost thing and I say no. Not because I don't want his help. At his point in his life he cannot walk far without falling, his balance is tenuous. The searches I have asked him to make end as his body begins to collapse in a puddle towards the floor. We are a pair these days. Our lives have taken unexpe
cted and abrupt turns. The result is this combination of non-ambulatory meets no clue. It begs the question of why he believes I am dependable and trusts me with his life. We have developed our own form of marriage and relationship. I imagine all long term relationships come to a place where the odds and ends of each other make peace with themselves and settle into a wholeness full of contradictions, familiarities, hard won acceptance and a fondness for knowing what the other of us is going to say even as the other of us protests with indignation. None of this finds my pocketbook for me. All of this puts that loss into perspective.
cted and abrupt turns. The result is this combination of non-ambulatory meets no clue. It begs the question of why he believes I am dependable and trusts me with his life. We have developed our own form of marriage and relationship. I imagine all long term relationships come to a place where the odds and ends of each other make peace with themselves and settle into a wholeness full of contradictions, familiarities, hard won acceptance and a fondness for knowing what the other of us is going to say even as the other of us protests with indignation. None of this finds my pocketbook for me. All of this puts that loss into perspective.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Begin Again
Spring arrived before I felt winter. Winter must have happened or maybe it was just cold rain, day after day after day. I wonder if life can go by even faster than it does now. I could meet myself leaving an appointment before I arrive. My life is full and focused on meeting needs, anticipating future needs, lost in an overwhelming array of data. There are people who organize well. Prioritize well. See the big picture well. I am not one of those people. The requirements on my time, need to focus, plan, prioritize require an incredible amount of mental energy for me. I am a smart woman. I can do many things well. Yet I am at a point in my life where I am avoiding the thinking parts and living in the reactive parts of daily events. Oddly enough, to me, at least, I have a calm that arrived recently, on the heels of what appeared to be an impending nervous breakdown. God works in my life twenty-four hours a day. He worked out this calm thing. He has not, as yet, given me the organizational part. I am calm despite the chaos and sneaking suspicion I have that important things are going undone. They go undone while I look for my keys, my purse, a shirt to wear, shoes, that bottle of ketch-up I know I bought at the store. The list is long. I was diagnosed with ADHD in the past two years. Stress exacerbates the symptoms of ADHD. I can bear witness to that sentence.
Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. I celebrate the Risen Christ. Easter Sunday is special because it has always been special. When I met Jesus Christ as a living God and knew Him as a reality in my current life; not an idea or a concept but a real, living Jesus, Easter became a remembrance opportunity. The reality that Christ is risen is an every day reality for me. He is as much a part of me as my DNA. He is risen, made manifest, living now, at this moment, in me and around me and for me. When I met Jesus in this reality I became alive. I became resurrected in the sense that I died to myself and became a bond servant of my Lord Jesus Christ. Easter is a remembrance. Maybe more of a birthday of Jesus than Christmas is for me. When Christ chose to die and was resurrected He became the Christ I serve today. My life in and with Him is far from a cake walk. I am challenged, unsettled, often straining to be full of my own will over my surrendered will. Life with Christ is vibrant, breath-taking, life more abundant than I could ever imagine. Abundant with the love and surrender of my will to His. Come Lord Jesus! Happy Easter, friends!
Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. I celebrate the Risen Christ. Easter Sunday is special because it has always been special. When I met Jesus Christ as a living God and knew Him as a reality in my current life; not an idea or a concept but a real, living Jesus, Easter became a remembrance opportunity. The reality that Christ is risen is an every day reality for me. He is as much a part of me as my DNA. He is risen, made manifest, living now, at this moment, in me and around me and for me. When I met Jesus in this reality I became alive. I became resurrected in the sense that I died to myself and became a bond servant of my Lord Jesus Christ. Easter is a remembrance. Maybe more of a birthday of Jesus than Christmas is for me. When Christ chose to die and was resurrected He became the Christ I serve today. My life in and with Him is far from a cake walk. I am challenged, unsettled, often straining to be full of my own will over my surrendered will. Life with Christ is vibrant, breath-taking, life more abundant than I could ever imagine. Abundant with the love and surrender of my will to His. Come Lord Jesus! Happy Easter, friends!
Monday, March 14, 2016
Flotsam and Jetsome
Why does this font look so little? I have chosen "large" and saved it at least six times. Yet I persist with a degree of determination that would be better spent on cleaning my poor home. But that is of little value to me except to use as a battering ram when I begin to like myself a wee bit.
"Oh sure, how can you feel good about yourself when you pay no attention to your home. You abandon it for any whim that comes along so don't think you are all that, girl!"
So I take the obligatory guilt and shame trip and even organize a completely irrelevant drawer or two before distraction takes over and I am blowing bubbles for the cats or playing a game on the ipad.
I do have plans, mind you. I plan to paint and pull up carpet and rid the house of clutter and scrub the deck and buy things in matching colors. That is what I need. I need a color scheme. Then I realize that I could give a fig about a color scheme and the front tires on my car are nearly bald and I return to other , more intriguing ventures that are, for the most part void of value. I spend an inordinate amount of time remembering dates and times of appointments or looking for my glasses or my phone. I lose the memory of where I place items the moment I let go of them. I am either quite smart or the village idiot and I'll be darned if I know which one I am or if I care for that matter.
Another day...
Standing at a high point looking out over the ocean all the way to the horizon, straining to see a little further reminds me of the place in me that only God can fill. There is always a tension of being away from home, watching to get a glimpse of home's distant shore with a delicate homesickness pulling at my heart. It permeates every breath I take though I do not find it intrusive. Rather, I find it hopeful. I am gone from home for a time such as this and I long for home with sweet abandon yet I know this is where I am meant to be for now. At the most poignant of those moments when I feel the joy of a future reunion I think I cannot bear the wait but my Father comforts me. He comforts me and sends me back into this world to live this life He gave me. Sometimes this home, the here and now, feels pulled by an aggressive gravity bearing down heavily. I wonder if I can stand or fully breathe. The mystery that lightens the burden is for me to stop trying to stand or fully breathe. At the exact moment I choose to abandon the effort and stop trying to save myself the gravity releases me. I find myself free
Another day...
Standing at a high point looking out over the ocean all the way to the horizon, straining to see a little further reminds me of the place in me that only God can fill. There is always a tension of being away from home, watching to get a glimpse of home's distant shore with a delicate homesickness pulling at my heart. It permeates every breath I take though I do not find it intrusive. Rather, I find it hopeful. I am gone from home for a time such as this and I long for home with sweet abandon yet I know this is where I am meant to be for now. At the most poignant of those moments when I feel the joy of a future reunion I think I cannot bear the wait but my Father comforts me. He comforts me and sends me back into this world to live this life He gave me. Sometimes this home, the here and now, feels pulled by an aggressive gravity bearing down heavily. I wonder if I can stand or fully breathe. The mystery that lightens the burden is for me to stop trying to stand or fully breathe. At the exact moment I choose to abandon the effort and stop trying to save myself the gravity releases me. I find myself free
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