Happy New Year!
Happy New Year to my friends and family on Facebook and beyond.
May 2012 bring you happiness.
May your wildest dreams come true.
May your soul be filled with compassion and your heart with love and forgiveness.
May your grudges fade away and be replaced with joy.
May you find humor in the mundane, love in the sadness and light in the shadows.
May you radiate health.
May you know God and learn from His Word.
May you be blessed with enough of everything you need; enough that you can share your abundance.
May this new year bring you riches, the kind that matter most.
May you find your heart's desire.
Superstitions abound--jingle coins in your pocket at midnight, eat nothing that scratches the ground on New Year's Day, tuck a coin in every purse and pocket so you will never know poverty. Or learn to be content with what life offers and make the most of it.
May you make friends of your enemies and extend the warmth of your family to your friends.
May you face a challenge without running, face your fears with dignity and face the truth no matter how painful. May your enemies forgive you. May any unpleasant truth be tempered with compassion.
May you accept love in the spirit it is offered and return it in kind.
May you know the warmth of human touch in the hug of a friend.
May you find something in every day for which to be thankful, something in every day that will make you smile and something in every day that will show you that God lives.
Peace be yours in 2012.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 30, 2011
Meet Great Grand Aunt Tiddlewinks, Chapter One
Great Grand Aunt Tiddlewinks wasn't really an aunt, but a close family friend who was once intimately involved with Uncle Herbivore who wasn't really an uncle but a third cousin twice removed on Mom's side. I think it was Mom's mother's side, because that is the only way I can explain the affinity between me and cousin Zelda...
Anyway, by somewhat nefarious means I was able to wangle Tiddlewinks diary from the cold (possibly dead. It's hard to tell with that side of the family) hands of Toastre (pronounced Toe-Stray) Pastry, one of the daughters. Toastre is sweet and a bit flaky. She does exotic dancing (or did until a few years back) at the Limber Puppy club in Winoshka. After age began to show itself she got fired on the grounds that her puppies needed an uplifting experience. She is now the historian at the Modern Adult Bohemian Culture Club, Salome chapter, whatever that is. I'm sure I don't want to know.
Tiddlewinks was a tiny creature (I use the word advisedly) with long claw-like fingernails that twisted spiral-like at their tips, She painted them blood-red or black. She said she liked the color, but I suspect it was because she was too lazy to clean them properly. She wore her hair in a tall bee-hive (sigh...I wish I was better at description...bees really did take residence in that hive...) that rarely knew a shampoo or a comb. Herbivore worshipped the ground she walked on; if he slipped up, she kept a small whip tucked discreetly in her garter.
Tiddlewinks and Herbivore led quite an adventurous life, traveling around the county (yes, county. Only left it once as far as I can tell) making money on Herbivore's inventions. One of them, a flying car, is still in litigation according to Zelda. I can't imagine why. It only got eighteen inches off the ground, crashed into a fire hydrant drowning two dogs, injuring a bunch of street sweepers and whooshing a hot dog vendor's cart into the Wagasaskins River where several carp reportedly exploded from gas build-up after eating Farter's Chili. I wouldn't lie about that, would I?
Herbivore was a vegetarian who occasionally succumbed to a spare rib (he said there was no meat on the bone), a chicken nugget (he said that wasn't real meat) and Spam (ditto). He subsisted mainly on Tiddlewinks' inedible offerings of cucumber and kraut casserole and Pepsi. Once he invented a fruit that tasted like a pear on one side but if you turned it over it tasted like cherry. The farmer's lobby said it was too confusing, then came out with an apple that tasted like grapes. Go figure.
Herbivore was diminutive, perhaps four-foot-ten or so, with a bristly red beard that Tiddlewinks couldn't get him to shave and eyes like emeralds (one of them, anyway. It replaced the eyeball he lost in one of the wars). He walked so straight that some said he had a rod down his back, but of course that was nonsense. It was merely a yardstick.
Tiddlewinks loved animals and well-designed men. She raised boxers for awhile but after losing several matches in a row she decided to train dancers instead. Looking at the antique furniture she had acquired, she got the inspiration to call her dancers the Chippendales. Finding out the name was taken, she was very disappointed. Somehow the Duncan Pfyfes never caught on.
As she wrote it, the big break for Tiddlewinks and Herbivore came when they went on their one and only trip outside the county to the State Fair in the next county, some twenty-seven miles from home. Tiddlewinks took a jar of her famous ragweed honey and Herbivore took a sample of his newly-created lawyer-calling bullhorn. So many people had allergy attacks after trying Tiddlewinks' honey that one blast on the bullhorn brought lawyers from seven states to their rescue.
You'd think it would be Tiddlewinks who got sued, wouldn't you? But not on your life. Those lawyers loved the bullhorn so much that they paid Herbivore just to carry one around and blow it every time he saw somewhere they could make money. Eventually every ambulance in the county was equipped with an Herbivore lawyer-calling bullhorn. The judge got his cut, too, and the honey was dismissed as just one of those things.
Toastre came to see me the other day; I'm getting the idea she isn't dead after all. I heard she paid a visit to Zelda, too. She says I have no right to the diary because Tiddlewinks wasn't really my aunt, just the concubine of Herbivore. As it turns out, Zelda's in-law said that she found out that Zelda and I, being second cousins of first cousins and by a quirk of the law being sole heirs to the estate of Herbivore and consequently to Tiddlewinks (their marriage license and will were in the diary), we are the real owners of the diary and the estate (which after everything was paid and the bull-horn matter settled amounted to $13.73). So there, Toastre.
I also found out that Toastre's birth name is Gruntsmuch. Hmmmm....there must be a story in there someplace....
Anyway, by somewhat nefarious means I was able to wangle Tiddlewinks diary from the cold (possibly dead. It's hard to tell with that side of the family) hands of Toastre (pronounced Toe-Stray) Pastry, one of the daughters. Toastre is sweet and a bit flaky. She does exotic dancing (or did until a few years back) at the Limber Puppy club in Winoshka. After age began to show itself she got fired on the grounds that her puppies needed an uplifting experience. She is now the historian at the Modern Adult Bohemian Culture Club, Salome chapter, whatever that is. I'm sure I don't want to know.
Tiddlewinks was a tiny creature (I use the word advisedly) with long claw-like fingernails that twisted spiral-like at their tips, She painted them blood-red or black. She said she liked the color, but I suspect it was because she was too lazy to clean them properly. She wore her hair in a tall bee-hive (sigh...I wish I was better at description...bees really did take residence in that hive...) that rarely knew a shampoo or a comb. Herbivore worshipped the ground she walked on; if he slipped up, she kept a small whip tucked discreetly in her garter.
Tiddlewinks and Herbivore led quite an adventurous life, traveling around the county (yes, county. Only left it once as far as I can tell) making money on Herbivore's inventions. One of them, a flying car, is still in litigation according to Zelda. I can't imagine why. It only got eighteen inches off the ground, crashed into a fire hydrant drowning two dogs, injuring a bunch of street sweepers and whooshing a hot dog vendor's cart into the Wagasaskins River where several carp reportedly exploded from gas build-up after eating Farter's Chili. I wouldn't lie about that, would I?
Herbivore was a vegetarian who occasionally succumbed to a spare rib (he said there was no meat on the bone), a chicken nugget (he said that wasn't real meat) and Spam (ditto). He subsisted mainly on Tiddlewinks' inedible offerings of cucumber and kraut casserole and Pepsi. Once he invented a fruit that tasted like a pear on one side but if you turned it over it tasted like cherry. The farmer's lobby said it was too confusing, then came out with an apple that tasted like grapes. Go figure.
Herbivore was diminutive, perhaps four-foot-ten or so, with a bristly red beard that Tiddlewinks couldn't get him to shave and eyes like emeralds (one of them, anyway. It replaced the eyeball he lost in one of the wars). He walked so straight that some said he had a rod down his back, but of course that was nonsense. It was merely a yardstick.
Tiddlewinks loved animals and well-designed men. She raised boxers for awhile but after losing several matches in a row she decided to train dancers instead. Looking at the antique furniture she had acquired, she got the inspiration to call her dancers the Chippendales. Finding out the name was taken, she was very disappointed. Somehow the Duncan Pfyfes never caught on.
As she wrote it, the big break for Tiddlewinks and Herbivore came when they went on their one and only trip outside the county to the State Fair in the next county, some twenty-seven miles from home. Tiddlewinks took a jar of her famous ragweed honey and Herbivore took a sample of his newly-created lawyer-calling bullhorn. So many people had allergy attacks after trying Tiddlewinks' honey that one blast on the bullhorn brought lawyers from seven states to their rescue.
You'd think it would be Tiddlewinks who got sued, wouldn't you? But not on your life. Those lawyers loved the bullhorn so much that they paid Herbivore just to carry one around and blow it every time he saw somewhere they could make money. Eventually every ambulance in the county was equipped with an Herbivore lawyer-calling bullhorn. The judge got his cut, too, and the honey was dismissed as just one of those things.
Toastre came to see me the other day; I'm getting the idea she isn't dead after all. I heard she paid a visit to Zelda, too. She says I have no right to the diary because Tiddlewinks wasn't really my aunt, just the concubine of Herbivore. As it turns out, Zelda's in-law said that she found out that Zelda and I, being second cousins of first cousins and by a quirk of the law being sole heirs to the estate of Herbivore and consequently to Tiddlewinks (their marriage license and will were in the diary), we are the real owners of the diary and the estate (which after everything was paid and the bull-horn matter settled amounted to $13.73). So there, Toastre.
I also found out that Toastre's birth name is Gruntsmuch. Hmmmm....there must be a story in there someplace....
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Not To Be Forgotten (preview)
The adventures of Great-grand aunt Tiddlewinks and cousins Peach Melba and Toastre Pastry (pronounced toe-stray') are in the works. I've just uncovered a diary from their early days that will help a lot in reconstructing my and Zelda's family. Stay tuned!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Happy New Year (Almost)
I've been thinking about resolutions for 2012. Every year I make some, break some. In 2011 I did pretty well. I accomplished a lot of what I set out to do. The most glaring failures I fully intend to rectify. Some aren't important anymore, but I had to find that out for myself.
The book...ah, yes, the book. It isn't going as fast as I planned. The editing is nerve-wracking, the cost is currently prohibitive. It will happen. It will happen. Hopefully it will come to pass before my next class reunion in 2014. Guess I'd better get a move on.
I've lost a few pounds, and I'm in better shape than I was a year ago. It isn't the result I wanted, but at least it is something. I will continue this effort for my health as well as my vanity. Wait till you see me on New Year's Eve.
My resolve to do more resulted in lots of changes from my haircut and wardrobe changes to my activities. I hurt my back which kept me from whitewater rafting as planned, but I did go kayaking. I didn't get a bike yet (same reason--the tailbone thing), but I have been invited to try snow-shoeing. Yes, you read that right. I didn't get my East Coast trip, but I did get to Las Vegas. Not bad, huh?
Of course, there were some private resolutions, too, that I never did accomplish. Why not? They weren't impossible. It was because I didn't share them. There was no one to care, no one to make me accountable. Perhaps if I had had some feedback I might have done things more aggressively, or at least differently. No matter, they go on my private list once again.
Over these months, since I started the blog, I have become acutely aware of my shortcomings--my sometimes lack of faith, my lousy homemaking skills, my vocabulary among other things---all of which need tweaked to put it mildly. It's not that these have been ignored, just circumvented....It's time to pay more attention.
This year coming, I have vowed to be a candle that lights the way for others to find God. I will not hide my faith because it might make somebody uncomfortable, or because they might believe differently than I do...if I can lead one person to God's Word, I will be content.
I will work harder--much, much harder--to say nothing unkind. I will speak my mind; I will not be a pushover or yes-woman. I will learn to temper my words. I want to be remembered for kindness in the eulogy, not referred to as "the bitch".
In case you didn't notice, I've been a bit down of late. I will drive myself mercilessly to overcome these tsunamis of sadness and frustration. There is not much logic behind them, it just IS. It will take some doing to understand the wherewithal; it is something I have to do myself.
Hubby has his flaws like we all do, but he is a good man, honest and steady, and I doubt there is a better kisser in all the world. No matter how mad I get, one kiss turns me to mush even after all these years. I resolve to reserve my anger, pick my battles and be a better wife.
One resolution I won't make this year is to clean the basement...dungeon...whatever that hell-hole should be called. It's a depository for worthwhile and not-so-worthwhile junk and treasures. Some of it has to go, and some of it will--eventually. The basement has become last on my list of priorities, just below getting a full-body wax job.
Then there is the job --actual work, not wax. I resolved to get a new one last year and I did--not one, but three. One sent me to Las Vegas but I hated it. The second makes me more content, but the money isn't enough to survive. The third is sales--it makes me alive! Looks like I may be job-hunting again.
I'm excited about serving on church council, especially since I have only been a member since last January 9. Messiah has become my friends, my family and home to me. I am at peace when I am there. It is bright on cloudy days, the pews are full of people I trust, my Pastor is a human man with God's word flowing from him. I resolve to give my church my time, my talent and my finances until I know its mission is fulfilled.
My friends--those I have known more than fifty years, my high school friends, those I have made in the course of my careers, those who are neighbors and Y friends and Facebook friends--have all become so important to me! Each is a pearl in a very long strand. When I lose one, the strand is incomplete. Perhaps this is part of the sadness thing. I resolve to mend that strand, winning back those that matter and replacing those that don't mean so much with a new lifelong ally.
So there they are, my resolutions for 2012 in black and white, for all to see and to hold me accountable. The private list will remain just that, although I suspect somebody knows and will encourage me on that, too.
An early Happy New Year, my friends!
The book...ah, yes, the book. It isn't going as fast as I planned. The editing is nerve-wracking, the cost is currently prohibitive. It will happen. It will happen. Hopefully it will come to pass before my next class reunion in 2014. Guess I'd better get a move on.
I've lost a few pounds, and I'm in better shape than I was a year ago. It isn't the result I wanted, but at least it is something. I will continue this effort for my health as well as my vanity. Wait till you see me on New Year's Eve.
My resolve to do more resulted in lots of changes from my haircut and wardrobe changes to my activities. I hurt my back which kept me from whitewater rafting as planned, but I did go kayaking. I didn't get a bike yet (same reason--the tailbone thing), but I have been invited to try snow-shoeing. Yes, you read that right. I didn't get my East Coast trip, but I did get to Las Vegas. Not bad, huh?
Of course, there were some private resolutions, too, that I never did accomplish. Why not? They weren't impossible. It was because I didn't share them. There was no one to care, no one to make me accountable. Perhaps if I had had some feedback I might have done things more aggressively, or at least differently. No matter, they go on my private list once again.
Over these months, since I started the blog, I have become acutely aware of my shortcomings--my sometimes lack of faith, my lousy homemaking skills, my vocabulary among other things---all of which need tweaked to put it mildly. It's not that these have been ignored, just circumvented....It's time to pay more attention.
This year coming, I have vowed to be a candle that lights the way for others to find God. I will not hide my faith because it might make somebody uncomfortable, or because they might believe differently than I do...if I can lead one person to God's Word, I will be content.
I will work harder--much, much harder--to say nothing unkind. I will speak my mind; I will not be a pushover or yes-woman. I will learn to temper my words. I want to be remembered for kindness in the eulogy, not referred to as "the bitch".
In case you didn't notice, I've been a bit down of late. I will drive myself mercilessly to overcome these tsunamis of sadness and frustration. There is not much logic behind them, it just IS. It will take some doing to understand the wherewithal; it is something I have to do myself.
Hubby has his flaws like we all do, but he is a good man, honest and steady, and I doubt there is a better kisser in all the world. No matter how mad I get, one kiss turns me to mush even after all these years. I resolve to reserve my anger, pick my battles and be a better wife.
One resolution I won't make this year is to clean the basement...dungeon...whatever that hell-hole should be called. It's a depository for worthwhile and not-so-worthwhile junk and treasures. Some of it has to go, and some of it will--eventually. The basement has become last on my list of priorities, just below getting a full-body wax job.
Then there is the job --actual work, not wax. I resolved to get a new one last year and I did--not one, but three. One sent me to Las Vegas but I hated it. The second makes me more content, but the money isn't enough to survive. The third is sales--it makes me alive! Looks like I may be job-hunting again.
I'm excited about serving on church council, especially since I have only been a member since last January 9. Messiah has become my friends, my family and home to me. I am at peace when I am there. It is bright on cloudy days, the pews are full of people I trust, my Pastor is a human man with God's word flowing from him. I resolve to give my church my time, my talent and my finances until I know its mission is fulfilled.
My friends--those I have known more than fifty years, my high school friends, those I have made in the course of my careers, those who are neighbors and Y friends and Facebook friends--have all become so important to me! Each is a pearl in a very long strand. When I lose one, the strand is incomplete. Perhaps this is part of the sadness thing. I resolve to mend that strand, winning back those that matter and replacing those that don't mean so much with a new lifelong ally.
So there they are, my resolutions for 2012 in black and white, for all to see and to hold me accountable. The private list will remain just that, although I suspect somebody knows and will encourage me on that, too.
An early Happy New Year, my friends!
Dammit!
No, I'm not really cursing. It's the name of my client's cat.
Well, it wasn't, but it is now. At least that's what I call her. Carol doesn't seem to mind. Neither does the cat. She loves me. The cat. Maybe Carol, too.
I like cats...sort of. I wouldn't want a cat for a pet. I find them sneaky and unpredictable (witness the scratch and bite marks on my hand). Love bites, says my friend the cat lover. (Yeah, my patootie.) I like to hear them purr. I like their soft fur. I like to stroke a cat, and I like it when they sit on my lap. I like to watch them play. I wouldn't hurt a cat. But let's face it, people, I'm a dog person through and through.
You cannot own a cat. She is independent, expects a great deal from her human and will turn on you if you don't idolize her. She expresses her displeasure by glaring, ears flat, a quiet growl in her throat. She may or may not accept the treats you offer; she will come when called if she feels like it. (My son once had a cat named Jasmine who hated me even though I saved her life. If I cared for her, she would put up with my presence until she was fed, then she'd turn and hiss, do her business on the floor next to the freshly cleaned litter box and defy me to challenge her. She now rests in peace in my backyard. I bet she hates that.)
Such is Dammit.
She will greet me on arrival, meowing for attention. Carol says she hasn't meowed in forever, so she must like me. She doesn't purr, either, but that's just a matter of time--I'll work on it. She knows I feed her and will come when she hears the box. She recognizes that I change her litter box daily--and she will still pee on the floor next to it. I don't understand. And did you know that while a dog will generally remain tame, even if left to his own devices, a cat will turn feral? That's right, feral, as in wild. Ah, the strangeness of felixus domesticus.
"Dammit! Quit using the floor!" I will plead to deaf ears.
"Dammit! Quit scratching me! I know you don't mean to, but it hurts!"
"Dammit! I'm gonna get a water sprayer after you!"
Today Dammit crawled up on my lap, rubbing her face on my leg, then off to find a suitable perch to watch the rare birds outdoors. I took advantage, getting up to get a drink, sitting the quarter-full glass on a side table. Dammit, living up to her nickname, was back in a shot, batting at the glass with one tiny paw, spilling what was left before I could save it. Miserable cat. A dog would have exhibited some guilt, or wagged his tail at the fun of it all.
Did Dammit do any such thing? Of course not. She twitched her tail, very self-satisfied, and pawed at my hand--claws outstretched--as I mopped up.
A last word about felines, lest you think I'd trap and sell them to a furrier or a dubious restaurant: Cats are beautiful and mysterious animals. I'm sure there is a good reason why they are associated with witches and warlocks, were worshipped by ancients and are the kings of jungles. I'm sure there is a reason why Dammit defies me.
I don't think I want to know.
Well, it wasn't, but it is now. At least that's what I call her. Carol doesn't seem to mind. Neither does the cat. She loves me. The cat. Maybe Carol, too.
I like cats...sort of. I wouldn't want a cat for a pet. I find them sneaky and unpredictable (witness the scratch and bite marks on my hand). Love bites, says my friend the cat lover. (Yeah, my patootie.) I like to hear them purr. I like their soft fur. I like to stroke a cat, and I like it when they sit on my lap. I like to watch them play. I wouldn't hurt a cat. But let's face it, people, I'm a dog person through and through.
You cannot own a cat. She is independent, expects a great deal from her human and will turn on you if you don't idolize her. She expresses her displeasure by glaring, ears flat, a quiet growl in her throat. She may or may not accept the treats you offer; she will come when called if she feels like it. (My son once had a cat named Jasmine who hated me even though I saved her life. If I cared for her, she would put up with my presence until she was fed, then she'd turn and hiss, do her business on the floor next to the freshly cleaned litter box and defy me to challenge her. She now rests in peace in my backyard. I bet she hates that.)
Such is Dammit.
She will greet me on arrival, meowing for attention. Carol says she hasn't meowed in forever, so she must like me. She doesn't purr, either, but that's just a matter of time--I'll work on it. She knows I feed her and will come when she hears the box. She recognizes that I change her litter box daily--and she will still pee on the floor next to it. I don't understand. And did you know that while a dog will generally remain tame, even if left to his own devices, a cat will turn feral? That's right, feral, as in wild. Ah, the strangeness of felixus domesticus.
"Dammit! Quit using the floor!" I will plead to deaf ears.
"Dammit! Quit scratching me! I know you don't mean to, but it hurts!"
"Dammit! I'm gonna get a water sprayer after you!"
Today Dammit crawled up on my lap, rubbing her face on my leg, then off to find a suitable perch to watch the rare birds outdoors. I took advantage, getting up to get a drink, sitting the quarter-full glass on a side table. Dammit, living up to her nickname, was back in a shot, batting at the glass with one tiny paw, spilling what was left before I could save it. Miserable cat. A dog would have exhibited some guilt, or wagged his tail at the fun of it all.
Did Dammit do any such thing? Of course not. She twitched her tail, very self-satisfied, and pawed at my hand--claws outstretched--as I mopped up.
A last word about felines, lest you think I'd trap and sell them to a furrier or a dubious restaurant: Cats are beautiful and mysterious animals. I'm sure there is a good reason why they are associated with witches and warlocks, were worshipped by ancients and are the kings of jungles. I'm sure there is a reason why Dammit defies me.
I don't think I want to know.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Noel, Noel...
The angels sent word to shepards in their fields, to kings, to all who were within hearing distance--Christ the King is born! Bring Him gifts and worship Him as you would Me, for He is My Son, the Living Word. And so, through the ages, we have come to accept Him as our Savior.
The trick is not that we must just believe in Him, or that we must worship Him. It is in believing that this long dead man is the Son of God, that He IS God, that He still lives. Now THAT is an act of faith!
We worship sometimes with words, with lip service. Oh yes, we say we believe, and we do, when it is convenient. It is convenient on Saturday night, but not on Sunday at 8:30; maybe at 11:00, but certainly not on Wednesday. We have to go to work, or to meetings, or out to dinner with Harry's boss. We all have excuses not to worship, or at least excuses not to share the Word.
When the angels called the shepards from their fields, they came. The kings came. They found time.
I have to work. Yes, I do. I don't want to get fired. Neither do you.
So that keeps me from church services sometimes. It doesn't have to keep me from worship.
Pastor Jeff reads my mind sometimes, as I've told you. Last week it was a challenge to see God in our lives every day at least once. For a few days, I couldn't find Him. I asked Him to reveal Himself, He did. This week Pastor offered another challenge--to BE the God-sighting,to let our light of peace illuminate our own corner of the world, letting His light shine through us.
THERE'S SO MUCH MORE TO THIS CHALLENGE THAN IT SOUNDS.
First of all, we have to hear the angels calling us to follow the star.
We have to believe that Jesus is the Son of God.
We have to know that He still lives.
We have to be willing to be filled with His love and His light and His Word, filled to overflowing, so that we can, without fear or reservation, let His light shine through us.
And lastly, we have to be bold enough to share.
The challenge isn't so simple after all. Am I up to it? I don't know, but I will try, one day at a time, beginning this Christmas morning. I will begin with my husband who deserves much better a wife than I am. I will try every day this week and beyond to give a little light to someone. I will try, even when I wake up in a crappy mood, even when I am too tired to think...I will try to give a kind word, a good deed, a word of prayer or praise.
I accept your challenge once again, Pastor. Thank you for making me see what needs to be done, and keep me in your prayers that I may accomplish your challenge.
Merry Christmas to all, and in the words of tiny Tim,
" God bless us, every one!"
The trick is not that we must just believe in Him, or that we must worship Him. It is in believing that this long dead man is the Son of God, that He IS God, that He still lives. Now THAT is an act of faith!
We worship sometimes with words, with lip service. Oh yes, we say we believe, and we do, when it is convenient. It is convenient on Saturday night, but not on Sunday at 8:30; maybe at 11:00, but certainly not on Wednesday. We have to go to work, or to meetings, or out to dinner with Harry's boss. We all have excuses not to worship, or at least excuses not to share the Word.
When the angels called the shepards from their fields, they came. The kings came. They found time.
I have to work. Yes, I do. I don't want to get fired. Neither do you.
So that keeps me from church services sometimes. It doesn't have to keep me from worship.
Pastor Jeff reads my mind sometimes, as I've told you. Last week it was a challenge to see God in our lives every day at least once. For a few days, I couldn't find Him. I asked Him to reveal Himself, He did. This week Pastor offered another challenge--to BE the God-sighting,to let our light of peace illuminate our own corner of the world, letting His light shine through us.
THERE'S SO MUCH MORE TO THIS CHALLENGE THAN IT SOUNDS.
First of all, we have to hear the angels calling us to follow the star.
We have to believe that Jesus is the Son of God.
We have to know that He still lives.
We have to be willing to be filled with His love and His light and His Word, filled to overflowing, so that we can, without fear or reservation, let His light shine through us.
And lastly, we have to be bold enough to share.
The challenge isn't so simple after all. Am I up to it? I don't know, but I will try, one day at a time, beginning this Christmas morning. I will begin with my husband who deserves much better a wife than I am. I will try every day this week and beyond to give a little light to someone. I will try, even when I wake up in a crappy mood, even when I am too tired to think...I will try to give a kind word, a good deed, a word of prayer or praise.
I accept your challenge once again, Pastor. Thank you for making me see what needs to be done, and keep me in your prayers that I may accomplish your challenge.
Merry Christmas to all, and in the words of tiny Tim,
" God bless us, every one!"
Saturday, December 24, 2011
God-Sighting--The Challenge
OK, so here I am, almost a week into the challenge to find God in my life every day.
I was feeling stressed and unhappy, and for a couple of days I wondered where He was. I couldn't see Him. I asked Him to show Himself.
He did. Today.
I baked cookies with a client. Her daughter, whom I wasn't sure I liked at all, turned out to be funny--even silly. She has three BIG dogs, a loving bunch of tongues and tails. I had a wonderful time and am looking forward to meeting her again, something I never would have believed.
A friend at work heard me say that my dryer went kaput. She's giving me one. My sons and their fiances provided transportation when I needed it, dried my clothes, filled me with cookies. My friends made me laugh. Hubby shows his love for me in countless ways. I could go on and on. I am blessed.
When I asked Him to show Himself, I had no idea it would be so revealing, so obvious.
Yes, this is very brief today. I need not say another word. He said it all.
He lives.
I was feeling stressed and unhappy, and for a couple of days I wondered where He was. I couldn't see Him. I asked Him to show Himself.
He did. Today.
I baked cookies with a client. Her daughter, whom I wasn't sure I liked at all, turned out to be funny--even silly. She has three BIG dogs, a loving bunch of tongues and tails. I had a wonderful time and am looking forward to meeting her again, something I never would have believed.
A friend at work heard me say that my dryer went kaput. She's giving me one. My sons and their fiances provided transportation when I needed it, dried my clothes, filled me with cookies. My friends made me laugh. Hubby shows his love for me in countless ways. I could go on and on. I am blessed.
When I asked Him to show Himself, I had no idea it would be so revealing, so obvious.
Yes, this is very brief today. I need not say another word. He said it all.
He lives.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
God-Sighting
I have told you a little about Pastor Jeff. I believe he has been called to be a clergyman, and mostly I find his sermons give me something to think about. Today was such a day. He gave the congregation a challenge--look for a place where God is at work each day this week--a God-sighting.
I accept the challenge.
Since I began my journey to find out who I am (forward two steps, take one backwards) I have tried counting my blessings, finding something to be grateful for each day. Somewhere along the way I got busy, too busy to be thankful. Oh, occasionally God shouts at me, "WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, UNGRATEFUL WENCH?" I reply, "Nothing, Master." but I continue to make my list. Gratefulness has taken a backseat to fear, worry and callous disregard for what I already have.
When I heard the sermon today, this came home to me--I swear Pastor Jeff reads my thoughts and writes his sermon around them. I knew in an instant why I am so sad of late...I haven't been taking the time to look for signs of God, just the petition-prayers instead of praise.
I need to get back on track. I've been lapsing into worldly worries instead of exercising my faith.
OK. Begin yet again.
When I got home from church I put dinner in the crockpot (cabbage rolls, for the nosy). threw in a load of dark clothes and settled down with more coffee and the newspaper. As we are wont to do, I scanned the obits to make sure I wasn't listed, set aside the comics for later, turned to Dear Abby.
There it was, so obvious. It was a poem, attributed to James Patrick Kinney. It brought unwelcome tears to my eyes, convicting me of my own shortcomings. Not prejudice so much as the things I have left undone for whatever reason, showing me a selfish place in my subconscious that I have denied existed. Would I hold on to my stick of wood when it could mean life or death? No. But do I judge some who I think may be unworthy of my help? God, please forgive me, for this I have done. What have I held back that would have served God and my fellow humans?
The Cold Within
Six humans trapped in happenstance in dark and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood. Or so the story told.
Their dying fire in need of logs.
The first woman held hers back, for of the faces around the fire
she noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the way saw not one of his church,
and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes. He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,
for all he saw in his stick of wood was the chance to spite the white.
The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death's still hands, was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without.
They died from the cold within.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I have had a God-sighting today. He showed me, in His miraculous way, that the selfishness that I had thought I'd put aside was still lurking.
I promise to do better, Lord. Where will I see you tomorrow?
I accept the challenge.
Since I began my journey to find out who I am (forward two steps, take one backwards) I have tried counting my blessings, finding something to be grateful for each day. Somewhere along the way I got busy, too busy to be thankful. Oh, occasionally God shouts at me, "WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT, UNGRATEFUL WENCH?" I reply, "Nothing, Master." but I continue to make my list. Gratefulness has taken a backseat to fear, worry and callous disregard for what I already have.
When I heard the sermon today, this came home to me--I swear Pastor Jeff reads my thoughts and writes his sermon around them. I knew in an instant why I am so sad of late...I haven't been taking the time to look for signs of God, just the petition-prayers instead of praise.
I need to get back on track. I've been lapsing into worldly worries instead of exercising my faith.
OK. Begin yet again.
When I got home from church I put dinner in the crockpot (cabbage rolls, for the nosy). threw in a load of dark clothes and settled down with more coffee and the newspaper. As we are wont to do, I scanned the obits to make sure I wasn't listed, set aside the comics for later, turned to Dear Abby.
There it was, so obvious. It was a poem, attributed to James Patrick Kinney. It brought unwelcome tears to my eyes, convicting me of my own shortcomings. Not prejudice so much as the things I have left undone for whatever reason, showing me a selfish place in my subconscious that I have denied existed. Would I hold on to my stick of wood when it could mean life or death? No. But do I judge some who I think may be unworthy of my help? God, please forgive me, for this I have done. What have I held back that would have served God and my fellow humans?
The Cold Within
Six humans trapped in happenstance in dark and bitter cold,
Each one possessed a stick of wood. Or so the story told.
Their dying fire in need of logs.
The first woman held hers back, for of the faces around the fire
she noticed one was black.
The next man looking across the way saw not one of his church,
and couldn't bring himself to give the fire his stick of birch.
The third one sat in tattered clothes. He gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use
to warm the idle rich?
The rich man just sat back and thought of the wealth he had in store,
and how to keep what he had earned from the shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge as the fire passed from sight,
for all he saw in his stick of wood was the chance to spite the white.
The last man in this forlorn group did naught except for gain,
giving only to those who gave was how he played the game.
The logs held tight in death's still hands, was proof of human sin.
They didn't die from the cold without.
They died from the cold within.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So I have had a God-sighting today. He showed me, in His miraculous way, that the selfishness that I had thought I'd put aside was still lurking.
I promise to do better, Lord. Where will I see you tomorrow?
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Twelve Days of Christmas, My Way
I love the song "Twelve Days of Christmas", although I never did see the point.
Why would one want a half-dozen geese pooping around the house? Add a few turtle doves, some French hens and a couple of calling birds (all made nervous by those infernal drummers) and those maids better stop a-milking and start a-scrubbing. And what are they milking? There are no cows on the list. So I have to buy a bunch of bovines to give these maids (which I didn't want to begin with) something to do? Then there's the swans a-swimming...maybe in my backyard after a spring rain. What's with all the birds, anyway? We live in the CITY, for Pete's sake. At least the partridges are in a pear tree and I do love pears.
What earthly good are lords a-leaping and ladies dancing (what else would they be doing? Dancers, I mean.) ? Unless they are Chippendales, give me a break. As for pipers piping, well, I prefer Kenny G. And where would they all sleep? And how do I feed these crowds? If you think I'm going to do all that laundry, you're nuts. I hope it's a quick visit and they're not expecting room and board for the next year. Get a real job, people.
Five gold rings....now THAT I understand. But instead of FIVE gold rings, one will do, and make one of them into a simple gold chain, another some earrings and a bracelet will do nicely.
Not being an especially greedy person at Christmas time, I have opted to write my own wishes for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Listen up, Hubby! If anybody else wants in on the Twelve Days, well, I have another list and I'll tell you where to send it if you ask....
Twelve Days Of Christmas, My Way
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.....
Twelve dishes all washed...
Eleven snows a-shoveled...
Ten dinners cooking....
Nine windows gleaming....
Eight pairs of earrings (OK, maybe a LITTLE greedy)...
Seven rooms all vacuumed...
Six foot massages....
Five tanks of gas......
Four car washes....
Three cups of java...
Two breakfast burritos....
and a kiss by the Christmas tree!
Why would one want a half-dozen geese pooping around the house? Add a few turtle doves, some French hens and a couple of calling birds (all made nervous by those infernal drummers) and those maids better stop a-milking and start a-scrubbing. And what are they milking? There are no cows on the list. So I have to buy a bunch of bovines to give these maids (which I didn't want to begin with) something to do? Then there's the swans a-swimming...maybe in my backyard after a spring rain. What's with all the birds, anyway? We live in the CITY, for Pete's sake. At least the partridges are in a pear tree and I do love pears.
What earthly good are lords a-leaping and ladies dancing (what else would they be doing? Dancers, I mean.) ? Unless they are Chippendales, give me a break. As for pipers piping, well, I prefer Kenny G. And where would they all sleep? And how do I feed these crowds? If you think I'm going to do all that laundry, you're nuts. I hope it's a quick visit and they're not expecting room and board for the next year. Get a real job, people.
Five gold rings....now THAT I understand. But instead of FIVE gold rings, one will do, and make one of them into a simple gold chain, another some earrings and a bracelet will do nicely.
Not being an especially greedy person at Christmas time, I have opted to write my own wishes for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Listen up, Hubby! If anybody else wants in on the Twelve Days, well, I have another list and I'll tell you where to send it if you ask....
Twelve Days Of Christmas, My Way
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.....
Twelve dishes all washed...
Eleven snows a-shoveled...
Ten dinners cooking....
Nine windows gleaming....
Eight pairs of earrings (OK, maybe a LITTLE greedy)...
Seven rooms all vacuumed...
Six foot massages....
Five tanks of gas......
Four car washes....
Three cups of java...
Two breakfast burritos....
and a kiss by the Christmas tree!
Monday, December 12, 2011
What a Year!
My Dearest Family and Friends,
2011 hasn't been half bad. It is leaps and bounds above 2010 in more ways than I can count. Except for the illness of my much-loved mother-in-law it's been pretty good.
Son #1 started a new job. This is the kid who, at 15 or so, I would gladly have rented out for a few years (just joshin'). He's turned into a remarkable man. All the qualities we saw in him as a child--his humor, his charm--have blossomed. I'm so proud!
Son #2 keeps growing. They love him at work and at home. His expanded family is beginning to gel. He has become a fine man. He, like his brother, is driven to succeed. He has ideas and the intelligence and creativity to make them happen. I'm so proud!
The women they have chosen to be life mates are wonderful additions to our little family. All the best qualities reside in them--compassion, loving hands, intelligence and nurturing. How joyful!
I'm blessed with six grandchildren, three boys and three girls, some natural and some acquired. I sometimes forget which are which. I love them all. I love the way they laugh, the way they hug, the way they play, the way they tell stories, the way a smile makes their noses crinkle. I see them making great accomplishments.
Hubby and I have been together more than 40 years. We have ups and downs, but we always end up in the same place. He's more handsome now than he was when we married. I guess you could call us lucky. Through all the good stuff and all the bad stuff, I know I am loved.
This year I've been through a myriad of changes, far too many to report here. I started my blog. I went kayaking for the first time. I took Pilates and tried Y-boxing and Zumba---way too much energy for this old lady! I've made lots of new friends online and off. I've found cousins again who have enriched my family and old friends--I'm talking people I knew as a 4 year old--who let me remember who I was in my carefree childhood. I am blessed! In July my company sent me to Las Vegas--I had never been there--and a got to go for an extra few days with a friend who knew her way around. We had a wonderful time--once in a lifetime for me. I'm glad I had the chance to experience it. I've discovered that my brain is only 16! So much of life yet to live!
In October I turned my back on my longtime career in sales and became a caregiver. Is it working out? I'm not sure.
Best of all, a year ago, more or less, I found a new church. In January I officially became a member; this coming January, I will be installed on the church council. I've made so many friends there. The fellowship I've found is incredible. The Pastor encourages my faith to grow with every sermon he gives, every prayer he says. I am home.
I had a sense of foreboding a few months ago. That feeling has been replaced with anticipation. I can feel things sliding into place. I wonder what adventure awaits? The book is slowly shaping up. How I will publish it, I don't know, but it will happen.
Ideas flow through my head like the proverbial river. Sometimes they are dark thoughts and most times they are pleasant ones. As 2011 ends, I am learning how to use them. I hope to use my words to change just one life for the better.
To all who read this, to all who don't--I wish you the happiest Christmas you have ever had and the most joyful new year that life can bring. May we all be generous in giving our love and forgiveness, especially to those we think least deserve it. Reach out to an old friend or touch the hand of a new one. If you know God, rejoice in Him. If you don't, give Him a chance--He's not such a bad guy, you know.
As 2011 ends, and as I write this (whether it is from my dark side or the light), I know one thing for sure. I have friends and family who care, and I love you for that.
A very Merry Christmas to all, and God bless us, every one.
2011 hasn't been half bad. It is leaps and bounds above 2010 in more ways than I can count. Except for the illness of my much-loved mother-in-law it's been pretty good.
Son #1 started a new job. This is the kid who, at 15 or so, I would gladly have rented out for a few years (just joshin'). He's turned into a remarkable man. All the qualities we saw in him as a child--his humor, his charm--have blossomed. I'm so proud!
Son #2 keeps growing. They love him at work and at home. His expanded family is beginning to gel. He has become a fine man. He, like his brother, is driven to succeed. He has ideas and the intelligence and creativity to make them happen. I'm so proud!
The women they have chosen to be life mates are wonderful additions to our little family. All the best qualities reside in them--compassion, loving hands, intelligence and nurturing. How joyful!
I'm blessed with six grandchildren, three boys and three girls, some natural and some acquired. I sometimes forget which are which. I love them all. I love the way they laugh, the way they hug, the way they play, the way they tell stories, the way a smile makes their noses crinkle. I see them making great accomplishments.
Hubby and I have been together more than 40 years. We have ups and downs, but we always end up in the same place. He's more handsome now than he was when we married. I guess you could call us lucky. Through all the good stuff and all the bad stuff, I know I am loved.
This year I've been through a myriad of changes, far too many to report here. I started my blog. I went kayaking for the first time. I took Pilates and tried Y-boxing and Zumba---way too much energy for this old lady! I've made lots of new friends online and off. I've found cousins again who have enriched my family and old friends--I'm talking people I knew as a 4 year old--who let me remember who I was in my carefree childhood. I am blessed! In July my company sent me to Las Vegas--I had never been there--and a got to go for an extra few days with a friend who knew her way around. We had a wonderful time--once in a lifetime for me. I'm glad I had the chance to experience it. I've discovered that my brain is only 16! So much of life yet to live!
In October I turned my back on my longtime career in sales and became a caregiver. Is it working out? I'm not sure.
Best of all, a year ago, more or less, I found a new church. In January I officially became a member; this coming January, I will be installed on the church council. I've made so many friends there. The fellowship I've found is incredible. The Pastor encourages my faith to grow with every sermon he gives, every prayer he says. I am home.
I had a sense of foreboding a few months ago. That feeling has been replaced with anticipation. I can feel things sliding into place. I wonder what adventure awaits? The book is slowly shaping up. How I will publish it, I don't know, but it will happen.
Ideas flow through my head like the proverbial river. Sometimes they are dark thoughts and most times they are pleasant ones. As 2011 ends, I am learning how to use them. I hope to use my words to change just one life for the better.
To all who read this, to all who don't--I wish you the happiest Christmas you have ever had and the most joyful new year that life can bring. May we all be generous in giving our love and forgiveness, especially to those we think least deserve it. Reach out to an old friend or touch the hand of a new one. If you know God, rejoice in Him. If you don't, give Him a chance--He's not such a bad guy, you know.
As 2011 ends, and as I write this (whether it is from my dark side or the light), I know one thing for sure. I have friends and family who care, and I love you for that.
A very Merry Christmas to all, and God bless us, every one.
Dark Places
I enjoy my Facebook friends, even those who have different politics and different opinions of life. I've reached a point where I no longer get mad because we disagree. I don't try to retaliate. Getting even is no longer on my agenda. Instead I have learned to listen and learn, to beg them to teach me what they know--and then I keep what I want and discard the rest.
So it is with the Dark Place....
It is a place where the mind goes so it can look at itself from within and without. It is almost akin to depression as opposed to sadness. I hope I have learned what the friend is only beginning to teach me. The Dark Place, as I understand, is part of the conscious state. I need to be wide awake to be able to use it wisely.
This Christmas I am not happy. I am in that Dark Place. At this moment, I have ups--like the Christmas concert--and downs, like Mom-in-law's illness and adjusting to a new job. The trick, so I've been trying to understand, is to use the Dark Place creatively, to look within and find something good in there. I have to look at the depression, unhappiness, whatever as a thing and not necessarily a state of mind.
I'm not sure I've got it right. It doesn't matter. It fits how I think of the mind with its many rooms and many file cabinets and many phases. I want to explore them all and tap whatever is there. It isn't the lack of ideas that has been keeping me from writing, it is the energy it requires. It isn't the lack of desire that keeps me from cleaning the basement--I would love to see the things I have forgotten are there--it is the overwhelming challenge of it all. I'm hoping that by examining the dresser drawers in the Dark Place that I will find reasons for the inertia.
Meanwhile, I have been writing but not publishing.
Tonight I will do some publishing but not writing.
Somewhere in this Dark Place is a switch.
It's time to turn it on and shed some light on the subject.
So it is with the Dark Place....
It is a place where the mind goes so it can look at itself from within and without. It is almost akin to depression as opposed to sadness. I hope I have learned what the friend is only beginning to teach me. The Dark Place, as I understand, is part of the conscious state. I need to be wide awake to be able to use it wisely.
This Christmas I am not happy. I am in that Dark Place. At this moment, I have ups--like the Christmas concert--and downs, like Mom-in-law's illness and adjusting to a new job. The trick, so I've been trying to understand, is to use the Dark Place creatively, to look within and find something good in there. I have to look at the depression, unhappiness, whatever as a thing and not necessarily a state of mind.
I'm not sure I've got it right. It doesn't matter. It fits how I think of the mind with its many rooms and many file cabinets and many phases. I want to explore them all and tap whatever is there. It isn't the lack of ideas that has been keeping me from writing, it is the energy it requires. It isn't the lack of desire that keeps me from cleaning the basement--I would love to see the things I have forgotten are there--it is the overwhelming challenge of it all. I'm hoping that by examining the dresser drawers in the Dark Place that I will find reasons for the inertia.
Meanwhile, I have been writing but not publishing.
Tonight I will do some publishing but not writing.
Somewhere in this Dark Place is a switch.
It's time to turn it on and shed some light on the subject.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
A Newsletter, Sort Of
Dear Friends,
What a year this has been!
Aunt Tinglebottom and Fred finally tied the knot. Get married? No, she tied the knot around his throat, but his neck was so greasy (he works as a mechanic and hasn't taken a shower since 1966), the noose slipped off. Too bad for her. The sheriff of Nottingham, Kentucky saw the whole deal and locked her up. It all worked out OK, though. She made him a key/lime pie and used the leftover keys to let herself out of jail.
Aunt Cribbage (or is it great-aunt?) has been playing cards for money again. She had a big loss last month. She had taken some things with her when she moved out of the circus, among them an elephant. You guessed it, she lost the elephant in a poker game. Uncle Sahib wasn't happy, and he's been trying to recover the pachyderm ever since. I hope she never gets so desperate again. She already lost the Bearded Lady to her old friend Min Oxydil.
Uncle Fresno moved to California in April, but he's coming home to Cincinnati for Christmas. Every time the ground shakes out there he gets homesick for his girlfriend Gargantula. I'm not saying she's large, but when she plays jump-rope with the kids it can be felt in Arkansas.
Cousin Fleamaker has had a new job for awhile as a veterinary assistant. Sales of Raid, Off and tick repellant have tripled since he's been working there.
Second cousin thrice removed Prego and her husband Dick are expecting children number 18, 19 and 20 any time now. She says these might have to be the last. I don't see why. She's only 52. I guess Dick is tired of changing diapers. It's so hard to understand him when he babbles.
Cousin Zelda tells me I need new Christmas traditions, and she's right. It's hard to get my family together for various reasons but I have a plan. I bought sixteen yards of Velcro and I am using it to upholster the couch in the living room, the toilet seat and the refrigerator. I bought eighty-seven rolls of duct tape, sixty-nine tubes of superglue and a large sledge hammer. Just in case somebody tries to escape. . .I mean, get away, I won't feed my hundred pound dog until New Year's, and I offered to babysit my friend's Rottweiler while they are in Salt Lake City for the annual Gremlin/Pinto races on the Flats. If that doesn't work I have a back-up plan which involves Prozac. . . .
And finally, don't tell Aunt Wallflower's fourth ex-husband Uncle Feelers you heard from me. He's from Europe, you know. Those Russian hands and Roman fingers give me the creeps.
Warmest Regards,
MzzRzz
What a year this has been!
Aunt Tinglebottom and Fred finally tied the knot. Get married? No, she tied the knot around his throat, but his neck was so greasy (he works as a mechanic and hasn't taken a shower since 1966), the noose slipped off. Too bad for her. The sheriff of Nottingham, Kentucky saw the whole deal and locked her up. It all worked out OK, though. She made him a key/lime pie and used the leftover keys to let herself out of jail.
Aunt Cribbage (or is it great-aunt?) has been playing cards for money again. She had a big loss last month. She had taken some things with her when she moved out of the circus, among them an elephant. You guessed it, she lost the elephant in a poker game. Uncle Sahib wasn't happy, and he's been trying to recover the pachyderm ever since. I hope she never gets so desperate again. She already lost the Bearded Lady to her old friend Min Oxydil.
Uncle Fresno moved to California in April, but he's coming home to Cincinnati for Christmas. Every time the ground shakes out there he gets homesick for his girlfriend Gargantula. I'm not saying she's large, but when she plays jump-rope with the kids it can be felt in Arkansas.
Cousin Fleamaker has had a new job for awhile as a veterinary assistant. Sales of Raid, Off and tick repellant have tripled since he's been working there.
Second cousin thrice removed Prego and her husband Dick are expecting children number 18, 19 and 20 any time now. She says these might have to be the last. I don't see why. She's only 52. I guess Dick is tired of changing diapers. It's so hard to understand him when he babbles.
Cousin Zelda tells me I need new Christmas traditions, and she's right. It's hard to get my family together for various reasons but I have a plan. I bought sixteen yards of Velcro and I am using it to upholster the couch in the living room, the toilet seat and the refrigerator. I bought eighty-seven rolls of duct tape, sixty-nine tubes of superglue and a large sledge hammer. Just in case somebody tries to escape. . .I mean, get away, I won't feed my hundred pound dog until New Year's, and I offered to babysit my friend's Rottweiler while they are in Salt Lake City for the annual Gremlin/Pinto races on the Flats. If that doesn't work I have a back-up plan which involves Prozac. . . .
And finally, don't tell Aunt Wallflower's fourth ex-husband Uncle Feelers you heard from me. He's from Europe, you know. Those Russian hands and Roman fingers give me the creeps.
Warmest Regards,
MzzRzz
Monday, November 28, 2011
Second Thoughts
Second thoughts.
Second guessing.
Second job.
Seconds.
Time passing.
Second helpings.
Second place.
Second chances.
I'm learning. This is my second journey. I thought I had reached my goal. I didn't. It's my second chance. Because I learned so much the first time, I am willing to try again.
Last year I didn't know who I was; I had assumed the identity of daughter, sister, wife, mom, grandma, even cousin. I became a writer. I became Marilyn. I tried some new things like kayaking. I changed my way of dress and began at the Y. I quit the job I had come to hate and started a new career. I learned to like myself, a giant leap forward. I thought I was done. I'm not.
Now what?
Well, I haven't put much effort into my book lately. I haven't been to the Y in awhile. My Scrabble skills are fading. I've gone into the dumps. I haven't cleaned the basement. I haven't looked for the Christmas stuff for the second year in a row. I still have pounds to lose.
So you see, all those things--well, some of them anyway--that I had put first gradually shifted to second or even third in importance. I was gloating over my triumphs but avoiding the failures.
My clients have given me back some perspective. Not much older than I, they require my help to do the very things my good husband does for me; I am learning forgotten household skills again. My work requires a uniform I hate; I am losing my vanity. The cat defies me like my dog never would. I am learning humility. I have made a friend with whom I disagree on almost everything; I am learning the fine art of debate without lasting anger. These are lessons I didn't think I'd have to learn, but that's why I need a second trip down life's road.
So I take another step. I've recognized that I need to move ahead, not necessarily to the right or left.
I have to revisit my beliefs.
I have to keep writing my blog because that's the way I keep track--by re-reading from then to now, by keeping the cockiness under control, by letting the sadness blow to the four winds and binding precious moments to my heart. My joy was overflowing....maybe I gave too much love away? No, that's what love is for, isn't it?
The second time around and I've already learned something. Imagine that.
Second guessing.
Second job.
Seconds.
Time passing.
Second helpings.
Second place.
Second chances.
I'm learning. This is my second journey. I thought I had reached my goal. I didn't. It's my second chance. Because I learned so much the first time, I am willing to try again.
Last year I didn't know who I was; I had assumed the identity of daughter, sister, wife, mom, grandma, even cousin. I became a writer. I became Marilyn. I tried some new things like kayaking. I changed my way of dress and began at the Y. I quit the job I had come to hate and started a new career. I learned to like myself, a giant leap forward. I thought I was done. I'm not.
Now what?
Well, I haven't put much effort into my book lately. I haven't been to the Y in awhile. My Scrabble skills are fading. I've gone into the dumps. I haven't cleaned the basement. I haven't looked for the Christmas stuff for the second year in a row. I still have pounds to lose.
So you see, all those things--well, some of them anyway--that I had put first gradually shifted to second or even third in importance. I was gloating over my triumphs but avoiding the failures.
My clients have given me back some perspective. Not much older than I, they require my help to do the very things my good husband does for me; I am learning forgotten household skills again. My work requires a uniform I hate; I am losing my vanity. The cat defies me like my dog never would. I am learning humility. I have made a friend with whom I disagree on almost everything; I am learning the fine art of debate without lasting anger. These are lessons I didn't think I'd have to learn, but that's why I need a second trip down life's road.
So I take another step. I've recognized that I need to move ahead, not necessarily to the right or left.
I have to revisit my beliefs.
I have to keep writing my blog because that's the way I keep track--by re-reading from then to now, by keeping the cockiness under control, by letting the sadness blow to the four winds and binding precious moments to my heart. My joy was overflowing....maybe I gave too much love away? No, that's what love is for, isn't it?
The second time around and I've already learned something. Imagine that.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
I Want a Miracle For Christmas
I don't feel like Christmas. Putting up a tree and decorating like I used to seems pointless. I have no Christmas spirit. I get the fulfillment I need at church. I just don't feel it at home.
Neither of my clients is doing much decorating. At my other job, I am bombarded with Christmas trappings, including music for the last two weeks. My fave radio station has switched to an all-Christmas format, but it is mostly singers who think they can improve on the old classics. A girl sings about the Grinch as though she likes him, and what is SANTA BABY without the boop-boop-de-do? It's lacking somehow. I haven't heard Josh Groban yet, or Gene Autry, or chestnuts roasting on an open fire. And no White Christmas or TSO!
I remember a time when I loved the holidays. There was plenty of family around, lots of cookies and gifts stacked everywhere. My little tree, flocked in white, had red and white lights, cardinals and doves and some crystal ornaments. The mantel, passed from Mom to Grandma to me, held stockings that Mom had crocheted years before, and there were three--no, four--Nativity sets around. Old-fashioned Santas with elegant robes (my favorite) and Nutcrackers graced the tables and poinsettias bloomed everywhere. My Santa collection, mostly four to six inches tall, were in the curio cabinet. The printer's box that Dad fixed held dozens of teensy Santas and ornaments. There was evergreen and pinecones, red bows to tie back the curtains and a big wreath on the front door.
I made candy in those years, chocolates and fudge, colorful chocolate suckers, homemade caramels and hard tack. Dinner was a production--a buffet on Christmas Eve, breakfast on Christmas morning, a ham with all the trimmings Christmas afternoon. We visited family, or they came to us. We watched movies like A Christmas Carol, Miracle on 34th Street, Christmas Story.
I looked at the Christmas towels today, still packed in the box from two years ago, the same box that held the ornaments. I dusted off my three foot tall Nutcracker, but I didn't put it up. I've lost interest in the holidays. Chances are Hubby will have to work anyway, and I probably will, too, at least in the morning....it isn't the same anymore...
I could use a miracle, Lord. Something to bring back the joy. I don't want to drive away my family and friends with my sadness. I know the real meaning of Christmas, and I celebrate it in my heart. It's just that I don't feel a part of it anymore. I feel like everybody is doing their own thing and like I am not included. Oh, I know that isn't true, but it doesn't stop it.
I want a miracle, Lord. Something that will make me feel like it is really Christmas. Lord, you know what I want most for Christmas, and it isn't something Santa can bring me. I don't want the day to be interrupted with work. I want to WANT to decorate and to have no excuses why I can't celebrate. I want to be able to go to church without having to excuse myself because Hubby needs the car to go to work, or because I have to. I want to be full, Lord. You know my needs.
The past year or two have been filled with ups and downs. There have been days where I felt complete and days when I've felt empty. I know it will pass, it always does. The holidays are so hard because I remember them when they were better, when my own kids were small, when Mom and Dad were here, when Grandma would buy everybody sweaters and drink highballs like water; when somebody would read the Christmas story from the Gospel and we would have birthday cake. Somehow, those traditions got lost--and with them went my hunger for Christmas. It has turned into a reason to shop, to wrap, to open gifts and return them. The closeness is gone, the gifts are no longer tokens--they are expected. There is no more Christ in Christmas, it may as well be Santa Day.
So unless there is a miracle, there won't be a tree or a big festive Christmas dinner. There won't be a mantel full of pinecones and Santas; there might be a Nativity just to remind me of the real significance of the holiday. It isn't for me, it is for Him. Help me to remember that much, Lord, and please give me back my Christmas joy.
As I write tonight, I am aware that I was as caught up in the materialism as everyone else. I'm sorry about that. I gave my children the wrong message. Those aren't the things I miss most....I miss the driving around to look at the lights several times during the season...I miss everyone being there instead of somewhere else...I miss the birthday cake for our Lord. . .I miss the reading of the Gospel...I miss the decorations. . .I miss my folks and the way life used to be....
I need a miracle, Lord.....
Neither of my clients is doing much decorating. At my other job, I am bombarded with Christmas trappings, including music for the last two weeks. My fave radio station has switched to an all-Christmas format, but it is mostly singers who think they can improve on the old classics. A girl sings about the Grinch as though she likes him, and what is SANTA BABY without the boop-boop-de-do? It's lacking somehow. I haven't heard Josh Groban yet, or Gene Autry, or chestnuts roasting on an open fire. And no White Christmas or TSO!
I remember a time when I loved the holidays. There was plenty of family around, lots of cookies and gifts stacked everywhere. My little tree, flocked in white, had red and white lights, cardinals and doves and some crystal ornaments. The mantel, passed from Mom to Grandma to me, held stockings that Mom had crocheted years before, and there were three--no, four--Nativity sets around. Old-fashioned Santas with elegant robes (my favorite) and Nutcrackers graced the tables and poinsettias bloomed everywhere. My Santa collection, mostly four to six inches tall, were in the curio cabinet. The printer's box that Dad fixed held dozens of teensy Santas and ornaments. There was evergreen and pinecones, red bows to tie back the curtains and a big wreath on the front door.
I made candy in those years, chocolates and fudge, colorful chocolate suckers, homemade caramels and hard tack. Dinner was a production--a buffet on Christmas Eve, breakfast on Christmas morning, a ham with all the trimmings Christmas afternoon. We visited family, or they came to us. We watched movies like A Christmas Carol, Miracle on 34th Street, Christmas Story.
I looked at the Christmas towels today, still packed in the box from two years ago, the same box that held the ornaments. I dusted off my three foot tall Nutcracker, but I didn't put it up. I've lost interest in the holidays. Chances are Hubby will have to work anyway, and I probably will, too, at least in the morning....it isn't the same anymore...
I could use a miracle, Lord. Something to bring back the joy. I don't want to drive away my family and friends with my sadness. I know the real meaning of Christmas, and I celebrate it in my heart. It's just that I don't feel a part of it anymore. I feel like everybody is doing their own thing and like I am not included. Oh, I know that isn't true, but it doesn't stop it.
I want a miracle, Lord. Something that will make me feel like it is really Christmas. Lord, you know what I want most for Christmas, and it isn't something Santa can bring me. I don't want the day to be interrupted with work. I want to WANT to decorate and to have no excuses why I can't celebrate. I want to be able to go to church without having to excuse myself because Hubby needs the car to go to work, or because I have to. I want to be full, Lord. You know my needs.
The past year or two have been filled with ups and downs. There have been days where I felt complete and days when I've felt empty. I know it will pass, it always does. The holidays are so hard because I remember them when they were better, when my own kids were small, when Mom and Dad were here, when Grandma would buy everybody sweaters and drink highballs like water; when somebody would read the Christmas story from the Gospel and we would have birthday cake. Somehow, those traditions got lost--and with them went my hunger for Christmas. It has turned into a reason to shop, to wrap, to open gifts and return them. The closeness is gone, the gifts are no longer tokens--they are expected. There is no more Christ in Christmas, it may as well be Santa Day.
So unless there is a miracle, there won't be a tree or a big festive Christmas dinner. There won't be a mantel full of pinecones and Santas; there might be a Nativity just to remind me of the real significance of the holiday. It isn't for me, it is for Him. Help me to remember that much, Lord, and please give me back my Christmas joy.
As I write tonight, I am aware that I was as caught up in the materialism as everyone else. I'm sorry about that. I gave my children the wrong message. Those aren't the things I miss most....I miss the driving around to look at the lights several times during the season...I miss everyone being there instead of somewhere else...I miss the birthday cake for our Lord. . .I miss the reading of the Gospel...I miss the decorations. . .I miss my folks and the way life used to be....
I need a miracle, Lord.....
Friday, November 25, 2011
Winning and Losing
I have a tendency to root for the underdog, I guess because so often that is me. Then I am disappointed when he loses yet again. Maybe I should root for the winners, huh?
We were discussing the ways of the world, and I said one of the many generational problems is that we are not teaching youngsters to win and lose graciously. We aren't teaching them to be proud of the 100% and to be not satisfied with the 67% on a test. We aren't teaching them how to lose a soccer game with dignity. Instead, we don't keep score (do you really believe the kids don't?) to preserve self-esteem....oh, really?
A kid who goes through life never learning how to lose becomes a spoiled, selfish individual. A kid who has parents who let him always win, or a teacher who gives him a D- instead of failing isn't getting any favor. If he doesn't work to win, he won't appreciate it.
Self-esteem is not a rite of passage. It is something that grows in us as we accomplish.
Criticism? That's not what I mean. No one deserves to be berated for their opinions, their looks, their intellect or anything else. Constant criticism is defeating. What I am talking about is teaching our young ones to do their best, to accept winning with good sportsmanship and grace; to accept losing with dignity and an urge to try harder next time. Not criticism--guidance.
I watch the differences with kids who are allowed to lose without harshness or condescension. They know they won't always win; they try harder. When they do win fairly and honestly, it is a true achievement--something of which they can be proud. Kids who always win at any cost--whether it be cheating, bullying or whatever grow up to be mean, self-righteous and demanding. Should they lose they don't know how to deal with it.
Our society is one of entitlement. That's just plain wrong. We are entitled to life. It is not guaranteed to be successful or joyous; that's up to us. We are offered a rudimentary education; beyond that, it is up to us. We are offered certain freedoms. We are not to expect our government to give us anything else beyond a simple education, food and shelter if we are incapable of getting it on our own, safety and protection from foreign powers. The other things? We work for them. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. I didn't say it was fair.
I hope that we raised our children to expect nothing but fair play from others. I hope I instilled in them that if you want it, nobody owes you--you work for it. You don't cheat to win, you don't expect anyone to let you win. What you have should be earned, not coerced. Then it is truly yours.
I believe that we should be allowed to be proud of our own hard work, proud of our accomplishments, proud of our good deeds. We needn't brag. We need to be secure in ourselves. When we lose, of course we are disappointed. We should be man-or-woman enough to congratulate the winner, accept the loss with our heads held high and try harder next time.
I hope I can live up to my own expectations, especially when I lose.
We were discussing the ways of the world, and I said one of the many generational problems is that we are not teaching youngsters to win and lose graciously. We aren't teaching them to be proud of the 100% and to be not satisfied with the 67% on a test. We aren't teaching them how to lose a soccer game with dignity. Instead, we don't keep score (do you really believe the kids don't?) to preserve self-esteem....oh, really?
A kid who goes through life never learning how to lose becomes a spoiled, selfish individual. A kid who has parents who let him always win, or a teacher who gives him a D- instead of failing isn't getting any favor. If he doesn't work to win, he won't appreciate it.
Self-esteem is not a rite of passage. It is something that grows in us as we accomplish.
Criticism? That's not what I mean. No one deserves to be berated for their opinions, their looks, their intellect or anything else. Constant criticism is defeating. What I am talking about is teaching our young ones to do their best, to accept winning with good sportsmanship and grace; to accept losing with dignity and an urge to try harder next time. Not criticism--guidance.
I watch the differences with kids who are allowed to lose without harshness or condescension. They know they won't always win; they try harder. When they do win fairly and honestly, it is a true achievement--something of which they can be proud. Kids who always win at any cost--whether it be cheating, bullying or whatever grow up to be mean, self-righteous and demanding. Should they lose they don't know how to deal with it.
Our society is one of entitlement. That's just plain wrong. We are entitled to life. It is not guaranteed to be successful or joyous; that's up to us. We are offered a rudimentary education; beyond that, it is up to us. We are offered certain freedoms. We are not to expect our government to give us anything else beyond a simple education, food and shelter if we are incapable of getting it on our own, safety and protection from foreign powers. The other things? We work for them. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. I didn't say it was fair.
I hope that we raised our children to expect nothing but fair play from others. I hope I instilled in them that if you want it, nobody owes you--you work for it. You don't cheat to win, you don't expect anyone to let you win. What you have should be earned, not coerced. Then it is truly yours.
I believe that we should be allowed to be proud of our own hard work, proud of our accomplishments, proud of our good deeds. We needn't brag. We need to be secure in ourselves. When we lose, of course we are disappointed. We should be man-or-woman enough to congratulate the winner, accept the loss with our heads held high and try harder next time.
I hope I can live up to my own expectations, especially when I lose.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Brussels Sprouts
My mother used to take little Brussels sprouts, wrap them in a meatloaf-type mixture and a seasoned tomato sauce, bake them and serve them up as inside-out cabbage rolls. I loved them. Dad ate anything--he'd put ketchup on it and swallow it whole if it didn't appeal to him. My sister chose peanut butter.
Hubby likes Brussels sprouts. They had them one time at our favorite eatery. He was in heaven. He begs me to buy them and doesn't ask that they be drowned in Velveeta.
Of all the vegetables I have ever cooked, Brussels sprouts are the only ones my sons never liked. Not even with cheese sauce. When they were old enough to choose what they would and would not eat, Brussels sprouts were the first thing to go. (Aside here--we expected the boys to try everything until they were about 12. If they didn't like it, there was always peanut butter. I remember them asking once when they could eat what they wanted. We told them we weren't running a restaurant, I didn't cook anything poisonous (they still question my wild mushroom picking); they would eat what was served, or peanut butter. They never chose the peanut butter.)
I was reminded of this brief history of Brussels sprouts a couple of days ago when my friend of many moons showed up at my door with a whole stalk of them. Teeny tiny ones to big fat ones, green as emeralds and just as precious. As I plucked them from the stalk, I found myself popping the little ones into my waiting mouth. Yum.
I don't expect everybody to like the teensy cabbage-like veggies, just that you give them another try. Even the most vocal of my sons has agreed to try them once more if I send him some.
I might make a believer out of him yet.
Hubby likes Brussels sprouts. They had them one time at our favorite eatery. He was in heaven. He begs me to buy them and doesn't ask that they be drowned in Velveeta.
Of all the vegetables I have ever cooked, Brussels sprouts are the only ones my sons never liked. Not even with cheese sauce. When they were old enough to choose what they would and would not eat, Brussels sprouts were the first thing to go. (Aside here--we expected the boys to try everything until they were about 12. If they didn't like it, there was always peanut butter. I remember them asking once when they could eat what they wanted. We told them we weren't running a restaurant, I didn't cook anything poisonous (they still question my wild mushroom picking); they would eat what was served, or peanut butter. They never chose the peanut butter.)
I was reminded of this brief history of Brussels sprouts a couple of days ago when my friend of many moons showed up at my door with a whole stalk of them. Teeny tiny ones to big fat ones, green as emeralds and just as precious. As I plucked them from the stalk, I found myself popping the little ones into my waiting mouth. Yum.
I don't expect everybody to like the teensy cabbage-like veggies, just that you give them another try. Even the most vocal of my sons has agreed to try them once more if I send him some.
I might make a believer out of him yet.
The T In The Road
My own road back to self-esteem began when Mom died. I was 58. I don't know all that happened along the way. I had ups and downs with my confidence for years and years. I tend to take things personally, and to run way--literally or figuratively--when everything isn't the way I expect it to be. I wasn't always like that but I may have been sliding downhill in my 20's or 30's.
I'm not alone. My way out was to eat, or get mad, or to retreat so far into myself that nothing could drag me out. Yours may be alcohol or drugs or long, long drives; you might throw yourself into projects. We all need to escape once in awhile. I spent a good many adult years living an oxymoronic existence--too afraid to change, too discontented to remain, too weak to follow through.
I could tell you exactly the day things began to change for me, but it is unlikely you would believe such a simple thing could change one's life. Suffice it to say it began with a tornado, although I didn't realize it at the time.
So I began, and finally came to what I thought was the end of the road, but it was only a T-stop. I have choices to make once again. . .I can't go back (well, I could, but that doesn't make sense even to ME). I can go left or right. . .decisions, decisions. . .but wait a minute. . .there is another way.
Remember what I said about perspective? It's all in how we look at things. The trouble with looking is that we are too close...we see only part of the picture. I see a clear-cut T-stop. I don't see so clearly straight ahead, the third choice, because it looks like wilderness instead of the paved road. But there is a third way. . .not easy, not yet defined.
I see clearly the you-must-choose ways. I see the jobs on these roads, the roadblocks on the way. I can see the directions posted as I turn the corner. I don't like either set of choices. Not that they are illegal, immoral or indecent; they aren't hard to live with, just different. . . or maybe it's because the choices are so indifferent.
I have always led a safe, predictable life. I've been restless, especially now that the boys have been on their own for so long. I've lost my focus. I have gone ahead, not with a dance or a song, but with a sluggish crawl, burdened with the stuff I have allowed to accumulate. I have looked at the choices I thought were available to me. I saw them all as must-choose, must-do. I vaguely heard the voices--both inner and belonging to others--that told me there was another way to go. I heard them, even wrote about them--but I wasn't listening. They push, they pull, they suggest, all in directions I'm not wanting to go. They all speak the truth as they accept it, but none of it is my truth.
It came to me tonight, wired as I was on caffeine and aspirin, that the reason I was having such a hard time moving forward is that I don't like the set of options I have chosen to look at. They don't offer excitement or challenge. They offer a way to stay where I am, not a way to get to where I want to be.
So I'm going to stand in this place for awhile longer. I'm going to check out where I want to go from here. Tom-Tom and MapQuest won't be much help, nor will the loving suggestions of friends who have as little imagination as I do. I know they mean well, but the truth of the matter is that they are mostly as incapable of moving as I am, or maybe they are really content. I'm not. I want more. Hubby says I can never be satisfied. Maybe he is right. He's a good man, and he sees my urge to do something about my discordant brain. He thinks sometimes that he is the probem, but the truth is that it is me.. Once again, I want to scream in frustration.
It begins tonight. I will revisit my dreams. I will spend time in prayer. That journey I began that I thought was done will begin again, perhaps as a private journal this time instead of a public one.
We rarely have only two choices. Sometimes the third one is hard to see. I'm going to look for it.
I'm not alone. My way out was to eat, or get mad, or to retreat so far into myself that nothing could drag me out. Yours may be alcohol or drugs or long, long drives; you might throw yourself into projects. We all need to escape once in awhile. I spent a good many adult years living an oxymoronic existence--too afraid to change, too discontented to remain, too weak to follow through.
I could tell you exactly the day things began to change for me, but it is unlikely you would believe such a simple thing could change one's life. Suffice it to say it began with a tornado, although I didn't realize it at the time.
So I began, and finally came to what I thought was the end of the road, but it was only a T-stop. I have choices to make once again. . .I can't go back (well, I could, but that doesn't make sense even to ME). I can go left or right. . .decisions, decisions. . .but wait a minute. . .there is another way.
Remember what I said about perspective? It's all in how we look at things. The trouble with looking is that we are too close...we see only part of the picture. I see a clear-cut T-stop. I don't see so clearly straight ahead, the third choice, because it looks like wilderness instead of the paved road. But there is a third way. . .not easy, not yet defined.
I see clearly the you-must-choose ways. I see the jobs on these roads, the roadblocks on the way. I can see the directions posted as I turn the corner. I don't like either set of choices. Not that they are illegal, immoral or indecent; they aren't hard to live with, just different. . . or maybe it's because the choices are so indifferent.
I have always led a safe, predictable life. I've been restless, especially now that the boys have been on their own for so long. I've lost my focus. I have gone ahead, not with a dance or a song, but with a sluggish crawl, burdened with the stuff I have allowed to accumulate. I have looked at the choices I thought were available to me. I saw them all as must-choose, must-do. I vaguely heard the voices--both inner and belonging to others--that told me there was another way to go. I heard them, even wrote about them--but I wasn't listening. They push, they pull, they suggest, all in directions I'm not wanting to go. They all speak the truth as they accept it, but none of it is my truth.
It came to me tonight, wired as I was on caffeine and aspirin, that the reason I was having such a hard time moving forward is that I don't like the set of options I have chosen to look at. They don't offer excitement or challenge. They offer a way to stay where I am, not a way to get to where I want to be.
So I'm going to stand in this place for awhile longer. I'm going to check out where I want to go from here. Tom-Tom and MapQuest won't be much help, nor will the loving suggestions of friends who have as little imagination as I do. I know they mean well, but the truth of the matter is that they are mostly as incapable of moving as I am, or maybe they are really content. I'm not. I want more. Hubby says I can never be satisfied. Maybe he is right. He's a good man, and he sees my urge to do something about my discordant brain. He thinks sometimes that he is the probem, but the truth is that it is me.. Once again, I want to scream in frustration.
It begins tonight. I will revisit my dreams. I will spend time in prayer. That journey I began that I thought was done will begin again, perhaps as a private journal this time instead of a public one.
We rarely have only two choices. Sometimes the third one is hard to see. I'm going to look for it.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Sympathy
Our Pastor's father passed away this past week. It wasn't unexpected. That doesn't make it easier.
I lost my grandparents, aunts, uncles, my beloved parents. Some were gone in an instant, some lingered on. It doesn't matter. The hurt is the same whether it is sudden or terrifyingly long.
Expression of sympathy no longer comes to me with difficulty. The words are often the same--I am sorry for your loss. That is usually all one cares to hear at the time. Most of us going through loss don't want to talk about it while the wound is fresh. We want to grieve in solitude for the most part.
Later, though, when the flowers have wilted and the last of the casseroles has been tossed is when the urge to remember comes. We look around and the relatives and friends that were there a day ago are gone. Neighbors are afraid to broach the subject for fear of enhancing the hurt. We feel the aloneness so acutely then. Where did all the love go?
We are brought up to respect the privacy of the grief-stricken. Many of us were never taught how to behave at a funeral home or at the graveside service. We approach the casket with trepidation. We are told to 'be strong'. We want to help; we don't know how.
Why is it so hard? Most of those who grieve want acknowledgement that their loved one touched a life, or that someone understands that they might not feel like talking right now. You can see it in their eyes--"Hug me. Take my hand. Show me that I am still whole, though part of me is gone."
When my Pastor returns, I will take his hand as he has taken the hand of so many others. I will offer condolences, though he will have so many on this coming Sunday. I will let him know that somebody understands that while he is always in the position to be the strong one...well...sometimes it's OK to let someone else take care of him.
I'm sorry, I really am, for your loss. I know you believe that our loved ones are in a better world now. I know you believe that we will be together again. But right now, this minute, you wish you had told them what you felt for them. Just one more time, a glass of wine and a crust of bread.
It gets better. You will laugh again at their foibles. You might cry again for missing them. And you will go on, some days not thinking you can.
It gets better. Honest, it does. My heart goes out to you. God bless you and yours, my friend.
I lost my grandparents, aunts, uncles, my beloved parents. Some were gone in an instant, some lingered on. It doesn't matter. The hurt is the same whether it is sudden or terrifyingly long.
Expression of sympathy no longer comes to me with difficulty. The words are often the same--I am sorry for your loss. That is usually all one cares to hear at the time. Most of us going through loss don't want to talk about it while the wound is fresh. We want to grieve in solitude for the most part.
Later, though, when the flowers have wilted and the last of the casseroles has been tossed is when the urge to remember comes. We look around and the relatives and friends that were there a day ago are gone. Neighbors are afraid to broach the subject for fear of enhancing the hurt. We feel the aloneness so acutely then. Where did all the love go?
We are brought up to respect the privacy of the grief-stricken. Many of us were never taught how to behave at a funeral home or at the graveside service. We approach the casket with trepidation. We are told to 'be strong'. We want to help; we don't know how.
Why is it so hard? Most of those who grieve want acknowledgement that their loved one touched a life, or that someone understands that they might not feel like talking right now. You can see it in their eyes--"Hug me. Take my hand. Show me that I am still whole, though part of me is gone."
When my Pastor returns, I will take his hand as he has taken the hand of so many others. I will offer condolences, though he will have so many on this coming Sunday. I will let him know that somebody understands that while he is always in the position to be the strong one...well...sometimes it's OK to let someone else take care of him.
I'm sorry, I really am, for your loss. I know you believe that our loved ones are in a better world now. I know you believe that we will be together again. But right now, this minute, you wish you had told them what you felt for them. Just one more time, a glass of wine and a crust of bread.
It gets better. You will laugh again at their foibles. You might cry again for missing them. And you will go on, some days not thinking you can.
It gets better. Honest, it does. My heart goes out to you. God bless you and yours, my friend.
Worry
I am a worrier.
I come by the trait honestly; I inherited the habit from my mother.
I worry about the health of friends and loved ones, spending time in prayer, hoping to relieve them of their pain. I worry about their kids and grandkids and the things I see from the outside looking in. I worry about my clients and customers, wondering how that one with the mean mouth in public treats them in private.
I worry about money, or the lack of it. I worry about my job. I worry about my kids and their kids.
I worry about the souls of those who believe in nothing, and I don't understand how one can believe in nothing. I worry about the state of the world.
I worry about Hubby's and sons' long drives to work with the weather ready to turn nasty at any moment. Now mind you, I did that for years and years, and many miles farther than any of them motor now. However, first of all, they are men. Women tend to be a bit more cautious. Secondly, we are not talking about me here; we are talking about men whom I love more than life itself. Thirdly, in those days I didn't punch a timeclock--when I arrived, I arrived. And, of course, Hubby drives in the dark, as do the boys. I worry about deer running in front of them. I worry, period.
Why do I worry so much? Because. I have prayed about it, this bad habit of mine, and I'm OK for awhile, then the fear (because isn't that what worry really is?) raises that ugly head. Having faith means I shouldn't worry so much. Easier said than done.
Last Sunday I worried about a talk that I had to give in front of the congregation. It turned out OK; I remembered the main points, even got a chuckle from the early service. Why was I nervous? Well, it was the first of several that I will have to do. It was about stewardship. Asking for money is never easy. They gave me a thumbs-up when I finished. There wasn't anything to worry about after all.
All the other things will be OK, too, and if they aren't, I cannot change them.
Words of wisdom from my friends help me to focus on the good parts of my life. I need to avoid negative people and negative situations. I need to surround my psyche with joy. I thought I had learned this lesson already. I gave all my problems to God, then one by one I took them back. Knowing my failure doesn't help matters.
Worry, be gone! One step at a time. Again.
I come by the trait honestly; I inherited the habit from my mother.
I worry about the health of friends and loved ones, spending time in prayer, hoping to relieve them of their pain. I worry about their kids and grandkids and the things I see from the outside looking in. I worry about my clients and customers, wondering how that one with the mean mouth in public treats them in private.
I worry about money, or the lack of it. I worry about my job. I worry about my kids and their kids.
I worry about the souls of those who believe in nothing, and I don't understand how one can believe in nothing. I worry about the state of the world.
I worry about Hubby's and sons' long drives to work with the weather ready to turn nasty at any moment. Now mind you, I did that for years and years, and many miles farther than any of them motor now. However, first of all, they are men. Women tend to be a bit more cautious. Secondly, we are not talking about me here; we are talking about men whom I love more than life itself. Thirdly, in those days I didn't punch a timeclock--when I arrived, I arrived. And, of course, Hubby drives in the dark, as do the boys. I worry about deer running in front of them. I worry, period.
Why do I worry so much? Because. I have prayed about it, this bad habit of mine, and I'm OK for awhile, then the fear (because isn't that what worry really is?) raises that ugly head. Having faith means I shouldn't worry so much. Easier said than done.
Last Sunday I worried about a talk that I had to give in front of the congregation. It turned out OK; I remembered the main points, even got a chuckle from the early service. Why was I nervous? Well, it was the first of several that I will have to do. It was about stewardship. Asking for money is never easy. They gave me a thumbs-up when I finished. There wasn't anything to worry about after all.
All the other things will be OK, too, and if they aren't, I cannot change them.
Words of wisdom from my friends help me to focus on the good parts of my life. I need to avoid negative people and negative situations. I need to surround my psyche with joy. I thought I had learned this lesson already. I gave all my problems to God, then one by one I took them back. Knowing my failure doesn't help matters.
Worry, be gone! One step at a time. Again.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Obedience
Hubby and I have been married for 41 years as of a couple of weeks ago.
In the dubious wisdom of my youth, I did not promise to obey. Love, cherish, sickness and health, rich and poor and all that. Obey, no.
For most of our married life, I have barely thought of those vows. They were a part of who we were, what we were doing. We were very young. We thought marriage was an easy way to be on our own. Hubby will deny it today, but that was a big part in our decision to marry when we did. We wanted to; we didn't truly understand how long forever is. Do I regret it? No. Do I wish I had better understood what it means to obey? You betcha.
Marriage isn't the 50-50 hogwash we hear about from the young and starry-eyed. In fact, rarely is it even close. More like 80-20, or 10-90. Somebody is always in charge some of the time. It isn't always right, it isn't always fair. Toes get stepped on occasionally. I know of couples who actually had a contract written of who does what. What then? Do you drag it out and say, "Hey! You were supposed to clean the toilet 6.9 hours ago! Well, I'm not doing it even though you're in the process of passing a kidney stone!" Obedience is also part common sense and compromise.
Back in the late sixties and seventies the women's movement had its roots. Equality! they shouted. I tell you now, equality comes with a hard price. Do I believe in equal opportunity? Yes. Do I believe in equal pay for equal work? Yes. Does equality mean never giving in a bit, never obeying, because it is so much more important to be right, or absolutely equal? No. Do I believe men and women are the same animal? A resounding NO.
We have grown up a lot, Hubby and I. Some days we are, as the Bible says, one flesh. We think alike, except about politics. We like the same music, except he prefers 60's (early) and I prefer 60's (late) and 70's. We agree on food, except he likes ditalini with peas and garlic and my heritage draws me to tomatoes and ceci beans. Those are silly things. We...uh...discuss...the big stuff until we find a common ground, or somebody walks out. Obedience isn't agreeing for the sake of agreeing. At times it is just picking your battles wisely.
Obedience isn't groveling at his feet. It isn't giving up my core beliefs so that whatever he says I have to answer. "Me, too!". It isn't even nodding all the time and never...uh...discussing....an issue at 120 decibels or in a whisper.
I've been going 'round and 'round,listening to newlyweds, listening to second-or-third timers and spouses-to-be. I've been really paying attention, for some reason, to others' ideas of married life and vows and what it means to "obey". I've concluded that most of us don't really know. So, like I often do, I made my own conclusion and my own definition. It works for me.
Obedience is not saying, "yes, dear". It is being faithful to your God, your vows and your own beliefs.
Obedience is not 100% spouse, 0% you. It is not 50-50. It is accepting with love and grace our own shortcomings and those of our spouse, working within that framework to reach an agreeable plateau. It doesn't mean we never get angry or experience frustration or even decide to end it all because, quite frankly. we have had enough.
As Mrs. Billy Graham said (to paraphrase), "Divorce? No, I never considered it. Murder, however, has occasionally crossed my mind."
In the dubious wisdom of my youth, I did not promise to obey. Love, cherish, sickness and health, rich and poor and all that. Obey, no.
For most of our married life, I have barely thought of those vows. They were a part of who we were, what we were doing. We were very young. We thought marriage was an easy way to be on our own. Hubby will deny it today, but that was a big part in our decision to marry when we did. We wanted to; we didn't truly understand how long forever is. Do I regret it? No. Do I wish I had better understood what it means to obey? You betcha.
Marriage isn't the 50-50 hogwash we hear about from the young and starry-eyed. In fact, rarely is it even close. More like 80-20, or 10-90. Somebody is always in charge some of the time. It isn't always right, it isn't always fair. Toes get stepped on occasionally. I know of couples who actually had a contract written of who does what. What then? Do you drag it out and say, "Hey! You were supposed to clean the toilet 6.9 hours ago! Well, I'm not doing it even though you're in the process of passing a kidney stone!" Obedience is also part common sense and compromise.
Back in the late sixties and seventies the women's movement had its roots. Equality! they shouted. I tell you now, equality comes with a hard price. Do I believe in equal opportunity? Yes. Do I believe in equal pay for equal work? Yes. Does equality mean never giving in a bit, never obeying, because it is so much more important to be right, or absolutely equal? No. Do I believe men and women are the same animal? A resounding NO.
We have grown up a lot, Hubby and I. Some days we are, as the Bible says, one flesh. We think alike, except about politics. We like the same music, except he prefers 60's (early) and I prefer 60's (late) and 70's. We agree on food, except he likes ditalini with peas and garlic and my heritage draws me to tomatoes and ceci beans. Those are silly things. We...uh...discuss...the big stuff until we find a common ground, or somebody walks out. Obedience isn't agreeing for the sake of agreeing. At times it is just picking your battles wisely.
Obedience isn't groveling at his feet. It isn't giving up my core beliefs so that whatever he says I have to answer. "Me, too!". It isn't even nodding all the time and never...uh...discussing....an issue at 120 decibels or in a whisper.
I've been going 'round and 'round,listening to newlyweds, listening to second-or-third timers and spouses-to-be. I've been really paying attention, for some reason, to others' ideas of married life and vows and what it means to "obey". I've concluded that most of us don't really know. So, like I often do, I made my own conclusion and my own definition. It works for me.
Obedience is not saying, "yes, dear". It is being faithful to your God, your vows and your own beliefs.
Obedience is not 100% spouse, 0% you. It is not 50-50. It is accepting with love and grace our own shortcomings and those of our spouse, working within that framework to reach an agreeable plateau. It doesn't mean we never get angry or experience frustration or even decide to end it all because, quite frankly. we have had enough.
As Mrs. Billy Graham said (to paraphrase), "Divorce? No, I never considered it. Murder, however, has occasionally crossed my mind."
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Sounds
I like to hear my dog growl when he's pretending to be fierce. I like to hear a cat's contented purr. The tweets and chirps of the birds, even the mocking laugh of the gulls, make me smile. Chipmunk and squirrel chatter bring me unspeakable joy.
I grew up a block from the train tracks. They were busier back then, and I would fall asleep to the sounds of train whistles and blasts from their horns. The rumble was comforting and familiar. When I moved away I couldn't sleep for the longest time. Then one night, when the wind was just right, I heard the sound again. Instantly I was swept into dreamland. Today the tracks are a mile away in either direction, but if the wind is perfect, the sound still lulls me to sleep.
When I sit by the lake I hear the geese high above me and the ships as they make their way through the channel. I block out the whining children, the blabbering teens, the arguing adults. I hear only the sounds I wish to hear.
At home there are the everyday sounds of water running, the phone ringing, the knock at the door. Some of it is noise, but amongst the noise I hear the wind, the rain on the window, the crunch-crunch of the leaves as the mailman walks by. Comforting sounds. Familiar, safe sounds--like the voice of a loved one in your ear.
We take for granted the everyday sounds, don't we?
For more years than I choose to remember, my workday was filled with Muzak, the rattle and clang of shopping carts, a PA system that blatted commercial over its airways, the endless prattle of shoppers and staff. It was noise, that's all. I had to learn to push away the noise and to hear only the sounds.
Today at work I hear the fan as it attempts to freshen the stale apartment air. I hear the sneaking footsteps of the cat, the rustle of the bag she plays with. I hear someone in the hall, the squeak of the door. It's noise, just quieter noise if that makes any sense to you. There is nothing familiar, nothing comforting about it. Nothing personal.
I need a hug. I need sweet nothings in my ear. I need to hear my big, hairy dog trying to be fierce.
I need to hear the trains.
I grew up a block from the train tracks. They were busier back then, and I would fall asleep to the sounds of train whistles and blasts from their horns. The rumble was comforting and familiar. When I moved away I couldn't sleep for the longest time. Then one night, when the wind was just right, I heard the sound again. Instantly I was swept into dreamland. Today the tracks are a mile away in either direction, but if the wind is perfect, the sound still lulls me to sleep.
When I sit by the lake I hear the geese high above me and the ships as they make their way through the channel. I block out the whining children, the blabbering teens, the arguing adults. I hear only the sounds I wish to hear.
At home there are the everyday sounds of water running, the phone ringing, the knock at the door. Some of it is noise, but amongst the noise I hear the wind, the rain on the window, the crunch-crunch of the leaves as the mailman walks by. Comforting sounds. Familiar, safe sounds--like the voice of a loved one in your ear.
We take for granted the everyday sounds, don't we?
For more years than I choose to remember, my workday was filled with Muzak, the rattle and clang of shopping carts, a PA system that blatted commercial over its airways, the endless prattle of shoppers and staff. It was noise, that's all. I had to learn to push away the noise and to hear only the sounds.
Today at work I hear the fan as it attempts to freshen the stale apartment air. I hear the sneaking footsteps of the cat, the rustle of the bag she plays with. I hear someone in the hall, the squeak of the door. It's noise, just quieter noise if that makes any sense to you. There is nothing familiar, nothing comforting about it. Nothing personal.
I need a hug. I need sweet nothings in my ear. I need to hear my big, hairy dog trying to be fierce.
I need to hear the trains.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
This Woman I Know
She's built like me, not too tall, could stand to lose a few pounds, pretty when she smiles which isn't nearly often enough.
She has a responsible job overseeing people and conditions, dealing with government regulations and privacy laws. She is in the middle most of the time. Higher-ups lean on her, clients gripe to her. Some days she wants to scream; it's all too much to deal with.
Does she scream? Not while anybody is around. That would show weakness. Does she ever stand in the shower and cry? Probably, but no one will ever know. She has to be strong.
She's fair. She doesn't care about your color, religion, weight or sexual orientation. If you need something and she can provide it, she will. If you lie to her or cross her, watch out.
I wondered at first, but only briefly, if I would like this woman I know. Then I looked, really looked, in her eyes. What I saw delighted me. Beyond that tough-as-an-overcooked-steak exterior is one of the tenderest hearts I have ever met. If you look, you can see mischief in those brown eyes. When you finally get to see the smile, it's worth every minute you have waited. She sees her child with a protective, unconditional love. She says the dog gets on her nerves, but she says it with humor. Cold when she has to be, warm when she is herself.
How many people have met this side of this woman I know? I suspect not too many.
I won't tell you her name. I won't tell you any more about her family or her work. I will only embarrass her by telling anyone who will listen how remarkable she is.
You know who you are, my friend.
You're that special woman I know.
She has a responsible job overseeing people and conditions, dealing with government regulations and privacy laws. She is in the middle most of the time. Higher-ups lean on her, clients gripe to her. Some days she wants to scream; it's all too much to deal with.
Does she scream? Not while anybody is around. That would show weakness. Does she ever stand in the shower and cry? Probably, but no one will ever know. She has to be strong.
She's fair. She doesn't care about your color, religion, weight or sexual orientation. If you need something and she can provide it, she will. If you lie to her or cross her, watch out.
I wondered at first, but only briefly, if I would like this woman I know. Then I looked, really looked, in her eyes. What I saw delighted me. Beyond that tough-as-an-overcooked-steak exterior is one of the tenderest hearts I have ever met. If you look, you can see mischief in those brown eyes. When you finally get to see the smile, it's worth every minute you have waited. She sees her child with a protective, unconditional love. She says the dog gets on her nerves, but she says it with humor. Cold when she has to be, warm when she is herself.
How many people have met this side of this woman I know? I suspect not too many.
I won't tell you her name. I won't tell you any more about her family or her work. I will only embarrass her by telling anyone who will listen how remarkable she is.
You know who you are, my friend.
You're that special woman I know.
Birdies, Birdies
Halloween night something flew in front of my face. It was not a bird, it was a bat. I jumped, but after a few seasons at the campground and Hess' Lodge I wasn't really afraid. There is still a cover-your-head response, however. Ah, the bat stories I will tell you one of these days.
But today it is about birds. I love birds. I am a novice bird-watcher. I have my binoculars in the car. I reference my Audubon volume regularly. I feed birds, I watch them, I chase the cat who stares at the bush where they nest. I listen for the first mating call of the cardinal around Ash Wednesday and the last song of the robins in September. Not hear the birds? Or even worse, not listen for them? How sad!
I remember well the first bald eagle I ever saw soaring above me. I stared in awe at his massive wingspread...the way he glided...the bright white of his head....wow. Words cannot describe the thrill of seeing the pair taking care of their young...the eaglets, looking like chubby turkeys, wobbling on the edge of the several-foot nest...Mom or Dad diving for fish, talons extended, so fast and magnificent.
How about the day we arrived in time to see the migration of a thousand or more songbirds? The parking lot was full of wings that day. Bluebirds and scarlet tanagers, indigo buntings, golden wings and black ones in the trees and on the ground. It was the first time and the last that I was so privileged. That very same day I saw a pileated woodpecker--a Woody Woodpecker type, only in a red-white-black color scheme instead of blue.
I've gotten to know some birds that return to our abode every year, maybe three or four years in a row. There was the grackle with a single white feather, the robin with his white face. Every couple of years white crowned sparrows stop by, passing through to refuel on their way where? To the tundra? There was a cardinal who would sit in the tree out front with the blue jay. Together they made quite a duet, but only when the cat was nearby. Amazing.
I watch the Canada geese. What parenting skills they have! They watch the goslings cross the street, standing patrol to keep them in line. At the beach, the babies had a hard time hopping up over the concrete wall. The adults guided the ones who couldn't make it to an easier access and nudged each one. I've seen them getting into formation, one group at a time, practicing their flight south. Sometimes I think the geese are the most intelligent birds on earth.
No, I have no fear of seagulls even after watching Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" at least a dozen times. I will sit at the breakwaters and listen to them laugh, or let them amuse me as they dive. What characters they are! I like to see them and their tern cousins pluck a fish from the lake, devour it in one gulp, go back for seconds.
My favorite waterbird is the great blue heron. I've watched them stalk their prey, be it fish or frog. Slowly, quietly...then snap! They eat their fill, tossing the remains on the shore for the raccoons to finish off. I see them in flight, their unmistakable silhouette, the big wings pumping steadily as they make their way back to the rookery. I've seen them, a hundred at a time, feeding the young, teaching them to fly. What a sight. Nature takes care of its own.
I've seen the birds cling to wood siding when a storm was approaching, feed off bugs and spiders and act a bit nuts before an earthquake. Birds are far more instinctive than we give them credit for being.
My Mom had a friend who was petrified of birds, and guess what? The birds would always hang on her window screens and fly into her house and her car. I remember being there when she called Mom from the closet. She was waiting for her husband to come home so he could chase the bird outdoors. On the other end of the spectrum is my friend Pat whose husband built a bird feeder that comes right into their den. The birds have become so tame that she can feed them and they don't fly away. Neither do the squirrels who find the buffet very convenient.
No, I am not afraid of birds, but I do startle when they bang into the window on occasion, or, like today, when the little twerp and a couple of his buddies insisted on hanging on our window screens.
Sorry, birdies, but that sent a chill.
But today it is about birds. I love birds. I am a novice bird-watcher. I have my binoculars in the car. I reference my Audubon volume regularly. I feed birds, I watch them, I chase the cat who stares at the bush where they nest. I listen for the first mating call of the cardinal around Ash Wednesday and the last song of the robins in September. Not hear the birds? Or even worse, not listen for them? How sad!
I remember well the first bald eagle I ever saw soaring above me. I stared in awe at his massive wingspread...the way he glided...the bright white of his head....wow. Words cannot describe the thrill of seeing the pair taking care of their young...the eaglets, looking like chubby turkeys, wobbling on the edge of the several-foot nest...Mom or Dad diving for fish, talons extended, so fast and magnificent.
How about the day we arrived in time to see the migration of a thousand or more songbirds? The parking lot was full of wings that day. Bluebirds and scarlet tanagers, indigo buntings, golden wings and black ones in the trees and on the ground. It was the first time and the last that I was so privileged. That very same day I saw a pileated woodpecker--a Woody Woodpecker type, only in a red-white-black color scheme instead of blue.
I've gotten to know some birds that return to our abode every year, maybe three or four years in a row. There was the grackle with a single white feather, the robin with his white face. Every couple of years white crowned sparrows stop by, passing through to refuel on their way where? To the tundra? There was a cardinal who would sit in the tree out front with the blue jay. Together they made quite a duet, but only when the cat was nearby. Amazing.
I watch the Canada geese. What parenting skills they have! They watch the goslings cross the street, standing patrol to keep them in line. At the beach, the babies had a hard time hopping up over the concrete wall. The adults guided the ones who couldn't make it to an easier access and nudged each one. I've seen them getting into formation, one group at a time, practicing their flight south. Sometimes I think the geese are the most intelligent birds on earth.
No, I have no fear of seagulls even after watching Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" at least a dozen times. I will sit at the breakwaters and listen to them laugh, or let them amuse me as they dive. What characters they are! I like to see them and their tern cousins pluck a fish from the lake, devour it in one gulp, go back for seconds.
My favorite waterbird is the great blue heron. I've watched them stalk their prey, be it fish or frog. Slowly, quietly...then snap! They eat their fill, tossing the remains on the shore for the raccoons to finish off. I see them in flight, their unmistakable silhouette, the big wings pumping steadily as they make their way back to the rookery. I've seen them, a hundred at a time, feeding the young, teaching them to fly. What a sight. Nature takes care of its own.
I've seen the birds cling to wood siding when a storm was approaching, feed off bugs and spiders and act a bit nuts before an earthquake. Birds are far more instinctive than we give them credit for being.
My Mom had a friend who was petrified of birds, and guess what? The birds would always hang on her window screens and fly into her house and her car. I remember being there when she called Mom from the closet. She was waiting for her husband to come home so he could chase the bird outdoors. On the other end of the spectrum is my friend Pat whose husband built a bird feeder that comes right into their den. The birds have become so tame that she can feed them and they don't fly away. Neither do the squirrels who find the buffet very convenient.
No, I am not afraid of birds, but I do startle when they bang into the window on occasion, or, like today, when the little twerp and a couple of his buddies insisted on hanging on our window screens.
Sorry, birdies, but that sent a chill.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Grey Matter
I drove down to the lake before I went home from work.
I love this spot where there is water as far as you can see. It makes me think of what it must be like to travel the ocean as a sailor or even as a guest on a cruise. One of these days I'll have to try it.
Today everything is grey, much like my mood. I'm not depressed or sad about anything. It's one of those days when I feel like I don't matter much in the scheme of things. I am neither black nor white. Like an old photograph, I am shades of grey.
The sky is grey, indifferent shades from the dusty, dirty grey in the east to the talcum white in the west. No blue breaks the monotony. The trees near the shoreline have lost their gold and red to the autumn wind. They, too, are grey and brown, not beautiful enough to be called taupe.
The sand is grey here. It stretches unbroken, smudged with the leavings of gulls, the slimy remains of seaweed and the occasional bones of a dead carp, picked clean by the gulls and crows. I know that amongst the grains of sand there is sparkling beach glass in many colors, like the coat of Joseph, and shells of tiny mollusks that glisten white. I can't see them today with the lack of sunshine. It's all the same. In the distance my eyes catch the startling white stripe of the lighthouse, its red light barely visible through the rain.
The saving grace of the greydom is the water. The lake is grey, too, a reflection of the sky. It is hardly distinguishable from the horizon. Look closely. You can see the easy movement of the ripples as they come toward shore with the north wind. Closer still. Whitecaps; rolls of waves breaking on the sandbars. At last they crash on the breakwaters spewing the foam high so it mixes with the rain....indistinguishable from it, like the horizon...like me.
I love this place. I love the lake, whether it is the cold grey of a rainy fall day or the sapphire blue of September. It's a great place to be with someone or alone. It's a thinking spot. It's a place that helps the grey in my soul today feel not so unimportant.
There are reasons why things are as they are. There are reasons--sometimes of our own making, sometimes not--why we love or hate, why we are dissatisfied or lonely, why we make the decisions we do. Circumstances dictate who we are and what we become all too often.We make good choices and bad ones. We win, we lose. Sometimes we aren't ready, sometimes we are.
I'm pondering who I am, what I am, where I am going. I feel like I am starting my journey all over again. That's a good thing. I am not ready to be finished. I feel something in this cold, grey air--something that will change me. I can't see the future, but I can feel it.
Is anything ever black and white? Or is it always shades of grey?
I love this spot where there is water as far as you can see. It makes me think of what it must be like to travel the ocean as a sailor or even as a guest on a cruise. One of these days I'll have to try it.
Today everything is grey, much like my mood. I'm not depressed or sad about anything. It's one of those days when I feel like I don't matter much in the scheme of things. I am neither black nor white. Like an old photograph, I am shades of grey.
The sky is grey, indifferent shades from the dusty, dirty grey in the east to the talcum white in the west. No blue breaks the monotony. The trees near the shoreline have lost their gold and red to the autumn wind. They, too, are grey and brown, not beautiful enough to be called taupe.
The sand is grey here. It stretches unbroken, smudged with the leavings of gulls, the slimy remains of seaweed and the occasional bones of a dead carp, picked clean by the gulls and crows. I know that amongst the grains of sand there is sparkling beach glass in many colors, like the coat of Joseph, and shells of tiny mollusks that glisten white. I can't see them today with the lack of sunshine. It's all the same. In the distance my eyes catch the startling white stripe of the lighthouse, its red light barely visible through the rain.
The saving grace of the greydom is the water. The lake is grey, too, a reflection of the sky. It is hardly distinguishable from the horizon. Look closely. You can see the easy movement of the ripples as they come toward shore with the north wind. Closer still. Whitecaps; rolls of waves breaking on the sandbars. At last they crash on the breakwaters spewing the foam high so it mixes with the rain....indistinguishable from it, like the horizon...like me.
I love this place. I love the lake, whether it is the cold grey of a rainy fall day or the sapphire blue of September. It's a great place to be with someone or alone. It's a thinking spot. It's a place that helps the grey in my soul today feel not so unimportant.
There are reasons why things are as they are. There are reasons--sometimes of our own making, sometimes not--why we love or hate, why we are dissatisfied or lonely, why we make the decisions we do. Circumstances dictate who we are and what we become all too often.We make good choices and bad ones. We win, we lose. Sometimes we aren't ready, sometimes we are.
I'm pondering who I am, what I am, where I am going. I feel like I am starting my journey all over again. That's a good thing. I am not ready to be finished. I feel something in this cold, grey air--something that will change me. I can't see the future, but I can feel it.
Is anything ever black and white? Or is it always shades of grey?
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Job #1
I know it's not my job to get personally involved with a client.
She's on Facebook. I know that eventually she will read my blog. If I get fired for that, oh well. I think I would rather have her as a friend than a client anyway, but I need that paycheck.
There is always Giant Eagle.
She has a cat. I don't hate cats, and this one is an especially friendly tiger cat, but I've never been a cat person. I'm wondering if I can encourage her to be more careful about using the litter box instead of the newspaper. Probably not. She is queen of her castle. She twitches her tail when she looks at me as though she is sizing me up. I wonder what she thinks of me.
The client (no names) is funny, smart and eerily like me in more ways than I have room to mention. She used to live in one of my favorite places. She likes ice cream and rides to the lake. We like butterflies. We are perfectionists in some ways. We like music. We are artists--she with a paintbrush, I with my words.
I still don't know if I am cut out for this job. I do things for her that Hubby does for me. Maybe God is trying to teach me to do those things again for a reason. She has become part of my life for a reason, too; I just don't know what it is yet.
I have to remind myself that it is a job. That's hard for me because of who I am and who she is. Can I do this? Maybe if I can get more hours at job #2. I don't work for pleasure, I work for money. I may have to change jobs again for strictly financial reasons. If I have to do that, I'll miss her. It isn't just a job, that's the problem.
My reasons for being a caregiver are many. Some of it is "giving back", some of it is a need to help, some of it was simply because it was available to me at the moment. After my first day, I was scared. After the second day I felt overwhelmed. By the third day, I have found a friend. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Can I do this? That remains the question. Maybe I can.
She's on Facebook. I know that eventually she will read my blog. If I get fired for that, oh well. I think I would rather have her as a friend than a client anyway, but I need that paycheck.
There is always Giant Eagle.
She has a cat. I don't hate cats, and this one is an especially friendly tiger cat, but I've never been a cat person. I'm wondering if I can encourage her to be more careful about using the litter box instead of the newspaper. Probably not. She is queen of her castle. She twitches her tail when she looks at me as though she is sizing me up. I wonder what she thinks of me.
The client (no names) is funny, smart and eerily like me in more ways than I have room to mention. She used to live in one of my favorite places. She likes ice cream and rides to the lake. We like butterflies. We are perfectionists in some ways. We like music. We are artists--she with a paintbrush, I with my words.
I still don't know if I am cut out for this job. I do things for her that Hubby does for me. Maybe God is trying to teach me to do those things again for a reason. She has become part of my life for a reason, too; I just don't know what it is yet.
I have to remind myself that it is a job. That's hard for me because of who I am and who she is. Can I do this? Maybe if I can get more hours at job #2. I don't work for pleasure, I work for money. I may have to change jobs again for strictly financial reasons. If I have to do that, I'll miss her. It isn't just a job, that's the problem.
My reasons for being a caregiver are many. Some of it is "giving back", some of it is a need to help, some of it was simply because it was available to me at the moment. After my first day, I was scared. After the second day I felt overwhelmed. By the third day, I have found a friend. That wasn't supposed to happen.
Can I do this? That remains the question. Maybe I can.
Hungry
I can't get enough of lots of things.
Hugs. No such thing as too many.
Jewelry, like chokers, watches and earrings. Overflowing, and designers still find something new to tempt me. I really need to take care of that.
Chocolate. I admit to being a junkie.
Coffee. Dancing. Sunsets. Autumn leaves. The lake.
But the last week or so I'm just plain hungry. It's like I am trying to fill an empty place inside with bologna sandwiches, those awful little cups with indistinguishable fruits, Cortland apples and ice cream suckers. Oh, and bananas. Plus my usual peanut butter, Hawaiian punch single-serve-tubes-that-you-put-in-a-bottle-of-water and fat-free Pringles. I am insatiable.
I don't know exactly what the trigger was. I've traced this bad habit back maybe a week. Suddenly I am craving everything in sight. The Dog even gets full from the tidbits I toss him. Last night he walked away from the last of the pretzels and went to bed when I searched through the fridge for leftover roast beef. He snorted in disgust at the fudge-striped shortbread cookie I offered.
Hubby just sighs and goes off to work. I think he's afraid to see what concoction I will eat next. He watched in amazement as I ate the bacon. I rarely eat bacon, but I felt like a vacuum cleaner when I saw that plateful of BLTs. I have to stop at Target on Friday. I want chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I haven't been on a binge like this since. .well. . .I can't remember when. My job(s) saves me somewhat. I'm at work over the regular lunch hour, and I take only a drink to the client's home. I work most evenings and I try to avoid the pizza-breadstick habit of the break room. Last night I took everything but the gum and bottled water from my car. I will have to chain myself to the bedpost to keep me from the midnight raids on the Kenmore. My black pants are going to be too tight to zip. I will have to trade them in for skirts with elastic.
I admit to having an addictive personality. If I am not binging on bananas, I will find something else--jewelry (a new friend works at my fave jewelry store), lingerie (trying to justify the new white and black lace I found), slot machines (only on the 'puter, not the casino), caffeine from Starbucks or some other bad habit. I may need Valium. Or a bigger income. Or duct tape over my mouth. Or elastic waistbands...oh, wait...the scrubs have elastic. . .
I can't put my finger on whatever triggered this binge. I'm a bit leery of stepping on the scale. I haven't had time for the Y, but I need to find time to walk before dark on the days I don't work, maybe at the cemetery or the park, maybe in the morning. I need to get back into the habit somewhere away from food (except coffee, of course).
I'm sure the cravings will end. Sooner or later I'll go back to where I was, or maybe I will finally luck into the one thing that will satisfy this outrageous hunger. It's a matter of perspective and breaking a habit, or maybe trading it in on a healthier one. I'll see if the coffee beans work. Or Kahlua.
Meanwhile, I'm glad I hung on to those elastic waist pants.
Hugs. No such thing as too many.
Jewelry, like chokers, watches and earrings. Overflowing, and designers still find something new to tempt me. I really need to take care of that.
Chocolate. I admit to being a junkie.
Coffee. Dancing. Sunsets. Autumn leaves. The lake.
But the last week or so I'm just plain hungry. It's like I am trying to fill an empty place inside with bologna sandwiches, those awful little cups with indistinguishable fruits, Cortland apples and ice cream suckers. Oh, and bananas. Plus my usual peanut butter, Hawaiian punch single-serve-tubes-that-you-put-in-a-bottle-of-water and fat-free Pringles. I am insatiable.
I don't know exactly what the trigger was. I've traced this bad habit back maybe a week. Suddenly I am craving everything in sight. The Dog even gets full from the tidbits I toss him. Last night he walked away from the last of the pretzels and went to bed when I searched through the fridge for leftover roast beef. He snorted in disgust at the fudge-striped shortbread cookie I offered.
Hubby just sighs and goes off to work. I think he's afraid to see what concoction I will eat next. He watched in amazement as I ate the bacon. I rarely eat bacon, but I felt like a vacuum cleaner when I saw that plateful of BLTs. I have to stop at Target on Friday. I want chocolate-covered espresso beans.
I haven't been on a binge like this since. .well. . .I can't remember when. My job(s) saves me somewhat. I'm at work over the regular lunch hour, and I take only a drink to the client's home. I work most evenings and I try to avoid the pizza-breadstick habit of the break room. Last night I took everything but the gum and bottled water from my car. I will have to chain myself to the bedpost to keep me from the midnight raids on the Kenmore. My black pants are going to be too tight to zip. I will have to trade them in for skirts with elastic.
I admit to having an addictive personality. If I am not binging on bananas, I will find something else--jewelry (a new friend works at my fave jewelry store), lingerie (trying to justify the new white and black lace I found), slot machines (only on the 'puter, not the casino), caffeine from Starbucks or some other bad habit. I may need Valium. Or a bigger income. Or duct tape over my mouth. Or elastic waistbands...oh, wait...the scrubs have elastic. . .
I can't put my finger on whatever triggered this binge. I'm a bit leery of stepping on the scale. I haven't had time for the Y, but I need to find time to walk before dark on the days I don't work, maybe at the cemetery or the park, maybe in the morning. I need to get back into the habit somewhere away from food (except coffee, of course).
I'm sure the cravings will end. Sooner or later I'll go back to where I was, or maybe I will finally luck into the one thing that will satisfy this outrageous hunger. It's a matter of perspective and breaking a habit, or maybe trading it in on a healthier one. I'll see if the coffee beans work. Or Kahlua.
Meanwhile, I'm glad I hung on to those elastic waist pants.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Machines Rule!
He says that one day he will turn on his computer or cell and the message will be "WE HAVE TAKEN OVER. WAIT FOR INSTRUCTIONS."
Now, I am one who sorta believes that machines are sentient. Call me crazy; you wouldn't be the first.
Ever notice that bitty green light on your cable box? Or the way the light in the fridge comes on every time you open the door? How do they know how to do that? Of course, I could be paranoid, but I'm just sayin'. . . ..
Think about this. Your refrigerator breaks down. The freezer starts baking the ice cream. You kick it and curse it and finally come to your senses and replace it. No point in repairing it; the service call alone pays for the new one. You discuss the fridge woes in front of the microwave....suddenly, the nuke goes into meltdown. You sneak off to the basement to complain, but the washer hears you and starts spraying water over the piles of clean clothes and the dryer follows suit with cold air.
Be careful what you say in front of the hot water tank....
So you go outside, but the lawn mower is listening....
Before long, it's a second mortgage to replace everything and you still have learned nada.
I swear they THINK. They COMMISERATE. They PLOT. It could be the radio that Hubby left on, but I think I hear my circa 1990 television conversing with the food processor.
The Amish have a good idea--live simply. I am applauding their hard work ethic. They manage without electricity and automobiles. They hang their clothes that they made by hand. They are mostly self-sufficient. I am admiring their lifestyle.
I am doing it while using my cell to access e-mail, playing Slotmania on the computer, having the TV on for noise, enjoying an iced coffee (brewed in an electric drip coffeemaker) with plenty of ice from my freshly cleaned out freezer. I nuked a potato for supper, drove my car one mile to the store where I could have walked to buy a mass-produced loaf of bread that probably has rodent hair in it. I read the paper by a 150 watt bulb, showered in hot water from a tank that is quick-recovery and used an electric hair dryer. I was cold and flipped the furnace switch. So much for simple.
Am I willing to give up my machines? Heck, no! In spite of the fact that I don't trust them, I find that If I say nice things around them they make my life easier. I'll purr at them and tell them how wonderful they are. I will curse them only when I am shopping for their successor, and then only at a distance from anything that may blab.
If the machines take over the world, it's because we let them!
Now, I am one who sorta believes that machines are sentient. Call me crazy; you wouldn't be the first.
Ever notice that bitty green light on your cable box? Or the way the light in the fridge comes on every time you open the door? How do they know how to do that? Of course, I could be paranoid, but I'm just sayin'. . . ..
Think about this. Your refrigerator breaks down. The freezer starts baking the ice cream. You kick it and curse it and finally come to your senses and replace it. No point in repairing it; the service call alone pays for the new one. You discuss the fridge woes in front of the microwave....suddenly, the nuke goes into meltdown. You sneak off to the basement to complain, but the washer hears you and starts spraying water over the piles of clean clothes and the dryer follows suit with cold air.
Be careful what you say in front of the hot water tank....
So you go outside, but the lawn mower is listening....
Before long, it's a second mortgage to replace everything and you still have learned nada.
I swear they THINK. They COMMISERATE. They PLOT. It could be the radio that Hubby left on, but I think I hear my circa 1990 television conversing with the food processor.
The Amish have a good idea--live simply. I am applauding their hard work ethic. They manage without electricity and automobiles. They hang their clothes that they made by hand. They are mostly self-sufficient. I am admiring their lifestyle.
I am doing it while using my cell to access e-mail, playing Slotmania on the computer, having the TV on for noise, enjoying an iced coffee (brewed in an electric drip coffeemaker) with plenty of ice from my freshly cleaned out freezer. I nuked a potato for supper, drove my car one mile to the store where I could have walked to buy a mass-produced loaf of bread that probably has rodent hair in it. I read the paper by a 150 watt bulb, showered in hot water from a tank that is quick-recovery and used an electric hair dryer. I was cold and flipped the furnace switch. So much for simple.
Am I willing to give up my machines? Heck, no! In spite of the fact that I don't trust them, I find that If I say nice things around them they make my life easier. I'll purr at them and tell them how wonderful they are. I will curse them only when I am shopping for their successor, and then only at a distance from anything that may blab.
If the machines take over the world, it's because we let them!
Sunday, October 23, 2011
First Day
First day, first client.
She's a lovely lady, if a bit antsy. She wants OUT, but I can't take her. She likes to play games and talks about her family. Her son takes care of her basic needs and does a really good job of it.
I feel like a fraud, showing up in scrubs. I am not a medical person. I know nothing about it. I don't WANT to learn it. Some people can, some people can't. I can't. I can give help. I can be sociable and understanding. I can dust and run errands. I can fix meals and paint nails. I can listen to her talk. I am uncomfortable taking care of showers, and when her son mentioned Depends, I almost freaked out. I can't do that.
I don't know what made me think I could be a caregiver.
I'm not giving up. I'll get to know somebody else this week, and perhaps I will find that I do have a niche in this profession. The scrubs are an excuse, I know.
I am blaming pink and black scrubs for my insecurity. They are just a uniform that someone somewhere decided was an easy-care, comfortable alternative to street clothes. I am uncomfortable with being responsible for another person, not really the clothes. If I had to wear a silly hat it would be the same thing.
See, I am a person whose confidence comes from the way I am dressed. I don't feel talented. I feel inadequate. I listened to all the gals at training with all of their knowledge and experience. I have none of that. I feel like once again I am stupid, or at the least woefully unprepared. I may be in over my head. I am letting perma-press, shapeless clothes dictate who I am instead of letting what I am doing be the focus.
You know, I like people, especially older people. The ladies at the nursing home liked me. I did little things that gave them a spark of life. I listened to their ramblings, met their families. I could have been a recreational director if I could have received a degree locally. I can do that kind of thing. This frightens me.
I'm meandering, aren't I?
I'm a little bit discombobulated. I want to help somebody. I want to give. I want to do the fun, fulfilling stuff. I will give it a month, maybe two. Then I will look back at these words and I will have a better idea if this is what I am meant to do for another year and five months, two days and sixteen hours.
First day, first client, first impressions. I need a change of attitude, not a change of clothes.
She's a lovely lady, if a bit antsy. She wants OUT, but I can't take her. She likes to play games and talks about her family. Her son takes care of her basic needs and does a really good job of it.
I feel like a fraud, showing up in scrubs. I am not a medical person. I know nothing about it. I don't WANT to learn it. Some people can, some people can't. I can't. I can give help. I can be sociable and understanding. I can dust and run errands. I can fix meals and paint nails. I can listen to her talk. I am uncomfortable taking care of showers, and when her son mentioned Depends, I almost freaked out. I can't do that.
I don't know what made me think I could be a caregiver.
I'm not giving up. I'll get to know somebody else this week, and perhaps I will find that I do have a niche in this profession. The scrubs are an excuse, I know.
I am blaming pink and black scrubs for my insecurity. They are just a uniform that someone somewhere decided was an easy-care, comfortable alternative to street clothes. I am uncomfortable with being responsible for another person, not really the clothes. If I had to wear a silly hat it would be the same thing.
See, I am a person whose confidence comes from the way I am dressed. I don't feel talented. I feel inadequate. I listened to all the gals at training with all of their knowledge and experience. I have none of that. I feel like once again I am stupid, or at the least woefully unprepared. I may be in over my head. I am letting perma-press, shapeless clothes dictate who I am instead of letting what I am doing be the focus.
You know, I like people, especially older people. The ladies at the nursing home liked me. I did little things that gave them a spark of life. I listened to their ramblings, met their families. I could have been a recreational director if I could have received a degree locally. I can do that kind of thing. This frightens me.
I'm meandering, aren't I?
I'm a little bit discombobulated. I want to help somebody. I want to give. I want to do the fun, fulfilling stuff. I will give it a month, maybe two. Then I will look back at these words and I will have a better idea if this is what I am meant to do for another year and five months, two days and sixteen hours.
First day, first client, first impressions. I need a change of attitude, not a change of clothes.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Rain, The Park. . .Other Things
I've told you a little about the Park. It is one of a few places that let me dream and give me peace.
It's a tiny place with gravel to crunch, a trash can, a few picnic tables and lots of trees. Traffic whizzes by, but if I roll up the passenger window I can't hear it. Everybody is in a hurry, everybody but me, it seems. The Park is all mine, just for awhile, today.
When I worked in that part of town I often had my lunch in the Park. Yogurt, an apple, my water bottle or can of Monster all tasted better in the Park than the parking lot. The sky is bluer there, the rain softer. I'm never cold there, never too warm. There is always the shade of the trees, always protection in the arms of the wind. The Park feels like my best friend sometimes. I can loosen my jacket, kick off my shoes. I am safe.
Nobody bothers me there. No one knows I am there. It is one of a handful of places where I can stop for a few minutes and enjoy my inner self. I'm afraid someone will discover my secret hiding place. I know the Park isn't mine alone, but on those days as I eat my pudding cup and savor my Cortland, it might be.
With my new job there won't be time to go to the Park for lunch except on a rare day off. It feels like I am walking away from an old friend. . I will have to find a new best friend, I guess, but it won't be the same. There's a saying that familiarity breeds contempt. I'll challenge that. Familiarity breeds comfort.
Will I ever again have time to sit by the lake? Or cruise the cemetery? Am I ever going to stroll through the woods on the beach? Did I make a mistake committing to a job that will keep me from my favorite places? I don't know, I just don't know.
The sacrifices we make for a paycheck!
We lose the rain spattering on the windshield while we sip our morning coffee at the water's edge. We lose the sunshine, warm on our faces, because we are cooped up in a building sans windows. We are so tired that we can't have a moment to share a drink or a walk, only a bed that calls us for a nap. Our kids end up in daycare when we would rather they be with us; our friends end up distant because we are so darned busy. We no longer have time for even a quick lunch in the Park.
When I retire, or semi-retire, I am going to go to that park or one like it as often as possible. It's been but a few days since I was last at the Park. I miss it already. My quick stop at the marina, no matter how much I love it, wasn't enough. I want the caress of the leaves and the wind in my hair. I want the peace that the smell of wildflowers gives me. I want time for my Park.
I want to be able to choose where I go and how to spend the however-many days I have left. Chasing a paycheck is a necessity, I know that. Please don't be condescending by patting my shoulder and telling me that it is something we all have to do.
If I could choose right now, I'd choose my time in the Park.
It's a tiny place with gravel to crunch, a trash can, a few picnic tables and lots of trees. Traffic whizzes by, but if I roll up the passenger window I can't hear it. Everybody is in a hurry, everybody but me, it seems. The Park is all mine, just for awhile, today.
When I worked in that part of town I often had my lunch in the Park. Yogurt, an apple, my water bottle or can of Monster all tasted better in the Park than the parking lot. The sky is bluer there, the rain softer. I'm never cold there, never too warm. There is always the shade of the trees, always protection in the arms of the wind. The Park feels like my best friend sometimes. I can loosen my jacket, kick off my shoes. I am safe.
Nobody bothers me there. No one knows I am there. It is one of a handful of places where I can stop for a few minutes and enjoy my inner self. I'm afraid someone will discover my secret hiding place. I know the Park isn't mine alone, but on those days as I eat my pudding cup and savor my Cortland, it might be.
With my new job there won't be time to go to the Park for lunch except on a rare day off. It feels like I am walking away from an old friend. . I will have to find a new best friend, I guess, but it won't be the same. There's a saying that familiarity breeds contempt. I'll challenge that. Familiarity breeds comfort.
Will I ever again have time to sit by the lake? Or cruise the cemetery? Am I ever going to stroll through the woods on the beach? Did I make a mistake committing to a job that will keep me from my favorite places? I don't know, I just don't know.
The sacrifices we make for a paycheck!
We lose the rain spattering on the windshield while we sip our morning coffee at the water's edge. We lose the sunshine, warm on our faces, because we are cooped up in a building sans windows. We are so tired that we can't have a moment to share a drink or a walk, only a bed that calls us for a nap. Our kids end up in daycare when we would rather they be with us; our friends end up distant because we are so darned busy. We no longer have time for even a quick lunch in the Park.
When I retire, or semi-retire, I am going to go to that park or one like it as often as possible. It's been but a few days since I was last at the Park. I miss it already. My quick stop at the marina, no matter how much I love it, wasn't enough. I want the caress of the leaves and the wind in my hair. I want the peace that the smell of wildflowers gives me. I want time for my Park.
I want to be able to choose where I go and how to spend the however-many days I have left. Chasing a paycheck is a necessity, I know that. Please don't be condescending by patting my shoulder and telling me that it is something we all have to do.
If I could choose right now, I'd choose my time in the Park.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Fill Me
I had a discussion with a friend about life. Why do we do what we do? What sustains us? Why do we make people, things, places--even jobs--into what we want them to be instead of what they are?
We don't like feeling empty, that's why. We look for the parts that are missing instead of the parts that give us joy and fill us with satisfaction.
It might be that our job is not satisfying. We get up, get dressed, go to work and repeat the same carpel-tunnel-causing movements day after day without realizing we hate it until one Thursday in October we have had enough.
It could be a person who irritates us beyond endurance, but we continue to endure. There is an obligation, perhaps, or a sense of duty, or a matter of respect. We keep smiling. We look for the positive, the things that make us feel good and make them grow in the garden of our minds. We don't throw out people like so much trash. We try to accept them and love them no matter where they have gone.
Maybe it is just ourselves. We are fat or too skinny, have wrinkles or something else that makes us uncomfortable. We've done things of which we aren't proud. We are looking for acceptance as we are. So we take a person who seems kind, or who we remember with fondness, and we build a picture of who we want that person to be. We see what we want to see.
We are like a giant empty vase. When we are young, we fill it with rocks--those being the experiences we have, the job or the education of the moment, the house or the people that we think fill the emptiness inside. Something is still missing. Eventually we fall in love, buy a house, get married or find an SO. These are the pebbles that slide between the rocks. We are busy. We have kids or cats or dogs, lots of meetings and hobbies, money to spend. We hardly notice that some of the rocks are broken or the pebbles have fallen out.
So we add sand and think "THIS IS IT!". I am filled! Now we have church or a social life. We know everything we need to know. We are successful or not. We have settled into a comfort zone. We get an itch. It has to be scratched. We look for a way to soothe it. In my case it was a job I could no longer do, though I had once loved it. It became who I was instead of how I earned a living. What is your itch?
In a few months, or maybe a few years, the nagging starts again. We have everything we could possibly need, don't we? We have everything we want, don't we? Do we? If we are a puzzle, there is a piece missing. If we are a vase, we are not full.
We are tired of being structured. We are tired of doing what we have to do and ignoring what we want to do. We want to be wanted because we are ourselves. We look for that certain something that has been missing. Something that fills us to the brim.
Add water....you see, the vase wasn't full until the water seeped between the grains of sand, washed the rocks and surrounded the pebbles. At long last, you are full. What was it? Was it an object, a person, a tender touch, a job, a dance lesson? An undiscovered talent/ Something old made new again?
I urge you, my friends, to find your life-giving water. I found mine in my writing, my new job-to-be and my special friends. Yours may be your faith, a friend, travel--who knows? As long as it is what you want it to be, you will be filled.
We don't like feeling empty, that's why. We look for the parts that are missing instead of the parts that give us joy and fill us with satisfaction.
It might be that our job is not satisfying. We get up, get dressed, go to work and repeat the same carpel-tunnel-causing movements day after day without realizing we hate it until one Thursday in October we have had enough.
It could be a person who irritates us beyond endurance, but we continue to endure. There is an obligation, perhaps, or a sense of duty, or a matter of respect. We keep smiling. We look for the positive, the things that make us feel good and make them grow in the garden of our minds. We don't throw out people like so much trash. We try to accept them and love them no matter where they have gone.
Maybe it is just ourselves. We are fat or too skinny, have wrinkles or something else that makes us uncomfortable. We've done things of which we aren't proud. We are looking for acceptance as we are. So we take a person who seems kind, or who we remember with fondness, and we build a picture of who we want that person to be. We see what we want to see.
We are like a giant empty vase. When we are young, we fill it with rocks--those being the experiences we have, the job or the education of the moment, the house or the people that we think fill the emptiness inside. Something is still missing. Eventually we fall in love, buy a house, get married or find an SO. These are the pebbles that slide between the rocks. We are busy. We have kids or cats or dogs, lots of meetings and hobbies, money to spend. We hardly notice that some of the rocks are broken or the pebbles have fallen out.
So we add sand and think "THIS IS IT!". I am filled! Now we have church or a social life. We know everything we need to know. We are successful or not. We have settled into a comfort zone. We get an itch. It has to be scratched. We look for a way to soothe it. In my case it was a job I could no longer do, though I had once loved it. It became who I was instead of how I earned a living. What is your itch?
In a few months, or maybe a few years, the nagging starts again. We have everything we could possibly need, don't we? We have everything we want, don't we? Do we? If we are a puzzle, there is a piece missing. If we are a vase, we are not full.
We are tired of being structured. We are tired of doing what we have to do and ignoring what we want to do. We want to be wanted because we are ourselves. We look for that certain something that has been missing. Something that fills us to the brim.
Add water....you see, the vase wasn't full until the water seeped between the grains of sand, washed the rocks and surrounded the pebbles. At long last, you are full. What was it? Was it an object, a person, a tender touch, a job, a dance lesson? An undiscovered talent/ Something old made new again?
I urge you, my friends, to find your life-giving water. I found mine in my writing, my new job-to-be and my special friends. Yours may be your faith, a friend, travel--who knows? As long as it is what you want it to be, you will be filled.
It Might Be "YES"
I've been doing a lot of asking.
I say prayers, light candles. I ask for love and jobs, friends and money, peace in my soul, excitement in my life. Everybody (well, almost everybody) gives me answers, support and so much love and respect that I almost feel selfish accepting it. The private notes alone seem to elevate me to sainthood! Ah, but I am not a saint. Any number of folks can attest to that.
The new job will go a long way in proving my worthiness or lack of it. Several have mentioned the likelihood of ending up in a bad neighborhood. I have no fear of that. If I am afraid, or if my stomach flutters at the mention of the address, I will refuse. Another job lies around the corner. If the client is crabby, I can soothe her. If she is antsy, I will calm her. If she is just plain mean, I will quit when I have had enough. I know I am capable of that now. But my first inclination is to say "YES".
I apply my mother's words, paraphrasing, of course. Always ask. You'll never get anything if you don't, and sometimes the answer will surprise you and be a "yes".
I've met people (most of them men, it seems, no offense meant) whose lives revolve around "NO". They are afraid that a "YES" might be a committment, when "YES" is only an action. Want coffee? No, it might mean more than coffee. Change jobs? No, even if I hate what I do. Learn to laugh harder or cry longer? That's for sissies. No, no, no....and you wonder why you are so darned unhappy. Try "YES" occasionally.
If I have learned anything in my year plus of growth, it is to think hard before saying "NO" and to not be afraid to say "YES". Too many times in my life I was stuck in the "NO" mode. Where did that get me?
I don't regret saying "YES" to the love of my life. I do regret saying "NO" to a college degree. I don't regret saying "YES" to my sons; I do regret saying "NO" to learning to ski, watching a live game of MLB, running for political office and kissing Hubby good-bye when I am really miffed.
Asking for things we need isn't wrong or selfish if we have no means to get them by ourselves. As long as we try, there is no shame in asking. This has been a hard lesson to learn. I, like most of us, prefer to be self-sufficient. Some carry this too far--some to the extent that they would rather starve themselves of food, assistance, fun or a loving relationship when all it would take is to ask.
That's part of the reason I wanted this job. Someone has asked for a little help. I am able to give it.
Would it make a difference to them if I had said "NO"? Maybe....maybe they would find someone else to satisfy their need, but maybe I would be better at it. Maybe I am not right for the person or the job. Well, we'll never find out by saying "NO".
When you ask me for anything, be assured that my "YES" is as well thought out as my "NO". I've come too far to not be willing to at least try. Thanks for giving me your "YES" when I asked.
I say prayers, light candles. I ask for love and jobs, friends and money, peace in my soul, excitement in my life. Everybody (well, almost everybody) gives me answers, support and so much love and respect that I almost feel selfish accepting it. The private notes alone seem to elevate me to sainthood! Ah, but I am not a saint. Any number of folks can attest to that.
The new job will go a long way in proving my worthiness or lack of it. Several have mentioned the likelihood of ending up in a bad neighborhood. I have no fear of that. If I am afraid, or if my stomach flutters at the mention of the address, I will refuse. Another job lies around the corner. If the client is crabby, I can soothe her. If she is antsy, I will calm her. If she is just plain mean, I will quit when I have had enough. I know I am capable of that now. But my first inclination is to say "YES".
I apply my mother's words, paraphrasing, of course. Always ask. You'll never get anything if you don't, and sometimes the answer will surprise you and be a "yes".
I've met people (most of them men, it seems, no offense meant) whose lives revolve around "NO". They are afraid that a "YES" might be a committment, when "YES" is only an action. Want coffee? No, it might mean more than coffee. Change jobs? No, even if I hate what I do. Learn to laugh harder or cry longer? That's for sissies. No, no, no....and you wonder why you are so darned unhappy. Try "YES" occasionally.
If I have learned anything in my year plus of growth, it is to think hard before saying "NO" and to not be afraid to say "YES". Too many times in my life I was stuck in the "NO" mode. Where did that get me?
I don't regret saying "YES" to the love of my life. I do regret saying "NO" to a college degree. I don't regret saying "YES" to my sons; I do regret saying "NO" to learning to ski, watching a live game of MLB, running for political office and kissing Hubby good-bye when I am really miffed.
Asking for things we need isn't wrong or selfish if we have no means to get them by ourselves. As long as we try, there is no shame in asking. This has been a hard lesson to learn. I, like most of us, prefer to be self-sufficient. Some carry this too far--some to the extent that they would rather starve themselves of food, assistance, fun or a loving relationship when all it would take is to ask.
That's part of the reason I wanted this job. Someone has asked for a little help. I am able to give it.
Would it make a difference to them if I had said "NO"? Maybe....maybe they would find someone else to satisfy their need, but maybe I would be better at it. Maybe I am not right for the person or the job. Well, we'll never find out by saying "NO".
When you ask me for anything, be assured that my "YES" is as well thought out as my "NO". I've come too far to not be willing to at least try. Thanks for giving me your "YES" when I asked.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Cousin Zelda
I have this cousin I didn't know I had. Well, I knew she existed at one point in time, but I had forgotten. She was a snotty-nosed brat when I last saw her and I was a grown-up seventeen. I knew her brothers (well, two of them anyhow). Who paid attention to the kid? Not me, I had one just like it at home. So Zelda disappeared into the woodwork. Or maybe it was into the kennel. Her Mom raised dogs. Boxers. Cockers. Old English sheepdogs. I digress.
Facebook happened. Some chick by the name of Zelda wanted to be my friend. Well, OK, but who the hell are you? I spied on her profile. Hmmmm, that fella looks suspiciously like my lost cousin Zeke, and his name is Zeke, too. Hmmmm again. "That's my brother, you nitwit" said Zelda. Zelda? You're the snotty-nosed brat sister of Zeke? Well, ain't that a fine how-de-do!
Turns out Zelda is all grown-up, too. She surpassed me in age--I stayed at about sixteen brain-wise; she must be at least eighteen, maybe even twenty.
When Lin said, "you really must be related" , we weren't sure if it was a compliment.
The conversation started out simple enough. The company for whom I interviewed said something about a background check. Zelda said she hoped they didn't find the bodies. I told her I thought she took care of the cement. It got crazier from there (much, much crazier). I soon forgot it was a public conversation...today was almost as bad, what with the cousin in the Chippendales and the insurance from the arson to give to Hora, uncle somebody's sluttish girlfriend...don't ask. Please, please don't ask.
I don't know where it all came from, only that the writer's block that has been plaguing me suddenly dissipated. I felt like laughing out loud, and, in fact, I did. I've been under a teensy bit of stress, and not the good kind. Worry has been my constant companion along with anxiety, rejection, sciatica and a host of ghosts that haunt me and cousin Filbert. He's such a nut.
Anyway, the bantering with my Socialist buddy, the one-on-one with other friends, the prayers I have received and sent have all worked wonders for my psyche. But the humor I have found with Zelda has added something new--a fall-off-the-chair belly laugh, a crazy moment to say anything and hear it bounce back. We are Abbott and Costello. We are Laurel and Hardy. We are Zager and Evans...no, maybe not, unless this is year 2525. How fast time goes...I digress again...
I can breathe tonight. The tightness in my head is gone. Zelda likes me and I like her. We have found each other. We share a silly sense of humor. If our grandmas could see us now, how proud they would be! Our mothers (first cousins) might be a bit embarrassed at first, but they would play along, too. Child-like behavior runs in the family. Our children might, however, be mortified.
So what next? When we are bored I'm sure we will meet up again on Facebook along with Rodney and Jolly, Aunt Flo and twice-removed sisters who were singers in a rock-and-roll band but gave it up because the public didn't appreciate the talents of the Siamese twins and after all, it takes two to tango, but they couldn't do it with their backs to each other so it took four to tango and that never made sense so they boogied instead...oh, never mind.
It isn't as much fun without cousin Zelda.
Facebook happened. Some chick by the name of Zelda wanted to be my friend. Well, OK, but who the hell are you? I spied on her profile. Hmmmm, that fella looks suspiciously like my lost cousin Zeke, and his name is Zeke, too. Hmmmm again. "That's my brother, you nitwit" said Zelda. Zelda? You're the snotty-nosed brat sister of Zeke? Well, ain't that a fine how-de-do!
Turns out Zelda is all grown-up, too. She surpassed me in age--I stayed at about sixteen brain-wise; she must be at least eighteen, maybe even twenty.
When Lin said, "you really must be related" , we weren't sure if it was a compliment.
The conversation started out simple enough. The company for whom I interviewed said something about a background check. Zelda said she hoped they didn't find the bodies. I told her I thought she took care of the cement. It got crazier from there (much, much crazier). I soon forgot it was a public conversation...today was almost as bad, what with the cousin in the Chippendales and the insurance from the arson to give to Hora, uncle somebody's sluttish girlfriend...don't ask. Please, please don't ask.
I don't know where it all came from, only that the writer's block that has been plaguing me suddenly dissipated. I felt like laughing out loud, and, in fact, I did. I've been under a teensy bit of stress, and not the good kind. Worry has been my constant companion along with anxiety, rejection, sciatica and a host of ghosts that haunt me and cousin Filbert. He's such a nut.
Anyway, the bantering with my Socialist buddy, the one-on-one with other friends, the prayers I have received and sent have all worked wonders for my psyche. But the humor I have found with Zelda has added something new--a fall-off-the-chair belly laugh, a crazy moment to say anything and hear it bounce back. We are Abbott and Costello. We are Laurel and Hardy. We are Zager and Evans...no, maybe not, unless this is year 2525. How fast time goes...I digress again...
I can breathe tonight. The tightness in my head is gone. Zelda likes me and I like her. We have found each other. We share a silly sense of humor. If our grandmas could see us now, how proud they would be! Our mothers (first cousins) might be a bit embarrassed at first, but they would play along, too. Child-like behavior runs in the family. Our children might, however, be mortified.
So what next? When we are bored I'm sure we will meet up again on Facebook along with Rodney and Jolly, Aunt Flo and twice-removed sisters who were singers in a rock-and-roll band but gave it up because the public didn't appreciate the talents of the Siamese twins and after all, it takes two to tango, but they couldn't do it with their backs to each other so it took four to tango and that never made sense so they boogied instead...oh, never mind.
It isn't as much fun without cousin Zelda.
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