Happy New Year

For weeks now I have found myself saying, "I'm glad 2013 is almost over!"  Let's face it. There was a lot of crap to deal with this past year.

I am reminded of my heart surgery every time I get dressed. I am reminded of pain when I walk. My dog is old and lame. I tried out several different jobs and didn't like any of them. I still have remnants of medical bills to pay. My house looks like a pharmacy. I had to get a new car because mine, quite literally, fell apart on the highway.

But as I was griping, I began to see things in a different way.

Thanks to my friends, who warned me that it might be my heart, and to my husband who insisted I go to the hospital NOW...I am alive. Thanks to a wonderful surgeon and his staff, I am alive. Thanks to God for not wanting me just yet, I am alive.

Thanks to a generous hospital, most of my debt was forgiven. The rest is manageable in pieces.

The handful of pills I take each day and the insulin I take each night were miracles created by the pharmaceutical companies whose ads I can't stand.

Because I was out of work for so long, Hubby and I spent more time together and grew closer. I don't know if anyone else would ever take care of me like he has.

I've made more friends than I ever expected at church. I've been council president this past year, have served on committees and conducted the Thanksgiving dinner prayer time. I am blessed.

Yes, my car was belching out parts all over route 20, but I didn't get hurt when the drive shaft fell off. I stayed dry and comfortable and ended up with a beautiful new car (it has TOYS!).

I've been able to work out at the Y again. My confidence is returning.

I'm able to work at a job I like, virtually stress free.

Yes, I lost my glasses (first pair in fifty years), but the new readers I just got have given me the clearest vision to read that I've had in two years.

When we have faith, when we believe, when we accept what we are given--well, then we can take those lemons, as the saying goes, and make lemonade.

May God bless each and every one of you. May our friendship continue to grow in 2014. May your fondest dreams come true. May I become as important in your life as you have become in mine.

A most blessed New Year to you, my friends!

New Glasses

So my old glasses are not to be found anywhere. Oh, well. They didn't do much good anymore, and the never-to-be-had-again anti-glare was starting to separate and made it like looking through Vaseline. 

Instead,  thanks to the cataract surgery a couple of years ago, I only need glasses for reading. I've been using the ten dollar 'cheaters' for a few weeks, and they served their purpose. Well, sort of.

So I made an appointment for new readers--real ones, with classy frames and all. Since they spend a good deal of time atop my platinum tresses, I wanted to be certain they would make a good hair band, too. It wasn't an easy choice.

But there they were--bronze filigree bows, semi-rimless, no annoying anti-glare...perfect, and well within my price range.

Eagerly I awaited the arrival of my specs. When they came, I entrusted them first to my head for the fashion value, then to my eyes for their purpose.

What a joy to be able to read without a magnifier! Words fairly leapt from the pages, all in a straight line, too.

There's only one drawback.  For the first time in months I am able to look in the mirror....and I see wrinkles. I see flaws that I swear weren't there before.  

Crap.

I think I'll go back to the cheaters.

The Day After Christmas

'Twas the day after Christmas and all I can hear

is the nerve-wracking sound of a snow blower near.

Bright sun on the crest of the still falling snow, gives eye-blinding white both here and fro.

No plow our driveway will come near today, for the neighbor's truck is in the way.

Hubby is sleeping, all snug in our bed, visions of barbecued ribs in his head.

And I in my jammies at quarter of twelve believe that our dinner will be cooked by elves.

I curl on the couch, my blessings to count. With each I remember, the numbers do mount.

So what if snow's falling? My sons, they are calling.

And Hubby is there for me to take care.

I have my friends and my church to come home to; I have no need to be lonely or feel blue.

My life, oh! how rich! My blessings so many! What wishes I have? No, not any.

Except perhaps one...a poet I'm not...but I wish you a good year, with troubles naught.

With love to my family and friends...

Happy New Year!

Opportunity

I was playing a game yesterday in which I needed four in a row of white gems. Too late, I spotted the opportunity. Dang.

It got me thinking, though, and not about the game.

How many opportunities do we pass by every day? Or simply ignore? Or, worst of all, reject because of pride or fear?

We miss simple things like the chance to forgive an old friend or family member, to shake the hand of a stranger, to offer a hug to someone we haven't seen in awhile. We miss the chance to put a dollar in the red kettle. We don't pick our battles. Instead we get hurt or mad, not seeming to realize that the opportunity may never come again to say 'I forgive you' or 'I'm sorry'.

I'm reminded of our wedding and all the beautiful gifts we received. (In those days crystal and milk glass knickknacks  were popular things to give, and I still have most of them.)  I was a bit slow writing thank-you's, I am ashamed to admit. My dad, bless him, said that some people who had given gifts might appreciate a note before they died. I wrote out a handful and mailed them to Dad's godfather and a few other relatives.

It wasn't a week later that Dad's godfather passed away. How horrible I would have felt if I had missed that opportunity to say 'thank you'!

Since the changes in my life began some three and a half years ago, I have come a long way.  I tend to blurt out how I feel and to express my opinions more forcefully. Sometimes that backfires. Sometimes people think of me as the mouse I used to be and can't accept the woman I have become. So be it.

The chance to make a friend (or to be one), the chance to share our faith and the chance to pay a compliment to someone who needs it are the things that matter. Some miss the job opportunity by procrastinating,  or they miss a chance to succeed, not because of fear of failure but because of fear of success. The chance to say 'thank you' is a big one--we should never miss that!

I still miss opportunities that I wish I had reached for, and I vow that if the chance ever comes again, I will embrace it.

Opportunity is much more than a chance to fill our larders. It is the chance to share our light and our love, and to accept the hand that is offered.

An Open Letter

My friend was just diagnosed with breast cancer.

I wish I could help. All I can do is to be there. Maybe that will be enough.

My dear friend,

I understand some of what you are feeling. The difference is that I had no time to think or to make choices. You have had much too much time to think. I was nearly diagnosed too late. You have been treated early. That's a good thing.

You say you are confused. Yes, even months after the event, the thoughts whirl like a tornado in my brain. You know you will survive, or do you? What can I accomplish? How much time do I have? Can I still do the things I love to do? Yes, but it takes time, and you will still have uncertainty months from now.

Will the though of it coming back  haunt me? Yes, my friend, but the prayers of those who care about you will hold you up. You have a husband and friends who will be there through everything.

Your healing is in the hands of a surgeon. Pray that her hands will be guided by God. He uses people to do His works, too.

The things I have been through these months haven't been fun, and they are not over. I have become dependent again after I finally learned independence. I sometimes fear rejection where I used to feel confidence. I get the blues sometimes, and for no particular reason. I get days of perfect confidence and joy. But I have learned from the experience, too.

I have learned to be more compassionate. I have learned to appreciate every day. I have learned to lessen the stresses of everyday living as much as possible. I have learned to love unconditionally, and to make amends along the way. I can't force a friendship, but I will fight for it. Every person, every touch of kindness, every smile gives me strength.

I do understand much of what you are feeling, even if I cannot put it into words. I don't mean to sound dogmatic or, perish the thought, condescending. If I talk too much, tell me to shut up and to listen instead. If you need to vent, I can be your sounding board. Sometimes you may not want to voice your concerns to your closest family. That's what friends are for.

I just want you to know that I am here.

With much love,

Marilyn

Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving to all!

I began with the thirty days of thankfulness on Facebook. As the days progressed I realized that I would need more than thirty days to list all the things for which I am grateful.

It has been a trying year to say the least. Losing a job, quitting two more, looking for something low-stress and pleasurable...a hard thing to do. But when it was all said and done, I have a stress-free job that allows me to work a few days a month. I am writing and enjoying it, even if I don't publish.

The heart surgery set me back a bit, not a surprise I'd like again. Followed closely by other procedures and diagnoses, this has not been a banner year health-wise. However, I am  alive.  I've learned things about myself, my health, my family and friends. I've never felt more love than I have in these past months.

I've grown spiritually this year. I am connected more with my church, not by simply serving as council president, but as an ambassador from God to witness my faith.

I've made new friends from all over the world.They keep life a learning experience. They give me hope and joy and fun.

My old friends have been wonderfully understanding. They keep my spirit alive. I don't mean to be so needy, but they hold me up and make me laugh.

I have become even closer with my family, as if that were possible!

For all these big things, and for all the little things, I am truly grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'm Shy

Well, not most of the time, but in some situations and with some people I get positively tongue-tied. It takes a lot of effort and pep talks to get over the feeling of dread in those situations.

Other times I get into trouble because I say too much, or word it all wrong.

It's a no-win.

I've been watching some friends play a game of "what you may not know about me". I tell you now, I could write reams on the subject. I spent so many years being introverted and reclusive that very few people got to know me at all.

Then one day I began my blog. And another day I began to change. And now, I am not who I was. The shyness still surfaces from time to time, but mostly I am put together.

There are some things no one will ever know, not because I am ashamed of them, but because they--unlike the mustache fiasco--are too private to share. Some things are better off unspoken.

I also wonder if anyone cares about the things they don't know about me. I can't remember a time when anyone cared enough to ask about the other me. Those who know me now want to see me as I am. Those from my past remember a different person and have to get to know me all over again. Those who met me during my transition period probably think I'm flaky because I had discovered new things about myself and my emotions were in an uproar. Oh well. It is what it is.

We live and we learn. We take to our hearts people and trivial memories and our choices. We file them away in our mental catalog and bring them out to savor (or to reject) at the oddest moments. Some of those remembrances may make us wince, some will make us cry, with some we will rejoice.

It doesn't matter how we respond, only that we do.

Like the shyness that I still have to work to resolve, there are a list of things in my life that I need to get over. I need to make them memories and to store them somewhere I can look back and not carry with me.

Ten things you may not know about me? HAH! I can think of dozens!

Ugly

Did you ever have one of those days when you felt UGLY.  I don't mean just having a bad hair day. I mean UGLY. 

I'm having one of those days. I feel fat, old and a bit contentious. My skin looks pasty. My legs hurt. I need hugs. I feel UGLY.

I am not one who gives in to feelings of inadequacy any more. I have learned to go with the flow, to remind myself that I have a capable brain and a talent for certain things. My physical appearance ordinarily doesn't make people squeamish--except on days like yesterday when I had to look in a full-length mirror as I was changing into a hospital gown for an x-ray. UGLY.

Everybody loves you, says a very kind matron at church.

 Well, not everyone, I say to myself. I am reminded of long-lost friends and family who don't return my calls or emails. Only a handful, but still some. When I think of their rejection, I feel cantankerous, worthless and UGLY.  I think of "friends" on Facebook who "de-friended" me because I disagreed with something they said, or voiced my own opinion. Again, the rejection makes me feel UGLY.

I take teasing with a grain of salt and a dash of pepper. Depending on the source, I will give back as good as I get. Beware my tongue.

Criticism I shrug off, if it is given with sincerity and caring. If it is meant to be nit-picky and/or cruel I tend to explode like a meteor over Russia. I won't let it make me feel UGLY for long.

UGLY is more an attitude than a reality. I know I'm not the chick I used to be, but then, who is? A wrinkle here, a grey hair there, an extra pound or sewed-in new parts do not change who one is. We grow, we change. Sometimes we stagnate for years until something or someone suddenly wakens us from our self-imposed Rip Van Winkle-ness. We begin once again to pick up where we left off and begin to feel and grow all over again. Sometimes the new emotions are like a thunderbolt. We feel pretty and eager to enjoy life.

OK, so I give in to self-pity on occasion. I am still a teenager in my brain, and when I waken with the creaks and scars of this last traumatic year I have to look at my self-image and use words like 'maturity' and 'well-preserved'. 

And, sometimes 'UGLY'.

Remembering Daddy Joe

Today is my father's birthday. He would have been ninety years old.

My Dad was a gentle man. He rarely raised his voice, never raised his hand. Instead, when he was angry, his words became quiet.and you just knew you were in trouble.

In his younger days he would lift me in the air, hold his arm out straight and hold me up with that one arm, We would run ahead of Mom and Grandma sometimes, then stop to rest and, when they caught up with us, run ahead again, giggling all the way.

I remember his Jeep, circa 1950. Oh, how I loved to ride in that Jeep! We would go to Grandpa Hess' camp in the mountains most weekends. I always got a ride in the Jeep. Mountain roads? Not Dad. He was far more likely to take a short-cut over saplings in the woods. One day we spotted a bear on the roadside.  

"Look, Daddy! A bear!" I cried out. Dad only hesitated a second, then off into the woods we went after that bear. Nope, we didn't even get close. Boy, could that bear run.

I remember taking rides on Sunday afternoons in his Pontiac Silver Chief (turquoise and white, for you classic car buffs). Mom and Dad, neither of them the most talented of crooners, would sing old songs--Dad and his Army hits (cleaned up for little ears) and Mom with her Tex Ritter. We would stop to have dinner someplace, Dad with his hot roast beef and mashed potatoes, Mom with her grilled cheese, me being just like Dad. Those were the days....

His ever-present pack of filterless Camels would lay in his pocket everywhere he went, his coffee handy by his side. Smoke didn't bother me much back then, and I would sit by his side with my Popsicle as he cheerfully puffed away.

Dad spent a good portion of his youth on a farm, and while his father lived they gardened the spare lot by our homes. After Grandpa died, Dad cultivated a garden of his own, smaller in size, but with robust plants that would feed an army.

I wouldn't have the time or the space to share all of my memories of Dad. I remember his pride when I graduated, his tears the day I got married, his sadness when his mother passed away. I remember his laughter when my children were around and his tenderness with our pets. I remember his last words to me.

Dad had various ailments as he aged--diabetes, heart problems, cataracts. One thing at a time, his doctors said. The diabetes was brought under control easily for Dad. He quit smoking cold turkey when his breathing became labored. He had bypass surgery--not the seventeen centimeter incision like mine, but an autopsy-like cut that ran from stem to stern. He survived all those.

In his last days, he had a defibrillator implanted. The doctors were sending him to Pittsburgh for cataract surgery. All seemed well. A simple cataract surgery. He would be home the next evening.

"Stay with your mother tonight," he said. 

He had never asked me to do that before.

He missed his ride home. He had to spend the night of the eye operation in a guest room at the VA hospital.

I was with Mom when the call came at two the next morning.

I miss my Dad to this day

The other night I dreamed that we were at a dance. I can never remember Dad dancing, but there he was with Mom, doing the Twist! Then they began spinning so fast they were a blur. I don't often dream of my Dad, but when I do, he is always happy and energetic. I know he is at peace with Mom by his side.

Today I will celebrate his birthday quietly in my heart. I will go to the cemetery, maybe shed a tear or two, and remember.

Rest in peace, Daddy Joe.

Horseless Carriages

I do not have good luck with cars.

I'm a sensible driver.  I don't "gun" the engine. I don't aim for potholes. I don't hit curbs. I don't tailgate. I like speed but not around town.

I am perfect.

My cars, however, are not.

I got Bessie inspected this past Wednesday--three days ago. She had a temperamental rattle up front and a stubborn streak upon acceleration. U-joint said Hubby, maybe a ball joint or two. A steering arm. A loose heat shield, perhaps.

When he finally switched to speaking English, I gathered up my checkbook and headed for the dealership.

Ah, yes, Betsy needed new shoes. And some kind of hub (two of those) and a bunch of other stuff, including the U joint and the drive shaft. Geez.

Do we put all this money into a vehicle with over a hundred thousand miles on it? I think not.

Buy something, said Hubby.

I hate car shopping. My son sold cars. I would say, "Find me something I can afford." He would say, "Come sign the papers", and PRESTO! the deal was done. 

This time I was sans Nick, but at least I knew everybody else.

"Can you bring the car down for an assessment for your trade?"

"Sure! Twenty minutes."

Not to be.

Halfway down the highway, four lanes of sixty-mile-per-hour traffic, I heard a grind. Then a rattle, then a BANG! BANG! BANG!!!!!. Old Bessie was cleaning her closets of parts she didn't want anymore--including the drive shaft. The drive shaft?  Really?

I won't bore you with waiting for a flatbed tow, cleaning out five years of junk from the trunk, finding a car to replace her, endless piles of paperwork and the trip back home in a Buick loaner, then back again because I had left my driver's license in my briefcase. I won't tell you about agonizing the  choice between a minuscule hatchback with a trunk--not exaggerating here--big enough to hold a Pepsi twelve pack and a limo-size SUV that sleeps ten. 

An aside here. The little bugger had an energizing yellow and black interior. It was love at first sight--until I turned the key. Our lawn mower has more power. The real deal-breaker was that there was no CD player. A drive without the Boss? I think not. Besides, Hubby informed me, there was NO WAY he would be seen riding in something that looked like he had flossed from between his teeth.

A word to the wise. The insurance on the mini-hatch, in spite of ten airbags, is still more than the insurance for the behemoth.

In the end, neither the death trap nor the tank sit in my driveway. I ended up (with Hubby's sigh of relief) in a mid-size SUV, the offspring of Bessie. This one has toys...lots of toys... that I can't wait to learn. OnStar, rear back-up camera, remote start. CD player. USB ports. I don't know yet how fast it goes. (Break it in first, girl, says Hubby.)

And XM radio with a channel totally devoted to The Boss.

Uncle Earthmover

I've been getting complaints. It seems that some people want to hear more about my wacky ancestors. Zelda seems a little offended that I won't give her the diary, but, hey, there's a lot of good stuff in there to write about.

As I was flipping through the pages of Tiddlewink's diary, I found some pages stuck together, probably from her relationship to coconut bonbons.

Now, I'm not sure if Uncle Earthmover was really blood or if he was part of the family that was extended by multiple marriages and liaisons so that the familial lines were blurred. Tiddlewinks referred to him as her uncle's uncle (or monkey's uncle--the ink was a bit smeared). At any rate, this is his story.

Earthmover's birth name was Rubigard, and he was called Ruby by most of the clan, which started a lot of jokes about his manliness and caused him to get in a lot of fistfights which was not the reason for the nickname Earthmover. I'll get to that.

Earthmover could not be called skinny by any stretch, but he was tall and nimble, with long arms and a boxer's reach. His head was a bit large (he wore a size nine hat, so they say) and covered with blond ringlets; his eyes were fiercely green and fairly glowed when he got angry. His skin was pale but with apple-red cheeks and a sprinkle of freckles. He looked sweet, but he had a temper that flared in an instant and a bend in his nose that would make one wince in sympathetic pain.

Earthmover, in order to prove his manliness, often engaged in somewhat reckless behavior, like parachuting off the Eiffel Tower, at which time he was arrested and jailed and would still be there if Tiddlewinks had not paid his bail and bribed some French officials. Another time he tried water-skiing behind the Queen Mary, which didn't move fast enough for that, and he nearly drowned in the Atlantic. His adventure with the Panama Canal was legendary, and his disagreement with the grizzly bears is kept alive to this day and without much exaggeration.

It was when he arrived back in the States, however, that his machismo almost finished him off. Ever the daredevil, Earthmover decided to ride two bulls at the same time at the Gerry Rodeo in New York, a small but well-thought of show which featured bull-riding as a main event. Earthmover bullied his way into the stables (so to speak), picked out two of the angriest animals and tied ropes around their necks. From there. he mounted them, one foot on each and gave a "HEE_YAHHH!" as the bulls nearly tore him limb from limb while they bucked around the gravel.

At last one of them succeeded in throwing Earthmover off, and the other one, not to be outdone, kicked so high that Earthmover went flying over the fence and landed through the roof of the concession stand.

Well, the doctor on call said he was dead, all right, and took his body away so as not to interrupt the festivities of the hard-core bunch.

His family, not the sensitive kind like mine or Zelda's, so I'm sure he must have been a fringe relation or none at all, had him buried in a wooden box, said a few words about his salvation, and that was that.

Not quite.

You see, Rubigard wasn't really dead, just knocked for a loop, and suffering from extreme motion sickness so that he was exhausted and concussed and, well, pretty much out of it.

When he woke up, of course, it was damp and dark and he was very hungry, and when the door wouldn't open he was at first panicked, then flew into a rage beyond all previous rages.

He kicked and pounded so hard that the earth shook for miles around. Giant oaks tumbled to the ground; buildings wobbled and it was said that a tsunami formed in Lake Erie. Rubigard's so-called resting place was not so restful, after all.

Now, in those days it was customary to put a bell above each new grave, with a string inside, so that the not-as-deceased-as-we-presumed would have a way of saying,"Hey, people! Let me out!"

The catch is that someone had to be around to hear the bell.

Well. Rubigard's strength was waning as was his air supply. Something tickled his face and he realized it was the string for his saving bell! Ring. ring, ring! No answer. With a mighty "AAARRRGGGHHH" he kicked his long legs for the last time--and got a mouthful of dirt and a sunny blue sky.

Climbing shakily from his near-deathbed, he sucked in great quantities of air, ate some of the chrysanthemums on his grave and crawled to his home at the edge of town. Low and behold, it was already occupied by the low-lifes who had caused him so much torment. Bursting with adrenalin, he tossed them one by one through the door (without the bother of opening it). Once again the earth shook as the temper, for which he was well-known, exploded.

Earthmover lived a long and uneventful life after that, never more to be called Rubigard. He needed give only a petulant stamp of his foot to get the peasants to do his bidding. He was feared more than respected, for as far as they were concerned, he had fought with the devil and won.

And when he died many a decade later, no bell was attached to his coffin.

Life and Death

Lois and Dick remained friends of mine long after I had left my parish and found a new church home. What a lovely couple! I never met two people who smiled more at each other than they did. Oh, I'm certain that they had their share of troubles just like the rest of us, but that never interfered with the genuine love they shared.

Lois could hold my infant son and quiet him with her voice. Dick could make anyone laugh.  I've never heard anyone say anything against either of them, nor have I ever heard a criticism from them.

They had been together for sixty-five years.

I saw Lois again yesterday, and saw Dick for the last time. He passed into the hands of God, and only a shell that we call his body remained for a viewing.

The room was crowded, the parking lot overflowing with well-wishers and family who had come to support Lois in her grief. At eighty-seven, she was still as beautiful as the wedding picture they displayed. I asked, of course, how she was hanging on. She said it was her faith that sustained her.

The road will be long and hard once the friends and family go home and she returns to an empty house for the first time. She's fortunate to have devoted sons and daughters-in-law to help her through her trials, and the peace of God to mend her heart.

Our lives can change in  an instant. 

The years we spend with loved ones are what we make them.

We can spend them as a journey of devotion and companionship, or we can rip them to shreds. We can ride out the tough times when anger rules our minds, or we can give up and wallow in defeat. It's complicated at best, challenging to be sure, impossible at worst.

Lois and Dick were one of God's miracles.

I wish that for you, too.

Old Friends

I am lucky to have friends from my childhood  days, friends from my early teens, friends from high school, from work, from church and from everyday life.

I spent some time a couple of weeks ago with two of them, one of whom I had talked to but not seen for more than twenty years, the other I see not often enough. When we waxed nostalgic over stuffed pepper soup, a fresh-from-the-garden salad and blackberry pie it, was like we had never been apart.

The conversation was easy, the hugs were genuine. This is friendship.

I have other friends that make me feel like this, and I hope you do, too. They bring back memories of carefree days of summer, walking home from school on a windy day, picnics in the park, walking along the water's edge. The unhappy feelings seem to melt away in their presence. 

Often on Facebook one sees the question, "which of my 268 'friends' would be there for me if I needed them?"

I can tell you without hesitation who would be there....they are the ones who know me well--my secrets, my foibles, my insecurities, my needs. They are the ones who remember the most insignificant things, like my Betty doll, playing hide 'n' seek in the pampas grass, playing with buttons or paper dolls, sipping Cokes at the old Mason's store--and turning them into everlasting memories.

I hope you have a friend like this. When I need them, they will be around.

Things Unseen

I hear people say that they believe in nothing.

How can this be possible?

We believe in things unseen every single day.

You say you don't believe in magic, but you've felt falling in love. You've seen a child's face when Santa's name is mentioned; what is more magical? You've seen the majesty of autumn leaves and experienced the Milky Way on a dark, still country night. You've held hands and kissed under a full moon. There is no better magic.

You say you don't believe in miracles, yet you rejoice in your new heart, or your friend's cure from cancer. Ah, yes, you say. A perfect example of doctors and science. But how was the science set in motion? Only a few become surgeons; only a few have the skill and tenacity and compassion to learn those skills. The thing is---you believe in the doctor. 

Yes, you believe in something.

You believe, without even realizing it, that you will awaken each day, that your needs of hunger and shelter will be met. You believe that the sun exists, that the moon shines at night and that the stars hang in the heavens.

Yes, you believe in something.

You say you don't believe in God, or Allah, or any Supreme Being. You have witnessed a birth, a sunrise, the dying each winter and the recovering breath of life each spring. You know it will happen; it always does.

Yes, you believe in something.

Do you believe that someone loves you? Do you believe that your child or your spouse, grandchild or your big, goofy canine depend on you? Do you believe that you'll feel better if you have ice cream or chocolate, or a cold Miller or a good night's sleep?

Yes, you believe in something. You have faith that you didn't recognize, for faith is the belief in things unseen.

Yes, you believe in something. 

Annual Meeting Report

The ninety-second annual meeting of the Flibbertygibbet family was held at the home of Zelda the Cousin on June fifteen. Also present (besides me and Zelda) were twelve first cousins twice removed, fifteen second cousins three times removed, a whole bunch of shirt-tail relations and some who aren't blood at all, but who think they are and nobody's gonna tell them anything else. It is pure conjecture that there were spirits of bygone aunts and uncles in attendance, but knowing this family there probably were several.

The purpose of said meeting was to dispose of the property of Great Granduncle Grossno Moss. He came to an untimely end while traveling to Tahiti with his fourth wife (Lotta, nee Bumm) on a sailboat made from Popsicle sticks.

The bone of contention is that no one wants the stuff, not even Lotta, who is willing to give it all to surviving wives two and three just to get out of this wacko family and get on with her fifth husband, Hugme Tite.

The problem is that at the forty-first annual reunion, some of the family lawyers, notably the firm of Shyster and Gimme, decided it was best to incorporate the relatives and make any holdings one-for-all. For this they got hefty dues and cauliflower ears. Nonetheless, the contract that was drawn up was unbreakable. (Those who married outside the group, like me and Zelda, were at least able to retain some assets, but Groamier and Pfister weren't so lucky. Another story.)

So the reunion became a corporate meeting, complete with election of a board and Roberts' Rules until I volunteered to take notes a few years ago. At least now we have gone back to pot-luck instead of day-old from the Fantasy Meat franchise in Goober County.

I digress. The meeting was called to order at 6:15 by President Biteme Finch, minutes were communicated and old business disposed of. After a statement of the clan finances by Mr. Shyster, a fight broke out in the porta-john. This was stopped by Phew Higgins, who removed the offenders (and the porta-john) with his front-loader.

After much discussion about the legality of the disposal of the  property, Mr. Gimme declared a free-for-all and everybody piled into their cars at Zelda's estate and headed toward Figleaf, Kentucky like a bunch of loons looking for cornbread.

Disappointment was rampant. Nobody, except wives one through four, a couple of concubines and an occasional Grand Pyrenees had ever set foot in the Moss house. Grossno was well-known for his addiction to frozen confections, large canines and women of shape, but no one suspected what his fortified mansion held.

At last count, according to the accounting firm of  Shotgun and Grabbit (fourth cousins, blood to Zelda but nothing to me, thank you, powers that be) there were four million, eight hundred seventy-six thousand, nine hundred and two Popsicle sticks, six hundred eight tubes of model airplane glue (explains a lot), seven bolts of sailing cloth, the entire contents of a Home Depot nail and screw department that he bought out in 1972 and thirty-seven cents in pennies from the couch cushions.

A brief discussion revealed that none of the bunch wanted anything, except the three-inch wood screws and the one-eighth washers, a pound of roofing nails and the thirty-seven cents.

The meeting was adjourned when it was agreed to cook hot dogs over the coals of the balsa in a pit made from upholstery tacks.

A wonderful time was had by all.

Respectfully submitted.

Normal Is As Normal Does

As of the first of the month, the doctors have lifted most of my post-surgery restrictions. Some remain, like the no-caffeine rule (damn). Others will gradually go away in another six months or so--the pulling and pushing and weight-lifting ones. 

My body has changed. I've put on weight, an expected side effect of the drugs, temporary inactivity and of  food tasting better.  The aches and pains are the same-old, same-old. The tiredness that was so overwhelming has receded. Ah, yes, I still enjoy those naps that have become habit-forming, but I can do without them most of the time.

Many of my senses have been heightened, besides that of taste. Maybe it's the result of greater blood flow. My eyesight has improved to the point where I can once again enjoy a large-print novel. I notice the feel of things, especially smooth things, more than I did before. Strange, isn't it?

My sense of smell is far more acute. Hubby no longer smokes in the house. Where the odor of cigarette smoke has always bothered me, it has now become painful to inhale, even in tiny quantities. The smell of cleaners, paint, bleach and strong perfume, once merely an annoyance, has become a very real health issue. My throat feels irritated, even from the strong scent of flowers. It's hard to explain.

Live as normal a life as possible, says the cardiologist.

Easy for him to say. He deals with heart issues every day. He sees every spectrum of normal. I see only one. Me. And I'm not sure what normal is.

Some days I feel like my entire life has been shrunk like a car in a crusher, from big and comfortable and fast right down to a two-ton coffee table. Other days I am ready to explode with energy and joie de vivre. And I still don't know what normal is.

What I do know, however, is that the body heals from the breastbone-cracking and the ripping apart of a vital organ. The scars will eventually fade. The surgeon did his job. It will take months, even a year, for the physical healing to be complete.  I understand. That part of my recovery is doing well. I have had no pain associated with the surgery.

What takes longer is the healing of the mind. My awareness of each minute of living is acute. I waste time, and it really bothers me to do so. I want to be on the go constantly so that I think less of my own demise and more of the years that lay ahead. Or months. Or weeks.

Logically, I know that the repair job should hold up for years. But, frankly, this too-close encounter with death has scared the crap out of me and left me shaken.

I want to be an eighteen-year-old normal again instead of a sixty-two-year-old normal. I want to run and play and dance and ride a bike around the bay.  I want to go to drive-ins and ignore the film. I want to eat heavily salted French fries and high-fat ice cream and not worry about packing on pounds, or  my blood pressure soaring. I want to bend the rules of decorum until they break. I want my summer car to be a two-seater sports cars instead of an SUV. I want my bucket list to be a list of what I have checked off, instead of a list that I won't live long enough to finish. I want the man I love to see me as a fox instead of a pudgy grandma. Is this normal?

It's hard for a person to grasp what is in another's mind. Some people take one day at a time, accepting the ups and downs with calmness. Some see living as just existence. Sometimes, I do, too.

But there are days when normal for me is longing for my carefree self, the days when I felt confident and energetic and full of passion for life. I have those days still, but living seems more like a Tilt-a-Whirl sometimes than a Sunday drive. So much to do, so little time.

I think I'll go back to bed.

Fate and Free Will

I watched a movie tonight, one that Hubby came across by accident. It made me think about what we accept as fate, and what we call free will. Perhaps they are one and the same.

Is our future already decided for us? Is it pre-determined for us to be rich or poor, a doctor or politician or a garbage collector? Do we make choices to become a worker in a restaurant or an amusement park, or has some unseen higher power already decided our fate? Is there a master plan laid out for each of us? Can we change that direction by sheer force of will?

I look again at free will. We are given a menu of life choices. Our circumstances may lead us away from university to a job in a shop, or to life on a riverboat. We engage in dating many people, yet only one becomes our lifemate. Did we choose? Or was that choice decided somewhere else? And if so, where?

Do we have freedom to make different choices? Yes, we do. My question is--is the answer already in our DNA? Were our children meant to be born with the parents already selected for them? Is our greatness or bondage going to be, no matter the path we think we are freely choosing?

How do we know if the emotions we feel are meant to be real, or if a wind of change could alter them tomorrow? Were we meant to be something else, and a quirk of the universe decided differently for us?

Is fate nothing more than re-directed free will? Or is free will not free at all, but pre-determined? The questions go in circles, the answers looping about them, endlessly expressing themselves in convoluted terms and irony. 

My head is spinning. I know that I've made some wrong choices over the years, my free will operating as it knew how at the moment the choice was made. Now I am wondering--would different choices have made any difference in the long run? Or were those the choices I was fated to make all along?

So whatever we are, whoever we are with, whatever we become....did we ever have a choice?  

I'm beginning to think we didn't.

The Cemetery

I don't know how cemeteries are treated in your hometown, but I suspect that they are well-groomed, well-visited and--some of them, at least--are treated like parks.

Such are some of those around here. Walkers, bicyclists, drivers abound. Pictures are taken of the gazebo or the mausoleums. Fresh flowers and American flags are everywhere. The peace is palpable.

I first walked in a cemetery probably before I could walk on my own. My parents loved to roam the old cemeteries and burial grounds for miles around. They would note relatives and friends, of course, but mostly they would look at the old tombstones. Some were still grand, stretching ten feet tall. Some were creative, bearing images of angels or books, or, for a gambler,  a pair of dice. Some had embedded  tokens. Some were so old as to be unreadable. I remember being shown how to take paper and, pressing it against the stone, rubbing it with pencil to bring out the print.

The oldest cemetery has a great many mausoleums as well as decades-old (perhaps even centuries-old) sand-colored buildings that house the offices, crematorium and chapel. I recognize many of the names from growing up here, including street names from my neighborhood. Isn't it wonderful how the past entwines with the present?

The newer cemetery was made on land donated by a businessman whose son had been killed. Only about fifty years old, its trees are not so towering and the stones not so unique. Some bear photographs, some have angels. A tiny chapel sits in the back, made of stone and nestled among the trees. Many a time have I sat a distance away and listened to the bagpipes or a twenty-one gun salute.

I go there often to watch the wildlife and to think about my parents and other family members who have chosen this as their latest home.

I believe that cemeteries are for the living. We go there in our sadness, or sometimes to share joy, with departed loved ones. I've no objection to those who walk here, for they all act respectful of the dead, and peaceful with the living.

I remember stories of the ghosts in graveyards, the horrific zombies that roamed the grounds, the screeches in the night. How wrong those stories are!

When I choose to visit, I feel God's presence. I feel a closeness with history. I feel those I loved most reaching out to me. I have no fear.

Sitting or walking, coffee in hand, I think about those who have gone before me. What were their lives like? How long has it been since their resting places were visited out of love instead of curiosity?

I remember my Dad leaving a coin on his father's grave. As he said a brief prayer, he would add, "Here's a dime. Call me when you can."  When my own father passed away, I tucked a quarter in the columbarium. "Call me when you can", I said.

I feel lucky to be able to visit right now, for I am not yet ready to take up residence.

Old People

I have always loved to watch old peoples, especially couples. Especially now that I am one of them.

There is nothing sweeter than to see a pair that you can tell has been in love for a long time, or perhaps they only got together recently and are soulmates who at last found each other. Whatever. I love to see the way they hold hands, and the way they steal a kiss as though no one can see them.

I am reminded of some older couples at the club where we go dancing.

One of them dances nearly every dance. He and she whirl across the dance floor smiling and in perfect synch. They look as though they have been together for many a year. One can imagine them in ballroom costumes, so perfect is their movement.

One evening I bravely approached them, saying how much I loved to watch them perform, and how they must have been waltzing together for a long time. Boy, was I surprised to find out that they had known each other only a few months, that they never took a lesson, that they were friends, not mates. Wow.

Another couple strikes me. I know not how long they have been together, but I'm sure it is a very long time. She appears most often in a wheelchair, a floppy hat and a dress that strikes me as, in old-fashioned terms, "Sunday best".  He, in his farmer flannel and ill-fitting jeans is certainly nothing one would at twice. Yet several times over the course of the evening, he will take her hands in his and help her from her chair. They move slowly to the parquet, and gently sway to the soft, romantic music. He kisses her forehead, and they sit to share French fries and to rest. Tear-jerking.

I see couples like these every day, so obviously loving and caring. One of them may be wheelchair bound, or venturing into the world of senility. It doesn't stop them. The looks between them are of absolute adoration.

You can always tell when people are happy together. There is an electricity between them. They touch in the simplest of ways. It all comes naturally to them--the affection, the sweetness. You observe them, and you just know.

I know nothing about their personal lives. A little bit of beer or Jack Daniels and live music tends to bring out our more romantic sides. All I know is that whether they are at a dance, or in the park, or sitting on a bench by the water....this is love.

Celebration and Reality

An acquaintance wrote that the birth of the newest Royal wasn't important, that the news should be dedicated to our fallen soldiers, and to fires and floods and other matters of human horror.

I disagree.

A new life is a celebration, be it in your family or in the Royals. A celebration of any magnitude is what makes the horrible parts of reality bearable.

If the news speaks only of wildfires and war, where has the quality of life gone? Where is the tenderness inside? The joy of living goes far beyond the practical; we need to embrace the smallest of triumphs in order to make living worthwhile.

Pick a day, any day, perhaps in your teenage years. The morning brought a math test for which you were dubiously prepared. The afternoon brought gym class and the humiliation of being unable to keep up. Your best friend turned her back on you for some other friend. You go home mad and sad. Then that special person calls, and you talk and you smile, and suddenly the day wasn't so bad, was it? You see, it was the smallest thing that saved a crummy day.

Yes, war and famine and earthquakes are important news. They are reality of the worst kind. Some people, unfortunately, think that reality is only the bad things that happen, or perhaps only the drip-drip-drip of everyday stagnation is their reality. 

But reality is also waking to sunshine or to rain. Having an ice cream sundae instead of lunch. Watching the critters play in the park at noon when you play hooky from work. Having a pow-wow with an old friend. Finding a long-lost love letter.  A hug and a moment with someone you love.

Reality is what you accept it to be.

Once we lose our grip on the happiness we should have, we cease to live; we only exist. When we forget how to smile or laugh at insignificant humorous antics, when we forget the day we screamed in pain/pleasure at the teenage ride in the shopping cart, when we dismiss the simple touches of a loving hand as inconvenience....we stop being. 

So we can celebrate the birth of a Royal baby boy, just because it is worthy of celebration. Celebration is also reality.

Sailboating

My bucket list is growing. It is impressive in length, creativity, diversity and fantasy.  At last objective look at it, I figured I would have to live to be eighty-six and stay in good health to accomplish everything. I've added a few things since then.

I must now live to be ninety-two and stay active. Blimey, that's a long time.

I've never been on a sailboat. I know nothing about them, except to keep my head down or I'll get cold-cocked from the boom.

 I sit at  the bay and watch them floating by in great majesty. There is one that looks like a schooner, sails rippling in the breeze, gliding as if it recognizes its own beauty. I lust for a ride on that boat.

No one I know has a sailboat, or I would take a deep breath and invite myself on board. I can't very well go up to a total stranger at the marina and request an hour's trip on Lake Erie, can I? Sigh....

Nobody has a hot air balloon, either. Or a Piper Cub. Or a pontoon boat (although I've been on those and I love them!)  I need richer and more adventurous friends. I've chosen my friends because of   their goodness and because I enjoy them. I wish I had cultivated a couple who were sailors!

For now, just for today, I will be content to watch the regatta and to add a petition to my prayer for a healthy life.

Who knows? Maybe this September, I'll be sailing!

Tarnation!

Now there's a word you don't hear much anymore. For some reason, folks would rather swear than say, "what in tarnation!".

Like "by gosh!" and "golly" and "gee whiz", "tarnation" has been replaced by taking God's name in vain, or by various four-letter words. I'm admitting that one occasionally slips from me, usually "damn". I try to be careful about using God's name in vain. Staying on His good side, instead of in His wrath, matters to me.

I cringe when I hear euphemisms for people of any race, gender or nationality. I will leave if I can, suffer if I can't. I look at it this way--people are born the way they are born. If I don't like a person, it is because of what they have allowed themselves to become, not because of who they are.

Words can bolster one's ego, flatter one's being. Or, they can dash one's hopes and dreams, destroy the very essence of one's life. They can heal and soothe, or they can leave scars and humiliation.

Powerful things, our words.

Sometimes it takes no more than a "yes" or a "no" to change an attitude, or even a life. Sometimes all it takes is an honest answer (or a white lie) to create cheer. A compliment, sincerely given and graciously accepted, can help make the difference between success and self-esteem or abject failure. Gentle, considerate criticisms are a staff of life; nagging, harshness and bashing are death to a person's will.

Our vocabulary needs some revamping. "Gosh" and "gee whiz" and "tarnation" need to be a bigger part of it, as do "joy" and "faith" and "I love you".

Words hurt, and words heal

Be Silent

"Let yourself be silently drawn by the strange pull of what you really love. It will not lead you astray."~~Author unknown.

Setting your mind free, setting your heart free, isn't the easiest thing to do. We have commitments. We have responsibilities.

Then one day we come close to losing it all. We awaken as if from a deep sleep instead of from near death. The world has changed for us. We still love who we loved before; our favorite thing is still mushed-up ice cream; we still love the lake and hugs and tender words. But something has changed.

Our feelings about life have become more intense. We think reckless thoughts. We want to take chances. We want to be consumed by life instead of watching it from  a distance. We want it all......to experience everything we might have missed before without guilt, and with new passion.

I see new things on my bucket list of life unlived.  I see places I want to go, people with whom I want to spend time. I see a book I want to publish and much, much more. Excuses of time, money and commitments blur my visions.

Should I share these dreams? They have been mine alone, private thoughts that have rested in my brain and my heart, tearing at me, making me wish I could accomplish them, wondering why I have not. Sometimes I want to shout, "This is it! This is my dream!"

But then I realize how foolhardy that sounds, and I keep quiet, avoiding the mocking and criticism that may result. I plod on, silently relishing the things I love, unwilling to tell the tiny strides, waiting for the completion of the task.

Still, the love of these things pulls at me, and I am helpless. I let my mind run free,  the flight of fantasy, the hopes and dreams and daydreams coming to fruition.  Someday.

We have to be silent with our secrets, because once they are shared they are not ours any longer. 

Nightmares

I've never been prone to nightmares. Bad dreams on occasion, yes, but not full-blown and horrific nightmares. Oh, there have been a few that have set my heart pounding on awakening, and a few that left me bawling or chilled to the bone. Even if I remember them, I can usually attribute them to spicy food or a bad movie.

Until the afternoon of my birthday.

 I had spent a short time at church that morning putting out prayer shawls with some other committee members--nothing stressful about that. I did a few errands, played a few computer games--and suddenly I found myself nodding off. I laid down and was asleep before the blanket was around my shoulders.

I awoke alone in the house, cold and clammy. I was afraid to get up and afraid to stay in bed. My heart was pounding. I wanted to cry out, but I didn't. Somehow I came to my rational, awake self. Shortly thereafter, I drifted off to dreamland once more--only to be rudely awakened again--by what, I still don't know.

This time, the dream was as vivid in remembrance as it had been in my unconsciousness.

I had dreamed of my death.

I haven't been scared of dying. I came close, really close, to doing just that. I had no fear of it, only a calmness and a need to move on (with or without my caffeine jag). Death  ordinarily isn't terrifying to me, although the preamble of dying frightens me a bit. Suddenly, in my dream, I had to confront it.

I was in a casket of white marble, unable to move, conscious of all around me. There were spirits and the living. Some were laughing, some crying. I kept trying to tell them that I could hear them, but no sound left me. I could smell the yellow and red roses and the spicy carnations of every hue. I felt the gentleness of the living as they touched me and the warmth of the spirits as they tugged at me, expecting me to follow.

Abruptly the dream changed, or maybe it was a new one--I'm not really sure.  There were mirrors everywhere, and on then was written "5 more" in big red letters. I was being taken, presumably into the service, army, I think. And then it was Hubby, telling me not to worry, and then he was taken away in a different direction. There were more mirrors, each with those big red letters. I was sure they were meant for me, but I don't know why. I think one of them said "5 months", but I couldn't read the writing on the rest.

Even going to the club that night didn't erase the dream.  Even a few gins and juices didn't help. I've been trying to remember my dreams, and I've been working on deciphering them. This one is one I'd rather forget.

There are things I want from life, simple things for the most part. I want to be liked and I want to be loved. I want health and a modicum of wealth and notoriety.  I want to feel peace.  My faith lets me view death as new life everlasting, and I am prepared for it. But this dream felt, well, ominous and discomforting.

I'll continue to try to remember my dreams, to write them down, to try to understand them, but some are best left alone.

Special Occasions

I learned long ago that every day should be a special occasion.

A friend sent me a story that illustrated exactly that opinion. It reminded me, as stories often do, of what made me realize that there are few truly special occasions.

Grandma Laura, Hubby's grandmother, had lived a hard-working life. She raised her boys virtually on her own. She had a handful of sensible sayings, one of them being "we gotta make the best". But she didn't, that's the point. Oh, yes, she made do with whatever she had, but in doing so she also neglected small things that could have brought a little happiness to herself or to someone around her.

When Grandma passed away I was in my thirties, maybe thirty-two or -three. Going through her things, the sisters-in-law found some beautifully starched all-cotton sheets big enough for our queen bed. The lace on the edges was hand-tatted and elaborate. She had made (or received) them for her wedding bed.  Each of us girls got a set of those pretty but yellowed sheets.

Dutifully I took them home and washed them, cold water, gentle detergent, gentle cycle.

They fell apart where they had been folded for at least fifty years, all but some of the lace. What a waste!

I think about those sheets now and then. I think about Mom's 'good' china, and my 'good' wine glasses and a host of other things that we tend to keep for 'special' occasions.

I ask you this--what is more special than a dinner with your loved ones where you can spread the lace tablecloth and put out the fine china? What is not a good time to wear a gift of sparkling jewelry, even if it is to Walmart?  What is so special about the silky lace lingerie or the collectible knickknacks that you can't use them now, this very day? Or the bottle of champagne? Or perfume? Or the silver watch you've had in your top drawer because you might lose it? Or maybe it's a gift from someone who cared enough to give it, but you don't even look at it anymore.

Rule of thumb--if it brings a smile to your face, or a tear to your eye, it has made this day a special occasion.

When we deny ourselves the snippets of the life we claim to cherish, we lose the meaning of living. We have today. Tomorrow is uncertain.

Celebrate!

Chinny Chin Chin

It is the eve of birthday number sixty-two. Hubby, knowing how I love flashy costume jewelry, made a special trip to my favorite shop and bought me the most sparkly, gorgeous set I think I've ever seen (even if I compare it with the one he bought me when he was afraid I was going to die). I don't save the beautiful things for a special occasion.  I wear them daily, like a soap opera star, because every day is a special occasion. I can't wait to wear this one.

However.....

As he gently took my face in his hands, and as I prepared for a whopper of a long, sweet pre-birthday kiss....he began to chuckle, then snort, and finally there was a guffaw that would wake angels. Talk about a mood changer. The cause of the mirth?

A hair....a single hair on my chinny chin chin. Damn. First the gobbler neck (worthy of its own essay) and now this.

I've taken care of the mustache thing, thanks to Sue and her magic wax and to Hubby's Gillette Fusion. (Thanks for the inheritance, Grandma D.)  But this...this horrid thing is new.

I've finally finished reading all the material that came with my various medications. Side effects include weight gain (check), sleepiness and/or insomnia (check), dry mouth (check), darkening of the eyes, enzyme changes (check and check) and a host of other complications. Not once is stray facial hair mentioned--not once!

So now what? Am I going to grow a goatee? Will I have to wear even bigger earrings (any bigger, says my friend and confidant, and  I will need a hoist to put them on) or shorter skirts (not at my age!) or lower cut blouses to enhance my already mildly flamboyant femininity? 

Hubby says I'm over-reacting. It was, after all, only one hair that he yanked from my face. But I remember Mom...that little hair would pop out not just overnight, but in seconds. She hated that hair in the days when her mind was working. Later, when she no longer cared about anything, I would see that hair grow, and tell her I wanted to tweeze it, and she'd get mad.  I'd give up, and there that hair would stay.

So.... I've justified that I need more pretty necklaces (no such thing as too many!)  that do multi-duty--hide the still-visible scar, hide the wrinkle (And how do you hide yours? Yes, you have one, too) and draw attention away from the whiskers. Geez.

Compliment my eyes, admire my jewelry (you can add to my collection, if you'd like), keep your opinion  to yourself on my too-young wardrobe or my chubby curves.

And please feel free to ignore the hair on my chinny chin chin.

Mortality

Most nights I wish Hubby was at my side instead of at work.

Sometimes I am grateful he is not. He wouldn't like to see the tears that fall, tears I can't stop, tears that are not a lack of faith but of the realization of mortality.

There are some nights since April 11 that I lay awake, tracing my fingers along the seventeen centimeter scar on my chest, or the ones on my leg or feeling the bruise from yet another blood test. Just when I think all is well, it isn't.

Another birthday is creeping up on me--a big one, a landmark one. This year I am focused not on the numbers, but on the fact that I am around to celebrate it at all.  

I touch the scar again. It is fading some, but I can still feel it. When I do, I remember the symptoms I didn't recognize (or chose not to); the pain of that day, the days when I was asked how I was feeling and I chose to answer, "Fine", (rather than go into an explanation of the utter frustration and weakness) haunt my memory..

There are days when I just can't cope with the reality that this repaired heart might last fifteen years, or two. The diabetes could take my life. The meds I take are playing havoc with my enzymes. I try to explain that it is not my faith that suffers. When you lecture me about that, it doesn't help.

I am human. Sometimes it is the mortal side of me in charge.

There is so much living to be done. This birthday should be nothing more than a number--but it is not. It is a day worthy of celebration.

Most days I think I might still have many years ahead. When I choose a necklace that will hide the scar or find myself wearing stockings on a ninety degree day to minimize the ones on my legs (or wearing jeans), that's when I am forced to acknowledge the limited future I see. Most days  I see unlimited sunshine. Most days.

Every single day (make that every hour) has become precious. I will spend my time living and doing exactly what I want to do. I will save the tears for when I am alone, let it all out, and put on the brighter face in the morning.

I know that I am not alone. Even you, whether you have faith or do not believe in anything at all, have these moments. I have a scar as a memento. Maybe you do, too, or you have the pharmaceutical cornucopia on your dressing table or whatever it is that reminds you of that one moment you would never choose to remember.

I wasn't at all certain that this was worth sharing....then I remembered the promise I made when I decided to write my blog. Touch one life, one time. Let someone else know that they are not alone, be it in joy or frustration. The way we feel about something or someone or about ourselves is reality.

Mortality is reality, too.