Meaningless numbers

Today I took my 97 year old mother to the Jane Brattain Boutique to be fitted for a new prosthesis and brassieres. She is by far the oldest lady they have ever fitted and in many ways, most challenging. Many skinny old ladies who have lost a breast just stop wearing bras altogether and I can see why.

My father met her in 1959 when she was in her forties. She was a knockout and wore a 36 D bra for a long, long time. She is a 32 year breast cancer survivor and has never looked back or mourned the loss of her breast. She is happy to be alive. Some years ago she became so lopsided that her doctor sent her for a reduction on that side and she liked her smaller breast.

Four years ago she measured as a 38B. But she has lost more weight and her bras are hurting her. Today she still measured at 38, but they didn't feel good. The kind young woman finally found that worked best is a 40AA. The old lady was flummoxed; how could those be her numbers? She had never been that small or that large. As she has shrunk vertically, and as her back is bending, the rib cage is expanding. As she has lost weight, all the fat in her breast is gone leaving flat skin. The fitter put in an evener, kind of a lifter, on the good side to even her out.

Well, this is a lot of information and I will finally get to the point. It is about arbitrary numbers and what we think of those numbers and how we let them affect our thinking and lives. 40AA? She is so very skinny, and not even when she was twelve did she wear a double A bra. "But I've always been so busty" she kept repeating. And size 40 chest? The old man only had a 36" chest before he died.

I remember crying over scale numbers when I was younger. I remember cutting a label out of a pair of shorts because I couldn't imagine wearing size 18 shorts. And now, I am much heavier and wear size 14. How can that be? I know a young mother, slim and beautiful as can be, who worries she is not the same weight as pre baby. It is just numbers and numbers can lie. I look in the mirror and see a woman approaching sixty years old. The make-up lady tells me my skin looks younger, but catching myself unaware in a shop window, I don't even recognize that person. Is that me? How can that be?

The baseball great, Satchel Paige said, "How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?" The old lady has to be reminded she is old, in her mind she is still young. I think I would be 36 again, if I could appreciate it more. As it is, I will wear what looks good, no matter what the label says, and apply for jobs no matter the age I think they want. Because what are numbers anyway? Just a way of either enjoying or avoiding being here in the moment. And anyway, 60 is the new 50. Time to do this decade right.

Learning compassion

I've been reading about compassion and learning what I thought was compassion is just the start. I thought being compassionate meant putting yourself in the other guys shoes and trying to understand why they are the way they are. Then I could put aside enmity and practice empathy. People have told me on occasion that I am too gullible, too forgiving and that sometimes people don't deserve another chance, but holding on to anger hurts me, worse.

One Christmas, I think it was 2004, I innocently opened up a large, flat package from my nephews. It was wrapped in a garbage bag with a bow. I took one look, threw it on the floor and started shrieking and jumping on it. The room exploded in laughter, and it was too bad no one taped my response to the gift of a full size cardboard cut out of George W. Bush. They would have won $10,000. Yes, everyone knew how much I couldn't even stand to look at the man, no less his politics. But something happened to me while watching the Obama inauguration. GWB walked out onto the platform and hardly anyone, from either party, wanted to shake his hand. He looked so confused and suddenly, I felt sorry for him. I felt some empathy. I wanted to hang on to hate, but I couldn't.

Just recently, I saw a picture of someone who had modified their body in what I thought was an unwise way. I found myself thinking I would never do that. I am finally old enough to see whenever I say never, I am usually proved wrong. From microwave ovens to cell phones, all those nevers are gone. That is not to say I am endorsing tattoos, piercing, various surgical procedures, and foods. But I am starting to understand why a person might do these things and feel proud of the way they look. I stood in the shower and made the connection. The start of empathy, the start of compassion.

When I looked up the definition of compassion just now, I saw that it goes far beyond empathy and sympathy. It means to actively work to alleviate the suffering of others. I am not actively volunteering anywhere right now, just relieving the suffering of one old lady. Sometime soon, I hope to make compassion less a philosophy and more of a way of life.

Being here now

Today, tonight, I am very glad to be here now.

When my brother died at age 21, I was sure that I was next. I had to live all his dreams and all my dreams and do it in just a couple of years, because I was sure I was going to die young. I was 16 when he died and 21 when I was given the gift of Knowledge by Maharaji. And in that initiation where I was shown the Creator within myself, I was also made aware that if I can live this moment, and be aware, I need never fear death. That was 38 years ago. I'm too old, now, to die young. I hope I have another 30 or so years to keep learning and loving and enjoying life.

Today I took the old lady to see the movie Dolphin Tail. It got generally good reviews, it didn't put in too many subplots, and it was based on a true story. Afterwards she said that she didn't expect to like it but she loved it and thanked me for taking her to see it. Then we went to Rainbow for wonton soup and egg rolls. While we were there she said something nasty about someone, using awful words straight from the mouth of my father. She has no idea how loud she speaks and I had to say, "Mom, please! Everyone can hear you." One minute she is a darling 97 year old lady, and the next minute she is a sheet metal worker. Oh my God.

Later I went to a little holiday party at my building. I even had half a frozen rum drink. And later still, off to hear Rock It Science at Mainstreet Bar in Hopkins. Some friends from up north and down south were getting together there. I felt fine ordering club soda, and I felt fine leaving when I did. A little dancing, good company and no worries.

I thought I had a ton of wisdom to impart. Lucky, lucky readers, I can't remember it! I really am happy, though, just being here now.

Peace in my heart

I used to love hosting Thanksgiving. Having all that love in our home was more delicious than all the good things to eat. Luckily I was able to experience that again, today. It wasn't in my own home, but the love was just the same, and the food, of course, was wonderful. Suffice it to say Clara was cooking. Those who know her will understand, and those who have never experienced a party given by Clara and Ernesto can never understand their particular bounty.

We were of all ages, Linus is just under 6 months old and Harriet is just under 98 years old. At one point my sister-in-law was able to arrange a four generation photo shoot with her mother, daughter, and grandchildren. And of course we took a group photo. I will add it to this blog when it is forwarded to me. Imagine, 54 degrees on Thanksgiving and all of us outside for the picture.

Something that added to my enjoyment of the day was being able to help with the prep and the serving. I peeled 13 pounds of yukon gold potatoes, chopped veggies, and set the table for 22 on Wednesday. Then, on Thursday, I carved two whole turkeys! It is easy if you know how. (Hint: remove each side of the breast and slice on cutting board.)

When my husband and I first talked about breaking up I said to him that I would not give up his family. They were my family, too. And when we told my mother-in-law, she told me I would always be her daughter. She and my brother and sister-in-law made it possible for me to live in my own place and I thank them dearly. So today we were all able to gather, including a neighbor who I invited, my 97 year old mother, my ex and our daughter and her husband and have no tension, just love and peace. Truly, my favorite holiday.

[I have not been blogging very often these days for two reasons. One is that I don't have much to say. The other is that someone who claims to know all about me, and says he is a friend of my brother-in-law has been posting horrible comments about me on this blog. Since I am the administrator, I block them. Pete can't believe he has any friends that are hateful, and will watch out for me. I have some tech people trying to run down the source of these comments so I can report harassment  to the police.]

Halfway through November

November has been a hard month for me for many years. It took me a long time to figure out why. I didn't know if it was the declining light, the gray skies, or the coming cold. I only knew that I got blue in November. My mother died the November I was six years old. I finally went for help for depression one November some years ago.  This November I spent a few days sleeping. I have been using the Happy Light and I think it helps. It has also been a bit warmer than usual which has been a good thing.

Today, though, was cold and windy. Today was a day I spent outside at a rally and march for We Are The 99%. I have spent some of the greatest hours of my life on a picket line or marching for justice. I have to say, though, that marching in nice weather is much more fun. We met at the U of M and had a couple of speeches and then we marched down 19th Ave to a bridge. At that time I realized they were going to try to occupy the damn bridge. Call and response: Whose bridge? Our bridge. Oh no. Not me. I am all for economic and social justice but getting arrested for a bridge? What good is that? I am thrilled protests are going on and was happy to be part of a nationwide movement, but I was cold and I went home in the early dark of a Minnesota November.

The high point of the month is Thanksgiving. I have always loved Thanksgiving. To me it is the perfect holiday, good food and good company and no presents needed. I especially loved setting the long tables in my Orono home and having eighteen or twenty loved ones enjoying the food I cooked. People would go around the table and say what they were grateful for, or maybe we would sing a grace. It was just such good energy. And after games and the table being put back, I loved the order of my clean house. This year we will gather together and have a great time, but not in my place. This is probably my mother's last Thanksgiving and I hope she has a good time and doesn't get too blue missing the old man.

The month is half over and drama, unemployment, and a thousand year old mother in poor health aside, I am doing pretty well for November.

The desire to be heard

I have been spending quite a lot of time with the old lady, 97. Because she lives in a HUD building, we knew she couldn't stay in a two bedroom apartment after the old man died. We just moved her into a one bedroom, two floors up. It is very close to the elevator which is major. Thanks to my sister in law, who engineered the move and yesterday hung all her pictures, things have gone smoothly. Right now there are two big concerns, she can't find her gold earrings and she hates the hall light fixture.

Truthfully, I have no idea where the earrings are and hope my daughter can help her find them.

The light fixture is another story altogether. There is something about a new place and a new fixture that is ingrained in her. Back in 1960 when she married my father, her sisters bought a chandelier as a wedding gift. When we moved to Orono, that was the gift she wanted to give us. Even in the first assisted living apartment, her first desire was for a ceiling fan and light for the dining area that had to be bought and installed pronto. Now she sits about fifteen feet away from the light by the door. She can't really see the white globe, but she hates it. She wants a nicer fixture, why can't she have one?

We have told her the fan won't fit there and she accepts it. Yesterday I took her to Home Depot to look at lights. She hated anything that sat flush against the ceiling as hall lights do. So I showed her some that hung below the ceiling and she hated them too. It turns out she wants a multi-light chandelier, that's all. At first I couldn't see it, the mounting is pretty close to the wall, not centered at all. But then I realized if we bought something with a chain, we could put it anywhere with a hook. Finally we were on the same page.  We didn't find the style she wanted and I will keep looking.

We went to Chili's where she enjoyed her dinner but ate very little. In the months since my father got sick and died, the old lady has lost some weight. She used to eat half a rack of ribs. Yesterday she had soup and one rib and half a cob of corn. She says she has no appetite and doesn't even look at the weekend box meals. She does a little better in the dining room, but really is not eating much and so the downward spiral goes. She told me she hasn't been able to eat since he died, not hungry and nothing tastes very good. This is a problem for the extreme elderly. If you don't put gas in the car, it can't go very far. She uses the walker but I got her a wheelchair at Home Depot.

We got back to the apartment and she was very happy to sit with all her pretty things around her. The familiar pictures and plates are on the walls and if felt like home. As is normal for her, she said the same thing over and over. But instead of saying how much she hated the globe light, she kept telling me there was no emergency. She said even if it took a month to find the right fixture, there was no emergency, to take my time. It really surprised me and got me thinking.

The desire for a new light is real, but something even more real is the desire to be heard. She couldn't tell me what she wanted before we went to the store, and we kept telling her she couldn't have a fan in the space. But once she knew I understood her and would fulfill that desire, she could relax. She was heard and acknowledged. Being heard is so very important for quality of life.

For years I have been saying many of the things the Occupy Wall Street people are saying. No one in power heard me. Now others have taken up the cry that we need economic justice in this country. I walked 25,000 strong in Miami at the FTAA summit and saw all our protest marginalized and ignored. (Michael Jackson was being arrested.) I who love a good protest and have walked in many a demonstration, I am staying home and watching from the sidelines.  Somehow, I can't bear to go down there and not be heard.

New experiences at ages 97 and 59

Tonight, for the first time in her life my 97 year old mother will sleep in an apartment that is only hers. Although she has been alone since mid June, she has always lived with others. First her parents, then roommates, then her first husband, then with my father and three kids, then only my father.

Today we moved her from the assisted living apartment she shared with the old man to a one bedroom apartment of her own, two floors up. I left her in a state of amazement. She could not believe that family and friends would do all the work of moving her. Big thank you to Pete, Clara, Ernesto, John and Gavin! Thank you, thank you, thank you. Special thanks to General Leslie for her guidance and puzzle solving skills. I could not have done it without them.

Of course not everything went well. It wasn't the fault of any of the wonderful people named above. First I thought there wasn't any electricity because I didn't change the service. John and Clara suggested checking the circuit breakers. Ha ha ha, they were turned off. (Whew) Then I forgot to cancel the truck. Guess what? They didn't charge me and they had the reservation for the wrong day. I also forgot to call the cable company so she doesn't have any TV yet. But she does have phone service! After everyone left and Mom was mostly settled, I went back downstairs to bring up food and start cleaning. I wish I could tell you the feeling when the top of the bottle of cooking oil came off and it fell on the floor. Oil splashed on my face and hair and clothes and shoes, and all over the floor. I put down raggedy towels to absorb most of it. Tomorrow, I will come back with a bucket and soap. And garbage bags and Goo-gone and a sense of humor, I hope.

Monday, John and Eri are coming back to help with the little stuff. Bless them and bless me!

Stages of womanhood

Throughout history women have been classified according to their reproductive status. First, maidenhood. This is the period of time before menstruation in older cultures, and before marriage in more modern times. For some, their maidenhood and subsequent marriages have been as young as nine, although real puberty is a more accurate time frame. 


Then came motherhood. Before reliable birth control those years could have started in the early teens and gone into the forties. In older times, when women routinely died in childbirth, few women actually hit menopause, dying as grandmothers in their thirties.


After menopause, we became either wise women or crones. In either case, for many women in many cultures, sex ended along with the childbearing years. Those women healthy enough to survive the rigors of life in those days were considered wise, they had a lot of experience and gained respect. In later days if a woman tried to gain power she was considered a crone, very demeaning. In our society, rather than gaining respect, older women have become invisible. But don't you believe it. Some have surgery, some get comfortable shoes, some are happy alone, and others have mates.


So here I stand in the space between. I'm over being a mother, not quite ready for cronehood. I'm healthy and energetic, I'm not willing to take a lot of garbage from anyone, I want a good time and I want to hold babies. I am friends with the young and the old.


Yesterday afternoon I was invited to play cards with some of the older women in my condo building. It was Fran's 84th birthday. The other women ranged from those in their mid sixties to late eighties. Rita came down to say she couldn't play because her partner, Philip, needed some care; he'd needed some nitroglycerin and she didn't want to leave him alone.


We had been playing for close to three hours when I asked what time we would be done. All the ladies looked at me and the sentiment was basically whenever they wanted to stop. Suddenly it occurred to me that none of us, with the exception of Rita had to get back and make supper for a man. When I pointed it out, they all laughed.
Sometimes I get lonely and wish I had someone to cook for. Those days of being a busy young mother are gone. That was one part of life, this is another. I might or might not ever have a partner again and who knows if I would do much cooking. But when I looked around this gathering of older women having fun and enjoying their freedom I realize it is not at all a bad place to be.

Life as an immigrant in China

Tonight, on the PBS Program POV, I saw a documentary about a family that immigrated from a farm in the country to a large industrial city in China. The parents were peasants and were working day and night in a clothing factory. Their teenage daughter, for whom they were sacrificing so had dropped out of school and was also working in a factory. The parents shared a narrow bed in a curtained off area of a large and noisy place. They slept on mats on a platform, not even a mattress. The girl shared a bed with another factory girl.

The family wants to go home for New Years but there is a snow emergency and the train is held up. Thousands and thousands of people are waiting hours and days for a train that doesn't come. When it finally does arrive, they are herded on with no place to sit and by the time they get to the country where Grandmother lives tempers flare. So much unhappiness. The girl is angry at her mother for going to the city and leaving her with the grandparents when she was young. There is a young brother who still lives in the country. The first thing the parents want to see is his report card. He is fifth in his class and rather than praise him, they are disappointed that he isn't higher placed. So many hopes and dreams are riding on the children, the pressure is tremendous. It did make me wonder how bad the economy is in the country that people would choose to leave the spaciousness and clean air to live like sardines in the city.  To see those conditions is to know the desperation that drives people to try to come to America in a container on a ship and sometimes die in the attempt.

Thirty-four years ago, when we were living in Pocatello Idaho, I wanted to buy some blanket sleepers for my baby. I checked around and found some at Sears. The best price I could get was ten dollars each on sale. Recently, at Costco, infant blanket sleepers were priced at $7.99. How could a Carter's garment be so cheap? I know Costco buys in huge quantities, but that isn't the only factor. Sweatshop labor, nearly slave labor is why the price is so cheap. But what is the alternative in 2011? The domestic clothing industry is nearly dead. The consumer wants the lowest prices and the American worker is hanging on for dear life for the jobs that have not gone overseas. It is not at all cost effective to make one's own. Many of us shop for used goods.

The next program was on the factories along the Mexican border, the cities they call Maquilapolis. I couldn't watch it without wanting to cut my own throat.  Until the haves acknowledge the dignity and worth of workers, and the workers see that we are in it together, and start pulling together things will only get worse. I have no answers. I only know that until we treat humans with respect and not as disposable resources, be it as soldiers or factory workers, we will not achieve peace or prosperity.

Overwhelmed

They found a new apartment for the old lady. I told them it had to be close to the elevator. Right now she is in 101, she will be moving to 301. It is a brand new conversion to assisted living. They started with the first two floors and now have some of the third floor done. If I had my druthers she would move to Shalom Home. But she doesn't need 24 hour care and it saves the taxpayers a lot of money to keep her in an apartment as long as possible. Management will give me a key mid October. I want to have her moved the weekend of the October 15 and 16.

My mother is 97 years old, frail, and very sad that my father is gone. She has beatified him in memory and sometimes I have to remind her that he was no saint. "But he adored me," she replies. She hates walking by the door to his room and can't wait to move.  I was hoping they wouldn't make her move or find an apartment very soon. At 97, how much longer can she last? (Don't ask, who thought she would last this long?) This woman has STUFF and I am feeling overwhelmed. There is not as much as before because my sister and I got rid of a ton of things when we packed the Brooklyn apartment in 2005.

I know if I ask my family they will come and help move her. I hate to ask people to give up much of their Saturday or Sunday. We are going to need muscle for the big stuff, as well as a furniture dolly. Then we need someone who can hang pictures. Also someone to hang window treatments. But first I have to make a list.

1. Ask for help
2. Gather boxes
3. Decide what to keep and what to give away
4. Pack boxes
5. Find a furniture dolly. There are plenty of carts for anything else
6. Ask for peace in my heart and patience in my actions
7. Give others a chance to do a good deed. (In Yiddish it is called a mitzvah and benefits both the giver and receiver.

There, that wasn't so bad. One step at a time. One breath at time. It is going to be fine. It might even be fun.)

New days new ways

Quotes: The Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett

'Miss Tick sniffed. "You could say this advice is priceless," she said. "Are you listening?"
"Yes," said Tiffany.
"Good. Now...if you trust in yourself..."
"Yes?"
"...and believe in your dreams..."
"Yes?"
"...and follow your star..." Miss Tick went on.
"Yes?"
"...you'll still get beaten by people who spent their their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy. Good-bye."'

I think about what causes laziness per se, but inertia and hidebound thinking.     I know it is fear. For me it is fear of rejection, of having my feelings hurt, of not being right, of being wrong. I think it is fear of being called stupid or being told I shouldn't have tried because that good thing should not belong to me. It is fear of success. Garrison Keillor talks about not standing out, of being like others, not making waves, and of course not putting one's self forward. I get it. You don't have to be raised in Minnesota by Sanctified Brethren to get that message. You can get the message loud and clear in Brooklyn too. Be like everyone else, be better than everyone else, but get no support for your efforts.

I lost my mother at a young age and sometimes I feel like I have been playing catch up ever since. I was a totally clueless child. I had no idea how anything was done and certainly learned to muddle through on my own rather than ask for help from my madman father and semi-illiterate stepmother. I never felt that my parents could help me because anytime they stepped in, they made it worse. The crazy thing is, I can help almost anyone. I can find resources for others, but have a hard time punching my way out of a paper bag.

So, what brings on this introspection? I've been terminated from the product demonstrator position I have held in a warehouse store for a year. It is a relief to know I don't have to worry over how I will offend the boss anymore. It is a relief to have the time and inclination to look for a job that is a better fit, where I can do good, and maybe have a little dignity. More than that, I want health insurance!

I have decided to do things a little differently. I am going to move ahead despite my fears. My new motto is, "What is the worst that could happen?" Face that fear: looking stupid, being rejected, etc, etc, in a logical way and not get discouraged by real or imagined hurts that could happen. The flipside is, of course, "What is the best that could happen?"

I have friends working on PhD degrees, friends accepting new positions in new places, a niece that is working full time, has two small children and writing a book. I see people putting themselves in an open place, where by their efforts, they can experience their dreams coming true.

Today, I made several changes. I microwaved an ear of corn. Guess what? It was delicious and easy. I called a friend and I am going to go up to Ely for a few days rest on Sunday. I have asked a neighbor to feed my cats while I am gone. Just because I can't go to California doesn't mean I have to stay home. And I am going to pursue getting back either into a helping profession or find something else that is wonderful to do. What is the worst that can happen? I might succeed.

Final evening in our pool

Today was the last open day for the pool at our little condo.  It was a glorious hot day, 92 or 88 degrees and I had to work until 6:30. I was hoping that it would stay warm and I could go for a final dip. As soon as I fed the cats and got out there, a ferocious wind began to whip the leaves around and the water was all fast moving ripples, but oh so warm. I got in and worked out, talking to neighbors who came out to take advantage of this last time to swim and chat.

A condo is a funny place. Each person owns a little (or big) piece of space. That is ours, inviolately our own to decorate and keep as we please. But there is a larger part of ownership. We all are vested in the building itself, from roof to garage.  Now that the pool is closing, we will retreat to our units, some of us to never see each other until next year when the pool opens for the season.

I will probably see a few people in the laundry room or in the garage, and I can only stand to attend the first hour of board meetings where few people show up. If I don't want to be isolated, if I want to live in a community, it is up to me to take the steps that will make this building a wonderful place to call home.

The first step was National Night Out. The second step is talking to everyone I meet and introducing myself. Stephen and I used the pool together several times. He told me he lived here for six years and I was the only person whose name he knew. So I am thinking of hosting a Winter party/potluck meet and greet for new and old residents in the community room. If people want to come, fine. If not, they have the right to their privacy.

Little steps; it will be fun to see what happens,.

The clearance rack

I just sifted through a few days facebook posts to find this quote: Please remember: If you're not being treated with love and respect, check your price tag. Perhaps you have marked yourself down. It's YOU who tells people what you're worth by what you accept. Get off the clearance rack and get behind the glass where they keep the valuables! LEARN to value yourself more! If you don't, no one else will! Re-post if you like, you may help someone get off the CLEARANCE RACK! Great reminder to LOVE yourself! Life is short! Be happy

This really spoke to me. When I go to a store I gravitate to the clearance rack. I don't even look at the regular stock, thinking I can't afford it so why even look? And yet, when I think about two of my favorite items of clothing, the embroidered denim coat and the dress I wore to Eri and John's wedding, neither one was on clearance. They spoke to me and I had to have them. I've had years of pleasure from both.

But what about myself? Have I put myself on the clearance rack? Sometimes yes, but lately no. I am not some cut rate shmatta and I will not allow myself to be treated like one. Some people think this is arrogance and aggression. It can be perceived that way I suppose. I have always been of two minds about this. Maybe I should say of two stomaches. When I was a child and being discounted half of me would cringe and accept how stupid (or whatever I was being called) I must be. The other half was screaming that I was not stupid, etc. I was wonderful. It lead to a lot of stomach upset and tension. To this day tension plays havoc with my innards.

Recently I have been meeting men who contacted me on a dating service. It is always at a public place and I wonder to myself, why did I meet this person? I wasn't crazy about their looks, but they approached me. Almost like I am on the clearance rack and another 75% has been taken off my lowest price. Maybe I will meet someone who treats me as the greatest find ever. But mostly it has been less than that and I have no interest in ever meeting them again.

So, I am going shopping in the better men's shops. I might not be able to afford or attract the guy in the Hugo Boss suit, but I sure as hell am not accepting the Sad Sac in the Robert Hall suit bought at Goodwill. 

There you have it, defiant as hell, but... I'm worth it! 

The Tree of Life

One thing about living near a cheap theater, I get the opportunity to see a lot of movies that have not been blockbusters. They are good movies, but not big money makers.  This evening I went to see the Brad Pitt, Sean Penn movie The Tree of Life.  The critics loved it but it seemed to go in and out of the first run houses very quickly. I wasn't sure what to expect. Roger Ebert said, 

"The Tree of Life is a film of vast ambition and deep humility, attempting no less than to encompass  all of existence and view it through the prism of a few infinitesimal lives." (I have no idea how to  get rid of this border, sorry)

The first part was amazing images of earth and sky and light cut with short human scenes. I loved the music and pictures. At one point, though, I wondered if there was a story at all. Then the story unfolds. There was for me a quantity of uncomfortable tension. The child actors are very well done, and the house and neighborhood become integral to the story, almost characters.


Symbolism plays a big part in this picture and as Sean Penn himself put it, he had a hard time knowing what it was about and why he was even there. As I sat there for two hours and eighteen minutes, I grew restless. I wanted to shout, "I get it! Get on with it!" I think they could have cut at least twenty minutes of constellations, lava eruptions and other natural phenomena. It must have been heart wrenching to the director to cut any of the beautiful images.


I left the theater liking and disliking this film. I understood it and also wondered what the hell it was about. I understand, I do, that we are all connected, we are all alone, we all wonder who and why we are and the best thing one can do is be open to love.

I want

I want (in no particular order)

1. R-E-S-P-E-C-T
2. Good friends
3. Workout partner
4. To laugh
5. To have fun
6. To have a job with dignity and a decent salary
7. Health insurance I can afford
8. To have someone I can adore
9. To have someone who adores me back
10. Healthy food without too much salt that tastes wonderful
11. A vacation away from responsibilities
12. Motivation to deal with the mess of paper on the dining room table
13. To be able to sleep 8 hours straight

While I've been writing this I saw a commercial for Latisse, so I guess I also want longer, thicker eyelashes but I don't want my green eyes to turn brown. You notice I didn't ask for riches, a new car or plastic surgery.

How about you? 

The Telltale Chirp

Last night started out fine with an invitation to go dancing. The professor sure could move and I followed every step. We sat in a dark booth and slugged down club sodas with orange slices. About midnight we gorged on cherries at my place before I bid him a fond good night. I kicked off my dancing shoes and prepared for bed. New sheets invited in their crispness. At last, in bed with Martha Stewart.

I hadn't been asleep very long when I was awakened by a chirping. I got up and checked the smoke/carbon monoxide monitor. It was hard-wired in and didn't need a battery. I reset it then, and an hour later, all night long. Chirp, no chirp, chirp. By five I was a sleepless zombie. I called 911 and asked to speak to a fireman. They sent two to check it out. The tall one took the unit off the wall. The short one could find no source of carbon monoxide. The tall one found the back up battery in the unit and took it out. I offered cookies which they declined, and they left with my heartfelt thanks.

It felt so good to go back to bed and know I could sleep undisturbed. The sleep mask kept the dawn at bay and a cat snuggled near my feet. Then... chirp! What? How can that be? It is unplugged, it has no battery. It must be my imagination. Several chirps later I put on a robe and deposited the unit in my car in the underground garage.

It was past six and I knew the old lady would be calling soon. I was so tired. Determined to get some sleep I drifted back to bed, perhaps to dream. What kind of nightmare was this? How could I hear a chirp so clear, so loud, so near? I sat up in bed, wild eyed and turned on the light. Where was it coming from? There! Up there by the ceiling, another monitor, small and white. I hauled out the step stool and pulled it from the wall. Out came the battery and within minutes sleep descended.

Seven dollars and a trip to Target later, both alarms are armed with five year batteries and the only chirping to be heard are the crickets in the park.

Isn't technology great?

You can't call me an early adopter but I used to work with a very paranoid woman who distrusted all technology. She would not get an ATM card, use a cell phone and only used the internet at work. She was afraid of being hacked. Frankly, I thought she was deluding herself. If you have a social security number, and a bank account or mortgage, all your information is out there for the taking by people who know. I was late getting a microwave oven and cell phone but was kind of early getting on the net and can't think of living without internet access. 

About five this afternoon I called my oldest daughter, iphone to iphone. She had just stopped at a rest area about forty miles from Billings, Montana, and I thought she might like some company on her trip. She loves to call when she drives. The connection kept dropping and we kept calling each other back. She is on her way back to California from Minnesota. I asked her where she was staying that night and was told how by using the internet connection on her phone, she was able to find a place near Yellowstone and the directions to get there. Isn't technology great?

My lovely cousin Amy and her husband reconnected with our family by facebook. An old friend had a birthday and by seeing who wished him happy, I was able to find another old connection and send a message. I am going on a brunch cruise this Sunday. I found out about it on the computer. Isn't technology great?

Sure there is a danger of using technology for nefarious reasons, but I am really glad to have the benefit of  silicone chips and whatever they will think of next. I will probably continue to be a late adopter, getting a tablet when they are almost obsolete, continuing to read paper books, and still prefer talking to texting. Like it or not, kicking and screaming, here I am in the twenty-first century, and happy to be here. You are reading my journal, published for all to see. Isn't technology great?

A movie, and life review

The old lady and I saw the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love today. I loved it. Because I was sitting next to a 97 year old woman with macular degeneration I had to pay special attention to be able to tell her what was happening to which character.  There are many surprises, or as my mother says, "Wheels within wheels." It kept me guessing right until the end. And as I said, I did love and enjoy it.

You may have seen the trailer where Steve Carrell tells his ex that he should have fought for her. I floated around and around the pool at dusk wondering, could I have fought harder, could have my ex? Then I remembered that what I saw was a scripted story and what I experienced was life. It is easier to get a happy ending on film in 90 minutes. The actors actually talk about what is going on.

There is always one or more parts in a film that I have trouble believing.  It can be something as small as a hairdo or makeup from the wrong period to the way one character acts. In the case of this movie it was the thirteen year old son talking freely and publicly about his emotions. It just doesn't happen. A girl, maybe, but not your average young boy. Hell, not his father either. But it was a needed device to make the story work.

Lately I am spending a lot of time with the old lady. She is really missing the old man. They were together close to 52 years and it was a second marriage for each of them. She did not marry until she was 31 years old and was with her first husband 13 years. He died the same month as my mother, who had been married to my dad for 19 years. She says my father loved my mother and she loved her first husband. I know that it was a difficult second marriage for both of them while the kids were still at home. I lived in a house of chaos, manipulation, anger, violence, and fear. But for the last 36 years, alone together, they were pretty happy. She says she keeps crying and can't stop. I reassure her that it has only been one month and she has every right to grieve. I tell her that she is the one who saved his life and kept him alive. She says she was very lucky, she had not one, but two men who adored her. I agree.

She says I don't seem as sad as she is. It is absolutely true and I told her it is because she and I believe differently. I have had the most amazing feeling of lightness since the old man died. I just know that he has had personality taken away and has become what we all essentially are, love. I know he is happy, not sitting on a cloud... in fact I can't even imagine what or where he is, but I know that soul is at peace and all worries are over.

This was going to be an essay about recognizing opportunity and seizing the moment. I have so much to say about missed chances and wasted opportunities. But what is the sense of that? Can I change anything that has already happened? No. Here is my prayer, that I be fully aware in this moment, let go of fear in this moment, and be open to all the chances to be a real human and experience life and love in all its wonderful manifestations. I wish the same for you, too.

Family of love

When my second daughter was born, I hand-lettered her birth announcements on beautiful postcards. There was a central white space with lovely drawn and colored animals all around. And in the middle I wrote, "We are family, family of love, introducing our newest member..." Well that was over thirty years ago and I keep finding new branches, such as my darling new grandnephew, Linus, and dormant branches coming back into bloom.

This evening I got to see a cousin I haven't seen for at least forty years. What a wonderful treat to be together. My mother's niece Amy and her husband Paul flew into the cities from Atlanta as their first stop on the way to Minot, North Dakota. They will spend the weekend with a daughter and husband who live there. It was really fun for the old lady to tell tales out of school and for my cousin to tell what her life had been like and why she distanced herself from her family. She ran away and got married to leave home, and I ran away from home to get away from my parents and the man who wanted to marry me. She had no clue about me! I really do have to laugh. We each think the crisis' we experience in our young lives are so earth shattering that of course everyone knows.

We spoke of a cousin who won't talk to anyone from his side of the family, only his wife's. We spoke of having parents who were hard to deal with, but with all their mishegas, we still couldn't walk away. It was her mother, it was my father. I found it remarkable that we both married very nice men. (The fact that my marriage ended doesn't mean he wasn't a nice man, he was and is a very good person.)

Amy is my step-mother's niece and we are not related by blood, yet we are family of love. During dinner, my mother leaned over and kissed my shoulder. And as we drove home, I put my hand on hers and said, "We are doing OK, aren't we?" I see the friends she has in the building where she lives, and know others are looking out for her. The other night I organized National Night Out for my little condo and all the older ladies who have befriended me showered me with love for my efforts.

I have bunches and bunches of cousins all over this country and none of them have cared enough to stay in touch. It makes me sad to think about them, especially when I see the wonderful reunions Midwest families make. At this point the only family I know by blood are my sister and her sons, and my own daughters. Still, all my in-laws are dear to me and I could not love them more.

I have friends on facebook, and others who I don't talk to for months at a time. Yet I know, though not by blood, we are still family, family of love.

You've got to be carefully taught

I have been thinking about racism.


"You've got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You've got to be taught
From year to year,
It's got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!"



The lyrics above are from the musical South Pacific. They are just as true today as they were in 1949 when the show opened. And I wonder, why? Why hate? I don't get it.


It seems to me that the bedrock of racism is a belief that one kind, one's own kind of people are inherently better than other human beings. It negates the idea of all people being beloved in the Creator's eye. When it says in the Bible that man was created in God's image, it doesn't specifically say which people. To me, people are people. We all bleed red. Our hearts all break. There are cultural differences for sure, but you can put type O blood into any human and it won't be rejected. 


None of us can control the circumstances of our birth and all of us are different. What we can control is our reaction to our race. The racist hurts others with his or her attitude but never realizes how much their own growth is limited. Is it fear or inferiority that causes militant racism? Are people threatened by seeing others of a different ethnicity get ahead? Have certain people of a different race hurt them, or are they just repeating the party line they have been carefully taught?


I am not a fan of parochial schools. I feel they carefully teach children that they are better because of their religious beliefs. They advocate a difference between themselves and the rest of the world, and they are superior. I think children should be taught empathy and compassion, that they are world citizens. But then again, I was raised pretty much as a Jewish heathen. I know that when people seek out answers, they will find them and it isn't always in a church or temple.


I am not against people seeking their own kind because they feel comfortable worshipping or living with others who look or think the same way. I am against the idea that one way is inherently superior to another. There needs to be an acknowledgement that all humans have worth.

Don't assume, don't presume

After the old man died, I was almost flippant about the amount of care the old lady would need. She has always been the strong one, and not that much fuss. She is definitely high maintenance, but that mostly meant telling her how beautiful she looks each time I see her. At 97 she still likes clothes and shoes and hair. She is a true narcissist, everything is about her. When she tells me that the people in her building only care to talk about their own selves, she doesn't see herself. What can I say to that?

I assumed I could handle her, easy. She wasn't as demanding as the old man. But I didn't count on one thing, the old man told her how good she looked and kept her up to standard. The old man demanded she dye her hair. He would tell her to stand up straight or put something else on. Almost like a child who wants attention, she didn't care if he was yelling at her to clean up her room, (he couldn't stand the mess on her dresser or the shoes on the floor) or telling her she was the prettiest woman in the building. It was all attention and it was all good.

Since the old man went into the nursing home in mid June, until now, I am seeing her almost every other day. It is too much. Not for her, but for me. I am tired, tired, tired and I need a vacation. On the days I don't see her I still have to deal with all kinds of stuff that pertains to her. I took her out for a nice day on Saturday, had to deal with the health care staff on Sunday, and take her to Urgent Care on Monday. I can't wait to go to work on Tuesday.

The activities are not hard on me physically, it is the constant repetition that gets me and used to get the old man until his hearing got so bad. The reason he would not wear his hearing aids lived with him. He loved her, but she doesn't shut up and doesn't realize she has just told you the same self-centered story for the ten thousandth time. That wouldn't be so bad, but you have to respond in some way. Today, at the clinic, I told her not to tell me the same old negative story. I picked up a Reader's Digest and read the following joke (more or less):

Jack woke up hung over, aching, with a black eye and read a note on the bedside table, "Darling, I've made you breakfast and have gone to the store to get fixings for your favorite dinner. I love you." He stumbled out of bed and found his breakfast and his son. "Can you tell me what happened last night?" His son said that he came home soused, tripped over a chair and got a black eye. Jack showed him the note and asked if he understood it. "Oh, that was when Mom got you to bed. She tried to take off your clothes but you fought and yelled for her to stop, you were married."


She laughed and laughed. I wound up tearing the joke out so she could bring it to dinner. (Yes, that was me.) Easily amused, she just needs a lot of attention, like a four year old. It turns out the ache in her back was a cracked rib and they put a belt on it. Now she will need help dressing, another thing to be arranged on my end.

Well, there is no cute end to this post, just thanks for letting me vent. I appreciate it.

Pool Haiku

It has been beastly hot here. Sweltering, melting, sweating, dripping, sticky, icky, hot. The kind of hot that makes eye glasses fog up when getting out of an air conditioned car. The kind of hot that makes children cranky and anyone with sense stays out of the sun. I really felt for the boys collecting shopping carts from the parking lot. A hard day for lifeguards, mail carriers, and road crews. Air conditioners could not keep up. My fingers were all pruney when I took off the gloves at work, there was so much sweat inside them.

When I got home from work and minor errands I lay on the couch cooling off. I watched the super talented children on So You Think You Can Dance and wondered how anyone could pick a favorite. It was nine o'clock before I went out to the pool area. It was delicious to uncoil the hose to water the plants and talk to each of them, calling them by name. Here you go, Tomato, here's a drink for Fuchsia, and Marigold, I am so proud of you.

Walking into the pool was like walking into a large tepid tub, not bracing at all, just relaxing and soft. I made myself do about ten minutes of exercise in the shallow end before I took a foam noodle out to the deep end. Back and forth like a water skeeter on surface then I abandoned the flotation device and just lay on my back looking up at the sky. It has been so humid that only a few stars shone and I found myself wondering if someone was floating on those far away pinpoints of light. I'd like to think so.

I started writing Haiku in my head. Five syllables for the first and third line and seven for the second. Haiku is the perfect form of poetry for me, short. Buoyant in the water, nope that is six syllables. Like an otter, she floats, nope six again.

Otter-like she floats, 

Buoyant, writing poetry, 

Counting syllables.

Machinery hums,

Blessed coolness behind doors,

Wet, I feel no chill.

Ears under water,

Alone in sheer abandon,

So glad blubber floats!

Friends in hot places,

Drink water, make plans to move.

Northern winter calls.

Half done

When I moved my parents out to Minnesota from Brooklyn, I had one goal. I wanted to know that when they died I had done all I could do to have no regrets. Now that the old man is gone I can say without a doubt, that I did all I could for him and I have no regrets as far as my care goes. Are there other regrets? Sure. I regret that he did not reconcile and ask my sister for forgiveness. I regret I don't know very much more than I did before about his horrific childhood. I regret I did not hear any stories about my birth mother. I regret that he could not talk about the past.

I can tell you something that is a bonus. I got to see a softer side of Sid. I got to see someone who was able to change his attitude about me. Did he appreciate me? I really don't know. He still thought I was a bit of a Pollyanna, doing for others when I didn't have to. But he started to see that as part of me, and not a bad thing. Over the past six years I lost my temper with him a few times. It wasn't pretty, and it really alarmed him. It also made him act better towards me and others. I wish him well in his new manifestation, whatever that may be.  A cousin said he was probably doing a jig somewhere. I have a feeling he is very happy.

The job is half done and I am feeling quite a lot of patience with the old lady. She never expected to outlive nearly everyone from her generation. Of five brothers and sisters, she is the only one left with her marbles. A younger sister, 88, lives in Florida. The friends she used to have in NY are all dead and many of the people she's met in her building are gone. She says she has no friends, but that isn't true. There was a great outpouring of sympathy from other residents and people have been very kind. The problem is short term memory loss. 

At 97, Harriet can remember her childhood and early life quite well. At least I think so, who is there to challenge her? But when it comes to events closer to now, we sometimes disagree. It is all perception and if it did not personally affect her, she can't remember at all. Whether this is true memory loss or just a manifestation of narcissism, I don't know. She repeats stories how others have offended her ad nauseam. She tends to forget details such as when I am coming for her. Then I find her in tears and fright and have to calm her down. My mantra these days is, "I won't abandon you." She finds it comforting and the other day she kissed my hand. I told her that isn't the way to kiss, and put my arms around her for a hug. She knocks me out and I am humbled.

She says she is ready to go anytime. She doesn't want to live to 100. I think she will, maybe even 101. I wonder what lessons will be learned in this last part of our journey?

Now for something completely different

It has been a few days since I've blogged and find I have little to say about what is going on in my life. Everything is fine. I want to talk about Shakespeare instead.

I have never cared for Shakespeare. I find reading his works quite tedious and watching them being performed is torturous for me. I also dislike Gilbert and Sullivan, and with the exception of Carmina Burana, can't stand opera.  I don't feel uncultured and have a great appreciation for most fine art, from ancient to modern.

It was with great joy that I came across these quotes about Shakespeare and want to share them.

1. Voltaire "This enormous dunghill."

2. Leo Tolstoy "Crude, immoral, vulgar and senseless."

3. J. R. R. Tolkien "I went to King Edward's school and spent most of my time learning Latin and Greek: but I also learned English literature--except Shakespeare, which I disliked cordially..."

4. George Bernard Shaw "There is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare when I measure my mind against his . It would be positively a relief to me to dig him up and throw stones at him."

5.  Charles Darwin "I have tried lately to read Shakespeare and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me."

As far as Gilbert and Sullivan go, I wish they would. I don't know which I care for less, the bumpity, bumpity tempo, the idiotic stories, the interminable length of the damn things or the audience who think it is ever so clever. The fact that one of my favorite writers, Robert Bencheley, adored it makes me want to like it but by the end of the first act, I have had enough, more, more than enough. A good friend is part of the local company but even for him, I can't attend.

So what do I like? New and thought provoking, old and well written. I love literature that is so tasty and attractive to read I want to eat it with a spoon. I like music with a melody and care more for DeBussey than Handel. I love good singers who don't shriek or make me flinch with their nasal sounding assaults. I love clear notes I can hear and would gladly miss everything played with distortion or a wah-wah pedal.

Both my daughters like Shakespeare. Quite a large part of the population does, too. But as for me and those quoted above, we'd rather not venerate his writing. There is one passage, though, that I've loved since sixth grade:


"This above all: to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
— William Shakespeare (Hamlet)

So there you have it... being true to myself, I won't pretend to you that I can stand the bard.

Love to my friends and family

People keep coming up to me to share their condolences. Yes, my father, the old man passed Wednesday night, and boy oh boy are we happy! They say, "We are sorry for your loss." And I say thank you for your good wishes, but you don't have to be sorry. We are delighted he is out of his misery, and we are happy to be out of ours, too. The time for crying was while he was here, helpless and thirsty and wanting to die. Now is a time of celebration. Being with him Wednesday while he was totally non-responsive and autonomously breathing was pretty awful. Seeing his corpse, later that day, was absolutely liberating. The body on the bed reminded me of seeing a dead fly on a windowsill. Just a husk. That is all this body is when life is gone.

I wake up feeling wonderful. I believe in Energy, that cannot be created or destroyed. I am thrilled that he made his transition to another form. Maybe he will come back, but if my prayers are answered, I won't have to deal with him again. The old lady and I cried and she said, "I am so happy he died, but I will miss him so much." Yes, and I will have to deal with her, a different apartment, contacting social security, etc. But I know I can do it, and so can she. We are survivors.

L'Chiam, to life, in whatever form it takes. Let's make the most of ours while we are in this one. Be happy for Sidney, for Harriet and for me.

Quality of Life

I went to see my father at seven this morning. I stayed for about twenty minutes, holding his hand, speaking gently, watching him breathe. There were times his chest was so still, I thought he was gone, and then there would be a little snort to show he was alive. I held his hand, which was warm, giving it little squeezes, but he did not squeeze back. I told him I was sorry he had an unhappy life and that I loved and forgave him. I told him I was sorry for the grief I have given him over the years. I did a lot of silent communion too. The prayer of St Francis, "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace," ran through my head. But I did not feel peaceful, I felt sad.

Shalom Home West is a beautiful facility on a beautiful campus. The courtyard is filled with conversation areas and lovely plantings. There is art and sculpture all over the place and the air smells good. There were no harsh voices. My dad is in this place of caring, with not a care in the world, except his next breath, and even that is not up to him. He is in limbo, not dead, but not really alive. And as beautiful as the facility is, there is not much quality of life for him.

What makes quality of life? Think of the movie Slumdog Millionaire. There is a scene where a child dives into human waste to retrieve an important slip of paper. That child had more quality of life than my father does now. There has to be a joy in living, a sliver of hope that tomorrow is worth staying alive to see. There has to be a reason to strive. There has to be a reason to laugh and hope and love.

The sweet peas I planted are starting to bloom. I've longed for that scent. It, along with all my little garden, improve my quality of life, as well as my neighbors. I hope that acts of kindness towards each other, whether acknowledged or not, aid in lifting the quality of life all around. My mother is devastated each time she sees him. I can only be there and try to be kind. She can make me crazy and it is my job to let her cry. What else can I do? Yelling does not help. So to improve her quality of life, I have to show love and understanding. My hope is that by doing this the ripples of kindness and caring spread to the far reaches of our existence.

Wishing all my family, friends, and even our pets, a day of appreciation for the gift of life. Jai ho!

The squeaky wheel

Early Tuesday morning, about 3 AM, I called the nurse's station. I explained who I was and why I was calling; Sunday and Monday morning I received messages that the old man had crawled out of bed and they found him on the floor. I wanted them to check him and make sure he was still in bed. They checked him every two hours. I wanted them to check him more often. I did not want to get one more call that he was on the floor. They wanted me to go back to bed.

Last night the old lady and I went to visit. We found the bed moved up against the wall and a thick mat placed next to it on the other side. This way, if he gets the notion and energy to crawl out of bed again, at least he won't be lying on the cold floor. Not ideal, but not too bad either. I pulled the mat away so my mother could sit by him and hold his hand. "Do you know who I am?" she asked. "You're my wife!" We were happy that he was aware, but then after she told him she loved him he turned into a petulant child. "I want to go home. Why do I have to be here? I was happy at home, you should have left me there!" Then the moans and groans came and this dramatic statement, "I want to die, it was miserable in the beginning and my whole life and it is miserable now."

Way to go, Dad, way to go. Tell the woman who tells you how much she loves you that your whole life, including the 52 years spent with her, stinks. The old lady is a trooper. She told him that he can come home when he can walk again. She says he is like a bad baby. I will tell you one thing, if you are a miserable young man, and make no effort to look for the good, you will be a miserable old man. Two weeks ago the doctor told us he couldn't live more than two weeks. Surprise, surprise.

The old lady asks if she is a bad person if she wants him to die? No, not at all. We all do, including the old man. I think we all want some peace. (When do we want it? Now!) Other people talk of the beauty of watching a parent die and the wonderful closure. I am pretty sure we will not be having that experience. Next visit, I am not waking him up. I would rather watch him sleep than yell lies about his getting better.

Lifting the burden

It turns out that the old lady is very susceptible to agreeing with whomever she is talking to. If a nurse said my dad was getting enough care at home, she agreed. If I said he should be moved to a care facility, she agreed. Finally, I made the decision to have him moved and I think she is OK with it. We moved him on Thursday night, gave him a day to get settled and went to visit yesterday.

He was more alert, knew who we were and had enough energy to be a pain in the ass. Wonderful! It hurt her so much that the last time she kissed him, he looked at her blankly. This time she knew he recognized her and that gave her happiness. Having him being cared for in a nice facility has really lifted the burden on both of us. She feels a little guilty, but I told her she shouldn't. He is getting a higher quality of care and I think we were both surprised to see him doing so well, mentally.

Physically, I have seen better looking prisoners of war. He is so skinny, his legs, arms and chest are just bones. His face is pretty skeletal. Yet there is still that spark of life there. He was able to complain about the bed being hard (it is an air mattress) and he was aware enough to want to go home, whereas at home he had no idea of where he was. Sort of a convoluted way of saying he was alert. And the moaning! He was not suffering in silence as long as he had an audience.

I said to him, "Dad, you know you don't have to stay around for us. Anytime you feel like leaving, go ahead." He replied that it isn't that easy. It must be frightening to let go of the only life you have consciously known when you do not believe in the Creator or any kind of continuation of consciousness.  Many years ago, when I received the meditation techniques I sometimes practice, I lost my fear of death because I saw eternity and know that my energy will go on forever in some shape or other.

So I feel good but my mother is just starting to prepare herself for being widowed for the second time. She is not looking forward to living alone, but I can't see her marrying again. (That was a joke) Keep sending her good thoughts. As the tiny, bent over thing declares, "I must be strong as a horse!" Yes, Mom, an old thoroughbred put out to pasture, enjoying a few days of sun.

Solstice evening

I took a walk at sunset, just because I could. On one side was a peek into people's lives through their windows and on the other was Wolfe Lake. I would call it more of a pond, it is quite small. All kinds of hop toads were warming on the asphalt, colored so closely to the pavement they were hard to see. The first instinct is to get a stick and make them jump but then the thought comes to show respect and I walk on and leave them alone. They jump when they want to and bask when they want to and who am I to intrude? Boundaries, boundaries.

I came back through the pool area and stopped to commune with the potted plants. I found myself singing to them, telling them through tuneless song how much I thought of them, how I rejoiced in their growth. I don't know what any neighbors on their balconies might have thought, but the flowers and vines and I had a really peaceful time together.

Tomorrow my dad's doctor is going to come over to the apartment to see him and make a recommendation for placement in a facility that can care for him better. It might be a real hospice or hospice care at a nursing home. The fact is that he can't stay there in the apartment. He needs more care than my mother can give and that the aids can spare. It isn't cruel. It is kind to both of my parents.

Kindness is the most precious of all virtues in my eyes. My sister-in-law took the time to visit with Harriet today and to try to talk to Sidney. I am not a Christian but I know that Jesus said that what you do unto the least of these, you do to me. This is the way I try to live my life, and when I see others being kind, it moves me greatly. I told Leslie how much her kindness to my parents meant to me. She said that in the end, what else is there?

There is someone at work who drives most of us crazy. The other day I thanked her for doing a good job when she came to give me a break. I thanked her for leaving the station clean for me. Her eyes lit up and she started to smile. It was such a small act, yet it made her happy. I compliment well behaved children, I ask new mothers how they feel. I joke with old couples and admire interesting jewelry. I suggest a better product or agree that something isn't so wonderful. The point is I want everyone who comes in contact with me to have a positive experience, to feel like someone sees them and their worth. It is my hope that there will be a ripple effect. Think globally, act locally.

I truly believe there is not one problem in the world that can not be fixed if we all were a little kinder and saw the worth in our fellow humans, wolves, whales, and toads.

Easier said than done

Today was the official "Take no shit day" on facebook. I had the optimistic hope that I wouldn't spread any around. I was wrong coming and going. After talking to a bookkeeper at a clinic I had to call my insurance company where I was told the claim that I had pre approved was not being paid because they hadn't pre approved it. What? What? What? Round and round in circles until I was crying and saying "How are you going to make this right?" Well, of course they weren't and I was advised to get in touch with the clinic to find out some answers. Instead, I called the clinic and left a voicemail message with the bookkeeper for her to call the insurance and get the answers.

I decided to go to a funny movie to laugh and release tension. Bridesmaids was funny, but not funny enough. Too many sad parts, too much potty humor for me. I hate urinal scenes and women sitting on the pot. It was funny, but not funny enough and I saw the male writer's influence. I guess I just wanted to scream with laughter but only guffawed.

Tension, pressure, worry, aggravation, frustration, and pain. That is what I am feeling. I talk the good talk and try to walk the good walk but my emotional stability is balanced on a pin. The slightest thing makes me cry. I say surrender, I say relax, I say it is all in the Creator's hands, but I really don't know how to do better, be more at ease. The truth is that my father is dying and I can't make him better and can't help him die. The old man has made many of my years with him hell, and my sister and I both prayed for him to die since we were children. I always knew he loved me, but I never knew I loved him, too. Excuse me while I blow my nose and wipe my eyes.

I know there are people who love me who I can depend on to "cover my back", yet I still feel lonely and alone as the days wind down on the old man's life.  Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

A cupcake won't make it better

It is another Saturday night and I am watching TV and wondering who thought up this stuff? Does any of it have anything to do with my life? First Iron Chef America. The secret ingredient was spinach. I love spinach in just about any shape or form including canned. I saw ten different ways of cooking spinach using foam and food processors but only one that I might ever do, spinach mac and cheese. Then another show, so real, so timely, and so ridiculous... It was Cupcake Wars! What kills me about these shows is the judging. It is serious to the contestants, but not to me, and I have a hard time relating to any of it. But then again, maybe it is just what I need.

I took my mom out this afternoon. She is suffering as my dad is sleeping the rest of his life away. She says the hospice people are so good to him, they are treating him as gently as a baby. but they only come three times a week. The weekends are so long. One week ago, I was able to take him out to the park in a wheelchair. Today, he was sleeping, so skinny, not moving, in the same place in bed when we came back as when we went out. He is so vulnerable it breaks my heart.

We went to a deli and the food seemed not to have any taste, but I really think it was us. Then we went for a long ride around the lakes. My mother seemed to enjoy it. She kept saying how grateful she was to be out of the house. She doesn't know how long she can take it. I told her that she had to make some decisions, was she going to get a new, freer, lease on life, or was she going to follow the old man? She said she wants to live, so is going to be strong.

I wish the most important thing in my life was a culinary contest. I wish I could ease the suffering of this poor old lady who is spending her waking and sleeping hours worrying about my father. I wish I could make his last days happy. My God, he is so pathetic looking, sort of sleeping, getting weaker and weaker. We all want it over, but it is not up to us.

The title of this posting is "A cupcake won't make it better." When my oldest was four years old she hurt her knee and was crying. I asked her if a cupcake would make it better. She nodded, and I got a cupcake from the kitchen. I brought it in to where she was sitting and rubbed it on her knee. Laughter really is the best medicine.

 

Expanding the definition of success

I had a great conversation about my "garden" with a true gardener, my mother-in-law Betty. I was asking her about the huge tomato plant I bought and which leaves to take off. Then I told her about the roses, geraniums and all the vines. I was quite proud of the hibiscus that I was able to winter over as well as the geraniums. I said that I don't have a green thumb. She said of course I do. I said I can't grow petunias. I can bring home the most luscious plants and within days they are scraggly. She then admitted that petunias were hard for her too.

Every time in the past years that I got roses to bloom in pots, I experienced a thrill. Really, each and every bloom was precious and amazing to me. Look at me! I'm growing roses, hahaha! Begonias in hanging baskets? Piece of cake, anyone can do it. But because I couldn't grow petunias, I thought I wasn't a gardener. I planted raspberry bushes in poor soil, and blamed myself when they didn't thrive. I didn't know about using good soil. The chipmunks ate all the delicious dahlias. Obviously I was a failure.

My oldest daughter was born in 1977 and a friend gave me a green plant that lived for over seven years in three states. Frankly, I got tired of the responsibility of keeping it alive and one winter stuck it on the porch. When we moved to Orono in 1987, Betty gave me a grape ivy that was quite old. Whether I watered it or not, it thrived and grew. About the time the marriage was ending, I passed it along to someone getting married. I'd had that plant about twenty years.  It never occurred to me that I had anything to do with it's longevity.

I am starting to see twenty-three pots of flowers on the ground and five hanging on the fence as pretty darn wonderful. Does anyone miss petunias? I don't think so. Hey! I am a successful grower of plants in pots! (No puns about pot plants please.)

I wonder, are there other crazy standards we use to judge success? I wonder also, what you, my readers could tell me about reassessing success.