(Disclaimer: this blog is not about my thousand year old parents.)
What is it about usually reasonable, loving, giving people that makes them take a stand on something and not give an inch? Why do people who would do anything for their children refuse to give them peace of mind? What am I talking about? Let me tell you...
My dear sister-in-law told me the tale of her eighty-something year old mother's stubbornness in one particular area. She won't make a will. She refuses to do it. L will get the lawyer and even pay for it, but her mother refuses. There are two other siblings and grandchildren and all kinds of complications but she refuses to deal with it. She won't even tell L what she wants done after she passes. It will all fall on L who has been her mother's rock for many years. She has begged her to do this one thing for her, but mother point blank refuses.
Today I met my own mother-in-law for lunch. She drove South, I drove North and we met at Grand Casino Hinckley. I told her that my father had fallen in the night and he pressed his Lifeline button. They called an aide who got him back in bed. Betty is about ten years younger than my folks but she lives alone. She said other people had told her she should get a Lifeline. I agreed and she said that she would feel ridiculous having that thing hanging around her neck. I told her she could wear it under her shirt, no one need know. We actually argued there in the restaurant. I asked if her vanity was more important than giving peace of mind to her sons and their families and she said it was her life and not to bother her about it. She cited always being able to get up, including crawling over snow and ice after falling this winter and breaking her ankle. She would give you everything she owns if you needed it, doesn't care about clothes or fashion but will not even carry a cell phone for emergencies.
Both of the ladies above have been fitted with hearing aids which neither of them will wear. I don't understand why generous, loving, do anything for you women will make everyone shout rather than wear their hearing aids.
Here is a promise to my children, when I get into my eighties I will listen to your concerns for my well being and try not to add stress to your lives. We all like to think we will be vibrant and responsible right up to the time we die in our own beds with all our marbles. I would like to emulate Cousin Harriet who looked around and saw that it seemed reasonable to sell her home and car at age ninety. I probably will still be obstinate, but I hope, not about denying you peace of mind.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Losing it
I come from people with no filters. Happy, sad, or infuriated, if they are feeling it, you are going to know it. It has taken me many years to learn how to control myself, and still, here in the land of stoicism, people think I am outrageous. Recently, I was jolly at a party and one old friend said to someone I just met, "See, isn't she just the way I described her?" Then she gave my bewildered face a kiss.
Today though, after trying to be reasonable, trying to comply, I was pushed too far and I lost it. The facts are simple. The old lady, 97, thought she had a bladder infection and I brought her to Urgent Care. First we had to take a number and then a triage nurse called us. Then back to the waiting room and then an insurance person called us. I left Mom sitting there while I went to take care of business. The woman smiled and said, "Harriet?" No, I explained I was her daughter and pointed her out. I handed over the insurance card, verified her address and date of birth, (February 10, 1914). Then I was asked her telephone number. I blanked. I looked at the iphone but could only get the name, not the actual number until much later. All this time I was smiling, the woman was smiling and all was well. Then I remembered! I gave the number but it was one digit off. Still smiling, the clerk said no. I asked if I was close and she wouldn't tell me. What difference did it make, I asked. There she was, sitting in the waiting room, here I was, what difference did the phone number make? She needed that number to verify that it was the right person.
Before I knew it I was raising my voice. Of course this was the right person! Do I go bringing anyone else's ninety-seven year old mother to the clinic? Smiling still, she told me they needed to verify her identity. So asinine, as if someone pretending to be someone else wouldn't learn that telephone number. "THERE SHE IS! SHE IS RIGHT THERE!" I started to wheeze. People who know me know this is a very, very bad sign. (If I had thought about it, and if they had asked, I even had her state identity card with me although nobody has asked to see it in six years.) I was yelling random numbers, 9336, 9663 and making a scene. All kinds of people came running, "Miss, Miss, please calm down, you need to calm down. Come in back." All the while that little bureaucrat sat at her desk unaffectedly smiling.
Well, I couldn't calm down, the old lady, who can hardly see, was saying, "Why are you upsetting my daughter? She's a good daughter. What is going on?" And I was literally wheezing with rage and frustration. Zero to meltdown in a few short minutes. Finally someone got the two of us into an examination room, out of the public eye. I dried my eyes and got breath back. A nurse came in to talk to us. I told her that the woman wouldn't even give me a hint if I was close and the nurse said, "Oh, she needs to learn some sensitivity. That was wrong." And I was instantly calm. I was able to go into the contacts list on the phone and hit edit. There was the number, 9036.
When I am not being listened to, I get loud, then I get louder, thinking if I say it louder I will be understood. Then I lose control of my breathing and start to wheeze trying to get my point across. It is not pretty. Am I proud of becoming a fire eating dragon who embarrasses everyone around me? No, it is awful. Can I control it? Yes, most times. My kids are amazed at the patience I show the folks. They can hardly believe it is me. But sometimes, when confronted with petty bullshit, and having my actions controlled by petty bullshit, I lose it.
The nurses and medical assistants were very kind to the old lady and took her sample over to the lab instead of making us check in there too. A kind doctor wrote a prescription, and sent it to the pharmacy where it was filled in just ten minutes. As we were leaving I saw the young mother who came in after us still waiting for her baby to be seen. I hadn't wanted special treatment, truly.
Today I was lucky, yes lucky. I did not get a headache, or have intestinal distress as collateral damage to losing it. I haven't lost my voice, or held on to outrage. I am a little sad and disappointed for allowing myself to get into a state. Next time I will do better. Or maybe I won't. I would like it if my mighty wrath was put to a much better use. But as one friend reassured me, even Saints don't always live 100% pristine lives. Ah, perspective.
Today though, after trying to be reasonable, trying to comply, I was pushed too far and I lost it. The facts are simple. The old lady, 97, thought she had a bladder infection and I brought her to Urgent Care. First we had to take a number and then a triage nurse called us. Then back to the waiting room and then an insurance person called us. I left Mom sitting there while I went to take care of business. The woman smiled and said, "Harriet?" No, I explained I was her daughter and pointed her out. I handed over the insurance card, verified her address and date of birth, (February 10, 1914). Then I was asked her telephone number. I blanked. I looked at the iphone but could only get the name, not the actual number until much later. All this time I was smiling, the woman was smiling and all was well. Then I remembered! I gave the number but it was one digit off. Still smiling, the clerk said no. I asked if I was close and she wouldn't tell me. What difference did it make, I asked. There she was, sitting in the waiting room, here I was, what difference did the phone number make? She needed that number to verify that it was the right person.
Before I knew it I was raising my voice. Of course this was the right person! Do I go bringing anyone else's ninety-seven year old mother to the clinic? Smiling still, she told me they needed to verify her identity. So asinine, as if someone pretending to be someone else wouldn't learn that telephone number. "THERE SHE IS! SHE IS RIGHT THERE!" I started to wheeze. People who know me know this is a very, very bad sign. (If I had thought about it, and if they had asked, I even had her state identity card with me although nobody has asked to see it in six years.) I was yelling random numbers, 9336, 9663 and making a scene. All kinds of people came running, "Miss, Miss, please calm down, you need to calm down. Come in back." All the while that little bureaucrat sat at her desk unaffectedly smiling.
Well, I couldn't calm down, the old lady, who can hardly see, was saying, "Why are you upsetting my daughter? She's a good daughter. What is going on?" And I was literally wheezing with rage and frustration. Zero to meltdown in a few short minutes. Finally someone got the two of us into an examination room, out of the public eye. I dried my eyes and got breath back. A nurse came in to talk to us. I told her that the woman wouldn't even give me a hint if I was close and the nurse said, "Oh, she needs to learn some sensitivity. That was wrong." And I was instantly calm. I was able to go into the contacts list on the phone and hit edit. There was the number, 9036.
When I am not being listened to, I get loud, then I get louder, thinking if I say it louder I will be understood. Then I lose control of my breathing and start to wheeze trying to get my point across. It is not pretty. Am I proud of becoming a fire eating dragon who embarrasses everyone around me? No, it is awful. Can I control it? Yes, most times. My kids are amazed at the patience I show the folks. They can hardly believe it is me. But sometimes, when confronted with petty bullshit, and having my actions controlled by petty bullshit, I lose it.
The nurses and medical assistants were very kind to the old lady and took her sample over to the lab instead of making us check in there too. A kind doctor wrote a prescription, and sent it to the pharmacy where it was filled in just ten minutes. As we were leaving I saw the young mother who came in after us still waiting for her baby to be seen. I hadn't wanted special treatment, truly.
Today I was lucky, yes lucky. I did not get a headache, or have intestinal distress as collateral damage to losing it. I haven't lost my voice, or held on to outrage. I am a little sad and disappointed for allowing myself to get into a state. Next time I will do better. Or maybe I won't. I would like it if my mighty wrath was put to a much better use. But as one friend reassured me, even Saints don't always live 100% pristine lives. Ah, perspective.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
We weren't the Brady Bunch
A friend of mine posted on facebook that she introduced her daughters to The Brady Bunch. Lots of cute replies until mine. I said I hated The Brady Bunch. I was so jealous. In our house we watched what my father wanted, mostly Westerns.
Growing up there were so few shows I could relate to. Who were these parents on Leave It To Beaver? They never yelled. The children did not dread the sound of father opening the door. It was all sunshine and light, even during the darkest episodes. It saddened me greatly to learn that during the years of The Patty Duke Show, Patty was being mentally abused while portraying a happy, carefree life. Danny Thomas was the only father on TV that yelled, and then he would cover the yelled at one with kisses. No one was hit. No one was scared. The houses were always clean, the children perfectly groomed and in style. All In The Family was relatable. Archie would come home in a snit and the family danced to his commands. Roseanne struggled with money and to be the best parents with the resources they had, both financial and emotional. They laughed, but they also were real to me.
I remember watching The Flying Nun at a friend's house. Totally ridiculous, and I was able to suspend disbelief for the half hour it was on. And the only thing that friend and I were able to relate to on Gidget was the way she brushed her teeth with a huge mouthful of suds. It was so unlike what we experienced we were able to focus on that aspect of her life because we sure couldn't understand the rest of her charmed existence.
I lost my mother about the same time as I was learning to read in first grade. Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Mother and Father were some ideal that I could not have. In fact, I have a visceral negative experience every time I come across one of those cloth-spined readers from grade school at an antique or old book store. I remember being thrilled when my daughter started school and her reader featured Buffy and Mack, a rabbit and other creature. They were not WASPS living the dream, just some animals. If I, a white child had a hard time with Dick and Jane, imagine learning to read from those books if you were black. I guess you just had to suspend disbelief. I had a baby sister and a big brother. I was Jane in a world gone crazy.
When we lived in a basement in Idaho while S went to graduate school, I used to watch reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies every night at 6:30. They made me laugh. They weren't real to me, everyone on the show was a caricature. We got rid of our TV about a year after that and did not get one again until years later. I liked Ugly Betty and Northern Exposure, total fairy tales. I could watch Law and Order set in gritty police stations. I can't watch the CSI shows because I do not believe those high tech labs exist on the budgets of most departments.
I was about to start ranting about the mascara advertisements that show models with false eyelashes when it occurred to me that I have strayed from the opening theme of this essay which was how, as a child, The Brady Bunch and other shows of that ilk made me jealous of unreal lives that I couldn't have. But really, there is no pleasing me. I hate The Office because I can't stand that portrayal of life either. I guess I will stick to Antiques Roadshow and reruns of The Closer. I just love Brenda Lee Johnson, thank you.
Growing up there were so few shows I could relate to. Who were these parents on Leave It To Beaver? They never yelled. The children did not dread the sound of father opening the door. It was all sunshine and light, even during the darkest episodes. It saddened me greatly to learn that during the years of The Patty Duke Show, Patty was being mentally abused while portraying a happy, carefree life. Danny Thomas was the only father on TV that yelled, and then he would cover the yelled at one with kisses. No one was hit. No one was scared. The houses were always clean, the children perfectly groomed and in style. All In The Family was relatable. Archie would come home in a snit and the family danced to his commands. Roseanne struggled with money and to be the best parents with the resources they had, both financial and emotional. They laughed, but they also were real to me.
I remember watching The Flying Nun at a friend's house. Totally ridiculous, and I was able to suspend disbelief for the half hour it was on. And the only thing that friend and I were able to relate to on Gidget was the way she brushed her teeth with a huge mouthful of suds. It was so unlike what we experienced we were able to focus on that aspect of her life because we sure couldn't understand the rest of her charmed existence.
I lost my mother about the same time as I was learning to read in first grade. Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Mother and Father were some ideal that I could not have. In fact, I have a visceral negative experience every time I come across one of those cloth-spined readers from grade school at an antique or old book store. I remember being thrilled when my daughter started school and her reader featured Buffy and Mack, a rabbit and other creature. They were not WASPS living the dream, just some animals. If I, a white child had a hard time with Dick and Jane, imagine learning to read from those books if you were black. I guess you just had to suspend disbelief. I had a baby sister and a big brother. I was Jane in a world gone crazy.
When we lived in a basement in Idaho while S went to graduate school, I used to watch reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies every night at 6:30. They made me laugh. They weren't real to me, everyone on the show was a caricature. We got rid of our TV about a year after that and did not get one again until years later. I liked Ugly Betty and Northern Exposure, total fairy tales. I could watch Law and Order set in gritty police stations. I can't watch the CSI shows because I do not believe those high tech labs exist on the budgets of most departments.
I was about to start ranting about the mascara advertisements that show models with false eyelashes when it occurred to me that I have strayed from the opening theme of this essay which was how, as a child, The Brady Bunch and other shows of that ilk made me jealous of unreal lives that I couldn't have. But really, there is no pleasing me. I hate The Office because I can't stand that portrayal of life either. I guess I will stick to Antiques Roadshow and reruns of The Closer. I just love Brenda Lee Johnson, thank you.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
An amazing funeral
Today I attended a most amazing funeral for a man who was very loved. I'd never actually met him. He was the boyfriend of a dear friend and died of an aggressive cancer. This is all I knew about him: he was a talented musician, belonged to a motorcycle club and made my friend very happy.
It was billed as a celebration of life and I thought I knew what that meant, happy tears and loving stories from friends and family. Oh no! This was a huge biker reunion with representatives from motorcycle clubs all over the upper midwest. We gathered at a bar and walked the two blocks to a funeral home. I was near the front of the walkers. When I looked back I saw a sea of black leather as about five hundred people spread over the sidewalk behind me. I wondered how we were all going to fit in the chapel.
I needn't have worried. Men and women came in and snaked around the rooms looking at different stations with pictures of different aspects of the his life, childhood, fatherhood, bands he had played with, trips he had taken, etc. No casket, just flowers and mementos of his life. Here and there a biker held back tears, but mostly greeted each other with hugs and happiness. On their leathers they wore patches memorializing past members who had died, and there were already a few for their friend.
I stayed for about an hour watching the groups come together, break up and reform in new groups. I watched the never ending procession move about the funeral home. I listened to the musicians play New Orleans type music in all the different rooms. I saw a few manly tears, but mostly happy faces, come to say goodbye to a friend. There weren't speeches and I know the party back at the bar probably lasted for hours. As I left I said to one woman, "I wonder how many will come to my funeral? Ten or so?" She said not to say that because, "You never know."
Rest in peace, Scott Manske. You were very loved. I did not know you in life, but I know that anyone who has that many friends, and loved my friend, must have been a wonderful guy.
From the St Paul Pioneer Press:
"Scotty Danger" Father, Musician, Outlaw & Minister Passed away on April 11, 2011 surrounded by family and friends. Age 56. Preceded in death by father, Tom. Survived by daughter, Michele; girlfriend, Nancy Dorgan; Yoshi & Spike. New Orleans Processional 1:30 PM Sunday from Neumann's Bar, 2531 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul to Sandberg Funeral Home, 2593 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul for a Celebration of Scott's Life from 2:00 PM - 3:30 PM. New Orleans Recessional at 3:30 PM from the Funeral Home to Neumann's Bar for further fellowship and celebration. In lieu of flowers, memorials preferred. "If you met Scott, you loved him." 651-777-2600"
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Dancing with the humiliated
I like Dancing With The Stars. It is consistently entertaining. But something happened the other night that broke my heart. It wasn't Kirstie Alley's shoe falling off. She handled that with aplomb. It was the public disintegration of little Kendra. This girl is not a star, she is, to me, a poor soul trying too hard to be something famous.
DWTS is not for the fragile. It is not for people who do not have an ability to take criticism, sometimes very harsh, and go on from there. Real entertainers, real sports stars who have succeeded, have learned to have a public face and act like nothing hurts them, no matter how they feel inside.
I didn't know much about Kendra except that she is married to a football player and has a baby she loves. Then she had a miscarriage that some magazine put in big letters on it's cover. I felt so bad for her loss of privacy at the time. Today I looked her up on Wikipedia. She first caught the attention of Hugh Hefner when she was a naked "painted" young lady at his 78th birthday party. She became one of his three girlfriends at the mansion and was in a reality series.
On Monday, Kendra was not having a good day. She had PMS and could not relax into the flow of the dance. The harshest judge was Len Goodman. He told her he couldn't understand why she would not allow herself to be elegant. He said she acted like she didn't care. In front of everyone she said, defiantly, that she didn't. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I knew what she meant. She meant that she didn't care what he said. But she did and it was her way of protecting herself. I know, because I have done that, too. The next scene was of her partner saying he was mad, he could not believe she said that. Then all you could see was her crying that she wished she could go someplace and hide. The camera did not leave her alone. No privacy whatsoever.
I thought for sure that she would be voted off the show. But no, she was safe while Sugar Ray Leonard got the lowest votes and had to leave. I am sorry. I think this girl needs to go and lick her wounds for awhile. I think she needs to go play with her baby. She needs to take a good look at her life and get out of the public eye. Somewhere along the way she found out that she got attention/admiration/love for being pretty. I think she needs some intense counseling to understand she is a worthwhile human being even if the world is not watching.
In the Wiki piece her career goals were massage therapist or sportscaster. She worked briefly as a dental assistant. Her absolute favorite food comes from Olive Garden. She is a small town girl who should have had a small town life. I wish she had not jumped on the fame bandwagon. She is ill-prepared to have this much spotlight on her. She doesn't know how to cope by faking it. I just feel bad for her even though this is the road she is on through her own choices. And to be honest, I resent having to think about her when all I want to do is enjoy the dancing. (Yeah, it is about me.)
DWTS is not for the fragile. It is not for people who do not have an ability to take criticism, sometimes very harsh, and go on from there. Real entertainers, real sports stars who have succeeded, have learned to have a public face and act like nothing hurts them, no matter how they feel inside.
I didn't know much about Kendra except that she is married to a football player and has a baby she loves. Then she had a miscarriage that some magazine put in big letters on it's cover. I felt so bad for her loss of privacy at the time. Today I looked her up on Wikipedia. She first caught the attention of Hugh Hefner when she was a naked "painted" young lady at his 78th birthday party. She became one of his three girlfriends at the mansion and was in a reality series.
On Monday, Kendra was not having a good day. She had PMS and could not relax into the flow of the dance. The harshest judge was Len Goodman. He told her he couldn't understand why she would not allow herself to be elegant. He said she acted like she didn't care. In front of everyone she said, defiantly, that she didn't. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy. I knew what she meant. She meant that she didn't care what he said. But she did and it was her way of protecting herself. I know, because I have done that, too. The next scene was of her partner saying he was mad, he could not believe she said that. Then all you could see was her crying that she wished she could go someplace and hide. The camera did not leave her alone. No privacy whatsoever.
I thought for sure that she would be voted off the show. But no, she was safe while Sugar Ray Leonard got the lowest votes and had to leave. I am sorry. I think this girl needs to go and lick her wounds for awhile. I think she needs to go play with her baby. She needs to take a good look at her life and get out of the public eye. Somewhere along the way she found out that she got attention/admiration/love for being pretty. I think she needs some intense counseling to understand she is a worthwhile human being even if the world is not watching.
In the Wiki piece her career goals were massage therapist or sportscaster. She worked briefly as a dental assistant. Her absolute favorite food comes from Olive Garden. She is a small town girl who should have had a small town life. I wish she had not jumped on the fame bandwagon. She is ill-prepared to have this much spotlight on her. She doesn't know how to cope by faking it. I just feel bad for her even though this is the road she is on through her own choices. And to be honest, I resent having to think about her when all I want to do is enjoy the dancing. (Yeah, it is about me.)
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Ten dollars worth of joy
When I lived on over a half acre of property to beautify, I started out with high hopes planting raspberries and dahlias in an area by the garage. I didn't know about enriching the soil and the raspberries that overtook my sister-in-law's garden died in mine. Chipmunks ate every dahlia bulb and flower. I bought tulips for the slope by the mailbox but the soil there was pure clay and only one bloomed. I tried carpets of wildflowers for the same place and each year one or two cornflowers would bloom. The strawberry pot filled with herbs was another dismal failure, as were expensive tomato plants. Eventually the lawn became mostly creeping charlie and moss and landscaping friends said to keep it that way. Our hillside had a rustic charm. I took to buying geraniums in planters and roses in pots and had some success that thrilled me. Each year I would purchase four fragrant roses and treat them like annuals. A friend advised getting new soil each year for the planters and that made a huge improvement. I was also able to grow healthy begonias, a very forgiving flower, in hanging pots. Petunias were always a dismal failure.
Last summer, the first here in the little condo, I had great plans. I started sweet pea and morning glory that I was going to train to grow up the railings that separated my area from the pool. I took the big planters and bought roses. Every time the vines would get to about five inches or so, they would be eaten by the resident rabbits. (You can't live right on a park and not get rabbits.) As the summer progressed I added geraniums and other annuals that I got on sale and eventually filled the area with color. I got most of the pots cleaned up for fall before I bought three long planters of mums, not only for the flowers which were lush and beautiful, but for the planters themselves. We got our first foot of snow while the mums were still blooming. I never saw them again this long, long winter as the area outside my glassed-in patio filled with over two feet of snow.
Once more I am starting sweet pea and morning glory from seed. This year the long planters will be hung from the railing and I will train the vines downward. I hope they are successful because it can look wonderful. There are something like twenty-three pots to be planted and I've laid in a stock of Miracle Grow potting soil. Two things I know about myself and gardening; I am cheap and impatient. I don't particularly love doing the actual dirty work but love watering pots of beautiful flowers. I splurged on jiffy pots rather than using paper cups and needed more to start the marigolds so back to Home Depot I went to get another box.
It was such a thrill to see pansies and violas in hanging pots. They were vibrantly alive and my soul ached for their colors. The healthiest pot was filled with deep purple and orange violas. I lifted it down and brought it to the cashier. Could I justify spending twenty-five or thirty dollars right now? Ten dollars! Ten dollars for a priceless gift of joy!
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Oui! Merci!
With a long baguette sticking out of one bag, and a bouquet of spring flowers in the other, the groceries I carried could have come from a market in Paris. Yes, there goes the confident single woman with a spring in her step, the sun in her face, and a smile for anyone she sees. My, it has been a long winter indeed.
There is a part in Judith Merkle Riley's In Pursuit of The Green Lion where the evil, egotistical, and awful poet Count asks the knuckle headed brother of a true poet if his poem on Spring is overdone, trite. Hugo disagrees. How can Spring be overdone if it comes each year? I thought of this when I started to write about it. What can I say that is different than what has been written for centuries? Nothing, except what is in my heart. Just being in the warmish air and seeing the sun feels like we are coming to a time of rebirth.
Everyone knows not to put out bedding plants until Mother's Day. Yet there is such a yearning for the growing season to be here. I want flowers, flowers, flowers. I want color and fragrance and abundant life all around me. I've started some sweet peas and morning glory from seed and still have marigolds to plant. More Jiffy pots! Last year I started the sweet pea and morning glory in pots and thought to have them climb up the fence. The darn rabbit kept eating the vines, not one flower bloomed. This year they will be in boxes that will sit high on the fence and grow down instead. I can't wait to see the pink, purple and blue blossoms. Oh, I want, I want, I want.
I do not hate winter. In a way I almost love it. For me it is a time that doesn't fly. Long periods of stagnation, hibernation, and just existing. Life lasts a long time. And then spring comes and the rush begins. We know spring is fleeting, summer is just around the corner and fall comes too soon. So between now and the beginning of September, life must be lived to it's fullest, much of it outside while possible. I want to grab it and make it slow down so I can savor the season. It is a little exhausting if I think about it too much. So the trick is not thinking and just doing.
Don't think about taking a walk, just walk. Don't think about riding a bike, just ride. Lie in the sun or the shade and be calm and happy. Appreciate each day with gratitude. Yes! Thank you!
There is a part in Judith Merkle Riley's In Pursuit of The Green Lion where the evil, egotistical, and awful poet Count asks the knuckle headed brother of a true poet if his poem on Spring is overdone, trite. Hugo disagrees. How can Spring be overdone if it comes each year? I thought of this when I started to write about it. What can I say that is different than what has been written for centuries? Nothing, except what is in my heart. Just being in the warmish air and seeing the sun feels like we are coming to a time of rebirth.
Everyone knows not to put out bedding plants until Mother's Day. Yet there is such a yearning for the growing season to be here. I want flowers, flowers, flowers. I want color and fragrance and abundant life all around me. I've started some sweet peas and morning glory from seed and still have marigolds to plant. More Jiffy pots! Last year I started the sweet pea and morning glory in pots and thought to have them climb up the fence. The darn rabbit kept eating the vines, not one flower bloomed. This year they will be in boxes that will sit high on the fence and grow down instead. I can't wait to see the pink, purple and blue blossoms. Oh, I want, I want, I want.
I do not hate winter. In a way I almost love it. For me it is a time that doesn't fly. Long periods of stagnation, hibernation, and just existing. Life lasts a long time. And then spring comes and the rush begins. We know spring is fleeting, summer is just around the corner and fall comes too soon. So between now and the beginning of September, life must be lived to it's fullest, much of it outside while possible. I want to grab it and make it slow down so I can savor the season. It is a little exhausting if I think about it too much. So the trick is not thinking and just doing.
Don't think about taking a walk, just walk. Don't think about riding a bike, just ride. Lie in the sun or the shade and be calm and happy. Appreciate each day with gratitude. Yes! Thank you!
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Enjoying today
"In this life, be conscious every day. And when you are conscious, you will be able to see how beautiful this life is. This life that you keep cursing. This life that you keep weighing with happiness and sorrow. This life, it should not be weighed with happiness and sorrow. Because in it, there is a joy in every day, in every moment. If there should be any measurement, then it should be: "how much have I enjoyed today?".- Prem Rawat (Maharaji)
I am making an effort to enjoy each day, to go for the gusto and enjoy being alive. I am trying to take a moment when the moment is lovely to acknowledge that loveliness. I am looking at the cleanup of chrysanthemums that wintered in the planters as a chance to enjoy being outside in the cool spring air instead of as a rotten job to be done. It is all my attitude, and my attitude is good.
Many years ago I knew a man who told the story of going to Altamont to see the Rolling Stones. He drove his motorcycle through the rain all the way there. He said he was wet, but his girlfriend was miserable. It was all in the attitude. (I also think the fact that he was sitting in a comfortable saddle and she was on a pillbox on the fender may have added to her misery, but that takes away from the story.)
This morning my blood sugar was 74 (woohoo!), I had a charming brunch date with someone I wouldn't mind seeing again, and I bought a bowl of pansies in the belief that if I put them out, spring will really come. When I got home I found I had lost my house key somehow. I called management and waited to get back in. No biggie, what good would freaking out do? (I don't know yet I do it all the time.) If it is raining tomorrow and I wake up late for work, have impatient customers and the boss yells at me, I hope I can keep this good attitude.
I never thought the thousand year old parents would still be alive. In acceptance of them never dying, and having to bring the old man to the beach again this summer, I bought a new float that is like a chaise. It will be so much easier to get him in and out of the water, although I will still call upon strong young men to help. As long as I am going to be there, I might as well enjoy it. This is the life I am privileged to have. L'chaim, to life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk7HXuQE5pw
I am making an effort to enjoy each day, to go for the gusto and enjoy being alive. I am trying to take a moment when the moment is lovely to acknowledge that loveliness. I am looking at the cleanup of chrysanthemums that wintered in the planters as a chance to enjoy being outside in the cool spring air instead of as a rotten job to be done. It is all my attitude, and my attitude is good.
Many years ago I knew a man who told the story of going to Altamont to see the Rolling Stones. He drove his motorcycle through the rain all the way there. He said he was wet, but his girlfriend was miserable. It was all in the attitude. (I also think the fact that he was sitting in a comfortable saddle and she was on a pillbox on the fender may have added to her misery, but that takes away from the story.)
This morning my blood sugar was 74 (woohoo!), I had a charming brunch date with someone I wouldn't mind seeing again, and I bought a bowl of pansies in the belief that if I put them out, spring will really come. When I got home I found I had lost my house key somehow. I called management and waited to get back in. No biggie, what good would freaking out do? (I don't know yet I do it all the time.) If it is raining tomorrow and I wake up late for work, have impatient customers and the boss yells at me, I hope I can keep this good attitude.
I never thought the thousand year old parents would still be alive. In acceptance of them never dying, and having to bring the old man to the beach again this summer, I bought a new float that is like a chaise. It will be so much easier to get him in and out of the water, although I will still call upon strong young men to help. As long as I am going to be there, I might as well enjoy it. This is the life I am privileged to have. L'chaim, to life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk7HXuQE5pw
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