Surrender Carol

I have been thinking of the whole subject of surrender and what it means in this world and what it can mean spiritually. I am not a person who submits to idiot bosses and does stupid things just because someone tells me to. I can not and do not eat shit, nope, not even to keep a job. Yet sometimes I have to take myself in hand and ask if it would kill me to submit to keep peace. If it is not a big deal, sure. Whose ego needs the boost? I must say I am really getting mellow as I age. I used to fight about everything whether it was important or not. It was an exhausting way to live.

When I brought my thousand year old parents to live out here in 2005, I never thought they would last more than a few years and I was positive they wouldn't last five years. Well, my dad lasted six years and Mom is still alive at 98. It was a hard adjustment for all of us. In the 35 years since I'd left home I had not seen them very often, every year or two for a few days. And suddenly I was seeing them several times a week. Before the old man got sick I had weaned them down to just one day a week. For about a year now, though, we've been tied at the hip. It has always been my desire to make their end of life as easy as I can and have no regrets when they die. When the old man passed, I felt nothing but joy. I felt he had learned something in his life and moved on. When we moved the old lady to the nursing home, where she is getting wonderful care and is well liked by the staff, I thought she had maybe a week or two to live. She calls every morning wondering when I will take her home and when I will visit. It has been two months now and she is much stronger, but not strong enough to return to her assisted living apartment and I don't think she ever will.

So now it is up to me to surrender again. To say in my heart that I don't care how long it takes, I will be joyful and accepting. There is still something I have to learn and this is my time to learn it. Surrender resentments and ideas of how long things should take and surrender the time that this growth demands. Being here now is both harder and easier than it sounds. 

(Here is a funny anecdote. I went to see Harriet while she was at dinner. She had not eaten much and she told me that she hated the food. She hated the chopped meat. I looked at the dinner order and saw that her meat was ordered ground. I went to talk to the dietician to have it changed and as I left I heard her say, "Her sister was quiet, but that one you always knew was in the room!)

Starting an investigation.

Yesterday I met with a police investigator. He told me that Minnesota has statutes that define Cyber Stalking 609.749, and Cyber Harassment 609.795. He said they work closely with the FBI because the internet crosses state lines. Coincidently the anonymous person who has been posting vulgar and nasty remarks chose to send 5 replies to the last blog I wrote, R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

The investigator suggested I post what he told me and see if it stops. If not, he will start requesting isp addresses from Google, the administers of Blogspot. It can take a couple of weeks up to a few months.

Last warning! If you don't like what I have to say, don't read my blog. Every nasty reply has been saved on gmail and they all can be traced back to you.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I was watching a family eat lunch today. Three girls and their parents. The girls looked 6, 8, 10. The mother did not look happy and the father's back was facing me. One of the girls walked over to see what I was doing and I asked her if she had new sandals. Her dad came up behind her and said, "Third pair, the dogs ate the first two." I thought to myself that if my kid didn't learn after the second time she would be getting $1.99 Old Navy flip flops, not fancy Nikes. I said, "Well you better put them where they can't get them."

The dad wanted to know how much a new heating system would cost and I started my spiel. All three girls were standing real close and he said that the youngest gets antsy. I said I was sure she would understand that we were talking and could wait. Then the wife came over and he said they really do need to replace their furnace.  He asked about financing, but Costco does not finance.  He asked his wife what she thought and she said in a nasty tone of voice, "I think you are wasting my time if you can't pay for it." She showed huge disdain for him in front of the children. So I gave him a brochure and said to call when he was ready. As they walked away I noticed she was carrying a huge new Louis Vuitton bag that had to have cost a couple thousand dollars.

It wasn't a long scene but it did upset me. She disrespected her husband in public, in front of her children. She treated me as invisible. He was humiliated but did not fight back. My stomach was upset by her vituperative negative energy. I could see things so clearly, he was nothing but a paycheck to her and she did not like him because he was not making enough to keep her in the style she thought she should be kept. And you could see from his face that he was extended as far as he could go. I wanted him to think better of himself. I wanted him, as they say, to grow a pair. I could see how a man like that could flip out and kill his wife. I wanted him to run away and start a new life.

Husbands! Wives! Be kind to each other, treat each other with respect. Remember when you met and how much you wanted the good opinion of each other. Show your children how much you cherish each other. If you must be disdainful, think twice before speaking once, and for goodness sake, don't humiliate your spouse in front of your children.

I've thinking about my own life. Have I acted that way? Oh God I hope not. I know I have been out of control, sometimes crazed with anger or frustration and not very pleasant to be around. I hope that I have never made being cruel to another a habit. My marriage had some rough spots for sure, and each of us regrets particular actions or we'd still be married. But I think our children knew we respected each other. 

I tried to be kind the rest of the day. I'm going to try again tomorrow.

Removing the knife in my heart

For several months some unhappy person has been making stupid remarks on my blog. As moderator I never post them. They are misspelled insults calling me fat, a whore, boring, and commenting on my lack of sexual attraction or prowess. At first I was upset, but those comments were so totally false and silly, I just would laugh and delete. Today, however, I felt like I had a knife in my heart. Today's comment read, in part:

"You really are a heartless bitch. Your mother, lost her soul-mate. He died! He is not going to come back ever. She is mourning and you are telling her she is repeating a tape in her head. You are the biggest fucking hypocrite ever.  You are a heartless bitch. You offend so many of your "readers" when you bitch and moan and complain about your thousand year old parents. You say your father was not much of a man. Let me tell you something - the acorn did not fall far from the tree. You are mean and nasty. I know the day she dies she will be at peace and away from a ungrateful heartless daughter like you". 


I wanted to cry, I felt so devastated. I have tried to be kind. I have tried to make amends to those I have hurt. I have used these past seven years to see that my parents had a good end of life. I go to the nursing home where my mother is at least five times a week and she is so happy to see me. I hope I haven't been complaining too much. What hurts the most is that someone in my life really dislikes me and doesn't have the courage to confront me face to face. I have not always done or said the right thing in every situation. I am a mother and if I see something I think is a threat to my children's happiness I will come out swinging and think afterwards.


Before I started this post, I went back and read my last blog. Nope, I was not mean, I was not complaining, I was compassionate, and sad, and hopeful. The writer only saw what he/she wanted to see. Yes, it hurts that someone hates me. But their words have no power. I have decided to remove that blade of malicious negativity from my heart. It is not true and I refuse to bleed. The shoe does not fit, and I won't wear it.

That tape in our heads

Sometimes people have a tape running in their heads and can't find the stop/eject button. It drives them crazy, and in the case of my 98 year old mother, annoys other people too. Right after my father died her tape became, with tears, "I miss my husband." Well, who could deny that? Lots of sympathy came her way. I used a positive message repeated over and over to change that tape. I told her how lucky she was to have had not one, but two men love her. Some women never even had one. She would agree and talk about her sister Judy and how she blew both her marriages. She told everyone how happy she had been for fifty-two years with my father. She would say, "Right before he got so sick he looked at me and said that I was a year and three months older than him, but even if I was a hundred years older, he would still have married me." For the record, her first husband was no jewel, and there were plenty of problems with my old man. If he was a diamond, it was in the rough and everyone knows that diamonds can cut.

The new tape in her head is not as easy to deal with as the old one. The new tape says, "When can I go home?" It begins every conversation, fills in every pause, and never seems to end. It is wearing me down. I have given her the message that she can go home when she gets stronger. She says she is strong, she says she has been eating. I tell her she can go home when she can take care of herself. She tells me she can take care of herself. She can't get out of bed by herself, she is too weak and shaky. Sometimes I vary the answer. The other day she called and asked when she could go home. I told her she sounded like a broken record and she laughed. She knows it, she just can't stop that tape. The other tracks on this tape are the "I'm so lonely, there is nobody to talk to here" and "This place is a prison." Nicest prison in town. I do have empathy and understand the boredom and frustration.

We all have tapes running in our brains. Sometimes it is a problem at work that bugs us night and day until we figure out a solution. Right now I have a game show song repeating over as I fall asleep and when I wake up. I will be kind and not tell you what it is so it doesn't take up residency in your brain, too. That kind of tape is annoying, but not harmful. But there are others that cause pain to ourselves and only we can change them. Those are the messages that we are not good enough, too slow, too stupid, too fat, too thin, unloveable, etc. I have found, by reading true crime stories, that some people who have a victim tape playing react by killing those who they think have harmed them. It can be a parent, or people of a nationality. So many different scenarios. I dislike any kind of fundamentalism. The indoctrination records a tape that is very hard to reason with. Hate Arabs, hate Jews, hate, hate, hate.

Many years ago I took my children to a puppet show at a fundamentalist church. The message given was that we were all born in sin and only by being washed in the blood of Jesus was there any chance of heaven. There was even a song about being washed, washed, washed, in the blood. Children are literal people. Where is Jesus and doesn't he need his own blood and wouldn't it make a mess? I was furious! When you tell my babies about God, you had better tell them that we come from love and we go to love and the message all your life had better be about being love and acting love. 

So to life and the message about not driving others crazy with our worn out warped tapes. Let's record something new. Let's do unto others as we would have others do unto us. Not a new song, but one worth covering in our own inimitable style. "Mom," I will say with a smile, "Let's talk about something else. You look very pretty today."

Alcohol

I grew up in a home where alcohol was lightly used and never abused. My father had a complete shelf of liquor in the pantry and a bottle of scotch or anything else lasted a very long time. In the summer he would make a Tom Collins and we were always able to taste them. Had we asked, he would have made us our own cocktail. A sip was enough for me. I disliked Manhattans, and that was about the extent of his bar tending. On hot days he would sometimes have a beer. One beer, not a six pack. One New Year's Eve, my sister and I stayed home while the folks went to a party. We had little paper party poppers and a bottle of Champale Malt Liquor to use in our celebration. Alcohol was never prohibited, never made to look especially attractive, and just not much of a big deal at all. It amazed me as a young adult that my friends felt the need to finish off a bottle of tequila, or rum or anything. I didn't understand why they didn't just put it back on the shelf for next time.

The first time I got stinking drunk was the night before leaving summer camp at seventeen. I had scotch and port and blacked out. I did not pass out and was sick as a dog the next day. I remember having to sweep the cabin with shaking knees. Anne, my co-counselor, had no sympathy for me at all. It was such a horrible experience that I did not get drunk again for four years. I would have a Black Russian or Harvey Wallbanger on a date, and that was that until I attended a McGovern rally in 1972. I had been drinking some tequila and did not realize how inebriated I was until I started drinking beer. I never drink beer because I can't stand the smell or taste. I guess I was a riot on the dance floor and the town because people told me about it for days. What I do remember is hugging the toilet for days, shaking and ill and wanting to die. I was twenty and told myself I was too old for that shit. On the fourth day a nice young man came by to take me to breakfast. I think he saved my life.

Over the next twenty-five years I had fewer than five drinks. When I started going to conferences I made a Baily's last all night. Sometimes I finished an entire hard lemonade. My daughter found a wine I could drink and hey, all grown up now.  These days I have a half of a glass of wine at Thanksgiving and I'm good for the year. I seem to have lost my taste for alcohol.

Last night I met a friend for dinner at Thanh Do. They were swamped and we sat in the bar. She asked for a Vodka Gimlet, and to make it green. She said it tasted like limeade. I had one, too. It was tasty. I didn't feel inebriated until we made our way to the table, then I felt it. Sharon is my age, widowed, and we have a lot in common. We both want to be adored again and talked about what we are looking for. Service was slow and dinner took about two hours. By the time we left I didn't feel the alcohol at all. I went home and watched TV, but midnight found me feeling amazingly sorry for myself and weeping.

Today I was not hungover in the traditional sense. No dry heaves or headache, just tired and slow brain function. A two hour nap after work did wonders. Woke up feeling that here was an other cocktail I could enjoy. I am not saying I won't have one again sometime, but maybe I'll just have limeade instead. All the taste, nothing of the tiredness.

Conversations

Eri calls from the nursing home, "Bubby says to bring her something else to wear."
 -"Where are her clothes? Didn't they bring them back from the laundry yet?"
 -"I don't know. She says she is tired of wearing the same thing."
She doesn't know who to ask, there have been some accidents and she wants different pants. I say I will bring more clothes. I stop by the apartment and get a few more outfits.

"Hi, I am Carol, Harriet's daughter. Where are her clothes? They told me on Tuesday that it would take up to two days for the laundry to mark them."
  -"Where are her clothes?" asks the beautiful nurses. They are beautiful, too, one represents West Africa with a round, dark face and braids. The other represents East Africa with a lighter, thinner face and long hair. Both smile and take me in stride.
 -"That is what I am asking you."
They tell me how sweet my mother is and call down to the laundry. They will find her clothes.

"Hi Mom."
She looks up at me with sad eyes and says, "How long do I have to be here? When can I go home?"
 -"Mom, why are you here?"
 -"Because I'm weak?"
 -"Yes, and what do you have to do?"
 -"Eat?"
 -"Yes, and what else?"
She doesn't have a clue. "You need to walk with the walker. You can't go home if you aren't walking."
 -"No one takes me, they leave me alone all the time."
 -"I will talk to the nurses."

"I would like my mom to get out of bed and go to activities."
  -"She doesn't want to get out of bed."
  -"Tell her that her daughter wants her to get out of bed."
  -"We can ask her, but it is her decision."
  -"Can someone walk her?"
  -"Yes, we walk her to the bathroom and back."
  -"That isn't very far. Can she walk to the dining room?"
 They tell me they think that is too far and she should use the wheel chair. They really are as sweet as they are beautiful.

"Mom, lets go for a little walk in the hallway."
 -"I feel weak."
 -"You won't get any stronger if you just stay on your bed. I will help you."
I find her shoes and help her to sit up. She can barely stand, but once up tells me she has to use the bathroom. She walks like a thousand year old mummy. I can't believe it. How has she gone downhill so quickly? She needs help getting the pants and Depends down. She needs help getting them up again too. She tells me she is too tired to walk in the hallway and I help her back to bed.

We talk for awhile. She is bored and no one comes to see her. I tell her in the past four days I have been there three times, Leslie once, and Eri and Gavin were there just that day. She is amazed it has only been four days, it seems like a month. She tells me she believes me, she just can't remember. I suggest that the next time she thinks no one has visited she tell herself that she's forgotten. This is a woman who claims she can remember her own birth, and believe me, remembers slights for decades. We all say be here now, but I don't think that is working for the old lady.

While we are talking, another beautiful young African lady comes in with Harriet's clothes. She tells me she was off a few days and there was a backlog of labeling when she got back. She takes the other apparel I have brought to label. I feel much better.  On the way out I stop by the nursing office to thank them for finding the missing clothing and tell them that they are right. She is too weak to walk to the dining room. They smile at me and I thank them for the good care they are giving my mother. I ask if they think she is imminently dying and they both shake their heads no. I agree that though she is weak, the life force is strong.

As I walk to the car I find myself wondering how long I will need to visit every day. I am a little resentful, and kind of mentally tired. Then I remember the goal I have set for myself once again; not looking for an end, but accepting the process of living and dying and doing it all without resentment however long it takes. Doing it with patience, and hopefully experiencing joy.

Both hard and easy

This morning I got out the old red suitcase. It was dusty because I haven't been on vacation in a long time.  I brought it over to the assisted living apartment where my mother lives. While Patty, the hospice nurse gave her a shower, I filled the suitcase with nighties and underwear, sweaters, slacks, shirts. Pictures went in a tote with some toiletries. Between Patty and myself we got her into the car and off we went. for me, that was very hard. I knew this day was approaching, but I still got quite sad.

I drove up to Shalom Home West, found a wheelchair and luggage trolley. From that point, everything became easy. The staff welcomed her, the Hospice social worker made sure everything went well. The old lady said she was hungry and she went to lunch where she sat with others and ate some soup. I was able to kiss her goodbye and promised to return tomorrow morning.

The Shalom people have been doing senior care for over 100 years and they really have been lifesavers. They run Menorah Plaza where my folks lived and also have a huge campus with memory care and senior apartments, assisted living, hospice and nursing home. When you walk into their facilities, you cannot smell nursing home, not in the lobby, not on the floors. My mother, who is being supplemented by the county and the state is getting the same care as private pay patients. Thank you dear taxpayers, thank you.

We have told her that if she eats, gains some weight and mobility she can come home. I am at the point where it is OK either way. I am here for the endgame too.

Getting ready for death

Today, the old lady and I had a little discussion about death. We had come back from eating soup at a deli. She laid down on the bed and I told her to skootch over and I sat at the edge. I asked her if she was giving up. She didn't seem to eat much anymore. She told me again that she missed my father. She told me again that he loved my mother, that one did not have to do with the other. And I told her again that I knew the heart had many rooms. Did not her own mother love all five of her children?

She asked me if she would see her husband and I told her that I didn't know. I believe that we come from love and we return to love. I think it is a different existence without a body and we can't imagine it. I asked her if she was afraid and she said no. What is to be afraid of? I told her to think of it as another adventure and she was always ready to try something new. Didn't she take on the adventure of being a mother to three children at the age of 44? Everyone told her not to do it but she did. It wasn't a hard childhood because of her; in fact she alleviated some of the suffering. It was hard because my father was a mad man. He never confronted his losses and it ate him up inside.

She has always been an incredible clothes horse and when she had to move to a smaller apartment we needed to weed out enough so she had room in the closet. Now she can't find anything to wear so I took away most of the dresses and suits and summer clothes. She was grateful to have the room. I told her I would bring back her summer things when it got warm. She remarked if she was still here.

I do not begrudge the time I am spending with her in this limbo before she passes.  I am grateful for the opportunity to talk about things that really matter to both of us. We have both grown a lot in the seven years since I moved them from NY. I thought at the time they couldn't last more than a few years. I was wrong. She will be 98 on Friday and I am hosting a small dinner party at her favorite Chinese restaurant on Saturday. One day at a time, that is all anyone has, Mom, you, or me.

How the computer places me

I joined an online dating service. You answer a zillion questions and it can be quite interesting to compare your answers with potential dates. Under the "Personality" tab is a graph that shows where your answers sit in comparison to others. That too, is interesting. Potential dates can see that I am more spiritual, more pure, more compassionate, progressive, political and kind, in that descending order. They can also see I am, (according to their statistics) less adventurous, less experienced in love and life in ascending order. How they reach these conclusions is a mystery to me.

But it does make me wonder. How well do I see myself? How well does anyone? It seems to me that we look at ourselves with either rose or mud colored glasses, and very rarely do we see clearly. I know for me it is always a shock to look at photographs and see how short I am. When I look down, the floor is far away. I can't imagine what the view is for my 6' 8" nephew. I watch little kids. They are the center of their world, at home in their own space.

Many years ago I was pregnant and every night my spouse would rub pure cocoa butter on my tummy. I smelled like chocolate and was under the impression that I had no stretch marks. Then I disrobed in a cubicle with a full length mirror. I had big red stretch marks on the underside of my bulge. They had been there all the time but not having a mirror, I hadn't seen them. (Oh, big, big freak out! Why didn't you tell me? I thought you knew!)

In my mind, I am brave and oh so street wise. I am a woman of the world who chooses to stay home and uses excuses not to travel, either the parents or money. How can I be less experienced in love and life? How? I don't know, but I guess I am, because the computer says so. And we all know the computer never lies. (Garbage in, garbage out.) It does explain why most of the matches they send me are old hippies. What rich guy wants someone more spiritual, and pure? It even makes me kind of nauseous. It does make me wonder, just who I am. I won't spend a lot of time wondering, though. Because, like Popeye, I yam what I yam, and have the forearms to prove it.

Well wishers, uncross your fingers

There is a scene in a book I love, Vision of Light, where Margaret is seeing amazing things and finally asks God if He is giving her a sign. A voice answers that yes, apple blossoms in winter and all the other phenomena were to get her attention. I, too, have had amazing messages, time and time again that I totally ignored. They were too subtle for me. (I could write a book about missed opportunities.) But the other day I was sitting at a table in Costco eating some frozen yogurt and opportunity came right up to me and offered me a job.  

When I was a demonstrator cooking steak or fish, I often stood by the young man in the heating and air conditioning kiosk. I would give him samples and talk to him about his life. When he saw me on Thursday, he left his booth and came to talk to me. They were looking for someone to talk to potential customers and make appointments at another store. Would I be interested? On his say so, and without an interview, I started training on Saturday. I did another 4 hours today.  Tomorrow I will go into the office and meet the boss and fill out paperwork.

 

It isn't like cooking steak where folks flock for a free sample; it can be boring, waiting for people to approach. Either they are looking for a new heating and air conditioning system or they aren't. But then you get to visit with potential customers and for a couple of minutes have an interesting conversation. I don't have to sell anything, I just give info and get info. He said I did great and his boss was real impressed with the five appointments we made these past two days.

There is a part of me that really did not want to take this job. It does not pay enough and there are no benefits. But there is another part that says it is a job and I should take it. See how I do, be open to opportunities that come my way. Who knows where this might lead? But more than anything, when an opportunity takes the time to offer me a job when I am eating ice cream, I know it is a sign that I'd better pay attention, abandon what I think I know and be open to learning something new.

Someone asked me what my resolutions are for the new year. I only have two. I want to be more positive and try not to be negative. Here are Bette and Bing to sing about it for you.

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.