tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47210780991099837312024-03-18T15:51:33.846-05:00Camper Van ChroniclesIn the midst of busy life, remember: Stop. Breathe. Relax.JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.comBlogger653125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-58369691226252034632024-03-18T15:47:00.002-05:002024-03-18T15:51:00.852-05:00One More Step<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgne-r2FnbfIQdAXSoVrq2FQoFo9bLbc7Jux1QYto2eijD7ROxoe8JW1L_n4-ijqZCOct1YhHfjpe78ijaPLCZTp5W9EJ2UQyrwv6UUNxGeAqjqzt2WPpHBCbhPz0ZluUz2_6LZigp4XD2CSVCkddkoU3V6U9ksksXaeC6Pr7gagYXMTmEW37agBKDB5elY/s640/IMG_6933.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgne-r2FnbfIQdAXSoVrq2FQoFo9bLbc7Jux1QYto2eijD7ROxoe8JW1L_n4-ijqZCOct1YhHfjpe78ijaPLCZTp5W9EJ2UQyrwv6UUNxGeAqjqzt2WPpHBCbhPz0ZluUz2_6LZigp4XD2CSVCkddkoU3V6U9ksksXaeC6Pr7gagYXMTmEW37agBKDB5elY/w150-h200/IMG_6933.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><p style="text-align: left;">As I understand it, the Jewish tradition holds that funerals for their people should happen within 24 hours of death. (I also understand this practice is not always followed in this day and age.) While I waited for Bob's formal farewell, my emotions were all over the map, and I've decided the Jewish tradition makes a lot of sense. The three weeks between his being set free and his funeral service seemed an eternity. Sooner would have been easier.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Given the givens of my life this past decade and a bit, I have any number of useful tools in my Coping-With-Grief toolkit, and I've needed every one of them.</p><p style="text-align: left;">At this point, the drawers of my toolkit are pulled open at awkward angles, unable to be closed because their contents are a jumbled mess. The assorted tools have been tossed about haphazardly as I looked for the right one to cope with <i>this</i> feeling. Some pieces are on the floor, a few are arranged carefully in a clear spot on the workbench. There is a heap of temporary discards off to one side, tossed there when they quit being useful as my thoughts and emotions teetered down yet another side path.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Goodbyes are hard.</p><p style="text-align: left;">My sister and her husband came down this past weekend to help me get through the funeral, so I wouldn't have to spend the nights surrounding his Celebration of Life alone with my echoes. Their steady presence helped to ease those steps on grief's path. I had someone to talk to, someone to help me plan good meals. I didn't have to muster the energy to reach out for help; help was already here. I am so grateful for their presence.</p><p style="text-align: left;">They've left for home now, but with the service over, I feel readier to look forward. I longer need to devote time and energy into doing what I can to help Bob walk his oh-so-hard path. What shape will those days take? Where will I direct that energy?</p><p style="text-align: left;">It's not going to be easy, but I'm pretty sure I can do this if I keep taking one step at a time. I'm not done with those grief-coping tools, not by a long shot. But today, I'm able to begin to think about straightening up the mess I've made of my toolbox, so I'll be able to find the tools I need when I remember to look for them.</p><div style="text-align: left;">His journey is complete. <br />He is free. <br />I am free. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-60656686379819199192024-03-11T13:11:00.003-05:002024-03-11T13:14:44.970-05:00Take One More Step<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrTk9XQ05wgLGOM_eki9ilzlrAS4fX1omJzJ-TPVCyEnFFqwTRzw7W3PP-efJYjz6O1qcO4LtVO0X4mmSedVHqjqSDY9F_sNGiZJRDKE_IIp4kBX-3AagXwpl3BmQjWNC10bgferdHcrVN-kPEVjU5yOHdKMqlaZ6bgmt9V1UIITg2VEW0F442wa74z1q/s640/IMG_6904.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrTk9XQ05wgLGOM_eki9ilzlrAS4fX1omJzJ-TPVCyEnFFqwTRzw7W3PP-efJYjz6O1qcO4LtVO0X4mmSedVHqjqSDY9F_sNGiZJRDKE_IIp4kBX-3AagXwpl3BmQjWNC10bgferdHcrVN-kPEVjU5yOHdKMqlaZ6bgmt9V1UIITg2VEW0F442wa74z1q/w150-h200/IMG_6904.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>He is gone. Where he went, I don't know. My eyes keep looking at the Bob-shaped hole in my life, wondering what came next for him. I do know he is free.<p></p><p>His funeral isn't until next weekend. In the meantime, there's a part of me that thinks he's still in his gilded cage, waiting for me to visit. In the meantime, as I plan my week, part of me keeps trying to choose a time to get out there. Then I snap back to reality.</p><p>These past few days have been an exercise in taking one more step. I want to just sit and stare, but experience tells me that is not a helpful path to trod, so I've been prodding myself to take the next step, to do the next thing. </p><p>The weather has been helping; spring is in the air. This is one of my favorite weather weeks of the year - the week when the trees still look brown at first glance, but a closer look reveals a fuzziness at the tips of the branches where the leaves have started to peek out of their winter shells. The season has turned.</p><p>The world is moving on. It has not stopped for me; has not paused in its turning to let me take a moment to catch my breath, say goodbye, and begin to suss out a new shape to the rhythm of my days. (Hmph. I still think it should...)</p><p>Yesterday, the sunshine beckoned me into the back yard; where I spent a quiet hour starting to corral the growing things. I cleaned the grass from my flower beds, the volunteer flowers from the grass; enjoyed getting my hands back into the living dirt. </p><p>Today, it took some doing to get me moving, to run my katas, to exercise. (The time change didn't help.) But despite my best attempts at procrastination, I eventually got myself outside into the morning air; reluctantly started to move. My first motions were stiff, forced. But then muscle memory took over and I started to flow with the movements, muscle and breath awakening with each step.</p><p>My skin woke to the sweet caress of the coolness of the morning air. My ears attuned to the bird song chorus filling the air. My eyes sought out the traces of green outlining the lilac bush.</p><p>For those minutes, I was in the now; that elusive state where neither past nor future is relevant, where what is, Is. When I finished, a bit of that meditative Peace stayed with me. </p><p>I am here. He is free and so am I.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-16482528426488947382024-03-04T10:38:00.002-06:002024-03-04T10:45:59.104-06:00Still Working on Goodbye<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AAM5qvLWYxR4-mC0hyx-iDa9luDJmCbSloElvjaFxUKwLCa9p68rA9GHOOBr_8_3WfiDhU2J0TxDUeJIaxi7DqgG2ltq20uLbHKiBzzuQvb823hPO2kyahDAQa3MTintng1Chh50j-I_Soaj81Vblnl7KjWnW54Q8Hw0wt4T59wlhqyfFmi4dyBvpCSj/s640/IMG_6907.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AAM5qvLWYxR4-mC0hyx-iDa9luDJmCbSloElvjaFxUKwLCa9p68rA9GHOOBr_8_3WfiDhU2J0TxDUeJIaxi7DqgG2ltq20uLbHKiBzzuQvb823hPO2kyahDAQa3MTintng1Chh50j-I_Soaj81Vblnl7KjWnW54Q8Hw0wt4T59wlhqyfFmi4dyBvpCSj/w150-h200/IMG_6907.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't want to write about Bob again today. Goodbyes are hard, and I'm already tired of waking in the night to know he is gone. But thoughts of him are so close to the surface, I have little room in my head for other reflections.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was such a long and slow goodbye, I had lulled myself into a sense of serenity. I thought surely, with all the times I'd said goodbye to him along the way, I would feel only relief when he was set free and the final goodbye was complete.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Uh huh. As he used to say, "Denial is not just a river in Egypt." I learn this time and time again.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The last year or so of our friendship before his official diagnosis of dementia, we were not close. <span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228;">I knew he was falling into dementia, but he was covering well enough that the world didn't realize what was going on and I wondered myself if I was imagining things. He was angry, his excessive drinking made things worse, and I could no longer trust him to stay in my house, as he often had for years - I was sure, in his inebriated state, he was going to take a tumble down my long, narrow, flight of steps and hurt himself. On my side, I was in the midst of my COVID-induced isolation weirdness, and wasn't thinking entirely straight. (Five months of almost total isolation was NOT good for my mental health.)</span></span></p><div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am SO glad he didn't die when our relationship was in that bitter and estranged state. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br clear="none" style="outline: none;" /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">This week, as I've looked back across these past few years, I've realized the silver lining of his dementia imprisonment was the removal of alcohol from his brain. Along with the excellent cocktail of drugs he was taking to keep his dementia-induced agitation under control, the loss of his daily dose of systemic depressant made it possible for our friendship to come back to life.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We could no longer share the easy give and take of old; those long evenings spent cooking dinner while talking about our respective days, then watching movies or just quietly reading books. He was no longer connected to that version of life. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But we could hold hands and walk together. He hadn't been there long before he no longer remembered he was angry with me, so I got to see the return of the man who relaxed and laughed when I came around. </span>I got to see the return of the man who became my best friend so long ago, even as I watched him leave me.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;">Ouch.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;">Out walking this morning, I saw the first crocuses in bloom; spring has come early this year.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;">I felt as if Someone was reminding me I will not stay sad/angry/hurt/relieved/lonely forever.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;">This, too, shall pass.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;">Time will work its magic and ease my pain, as it has done so many times before.</div><div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2228; outline: none;">He is free, and so am I.</div>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-14669798913917315872024-02-27T16:46:00.003-06:002024-02-27T17:07:48.942-06:00Goodbye, Bob<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaI_O61-1AoaqcTmAy5qAGjYMfvPXQO9dSkXek-4lHEJG48N9XnqQurp690yurKUAdyUHXKHhhZWkpwERpZlc_u0l9BtSy6JRrP0hDawI3RfRlDI3zeZ3Ju33Bm9PzeDNWdjqhvhqg-y848ALzJSm13SHYx3f8GqUSW3PZGsEs9P2jZ0MkF9HhshAWUTRQ/s640/IMG_6393.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaI_O61-1AoaqcTmAy5qAGjYMfvPXQO9dSkXek-4lHEJG48N9XnqQurp690yurKUAdyUHXKHhhZWkpwERpZlc_u0l9BtSy6JRrP0hDawI3RfRlDI3zeZ3Ju33Bm9PzeDNWdjqhvhqg-y848ALzJSm13SHYx3f8GqUSW3PZGsEs9P2jZ0MkF9HhshAWUTRQ/s320/IMG_6393.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Bob Rost<br />May 26, 1948 - Feb 26, 2024</div><p>One of Bob's favorite bible verses was Philippians 1:6: I am sure of this much: that the One who has begun the good work in you will carry it through until completion, right up to the day of Christ Jesus.</p><p>God's good work in him is complete. He is free.</p><p>I went to see him this past Saturday, shortly after my return from California. I expected to find him in much the same condition he'd been in when I left three weeks ago, but when I walked into his room, it was clear he'd turned a final corner in my absence. He was well along the path to whatever-it-is that comes next. </p><p>I sat with him for a long time. I sang to him. He opened his eyes and recognized me one last time. </p><p>I went back Sunday, but while he was still breathing, he didn't rouse at all. The drugs were doing their part of God's good work. As I left, I knew I'd said my last goodbye. He died in the wee hours of yesterday morning.</p><p>I went back to the facility yesterday for a final visit, to bring a small thank you gift for the staff who did their best to care for him. While I was there, I stopped by his (former??!??) room. While I knew he was gone, I guess I wanted to see with mine own eyes that he was no longer there. Sure enough, thankfully, I felt no sense of his presence. He'd finally escaped his gilded cage.</p><p>And so ends our complex relationship.</p><p>Despite the fact he was a Catholic priest, which, sadly, put certain limits on what we could be for each other, he'd been my best friend for thirty years. We supported each other through life's ups and downs; shared a deep and abiding love. </p><p>It occurred to me, as I vainly tried to get back to sleep at 3AM this morning, that as he is set free, so am I. </p><p>To walk the path of dementia with him has taken an enormous amount of emotional and physical energy. For the last two years (when I was in town), I've blocked off the better part of at least one day each week to visit him. I came home emotionally spent from most of those meetings; it was SO hard to watch him slipping away. No more.</p><p>As someone told me this morning, "Change is hard. Even good change is hard. Change mixed with grief is especially challenging."</p><p>Taking one step at a time, my last few days have looked quite calm. I've exercised, which helps me to stay grounded in this world. I've worked on my list of things-to-get-done, a great distraction. I'm fine for a while, then a stray thought pierces my facade of normalcy, "He is gone." I let the tears flow for a bit, then change the words to, "He is free." The change in wording doesn't stop the tears, but it does remind me I have been praying for this moment to arrive for the better part of two years.</p><p>Bob, I hope, wherever you are, your lost memories have caught back up with you. I pray you have met up with some of your old friends, have been able to set things right with your parents. I hope you are laughing freely and often; that infectious, booming, laugh of yours. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well, that he told you, "Welcome home, my worthy servant."</p><p>You were worthy. You are worthy. I will miss you. </p><p>Te amo.</p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-65001942918364477332024-02-20T17:13:00.001-06:002024-02-20T17:18:16.689-06:00Cancaversary #12<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznQL2xorZyPNwaJXCNGyZh5K7RQbTTTlsoBh2R32tOdqD9vApbRQi_i_r8CGpoO-8_WcXVBOVVUNhw9HHRn94hThkVbZf0V8cB4Nuhfvu8ANqs29N1LY-Nuio38oyq03a6psd4aVIHTC_pN1QZEVwrvHuX8fc7MCaHIfHuwH37FeMB3xAN48qMQ8wdsTf/s640/IMG_6871.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiznQL2xorZyPNwaJXCNGyZh5K7RQbTTTlsoBh2R32tOdqD9vApbRQi_i_r8CGpoO-8_WcXVBOVVUNhw9HHRn94hThkVbZf0V8cB4Nuhfvu8ANqs29N1LY-Nuio38oyq03a6psd4aVIHTC_pN1QZEVwrvHuX8fc7MCaHIfHuwH37FeMB3xAN48qMQ8wdsTf/w150-h200/IMG_6871.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Twelve years.<p></p><p>It's already been twelve years since I cut my dream of a camper van journey short to face down cancer. Even if/when it decides to reappear one day, I've beaten the cancer odds. </p><p>Today, I am still here.</p><p>I gotta admit, in those first days after my fingers stumbled upon the lump, I was sure the piper had come calling for me. I was prepared to go down fighting, but given the givens of my mom's cancer journey, I thought I wouldn't survive the decade. I was resigned to the probability I would be told, when I woke from my double mastectomy, that the disease had found its way to my lymph nodes. But I won the same genetic lottery I lost, my lymph nodes were clear. My cancer, caught early, turned out to be treatable, unlike Mom's, unlike Libby's.</p><p>I didn't survive the battle without some scars to show for it. They are my daily reminder of the difficult paths I walked in the midst of the journey. The part I like is that they <i>are</i> scars; no longer open wounds that need careful tending, they are reminders I made it through to the far side of that dark valley. </p><p>I have traveled far since those days. As I make new memories (both pleasant and less so) and have new adventures (both fun and less so), a sense of awe surrounding the fact I am still around to live my days is never far from my awareness. </p><p>This year, I was out in California with Kate, and together we celebrated our continued ability to open our eyes each morning. (Her cancaversary is three years less two days after mine; she is also NED - shows No Evidence of Disease. *whew*) With her partner Edwin and the amazing Ms. Lexi, we had a luxurious dinner and raised a toast or three in gratitude. </p><p>We are here.</p><p>Hallelujah!</p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-32397146748887275352024-02-12T16:41:00.000-06:002024-02-12T16:41:36.939-06:00Frozen, Jr<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VKAh-2TkKeE6gTbrwS0R3aQY3y4BojXvqXw15Sf_8I7SjJQVrUarOq6Leq2ilB8jsitJ5X3zsUbhbgxb_hJ8mZMkmYGlS9KvomhboN8YJHnDymLS8n8xt6t1T6vOmkp7YBeMrDluuDVQc2Ox9Z4BKg79tkZv2V7aLhg3XaWaSmBJzfgBLGqyuZUA-7DA/s640/IMG_6825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5VKAh-2TkKeE6gTbrwS0R3aQY3y4BojXvqXw15Sf_8I7SjJQVrUarOq6Leq2ilB8jsitJ5X3zsUbhbgxb_hJ8mZMkmYGlS9KvomhboN8YJHnDymLS8n8xt6t1T6vOmkp7YBeMrDluuDVQc2Ox9Z4BKg79tkZv2V7aLhg3XaWaSmBJzfgBLGqyuZUA-7DA/w200-h150/IMG_6825.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I can't tell you the last time I was in the audience for a middle school play. My two kids weren't involved in the theater, so I'm guessing it's been the better part of 50 years. (How did THAT happen??) It took my granddaughter get me back into my seat for a show. She has picked up the acting bug, and was selected to join the cast of her school's production, <i>Frozen, Jr. </i>The show was on this past weekend, and I was delighted to attend two of her performances. <p></p><p>The rain that drenched California's coast last week had cost them most of their scheduled dress rehearsals, and so they spent ten hours (?!?) on Wednesday, the day before the show, making up for lost time. It was clearly time well spent. To my untutored eye, everything came more-or-less seamlessly together. Everyone knew their lines and sang the many songs with enthusiasm, danced with grace.</p><p>Whenever I'm around a group of young people this age, I'm struck anew by how. much. they. grow. in these three years. They go from children to quasi-adult sized. *poof!* The casting director had no trouble finding cast members to depict the three Annas and Elsas (young, middle-kid aged, and grown up). Close to home, my Lexi has grown over an inch since I saw her just last Thanksgiving!</p><p>As I sat in the theater, I was transported to a simpler place. All my external worries and concerns evaporated. I was focused on watching this child of my heart pop on and off the stage in her four distinct ensemble roles. I knew she was worried about stumbling as she twirled, depicting living snow during Elsa's song, <i>Let it Go</i>. Her skirt as a townsperson was a bit loose, and she was concerned she might step on the hem and pull it down as she danced that number. </p><p>I was happy with and for her as neither these nor any other mishaps marred her graceful performance. </p><p>I needed the play this week; was overdue for a reminder that at least some of our young people are doing a bang-up job of growing up well. Their world has seen a LOT of upheaval these past few years, but they are showing their resilience by doing the things kids their age have done as long as I've been on this earth. The happy smiles on their faces as they took their bows after the final show last night were a testament to hope. </p><p>Hope anyways.</p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-92034102046534937162024-02-05T10:35:00.004-06:002024-02-06T13:43:44.392-06:00Such a Slow Goodbye<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFjIMlNaRf7xrLidlOjrgZwUvntgWpdv52GGoMg4txmJk22RW8Nz3TUCoaZtQBHnXyW7NcaigyTlIH5NIVnfnJXfep_ZmpCV1FSJGHSv-eizNA1N096MQdW04Nr6uWU6K2hjujUcuCKhKUmA_eWAnKyqq9ColKxCtfK8ZV9vNOJFmJmjSDZ6LrNbBtlPM/s640/IMG_6311.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="562" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheFjIMlNaRf7xrLidlOjrgZwUvntgWpdv52GGoMg4txmJk22RW8Nz3TUCoaZtQBHnXyW7NcaigyTlIH5NIVnfnJXfep_ZmpCV1FSJGHSv-eizNA1N096MQdW04Nr6uWU6K2hjujUcuCKhKUmA_eWAnKyqq9ColKxCtfK8ZV9vNOJFmJmjSDZ6LrNbBtlPM/w176-h200/IMG_6311.jpg" width="176" /></a></div>I haven't written about Bob and his dementia journey in a long time; there hasn't been much to add. I visit often, tucking my sorrow deeply under my shirt as I walk in the door so I can greet him, wherever he is that day, with a smile on my face. It is hard. He has hated being a prisoner in the dementia ward, and I have hated it for him, but there has been nothing I could do to change anything; his family has NOT been interested in having me, or anyone else, take him outside for a break.<p></p><p>His deterioration has been noticeable; steady, but slow. Week over week, the changes are slight, but anytime I look back over a couple of months, the downhill trend is clear. </p><p>December found him in unfamiliar waters. He hit some sort of internal tipping point. Over the course of the past two months he has gone from fairly self-sufficient to a literally lost soul, unable to find his way back to his room once he has reached the end of the hall. He fell twice last month, the second time hard enough to knock himself out as he hit the corner of a brick column on his way to the floor. The wound is healing well, but for several weeks he had a spectacular row of stitches in the middle of his forehead.</p><p>He still knows me. Not my name, such labels have ceased to hold meaning for him. But as soon as he sets eyes on me, his whole face lights up with the delighted grin of a four year-old child. He gives me a tight hug, like a young one seeking comfort because he has found himself in a scary place. I give him what little comfort I can, grateful my presence seems to help just a little.</p><p>His grasp on the spoken word is tenuous - it's fascinating to listen to him. Many words are unrecognizable, but his tone and emphasis remain clear. It's easy to tell if he's happy, worried, angry, thoughtful, curious, or confused, so I can respond in kind, and we can have a conversation of sorts.</p><p>After his last tumble, his family called in hospice. *sigh of relief* I like hospice. They've brought in their arsenal of drugs, and he is no longer heart-breakingly anxious. His anger is calmed away. </p><p>One day last month, I was cleaning up his room with one of the aides, and said something about talking to him to show him how to something. She looked at me and quietly said, "Don't try. It won't work. He is gone."</p><p>gone? gone. </p><p>She was right. His body is still here, but his mind will grasp no new concepts. He is no longer able to learn.</p><p>I've spent a lot of time since then waving goodbye, letting go. I've been working to untangle my heart strings from his; a difficult task given the many years of our close relationship. </p><p>In many ways, it is easier now he is ungrounded in place and time. Once when I came, he was lost in slumber, unable to rouse himself for more than a minute or two at a time. That was the easiest visit because he was at peace.</p><p>His family doesn't share details of anything with me, but I know the presence of hospice means they expect the end of his life's journey is in sight. I can hope.</p><p>Each visit, as I leave, I untuck my feelings and let the tears flow. I pray to St. James, my friend from the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela on El Camino. I ask him to stay near; to be ready to accompany his fellow disciple home when the time comes for Bob to be set free. I pray his time to be free will come soon.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-59699983483677014832024-01-29T10:56:00.004-06:002024-01-29T10:59:14.350-06:00Sunshine!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQoudslraCGs0e0IyuOpLaLybMKL60g3BJFQQpo2_mZe_j7KVAQk1FlcfSSUiarZXEiND8OljeLnB-24_oMeijrIQPsgQxtD7P65t3PTOb10zUnzcxiym4vIV1L3JpL8n7HSDWyL7Hc4YwY7lGzllsC25uBcue2qOynDw3Ut8xWsFhc-F8RKDDpfH3s7j/s640/IMG_6753.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQoudslraCGs0e0IyuOpLaLybMKL60g3BJFQQpo2_mZe_j7KVAQk1FlcfSSUiarZXEiND8OljeLnB-24_oMeijrIQPsgQxtD7P65t3PTOb10zUnzcxiym4vIV1L3JpL8n7HSDWyL7Hc4YwY7lGzllsC25uBcue2qOynDw3Ut8xWsFhc-F8RKDDpfH3s7j/w200-h150/IMG_6753.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>We've had typical January weather these past few weeks. The bitter cold and snow of two weeks ago gave way to the more typical damp cold we tend to live with this time of year. The sky was an unrelenting gray, the lows were in the 30's, the highs were in the 30's. Just blah.<p></p><p>I'd been doing so well combating the winter blues this year, but as day after day of cold gray blanketed the world outside my windows, it managed to make its way through the cracks and begin creeping into my bones.</p><p>I was actually pretty proud of myself. I kept doing all the things anyways. I showed up to exercise. I met friends for meals. I didn't try to smother my blahs with junk food. I lit candles. All these things helped, but none of them worked to chase the grays away.</p><p>When I glimpsed my first robin a week ago (yes, there's a robin in that picture, on the driveway), I just sighed and told him he and his friends were a bit early for the show; that perhaps they should find somewhere warmer to hang out for another month or so. They might have listened - I haven't had another sighting since then.</p><p>Then I walked outside about an hour ago. It's not MUCH warmer out there (it was all of 40 degrees), but there is not a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining brightly. Nothing else has changed a whit, but the warm rays of the sun pierced the grays inside me and, *poof*, they evaporated.</p><p>Suddenly, today's scheduled exercise will be a gift and not a chore. The assorted mundane household todos no longer loom large overhead; the laundry pile is suddenly quite manageable. I'm ready to go hunt down those robins and tell them that, just perhaps, winter will not last forever after all.</p><p>Despite all I know, it's hard for me to believe the grays will ever leave again once they have managed to seep in. (It's not all bad, I suppose, because it's alway such a beautiful surprise when they are banished.) </p><p>I am grateful for the life lessons which have taught me to keep taking baby steps anyways. To look for the beauty (robins!) anyways. To know that this, too, shall pass.</p><p>*whew*</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-132632907070675832024-01-22T11:12:00.003-06:002024-01-22T15:09:21.133-06:00Out of the Cold, But...<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNB74onC5EVqnXf_YrHQiNFB9LiCPPUbTgLY3kS5XJ9PPLgx9vjdA9xSUe5ZlfCEbSrcZ5hdjaQ4-1asAl6Mw2e2oGpOw96ie_hy-8XU36vohrnFgCTVpSbno-Bib733VedtuRbdYuBQhihU_2HdDMi0t9U_pP_8w_WC5MYSIcqehjq54MakzEeR3wCHR/s640/IMG_6732.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNNB74onC5EVqnXf_YrHQiNFB9LiCPPUbTgLY3kS5XJ9PPLgx9vjdA9xSUe5ZlfCEbSrcZ5hdjaQ4-1asAl6Mw2e2oGpOw96ie_hy-8XU36vohrnFgCTVpSbno-Bib733VedtuRbdYuBQhihU_2HdDMi0t9U_pP_8w_WC5MYSIcqehjq54MakzEeR3wCHR/w150-h200/IMG_6732.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Given that I don't have to be out in it when I don't want to be, (and have decent insulation in my house, so can afford the heating bill), I've not minded this cold spell; even ?enjoyed it? a little. <p></p><p>As I take in a deep breath as I step out into the frigid air with Sylvester each morning, the cold air cleans my lungs, and for a few minutes I feel young again. </p><p>The crisp air brings back memories of the days when, as a college student, I would walk the 3-4 blocks from the pool to the dorm after diving practice, wet hair freezing along the way. I would comb it out when I got to the foyer of the dorm, which would leave it essentially dry, enabling me to skip the hair dryer part of my routine. Yup. It's been a while.</p><p>It's just this morning that I've really begun to get antsy here in my cozy nest. The cold spell broke overnight, but the change in the weather brought with it a thin sheet of ice, turning the city into a skating rink.</p><p>Sylvester, predictably, didn't think much of it, though he did manage to keep his feet as he ventured carefully down the front walk. I also managed to stay upright, but that's only because I was walking in the snow next to him. </p><p>The ice on the sidewalk was a little thin for skates, but my hiking boots were perfect for the venture. I didn't even try to walk across the drives where there was no snow handy - I just dug into the recesses of my brain and pulled up my long-dormant skating skills. I bent my knees just that little bit and slid, flat-footed, gliding my way across the expanses. </p><p>I'm glad I found my moment of fun, because I needed it. The ice is messing with my exercise routine. Again. It feels like I've had more days off than on this month. (Though, looking at my calendar, that's totally not true - once again, my feelings are not always reality-based.) I am missing my antidepressant of choice. </p><p>Yes, I have a perfectly good treadmill in the basement for just such weather emergencies, but while plodding along on the track fulfills the letter of my keep-moving mandate, it's not fun. My instructors aren't there to make the time go quickly; there are no fellow students with whom to share news of the day.</p><p>This is where I stop and tell me to get a grip. It IS winter after all. And I don't recall the line in life's handbook that guarantees I'll never have to change my plans to accommodate reality. According to the weather forecast, the ice will melt later today. Tonight's new batch of a similar snow/ice mixture should be gone by midday tomorrow, and then, if the forecast holds true, I'll be able to get back to my routine.</p><p>In the meantime, it's not like I've run out of candles to light against the cloudy sky. I have not run out of books to read. I have food in the fridge, and plenty of tea in the cabinet.</p><p>Thank you for listening to me, and I'm done whining for today. If you need me, I'll be on the sofa with my fuzzy blanket and a book and a cup of hot tea, counting my many blessings.</p><p>Stay safe!</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-36045428872745014162024-01-15T14:54:00.005-06:002024-01-15T14:59:18.495-06:00Brrrrr!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqPIg3vWsf4Em9vNXjTruyNGA8Et4XyP9IweaGHITwNHz24NL8Q6hBKlhR_yzGjKhHDGo6vgM_u2Kx2XfnLooBoC4X7dXaCgzSWpDZrWUhZU6d8Dz6lAdpXNK1U5Oo_i8iWi0mqIRP7lT-z5Nru9p2AiaXKyDihTgYnn7PprNi-R3VxXSIgS8qNd5c9Ot/s640/IMG_6737.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQqPIg3vWsf4Em9vNXjTruyNGA8Et4XyP9IweaGHITwNHz24NL8Q6hBKlhR_yzGjKhHDGo6vgM_u2Kx2XfnLooBoC4X7dXaCgzSWpDZrWUhZU6d8Dz6lAdpXNK1U5Oo_i8iWi0mqIRP7lT-z5Nru9p2AiaXKyDihTgYnn7PprNi-R3VxXSIgS8qNd5c9Ot/w200-h150/IMG_6737.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p>Sylvester has pretty much made his peace with the weather here in the midwest since he arrived a year or so ago. I don't think he will ever be fond of moisture falling from the sky, but he puts up with it, at least long enough to trot around the block and take care of business.</p><p>Miniature Schnauzer-like dogs (he's supposed to be purebred, but he's a bit of a throwback to his terrier roots; he's taller and longer than the 'proper' mini schnauzer who lives around the corner. Also, less barky, so I'm thinking it's a good tradeoff.) have a double coat, and thus tolerate cold-ish temperatures quite well. So, when this winter's first real cold spell hit, we continued getting out on our daily walks.</p><p>He did well until the temps dipped below 10, then below zero. As we walked, he started shivering long before we'd completed our circuit, despite his insulating layer. At the same time, his paws started freezing up; he started walking unevenly, favoring first one foot, then another. Poor puppy - I scooped him up, and he rode snugly in my arms the rest of the way home.</p><p>Not wanting to torture the poor thing, we've gone out just long enough for him to do the necessaries since then. Once he's finished going, I let him off the leash simply for the joy of watching him run as fast as he can back to the front door, warmth, and safety.</p><p>I thought I'd enjoy the reprieve from having to be out in the cold, but it turns out my legs have gotten quite used to walking. They don't care if it's cold out there; they'd like to return to their daily routine please and thank you. Soon, I tell them. Soon enough.</p><p>I've actually kind of enjoyed the change in the weather. Snug in my warm house, the white blanket of snow is prettier to look at than the winter grays and browns which are the usual view. I've dug into my cache of lined pants and warm sweaters, and have happily spent a couple of afternoons tucked in under a blanket with a cup of hot tea and a book.</p><p>I've been SO grateful for my furnace and the energy that keeps it running. I was without power for five hours as the snow and cold swept in. It was shortly before the temps plummeted, so I was ok for the first couple of hours. But then, as winter's early darkness crept in the windows, and the house continued to cool, I wasn't so OK. I have vivid memories of the three days I spent without power a few years back - watching the house temperature inch down through the 50s into the lower 40s. The plants and I survived only because the outside temps stayed above freezing during the storm and its aftermath. </p><p>This time, I was obsessively checking the power outage map every thirty minutes, making sure they hadn't cleared the big block of trouble that included my street - because if it was gone, and my lights still weren't on, I knew I'd be in for a long, cold night as they worked their way down to the problems affecting only a few houses. </p><p>As I passed the estimated time to fix by a good hour, my anxiety levels started to rise. I stopped myself, took a deep breath, and scouted out some pet-friendly neighbors who seemed to have power; places where I could retreat just-in-case. I dug my head lamp out of the cabinet, and went into the kitchen to make myself a can of hot soup. (Times like these, I am SO grateful for my gas cooktop...)</p><p>As I was finishing the soup, I heard the reassuring sound of the furnace kicking on. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, then checked the outage map one more time, sending up a prayer for the 8,000-odd customers still without power, hoping they had options for places to keep warm.</p><p>I know most of the country is in my boat, coping with this cold spell. Stay warm out there, hear???</p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-50870649476391331552024-01-08T16:55:00.001-06:002024-01-08T17:06:15.203-06:00Dragon Age<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkrosp02KcCAzb-RTLVOH8k702L27lcN2NIdr2yaIdCtJ2j7ITpFWQfEVfIIct6wNddN9HXt4MIu7MMYTwpNTaUF2Va_QPXUkQc93NUGjcwp1wEj9mux8E_uojoZc4_QGd9yasDZkn4vzOX5OxjvkxERrtdl4Ok9kuvImkuUO3-IT9r_QVHWLkI5-TyKA/s640/IMG_6725.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkrosp02KcCAzb-RTLVOH8k702L27lcN2NIdr2yaIdCtJ2j7ITpFWQfEVfIIct6wNddN9HXt4MIu7MMYTwpNTaUF2Va_QPXUkQc93NUGjcwp1wEj9mux8E_uojoZc4_QGd9yasDZkn4vzOX5OxjvkxERrtdl4Ok9kuvImkuUO3-IT9r_QVHWLkI5-TyKA/w150-h200/IMG_6725.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>When I retired - the first time - and climbed into my camper van, I thought perhaps I'd get bored in the evenings. Some people like computer games; I thought it was high time I gave one a try, and so asked my son, who has been playing them since he was 12, for a recommendation.<p></p><p>The one he picked, Dragon Age, sounded like, yes, it might be fun, and so I picked up a copy and loaded it onto my laptop.</p><p>I underestimated both my level of exhaustion and my willingness to look at a computer screen when not getting paid. The program languished on my desktop, unused, unopened, until my trip got aborted and I returned to work.</p><p>Given I was living in an apartment, I thought surely I'd want something to do in the evenings. I figured I'd open it then, but nope. The aftermath of cancer wiped out my energy levels for the next three years.</p><p>But then, once I was recovered and unemployed and staying with Kate in Minnesota? Nope, not then. Once the big remodeling project on my current house was essentially finished? Nope. Certainly not after I found steady employment with Jack Cooper. During my alone Covid days, when I had little to do and all day to do it? Nope, not then, either. </p><p>Finally, I decided a decade of procrastination was enough. Either play the stupid game, or quit worrying about it! I turned on my now-aging laptop to play the game - and got a dreaded hard drive sector 0 error. Unrecoverable. Fatal. *sigh*</p><p>But now. Now my desire had been thwarted, and now I WANTED to play the game. I started casting about for ways to obtain an older computer so I could play the game. One of my young friends had upgraded her gaming computer, and volunteered to donate the old one to my cause. (Thank you, Ione.) </p><p>I triumphantly brought my new hardware home, hooked it up, loaded the game. And promptly let it sit for another year. </p><p>By this past fall, I was getting a little impatient with myself. (You'd think I was up for the Procrastinator of the Year award or something!) </p><p>What was my problem??? Surely, I could at least give it a try!! So I added it as a task to my to-do list. I forwarded the task, untouched, on to the next week. the next week. the next week. then gave myself an ultimatum. Now, or never.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>I told me I was going to spend an hour each evening on the game for the next ten days. (Which was enough time for me to know if this is one of the ways I want to spend my time, or not.) I sat down, let the computer sort through its unwieldy pile of uninstalled fixes, and loaded up the program. </p><p>I set up my character, 'woke up' in the mage's tower, and within three days, was properly hooked. This wasn't some mindless, clear-the-grid-of-matching-tiles game. This was a story! With people and a plot line and an IMPORTANT QUEST to complete.</p><p>Within two weeks, my problem switched from making myself sit down with the game to limiting the amount of time I was spending on it. Turns out it's a perfect way to pass the dark fall evenings. Who knew? (OK. Every adolescent in the country, but hey...)</p><p>It took almost three months, but (spoiler alert!) I managed to kill the demon and save the land from the evil blight. I was a hero!</p><p>As I played, I found myself wishing life could have a do-over button. You know the one - you've made a string of bad choices, or chosen a bad strategy to approach the battle, or missed an important clue along the way, and suddenly you're wandering lost without a clear vision of how to move forward. (Or, gotten killed by the bad guys. Happens.)</p><p>You sigh, go back to your last save, and give it another shot. And another, repeating as necessary, until you've learned the skills you need to make it past the current obstacle. </p><p>Wouldn't that be handy? Think of all the relationships I could have mended along the way. I could explore the roads not taken, then back off if it turns out my first choice was better after all. I could be all-knowing, all-wise, invincible!</p><p>But then I wouldn't be having a human experience, would I? That's one of the things that makes this life so vital - no resets; no do-overs.</p><p>And I rather like my precious, precarious, life. </p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-11977502642860978462024-01-01T11:14:00.002-06:002024-01-01T11:15:02.430-06:00Happy New Year, 2024!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCk1CHot3sr670uDgueHNUEp-x7XZA5cLvj13x7j3EsaIRE0MGSVVeog2M0yQUFrCBtjuNMhaGuVS2bWfM5MjslmTHGi7fzcTWPFNXvcymdjUB20flnN-UBqosZh-uvz-X_hnYj9CAdIOfePJnGKbqokOA9JLsONf52Feyy7c1NRfS-A_utQcojgkhKmE/s640/IMG_6650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMCk1CHot3sr670uDgueHNUEp-x7XZA5cLvj13x7j3EsaIRE0MGSVVeog2M0yQUFrCBtjuNMhaGuVS2bWfM5MjslmTHGi7fzcTWPFNXvcymdjUB20flnN-UBqosZh-uvz-X_hnYj9CAdIOfePJnGKbqokOA9JLsONf52Feyy7c1NRfS-A_utQcojgkhKmE/w200-h150/IMG_6650.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>2024, already? How did this happen???<p></p><p>I mean, Happy New Year, everyone!!!</p><p>I've adjusted to many changes in my life. Why, then, is it proving so difficult for me to align my inner time-sense with outer reality? I'm grounded in each day. The hours pass normally; even the weeks trot along at a fairly reasonable pace. The problem comes in with any timespan longer than that. I turn around twice, and months are gone and I don't know where I put them! </p><p>I know, I know, it's a factor of aging, *she types with a heavy sigh*. Get used to it, deal with it, suck it up, buttercup. Perhaps I should make this a resolution for the new year: Quit whining about how quickly time has passed; rather, embrace the quickly changing seasons. After all, it's preferable to time slogging along in the mud! </p><p>I'll work on it.</p><p>My New Year's Eve was lovely; we celebrated toddler-style. (For the evening's festivities, I had four guests aged six and under, along with their responsible adults.) Given that I turn into a pumpkin about the time the clock hits double-digits each evening, the celebration suited me to a T.</p><p>We gathered around four, so my young guests could get reacquainted with one another. While their responsible adults sat everyone down for a pre-dinner session of color-the-ornaments, I gathered orders and went and picked up Chinese for dinner.</p><p>We sat down at the table, enjoyed a lovely meal, then got out the bubbly beverages. I started to look for plastic cups for the little ones, then decided plastic did NOT suit the occasion, so everyone got a fancy glass to do the "midnight" toast. (I am pleased to say no pretty glassware was sacrificed in this effort. *whew*) </p><p>We put on sparkly tiaras and fun glasses, and counted down (at a random moment in time) to zero. Everyone raised their glasses, cheered, and toasted the new year. Then, we all shared pieces of a wonderful clock-decorated giant cookie.</p><p>Properly sugared up, the young ones drifted off to play a rousing game of "Meow" (I'm not sure what the rules were, but it involved much crawling on the floor to a chorus of kitty sounds), while the adults lingered at the table, catching up on current life happenings.</p><p>BEFORE any of the kitties hit meltdown mode, the children and their ornaments were packed up and loaded into their respective cars along with their associated adults. I waved them off with a full heart, savoring the remnants of my goodbye hugs. I finished dinner cleanup and sat down with a happy sigh - all by 8PM.</p><p>I couldn't have chosen a better way to spend the evening.</p><p>Happy New Year!</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-20445358507479522672023-12-25T11:30:00.002-06:002023-12-25T11:31:47.063-06:00Advent Week 4: Love<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifv-FhXS_S1MjdNLelPff6cbHMsHDVtF5r6bdUFuc_OJM7NtCJO8dweK6TYrvzFOEX4sC7_2vQz-gtjXlD42UQpXu0YOXvPXbj3G5QkHCDtQoRhACeNqAbgYLbJDA5To52yznIu7AF7gJgmd-oZeGDpSuSTbYJhs8MHsUs0eFGqCVCI3ILtH2PWbGj5NF-/s640/IMG_6662.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifv-FhXS_S1MjdNLelPff6cbHMsHDVtF5r6bdUFuc_OJM7NtCJO8dweK6TYrvzFOEX4sC7_2vQz-gtjXlD42UQpXu0YOXvPXbj3G5QkHCDtQoRhACeNqAbgYLbJDA5To52yznIu7AF7gJgmd-oZeGDpSuSTbYJhs8MHsUs0eFGqCVCI3ILtH2PWbGj5NF-/w200-h150/IMG_6662.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I am alone in my house this morning. When I grew up, as a middle child in a group of eight, I was rarely alone, even in a room; I was never alone at home. I equated being alone with being lonely, and being lonely with being unloved. <p></p><p>Fortunately for my peace of mind, I've since learned these are false equivalences. I can be, and am, alone but not lonely. My phone has been lighting up all morning with Christmas wishes. I am not forgotten. It feels good to know this - the Peace of the season is with me today.</p><p>That I am loved more deeply than I'd dreamed is the best lesson I took from the hard days of my run-in with cancer. Despite the fact I had a brand new address, my people found me, and sent cards and notes letting me know they cared; I knew I was in their thoughts and in their prayers. When I needed help, they came out of the woodwork to do all they could to ease my path. They walked with me and cheered me on, providing the support I needed to make it through to the other side.</p><p>Love Is.</p><p>The last Sunday of Advent ran smack-dab into Christmas this year, and I gotta admit I felt just a cheated yesterday when the Love candle didn't get its moment alone in my meditations; I felt like it was crowded out by the Christ candle; a lot like getting rushed through the last chapter of a good book. </p><p>But this is how life works: as one story ends, another begins on its heels and the light has come back into the world! </p><p>Winter's solstice was neatly tucked into the middle of last week, and even though we had just two seconds more of daylight on Saturday than we had on Friday, just knowing I'd made it - again - through the darkest days of the year lifted my spirits. </p><p>Days of Dark are followed by Days of Light are followed by Days of Dark are followed by Days of Light and if there has been a constant in my life this is it. Knowing the cycle will turn both helps me keep taking steps through the Dark, and helps me to treasure the Light.</p><p>May the Light of Love be with you this holiday season - whichever holidays you celebrate.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-76271626272852692302023-12-18T14:15:00.000-06:002023-12-18T14:15:27.021-06:00Advent Week 3: Joy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9lBZrHZO0mA3nk21YPbUzwrWX99aCqp422e5eiRL6Q83wcdjAb9sMa_MDksmXnruLFqx8Lt4ireuNz_AMetVBAmqkaQM-B8v41l6vPP9qIRGhLYt6DeGdmICPNaXsNnZzs7doQ78WVcLVf6c5KWe9rwK4DAKcCzQ0jy-B1ogTMboSAF81XLPd6TXl0y4/s640/IMG_6638.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9lBZrHZO0mA3nk21YPbUzwrWX99aCqp422e5eiRL6Q83wcdjAb9sMa_MDksmXnruLFqx8Lt4ireuNz_AMetVBAmqkaQM-B8v41l6vPP9qIRGhLYt6DeGdmICPNaXsNnZzs7doQ78WVcLVf6c5KWe9rwK4DAKcCzQ0jy-B1ogTMboSAF81XLPd6TXl0y4/w150-h200/IMG_6638.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Joy.<p></p><p>Even the word itself is fleeting. It's a little bubble of sound, gone almost before it has arrived. Joy leaves a taste of effervescence lingering in memory long after its moment has passed.</p><p>I hope to long remember finishing my walk to Fisterre, the end of the world, in September. The cool air on my face during my early morning walk up the long hill to the lighthouse. The warmth of the rising sun at my back; the glint of diamond sparkles on the ocean waves far below. The quiet as I took the last steps of my journey, found the right spot, and settled onto the rocks. The feeling I'd found a precious puddle of holiness; mine alone in that peaceful morning hour. The joy that seeped from the puddle into my soul, quietly filling all the spaces, sending all other emotions elsewhere for a time, leaving room for nothing but exultation. I'd done it!</p><p>Such joy, such fulfillment, could not stay; letting go of the moment and continuing on is a required condition of the human experience. (I don't have to like it; I just have to accept it as truth.)</p><p>As I lit my candles last night, stilled my mind, and focused on the moments Joy has graced my life, not only the memories returned - to my delight I felt echoes of the actual feeling surrounding those highlight experiences.</p><p>And, because it is what it is, Joy dragged along its friends, Hope and Peace, from the earlier weeks of Advent. </p><p>Again this week, I've struggled to keep my balance amidst the tide of hard news coming my way. For a few brief moments, none of it mattered. I wouldn't have thought there could be such power in the light of a few candles, but there it was, and I am so grateful it was there.</p><p>May Joy also come to you, my friends.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-69351335782681609532023-12-11T10:35:00.001-06:002023-12-11T10:39:09.592-06:00Advent Week 2: Peace<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTMQX7xs2_dPR7cHN23TExZRi9N06VejBT3m2_iLBhuu47NekgvZC7fdUTOwZFCTpQQRGsqBoxsHQP_ACiOyX7ssdVfiE43A320lRMiama8ZAudmx0HV0FomcFFM5dl_lQmcTAbwARZeIbegKycJ_tpjF1zWYKb9P-SZ2yfiaVcYcJhjM91m_BozKV8Aq/s640/IMG_0361.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="626" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqTMQX7xs2_dPR7cHN23TExZRi9N06VejBT3m2_iLBhuu47NekgvZC7fdUTOwZFCTpQQRGsqBoxsHQP_ACiOyX7ssdVfiE43A320lRMiama8ZAudmx0HV0FomcFFM5dl_lQmcTAbwARZeIbegKycJ_tpjF1zWYKb9P-SZ2yfiaVcYcJhjM91m_BozKV8Aq/w196-h200/IMG_0361.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>As I sat down to light my candles last night, the night's theme started out as a hard sell. Peace, really???<p></p><p>In the outer world, the news is full of conflicts, ongoing and pending. So many lives lost. *sigh*</p><p>In my inner world, yesterday coincided with the fifth anniversary of Libby's death. I miss her. *sigh*</p><p>My thoughts tumbled and rolled about, tangled like sheets in the dryer.</p><p>But as I watched the candles glow, banishing the darkness, my heart began to quiet, my thoughts to settle. I began to pull one loose end, then another, and the shape of pieces began to separate from the jumble. A favorite church song from my youth came to mind: "Let there be Peace on Earth, and let it begin with me."</p><p>There is so much in the world I cannot fix. Despite my best efforts, I've found, time and again, the only thing I can reliably change is myself. So, I turned to my thoughts about Libby.</p><p>Survivor's guilt was at the fore. Logic doesn't enter into it, and part of me still thinks God took the wrong person home that day. She was just 51, still had a teenage girl to finish raising, while I was at loose ends, trying to find a new purpose for my days. Why did I survive my bout with cancer (so far), and she didn't? It isn't fair!</p><p>Truth. But, could I work to hold two opposing ideas simultaneously? Was it possible to both mourn because there is a Libby-shaped hole in my life, and to celebrate the joys I've found in these past five years?</p><p>I worked to find the balance and, to my surprise, the balance I found. (Libby would not have been happy with me for following the trail of should-have-beens anyways.) So, I let some of the tears that had been threatening all day fall freely, and I told her, Someone, of the Good I've found in life since she's been gone. Which freed me to be grateful for the good Libby brought to my life when she was still here. </p><p>My thoughts followed the path to memories of light and laughter. To those long-ago days where I watched her grow up (she's six years younger than I), the sunshine in her hair reflected in her quest to bring that same light to her life. To love shared and treasured. </p><p>And the quality of my tears changed, from grief and loneliness, to gratitude for the days we got to share. </p><p>Peace begins with me.</p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-61255402176721767772023-12-04T10:53:00.001-06:002023-12-04T10:53:44.198-06:00Advent Week 1: Hope<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpDogfnZnQWFQjXy0wCEg1KHJWyf2ioiMcH-6qyvKedNXKYWBr7MPyhrCZvgz12c8K0SYSQY8USIL1aF5_Fzgi5cv90qhvrPHUKOnUyZA6K1Y6UvJn9TRo3nR0g5dzL0o7kipRZJcfA2vCLHdopsHgaB0fp8l1eGE2TXSOxrbqWro6ayY6XA6Qyp3p2Ej/s640/IMG_6567.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTpDogfnZnQWFQjXy0wCEg1KHJWyf2ioiMcH-6qyvKedNXKYWBr7MPyhrCZvgz12c8K0SYSQY8USIL1aF5_Fzgi5cv90qhvrPHUKOnUyZA6K1Y6UvJn9TRo3nR0g5dzL0o7kipRZJcfA2vCLHdopsHgaB0fp8l1eGE2TXSOxrbqWro6ayY6XA6Qyp3p2Ej/w150-h200/IMG_6567.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>While I've fallen off the church wagon in many respects, I see no reason to throw the baby out with the bathwater, and so went out this week and got myself a set of Advent candles.<p></p><p>I've always loved the ritual surrounding the lighting of the candles as the earth completes its journey to the darkest days of the year, here in the northern hemisphere where I live. (I'm guessing it's safe to say this tradition was not born in Australia...) </p><p>Even though my holiday season is not the hectic rush it once was, it's still good for my soul to pause for a moment in the darkness, then spark a small light to dispel the gloom.</p><p>As Martin Luther King, Jr. said, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that."</p><p>I can extrapolate from there: Despair cannot drive out despair, only hope can do that.</p><p>My mind was caught in the darkness as I sat down to light that first candle last night. War, climate change, political divisions, disease; Oh, my! I lit the candle anyways, then turned my mind from those dark paths to retrace the ways Hope has come into my world this past year. After a moment or three the darkness was no longer overwhelming; it was balanced by the light.</p><p>My new part time job as a gym rat - and the friends I meet there each week. The many good memories I can now revisit with a thought from all my travels this year. This Thanksgiving holiday just past, when much of my family gathered. It's a long way to travel for dinner, even when there is excellent pie to be had, but they came.</p><p>This is not to forget or to deny there are, yes, many ills in my world. But those ills are not the whole picture. Good is also ever present; I find evidence of it every time I remember to open my eyes to see.</p><p>Hope Is.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-49340503553079455562023-11-27T12:25:00.001-06:002023-11-27T12:28:26.616-06:00Back to Quiet<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSBGrKOQS6HbZ_4LbJySy3eegtCcCes24DZzZgzUlm5Lch4c92kaRcixgv12gf0dGzaPKdUvZuM5Wg7-2-jSQ8ezBHFRco7gE7ju0EftXkHuRRNYC11VOZNvE3JT0VoqsygARHE6lssvks0UIst62TeDaHGiRlgF7HXEtPpRfcNwEp6mrT7858ppEPCh4r/s640/IMG_6502%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSBGrKOQS6HbZ_4LbJySy3eegtCcCes24DZzZgzUlm5Lch4c92kaRcixgv12gf0dGzaPKdUvZuM5Wg7-2-jSQ8ezBHFRco7gE7ju0EftXkHuRRNYC11VOZNvE3JT0VoqsygARHE6lssvks0UIst62TeDaHGiRlgF7HXEtPpRfcNwEp6mrT7858ppEPCh4r/w150-h200/IMG_6502%20(1).jpg" width="150" /></a></div>I woke up this morning and started the process of putting my house back in order after the wonderful chaos of the weekend. As I collected sheets and folded blankets, my mind wandered back over the events of the weekend.<p></p><p>For three days, my home was filled with (up to) 30 of the people with whom it does my heart good to spend time. All weekend, I got good hugs, *ahhh*, filling an empty spot deep within. My stomach is still savoring the delicious food prepared by other people (my favorite kind). My fridge is full of leftovers, so I will get to enjoy the treats over and over again this week. I got to talk with people I love, hear the highlights of what's up in their lives. </p><p>Even the pets seemed to enjoy the change in routine. </p><p>Sylvester's 'real' people came in from California, and he was overjoyed to see and smell them again. He did have a bit of a dilemma when it came to bedtime. We were sleeping on separate floors, so there was no way to guard us all properly. They were here for four nights - he ended up spending two with me, two with them, splitting the difference so as not to play favorites.</p><p>I don't normally think of cats as social creatures, but Monster, who normally comes to the kitchen sink for his morning drink before returning to one or another of his nap spots, spent four hours there Thursday, just chilling out and watching as breakfast and pies were prepared. Fortunately, it's a double sink, so dishes and hands could be washed as necessary. I was surprised he didn't leave his post when he inevitably got splashed with water, but he held firm, reveling in the many hands willing to spend a moment or two petting him.</p><p>The silence has been quite loud since everyone left. But while the contrast is still jolting, it seems the work I've done to reach a place where I am OK being alone has been effective. Instead of the crash I was more than half-expecting, based on past experience, I feel more of a sense of wistful longing. *whew!*</p><p>I was glad, last night, to have the freedom to return to my yoga class; to take time to breathe and attempt to loosen my tightly wound hips. I was glad, this morning, to wake knowing I had the day to bring my house back to its usual state of almost-order. </p><p>I think I might finally be figuring out how a good retirement life looks for me. Slowly, I'm getting there. It's a good feeling.</p><p>Again this year, none of my traditional ways to spend Christmas will be happening. The freedom to spend such an emotion-laden day as I see fit feels overwhelming, but also, I can feel the joy behind the lack of structure. Already I have invitations from several people to join their celebrations. I need not spend the day alone unless that is my choice - it does my heart good to know this. </p><p>Ready or not, on to the Holiday Season I go! </p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-14527363016527733222023-11-20T10:28:00.005-06:002023-11-20T11:47:36.957-06:00I am Grateful<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjguXoZ0JQ5TCWoutbT-5Pg4-Oawd8ZhY0vHR7xTAhv4cy1GnXNdjud4G4s_6d1SyA294lSJQi6J2Xpp5-dOuQM5ojrvLf5o_A3uAO-JjpbboYLSajPXWHq-MP2bp3p1X_prpRWUhAUjTHZ5M-yhatoTI7ACCtt46i8UBAb0GaO0R-N99Cm-BCn7ANU2gMD/s640/IMG_6508.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjguXoZ0JQ5TCWoutbT-5Pg4-Oawd8ZhY0vHR7xTAhv4cy1GnXNdjud4G4s_6d1SyA294lSJQi6J2Xpp5-dOuQM5ojrvLf5o_A3uAO-JjpbboYLSajPXWHq-MP2bp3p1X_prpRWUhAUjTHZ5M-yhatoTI7ACCtt46i8UBAb0GaO0R-N99Cm-BCn7ANU2gMD/w150-h200/IMG_6508.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Each year, as Thanksgiving approaches, I stop and breathe (see? I can do it!) and take a moment to ponder my blessings.<p></p><p>I am grateful for the glow of the red leaves on the trees against the gray of the sky. The leaves are, of course, also beautiful in the sunlight, but it takes a cloudy day to make them glow with a light of their own.</p><p>I am grateful for the members of my family who will travel many hours to come join me to celebrate the holiday. I am SO looking forward to the three days of utter chaos, which will, for a few days after they leave, leave me grateful for the often-too-quiet calmness of my usual daily life.</p><p>I am grateful for my friends who will be hosting my tribe for dinner on Thanksgiving:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;">"Hi! I'm bringing 26 people to dinner for Thanksgiving. Does that still work?" </div><div style="text-align: left;">"Absolutely! The more the merrier. I just LOVE the entire process of planning and preparing for the crew." </div></blockquote><p>The wonderfully puzzling part is that they mean every word.</p><p>I am grateful for our longstanding, gather-every-other-year, Thanksgiving tradition. In one form or another, this goes back several decades. It's been one of the touchstones of my life. It's been so fun to watch the next generation grow from babes in arms to adults with careers and lives and (some of them) babes of their own.</p><p>I am grateful for the members of my family who have died. I learned many lessons from them, both in their living and in their dying. I wish they were still here, I hope they have gone somewhere good.</p><p>I am grateful I am still here, Kate is still here, our respective cancers are still gone, and we get to wake up in the mornings. I am grateful for the new options in cancer treatments that mean my brother Tony is still here and will be able to travel to join us for the weekend.</p><p>I am grateful for the next generations (plural), hope for our world. I am especially grateful for my two grandchildren - I have no words for what they mean to my heart.</p><p>I am, still and again, grateful for my morning latte. I've had the drink almost every morning for thirty years, and never tire of it. The smell, the lift I get from that first sip, the always-needed jolt to my system telling me it's time to begin living this new day (which comes with the bittersweet awareness that today is the only day I have) - it's a morning meditation, nicely wrapped in caffeine.</p><p>I am grateful for you, the reader of my words. When I was walking across Spain, during my lone Covid days, during the last decade when I had to cope with too many hard things, I know I haven't journeyed alone. You come with me, cheering me on, helping me to take the next step. </p><p>Thank you.</p><p>Happy Thanksgiving!</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-61794357181226771872023-11-13T14:18:00.002-06:002023-11-13T14:23:54.259-06:00Glimpses of Grace<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RP6Dy8E8PuQqRUt_3SvNjlFVWDwdG5lUOPYT0xYnIvLyAS3TNMdPuXeqXiXffjUyAduBK1OSRICWJ5P6uEHPBFC26kWJgsH-_HX6ZNai1Txq-8sNkUUNpui-uyk5HNjNVFoji1tlaAWTZs2h3BG-PR7WN-b6vj4vInsTa1jGoZxC7UYytwffn26F92yT/s640/IMG_6495.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2RP6Dy8E8PuQqRUt_3SvNjlFVWDwdG5lUOPYT0xYnIvLyAS3TNMdPuXeqXiXffjUyAduBK1OSRICWJ5P6uEHPBFC26kWJgsH-_HX6ZNai1Txq-8sNkUUNpui-uyk5HNjNVFoji1tlaAWTZs2h3BG-PR7WN-b6vj4vInsTa1jGoZxC7UYytwffn26F92yT/w150-h200/IMG_6495.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Last week, I was driving in an area of town where the route I have stored in my memory cannot be relied upon since there are multiple construction projects going on. One of the projects inconveniently closed my side road, so I had to turn left onto a busy street, which also had one of its two lanes closed, so traffic was backed up for quite a ways.<p></p><p>I wasn't waiting long at the stop sign before a considerate driver in the waiting queue provided room for me to make my turn. I waved to thank him, pulled forward, looked right, looked again, and pulled out into the roadway. As I completed my turn someone in a black car had to swerve into the other lane to get out of my way. Why I didn't see them when I looked, I don't know; perhaps they'd pulled onto the street from one of the nearby parking lots after I'd checked for cars. (That's my story, anyways, and I'm sticking to it.)</p><p>No collision, no honks, no harm, no foul. 'Just' a near miss.<br /></p><p>The incident got me to thinking about the grace inherent in near misses. I long remember the crashes, the broken whatsits, the lost items. But the near collisions, the crystal glass miraculously caught before it crashed onto the quartz countertop, the favorite gloves that were under the seat after all, just pushed to the side - memories of these tend to fade quickly once the moment passes.</p><p>In my experience, that's how Grace operates. It doesn't draw attention to itself in a cacophony of breaking glass and crunching fenders. Rather, it quietly steps in, does what it came to do, and withdraws on silent cat feet, leaving behind only the caress of its blessing, a faint impression of a hug.</p><p>I've been watching for the near misses this week; I've caught more glimpses of Grace's presence than I'd anticipated I would. Many days, these days, my life feels a bit skimpy in the caresses and hugs category, and the touches of love have been most welcome; they have soothed the raw edges of my quietly lonely soul just a bit. *grateful sigh*</p><p>Grace Is.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-6670471357621816582023-11-06T09:46:00.000-06:002023-11-06T09:46:42.309-06:00A Wrinkle in my Memory<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo6UH2ey4mZa_Vtjvrpl0R2I_mt-1gY3afBWkGg0pkgENaynhNMPIOv1Ok0UQPFe3yE7Ijt9BqmruuvXSjrX1tS6Uac6vayC7IniNs7FXvlBMFwM-XhzqkE9fNGjsXBPDvg688Bp3e-1d-tsN1RIp4M168esToyfdLEFszjcR1OpP8vZZlE4yjMhUzM_h/s640/IMG_6487.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSo6UH2ey4mZa_Vtjvrpl0R2I_mt-1gY3afBWkGg0pkgENaynhNMPIOv1Ok0UQPFe3yE7Ijt9BqmruuvXSjrX1tS6Uac6vayC7IniNs7FXvlBMFwM-XhzqkE9fNGjsXBPDvg688Bp3e-1d-tsN1RIp4M168esToyfdLEFszjcR1OpP8vZZlE4yjMhUzM_h/w150-h200/IMG_6487.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>I was cleaning my bathroom this past week, and had just finished cleaning the glass on the shower door, the last step in my process. I had started putting away my cleaning supplies when I saw a streak on the glass, so reached into the trash to pull the damp paper towels back out to take care of the blemish.<p></p><p>The towels weren't there.</p><p>Nor were they anywhere else in the bathroom or the hall closet where I keep the cleaning supplies. They were also not in the just-cleaned toilet (*whew*), the laundry basket, or any of the other places I would have set them while putting things away.</p><p>It's been several days, and I still can't find them. And, believe me, I've looked.</p><p>Normally when I retrace my steps, I have a mental map of the things I just did. When I look at the map for those thirty seconds, instead of a path, there's a blot or a wrinkle. The knowledge of what I did is there, it's just not accessible.</p><p>This has happened before a couple of times, but by the time I realized it, enough time had passed it would have been impossible to retrace my steps anyways. This is the first time that I realized what had happened in time to (theoretically) straighten out the wrinkle. If I hadn't seen the streak on the glass, chances are good I'd never have noticed the paper towels weren't in the trash; I wouldn't be aware the blot exists.</p><p>I find this disconcerting, to say the least, especially given my frequent visits to Bob. Is this my first step on the path to his fate, or is it a normal part of aging?</p><p>Stop. Breathe.</p><p>There is no way to know the answer, and either way, it doesn't affect my life today. As it often does, my Libby lesson jumps to the fore of my mind. </p><p>Today is the only day I have; tomorrow is promised to no one - so live the days I have.</p><p>I feel vulnerable, putting this blog entry out for the world to see. You mean <i><b>!? I ?!</b> </i>am experiencing the effects of aging???? Yes, clearly, I am.</p><p>It would be easy to hide this memory glitch - the dog and cat were the only other ones here, and they're not talking. But in acknowledging the incident to you all, I acknowledge it to myself. And, in truth, I'd rather do that than keep my head firmly buried in the sand.</p><p>I'll keep looking for the towels, only because I can't imagine where else I might have stashed them. Fortunately for me, dried glass cleaner doesn't turn into a toxic mess.</p><p>Wish me luck.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-27056474832567660192023-10-30T10:30:00.000-05:002023-10-30T10:30:04.840-05:00Bloom Anyways<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCJlviQZGesWupQgX7WhzBXG2Wc1bMxaLgCWK4jEdHgEq1_1-F2S4zOo821wImH_dChuh5OcDqrIt_Ezf6zEN_Xs9v7MaR909jkJcc36zL_9ixoJXKePfLbHHItXucYrUj5PzZ8kEPF6G7iITFf4vJvrYeUJORy6obnI-VCYfmEcFGmQ-7smWVSd0sMlA/s640/IMG_6469.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTCJlviQZGesWupQgX7WhzBXG2Wc1bMxaLgCWK4jEdHgEq1_1-F2S4zOo821wImH_dChuh5OcDqrIt_Ezf6zEN_Xs9v7MaR909jkJcc36zL_9ixoJXKePfLbHHItXucYrUj5PzZ8kEPF6G7iITFf4vJvrYeUJORy6obnI-VCYfmEcFGmQ-7smWVSd0sMlA/w200-h150/IMG_6469.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>My backyard native plants were beautiful the day I arrived home from Spain. Over six feet tall, their purple blooms had just opened, and the bees, butterflies, and even hummingbirds had begun to sip the goodness within. Beautiful.<p></p><p>Then, the next day, we got some heavy rain. I walked outside the following morning to see the largest of the plants fallen over onto the driveway; its roots were too shallow to hold in the newly softened ground. </p><p>I sighed sadly, and started to pull up the remains of the plant. Then I noticed the blooms on the plant, instead of wilting, had already begun to turn their faces to the sun. I stopped short. Who was I to deny the flowers their chance to adapt? So, instead of pulling the plant, I kicked some dirt over the exposed roots, trimmed the edges so it wouldn't get driven over, and left it to live if it could.</p><p>It could.</p><p>I've been home for a month, and the plant has thrived. Lazing about as it stretches across the concrete hasn't seemed to bother it in the least. (Thankfully, the extreme heat of the summer had passed by the time it fell over.) Not only did the blooms it had already formed continue to open, it continued to grow. Over the past month, it created even more flowers, as if it were still standing tall.</p><p>There's a lesson or two here for me, I know there is.</p><p>Something about beauty not having to be perfect to be beautiful. Something about the possibility of still being able to find a place in the world, to fulfill the purpose for which you grew, even when you've been knocked permanently off balance. Something about giving things a second chance when they're down because they've been hit by the storm. </p><p>Something.</p><p>I'm glad I didn't pull it up when it fell. *happy sigh*</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-81620537697698720202023-10-23T15:08:00.003-05:002023-11-13T13:41:23.217-06:00Flatware<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQxh1pWiVx7AQz_a-ajMRBkH6_4h_8ceIj1ijRKbLqsMyU0Bo2qzY1iqlwUR9xhgxnHEG-ivckv-Crl1QrgbjRNThBBYn2muTpasUhZqsQOAKTpDV7lf36eM6RjgHnarVrc36url-lCqcq3S_C8GmSEdRPVPejdr0vEJVS4GBCLbibrezHae-s96OCqWt/s640/IMG_6388.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQxh1pWiVx7AQz_a-ajMRBkH6_4h_8ceIj1ijRKbLqsMyU0Bo2qzY1iqlwUR9xhgxnHEG-ivckv-Crl1QrgbjRNThBBYn2muTpasUhZqsQOAKTpDV7lf36eM6RjgHnarVrc36url-lCqcq3S_C8GmSEdRPVPejdr0vEJVS4GBCLbibrezHae-s96OCqWt/w150-h200/IMG_6388.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>Back in the olden days, when I was a kid, we had lots of people in the house and not lots of money. Not surprisingly, we also had a motley set of mismatched silverware. For reasons now unclear to me, this bothered me, and I longed for our silverware to match.<p></p><p>Also in those days, one could collect Betty Crocker coupons, embossed on assorted General Mills boxtops, and redeem them for a variety of household goods. I was an inveterate cereal box reader, and noticed one day that if one gathered enough coupons, they could be exchanged for silverware! So, I started intercepting the boxes on the way to the trash (Mom helped - she was not opposed to this project) and cutting out the coupons.</p><p>My task was helped along by the fact that all eight of us kids had cereal for breakfast every day, but it still took a good long while to amass the required points. I was singled-minded in my focus, however, and stuck with the task until I'd accumulated enough points to buy service for twelve. (I don't recall ever bothering to order the service pieces - they meant nothing to the ten year-old kid I was then.)</p><p>I still remember the day my loot arrived; opening all the boxes of brand spankin' new and shiny place settings. The smooth heft of the decent quality pieces, the orderly look of the table once the place settings were laid - these did my heart good.</p><p>Fast forward a decade or two. I'd, of course, left the original flatware behind when I left home. The stuff the kids and I used matched, but the forks were not high quality and bent easily. My old longing for quality tableware was intact, and so when I found some 'extra money' on the same day I happened to be in an outlet mall that had an Oneida store, I gave into my craving for order, and purchased service for 12, plus the serving pieces I now had gained an appreciation for.</p><p>After getting my loot home, I was no less enamored with the pieces than I had been as a child, and I've jealously guarded my matching flatware for a couple of decades now. Sadly, despite my best efforts, over time, a few of the pieces have been lost. Not discarded maliciously, but lost all the same.</p><p>I've tried not to care, but in my heart, I do.</p><p>Last month, I decided my heart would be happier if I made an attempt to find replacement pieces; it wouldn't hurt anything to look. My hairdresser scouts out antiques on the side, so I enlisted his help, sent him a photo of the missing items, and asked him if he knew of a way to replace them. He did know, but the cost for just those three items, plus shipping, was going to be almost half the cost of an entire new set of flatware. ($50 for ONE spoon???)</p><p>Sadly, I tried to set the notion aside. I reviewed the options. I could pay the king's ransom the internet was asking for the pieces. I could buy a whole new set and give my partial one away. I could see if I could sell my eleven remaining spoons for $40 each (a bargain!) and finance new silverware that way. Or, I could live with what I have. </p><p>Reluctantly, I decided to just live with what I have; to pretend I have service for ten, plus extra pieces. The world will not end, most probably, just because I don't have Oneida service for twelve. Since getting the sad news from Dennis, I've been working to just let it go. Or, if not, to just buy new stuff. Either way, quit obsessing over it!</p><p>But then, but then. </p><p>Last week, when I went in for my haircut, Dennis motioned to the sideboard. "I have a present for you," he said. My heart leapt. Surely not, but, maybe??? I opened the bag to find my three missing pieces of flatware. He had done what I couldn't convince myself to "waste the money" and do. He'd listened to the longing of my little OCD-leaning heart and re-completed my set.</p><p>I don't have words for how loved this makes me feel. I feel seen. And I feel it over and over again - every time I open my silverware drawer, and happily count to twelve. </p><p>Good Is.</p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-187073165352489772023-10-16T16:20:00.004-05:002023-10-17T19:08:02.155-05:00Why the Children?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZcDPfAhyy-wqZP-itTmuYXeWAQVqHFAOhg_tqm5h-yEcdxD0afGOOv3Z1LobY6bS2Lfaq-ErXgArwNIpQIT1mXVFON2Yjo0-Mx2scHP0t2ZZjtqVVWwBi1XoYMlt2_W2MOjzDDF8mMUvPnVnqhHWY3PLYEdUoGeFDyOQ4jYfwV1Dsc02H4oMg_F6WsoUN/s640/IMG_6449.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZcDPfAhyy-wqZP-itTmuYXeWAQVqHFAOhg_tqm5h-yEcdxD0afGOOv3Z1LobY6bS2Lfaq-ErXgArwNIpQIT1mXVFON2Yjo0-Mx2scHP0t2ZZjtqVVWwBi1XoYMlt2_W2MOjzDDF8mMUvPnVnqhHWY3PLYEdUoGeFDyOQ4jYfwV1Dsc02H4oMg_F6WsoUN/w150-h200/IMG_6449.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>I've been trying not to follow the news too closely this week, but the headlines and photos keep catching my eye. <p></p><p>After so many years of relative quiet, peace in the Middle East has been shattered once again. War is awful in all the ways in all the times, near as I can tell, but surely, when one purposely targets the children, a new level of hell is created.</p><p>I can't unsee the images of the Israeli children taken as hostages. The image of a frightened baby, just into toddlerhood, being brandished like some sort of obscene trophy, by a man who seems to think such behavior is justified. Why????</p><p>I can't unsee the photo of the children of the Gaza Strip, caught up in a conflict they can't possibly understand. A middle-sized boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, standing in the courtyard of a 'safe' school, his younger sister held tightly in his arms, fearfully scanning the sky after the sound of warplanes was heard. Not purposely targeted, I hope, but from the look on his face, he knows he could easily be the collateral damage on tonight's news. </p><p>And elsewhere in the world: A picture of a woman trying to negotiate a razor fence on the southern U.S. border, toddler clenched firmly in one arm, the baby's body just inches from the deadly edges of the wire. Sunday's lead story in the local paper, mercifully without photos, about a two year-old found dead just a couple of miles from my house, from fentanyl poisoning.</p><p>I look, and I cry tears of helpless rage and frustration. I want to gather each and every one of those innocents into my arms and hold them tight and tell them it was all just a bad dream. I know life is hard and cruel and not fair, but given all the wrong ways we treat each other, some of the wrongest ones are when we treat these precious lives as if they were used Kleenex. How can we not remember that when we destroy our children, we destroy our future?</p><p>Stop. Breathe.</p><p>I am angry because I am powerless. If I knew which direction to toss, I'd throw some money at the problems, hoping against hope my drop of help would join other drops to make a difference, but the roots of the actions which placed these children in such danger are so widespread and disparate that my drop would turn to mist and evaporate before it ever got into a bucket. </p><p>So, I pray. Mostly because it's all I can think to do. I pray to the God I can't quite believe in. I can't find words to formulate the prayer, so I have to trust the Spirit to translate the cries of my heart.</p><p>Will you help the children? Please???</p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-944516634648038582023-10-09T10:05:00.000-05:002023-10-09T10:05:59.922-05:00Reestablishing Rhythm<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgEeBZP-sO1EnWcpVtE9mO_snSuvgE7K7GneSuhwnEsXkM44zRnnm5tu4EgrBzQ0Sgmm0xpVkQ4vw-O76JtYFr1E0J7Qn3tMce5qjIe-6l76jZuW1QOlWhWrGAHoPS8u53bH1wfVPA22cPB-ATPPiNROG_V3-hnkyXvWZt_haqbss-nDSNBdJMjMrY5Vr/s640/IMG_6422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYgEeBZP-sO1EnWcpVtE9mO_snSuvgE7K7GneSuhwnEsXkM44zRnnm5tu4EgrBzQ0Sgmm0xpVkQ4vw-O76JtYFr1E0J7Qn3tMce5qjIe-6l76jZuW1QOlWhWrGAHoPS8u53bH1wfVPA22cPB-ATPPiNROG_V3-hnkyXvWZt_haqbss-nDSNBdJMjMrY5Vr/w150-h200/IMG_6422.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>This is the start of my third week home, and I have a nagging urge to start figuring out what I need to pack. No, I don't have any trips planned, but I've been traveling on and off all summer long. That sense of comfortable daily rhythm I'd grown to like last winter and into the spring is nowhere to be found, and I fear I've gotten hooked on the adrenaline boost that comes with travel. <p></p><p>There's a part of me that really likes avoiding the tedious and boring parts of life. When I'm on the road there's no time for excessive navel gazing or worrying about pesky questions like "am I spending my time or wasting it?" I don't need to worry about the home maintenance tasks that aren't urgent, but do need to be done to keep the house in shape. When I'm home, I give the chores a lick and a promise. On the road, I just worry about getting to where I'm going in one piece, and enjoying the moment I came for once I get there. Turns out, traveling is a great avoidance tactic. </p><p>I've really noticed the travel letdown this past week. I got back into my exercise routine, and spent some time washing the windows, so I'll be able to see outside this winter. (Must let ALL the light in...) I caught up on my laundry, bought some groceries, mowed the lawn. I cleaned up the dead plants from the yard, and started putting another coat of oil on the back fence. Blah, blah, blah.</p><p>As I've worked, I've tried to keep the lessons from Spain from getting lost in the shuffle. The part of me that says I can't own my strengths? It also has some strong opinions about resting on one's laurels. "I know you walked to the end of the world, but that was last week. What are you doing today?"</p><p>Hmph.</p><p>I DO want to reestablish some rhythm to my days, but I DON'T want that rhythm to be a drumbeat of dull chores. I want the rhythm of my days, each of my days, to contain an element of fun, of joy, of rest.</p><p>So, I started to stop. I stopped to enjoy the flitting, fleeting presence of a Monarch butterfly feasting on my flowers. I stopped to read a book, a beach-read type of book. I reached out to my friends, adding lunch and dinner dates to my calendar. </p><p>Work, yes, but also: Stop. Breathe. Relax.</p><p>Yes.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4721078099109983731.post-85485828951312597702023-10-02T15:54:00.005-05:002023-10-02T15:59:32.625-05:00Reentry<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcKDzhWM6hd61oUT-BqvRqY6729RTUjIx87KnyM3md292K6TwkOJ4mpUvyJH9rfLyjXcCdCz83ndiG7CQlO-s3ZICbljlTLNhP0GWcfCLiBoFznt2OToXlkn1iTkp215u_thgpEDEUDtvXLHBsBmJa4iencojsKUrEQbFMxQ6UNMXX34oKfiFQwMrbMGD/s640/IMG_6400.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbcKDzhWM6hd61oUT-BqvRqY6729RTUjIx87KnyM3md292K6TwkOJ4mpUvyJH9rfLyjXcCdCz83ndiG7CQlO-s3ZICbljlTLNhP0GWcfCLiBoFznt2OToXlkn1iTkp215u_thgpEDEUDtvXLHBsBmJa4iencojsKUrEQbFMxQ6UNMXX34oKfiFQwMrbMGD/w200-h150/IMG_6400.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Has it really been just ten days since I got home? It seems like it's been months since I arrived, footsore and on cloud nine, at the end of the world.<p></p><p>I've still been waking during the night, surprised to open my eyes and find myself back in my familiar bed. (I'm always happy to be home, once I figure out that's where I am.) My subconscious is busy integrating the lessons I learned on the trail - I can tell by the surreal quality of the dream fragments I can remember. </p><p>I knew, when I got home, I needed to spend a few days off my feet, to let them heal up, but also had a pile of deferred chores to be done and I am not the world's best at taking it easy when there is work calling my name. Fortunately for me, whether she knew it or not, Rose, who had been watching my house, had the key.</p><p>"I started this puzzle," she said. "The pieces are all turned over, and I've sorted out the edges. If you don't want to finish it, just scoop them back into the box," she said.</p><p>Ha! Fat chance of THAT happening. Puzzles, especially when I don't have to share the joy of putting them together, are one of my addictions. So, I spent the first few days after I was home assembling the picture, and doing just what the doctor ordered, letting my feet rest up.</p><p>I'm happy to report they've healed beautifully. Even the worst of the blisters are almost gone, the no-longer-needed outer layer peeling off to show tender, but healthy, new skin beneath. *whew*</p><p>I'm discovering one doesn't come back from an adventure like the Camino and just pick up life's pieces from where they were left scattered about the house and go on as if nothing happened. Like an old dress pulled from the back of the closet, my old life no longer quite fits; I've changed shape! It's been the oddest sensation - almost as if I were settling into someone else's life. I've been looking at my daily activities in a new light. These things I like, keep doing them. Now, why was I doing that??? Perhaps I no longer need to spend my time that way. </p><p>I am SO grateful for all I learned last month even though it's clearly going to take some time to sort it all out. It's a good job to have.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>JRhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06518996681330541194noreply@blogger.com0