Winter Solstice

And so the sun once again begins its journey north (for those of us in the northern hemisphere). Why tonight isn't celebrated as the start of the new year, I'll probably never understand.

The days are as short as they're going to get. According to my weather app, here in Kansas City, we add nine minutes of daylight between today and January 6th, but between now and then, the light shifts. We lose four more minutes of morning light, trading them for thirteen additional minutes of light in the evenings. The sun doesn't start getting up earlier until the 7th. I've never noticed this before, though it's probably been doing it that way my entire life. (you think?) Interesting phenomenon.

I've spent the last few weeks in my annual struggle with the darkness. My energy lags, I find myself caught in spirals of dark and gloomy thoughts. I mentally gloss right over the good news parts of life, and find my thoughts lasering in on the dark side.

And then, to add insult to injury, I start feeling guilty for letting the gloom take hold. 'Tis the season to be jolly, not Grinch-ish!

*sigh*

Fortunately, years of coping with the holiday blues have taught me to enjoy the holidays anyways.

I've managed to do all my Christmas prep despite my tendency to stop and curl up on the sofa underneath my white fuzzy blanket when the mood strikes. The blanket came from Libby a few years back. I've been missing her something fierce as the first anniversary of her death has rolled around. She'd be all about my taking time to poke the Libby-sized hole in my life to see if the edges have started to heal. She'd have absolutely zero patience for the times the edge-poking turns to wallowing, and I can hear her voice when I cross the line: Remember to live the days you have!. Once I hear her, I get up and start living my day again - she's still hard to ignore.

Candles and Christmas tree lights do a wonderful job of adding beauty to the darkness.

Tonight, I will both acknowledge the darkness and celebrate the anticipation of the return of the light. For it's all part of the cycle of life, and if we never knew the darkness, we'd also never know the stars.

Happy Winter Solstice!

Operation DoGooder Has DoneGood!

Have you ever stumbled into a project, and it's as if the Universe was just waiting for someone to line up the pieces so it could tip over the dominoes? Well, that's what happened with Operation DoGooder!

A local law firm, without charge, notarized the limited power of attorney form I needed to be able to represent Kevin in his search for a home.

Bank of America had an ad in the paper, asking me what I'd like the power to do. When I told them I'd like the power to help Kevin find a home, one of their people responded, did some research, and connected me with a local transitional housing group, reStart.

A conversation with the leader of reStart got him to the top of their wait list, and, poof, Kevin had a bed he could count on each night.

He also automagically fell to the top of the 2-3 month wait list for the subsidized housing complex where we'd filled out a pre-application just two weeks earlier.

Ms. Mary, the complex manager, was wonderfully patient with me as I stumbled through the process of clearing his credit and gathering the necessary paperwork. Each time she ran into a roadblock, instead of just deep-sixing his file as she could have done, she gave me a couple of days to clear things up.

I talked to more lawyers to clear up a paperwork error regarding a prior eviction; the error would have kept him out of most local housing, not just the place where he was applying. (One of the lawyers called my power-of-attorney form 'dubious'.  Hmph. After I'd printed it out myself from the internet and everything. I was able to work with him anyways to get the error cleared up.)

I paid an old outstanding electric bill, and worked with the reStart people to get a letter vouching that he was, indeed, homeless. (who knew such a thing existed???)

As it became clear that a place to live might actually happen, I started to scout around for the furniture Kevin would need to start over. I started by asking my neighbors who were selling their house nearby if they'd donate a mattress. (I knew they'd have an extra one after the house was sold.) They not only said yes to the mattress, they came up with the entire apartment full of furniture, right down to a starter set of dishes for the kitchen and a shower curtain for the bathroom.

I finished working with Mary to get all the boxes checked and all the revised paperwork in just before Thanksgiving. I had a garage full of furniture, and high hopes that if the Universe had gotten things this far along, it would make sure the story ended well.

The Universe didn't let me down. I got an email last Tuesday - his application had been approved; please let her know when he would like to come down to fill out the lease agreement.  I went down to the library to find Kevin, and when I told him the good news, he wanted to go fill it out right then. Not really surprised, I called Mary to let her know we were on our way.

She graciously made room in her day to print out the forms and walked him through signing them. We walked up to the third floor, and she opened the door to a small, neat, clean, one-bedroom apartment. She walked him through the place, and handed over the keys.

That first night, he stayed there with just the contents of his four suitcases and two white plastic trash bags (the sum total of his belongings). The next day, I found some help, and we were able to deliver the apartment starter kit my neighbors had pulled together.. Now, he not only has a place to go to each night, he has a bed, a comfy place to sit, and a bookshelf to store his quickly-multiplying books.

Kevin has a home!!!!

===========

I've gotten some high praise from people who have heard this story. I don't feel as if I deserve it. I certainly didn't get this done by myself.

Everywhere I turn these days, I hear stories that shrivel my heart - caged children, climate change; rancor and division seem to be everywhere. Operation DoGooder was my chance to try to tip the scales just a little bit; to bring a glimmer of light and hope to the darkness.

It was the right thing to do.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Kansas City's Union Station

Thanksgiving has long been one of my favorite holidays - what's not to like about food, family and friends?

My friends, Dale and Brian and their two offspring have long been part of my Thanksgiving tradition,.The year I was remodeling my 'new' house and part of my family wanted to come down to restart our every-other-year-in-Kansas-City tradition but I had no kitchen, they offered to host the dinner.

Turns out Dale can think of nothing better than planning and cooking Thanksgiving dinner for twenty of her closest friends. (We're pretty sure she's still of sound mind...) The new tradition is for my family to come to town, but eat dinner at Dale & Brian's place. I have to admit I rather like the twist. I still make the pies - my favorite part - and get to see my family, but I don't have to plan and prepare the bulk of the meal, so I can focus on getting everything else ready.

I thoroughly enjoyed our gathering this year. We gathered at Dale & Brian's around noon for appetizers, ate too much good food at three, then just sat (or napped) for a bit and let the food settle. We went back to my place just in time to work off a bit of the food by traipsing down to the Plaza to watch the annual lighting ceremony, then went back to my house for pie.

I'm not sure what I did to deserve friends willing to go so far above the call of duty, but I am most thankful they are part of my life. ** insert happy sigh here **

In the olden days, I'd always have a project for my family to do when they came to town, but we've all gotten older, and my list of projects smaller, so after a quick game of Shuffle Janice's Furniture (I couldn't pass up the opportunity to take advantage of the many willing hands), we had time on Friday to visit one of Kansas City's landmarks, Union Station.

My hat is off to the people in charge of holiday planning there at the Station. There are a half-dozen model trains set up and running at the back of the North Hall, a small train set up for kids to ride. The overcast sky provided the perfect backdrop for the banners and lights streaming from the ceiling; the crowd was not too heavy, but heavy enough that one could lean on the rail of the second story balcony, and pretend for a moment that it was 1940, and all these people were here to meet loved ones coming in on the train. (It IS still a working train station, but few of the people there were actually there to travel.)

My clan headed back north on Saturday after breakfast; all made it home safely despite the snowstorm. I managed to fit in just a few chores, but found myself collapsing around four, happily exhausted from the gatherings.

Happy Thanksgiving!!!!

Time Warp

I swear, it just just Monday the day before yesterday, yet my phone insists today is already Saturday. I've noticed this phenomenon time and again over the years. Time speeds by at an ever-increasing rate, laughing at my feeble attempts to embrace today and to stay in the now.

Rumor has it I'm not alone in my time warp. And research even backs me up.

Where has this week gone?

Well, a lot of it went in the direction of Operation DoGooder. The lady at the housing complex where Kevin's application is under consideration continues to work her way through her check list. Several times in the last few weeks, she's run into a obstacles. When she finds a box she cannot check, she calls me up. I run downtown the next day to find Kevin, and take him to do whatever needs to be done to keep the process moving along.

I don't dare procrastinate after she's let me know of a problem. I know places in her building are in demand; she could throw Kevin's application in the dead file and move on in a heartbeat. Fortunately, she cuts us a little slack, and thus far, has been gracious enough to grant us the time required to come up with all the paperwork she's needed - who knew there was such a thing as a letter documenting you are homeless? Paperwork submitted, we are now back in wait mode. Fingers crossed!

There are the hours I lost to watching the sky lighten through the prism of the stained glass in the south window of my bedroom. (Time well spent, just ask me.)

I spent daylight hours on the chores I used to cram into the evening; several evenings, my newly freed time has largely filled itself with solving back editions of the New York Times crossword puzzle. I'm still not convinced it's a good idea to give me limitless access to their archives...

Oh, and walks in the park. I can go for a walk in the park just because I'm restless and need to clear the cobwebs from my brain.

I think my brain is still trying to wrap itself around my newly unstructured existence. It still thinks, if I'm not working at the computer all day, it must be the weekend. It's starting to get a little confused - this past weekend has been going on for some three weeks now. I'm beginning to realize anew that the Universe abhors a vacuum. I think I'd be well served if I learned to guard my hours the same way I guard my monies.

Perhaps I should start a new reflection at night:  Where did I spend my hours today? Did I spend them doing the things I wanted most to do? Did I waste them on the high-calorie, low-nutrition fluff and dandruff offered by internet rabbit holes, or did I spend them deliberately, on the things I wanted most to have done by the end of the day? Did I leave room for fun, for work, for exercise, for friends, for myself? How do I want to spend my hours tomorrow?

The hours I have been given are precious. That I now have the freedom to spend them as my whim moves me still boggles my mind, time warps notwithstanding.

Freedom!!!!!

November Blues

I wish Libby would send out another one of her updates.

I miss her and wonder how she is doing now.

Shortly after she died, someone asked if anyone had a compiled list of her status emails. No one had, so I compiled one for them - it's about 90 pages long. It starts with her first diagnosis and ends about a month before she died, almost a year ago. I haven't been able to bring myself to read it. Not yet. Soon.

I cried some then, but since tears have been leaking out all week, I obviously haven't begun to finish mourning her absence. When I start to cry, if I can, I crawl onto the sofa and curl up under the soft white fuzzy blanket she gave me shortly after she first got sick, after she visited and all I had for throws when she napped were the old hand-knitted kind. They were not near as soft as she wanted them to be, so she fixed that problem, she did.

I hold the softness to my face, and let my mind wander back over the times we spent together, the stories she wrote. I remember the way she railed at her fate. I remember when the whole chemo thing was too hard and she wanted to quit partway through a series and I called to try to talk her out of stopping and she yelled at me and cussed at me, and then completed the course. (Even then, we knew it wasn't going to change the end of the story, it would only extend its length.)

I remember my last visit to Minnesota to help her clean up the items on her todo list. It was just a year ago; she'd done most of the things herself, but the last turn of her illness had taken her by surprise. She'd been going along for some time, doing just fine, and then...  she wasn't.

I remember her insistence that she wasn't battling cancer, and that when she died, we were NOT to say she'd lost her battle. And I agree because cancer is not the enemy, Fear is. And while Fear struggled mightily to get her to give up the days she had, and even managed to get on top a few times, she never stayed down for long. She faced Fear down. She faced her fate with trepidation, but also with the conviction of one who believes in Life after life. She lived all of the days she was given.

I remember the last time we said goodbye.

I still struggle with a huge case of the "why not me's". We were sisters. Why did her disease lead her on an unrelenting march to death, while mine shows no evidence of returning just yet, almost eight years later?

I feel guilty, undeserving of the gift of life, as if, somehow, my survival caused her death. My head knows better, but survivor's guilt is real.

I can picture her now, yelling at me for even thinking about going down that path. If she were here, she would have none of it.

Remember the blog post I wrote early last year, where I lost some earrings, and after I asked her if she wouldn't mind helping me find them, they both turned up in the unlikeliest of places?

Well, last week, I lost another one. This time, I didn't ask for her help; I figured it was just one of those things.

And. Two days later I sat down in my rocking chair in my living room and looked at the rug - and there the missing earring was; smack dab in the middle of the room. *insert an unexpected flood of tears here*

I know, I know. There are many logical explanations for how it happened. But for today, I'm going to take the illogical route and read it as a message from her.

She is lost, yes, but also true, she is found.

Saturday, again!

I've been in a time warp this past week. Turns out, every day is Saturday.

The first two weeks of retirement went by in a blur as I spent all available daylight hours painting. Then, when I went to Alaska, well, that was vacation, so of course I didn't have to go to work.

This past week, it finally started to sink in - I'm really NOT going back to work. Not tomorrow, not later this week, not next week, not next month.

This past week, I may have been luxuriating a little overmuch as I woke up each morning when the sun came up (and not before!) and went through my mental list of 'things I'd like to get done today'. Every day, I had a list of tasks to get done. Tasks I've been cramming into my Saturdays, since I like to slack off on Sundays, and I didn't usually have the oomph to get much useful work done after I worked all day. Every day, like Saturday's past, I'd get some of the items on the list done; the rest got pushed to my next free day.

The difference is my next free day is now the next day.

I'm liking this.

That's not to say I haven't run into a few glitches. I'm having trouble talking me into turning on the computer to pay my bills, because I can do that tomorrow. Paperwork I managed to keep corralled when I had much less free time is now starting to pile up, because, surely, I'll get to it tomorrow. (Good thing bills have due dates, or I'd never get them paid.)

Laundry is in the same boat; I have clothes for one more day, so it can wait until tomorrow. Turns out, the problem there isn't running out of clothes; it's that my sheets and towels are perhaps not as fresh as they historically were. Fine. I'll do laundry tomorrow.

If every day is Saturday, what happens to my lazy Sundays?  Where do they get to fit in? As much as I don't miss them yet, I think I might need my productive Tuesdays. And Friday evenings. My hang out with my friends night. I KNOW I don't want those to fall by the wayside. Drawing on the wisdom of my friends who have retired before me, I know I'll need to build some structure into my days. It'll be down the road a ways, probably in the spring or early summer.

For now, I'm thoroughly enjoying working around the house. For the first time in ages, I'm crossing things off the list faster than I'm adding items to it! I get to go grocery shopping when Costco is quiet(er), take time for random walks in the park. I've had some time to work crossword puzzles. I used to like crossword puzzles.

The holidays are coming, then I'll spend a couple of months watching baby Joe during the day, after his mom returns to work. After he moves off to 'real' day care, I'll spend some time visiting Kate and Lexi in California.

Which gives me months and months to figure out what shape the structure will take. I figure there's no real hurry - after all, tomorrow's Saturday; I'll have time to ponder the question then.

North, to Alaska

Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center

Visiting Alaska has been on my bucket list for a long time. I kind of always thought I'd go in the summer, prime tourist season, but when an invitation to my college roommate's daughter's wedding arrived in the mail a while back, with a date set for late October, I decided weather wasn't everything. I wanted to be there to celebrate with Mary and her family. (I padded the trip by a day or so on either end, so I could spend time reconnecting with Mary - one of the perks of being retired!).

Turns out Mary is an excellent wedding planner - the list of activities included a morning of sight-seeing for the visitors. This time of year, it doesn't get light until 9AM - so the crew left long before dawn.

As we drove, I was watching out the side window from the back seat. At first, all I could see was the intense unrelieved blackness of countryside beyond the range of city lights. Then, I could see black on black; the mountains in the background taking shape against the imperceptibly lightening sky. A short while later, I could make out reflections in the water of the bay between us and the mountains. beautiful. Since I was being driven by Karla, one of Mary's local cousins, I didn't have to divide my attention between the scenery and the road - a treat in and of itself.

We drove about an hour and a half south, and there, I was able to get my first glimpse of a glacier. I wasn't able to get right up to it; it was an hour's hike away, and part of our crew were non-hikers, but it was majestic nonetheless. Totally worth the drive. A stark visual of the effects of global climate change, the grandest glacier in the area had retreated beyond the view of the visitor's center built just to look at it some 30 years ago. *sigh*

On our way back into town, we stopped at the Alaska Wildlife Conversation Center, run by a group dedicated to the preservation of wildlife. There, as we were making our rounds and ogling the animals, a group of brown bears wandered right up to the fence. I was taking photos with my phone, but stopped to just lean on the fence to watch them amble by. As I put my camera down, one of them stopped and turned to look me in the eye. We stood there for a few minutes, me watching the bear, the bear watching me.It was an awe-inspiring moment - the bear's face just an arm length from my own. I stood there, barely breathing, until she decided to move on. Power, grace, majesty. It'll be long and long before I forget the sight of those unreadable eyes taking my measure.

Oh, yeah. The wedding. It was a beautiful celebration of the launch of their life together. I like weddings - the public announcement of hope; the commitment to do what they can to make their connection last for a lifetime. Most of the group stuck around for the next few days. We hung out together a lot, ate amazing seafood; I made new friends.

Turns out late October is the perfect time of year for a trip to Anchorage!

Painting the House

This retirement has not started out restfully.

One of my goals for this year was to get the house painted. But since much of my summer project time ended up taken by the unanticipated wall repair project, the painting got pushed to fall. No problem, I thought. Plenty of time after I retire in mid-September, I thought.

But then my retirement date was pushed back and pushed back a little more, all for good reasons. So, last week, once I no longer had to work, I was up on a ladder for six hours every day, in a race against winter to finish the job. (the weather around here turns too cold to paint sometime in late October or early November.)

By working evenings and weekends, I'd managed to complete the front before I retired. It's the hardest part of the job, involving the scariest ladder climbs and lots of 'fuss work'; main body, shutters, trim, and door all in different colors. But the rest of the house awaited.

While I wouldn't want to do it as a full-time job, I don't mind painting. Part of my mind is a nervous mix of all the emotions - happy and hard - Retirement II brings with it. Nothing to help one mull things over like a brush, a bucket of paint and a wall. The work takes just enough focus - breathing with the brush strokes on the fine edge work, making sure to get enough, but not too much, paint on the brush - that it keeps me from being bored, but leaves my mind free to wander. Kind of a productive meditative state - I can get into the zen of painting.

As I worked, I decided it's not my inner two year-old that I need to get in touch with this time around. It's my inner perfectionistic mean girl. She was on a tear. Wouldn't take any excuses for not being out there painting when at all possible. She's a familiar part of me. With time, I've learned how to bring some balance back to my life when she gets her teeth into something - she CAN be reasoned with. kind of.

But then, since I was out there in my zen state and all, I went a little deeper. Why is she so driven, so harsh? What's underneath her conviction that I must do it all, and do it all right, and do it right now? As I painted and mulled, I wasn't surprised to find fear driving the boat. It's magical thinking. If I do 'this' job just right, then everything else will be OK.

Ah. She is afraid that if she is not perfect, she is (I am) not worth loving.

This is a familiar refrain; I don't know why I'm always surprised when it resurfaces. Fortunately, once I was in touch with the underlying emotion, I was able to slow down a bit. Even if I don't finish before winter, I will be OK, the house will not fall apart.

Reason tells me chances are good I will have enough good weather to finish the painting before the real cold hits. It helps that I will have ALL the days free. Unlike when I have a job to attend to, I don't have to wait for the magic combination of warm weather and weekend day. When it's warm enough, I'll be able to get out there and get it done, even if that day happens to be a Tuesday.

If I don't finish?  I'll cross that bridge if I come to it. I'm close enough to being done that it's unlikely I won't be able to finish the job, especially with the help of good paint that can be applied any time the temp is over 45 degrees. (that part helps a lot.)

In the meantime, I'll compromise with her. I'll work MANY of the days, but not all of them. I'm going to start to take some time to relax and to 'waste' time on non-productive pursuits, just because I can.

I could get used to the freedom of getting to choose how to spend my days. (yeah!!!!)

Operation Do-Gooder: Update

blue skies!

I first wrote about KC - Kevin - last December, shortly after Libby died. He's homeless, but different from the other homeless guys I've met. He's sober and he reads.  Books.  Real books.

I tried to help him out by getting him a phone, but the experiment turned out to be a dud. He never did learn how to use it, and it eventually got lost, in one of his moves between shelters.

He spent much of the winter in a good place in Olathe, KS. There was a group of people there working to make a difference, and they had a temporary shelter set up in a gym while they worked on a permanent location.  Unfortunately, the permanent location fell through just as Kevin was getting his feet back under him, and back on the streets he went.

I've stayed in touch with him since he found his way back downtown in early spring. Since we started working from home last summer, I made a point to stop by the library on the days I was in the office. Sometimes, he'd not be there, but most days, I'd catch him. We'd sit and talk for thirty minutes or so each week.

It's tough to be long-term homeless. Since he's one of the old-timers, he gets shuffled to the bottom of the list a lot; shuffled right back out the door and onto the streets for the night. When this happens, and it happens regularly, he doesn't have a safe hole to retreat to and spends the night wandering the streets with his backpack and his rolling suitcase.

I haven't given up on helping him. As I've gotten to know him better, I've also gained an understanding of why getting him a phone wasn't enough; I know now why he is unable (not unwilling, unable) to make those daily phone calls.

I brought him to another of the social services agencies this past week - Catholic Charities this time. They made some calls and got him on the waiting list for one of their senior affordable housing units. (He's now old enough to qualify for those places...)

I've made a commitment to myself to make the follow up phone calls for him.  I'm going to call every few days (the plan is to call often enough to keep him on their radar screen, but not so often that I'm a pest...) to see where he is on the list. From what they said, it's a list, but a 2-3 month list, not a once-in-a-blue-moon list.

In the meantime, I've got him on the hunt for the documents he needs to get into the place once his name rises to the top. I hope he follows up.

winter is coming.
fingers crossed.

Ready, Set... (reprise)

Acadia Park, Maine

I have one more week left to work.

Last week, I bought a pair of flannel jammy pants and a pile of books. Retirement planning complete.

No?

No. I thought I was prepared, but it turns out that's not quite the case - I was not ready for the churning emotions I'd experience making this leap for the second time. As I did eight years ago, I'm leaving a perfectly good gig, only this time I really, really hope to never NEED to get a paying job again.  (I might do it, but only because I want to. I hope.)

These past few weeks I've found myself in full avoidance mode. I'm filling my days with work; evenings are spent painting the exterior of the house in a race against winter. I go to bed tired, but wake up most nights at about 2AM, my mind roiling with all sorts of doomsday scenarios. Turns out, if I set my imagination loose, that there are all sorts of ways for things to go wrong.

That's OK. I'm doing this anyways.

There are always more ways for things to go wrong than there are for them to go right. When I stop to think about it, I see miracles everyday in the way our bodies mostly don't break. Most days, I don't wake up to find I have cancer. My eyes, ears and fingers all still work. I can think. I can walk and make decisions and ask questions. Food goes in, my body miraculously turns it to the energy I need to make it through the day. Without thought, I breathe in. My capillaries know how to work with my lungs and my heart to trade carbon dioxide for oxygen - good thing, because I sure don't know how to do it. I breathe out.

I am a walking, talking, breathing example of things going right.

I suppose I'm back to the trust thing. (Somehow, my life keeps circling back to the trust thing.)

It's scary to trust, but I'm doing this anyways.

Along with all my fears, somewhere inside, my inner two year-old is stirring. She cares not at all for  doomsday scenarios. She remembers days of freedom, days spent working on the art of being, days spent seeing beautiful places. She remembers the freedom of not having each day tightly scheduled, time spent wandering where the road went.

She's thrilled to be awake again, ready to give this another shot.

She's ready, set...

Pause

I want to be like the bug in the picture.  I want to pause for a minute and enjoy the flower...

Pause

Pause before you speak and ask yourself, "what is truer than this"?
Pause before you act and ask yourself, "is this a response to this moment, or a reaction to the past"?
Pause before you eat and ask yourself, "will this make me feel more alive or less alive"?
Pause before you commit and ask yourself, "when things get tough, do I know how to stay"?
Pause before you leave and ask yourself, "am I running away because this is uncomfortable, yet calling me to grow, or am I going because it is simply time to go"?
Pause before you pause and ask yourself, "do I pause too much and is it holding me back from taking risks"?
Pause and search your field of consciousness for old patterns that no longer serve
Pause and savor the moment before a moment
Pause on the bridge between this and that
Pause where life can change
Pause where infinite possibilities lie

-- Coby Kazlowski

My daughter, Kate, had the above reflection posted above her kitchen sink for some years. In these past few weeks, Coby's invitation to pause for a moment beckons.

I want to pause in this moment between this and that. To pull to the side of the road while still on the bridge and climb out of the car. I want to look back at the roads I've traveled to get here, and be thankful for the gifts they've given me. (even the hard gifts. I'm trying to be thankful for those, too.)
I want to look forward to the paths of possibility and enjoy the view of the many options of roads to take in the miles I will soon travel.

I want to explore those paths a bit in my mind's eye. To see where this one crosses that, where that one looks good at the start, but could turn scary once it goes around the bend, and conversely, where this one starts out looking a little narrow and rocky, but is the only road that leads to the flower-filled meadow up ahead on the left.

I am trying to pause, and to savor this moment before a moment.
Infinite possibilities lie ahead.
How wonderful, how scary, is that????

Unknown plants

Since I first planted my butterfly garden five years ago, I've tried to plan what it will look like, and carefully select the flowers I want to grow there. My garden, however, seems to have some ideas of its own. It's my fault, of course. If I'd just pull all the plants I didn't plant as they sprouted, the reality of the garden would come closer to matching the ideal in my head.

But nature plants some interesting things. This year, the entire front half of the garden has been taken over by what is surely a weed. (aka a plant growing where it is not wanted). Its spread has been prolific, but its flowers are beautiful. They open to the morning sun, drinking in its rays, but in the heat of the afternoon, the bloom close tightly, trying to escape from the relentless heat. I can relate.

In the center of the garden is a something with large vaguely-squash-looking leaves. I have no idea what it might be. Just this last week, it started to send up a flower shoot. Maybe, before the end of fall, it'll bloom.

All things in their own time.

Baby Joe was thriving in the NICU, so they sent him home well before his due date. His parents are, of course, thrilled to have him home.

Rita-Marie spends her days caring for him, and wondering how it can be that the entire day is gone and all she's managed to do besides feed the baby is to grab a nap and to start (not finish) a load of laundry. (Hers is a common experience, I assured her - I remember those days.)

Big Joe is still in full-out nesting mode. He's determined to get done the things he wanted to get done before the baby's due date, and by golly, he's going to get there. The minor fact the baby is on the outside of his mother's womb instead of inside where he still belongs hasn't changed his instincts a bit. 

They are learning how to live as a family of three. (seven?)

Cricket, their dog, is fascinated by the new hairless puppy, and makes sure to alert Mom and Dad if he cries even a little and they don't jump up to see what's going on. Fortunately for all, the baby is of the mellow variety, and doesn't often scream. (At least, not yet.) 

The cats sniffed politely, and have decided he's neither good to eat nor likely to feed or pet them, so they're ignoring him.

And so their household resembles my garden. Some parts were planted on purpose, some joined as strays, all are learning to live together. It's not as tidy when it grows that way, but it has a beauty that can't be found in neatly ordered rows.  

Good Is.

Retirement, Version II

Cancer, mine, and that of those I love, has honed my desire to live the days I have. And so, I'm going to retire again next month. Nothing against the job I have now, but I no longer want to spend whatever days I am yet to be given looking at screens.

I turned in my notice last week, and instantly panicked. There is a part of my gut that's convinced retirement causes cancer. After all, that's what happened the last time. (as if somehow, if I only kept working, I'd live forever?)

The fear has been surprisingly strong. I've been ignoring it, to the point where my skin has broken out in rashes to make sure I understand the fear is there.

I understand.

But I've traveled a challenging road since I was first forced to take a detour on my camper van trip. I have learned fear will always be there - but to look beyond its dark whispering to see the beauty that Is, even on the darkest of days.

And so I'm retiring again, anyways.

My road has taken so many twists and turns while I was on my detour, I no longer know if there's another camper van trip on the map. (It'll have to wait at least a year if it's going to come back into the path of my journey.)

In the meantime, I'll be baby-watching through much of the winter; those days will fly quickly by. I have no definitive plans for my days once he moves on to regular day-care, and I've decided I don't necessarily need them. I'm trying to pause in this liminal space. To listen and just be, instead of trying to plot the path ahead.

After all - when I jumped into the camper van the first time, I had no clear map of where I wanted to go. No plans, no agenda other than to try to refresh my weary mind, body and soul. My next destination was guided only a vague sense of the direction I was going, and by the desire to see more beautiful places. It worked well enough that I'm ready to try it again.

I have three weeks yet to work. Somewhere, underneath my fear, my long neglected inner two year-old is beginning to stir.

Free???  FREE!!!!!

Soon, my dear, soon.

Class Reunion

My mumbletyth class reunion was this past weekend. As the date approached, I had sixty-three good reasons not to go. I was going to skip it this round, but then I looked at the list of people who'd already RSVP'd.

Sandy Kincaid's name jumped out at me.

For years, I've wondered what happened to her. In those first tentative days, back in 7th grade, we'd started to become friends. But then, she became the target of the class bullies. Her sin? Growing from four foot nothing to 5'8 in about six months, and developing a full woman's chest along the way.

I'm ashamed to say I backed away from her when the others started to torment her. I'd come out of a school where I was bullied myself, and had hoped to be able to get lost in the new school, which is a large, regional, junior high school.

And then - my memory blanks out. My mom died when I was in high school, and there's a large swath of time where I have few memories. Except for a few stutters, my memory paused shortly after the start of seventh grade, and picks up again partway through my senior year. (I presume it's a form of PTSD.)

Sandy has drifted in and out of my musings for years. I hoped I'd just backed away. Surely, I hadn't joined in the teasing, in a vain attempt to move the gaze of the bullies on from myself. Had I? (If I had joined in, trying to avoid her fate, it hadn't worked. Turned out they could pick on more than one kid at once.)

I've wanted to know the answer to that question for years, wanted to believe I had been kind. I'd even tried to track her down on Facebook once upon a time, but hadn't had any luck. Seeing her name on the reunion list, I added my own. It was time and past time to get my question answered.

I got to the event shortly after it started. Within five minutes, Sandy and her husband walked in the door. I hadn't seen her since graduation, but I knew her face in an instant; confirmed my knowledge with a glance at her name tag. (The event organizers created the name tags with their audience in mind - the font on the tags was big enough to read without having to pull out reading glasses. I wasn't the only one grateful to them for their foresight and thoughtfulness.)

I gathered my courage, walked up to her, and told her she was the main reason I'd come to the reunion. Much to my relief, she looked up, greeted me with a big smile, turned, and introduced me to her husband as a long-ago friend.

** whew **

We chatted of our current lives for a bit; where we live, numbers and ages of children, what we'd done in the world of work. I then turned the conversation to those long-ago days. I told her of the holes in my memory, I asked her how long the 'teasing' had continued. I asked her if I'd ever joined in the catcalls.

Much to my relief, she promptly said, "No. You never joined in. You were never one of them. They kept it up for a while, but I steadfastly ignored them, and they eventually tired of me and found other, more reactive, targets." Once she said that, the mental picture returned - I can see her striding purposefully down the hallway, face flaming, but head held high, ignoring the taunts as they deserved to be ignored. I remembered we never became good friends, but it was mostly because we didn't share many classes, not because I'd dropped her cold.

I can't tell you how much better that made me feel. I may not have had the fortitude to stand up to her tormentors with her, but at least my sin was one of omission - I'd not committed the sin of joining in. We talked a bit more, then were pulled apart by the dance of the crowd.

I enjoyed the rest of the evening more than I'd anticipated. Turns out I've become the kind of person I wished I was back in the days when I was being ignored by the cool girls, back when I carried my own 'bully me' target with me through the halls.

I can walk into a room where I don't recognize anyone, introduce myself, start a conversation, and enjoy the interaction. I know which clothes are the right ones to wear - not too much, not too casual, and I know to pick comfortable outfits. Perhaps more importantly, I am comfortable in my own skin.

I talked to anyone whose name sounded vaguely familiar, and as the evening wore on, I found some of my memories returning. I caught up on the joys and sorrows of several old friends, I found smiles and welcome every way I turned. There were a few of those bullies there - I walked right past them, taking inordinate glee in noting they really had not aged well.

As the evening grew late, and my feet grew sore, I realized the conversations had soothed some raw spots I didn't know existed in my soul. As I said my goodbyes, I turned to look for Sandy one more time, but she'd already slipped out.

I am glad to know she's made a good life, found love, raised a great group of children.
I am greatly relieved to know I was one of the good spots in her life during those tough years.

Sixty-three good reasons not to go - I'm glad I listened to the voice telling me there was one good reason to show up.

Wait, Nana, Wait!

I'm trying so hard to be patient.

Baby Joe is still a NICU rockstar.

His IV is out, he's now getting all his nourishment from his feeding tube and the bottle.  (He's working on learning how to breastfeed - he's almost got the concept down, but doesn't have enough energy to sustain the feeding. All in good time...) He's still in the incubator, but each day, he does better at regulating his body temperature. He's graduated to wearing itty-bitty clothes.

I still haven't seen him again. I ALMOST made it out there last week while I was in the area for another appointment, but my stupid boss scheduled a stupid meeting, and so I had to run home. And then, and then! I got back to work to find he'd pushed the meeting back an hour. I had time to stop by the hospital after all! major disappointment.

But that's OK - I'll see him this weekend; there's plenty of room in my days to be able to spend some time with him. Even if I can't hold him - at the rate he's growing, it won't be too much longer. Another week or so. I can wait.

In the meantime, summer is moving on.

Already, the mornings are dark, the sun is gone by eight in the evening. We'll have a few more days of heat, but according to the forecast, cooler weather will be ours by the middle of next week.

I see the early signs of fall. The mint blooms are past, the stalks already turning a dusky green. In the last two weeks, I've started to see Monarchs on the bright orange and yellow flowers of the volunteer plants around the edges of the yard - the ones who are supposed to be in the butterfly garden, but have decided to, instead, grow where they want. The trees have not yet begun to turn colors, but I know it won't be long.

I am restless, as I have been each year since 2011, the fall of my camper van journey. My heart remembers, and yearns for the freedom of those unforgettable six months. (though, it can do without repeating the way it ended. I'm not ready to face cancer again; not sure I ever will be.)

But still.

My days are good. I love being able to work from home most days. With the time and frustration of my commute out of the picture, I actually have some energy at the end of my workday, and have slowly started to catch up on my household todo list.

OK - some days I work around the house. Some days, I sit on my porch swing and contemplate the state of my mini-kingdom, aka: the back yard.

I enjoy the beauty of the flowers; watch for the hummingbird who lives nearby to fly by for dinner. I review my day, try to suss out my plans for the day when my days will again be mine to schedule as I wish. I stop for a minute, remember to breathe.

Stop.  Breathe.  Relax.

I don't have to be in the camper van to remember the beauty of that lesson.

Grow, Baby, Grow!

Welcome, baby Joe!
19"  4 lbs  15 oz

The baby waited through Monday, but by Tuesday morning, it was clear he wasn't going to wait any longer. Rita's labor pains became steady, the baby was on his way!

They called me at noon to let me know they'd moved down the hall to the labor and delivery rooms. I was at work when they called, on my way down to lunch.  I reversed direction, packed up my toys and went home. Now I think back on it, I didn't even officially let the office know I was leaving.  Oh, well.

After a quick stop at home to grab my toothbrush, I was at the hospital by one.

I walked into the hospital room to find Rita looking tense, green. It seemed odd to me that she'd be in so much pain, since she wasn't that far along in labor, but I didn't spend much time on it - all labors are different. Shortly after I got there, they gave her an epidural to help with the pain, then checked to see how she was progressing. Fortunately for her pain levels, they didn't do it in the other order. If they had, she wouldn't have been given the epidural; she was too far along. She'd gone from 5 to 10 in just a couple of hours.

I wasn't going to need that toothbrush after all.

She gave me permission to stand where I could see all that was going on. I wish I could fix the next two hours as a detailed film in my permanent memory. As she pushed, I could see the baby's head crowning, then disappearing back inside. After about thirty minutes, she managed to push that little head past her pubic bone, the next few minutes were going to see that baby born.

At this point, we were still alone in the room with Taylor, the amazing and empathetic labor and delivery nurse. Her voice went up a good octave as she told Rita to stop pushing for now, and got on the phone to request the doctor and neonatal team in the room, stat.

It took them about three minutes to get there, and they got there none too soon. The next contraction after the doctor came into the room, his head popped out, followed immediately by the rest of his body.

He came out blue, but quickly started breathing and turned a healthy pink. They laid him on Rita's stomach just long enough to let Joe cut the cord, then whisked him away to the waiting baby warmer for evaluation. It wasn't long before the team over there started laughing and talking easily, dropping from high alert mode to routine care. He was breathing well on his own (not always a given for 32 week babies), and needed no supplemental oxygen. He was holding a decent core temperature. He was going to be just fine. They let Rita hold him for just a few minutes before taking him up to the NICU with his dad to do the rest of their tests.

Rita came home after two days, and is bouncing back quickly from the trials of the week, but baby Joe is still there. It'll be several weeks before he's big enough to come home. He currently knows how to suck, to swallow, and to breathe, but is still learning how to do all three at once.

It's Nana torture. I could go up there to see him, but I can't hold him until he graduates from the incubator to a crib. Which means, if he started crying when I was there, I'd have to stand there and just watch until the nurses found a moment to comfort him. I'm not strong enough for that. I'm not. I understand the reasons behind the rules, and agree with them, but will stay away until I can hold him in my arms. It's easier on my heart. It won't be too long - he's a NICU rock star, growing and learning and eating more each day.

I wish I could find better words to describe the wonder and beauty of the experience. It was an honor, a joy, a privilege to witness a liminal moment in the circle of life. For a moment - after he came out, and before he started breathing - I swear the Universe paused with us, sending him encouragement and warmth.

Grow, baby Joe, grow!!!!

Wait, Baby, Wait!

It's been a busy few weeks, and I've been away from home for the past three weekends in a row, but this past weekend promised a reprieve. I went to bed Friday night reveling in the thought of my blank weekend calendar, looking forward to having some time to catch up on my household chores.

Somewhere, the gods were laughing.

My phone rang before seven on Saturday morning. It was my son Joe. He and his wife, Rita-Marie, were at the hospital; her water had broken. He was shaken, and rightly so. It's too soon - she is just 32 weeks along. The first hospital gave her the first of two steroid shots, then immediately transferred her to a larger, regional hospital - one with a team of specialized pre-term baby doctors.

I quickly got dressed, and hopped in the car to join them at the hospital. The doctor came into the room shortly after I got there, took some measurements of the baby with a portable ultrasound machine - and looked pleased. He said, given the givens, baby Joe's chances of coming out all right are excellent. ** major sigh of relief **  Rita-Marie's job now is to stay still and get bored.

And so we started the waiting game.

The first goal was to make it 48 hours, so the steroid shots could work their magic, and give little Joe a boost up the baby development timeline. I spent all day Saturday there at the hospital, waiting with Rita. (We sent Joe off to work on the projects he'd had slated to finish before the baby came. He really, really needed to move; to work off some of his nervous energy.)

The day passed uneventfully. We talked of everything and nothing. We looked up baby names (no middle name has been decided upon yet). We tried not to worry - willing a whole lot of 'stay put' energy towards the baby.

I called my family members who had delivered premature babies - how far along were they when the babies were born? Turns out I have two nephews and one niece who were born at 32 weeks gestation. They've turned out just fine; have suffered no long-term effects from their early arrivals. This news helped me to breathe more easily.

I went home, exhausted, around 7, when Joe arrived back to spend the night. (I find hospitals exhausting, but am not sure why this is so. How can I get so tired when all I've done is sit all day??)

Sunday morning, I got up, did the required minimum of my chores, and went back to join them shortly after noon. We waited and waited some more. Since things were quiet, we sent Joe off again, for the sake of everyone's sanity. I waited for him to get back around dinnertime before I left - we'd followed the doctor's orders, and had had a second uneventful afternoon.  (Who knew I'd be so happy to sit around, a bit bored???)

I woke this morning and checked my phone as soon as I rolled over - there were no messages, which meant we'd made it to the magic 48 hour mark.  (Way to wait, baby Joe!)

The day is gone, night is here, and she has not yet started labor. Each day, each hour, even, is a chance for him to develop further, for his lungs to mature, for his brain to finish developing.

Wait, Baby Joe, Wait!!!!

Family Reunion

blurry, but better than nothing

As I came to the Minnesota border on my way to the family reunion in Minneapolis last week, I could see a storm system building ahead. It was in my line of vision as I drove - the best hour and a bit of cloud-watching I've had in eons. I got to watch the cloud tower form, then flatten out into a classic anvil shape. The clouds were sidelit by the setting sun, beautiful pinks, oranges, reds. I was driving by myself, and though I pulled off twice to try to take a picture, the terrain did not cooperate - by the time I reached a spot where I could safely take the shot, the view was obscured by clouds.  **sigh**  I'm just going to have to remember it in my head. Fortunately for the integrity of the body of my car, I never did catch up with the storm - it skirted just north of the Twin Cities with its hail and strong winds.

By morning, the storm had passed, and we had a lovely afternoon for the 35th annual gathering of my dad's family. Sadly, the group gets smaller every year. My uncles are getting older (though all three who can still travel were there), my cousins have scattered to the winds. Our days of overflowing a picnic shelter are over.

But thinking about it, there was still a good representation of cousins. It was the children and their children who were underrepresented. There wasn't a baby in sight. Young adults, busy with their own lives - I can see why most of them don't have time to take a summer afternoon to hang out with a bunch of old relatives.

We still had about fifty people there. In some ways, I like the smaller gatherings better - they leave room for better conversations. We are a diverse group and try to respect each other's differences. Thus, politics were avoided by one and all - unless, of course, whatever small group I was part of agreed with me on the state of the country, in which case, we touched on the topic for solidarity's sake. And yes, I do know who is in which camp, so the strategy worked well for me.

It was good for me to be with family on a no-stress occasion. Pack up your favorite pot-luck dish, show up for lunch, talk for a few hours, and head out again by mid-afternoon. Spend time with cousins, catch up on their lives. Reminisce about childhood days, compare memories of gatherings past. Gather stories from the uncles while they still are willing to share them.

In some ways, it's a long way to drive for a short occasion, but I try to get up there at least every other year. These are the people who knew me when, who share my memories of Libby and Maria, of Mom and of Dad, of Grandma and Grandpa John.  They share my sense of disbelief at the passing of time. (Could so many years really have passed already??) They are an important part of my roots.

I'm glad the gathering is still held.
I'm glad I was able to make it there.
And, I got to watch the clouds.
It was all good.

Wall Repair IV

There's no tired like smug-happy-tired. It only FELT like the project that would never end. In reality, plugging away at tuck pointing the wall had the expected result - I finished my project last Tuesday evening after work.

A week ago Saturday, we had some brutally hot temps. I got up early, and was working by 6:30. (AM, that is!) Good thing, because the temps were already in the 90s when I knocked off around 10:30. Sunday it rained, putting a damper (literally) on my plans to finish up that morning, but there was a hidden blessing in the weather.

Monday and Tuesday were downright temperate, which gave me all the motivation I needed to get outside and finish up those last sections of wall in the evenings, even though I was tired after work. I was surprised to find myself a bit wistful when I got to the end. The project was hot, dusty, involved lots of hauling heavy objects around, and required me to get up early on the weekends. What's to miss?

As I was finishing up, I was pondering the nature of the things I was taught were 'women's work' vs. 'men's work'; i.e. 'The Way Things Are Supposed To Be Done'.

Outside of raising children, the women's tasks were transitory; needing to be done again and again.
Clean the house, it gets dirty, repeat.
Cook the meal, it gets eaten, repeat.
Wash, dry and fold the clothes, repeat.

The men's tasks more often involved lasting results.
Paint the house, and it was good for 5-10 years.
Repair the wall, at least 20 years, if done right.
Remodel the kitchen - that's usually good for 20-30 years.
(OK, raise the crops, feed the livestock, mow the lawn, and shovel the snow are in the 'do and repeat' category, so this isn't a perfect analogy.)

I wonder why this is.
Why do the men get assigned the tasks that they can point to years later, and say, 'I did this'?

My gut tells me the difference ties back to the children. Once I gave birth to the growing, changing miracles I call my children, my mark in the world had been set. Those precious bits of eating, sleeping, pooping life were my gift to the world. I could only hope the world would share in my wonder at the miracle of their presence.

Men don't get to have such an outlet. Their place in creating children is at the very beginning, and even though the good ones would happily share in the burden of pregnancy and childbirth, that choice is not an option for them. The kind of man I like picks up a decent share of the work as soon as the baby arrives, but it still leaves me to wonder how much of the lasting nature of men's work ties back to a basic need to leave a mark in this world; an 'I was here' sticker.

Maybe that's part of my wistfulness. My children are grown - for better or for worse, my part of those 'projects' is mostly done. My role is no longer to raise and to shape, but rather, when asked (or not...), to offer advice, and allow them to take or leave it as they see fit, without further comment on my part. (a challenging task, if I do say so myself.)

The wall was my way of saying 'I am still here!'; I can still contribute something of lasting value to the world. The work was not grand. It will be seen by few, appreciated by fewer. But my work means I will never need to worry about my fence falling into the neighbor's yard. (By the time the tuck pointing needs to be done again, it will not be mine to worry about.)

I know it's there, and I know the work is good.
I am still here.

Garden Trials

This spring, into early summer, my butterfly garden was just beautiful. It heralded an impressive array of blue and purple flowers. I enjoyed sitting outside in the morning and watching the hummingbirds, butterflies and bees enjoying their morning meal.

But spring flowers die with summer's heat, and only a few brave sunflowers popped up to take their place. (Turns out the golden finches that pass through each summer enjoy their seeds, and I was thrilled to see two pair out there last week.) But the sunflowers won't last forever, and I wanted more plants in my garden, so off to the garden store I went a couple of weeks ago. I carefully planted the beautiful flowers I found there, and have been watering them diligently.

Turns out I bought some expensive rabbit food.

They haven't killed the plants, but all of the blooms are gone, nibbled away a few at a time, each morning's sunshine bringing less color to my world.

There are a few volunteer flowers around the edges of the yard, and the rabbits don't like the marigolds, so all is not lost, but it's going to be slim pickin's for my garden's intended beneficiaries this summer. **sigh**

On the other side of the path, next to the driveway, I have an arbor, and two two-year old, disease resistant, rose bushes. Turns out disease resistant, in bushes as in people, is not the same thing as disease-free. As I was walking by a little over a week ago, I noticed the lower leaves on one of the bushes were rapidly turning yellow, covered in black spots.

Ah, yes. An internet search quickly turned up references to the dreaded and ancient, black spot fungus. Back to the garden store I went, with a sample of the afflicted leaves in hand. They gave me a container of Bayer's Advanced Rose Care (and here I've always just associated Bayer with aspirin. What do I know?), told me to water it in, and it would, hopefully, resolve the problem.

I brought the medicine home, followed the instructions, and have been carefully watching the bush ever since. (I also watered some in around the base of the other bush as a preventative.) Every day or so, I go out with my clippers and carefully clip out the diseased leaf clusters.

At first, it felt like an exercise in futility. Cane after cane dropped almost all of its leaves, the disease rapidly spreading towards the top of the plant. But then, new leaves started to fill in, and they haven't yet shown any signs of the fungus. I grow perhaps overly attached to my plants - it did my heart good to know it might just make it.

A few days ago, I saw a bud on the end of one of the partially denuded canes. The next morning, it had opened into a lovely, miniature, rose. Despite the fungus, despite the missing leaves, my bush had once again fulfilled its botanical mission and flowered.

Like people, and kittens, and the mosquitoes who swiftly dodge as I try to swat them, the rosebush wants to live. I've done what I can to help it; the rest is up to the heart of the plant.

Go, rosebush, go!!!

Wall Repair III

Much to my surprise, I was actually able to convince myself to get out of bed before six this morning - on a Saturday! I will admit to long having grown weary of my daily tussle with myself to get me out of bed. It's been better since I've been able to work from home most days a week, but I still spend more time than I care to admit arguing with myself about getting up to face the day.

This morning, with another 90+ degree day in the offing, and permission from my neighbor to start bright and early, the argument was cut short - I really did want to take advantage of what cool part of the day there would be. I managed to get outside and working on the wall by 6:30. (Turns out the work itself isn't what's been totally zapping my energy - it's working in the sun and the heat.)

I know, because instead of stopping like a sensible person when the sun started to get REALLY warm, I kept going on the wall. Just one more section, one more batch of mortar. See how well I'm progressing? I kept at it until I just wasn't able to face another batch of mortar mix. Several hours later, I'm still (predictably) over-warm and tired. Pleased with myself nonetheless. Sometimes, a few aches and pains are worth the tradeoff.

Turns out time spent patching the wall is great think time. I spent some time as I worked trying to calculate how soon I'd be done with the task; gave that up because it's too discouraging to look at all the work left to do. I spent more time thinking about what the heck I was doing out there - expanding on my thoughts from last week about wanting to do it because I'm not ready to admit I'm old.

It's true. I don't like to think that my youth is behind me. And it may not be yet, but it will be soon - however one wants to define youth.

I'm finding it hard to talk to people about it. They either dismiss me as being young yet, give me funny looks and tell me I'm doing great for my age, or just kind of indirectly change the subject. It reminds me of when I tried to talk to people about how I felt when Mom died back when I was in my teens. It seemed as if we didn't talk about it, I wasn't having trouble dealing with it.

Well, I can not talk about getting older all I want - it's happening. At the bottom of my not wanting to face it (and probably for my friends, too), is fear.

Fear of losing my ability to move, to think, to see. Fear of losing my health, for good this time. Fear of not being able to take care of myself. Fear of running out of days before I'm ready. Fear intensified by my worries for those I care for who are battling assorted ailments.

If I learned one thing from Libby when she was sick, it's that fear - not death, not illness, fear - is is the enemy of life. Fear can keep me from enjoying the days I have. I'm not going to let it; as least not this round.

Yup, all those things I fear might come to pass. It's also possible I'll get hit by the margarita truck tomorrow, and all my worrying will be for naught. Reality will probably fall somewhere in-between those two extremes. Which means I can enjoy today, the only day I have. I can revel in the tiredness of my well-used muscles, in baby steps taken, in progress made.

Fear's just going to have to try again another day.

Wall Repair II

I was a little bummed last night. When I went to bed, the forecast said it was supposed to rain on and off all day today, which meant I wouldn't be able to work on the wall today. (I hate it when I can't make progress on my projects; when the weather doesn't cooperate with the time I have free. Somewhere in the back of my head, if I don't keep chipping away a project, I'm pretty sure I'll turn into my dad, and never actually finish it. He'd get 80-90% of something done in good time, but that last 10% was touch and go as to whether it would ever get completed!)

But the weather gods decided to smile on me, and when I woke up this morning, the rain had been taken out of the forecast. So I put on my work clothes, hat, and sunscreen, gathered all my tools and went outside to see what I could get done before I hit the metaphorical wall.

Last week, when my neighbor came by to inspect my work, he asked how I was mixing up the mortar. I told him I was doing it by hand, and he strongly advised I invest in a paddle mixer. I asked Joe to look at them when he was at the store picking up more sand for me, and he not only looked, he purchased. Turns out the things cost less than fifteen dollars. Joe was also kind enough to loan me his hammer drill, to save wear and tear on my smaller household drill.

I was intrigued as I locked the paddle into the drill, plugged it in and plunged it into the mortar mix. I'd seen it done, but had never tried it myself. I'm now a believer. With the drill to do the mixing, I was able to mix and apply three times the mortar I'd been able to do last week. Hmmm... there's probably a reason power tools are so popular.  you think?

As I worked, I was asking myself why I was doing it at all. The work needs to be done, that's not the question, but why didn't I hire it done instead of trying to do it myself? I certainly didn't hesitate last week before signing the contract with the sprinkler company to repair the damage from the sewer replacement. What was different here?

I'm pretty sure it comes down to my unwillingness to act my age. I am in my late fifties; I know there are things I used to enjoy that I'll never do again. (Water skiing, running, and sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground in a tent all come to mind in quick succession.) And, I know the time will come that I am unable to even attempt a project like this one. It'll be sooner than I think, if only because the wheel of time has been spinning at an increasing rate this past decade, and my friends who are paving the way for me through the experience of aging have assured me it keeps it up.

I'm not ready to stop learning how to do new things. I'm not ready to admit I'm too old to work outside in the summertime. I'm not ready to never again feel the well-earned muscle exhaustion that comes from pushing myself physically - I always sleep like a child when I do this. (As long as I don't overdo it. I definitely have my limits.)

It feels good to know that, one more time, I've managed to delay the inevitable.
I've remembered to live the days I have.

Wall Repair

There's a stone retaining wall separating me from my neighbor to the south. I didn't really even note it when I bought the house; first realized it belonged to me when I started to clear brush trees from the fence line. I like the wall - it's about three feet high starting at the rear corner of the house, stretching about 40' to the back of the property - but I can't see it from my yard because it's on the far side of the backyard fence.

When Joe and I were building my new solid fence last fall, I took a good look at it for the first time in ages. It's been there for 100 years - but I realized it wouldn't last another five if I didn't do some repair work. The cap is badly deteriorated, and it's in sore need of tuck-pointing.

Joe was kind enough to pick the supplies up for me last spring - I figured I'd get it knocked out before summer's heat arrived. I thought wrong. We've had the rainiest spring in eons, and since the wall is out of sight, its repair kept falling off my mental to-do list. I'd open the garage door, see the neat stack of bags of mortar, think, 'I need to get started on that next time it's not raining', shut the door, and not think of it again until the next time I was in the garage.

Yesterday, I finally got to it. (about time - it didn't take long to discover a good bit of the mortar is still in the wall solely out of habit - there's nothing actually holding it in place.) Even though it was Saturday, I got up with the sun, gathered my tools and supplies, and got to work. I started just before seven, figured I'd stop when it got hot around ten. Ten o'clock came and went, and I was still out there. I was in my zen space, on a roll. There was something very satisfying about prying the old loose mortar from its home and replacing it with the new.

Then, around 1:30, I tried to mix one more batch of mortar. I measured out the cement, added the sand, and started to stir in the water. My arms wouldn't cooperate. I dug down for a little more oomph - this was the last batch, for real this time! - but there was no oomph to be found. Each turn of the trowel turning the mud over in the bucket was an effort of will.

But I did it. Got it mixed, got it on the wall (looking at it this morning, it wasn't my neatest application of the day, but it was good enough). I started to clean up my mess. Every step took longer than it should; it took all my focus to work through each one.

Gather the tools, give them an initial rinse with the handy-dandy hose, put them in the wheelbarrow. Pick up the chunks of old mortar, put them in the bags the sand came in for later disposal. Truck the wheelbarrow around the house to the garage, open the garage door, put everything inside. Bring the tools inside and clean them properly.

I was feeling pretty good about my morning's work.

Then, I sat down, and the headache started in immediately. Oh, yeah - I'd overdone it. The physical rigors of my indoor daily desk job don't leave me in prepared to hop up on a 90+ degree day and work outside in the heat and humidity for six hours. (you think????)

An hour's nap and a dose of Tylenol later I was ready to consider rejoining the land of the living, but I had NO energy for the rest of the day. You can be sure I slept well!

I was pleasantly surprised when I woke up and was able to move without pain this morning.  I woke early, and surprised myself by managing to get up and get at it once again. But I was smarter this time. Even though I still had energy when I'd finished using up the first 50lb bag of sand, I stopped anyways. My arms had held out to that point, and I still able to easily focus on the task in front of me. Stopping before I ran into the metaphorical brick wall meant cleanup was easy - just another part of the job.

Feeling pretty proud of myself, I am.

I'm trying not to think about the part where my two mornings of hard labor has gotten me all of fifteen feet of finished wall. At this rate, I'll have to find time on another 6-7 days before I'll be able to call it done.

But, Rome wasn't built in a day, and the wall isn't going anywhere. I'll stick within my newly established limits, and it'll get done before the end of summer, one step at a time.

Cancer - Reprieve

So many people I love are fighting cancer again and still.

My brother, Tony - his prostate cancer showed back up, so he's been undergoing a series of radiation treatments.

My brother-in-law, Todd - his kidney cancer seems to be gone with the successful removal of one kidney.

My other brother-in-law, David - fighting pancreatic cancer; holding his own for now.

My friend, Bob - still dealing with the after-effects of prostate cancer.  Poor guy is taking Lupron to keep it at bay. Lupron is also known as 'that damned shot' when I speak of it. I had to take several rounds of the drug - it's downright nasty.

From work, Greg - his bone cancer came roaring out of a five year remission last December; he's just undergone a second bone marrow transplant and will know soon how well it worked.

One of my favorite college professors, Tom - he's treating a tough lung cancer with one of the new immunotherapy drugs.  He's not quite halfway through the treatment series, which sounds like it's pretty brutal.

All these, I think of often and send prayers.

But the one that's been tearing my heart is the story of little Mason - my brother Mike's grandson.  

Mason is four.  Four.

Four year-old children are not supposed to have to fight cancer, but there he's been for the past year. His is a rare sort of brain tumor. He's been put through the mill. Chemo, radiation, more chemo.

By all accounts he's been a little trooper. He doesn't understand what's going on, of course, but trusts his parents to do the right thing. Sarah's pictures and stories about treatment have been both heart-warming and heart-rending.

These last rounds of chemo were especially hard on his little body - he ended up in the hospital more than once dealing with the side effects. They dealt with all the pain and suffering under a cloud of uncertainty - there was no guarantee the treatments would actually work.

I got on Facebook this morning to see the most-liked post I've ever seen on my feed - Sarah told us his latest scans show no signs of cancer.

I read her encouraging words, and felt my shoulders drop back and down several inches. 

Cancer is never fair - but it's more extra-unfair when it strikes the young and the innocent.

And I learned today the corresponding relief when told it's been held at bay is all the greater.

Go, Mason!

Air Plants

Blooming!

I've loved the concept of air plants since I first found out about them - plants which survive only on air and water - no dirt required. I've tried to grow them a number of times, with varying degrees of success. They'd live for a while, then I'd either forget to dunk them in water or the air would be drier than normal, and they'd slowly die, trading their quiet gray-green color for dead brown.

I've worked especially hard to keep my last set of plants alive (they arrived at Christmas this past year). This time, I did a little research when they came to reside with me - turns out, instead of just getting dunked in water, they prefer to have a long cool bath once a week; to soak in the water for an hour. And, they like to be misted in-between waterings. Makes complete sense when I think about it.

So, I've been watering and misting as instructed. I found them a lovely little terrarium home, and they started to flourish, happily taking more space in their watering bowl each week. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I noticed the leaves of one of the three plants were turning brown. I was sad - here I thought I'd been doing so well! I gave it a little extra love and attention after watering for the next several days, making sure I misted the little plant thoroughly each time they even started to look dry.

My sick one kept getting worse, most of its leaves turning a brownish-red. I resigned myself to its likely fate. But then, but then... I walked into the room after work one day to find it had popped up two purple spears from its heart, and had crowned the stems with tiny yellow flowers.

It hadn't been busy dying before its time, it had been getting ready to bloom!
I hadn't done it wrong, I'd done it just right.

Such a pleasant surprise; I didn't know the plants ever flowered. I've taken time every day to enjoy its color and beauty. The flowers have already started to fade, a bit of research tells me the plant has reached old age, and will soon die a natural death. If I am lucky, it will leave behind a baby plant or two - I've been watching for them, but nothing has shown up just yet.

I'm still not overly happy with the concept, but I've come to accept that death is a necessary part of life. And I can only hope, when my time inevitably comes, I can be a little bit like my plant, and get to bring a bit of beauty and happiness into the world on my way out the door.