Adjusting II

If you asked me, I'd have told you that this week is much like the last one. It's gray and cold outside; inside, my sofa and its white fuzzy blanket have been calling, and I've been answering. I curl up, try to work on unraveling the knot inside, then fall asleep for a thirty minute nap.

But there are differences. The knot inside seems to be looser; much of the anger holding it in place seems to have dissipated. One afternoon, when I woke from my nap, I spent the better part of an hour just staring out the window. Not depressed this time, I was captivated by the beauty of the snow on the trees outside. The picture could have been in black and white, except for the bold red dot which was a cardinal going about his winter business.

This morning, when I woke, I actually got up and out of bed instead of avoiding the morning. I am getting tired of lying about, bored, even.

On this afternoon's walk in the dull gray light, I was mulling over the coping strategies which have helped me through the hard parts of these last years. As I got to the one that says "there is beauty in every day, if I but remember to look for it", a hawk with at least an eighteen inch wingspan flew overhead, landed in the top of one of the trees, and disappeared. I stopped when I drew closer to the tree, studying its upper branches. After some difficulty, I spotted the bird once again - it was intently watching the ground below for dinner. Again, some tightness inside eased just a bit.

I've found enough energy to cook some healthy meals, to take a walk almost every day, to do most of the things I wanted to get done, to lose myself in a book.

These signs that this mood, too, shall pass, give me hope. If I keep taking baby steps, I'll get to a place I like better, I'm pretty sure of that now. If I'm correctly reading my growing restlessness, I'm even ready to get out more; to socialize, to talk to people.

Winter's not over, not by a long shot, but the days are getting longer. Spring will come - the way the days and weeks have been rushing by, it'll be here (and gone, but I won't dwell on that part) before I know it. Hopefully, by the time it arrives, I'll have figured my way out of this funk. I mean, it's one thing to want to curl up on the sofa when I don't want to be outside anyways, it's an entirely different picture to be doing it when the grass is greening and the birds are singing and it's time to play in the dirt.

Baby steps.  I'll get there.

Adjusting

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. -E.M. Forster

It's the middle of January, and winter has firmly planted its feet and has settled in to stay for a while. We've had three snow/ice storms in three weeks; the usual daytime color of the sky is a dreary gray. The leaves on my azalea bush out front, which remain through the winter, have curled themselves tightly against the cold. I see just a handful of people on my daily walk around the park. Most of the others are out walking their dogs, and I'm sure, are wondering why I'd be out walking without one.

This cold and rather bleak landscape has carried itself into my heart this week. I rather suspected this would happen when I didn't have a full calendar for this month. January is when I confirmed I had cancer, went through the battery of pre-treatment tests, and parked my camper van to return to 'real' life. January is the month where Kate started her own cancer journey three years later. January is when I went to Minnesota to help my niece pack up the remnants of my sister Maria's life. January is when Libby was getting her first chemo treatment three years ago; January of last year is when I started to come to grips with the fact my sister Libby was gone.

With all of that going on in the last eight years, it's no wonder I've not delved into the feelings I put to the side when it became apparent my camper van trip had been cancelled. My shock at the change in direction, my anger and deep sorrow at having my dream so rudely interrupted - all these were set aside to be dealt with later.

I think 'later' arrived this week. I am grateful I've been home alone, because I know I'm not fit company. I'm grumpy and depressed and sad. I've spent an inordinate amount of time in the last two days curled up on the sofa beneath my soft white blanket, staring out the window, wishing away the entirety of the last eight years, wishing I was back in my van, back on the road, free. I've been wondering where the road would have taken me, and crying because I will never find out.

Perversely, it feels good to finally be on ground firm enough to not give way beneath me when I stop and explore these feelings. The strands of anger and depression are a dark and tight ball of twine inside my chest, wound about and protecting the broken pieces of the dream at their core.

I'm trying to not drown or deny or avoid these hard feelings, but rather to unwind the ball so I can feel them; to listen to them. When I get to the core, I will try to make sense of the remaining pieces of my dream. I will try to put them to rest; to let go of all I had planned; to look forward to the rest of my life, out there waiting for me.

I can sense good on the other side of this emotional tangle. One baby step at a time, moving forward, sometimes back and often sideways through the mess, I know if I can figure out a way to allow myself to feel these long suppressed feelings, I will make my peace with them. Once I've found that peace, I can begin to fashion the shape of a new dream. Perhaps some of the pieces of the old dream will make their way into my new one; I hope they will.

Art Class

When plotting out my plan for the winter months, I thought I'd be watching baby Joe for January and February, and I could wait until sometime in March to figure out how I spend my time in retirement. I obviously amused Someone with this plan, because shortly before I was to start, his parents decided to start him in his permanent daycare as soon as Rita-Marie went back to work, so he'd only have to adjust to one major change in routine. I get it, it makes sense, but, *sigh*

I was very disappointed to hear I wasn't going to have him around for the next few months. I shed a few tears, felt lonely and a little lost.

But then my inner two year-old popped up her head. "Didn't I just see an email advertising a five week, Wednesday morning, art class starting the first week in January? I miss doing art..." I haven't explored why, but I pretty much stopped drawing when I climbed into the camper van. One thing happened, then another, and I never got started back up again.

I called the next day; they still had room in the class (Intermediate Drawing). I signed up on the spot. I was a little nervous before heading out for the first class a week ago today. Would I like the other students? Would they like me? Would I like my teacher? I guess the first day of school is still the first day of school, no matter how old I get.

Turns out, I still like art class. I like buying new pencils and supplies. I like the other students (all women), they seem to like me. The teacher knows enough of her stuff to be able to teach me (and, I'm sure, a lot more than that...)

We started with some basics; contour drawing (no erasing, draw the picture in one continuous line), blind contour drawing (now do the same thing, but without looking at the picture you're drawing once you've placed your pencil in its starting spot). As I picked up my pencil and put it to paper, the techniques started coming back to me. Stop, breathe, relax your shoulders. Let your thoughts still. Don't try to draw the object, rather, draw the shapes within the shape. Look at light and shadow.

My touch was tentative, the pencil barely making marks on the paper. I pressed a little harder, and the picture started to take shape. I was pleased to find, even with the first drawing, my picture of a person looked like a person. Not a second grader's version of a stick drawing (which is where I started eight years ago), not some sort of mutant ape, but a person. My skills from the classes I took eight years ago are rusty, but they have not disappeared, much to my relief!

Before starting, I had given myself permission to make bad art (it was the only way to get me to step in the door), so I didn't mind so much that the polish from the last time I drew was missing from the finished product. Rather, I was thrilled to find I was still able to fall into my meditative art zone; a place where the rest of the world falls away and my focus narrows to my drawing tools, the paper in front of me, and the picture taking shape on its surface.

When I can get myself into my art zone, I find a quiet place, a place of peace. I need some inner peace and quiet these days; am grateful I followed the impulse to sign up for the class. The skills will come. Or not. The important part is that I'm in the class and doing the drawings.  I've missed art...

Happy New Year 2020!

I had a wonderful holiday season - these days, my heart always finds it wonderful when I have both of my children in my sight at the same time, which happened quite often during Kate's five day visit home.

Kate flew in on the 27th; on the 28th we drove to Iowa to pick up Lexi, who had spent the night with my sister and her husband after she was done with her Christmas visit to her Papa in Minneapolis. Julia and Ed leapt at the chance to keep her for a day (they haven't had a chance to have her to themselves since she moved to California), and then deliver her to Des Moines. Love Is.

For once, the drive flew by. Kate and I were long overdue for catching up on each other's lives, and car talk is some of the best. There's something about the intimate setting of the car in the darkness that invites open conversation, and given the time of year, we had plenty of darkness to enjoy.

Once back home, we had three more days to enjoy being together. Joe and Rita brought the baby over every evening. We had an evening with Kate's old friends, another where we celebrated the New Year as it arrived in Buenos Aires. (Thank goodness for the internet, which quickly supplied a city three time zones east, so we could bring in the new year at 9PM local time. We were all tired...)

Kate and Lexi left in the wee hours of Wednesday morning; I saw them off, then went back to bed. When I got back up at my usual time, the house was quiet. Very quiet. I sighed, got dressed and then  reluctantly took down the Christmas tree and all of the holiday trappings. OK, it was past time - the tree was beautiful, but every time I brushed a branch to remove an ornament, the needles let loose in a shower of green - but it was still hard to let it go.

To avoid falling into lonely from alone, I got out a jigsaw puzzle once I'd finished cleaning. I love putting together puzzles, but don't do it too often because I find it addicting. The puzzle sits there innocently on the table, and every time I pass by I pause, for just a few moments, to find another piece or three. The next thing I know, it's an hour later.

This puzzle is a good one, with random bits flying about the picture, making it harder to guess where things line up. (To up the challenge level of puzzles, I don't look at the picture after I've dumped out the pieces. I have SOME idea of what the final picture is, but don't go back to the box to find out if the red blob belongs to the barn or the wagon or...  I figure it out as I go.)

It's made for some excellent meditation time over the past few days. As I move pieces around and fit them one by one into the completed picture, my mind wanders hither and yon. I reflect on the year and the decade just past. I mull over where I am, things I have done well, things that didn't go so well, ways I hope to change going forward. I wonder what challenges and joys will be revealed in the new year.

Puzzles are a good metaphor for my life. I go along, looking at the individual pieces, fitting one day into the next without looking at the larger whole. Then, something breaks my trance and I stand back and look at the current picture of my life. Only then do I see how far I've come from where I started; see the larger pattern and how it all fits together; see the beauty of how the days have shaped the months, the years, the decades.

I start the year off-balance; a living example of the truism that good changes cause stress surely as the harder ones do. Balance will come, the picture will come together. It will just take some time.

Happy New Year!