A Christmas Concert

It was my friend Gayla's birthday last week, and she invited me to help her celebrate the occasion by joining her at the KC Symphony's Christmas Festival. I was more than happy to accept the invitation, and we bundled up and drove to the Kauffman Center, arriving with enough time to stop for a moment to just enjoy being in such a beautiful space.

As we leaned on the rail overlooking the colorful atrium, watching the crowd below mill about in all their Christmas finery, I was a little surprised to find myself pulled into a wayback moment. Young Janice had heard of such spaces, and even been marched through one or two on one school outing or another, but she never dreamed that the privilege of attending one of the concerts could be a normal part of her life.

"Ah, but of course, I've been to Symphony Hall", says me, today. But there was no "of course" about it in the heart of the little girl who unexpectedly popped up that cold winter's night. 

All of the magic she'd ever dreamed of was there that evening, and I was caught in her delighted awe at the moment. She reveled in my clothes, definitively NOT hand-me-downs, an outfit that blended seamlessly with what the rest of the crowd wore. She tried to memorize the view of the lights, the glimpse of the city through the expansive windows. And, she stayed with me throughout the concert, delighting in watching the mastery of the musicians, caught in the spell of the carols and other pieces. "I am HERE", she sang.

I was taken a bit aback by the experience, though in retrospect, her appearance makes sense. If there's a season of the year that takes me back to those long-ago days where I was the middle kid in the puppy pile that was our large family, Christmas is it. 

I am glad she is still with me. I am honored to be able to show her a glimpse of how far she would travel in her life; to let her see some part of those good things she had only read and heard about would be hers. 

Merry Christmas!

Advent Musings

I no longer profess to be part of any religion, and I found myself looking over my shoulder as I scrounged up some candles and ribbon to set up an advent wreath, as if the orthodoxy police might be peering in the window to make sure I don't sully their beliefs with my free-form faith. (I didn't see anyone there...)

My faith is free-form, but also, when it comes to the message of the advent candles, my faith is strong. I can wholeheartedly light a candle each week and whisper a prayer in the name of Hope, Peace, Joy, Love. This year, my prayers haven't yet managed to coalesce into words. But if there is a Someone out there who Listens, surely they can Hear all my heart is trying to say.

I'm glad the Hope candle comes first in the season. I need lots of Hope in my life. Each time I visit the wreath to pray for a few minutes, I whisper the words of Emily Dickinson - "Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul / And sings the tune without the words / And never stops at all." I dig through my days to find the moments where Hope surfaced, and let it linger on my mind for a time.

This weekend marked four years since Libby died. It feels like yesterday. It feels like it was another lifetime. I feel vaguely guilty because her cancer killed her and mine did not kill me, like some cosmic accountant messed up and crossed their lines. I feel grateful I am still here. It is when I am able to hold both gratitude and grief, not denying either feeling, that I am able to find some measure of Peace.

Joy came to visit this weekend in the shape of my now three year-old grandson. He loved the cookie baking process, especially the part where he got to help decorate the shape cookies. He's not quite an expert just yet. He either carefully, firmly, poked three sugar sprinkles into each cookie, leaving finger dents as proof of his diligence, or tried to sprinkle from the jar, thus burying the shape in sugar. The end result would not pass muster on a bakery shelf, but to my admittedly biased eye, they are beautiful, and it does my heart good to look at them.

Next week comes Love, and fast on its heels, the winter solstice will arrive on the 21st. The light will already have begun to return by the time we celebrate Christmas later that week.

Hope.
Peace.
Joy.
Love.

Amen.

Art Show

 

My friend Rose has a small art gallery set up in the hallways of her church. Each month, she reaches out to yet another of her artistically inclined friends, and asks them if they'd like to show their work in her gallery. She's asked me several times, always I have been reluctant to show my attempts at creating art in a public place, and have declined the opportunity.

But this last time, when she came by for dinner and was enthusiastically looking through the stack of photographs I use to paint from, and asked me, one more time, if I wouldn't just consider putting together a show, I accepted the challenge. I think I'm finally ready to hear what other people think of my photos. (Though not yet the art I create using them. That'll be a while yet.)

So, we got together one evening, and winnowed through the pictures, selecting 25 whose lighting and color tones would work well together in small groups. I sent them to Costco to get enlarged prints, then hopped on to Amazon to find some basic white mats so they could be hung. Once all the piece parts arrived, I spent a couple of evenings assembling the finished art.

This past weekend, I brought the matted prints over to her church to be hung. Her enthusiasm and joy when we were hanging them up were infectious. I found myself looking at my work through her eyes, seeing all of the beauty and none of the flaws. I think it was good for me. I am better at seeing the beauty in the world around me than I am in any of the work I produce with my hands.

The pictures will hang for a month, then we will have a closing party. Where the church will invite people and I will invite people, and I, as the artist, will be the guest of honor, the center of attention. I'm not so sure about that part. I mean, I'll have to meet new people, and Covid has left me socially awkward.  *sigh*

But, I've got to stretch my boundaries some time, and this is a good way to do it. Besides, probably everyone will be busy and there will be just five people there. Maybe. I can hope.

I gotta admit - it feels good to be spoken of as one of 'her artists'. My inner six year-old is pleased with the moniker. Janice Raach, Photographer.  It's got a certain ring to it, no?

Gratitude and Grief

I've been enjoying my Friday morning yoga class, so when the teacher announced she'd be hosting an extra class on Thanksgiving morning, I signed up, figuring it would be a good way to stop and breathe for a bit on what was sure to be a hectic morning.

The class was titled "Flow with Gratitude", but when we started, she, with her characteristic care for the whole person, gave us permission to not be feeling grateful. I'm not sure why her words made a difference for me, but after she said that, I was able to feel all the other emotions riding beneath the gratitude I was feeling that morning.

I found myself in touch with my gratitude that I am still here, despite my bout with cancer and that near miss on the freeway a few weeks ago. I am thankful I have people who love me, food aplenty, a warm and sturdy house to live in. I have candles to light the darkness.

But I also found a whole pile of grief I'd been trying to ignore. I miss my people who have died. I cry for the health struggles of my friends and family. News of discord clangs loudly in my feeds, and my heart hurts for people caught in the world's pervasive and invasive web of violence.

All is NOT well.

And that has always been true. With life comes death and struggle and learning and steps forward and steps back. Following the flow of the class, holding both my gratitude and my grief in my awareness, I found an elusive balance. 

Not all is well. True. But some things are well. And, perhaps, it is because both are true that I am able to be thankful. Perhaps.

I hope you all had a Happy Thanksgiving!

Hello, Sylvester!

From the time she was little, my daughter wanted a dog. A dog who would love her best, a dog to walk and to hug and to be her companion. I tried, when she was in high school, to fulfill her wish, and adopted Binky, a small poodle. Unfortunately, Binky was not in on the plan, and decided he was my dog, NOT her dog. She'd take him for walks, and he'd drag on the leash, not wanting to be separated from me. He slept in my room, and was my constant companion as I moved around the house. His happiest welcome home dance was reserved for me. *sigh*

So, after Kate finished grad school and moved to California, she figured it would be a good time to try again. She bought Sylvester as a puppy. This time, I wasn't around to mess things up, and sure enough, Sylvester was a good dog for her. She and Lexi LOVED having him around, and he was her dog. He loved going for walks with her; his happiest tail-wagging welcome home dance was reserved for her arrival any time she arrived back after leaving the house. Dog life was good.

Then, this fall, Kate's work routine changed. She's away from home for another thirty minutes to an hour each day, and Sylvester started getting stressed. He'd passed his I'm-OK-home-alone threshold, and started licking himself raw and showing other signs of anxiety. Kate tried her best to help him adjust, but the one thing he needed, more people time, was the one thing she couldn't give him right now.

Wanting to help, I offered to let him stay with me for a while. It'll be a year or more before her schedule eases, and since I'm home a LOT more than she is these days, I thought he might be happier here. She didn't want to let him go. (I didn't want for her to have to let him go.) But he was not living his best doggy life the way things were, so she sadly started looking at ways to get him here.

He's too tall to travel in the cabin of an airplane, and air cargo transport is very, very stressful for dogs. We thought about meeting halfway, in Albuquerque, NM. Trolling the internet for options, I found a site called Citizen Shippers. Yup. It turns out you can Uber your dog across the country.

She pulled up the reservation form, and put in the from / to addresses, along with a short description of Sylvester. Within thirty minutes, she had over 20 bids from people willing to drive the dog here for a reasonable fee. (It ended up costing about the same as it would have for us to meet up halfway.)

A week later, Sylvester was on his way. Three days after they picked him up, he arrived on my doorstep. He was tired, confused and thirsty, but, as a pleasant surprise, not overly stressed.

He's been here for just a few days, and is starting to settle in quite well. He's still confused, but he remembers me from my visits to California, and is starting to accept me as a good-enough substitute for HER. I'm rather liking having him here, but Monster does NOT agree.

Monster took one look at Sylvester when he walked in the door, vaulted for the top tier of the cat tree, and there he's stayed. He comes down to eat and drink at night after Sylvester is safely penned upstairs with me for the night. I'm sad for him; I don't know how to help him be more comfortable. I am hoping time will work its magic, and they will decide to ignore each other. At least they're not fighting; I figure that's a good sign.

I'm pretty sure this will work out well in the long run. Kate is no longer worried about Sylvester. I am happy to keep him here as long as she needs me to; he is a good dog. And Monster will eventually decide he misses his box with water, and come down from his perch to establish his rightful place at the top of the household hierarchy. I hope.

All The Leaves Are Brown

And the sky is gray. I went for a walk, on a winter's day. 

But I'm not actually dreaming of California at the moment, which is where I depart from the Mamas & the Papas (for those old enough to know the song).

Rather, I am in the process of snugging in for the winter. Our fall warmth hung on for an extra week and a bit, but when it decided it was done, it was done. Over the course of just a few hours one rainy afternoon, the temps fell from the seventies to the thirties, and there they've stayed. Shirtsleeves to heavy coats; go directly to winter. Do not pass jean-jacket weather, do not collect $200.

I have been pleased to find my mood has not dropped in line with the temperatures. I think getting people back in my life on a regular basis really was the key to begin moving on from the bridge between here and there, from liminal space. The women I've met at Woodside have begun to connect into a loose-knit posse. Just once, we've even gathered outside the gym! It's been good for my soul.

Since I didn't have to spend as much of it combating a sinking mood, I had energy, before the cold hit, to finish up my outside fall wish list. Now I'm able to sit inside, look at my yard, and just enjoy the changing scenery, without having the drumbeat of undone chores echoing in my head.

I thoroughly enjoyed my walk through the park yesterday. The crowds have disappeared with the warm weather and taken most of their carelessly discarded debris with them. With many of the people gone, I heard more birdsong as I walked along the trails. I'm not sure if the birds are singing more, or if I just had more bandwidth to pay attention to nature because I wasn't not cussing at (and picking up what I could of) the trash. Either way, it was lovely.

I've also had the luxury of getting to ease into the time change. If I'm tired at nine, which just last week was ten, I go to bed. If I don't want to get up in the dark, I don't have to - I can just lie in bed and doze and watch the sky turn light, even if I'm done sleeping. (I gotta admit - I really like the part of my life where I don't have to rush out of the house in the morning.)

This year, I don't feel so sad as I wave goodbye to the growing season. I'm not afraid of the coming dark. I am looking forward to the season of candles and warm soups and stews. Of hot tea before bedtime and quilts on the bed. Who knows, maybe we'll get some snow, and I will have a great excuse to have a snow day, and pull out a jigsaw puzzle.

The trees have started their winter's rest. This year, I think I am ready to try to join them.

Close Call

It was an ordinary afternoon, one day last week. The sky was clear as I drove home from my weekly karate workout. (I run katas with a friend of mine in Blue Springs.) The cars on the freeway were moving at a good clip, I was in the center lane. I knew it was one of the last nice days of autumn, and so I had the top down as I drove. I was content, listening to the radio, enjoying the wind in my hair.

Then.

As I began to catch up with an older black pickup, the back loaded with big black trash bags full of somethings, the wind and a bump in the road caught one of the bags, and it flew from the back of the truck to land on the road in front of me.

Time did its stretchy thing as I gripped the wheel and looked to the right and to the left, only to find moving to either lane was not an option. A quick glance in my rearview mirror told me there was no one immediately on my tail, and I quickly braked to avoid running over the obstacle which had landed squarely in my lane. 

I'd managed to slow down enough to maneuver safely around the bag when I heard the blast of a horn. My mirrors showed a large black pickup with a lift kit barreling down on me - clearly the driver hadn't seen the bag in the roadway, or the flash of my tail lights as I braked. *ARGH* I switched my foot from the brake to the gas, and was able to accelerate just enough for him to have space to swerve around me, narrowly missing my bumper. I don't think I was breathing as I braced myself and ran directly over the bag, which gave way with a small thump.

It was full of clothes. Not glass, or metal, or wood, or, or, or, or the multitude of objects which would have caused serious damage to my car. Clothes.

I gave a huge sigh of relief as time returned to its normal rate of passing. Close doesn't just count in horseshoes and hand grenades after all.

I caught up again with the offending black pickup as I drove to the nearest exit, where I could safely stop to assess the damage to my car. The truck driver, an older white man, was clearly clueless. His hands locked on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he had absolutely no idea the chaos he'd almost caused with his failure to secure his load. *sigh*

The damage to my car is slight - there is a small dent in the bumper and the license plate is bent. 

The damage to my spirit is taking a bit of time to repair - my heightened awareness of the fragility of 'normal' has yet to appreciably drop. It could have, a moment later, if I wouldn't have, if the second truck hadn't blared his horn - I've been awake several nights trying to quiet the voice of it-might-have-been.

It might have been, but it wasn't. And I'm beginning to realize that if I spend the next few weeks acutely aware of all I almost lost, it is not such a bad thing. While I'm doing better these days, I still sometimes catch myself ruminating on all the things that are wrong in my world, and forgetting to be grateful for the things that are right.

The incident was a stark reminder of what I think of as my Libby Lesson: Don't let fear win. Remember to Live today. It is the only day any of us have.

In the wee hours of last night, when the voice started its litany of doom, I managed to turn down the volume by beginning a second list, one enumerating the good things in my life - and drifted back to sleep shortly thereafter, a smile on my face.

Good Is.

Musical Interlude

I had plans for yesterday; the get-some-things-done-around-here sort of plans. But when a friend of mine called mid-morning to ask if I wanted tickets to the afternoon's symphony concert, it suddenly became far less important to me to get some things done, and I happily accepted her offer. (I'd been toying with the idea of buying tickets for the last month and a bit, but just never quite managed to climb far enough out of my rut to actually do something about the notion.) 

I cleaned myself up, dusted off my good clothes (Literally, dusted them off - it's clearly been a while since I went out anywhere formalish. *sigh*), and put them on. I drove down to the Kauffman Center, climbed up to my seat, and sat down with a satisfied sigh.

There's something about live music. I have several ways to listen to high-quality sound at home, but. To my ears, the sounds from the speakers can come close to the sounds in a music hall, but to my soul, the recordings are missing a core something. I'm pretty sure it has to do with the sound waves the instruments create together as part of their magic.

As the concert began, it took a bit for the magic to take hold; my thoughts are used to running amok these days - there aren't many competing voices in my world. But then, but then. 

The stream of sound from the voices and instruments swirled around me and settled in my core, silencing the voices in my head. I sat up straight, put my feet on the floor, closed my eyes, and let the music carry me away. I can't tell you what I thought of the rest of the concert, because I had no thoughts. There was just the music and the moment. 

I wasn't familiar with the pieces on the program, so I had no notions of where the notes should be headed. Rather, I was free to let go, to just drift in the current of sound, to let it carry me where it would. 

I came back to earth a few times, and leaned over the rail to watch the movement of the orchestra as they worked together to create the musical current, but those moments didn't last long. The pull of the waves was too strong.

As my brother told me in a text the other day, after I sent him a bad joke*: What is matter, but a collection of atoms, which consist of concentrated energy, which can be construed as a particle or a wave. We are both matter and a wave. Because we are a wave, we are music incarnate.

I can buy that. (Please forgive me for switching metaphors here.) I can believe the music of the concert picked up the threads of my lonely song and wove them back into the fabric of the song of the Universe for those timeless moments, leaving me refreshed, and with a tenuous sense of my connection to the Is.

Music Is.

*The joke was: You occupy space and have mass. What does that mean?  Answer: You matter.

The Last Box

It's been 11 years since I packed up my house on Valentine Road and started off on a new path. It's been nine years since I landed in this house, about six since the remodeling project was essentially completed and I went through everything I'd tucked away and decided that the items within the stash of remaining boxes still fit in my life, or not.

OK. I went through ALMOST everything, but there was this one box. It contained assorted odds and ends from a small set of shelves that had been tucked into the corner of a seldom-used closet in the old house. I didn't ignore the box. Every so often, I'd open the flaps, take a look inside, be unable to decide what to do with the contents, then promptly close the flaps so I could tackle it another day.

This past week, I decided the time had come to empty the box for once and for all. Its contents certainly weren't doing anyone any good by living in the back of yet another closet. So, I opened it one last time and spread the contents across a bed.

It was a true box of treasures, complete with a stash of fifty cent pieces and a two dollar bill. There was a girl-shaped piggy bank I got for Christmas back in the early seventies, a true classic, but with its paint chipping off across the back. There were two Barbie dolls, along with several outfits (?). My calendars from 1982 - 1984, along with a letter from Mary B (one of my best friends then and now),  briefly put me in touch with my just-finishing-college shelf. 

I found the lacy blue shawl I wore to prom. I'd stashed the yearbook from my senior year in high school, a smattering of school pictures from my then-friends, and a random notebook from some class. There was a bowl that Libby made for me in her pottery phase of life, a small basket Joe made for me at Scout camp, and the guest register from my mother's funeral. 

I reread a letter from my dad with tears in my eyes. The pages didn't contain any news of import, but in the words he'd written, I could hear his voice echoing across the years.

Nope, I'm not surprised I've never emptied the box. I've wandered far from my roots, and to be able to physically touch these pieces of my past unearths dusty, but valuable, memories of my younger self - no small gift.

I put the bowl in the kitchen where it will get used, and will find the Barbies another home. The yearbook, letters, and photos went with the other papers I've saved over the years. I took one more photo of the shawl and the piggy bank, thanked them for the memories, then gently added them to the trash bin - the days where they could be handled without falling apart are past.

It feels good to have that box emptied, its contents properly dispersed. I think it's all a part of moving on from this liminal space I've hung out in for too long now - I feel both anchored and free.

Onward!

Three Years???

Fall has arrived. It's a subdued season here this year, the colors muted by lack of rain. But I have still been enjoying the cooler days, the way the angled October sunlight highlights the shadows. 

My calendar tells me it's been three years already since I last pursued gainful employment. My Covid-addled brain (even though I've avoided suffering through a bout of the disease, it's still managed to mess with my mind) doesn't see how that is possible. I've clearly entered a time warp. It's the only logical explanation for the fact that it seems as though I last walked out the door of the office about six months ago.

If I think about it, I know where the time went. Year One was working on the castle. The first half of Year Two was spent in Covid isolation, the second half, peering out my windows to see if it was safe to go outside yet. And in Year Three, I've finally started to figure this retirement gig out.

I partially blame Covid for the fact I'm still (??!!?) struggling to find my balance in a world where I get to choose how to fill all of my days, not just the weekends, holidays, and occasional breaks from work. I mean, this is something I dreamed of, longed for, back in my days on the work treadmill.  How is it that I'm still seeking balance three years after I set myself free?

The good news part is the part where that sought-after balance is much closer since I joined the gym this past summer. It turns out that I need people, even if they're just casual acquaintances, as a regular part of my days. I'm not sure how the link works, but since adding the classes there to my schedule, I've begun to break my internet black hole addiction (again). I've begun to channel my inner Vic (that's my dad), so that some days find me happily puttering away; no real goal in mind but to see if I can get this thing in my hands to match the vision in my mind. Some days, I even manage to make progress on the items languishing on what I've begun to think of as my wish list (as opposed to my to-do list).

Some rare days, I feel the same sense of freedom I did back when I was wandering the country in my camper van. It's a good feeling, filled with a sense of possibility and wonder. 

I like those days. They give me hope. 

Car Troubles

I really can't complain. For most of the fifteen years I've owned my StealthMobile, it's given me very little trouble. I've given it decent gas and regular oil changes, and in return, I turn the key, and it runs. It's been a great gig from my perspective.

But my car is getting older, right along with me, and these last couple of years things have started wearing out on it. Most recently, it developed a coolant leak, which I got fixed, but right on the tail of that, I started getting a random "CHECK CHARGING SYSTEM" message from the car.

The first few times, it just flashed on, then off within thirty seconds or so. This was August so I blamed it on the heat. Never mind that it's been plenty hot before and I'd never seen the message previously. I can get into denial just as well as the next person.

Sure enough, ignoring the problem didn't make it go away, and the message started popping up more often, for longer periods of time. Figures. Not wanting to keep flirting with danger - eventually that alternator was going to finish breaking - I brought the car into the mechanic to get it replaced when I returned home from California. (again. I'd replaced it just two years ago, but their theory is that the coolant leak managed to get some liquid where it didn't belong, and electronics don't like to take baths. Made sense to me.)

It took a couple days to get the parts in and get the car back, but when it was done, the light was gone, and the engine was purring. I figured I was good for a while.

Or, not.

It was just four days later. I was driving home from the hardware store on a beautiful fall day. I had the top down and was feeling proud of myself for making good progress on my outdoor projects. As I drove, I smelled a hot metal smell, but thought nothing of it. A LOT of my neighbors are doing home improvements, and I figured someone nearby was working on a something.

Still clueless, I pulled into my drive, put the top back up, and started to pull into the open garage. As soon as the top went up, that hot metal smell got worse. Uh, oh. 

I looked at the hood of the car. Was that ....smoke???... coming from under the hood? I killed the engine, popped the hood, and jumped out to see what was up. 

I cautiously opened it fully, ready to run get an extinguisher if need be, just in time to see some last wisps of smoke wafting from the now-blackened windings of the new alternator. *sigh*

I called AAA, and got it towed back to the shop. I was on tenterhooks for a day or so. There was no way to know if the fire had done damage to the rest of the electrical system until they got the car running again, and, of course, it took an extra day to get the replacement part in. I heaved a huge sigh of relief when I found out I'd turned the car off in time to prevent damage to the rest of the electrical system.  *whew*

Right now, I am grateful. This story could have been so. much. worse. Yeah, I had to rearrange my life around being car-less for the second time in two weeks, but. I didn't get stranded on the highway. I didn't burn up the car, or the garage. And, they didn't charge me for the do-over. (I didn't really think they would. We all know alternators should last more than four days.)

Yesterday, I was out driving with the top down, and smelled hot metal again. This time, I immediately took a close look at the dash to make sure all the gauges were in the green, and no idiot lights were on. This time, it really was some nearby construction. 

Trust me. It'll be a while before I again cavalierly assume that any odd, random smells are NOT coming from my engine. 

I can learn.

Beach Dude

I saw evidence of his existence - a thin blanket and trash bag neatly arranged beneath the stairway - as I first carefully made my way down the cliff onto the beach early one morning. I was a bit wary as I stepped onto the sand (stranger danger!), but a glance around showed me there were enough people already populating the beach that someone would hear me scream if trouble arose, so I set my fears aside.

I'd been settled into my coveted shade spot for some time before he strutted from between the rocks behind me, his entrance announced by the rock music streaming from the small bluetooth speaker dangling from one wrist.

He was tall, and looked to be quite fit. His strong physique was highlighted by his once-thick, long, blond hair as it straggled down his sun-reddened shoulders. He wore only a pair of swim trunks, and clutched an almost empty reusable plastic bag in his free hand. He found a nook in the cliff wall just a short way from where I sat, then pulled a Monster drink out of the sack, along with a thin and somewhat grubby towel which he promptly put on the sand to claim his spot.

He took a long swig from his drink, then, still holding it in his free hand, walked to the water's edge, threw his chest out and his arms wide, walking a short ways into the surf. He raised his head high and offered a defiant laugh to the serene blue sky, welcoming the morning. He waited for the waves to recede just a bit, then clambered up and over the rocks, daring the water to wash him off his perch. I didn't have to budge from my spot to know he'd safely made it across because I could hear his music receding as he made his way back up the beach.

He didn't approach me, or anyone else that I saw. He wasn't looking for trouble; was careful to avoid even the appearance of aggressiveness towards the people intruding onto his peaceful beach that cool autumn morning.

He intrigued me, and I mused about his unknown story as I sat watching the waves. The beach is beautiful, yes, but a harsh place to try to call home. It must be hard to be a Have-not (or, perhaps, a Once-had), in the land of Haves. The nearest place to buy food was several miles down the road, and the nights awfully chilly. Though I saw no evidence of it, I hoped he had a stash of warm clothing somewhere nearby.

I was curious about the way he used his music to both announce his presence and secure himself some free space. He could have just quietly blended in - there are plenty of scruffy, long-haired aging surfers thereabouts - but he chose instead to be defiantly loud. I wondered if it was his way to announce to the world that he still exists. "I am!"

I could just be projecting - since retirement, I've struggled to understand how to define my place in the world when there is no place in the world I MUST be. When I left the beach, I tried to carry a little of his bravado with me; the "bring it on!" sense I got from him as he faced the waves. 

Nope, my world is not perfect, but I woke up this morning. There is no handy beach nearby, but I can easily get my hands on my caffeinated beverage of choice. I can raise my face to the sun, and throw my arms wide. I can laugh as I welcome the beauty the day brings. 

I AM!

Beach Mornings

I came out to California this past week because Kate had a thing to go to; my job was watch Lexi while she was out of town. As part of my watching duties, I was to deliver Lexi safely to and from school. I didn't consider this a problem, especially since her new school is very near to the ocean.

It took me all week to find my rhythm, but by Friday morning, I had my mornings down! Drop Lexi at school, then pick a beach (there are several choices within 20 minutes of her school). Drive to said beach, park in the almost-empty lot, then grab backup sunscreen, water and a towel for sitting on.

Make my way down the path to the beach, and sit until my sitter gets sore.

I was an outlier on the beach each day. Everyone else I saw was in some version of a swimsuit, while I was there in long sleeves, long pants and hat, shielding my tender skin from the sun. I didn't care that I didn't fit in. The glint of the sun on the water, the roar of the waves, the birds flying by - I was caught in the magic of the moment. 

I watched in awe as the waves crashed against the shore - how many years does it take to carve a path beneath a rock? I felt the pull of the ages, the unfathomable stretch of time in two directions. They tell me waves have been crashing against this shore since before life began; they will continue their music until the moon is gone and the tides are stilled.

Each morning, once I sat, it didn't take long for my constant mental stream of words to slow to a trickle. My eyes drank in the beauty of the salt spray, my lips welcomed its primal taste. My body became attuned to the slight trembling of the ground beneath me as the earth absorbed the power of the waves, and my breath slowed to match the underlying rhythm of the water. My heart was sure there were answers in the moment, just beyond my ken, if I could only...

Eventually, the brightness of the sun broke my reverie. Jolted back into awareness, I became aware of assorted uncomfortable sensations telling me it was time to stand, to move, to eat.

One day, I tried to return to the beach after lunch, but found the heat too intense, the sands too crowded. I was unable to return to that now-elusive place of peace, so I gave up and left - perhaps in another season.

After I retreated from the beach and enjoyed lunch, it was disconcerting to have nowhere to be while I waited for Lexi to be done with school. Thank goodness for coffee shops and public areas where I could linger without feeling intrusive. I tried, one afternoon, to pick up my drawing pencil, but was unable to get into my mental art space - after drawing and erasing my underlying sketch five or six times, I gave up.

Clearly, I need more practice to know how to fill my days when left to my own devices.

I do think, however, beach mornings are the perfect place to start.

Beauty Is.

Peaceful Interlude

It was a hectic week. I felt as if I were running in circles as I worked to clear my plate and got ready to leave town for a spell of kid-watching in California. Dealing with the pile of to-dos and not-going-to-get-dones, followed by a completely full (though thankfully uneventful) airplane flight left me feeling a bit unbalanced by the time I safely arrived at Kate's home.

Glad to be here nonetheless, I happily rode along on Sunday morning to drop Lexi off at her volunteer gig. She works at a horse ranch nearby for a couple of hours each week; she mucks out corrals and does whatever else Kiki needs done, in exchange for the chance to spend time near her beloved horses.

We got to the meeting spot a few minutes before Kiki came down from the house. As soon as we arrived, Lexi hopped out of the car and immediately went to find a bucket and rake, then started cleaning piles of dung from the front corral without waiting for instructions. (Would I have been so responsible at 11?  probably not?)

Kiki's ranch is a healing place for horses, a safe place.

As we stood waiting for her, a flock of green parrots streamed overhead. In the distance, a large bird of prey lazily rode the air currents. There was a very faint hum of traffic from the freeway a mile or two away, the only other sounds came from the horses and a donkey somewhere nearby. The air was refreshing, the warm side of cool, and smelled of pine and eucalyptus. 

I breathed slowly, deeply, drinking in as much of the air as I could, knowing I'd be there for just a short time. Sure enough, Kiki arrived just a few minutes later, and Kate and I left to continue dealing with necessary weekend mundanities.

When we returned to pick Lexi up a couple of hours later, she was still busy working away. We could see Kiki working with one of the horses in the back corral, so walked over, leaned against the fence, and waited for her to finish walking near her charge, watching as she worked to teach him...  something beyond my ken.

When she came over to us, I asked her what she'd been doing. She kindly took a few minutes to explain she'd been teaching the horse to walk in a way that would better utilize his core muscles and thus increase his agility. She said horses are like people, and don't always use their core muscles as they should. She continued her explanation, telling us ways people-yoga principles around breathing and posture and core strength can be readily applied to horses. (who knew??) 

As she talked, the horse, Buddy, came near and nuzzled her ear. She works not through fear and intimidation, but rather has earned her place as herd-leader by learning to speak the horse's language. 

Impressive.

Despite the grim news of the day, she has managed to create an oasis of Peace. I am grateful to know places of safety like hers exist; grateful for the chance to stop for a few minutes and breathe; grateful for the chance to carry a small bit of that Peace with me as we drove away. 

Good Is.

Showing Up

Bob has been one of my best friends for over thirty years. It was seven years ago already that I first saw signs that his brain was having some disturbing hiccups. The time he got lost trying to take the light rail to the airport. The time we had a nothing conversation; then had the exact same conversation an hour or so later. 

I didn't see much of him during the Covid years. He couldn't/wouldn't consistently wear a mask before vaccines were widely available, so I limited our interactions to outdoor meals. After we were both vaccinated, he withdrew for a time. He was hard to catch on the phone, and discouraged visitors to his home out in the country.

This past spring, he finally relented, and agreed to let me come on up to help him with some things around his house. When I got there, I was shocked at the change in his ability to complete routine tasks - suddenly, the TV remotes were too complicated for him to manage. He lost the ability to check voicemail on his flip phone; the same type of phone he's been carrying for well over a decade.

Alarmed, I rallied his family and friends, and we all started to pressure him to move to town, to an independent living apartment. The pressure worked, he moved into his new place the first of May. 

From all I read, the dementia road is supposed to be a long, slow decline - I thought we still had time to spend together. He obviously didn't do his reading. He's rapidly been losing ground since moving into the city, and his brain shows no signs of finding its footing.

The change in living quarters unsettled his uneasy status quo; I was stopping over to see him a couple of times a week, and each time I came by, he was a little more lost. The world was confusing. It moved too quickly and things just didn't make sense!

All his people were concerned about his driving; he needed to not drive anymore, but no one quite knew how to convince him to give up his keys. Fortunately, God decided to intervene, and he lost them. Since no one would help him get a new set, the issue resolved itself. Small blessings. 

A week after he lost the truck keys, he went for a walk late at night and got lost, just a few blocks from his building. *ouch*

Off to assisted living he went. It was just a few short weeks from there to memory care - he kept trying (and succeeding in his attempts) to escape the building; didn't understand why he was asked to not go out as he pleased. He was pretty sure that the getting lost thing was a one-time anomaly; it surely wouldn't happen again. 

I continue to stop by as I can, 2-3 times each week. Conversations with my intelligent, eloquent friend now resemble word salad. I've gotten good at picking through the sentence fragments to get the gist of what he's intending to say, but it leaves me emotionally drained.

This is hard, harder than cleaning up someone else's bed bugs. He is scared and lost, and I can't do a darn thing to help. This sucks!

But, I show up. It's the only thing I CAN do. On my way over, I tamp down that helpless feeling, hide my fears and my tears. I put on a smile, walk in the door, and spend the next few hours doing my best to help him work through his anxiety of the day. I am rarely completely successful, but can usually help him to calm down some; distraction is my friend.

One step at a time, I will walk this road with him as long as he is still here to walk beside me.

Even though it's hard, I know I am doing the right thing. When my rocking chair days arrive (assuming my brain still works when I get there!), I will look back on these days with satisfaction.

Love Is.   

Family Weekend II

 

I had a lovely visit with my family at Onnika's graduation party back in July, and as I was driving back home, was grateful to be finishing my last long drive for the summer. 

About a week later, the invitation to my brother Michael's Open House hit my inbox. 

*sigh* I didn't want to do another long drive. I didn't actually have anything planned for Labor Day weekend, but surely, I could just skip the party, and invite myself over to his place to check it out the next time I was in town for something else. *grumble, grouse, mutter* I thought I'd talked myself into giving it a pass, but the party found its way onto my calendar anyways. 

Mike doesn't invite the family over very often. And, he's been working on his new garage with its detached house pretty solidly for the past two+ years. (If the five-oversized-bay garage with its industrial lift, finished walls and ceilings, full bath, and heated floors isn't bigger than the house, it's pretty darn close. I don't even work on cars, and I've got garage envy!)

Though I've not attempted to build a place from the ground up, I know what it's like to pour my heart and soul into a project. Finally, still grumbling to myself, I decided to get my keister on up there. He'd done some great work, actually managed to complete the place. He'd earned his celebration, and I wanted to be there to join in the applause.

The Universe liked my change of heart. 

When I first got my Mustang convertible, fifteen years ago, I loved driving it on long drives, but the car and I have both gotten older. These days, my butt starts talking to me somewhere around about hour seven, and it doesn't use nice words.

Two days before I was scheduled to head out, a friend of mine called - could I take them to the airport on Friday morning? I told her I'd be happy to, and that I'd be headed from there to Minnesota. She replied, "Great! You can drive my car. We'll be out of town, so I won't even notice it's gone." Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I quickly accepted her offer.

So, I got to drive up to the party in her much-newer Honda CR-V. It's got all the modern bells and whistles, including a chair-like driver's seat that adjusts all the directions. My keister appreciated the change of pace.

The gathering was a success. Mother Nature cooperated and ordered in picture-perfect weather. The house and garage both were spotless, ready to be admired, worth admiring. There was music and beverages and a delicious food spread. Standing tall through it all was my brother. His joy in sharing his accomplishment was clear to see - his smile was broad, and I didn't see it leave his face all afternoon.

I think it was important to show up to celebrate with him. I'm glad I made it.

Tennis, Anyone?

As part of my intro-to-Woodside package, they gave me one free tennis lesson. Now, even I know one tennis lesson is not enough, so I went ahead and signed up for their eight session, Adult 101, class last month.

I had signed up for the Wednesday morning classes. It turns out that not everyone has my ethic around showing up for classes I've paid for, because that first morning, I was the only student to show up. No complaints on my part!

I've always wanted to learn to play tennis - to the point where I've had an aspirational tennis racquet in my closet for the past two decades. OK, three. 

I wasn't sure if the racquet was still any good, but I dusted it off anyways and brought it with me to the first lesson, where I showed it to the coach. To his credit, he stifled his laughter and actually gave it a once-over. He pronounced it good enough to hit balls with until I decided if I really want to play, then informed me they have (real) racquets at the front desk for check-out as long as I play at the club. Works for me.

I've tried a time or two to play on my own, but quickly gave up in frustration. I never could get the ball to go where I wanted it to, and chase-the-ball is not a fun game if one is not a golden retriever. But that first hour of individual tutelage totally upped my game. He showed me how to step the right way, and how to correctly hold and swing the racquet for forehand and backhand strokes. The difference in my playing ability was immediately apparent. (And they have a great little hopper to use to pick up the fifty-ish balls I hit during the lesson, so I didn't have to play chase-the-ball even once!)

The remainder of the lessons were just as fun. Despite the heat during the Saturday-at-11AM-in-full-August-sun sessions, time flew every time I stepped on the court. I learned something new at every class - how to volley, how to serve, the rules of the game. I was the oldest one there by at least two decades, so was pleased to find I could keep up with the other kids, and that my skills placed me squarely in the middle of the pack. Go, me!

And, to my pleasant surprise, my feet have been up to the demands of the game. I was worried that the pounding would reactivate my plantar fasciitis woes, but so far, so good. (Of course, I'm still at a VERY basic level - this still may not work once I wend my way up to playing actual games. But, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.)

I'm hooked enough to sign up for the Adult 201 classes later this fall. I don't have enough years left in me to get really good at the game, but I am hoping to get good enough to play matches for fun before my assorted aches and pains put me permanently on the sidelines.

And. I'm glad I didn't let the bag of assorted fears and doubts I carry with me stop me from signing up for the classes (it almost did...), because it feels really good to finally have put that aspirational tennis racquet to use. I'm not even sure why it was still lying around - I suppose it was because I didn't want to let it go before I'd actually tried to learn how to use it. See? I can still learn new things!

Out on the Town

A couple of weeks ago, I gathered with some of my Cristo Rey friends for a long overdue dinner. Out at a restaurant and everything! (I'm at the point in my Covid-precaution life where I have decided to trust the vaccines. This latest variant is everywhere, but my friends who have gotten it are all coming through it all right. It's still not fun, but I can't stay home forever.) As we were finishing up a delicious meal, the restaurant owner came over and offered us four tickets to a play at Starlight, the local outdoor theater, the next week. No strings attached. 

It took us a minute to realize what he was offering, but once we did, we quickly took him up on his offer. Two of us couldn't go, but I was happy to take two of the tickets - it's been a long time since I've been to the theater. When I got home, I invited my friend Gayla to go with me - she was also happy to jump on the bandwagon.

Wednesday came, and I got all dolled up for the occasion. She arrived right on time to pick me up, and off to the show we went. We paid for parking, got out of the car, and headed for the gates. I reached for my purse to get the tickets, and stopped short.

Tickets. 

"Aw, sh**!"

It's been a LONG time since I had paper tickets for anything, and I had completely forgotten to pick them up off the dining room table where I'd left them earlier in the day so I would be sure to remember them.

I don't know about you all, but I have anxiety dreams about this sort of thing all the time. I just USUALLY manage to avoid having them come true in real life.

Gayla gave me a concerned look when I stopped and 'fessed up. 
"You're kidding." 
"Nope, I'm not."

With matching large sighs, we turned around to go back to the car to go back to my house to get the tickets. I felt awful. She, bless her heart, took the whole thing in stride. We'd purposely gotten to the venue early, so we could catch up on each other's lives while we ate dinner there before the show. Thank goodness for that, because it turned the whole situation into a nothing-burger.

We didn't get to talk as much as we'd hoped because of all the driving, but we still got in some good conversation. I don't live THAT far from the theater, so we had time, even with the extra trip, to enjoy our dinner; albeit not at the leisurely pace we'd planned. 

The show, Sister Act, was fun! I laughed out loud! And, I really liked the part where I got to be in the same place with other people who were also clearly enjoying the show. (Group energy! I've missed group energy...)

The evening was a good reminder for me. A reminder there are generous people in the world, like the restaurant owner, who are willing to give something for nothing. A reminder that I can mess up big time, and not have it ruin the entire evening because there are people like Gayla who will go with the flow, and adjust as needed, and not even be mad at me. *whew*

Good Is!

Cat Adjustments

I didn't really think Monster would miss Angel. I know she was his mom, but I must say, she, with her random paw swipes, really wasn't very nice to him. They weren't enemies - they'd often share the sofa or bed - but neither did they seem to be friends.

But he's definitely noticed she's gone. The first week or so after she died, he kept going over to her sad kitty corner. He'd sniff around, then look at me as if to say, "do you know where she went?" I didn't know how to answer.

He seems to be quite happy about the part where he's gotten to take over the prime upper cave on the kitty tree - he rarely got to stay up there when she was around - so I figured he'd be just fine, given a little time.

Monster's morning box-with-water ritual has been a must-happen thing for almost a decade now. I'm not fond of cats on the counter, but he is always so happy and expectant and it's really not such a bad thing to have him there just for his morning drink, now is it?

The day after Angel died, he jumped in the sink, and not really paying attention to what I was doing, I turned the water on for him as I have a thousand times before. It splashed him in the face, which has happened often enough, but this time he must have gotten some up his nose or in his eye, because he shot out of the sink like I'd put the vacuum cleaner in there with him. 

I always thought I'd be glad to stop this particular ritual, but, but. But he seemed so scared, and I was sad about Angel, so I went and got him, picked him up, petted him, and put him back in the sink. He instantly shot out again. *sigh*

I hoped it would be a one-day thing, he's not the most intelligent of cats, and sure enough, the next morning, he jumped into the sink as soon as I walked into the kitchen. I thought all was forgiven and hopefully forgotten. Then I turned on the water and off he went. Hmm. I began to see the bright side of this.

The next day, though, he didn't leave. He shrank away from the water stream as though it were Angel's claw, but bravely held his ground. The next day, he tentatively poked out his nose and sniffed at it before pulling back. Each day, things have been a bit better, and this morning, he finally reached out and took a few tentative licks at the stream of water.

All is right in his world, which makes things just a little righter in mine.

Puzzle Break

When I looked forward to retirement, I figured I'd be like my Aunt Lou. Once upon a time, talking about her life, she said, "I spent the first twenty years growing up, the next twenty raising kids, the next twenty working, and now I'm spending the next twenty just enjoying myself!" (Since then, she's passed the end of that twenty year block, but I am glad to report she is still doing a bang-up job of enjoying life.) 

I thought it was a great way to approach life, and decided then and there that I wanted to be just like her when I grew up. I still don't understand why I'm having so much trouble with this doing-to-being transition - I mean, if she can do it, so can I, right???

In the spirit of trying to "do" less, last week, I only put three things on my to-do list - if I'd have worked steadily, I could have done them all in less than a day. But I didn't work steadily. I didn't even finish the things on the list. I did the first two things, and started on the third. But then, instead of finishing my task, I got out a jigsaw puzzle.

Until I finished it this morning, every free moment of the last few days has been spent assembling the picture. It amazes me how quickly time passes when I'm puzzling. Normally, I'm antsy, unable to sit for too long. But give me a good puzzle, and I can happily sit for hours on end, procrastinating on all the things that I wanted/needed to get done, working to find just one more piece.

What better way to practice being?

I usually pull out a puzzle for a reason; I've found it to be a wonderful meditation vehicle. As my eyes scan the table, my hands pulling together all the pieces that contain any yellow, my surface mind lets go of conscious thought. My quiet inner voice starts mulling over life questions, such as "Who am I?" and "Why am I here?" 

These days, I no longer look to come up with answers, but in keeping with what I've learned about emotions not being good or bad, but rather data, I try to listen to the feelings that bubble to the surface. (And hoo-boy were there a lot of them this time, because, life.)

I finished the puzzle calmer and less anxious than when I'd started it three days ago. Even though my conversations were only with myself, I feel heard, and have a better idea of what's been churning beneath the surface, messing with my sleep.

Not a bad form of therapy, I must say.

Good Enough

When I put the checkerboard tile floor down in the kitchen some seven years ago, I kinda knew I was asking for trouble. The floor is decidedly NOT level, and tile is not known for its bendability.

Sure enough, over the years, several tiles have cracked. Three gave way beneath the pressure of moving the fridge around the room, two have multiple fault lines from the pressure of a too-pointy chair leg; I don't know what excuse the others think they have.

I did a little internet research to see if there was anything, short of replacing the tiles, I could do to help hide the cracks, and found several sources who mentioned using an epoxy glue to fill the cracks, then painting the lines to help the glue blend in. It seemed like a not-unreasonable solution, so I ran it past the guys at the tile store when I was there asking about my failed grout. They agreed - and sent me to a small shop specializing in countertop installation supplies to get the good stuff.  

It took some time to convince the guy running the store I could use the epoxy without gluing the cat to the floor (I guess I don't look like a bona-fide countertop installer. Who knew?), but I got the good stuff. When you use the good stuff, you color the epoxy before adding the hardener, thus eliminating the sure-to-be-problematic step of keeping the lines painted to match the tiles. I was happy with my purchase, but once I got home, had a procrastination attack. Regular, hardware-store-grade epoxy has a cure time of 20-30 minutes. You have some time to fix your mistakes before things harden up. The good stuff gives you a 3-4 minute window before beginning to set up and becoming useless. I was afraid of doing a real botch job on the floor, and then having to decide if I want to spend the next x years looking at evidence of my ineptitude or replacing the whole **mn floor.

I tried looking up Google tips and tricks, but Google let me down. The pros out there are NOT creating tutorials on how to do this at home. *sigh* Not one to give up easily, I called the goop manufacturer, and after a couple of dead ends, was connected to a sales guy who helpfully spent a good 30 minutes giving me pointers on mixing and using the stuff.

Feeling much more confident, I procrastinated for another week on general principle, then set out one afternoon to clean and prepare the cracks per the instructions. My first two tries with batches of epoxy were a disaster. The instructions I'd been given would have worked beautifully for straight-line seams, but my floor cracks were anything but neat lines.

Frustrated, I threw up my hands and went to bed.

As I lay there, stewing and reviewing, revising and what-if-ing, some alternatives to the way I'd been told to do it floated to the surface of my mind. I drifted off to sleep somewhat comforted - at least I had new things to try in the morning.

I got up the next day, and ignoring a lot of what I'd been told, started afresh. This time, things went a lot better. I mixed up a super-small batch of goo, and used a razor blade to press the epoxy into the cracks of the first tile. I had paper towels and a cup of acetone at the ready to swipe up the extra glue, and lo and behold, the tile was repaired in short order, with very little mess. (I also had on a good P100 face mask and had a fan set up to exhaust the air from the room, so I didn't destroy my lungs in the process. I AM trainable.)

A couple of hours later, the floor looked as good as it's going to get. The cracks are still there, but are no longer eye-catching - you need to look to see them - which is exactly what I'd. hoped for. No longer are they the first thing I notice about the floor when I walk in the room, and I can now quit worrying about the broken pieces working their way loose to leave gaps in the floor.

Progress, even - or, especially - in the small things, feels good.

Goodbye, Angel

The part of Angel's story I know started when a lady near Rolla. MO was driving down the road and saw the car in front of her slow down on the shoulder. The window went down, a cat was tossed out, and the car drove on.

She (I never knew her name) stopped to rescue the young, snow-white, pregnant cat, tended her injuries, and took her and her eventual kitten into her home. She named the mama cat Angel, her son, Monster. (Neither name fit the cat's character, but they stuck.) But then she went into a nursing home, and the cats needed a new home. Eventually, via my son's friend's girlfriend's friend, they wended their way into his care. When Joe moved home for a time after college, the cats came with him. With the exception of the year after Joe married, they have stayed with me ever since, and that was almost ten years ago. 

To the other household animals, Angel was a brat kitty, ruling the house with a velvet-clad, iron paw. To me, she showed only her sweet side, jumping up on my lap to purr at me any time I settled down. 

Having the cats helped to save my sanity during the pandemic. During the cold and dark days after Joe and Rita moved out, and there was not yet a vaccine, I spent too many afternoons alone. I curled up on the sofa beneath a blanket and just stared at the quiet my life had suddenly become. Inevitably, shortly after I lay down, I would have a purring white companion (or two). They turned my pity parties into cuddle sessions, were a critical part of helping me to stay grounded.

I've been keeping a close eye on Angel for the last couple of months. It was clear arthritis was settling in. No longer did she easily vault to the countertops - instead she always stopped on the chairs on the way up, and at times, even that jump was beyond her. 

Then, with the hottest weather this year, she abandoned even the sofa, preferring to spend her time curled up in a corner of the living room, clearly in some pain. I had a couple of stern talks with her. She was sixteen-ish, didn't she know my cats all live to be nineteen or twenty?

She purred just a bit, just enough to let me know she had heard, but didn't move. 

She was a sad corner kitty.

I wanted to put off making the vet appointment; I knew what they were going to say, and I didn't want to hear it. With a heavy heart, I took her on in anyways, and after drawing some blood so we could figure out what was going on with her, the vet gave me some pain meds to ease her hips.

The pain meds helped a lot, but it was clear Angel still did NOT feel good. I got the test results the next day - all the numbers were askew. She wasn't going to get better.

I made one last appointment for her, just a few days later. I was grateful for those days, a chance to say goodbye. I gave her extra love and lots of formerly forbidden bits of people food until the hour came to leave. 

I put her into the carrier one last time, then drove to the vet even though my heart was screaming, "NO!" But I couldn't leave her hurting in her corner any longer. She depended on me to do right by her, and so I did. Her last moments were peaceful. I was petting her as she relaxed in my lap; she never even noticed when the vet gave her first the one shot, then the second. I kept petting her, telling her how much light and love she'd brought into my life, long after the vet said she'd crossed over the bridge, then quietly left the room to leave me to cry.

Goodbye, Angel. I like to believe I will see you again one day. That I will walk into the room, and as you used to do after I'd been gone for a bit, you will oh-so-nonchalantly stroll over the moment I sit down, hop into my lap and give me a longed-for kitty hug. 

Until then, Rest in Peace.

Family Weekend

This past weekend's trip to Minnesota had two purposes:

One, I needed to deliver Sophia back home. We, as I had hoped, had a great week together. We went shopping some, out to eat some, yoga-d some. She didn't seem to mind hanging out with just me, and I enjoyed having her around.

Two, I wanted to attend another niece's graduation party. Onnika's high school years were rocky. Between her mother's death halfway through her first year and covid which hit halfway through the next, she was treading water at best, barely holding her own. I knew this, but also knew her problems weren't mine to fix. Fortunately, she has a great dad and he listened and worked with her and found her the help she needed. She switched schools to get away from the ghosts, and was able to regain her footing in time to finish her coursework and graduate on schedule.

I haven't seen her much in the past few years; she's avoided the few family get-togethers we've had. When I did see her in those years, her struggle was written all over her face, body, clothes. So it was a welcome change to be greeted as we pulled into the yard by the sprite I remembered from of old. 

She was radiant in her long white skirt, soft pink blouse, and coordinating random locks of bright pink hair. Her rose-colored, heart-shaped glasses told a story of their own. I stepped out of the car into her waiting arms. She held me close, and whispered, "I did it. Mom would be proud of me."

Yeah, baby, she would be at that. No doubt in my mind. *surreptitiously wipes a stray tear*

The rest of the afternoon sped by in a rush as I attempted to catch up on the lives of my family who were able to attend the celebration. I hadn't seen some of them since Covid, so there was a lot of catching up to do - fortunately for my anxious heart, they are all doing well. I heard no new stories of illness or failed relationships. *whew*

It did my heart good to see them; to renew the bonds of kinship. 

Love Is.

Teen Week Reprise

 

For the last twenty-odd years, teen week has been one of my favorite weeks of the summer.

It started when my daughter hit her teen years - I thought it would be fun for her to get to spend some time with her cousins, and so a lovely tradition was born. The kids would come in for a week or so to splash in the pool, walk to the local shops and just hang out. (Aside: This is how I found out what your cart looks like when you take five teenage girls to the grocery store and tell them to each pick out two things they want - you get nine kinds of fruit and seven kinds of ice cream. I still think those are good choices...)

I enjoyed watching them relax and enjoy themselves, and having friends also kept my kids busy and out of trouble. One of those win-win situations in life.

The tradition took a break for several years when I ran away from home in the camper van - it took a while for my life to settle out after that - but for the last three summers, I've gotten a delightful reprise as the youngest of my nieces have opted to come down, even though I no longer have teens of my own or a pool to draw them in.

Sophia arrived this weekend for what, since she's about to enter her senior year of high school, will probably be my last hurrah. I was a bit unsure how this would work, since this is the first time ever I've hosted just one teen. Usually they come in herds. I know what to do with the herds - make sure they have food, water and transportation to their activity of choice, then all you need to do is sit back and enjoy the interplay. With just one teen, that interplay becomes problematic.

However, once she got here, and we sat down to talk over some of our hopes and ideas for the week, my uneasiness lifted. She is independent and largely self-entertaining. She has some definite ideas around what she'd like to do, so I don't have to make stuff up, and amazingly enough, seems to think I'm an acceptable substitute for company her own age. 

This will be fun!

Scattered Thoughts

I. Can't. Even. 

The Illinois 4th of July shooting. The orphaned toddler, a COVID baby. His parents, relieved to finally be able to take him out and do normal 4th of July things, like a community parade. 

My emotions are a churning mass of anger and grief. What needs to happen to stop the madness? Why are military-grade killing weapons available outside the military? Why? 

I'm not even trying to make sense of it any more.

But I am trying to reground, recenter my core. To find light anyways, because "darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that." (MLK Jr)

It's a work in progress.

=========

I went to see Kevin. There are still no traces of active bed bugs to be found. I am calling the war won.

ALL of the grout I'd used to repair the shower turned out to be bad; it just turned to powder rather than curing. Which made cleanup easy. The re-regrouting work has been finished, and the shower is good as new. 

I had a small water leak. I found it when working with the sprinkler guy to fix a leak in that system - he fixed the problem, but the meter still showed a small drip somewhere, so I started turning off plumbing fixtures. The problem turned out to be the toilet in the basement. It's accessible, easy to fix, and I can turn it off for a week or two or ten until I get around to buying new toilet guts. *whew* That could have been SO much worse.

I tell myself, "See? SOME problems are solvable!"

And, as big as the other problems are, they, too, shall pass.

Breathe. Anyways.

Assorted Bugs

For the past month or so, I've been trying to kill a colony of sugar ants that's decided my kitchen is the 'it' place to be. It's my fault it has been taking so long. I put the Terro bait down for a few days, then, as soon as I don't see any ants, move on. In the meantime, the little critters are back under the cabinet regrouping, and we repeat the process a few days later, as soon as I notice them crawling across the floor, getting into the cat food again.

I feel a bit silly about it, but part of the reason I've been lax is because, with all the unbalance going on the the world, it seems somehow unfair of me to kill the ants. I'm way bigger than they are,  and I feel like a mean executioner killing them off because I don't like where they've decided to make their nest.

I gotta admit, I've killed off many an ant colony with nary a second thought. Feeling sympathy for them is new to me. I blame the COVID years.

But, it turns out, I haven't gone totally loony. My sympathy for the lives of bugs is limited to what they're working to destroy. 

I went outside yesterday morning to remove the latest group of black-spotted leaves from my beleaguered rose bushes, only to find a bunch of Japanese beetles had moved in and turned a number of the remaining leaves to lace. And. And! They decimated the one flower the bush has managed to produce anyways, despite the fact it is down to fewer than half its leaves since the black spot returned with a vengeance.

Not on my watch!

I immediately marched back inside for a cup of soapy water, and knocked all the bugs I could find off of their perches and into the cup, where they quickly drowned. I grimaced when I missed the cup, only to watch the bug sail away across the yard to freedom. Not only did I feel zero ounces of sympathy for the bugs I killed, I left my cup outside, where it would be handy when I returned an hour or so later to see if any of the escaped bugs were unwary enough to return.

Mess with my roses, will you!

Shower Repair

Six years ago, when we tiled the shower, we made a mistake. We cut the bottom course of tiles on the back wall level across, instead of following the slope of the floor. We didn't think the gap would be noticeable once we'd filled it with the Tile Shop-approved-color-matched caulk. We were wrong.

It looked good for about a month, then the caulk got dirty and couldn't be cleaned, and it's been bugging me ever since. It's clearly not been a high priority on the fix-it list, but after one of the little black diamond floor tiles came loose last month, I decided it was time to tackle the repair.

Of course, of course, once I got into it, it couldn't be just the one tile that had lost its adhesion. Nope, about fifteen of the floor mosaic tiles came up in all. But those wall tiles that had been bugging me for years?  Their adhesion was beyond solid, and I ended up tearing up the backboard before they'd come loose. Figures.

To my surprise, thus far into the project, my time and effort estimate was right about where I'd anticipated it would be - rare when speaking of my home-improvement projects. I'd only broken one extra tile, and the backboard damage was easily repaired with a coat of thin set. I was starting to feel like I might know what I was doing!

Then, I replaced the grout. Grouting is usually the easy part. It's hard to break things while grouting, and I figured, since I had all the supplies out, I could replace the grout that had failed elsewhere in the bathroom and the kitchen floors. What the heck. I got the cracks cleaned out without trouble, mixed up the goo, and troweled it into place. I'd stored the leftover grout powder from the original project in a temperature controlled space in a moisture resistant container, and it all still looked properly dry-groutish when I opened the tin, so I thought it would still be usable. I thought wrong.

I'd gotten all the work done with a single batch of grout. The next day, some of it was setting up as expected, but to my dismay, the grout in a few of the joints had instead turned to powder. What!!??!! Off to the Tile Shop I went, to see what I'd done wrong this time. They didn't have to think long at all, and told me grout has a shelf life of about three years. My bag had been sitting for six, and apparently when the stuff sits for too long, it starts to separate out, and the powdery parts just didn't have enough glue to hold together.

*sigh*

I guess the good news is that it's easy to determine which parts are OK, and which have gone bad. If you touch it with a knife and it turns to powder, that's the bad stuff. If the knife barely scratches the surface, you're good to go. And, the part where it turns to powder will make it easy to re-prep the tiles. I'm still in the dourly-glaring-at-the-mess stage of moving forward, but it shouldn't be too long before I regather my oomph and redo the bad grout.

It's a small setback, not a failure. 
Live and Learn.

Black Spot

The roses in my backyard struggle.

When I selected the bushes five years ago, my criteria, in descending order of importance, were: climbing, disease resistant, fragrance, then color. The first two years, I thought I'd done well - they got established, started growing, and produced a beautiful array of fragrant peach-colored blossoms.

Then, the disease gods struck, and I went out one day to find the leaves covered in black spots. The first year, I used some commercial fungal treatment with some degree of success. But then, to my dismay, I was told the product made the flowers toxic for the bees. The bees are important to me, so off the list that stuff went.

Well, if you're not going to use the anti-fungal stuff, the only remedy recommended by the internet is to pick off the diseased leaves, and then hope for the best, which is what I've done the last two summers. 

It's kind of hard to watch. The bushes are hardy, and as long as I'm diligent about pulling off the diseased leaves, they've been right behind me, shooting out new leaves. But after a short time, the fungus affects those new leaves, and the whole process repeats.

This year, the bushes started out with vigor, covered with healthy green leaves and beautiful flowers. Then, the rain and the heat came in together, and (I think) reactivated the fungus, and I've been back out there this week, my heart breaking just a little, beginning the process of pulling off leaves for a third year.

My landscape architect friend has watched all this with some dismay. She's one of the best plant people I know, and even she just shook her head when she stopped by one day. She recommended I just give the plants a shovel-upgrade. (i.e. Let nature do what it's gonna do, and just dig them up and replace them.)

I've given her suggestion a lot of thought, she does know of which she speaks, but I haven't had the heart to follow through, at least not yet.

The bushes have become a physical metaphor for me; they represent my fears surrounding all the hard stuff in the news. Wars are looming, disease is still rampant, we've missed the window (I fear) on climate control - and those are just the top three. It's bleak, but I'm not ready to give up yet.

Where there's life, there's hope. As long as my bushes are willing to fight the good fight, I'll do all I can to help them along. As long as there are people in the world willing to fight back against fear, I'm on their side. Unfortunately for my peace of mind, it's a lot harder to know what to do for the latter.  

The bushes are easy. As long as they have enough oomph to produce new leaves, I will pull off the diseased ones. And should they run out of oomph, I will be able to hold tight to the memory of the beauty they brought to my little corner of the world while they were here.

Knowing what bit I can do to save the world is harder. But I'll keep working, in the small ways I work, to help Good as best I can, because I can.