Shower Repair?

I bought the supplies needed to do the shower repair myself, cleaned out the gap between the walls and floor, let it dry thoroughly, and put down a bead of caulk. Sadly, only after finishing the job, when I took out my glasses to check cure time, did I take a good look at the description on the tube. I'd asked for the right item, but the young guy who'd dug out the product for me didn't know his silicone from his acrylic, and had sold me the wrong stuff. My bad for not checking. A call to the Tile Shop confirmed the error, and I resignedly set about undoing the beautiful work I'd just completed.

I went and picked up the correct stuff the next day, but my self-confidence was shattered. I knew better than to not read the box; clearly my critical thinking skills are still compromised by grief. So, I called the guy who'd given me the advice to seal the bottom edge of the walls, and hired him to do the work.

He was busy, but wanted me to be able to use my shower, so squeezed me into his busy schedule, and came out last Saturday morning to do the work. Now, my caulking skills are pretty good, but the skills needed to put down a perfect line of silicone caulk are not among those I have perfected, so I asked him if I could watch him work. He agreed, and so I sat down, ready to learn.

Sadly, what I learned is that this young man of good intentions and good heart, when overextended and rushing, was not able to access the patience and attention to detail needed to work with the finicky caulk. 

He didn't carefully look into all parts of the cavity - red flag #1. I mean, I know I cleaned it well, but he doesn't know me. He didn't know if I'd really cleaned all the unsuitable stuff out, and silicone caulk won't adhere to other caulk.

Then, I watched with some dismay as he stuffed layers of caulk and backer rod into the cavity beneath the wall - red flag #2. The work he did wasn't going to hurt anything, but it also wasn't going to help - there was no way he'd created a solid line of defense. Water doesn't care if you've blocked the greater portion of its path back to the earth. It WILL find the gaps and wend its way as the Maker intended.

By this time, I wasn't surprised to watch him skip the prep steps I'd have done for that final, oh-so-visible line of caulk, but I was still willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, figuring there's a lot I don't know about ways to do things.

Nope. He was getting silicone everywhere. After watching for another fifteen minutes, I couldn't watch any longer. I left the room, hoping against hope he'd be able to get it cleaned up. 

He worked alone for another bit, then came downstairs. He told me he'd done what he could for the day, and would be back the next afternoon to do cleanup. No, no payment required just yet.

Once he drove down the street, I went upstairs to take a look, and heaved a heavy sigh. Perhaps three of them. More, even. The work was a total loss.

Silicone caulk is a much messier cleanup than acrylic, and it took me the remainder of the evening to undo what he'd done. As I worked, I had lots of time to think about my part in the whole mess.

Why did I ignore those red flags? Why didn't I speak up, ask questions, assert myself? Why did I just passively sit there and watch him waste his time, my time, and $40 worth of caulk? Why is part of me still convinced I am not allowed to voice my truth? Why, when faced with a momentary lapse in my judgement, did I decide to give up on myself?

Tough questions. I do know this is not how I want to be.

I finished the cleanup Sunday morning, and put down my own line of fresh caulk. It's not up to my OCDness standards, but I learned one more thing that will make my next attempt look better. The bead is clean enough to keep the water on the shower side of the wall, which is what really matters here.

Now, I have to wait until Wednesday to test the fix; I want to be sure to give the caulk a chance to properly cure before getting it wet.

Fingers (impatiently) crossed!

Spring at the Lake

I took a break this past weekend from the stressors and to-dos of my day-to-day life, and accepted an invitation to join some friends at their second home at Stockton Lake.

Friday was a lovely day for a drive down to central Missouri. The redbud trees have finished blooming, but the dogwoods were in full flower. The sun was shining, highlighting the blush of green in the treetops, the sky a brilliant blue. What's not to like?? I rolled along without trouble and without stopping, the dog quietly napping in the back seat the whole way there. We arrived in the late afternoon, and our hosts, Diane and Gary, greeted us with open arms and smiles. 

I hauled Sylvester out of the back seat (he refuses to try to jump in or out of a car), set him on the ground, and by all appearances, he soon decided he'd landed in paradise. So many new things to smell!! There were friendly dogs to meet, a pecking order to establish, multiple rocks to pee on. No tugs on the leash to pull him away from an intriguing scent, a huge area to explore at leisure, extra willing hands to give him pets when he checked back in to see if the people were doing anything interesting. Life was good.

Saturday morning found us hiking in the state park across the lake. Since we had no company on the trail, I set him free to roam at will. We meandered happily along the trail, the people keeping an eye peeled for morel mushrooms along the way ('tis the season!), the dog ranging ahead and behind as his nose called. 

To my pleasant surprise, he never got too far from us - he kept an eye peeled for our progress along the trail; would wait when he got too far ahead, scurry to catch up when an especially appealing scent had him lagging behind. 

And, and. Diane's eagle eye spotted four of the elusive morels. Now. For one of the finds, I was walking next to her as she shouted a cry of delight and pointed to a promising specimen. We stopped, and as she pulled it up, I scanned the area to see if the mushroom had any friends. 

Nope, nothing there. Nothing that is, until Diane pointed out a second morel in the area I'd just looked over. I'd have sworn it hadn't been there a moment before; I'm pretty sure it manifested itself out of the leaves after my gaze passed, just for her. It's the only logical explanation.

She is a master cook as well as an experienced morel hunter, and for dinner that night, I got to enjoy the delicate taste of morels for just the second time in my life.

A second long hike on an equally beautiful Sunday morning capped the weekend's relaxing activities. (Sadly, we found no more mushrooms.) Sylvester and I headed for home shortly after lunch. He plopped into the back seat, tired from the morning's exertions, and slept all the way home. I was pleasantly tired as I drove, more centered than I'd been when I arrived just 48 short hours before. 

Thank Goodness for welcoming friends, good conversation, laughter, and time with Nature. It was a healing reprieve, time to Stop. Breathe. Relax. *happy sigh*

Shower Woes

Uh-oh.

I noticed the bulge in the sheetrock next to the shower last month. It wasn't a very big bulge, so I promptly decided to un-notice it for a while. I was too sad to deal with what I knew was going to be bad news.

Last week I decided ignoring the issue wasn't helping to make it go away, so I took out my tools, lowered my keister to the floor, peeled off the trim, and started digging into the wall.

and digging. and digging. *sigh*

The leak has been there for a while. Likely for years, since even new lumber doesn't darken and rot overnight; maybe even since we finished installing the shower.

Once I finished digging, I just sat and looked at it for a while. Started to picture all the steps needed to un-install the glass surround, tear out the base, and then rebuild the whole thing. Decided I'm just not up for it right now - largely because if I didn't do the work right the first time, and don't know where I went wrong, it's highly likely I'll make the same mistake (or another just as damaging), and end up right back where I started.

So, I hunted around on my NextDoor app for a tile guy, found a promising name, and sent him a message asking if he'd be willing to tackle the project. To my surprise he was willing to come out to take a look at the issue and talk things through yesterday afternoon.

His first assessment wasn't as dire as mine. The problem might be at the drain, in which case the big job will need to happen. But. It might be at the edges of the pan. It turns out the advice I got to leave the bottom edge of the shower wall unsealed so any water that gets behind the tiles can seep out the bottom was dated. The current practice is to run a bead of silicon along the bottom edge. If I do this, it might keep the water from getting to wherever that small hole in the liner happens to be.

Hmmm. Backer rod, caulk. This project, I can tackle. 

If it turns out to be a problem with the drain after all, and the entire base needs to come out, I'll hire Grant to do the work. If not, I'll hire him to do a different small project around the house - fair's fair - he did tell me how to solve the problem. 

In the meantime, I've come to terms with myself and whatever error in installation I committed. I mean, I've done how many projects, over how many years, saving myself how much money? This is the first one where I messed it up badly enough that I need to call in the pros to clean up after me. Not a bad run, eh?

I'll take it.

Wish me luck on the repairs - I'll let you know what I find.

Morning Song

I reluctantly stir

open my eyes to the predawn darkness.
time?
6:30

ugh!

I hit the snooze alarm

nine more minutes
the buzzer rings again

This time, I rise

because I know 
future Janice
noon Janice
will be a happier camper if she's gotten to exercise this morning.

I stumble to the bathroom

splash water on my face

put in my contacts.
Throw on some yoga clothes
head downstairs

still groggy
then
open the door 

step outside to take the dog on his morning walk.

It's quiet outside 

dawn just beginning to light the sky.
As I walk
I open my ears.
At first 

all I hear is the roar of a distant highway
then
the song of the awakening birds 

penetrates my fog.

First one note
then another
then, suddenly

there is a chorus 

welcoming the morning light
proclaiming the start of another day.

By the time I'm done 

circling the block
the dog has done his duty.
I am glad I am awake
and outside.

Grateful for the reminder:
Beauty Is.

Neighborhood Fairy

It's all Rose's fault.

When she was here, taking care of home and puppy for me while I was out walking El Camino, she was diligent about taking Sylvester for his walks. As she circled the block with him, she noticed one of the neighbors had a small door propped against the base of a tree.

Rose being Rose, she decided a fairy was living in the tree, and one day she made a small note to hang on the door.

"Open Me," it invited.

If you leaned down to open the door, you found a small toy - yours to take if you so desired.

It took a week or so, but one day the toy disappeared, so she replaced it.

The next time the toy disappeared, there was a note from a 4 year-old neighbor (and their mom), thanking the fairy for the gifts.

Rose responded in kind, and this is long about when I returned home from my walk.

She told me what she'd done, handed over a bag of toys to be given away as needed, and told me I was now a tree fairy. There are worse callings in life, so I continued the game.

Late last fall, the neighbor, after taking the gift, put a glitter potion behind the door - it turned the fairy into a unicorn! The fairy took the potion, and after thanking the child, spent several charmed weeks as. a unicorn before turning back into a fairy as winter arrived.

And that's where I dropped it. I, I mean, the fairy, put another gift under the tree, but after it sat for a couple of weeks, I retrieved it, along with the sign, and tucked it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

As spring arrived, I'd see the door on my daily walk, and thought about starting the game again, but didn't actually get out the goods.

Then, last week, I noticed something behind the door - it was another note from my young neighbor, wrapped around another magic glitter potion.

The note said: "Our last potion turned you into a unicorn. This one will turn you back to a fairy. We miss you! I love you - your 4 year-old neighbor"

I might be grieving, but I don't have it in me to take magic away from 4 year-olds. 

I mulled things over for a day or so. Decided if I was to be a tree fairy, I needed a proper fairy name. I came up with a list of options, then let Lexi choose her favorite - she opted for Wren. I wrote a note explaining the unicorn potion had worn off after a couple of weeks, but then I'd caught a ride south for the winter with one of my robin friends. I told them I was back - and it did my heart good to know I'd been missed. (this part is true.) I even went all out and drew a picture of my fairy self riding on the back of the robin.

My young friend hasn't yet retrieved the note - though someone else picked it up, read it, and returned it to its hiding place. I almost hate to admit how much I'm enjoying my part in this story, anticipating the joy on the child's face once they discover their fairy didn't permanently disappear after all.

Good Is.

One More Step

As I understand it, the Jewish tradition holds that funerals for their people should happen within 24 hours of death. (I also understand this practice is not always followed in this day and age.) While I waited for Bob's formal farewell, my emotions were all over the map, and I've decided the Jewish tradition makes a lot of sense. The three weeks between his being set free and his funeral service seemed an eternity. Sooner would have been easier.

Given the givens of my life this past decade and a bit, I have any number of useful tools in my Coping-With-Grief toolkit, and I've needed every one of them.

At this point, the drawers of my toolkit are pulled open at awkward angles, unable to be closed because their contents are a jumbled mess. The assorted tools have been tossed about haphazardly as I looked for the right one to cope with this feeling. Some pieces are on the floor, a few are arranged carefully in a clear spot on the workbench. There is a heap of temporary discards off to one side, tossed there when they quit being useful as my thoughts and emotions teetered down yet another side path.

Goodbyes are hard.

My sister and her husband came down this past weekend to help me get through the funeral, so I wouldn't have to spend the nights surrounding his Celebration of Life alone with my echoes. Their steady presence helped to ease those steps on grief's path. I had someone to talk to, someone to help me plan good meals. I didn't have to muster the energy to reach out for help; help was already here. I am so grateful for their presence.

They've left for home now, but with the service over, I feel readier to look forward. I longer need to devote time and energy into doing what I can to help Bob walk his oh-so-hard path. What shape will those days take? Where will I direct that energy?

It's not going to be easy, but I'm pretty sure I can do this if I keep taking one step at a time. I'm not done with those grief-coping tools, not by a long shot. But today, I'm able to begin to think about straightening up the mess I've made of my toolbox, so I'll be able to find the tools I need when I remember to look for them.

His journey is complete. 
He is free. 
I am free. 

Take One More Step

He is gone. Where he went, I don't know. My eyes keep looking at the Bob-shaped hole in my life, wondering what came next for him. I do know he is free.

His funeral isn't until next weekend. In the meantime, there's a part of me that thinks he's still in his gilded cage, waiting for me to visit. In the meantime, as I plan my week, part of me keeps trying to choose a time to get out there. Then I snap back to reality.

These past few days have been an exercise in taking one more step. I want to just sit and stare, but experience tells me that is not a helpful path to trod, so I've been prodding myself to take the next step, to do the next thing. 

The weather has been helping; spring is in the air. This is one of my favorite weather weeks of the year - the week when the trees still look brown at first glance, but a closer look reveals a fuzziness at the tips of the branches where the leaves have started to peek out of their winter shells. The season has turned.

The world is moving on. It has not stopped for me; has not paused in its turning to let me take a moment to catch my breath, say goodbye, and begin to suss out a new shape to the rhythm of my days. (Hmph. I still think it should...)

Yesterday, the sunshine beckoned me into the back yard; where I spent a quiet hour starting to corral the growing things. I cleaned the grass from my flower beds, the volunteer flowers from the grass; enjoyed getting my hands back into the living dirt. 

Today, it took some doing to get me moving, to run my katas, to exercise. (The time change didn't help.) But despite my best attempts at procrastination, I eventually got myself outside into the morning air; reluctantly started to move. My first motions were stiff, forced. But then muscle memory took over and I started to flow with the movements, muscle and breath awakening with each step.

My skin woke to the sweet caress of the coolness of the morning air. My ears attuned to the bird song chorus filling the air. My eyes sought out the traces of green outlining the lilac bush.

For those minutes, I was in the now; that elusive state where neither past nor future is relevant, where what is, Is. When I finished, a bit of that meditative Peace stayed with me. 

I am here. He is free and so am I.

Still Working on Goodbye

I don't want to write about Bob again today. Goodbyes are hard, and I'm already tired of waking in the night to know he is gone. But thoughts of him are so close to the surface, I have little room in my head for other reflections.

It was such a long and slow goodbye, I had lulled myself into a sense of serenity. I thought surely, with all the times I'd said goodbye to him along the way, I would feel only relief when he was set free and the final goodbye was complete.

Uh huh. As he used to say, "Denial is not just a river in Egypt." I learn this time and time again.

The last year or so of our friendship before his official diagnosis of dementia, we were not close. I knew he was falling into dementia, but he was covering well enough that the world didn't realize what was going on and I wondered myself if I was imagining things. He was angry, his excessive drinking made things worse, and I could no longer trust him to stay in my house, as he often had for years - I was sure, in his inebriated state, he was going to take a tumble down my long, narrow, flight of steps and hurt himself. On my side, I was in the midst of my COVID-induced isolation weirdness, and wasn't thinking entirely straight. (Five months of almost total isolation was NOT good for my mental health.)

I am SO glad he didn't die when our relationship was in that bitter and estranged state. 

This week, as I've looked back across these past few years, I've realized the silver lining of his dementia imprisonment was the removal of alcohol from his brain. Along with the excellent cocktail of drugs he was taking to keep his dementia-induced agitation under control, the loss of his daily dose of systemic depressant made it possible for our friendship to come back to life.

We could no longer share the easy give and take of old; those long evenings spent cooking dinner while talking about our respective days, then watching movies or just quietly reading books. He was no longer connected to that version of life. 

But we could hold hands and walk together. He hadn't been there long before he no longer remembered he was angry with me, so I got to see the return of the man who relaxed and laughed when I came around. I got to see the return of the man who became my best friend so long ago, even as I watched him leave me.

Ouch.

Out walking this morning, I saw the first crocuses in bloom; spring has come early this year.

I felt as if Someone was reminding me I will not stay sad/angry/hurt/relieved/lonely forever.

This, too, shall pass.

Time will work its magic and ease my pain, as it has done so many times before.

He is free, and so am I.

Goodbye, Bob

Bob Rost
May 26, 1948 - Feb 26, 2024

One of Bob's favorite bible verses was Philippians 1:6: I am sure of this much: that the One who has begun the good work in you will carry it through until completion, right up to the day of Christ Jesus.

God's good work in him is complete. He is free.

I went to see him this past Saturday, shortly after my return from California. I expected to find him in much the same condition he'd been in when I left three weeks ago, but when I walked into his room, it was clear he'd turned a final corner in my absence. He was well along the path to whatever-it-is that comes next. 

I sat with him for a long time. I sang to him. He opened his eyes and recognized me one last time. 

I went back Sunday, but while he was still breathing, he didn't rouse at all. The drugs were doing their part of God's good work. As I left, I knew I'd said my last goodbye. He died in the wee hours of yesterday morning.

I went back to the facility yesterday for a final visit, to bring a small thank you gift for the staff who did their best to care for him. While I was there, I stopped by his (former??!??) room. While I knew he was gone, I guess I wanted to see with mine own eyes that he was no longer there. Sure enough, thankfully, I felt no sense of his presence. He'd finally escaped his gilded cage.

And so ends our complex relationship.

Despite the fact he was a Catholic priest, which, sadly, put certain limits on what we could be for each other, he'd been my best friend for thirty years. We supported each other through life's ups and downs; shared a deep and abiding love. 

It occurred to me, as I vainly tried to get back to sleep at 3AM this morning, that as he is set free, so am I. 

To walk the path of dementia with him has taken an enormous amount of emotional and physical energy. For the last two years (when I was in town), I've blocked off the better part of at least one day each week to visit him. I came home emotionally spent from most of those meetings; it was SO hard to watch him slipping away. No more.

As someone told me this morning, "Change is hard. Even good change is hard. Change mixed with grief is especially challenging."

Taking one step at a time, my last few days have looked quite calm. I've exercised, which helps me to stay grounded in this world. I've worked on my list of things-to-get-done, a great distraction. I'm fine for a while, then a stray thought pierces my facade of normalcy, "He is gone." I let the tears flow for a bit, then change the words to, "He is free." The change in wording doesn't stop the tears, but it does remind me I have been praying for this moment to arrive for the better part of two years.

Bob, I hope, wherever you are, your lost memories have caught back up with you. I pray you have met up with some of your old friends, have been able to set things right with your parents. I hope you are laughing freely and often; that infectious, booming, laugh of yours. I pray you have met up with the Christ Jesus you served so long and so well, that he told you, "Welcome home, my worthy servant."

You were worthy. You are worthy. I will miss you. 

Te amo.

Cancaversary #12

Twelve years.

It's already been twelve years since I cut my dream of a camper van journey short to face down cancer. Even if/when it decides to reappear one day, I've beaten the cancer odds. 

Today, I am still here.

I gotta admit, in those first days after my fingers stumbled upon the lump, I was sure the piper had come calling for me. I was prepared to go down fighting, but given the givens of my mom's cancer journey, I thought I wouldn't survive the decade. I was resigned to the probability I would be told, when I woke from my double mastectomy, that the disease had found its way to my lymph nodes. But I won the same genetic lottery I lost, my lymph nodes were clear. My cancer, caught early, turned out to be treatable, unlike Mom's, unlike Libby's.

I didn't survive the battle without some scars to show for it. They are my daily reminder of the difficult paths I walked in the midst of the journey. The part I like is that they are scars; no longer open wounds that need careful tending, they are reminders I made it through to the far side of that dark valley. 

I have traveled far since those days. As I make new memories (both pleasant and less so) and have new adventures (both fun and less so), a sense of awe surrounding the fact I am still around to live my days is never far from my awareness. 

This year, I was out in California with Kate, and together we celebrated our continued ability to open our eyes each morning. (Her cancaversary is three years less two days after mine; she is also NED - shows No Evidence of Disease. *whew*) With her partner Edwin and the amazing Ms. Lexi, we had a luxurious dinner and raised a toast or three in gratitude. 

We are here.

Hallelujah!

Frozen, Jr

I can't tell you the last time I was in the audience for a middle school play. My two kids weren't involved in the theater, so I'm guessing it's been the better part of 50 years. (How did THAT happen??) It took my granddaughter get me back into my seat for a show. She has picked up the acting bug, and was selected to join the cast of her school's production, Frozen, Jr. The show was on this past weekend, and I was delighted to attend two of her performances. 

The rain that drenched California's coast last week had cost them most of their scheduled dress rehearsals, and so they spent ten hours (?!?) on Wednesday, the day before the show, making up for lost time. It was clearly time well spent. To my untutored eye, everything came more-or-less seamlessly together. Everyone knew their lines and sang the many songs with enthusiasm, danced with grace.

Whenever I'm around a group of young people this age, I'm struck anew by how. much. they. grow. in these three years. They go from children to quasi-adult sized. *poof!* The casting director had no trouble finding cast members to depict the three Annas and Elsas (young, middle-kid aged, and grown up). Close to home, my Lexi has grown over an inch since I saw her just last Thanksgiving!

As I sat in the theater, I was transported to a simpler place. All my external worries and concerns evaporated. I was focused on watching this child of my heart pop on and off the stage in her four distinct ensemble roles. I knew she was worried about stumbling as she twirled, depicting living snow during Elsa's song, Let it Go. Her skirt as a townsperson was a bit loose, and she was concerned she might step on the hem and pull it down as she danced that number. 

I was happy with and for her as neither these nor any other mishaps marred her graceful performance. 

I needed the play this week; was overdue for a reminder that at least some of our young people are doing a bang-up job of growing up well. Their world has seen a LOT of upheaval these past few years, but they are showing their resilience by doing the things kids their age have done as long as I've been on this earth. The happy smiles on their faces as they took their bows after the final show last night were a testament to hope. 

Hope anyways.

Such a Slow Goodbye

I haven't written about Bob and his dementia journey in a long time; there hasn't been much to add. I visit often, tucking my sorrow deeply under my shirt as I walk in the door so I can greet him, wherever he is that day, with a smile on my face. It is hard. He has hated being a prisoner in the dementia ward, and I have hated it for him, but there has been nothing I could do to change anything; his family has NOT been interested in having me, or anyone else, take him outside for a break.

His deterioration has been noticeable; steady, but slow. Week over week, the changes are slight, but anytime I look back over a couple of months, the downhill trend is clear. 

December found him in unfamiliar waters. He hit some sort of internal tipping point. Over the course of the past two months he has gone from fairly self-sufficient to a literally lost soul, unable to find his way back to his room once he has reached the end of the hall. He fell twice last month, the second time hard enough to knock himself out as he hit the corner of a brick column on his way to the floor. The wound is healing well, but for several weeks he had a spectacular row of stitches in the middle of his forehead.

He still knows me. Not my name, such labels have ceased to hold meaning for him. But as soon as he sets eyes on me, his whole face lights up with the delighted grin of a four year-old child. He gives me a tight hug, like a young one seeking comfort because he has found himself in a scary place. I give him what little comfort I can, grateful my presence seems to help just a little.

His grasp on the spoken word is tenuous - it's fascinating to listen to him. Many words are unrecognizable, but his tone and emphasis remain clear. It's easy to tell if he's happy, worried, angry, thoughtful, curious, or confused, so I can respond in kind, and we can have a conversation of sorts.

After his last tumble, his family called in hospice. *sigh of relief* I like hospice. They've brought in their arsenal of drugs, and he is no longer heart-breakingly anxious. His anger is calmed away. 

One day last month, I was cleaning up his room with one of the aides, and said something about talking to him to show him how to something. She looked at me and quietly said, "Don't try. It won't work. He is gone."

gone? gone. 

She was right. His body is still here, but his mind will grasp no new concepts. He is no longer able to learn.

I've spent a lot of time since then waving goodbye, letting go. I've been working to untangle my heart strings from his; a difficult task given the many years of our close relationship. 

In many ways, it is easier now he is ungrounded in place and time. Once when I came, he was lost in slumber, unable to rouse himself for more than a minute or two at a time. That was the easiest visit because he was at peace.

His family doesn't share details of anything with me, but I know the presence of hospice means they expect the end of his life's journey is in sight. I can hope.

Each visit, as I leave, I untuck my feelings and let the tears flow. I pray to St. James, my friend from the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela on El Camino. I ask him to stay near; to be ready to accompany his fellow disciple home when the time comes for Bob to be set free. I pray his time to be free will come soon.

Sunshine!

We've had typical January weather these past few weeks. The bitter cold and snow of two weeks ago gave way to the more typical damp cold we tend to live with this time of year. The sky was an unrelenting gray, the lows were in the 30's, the highs were in the 30's. Just blah.

I'd been doing so well combating the winter blues this year, but as day after day of cold gray blanketed the world outside my windows, it managed to make its way through the cracks and begin creeping into my bones.

I was actually pretty proud of myself. I kept doing all the things anyways. I showed up to exercise. I met friends for meals. I didn't try to smother my blahs with junk food. I lit candles. All these things helped, but none of them worked to chase the grays away.

When I glimpsed my first robin a week ago (yes, there's a robin in that picture, on the driveway), I just sighed and told him he and his friends were a bit early for the show; that perhaps they should find somewhere warmer to hang out for another month or so. They might have listened - I haven't had another sighting since then.

Then I walked outside about an hour ago. It's not MUCH warmer out there (it was all of 40 degrees), but there is not a cloud in the sky and the sun is shining brightly. Nothing else has changed a whit, but the warm rays of the sun pierced the grays inside me and, *poof*, they evaporated.

Suddenly, today's scheduled exercise will be a gift and not a chore. The assorted mundane household todos no longer loom large overhead; the laundry pile is suddenly quite manageable. I'm ready to go hunt down those robins and tell them that, just perhaps, winter will not last forever after all.

Despite all I know, it's hard for me to believe the grays will ever leave again once they have managed to seep in. (It's not all bad, I suppose, because it's alway such a beautiful surprise when they are banished.) 

I am grateful for the life lessons which have taught me to keep taking baby steps anyways. To look for the beauty (robins!) anyways. To know that this, too, shall pass.

*whew*

Out of the Cold, But...

Given that I don't have to be out in it when I don't want to be, (and have decent insulation in my house, so can afford the heating bill), I've not minded this cold spell; even ?enjoyed it? a little. 

As I take in a deep breath as I step out into the frigid air with Sylvester each morning, the cold air cleans my lungs, and for a few minutes I feel young again. 

The crisp air brings back memories of the days when, as a college student, I would walk the 3-4 blocks from the pool to the dorm after diving practice, wet hair freezing along the way. I would comb it out when I got to the foyer of the dorm, which would leave it essentially dry, enabling me to skip the hair dryer part of my routine. Yup. It's been a while.

It's just this morning that I've really begun to get antsy here in my cozy nest. The cold spell broke overnight, but the change in the weather brought with it a thin sheet of ice, turning the city into a skating rink.

Sylvester, predictably, didn't think much of it, though he did manage to keep his feet as he ventured carefully down the front walk. I also managed to stay upright, but that's only because I was walking in the snow next to him. 

The ice on the sidewalk was a little thin for skates, but my hiking boots were perfect for the venture. I didn't even try to walk across the drives where there was no snow handy - I just dug into the recesses of my brain and pulled up my long-dormant skating skills. I bent my knees just that little bit and slid, flat-footed, gliding my way across the expanses. 

I'm glad I found my moment of fun, because I needed it. The ice is messing with my exercise routine. Again. It feels like I've had more days off than on this month. (Though, looking at my calendar, that's totally not true - once again, my feelings are not always reality-based.) I am missing my antidepressant of choice. 

Yes, I have a perfectly good treadmill in the basement for just such weather emergencies, but while plodding along on the track fulfills the letter of my keep-moving mandate, it's not fun. My instructors aren't there to make the time go quickly; there are no fellow students with whom to share news of the day.

This is where I stop and tell me to get a grip. It IS winter after all. And I don't recall the line in life's handbook that guarantees I'll never have to change my plans to accommodate reality. According to the weather forecast, the ice will melt later today. Tonight's new batch of a similar snow/ice mixture should be gone by midday tomorrow, and then, if the forecast holds true, I'll be able to get back to my routine.

In the meantime, it's not like I've run out of candles to light against the cloudy sky. I have not run out of books to read. I have food in the fridge, and plenty of tea in the cabinet.

Thank you for listening to me, and I'm done whining for today. If you need me, I'll be on the sofa with my fuzzy blanket and a book and a cup of hot tea, counting my many blessings.

Stay safe!

Brrrrr!

Sylvester has pretty much made his peace with the weather here in the midwest since he arrived a year or so ago. I don't think he will ever be fond of moisture falling from the sky, but he puts up with it, at least long enough to trot around the block and take care of business.

Miniature Schnauzer-like dogs (he's supposed to be purebred, but he's a bit of a throwback to his terrier roots; he's taller and longer than the 'proper' mini schnauzer who lives around the corner. Also, less barky, so I'm thinking it's a good tradeoff.) have a double coat, and thus tolerate cold-ish temperatures quite well. So, when this winter's first real cold spell hit, we continued getting out on our daily walks.

He did well until the temps dipped below 10, then below zero. As we walked, he started shivering long before we'd completed our circuit, despite his insulating layer. At the same time, his paws started freezing up; he started walking unevenly, favoring first one foot, then another. Poor puppy - I scooped him up, and he rode snugly in my arms the rest of the way home.

Not wanting to torture the poor thing, we've gone out just long enough for him to do the necessaries since then. Once he's finished going, I let him off the leash simply for the joy of watching him run as fast as he can back to the front door, warmth, and safety.

I thought I'd enjoy the reprieve from having to be out in the cold, but it turns out my legs have gotten quite used to walking. They don't care if it's cold out there; they'd like to return to their daily routine please and thank you. Soon, I tell them. Soon enough.

I've actually kind of enjoyed the change in the weather. Snug in my warm house, the white blanket of snow is prettier to look at than the winter grays and browns which are the usual view. I've dug into my cache of lined pants and warm sweaters, and have happily spent a couple of afternoons tucked in under a blanket with a cup of hot tea and a book.

I've been SO grateful for my furnace and the energy that keeps it running. I was without power for five hours as the snow and cold swept in. It was shortly before the temps plummeted, so I was ok for the first couple of hours. But then, as winter's early darkness crept in the windows, and the house continued to cool, I wasn't so OK. I have vivid memories of the three days I spent without power a few years back - watching the house temperature inch down through the 50s into the lower 40s.  The plants and I survived only because the outside temps stayed above freezing during the storm and its aftermath. 

This time, I was obsessively checking the power outage map every thirty minutes, making sure they hadn't cleared the big block of trouble that included my street - because if it was gone, and my lights still weren't on, I knew I'd be in for a long, cold night as they worked their way down to the problems affecting only a few houses. 

As I passed the estimated time to fix by a good hour, my anxiety levels started to rise. I stopped myself, took a deep breath, and scouted out some pet-friendly neighbors who seemed to have power; places where I could retreat just-in-case. I dug my head lamp out of the cabinet, and went into the kitchen to make myself a can of hot soup. (Times like these, I am SO grateful for my gas cooktop...)

As I was finishing the soup, I heard the reassuring sound of the furnace kicking on. I heaved a huge sigh of relief, then checked the outage map one more time, sending up a prayer for the 8,000-odd customers still without power, hoping they had options for places to keep warm.

I know most of the country is in my boat, coping with this cold spell. Stay warm out there, hear???

Dragon Age

 

When I retired - the first time - and climbed into my camper van, I thought perhaps I'd get bored in the evenings. Some people like computer games; I thought it was high time I gave one a try, and so asked my son, who has been playing them since he was 12, for a recommendation.

The one he picked, Dragon Age, sounded like, yes, it might be fun, and so I picked up a copy and loaded it onto my laptop.

I underestimated both my level of exhaustion and my willingness to look at a computer screen when not getting paid. The program languished on my desktop, unused, unopened, until my trip got aborted and I returned to work.

Given I was living in an apartment, I thought surely I'd want something to do in the evenings. I figured I'd open it then, but nope. The aftermath of cancer wiped out my energy levels for the next three years.

But then, once I was recovered and unemployed and staying with Kate in Minnesota? Nope, not then. Once the big remodeling project on my current house was essentially finished? Nope. Certainly not after I found steady employment with Jack Cooper. During my alone Covid days, when I had little to do and all day to do it? Nope, not then, either. 

Finally, I decided a decade of procrastination was enough. Either play the stupid game, or quit worrying about it! I turned on my now-aging laptop to play the game - and got a dreaded hard drive sector 0 error. Unrecoverable. Fatal. *sigh*

But now. Now my desire had been thwarted, and now I WANTED to play the game. I started casting about for ways to obtain an older computer so I could play the game. One of my young friends had upgraded her gaming computer, and volunteered to donate the old one to my cause. (Thank you, Ione.) 

I triumphantly brought my new hardware home, hooked it up, loaded the game. And promptly let it sit for another year. 

By this past fall, I was getting a little impatient with myself. (You'd think I was up for the Procrastinator of the Year award or something!) 

What was my problem??? Surely, I could at least give it a try!! So I added it as a task to my to-do list. I forwarded the task, untouched, on to the next week. the next week. the next week. then gave myself an ultimatum. Now, or never.

Fine.

I told me I was going to spend an hour each evening on the game for the next ten days. (Which was enough time for me to know if this is one of the ways I want to spend my time, or not.)  I sat down, let the computer sort through its unwieldy pile of uninstalled fixes, and loaded up the program. 

I set up my character, 'woke up' in the mage's tower, and within three days, was properly hooked. This wasn't some mindless, clear-the-grid-of-matching-tiles game. This was a story! With people and a plot line and an IMPORTANT QUEST to complete.

Within two weeks, my problem switched from making myself sit down with the game to limiting the amount of time I was spending on it. Turns out it's a perfect way to pass the dark fall evenings. Who knew? (OK. Every adolescent in the country, but hey...)

It took almost three months, but (spoiler alert!) I managed to kill the demon and save the land from the evil blight. I was a hero!

As I played, I found myself wishing life could have a do-over button. You know the one - you've made a string of bad choices, or chosen a bad strategy to approach the battle, or missed an important clue along the way, and suddenly you're wandering lost without a clear vision of how to move forward. (Or, gotten killed by the bad guys. Happens.)

You sigh, go back to your last save, and give it another shot. And another, repeating as necessary, until you've learned the skills you need to make it past the current obstacle. 

Wouldn't that be handy? Think of all the relationships I could have mended along the way. I could explore the roads not taken, then back off if it turns out my first choice was better after all. I could be all-knowing, all-wise, invincible!

But then I wouldn't be having a human experience, would I? That's one of the things that makes this life so vital - no resets; no do-overs.

And I rather like my precious, precarious, life. 

Happy New Year, 2024!

 

2024, already? How did this happen???

I mean, Happy New Year, everyone!!!

I've adjusted to many changes in my life. Why, then, is it proving so difficult for me to align my inner time-sense with outer reality? I'm grounded in each day. The hours pass normally; even the weeks trot along at a fairly reasonable pace. The problem comes in with any timespan longer than that. I turn around twice, and months are gone and I don't know where I put them! 

I know, I know, it's a factor of aging, *she types with a heavy sigh*. Get used to it, deal with it, suck it up, buttercup. Perhaps I should make this a resolution for the new year: Quit whining about how quickly time has passed; rather, embrace the quickly changing seasons. After all, it's preferable to time slogging along in the mud! 

I'll work on it.

My New Year's Eve was lovely; we celebrated toddler-style. (For the evening's festivities, I had four guests aged six and under, along with their responsible adults.) Given that I turn into a pumpkin about the time the clock hits double-digits each evening, the celebration suited me to a T.

We gathered around four, so my young guests could get reacquainted with one another. While their responsible adults sat everyone down for a pre-dinner session of color-the-ornaments, I gathered orders and went and picked up Chinese for dinner.

We sat down at the table, enjoyed a lovely meal, then got out the bubbly beverages. I started to look for plastic cups for the little ones, then decided plastic did NOT suit the occasion, so everyone got a fancy glass to do the "midnight" toast. (I am pleased to say no pretty glassware was sacrificed in this effort. *whew*) 

We put on sparkly tiaras and fun glasses, and counted down (at a random moment in time) to zero. Everyone raised their glasses, cheered, and toasted the new year. Then, we all shared pieces of a wonderful clock-decorated giant cookie.

Properly sugared up, the young ones drifted off to play a rousing game of "Meow" (I'm not sure what the rules were, but it involved much crawling on the floor to a chorus of kitty sounds), while the adults lingered at the table, catching up on current life happenings.

BEFORE any of the kitties hit meltdown mode, the children and their ornaments were packed up and loaded into their respective cars along with their associated adults. I waved them off with a full heart, savoring the remnants of my goodbye hugs. I finished dinner cleanup and sat down with a happy sigh - all by 8PM.

I couldn't have chosen a better way to spend the evening.

Happy New Year!