Happy Winter's Solstice

This year, most years, in these darkest days of winter, I feel vulnerable.

I can't say I like the feeling. I prefer to pretend I'm in control of something more than the way I react to what happens in the world around me. I know it's not true, but I often pretend anyways. I pretend until the deepening cold of winter and the darkness of its days slice keenly through my pretenses, leaving me aware of my kinship to the babe in the manger; the one I was taught to adore as a child.

This year, I've felt tinier and more helpless than I have in many years. Climate change, and the pandemic still raging and mutating, feel so big. The toolbox of ways I have to help fix things feels, well, puny.

The drumbeat of doom is loud, unrelenting. Yet, yet. Beneath the roar, I can hear a tiny voice telling me to hope anyways. I ran across this tweet from Anne Lamott today; it fits my mindset:

Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait, watch and work: you don't give up. So we take care of the poor today. We pick up litter in our neighborhoods and trails. Left foot, right foot, breathe.

She's right. You don't give up. Sometimes, these times, I am tempted to. But when I let my mind take that path, all I can see is the darkness spreading unchecked. I really don't like that mental picture.

So, I mentally switch paths. The path of stubborn hope feels better than the other. At the end of the day, I sleep better the days I know I haven't given up. As I drift off, a small glow of hope created by the good I've been part of during the day coalesces into light. Sometimes the light is flickering of a candle, sometimes it's the steady glow of a nightlight ready to safely guide my steps should I wake in the night.

I do so prefer the light over the darkness, so today, I'm not going to give up.

This, too, shall pass.

Tomorrow night, I will light candles of Joy, Peace, Love, and yes, Hope. I will know I made it this far, and so far, all is well. I will thank the darkness for the lessons it brings (I wouldn't call getting in touch with my vulnerabilities a bad thing...), and know the dawn will come. 

Left foot, right foot, breathe.

Seeking Advent

I've had trouble falling asleep the last several nights. I've been exercising, eating right, going to bed at my usual time, all that jazz. but the minute my head hits the pillow, the worries start circling. And these are not things I can do anything about.

I worry about the weather - it's too warm outside, and global warming is real. I worry about my friend Sharon, who is fighting cancer, about Bob and his memory issues. I switch back to concern for those who face eviction in the next few months and the effects of gerrymandering on political districts. I pray for the children caught in the crossfire of gun rights and adolescent angst. I fret about the next variant of the virus catching someone I love. I mentally relive the parts of the day where I could have done better; chastise myself for falling short yet again of some imagined standard regarding how I should spend my time.

I toss. I turn. I try relaxing the backs of my eyes and my hands and the top of my head and my hip. Eventually, I fall asleep, only to half-wake several times in the night, my dreams a medley of missed connections and elevators that don't have the buttons for the floor I need.

I think part of my problem is that I haven't taken time to heed the message of the Advent wreath this year. Which is too bad, because it's one of my favorite messages; one of the stories I want to hold on to from my years of church-going.

I haven't stopped to light a candle, to breathe. I've noticed the days getting shorter and shorter, and have a good grip on the concept of darkness, but I've been skipping the part where this is the time of year when we stop and wait for the light of the world, who will be born despite the darkness.

It's easy for me, this time of year, to get stuck in a spiral of negativity and doom. But the spiral can't suck me down without my permission, and today, I choose to change my direction.

No, I won't ever be able to return to 'before', whichever 'before' I care to mark time from, but that doesn't mean there isn't good in today. I've just been forgetting to look for it.. 

Hmph. I hate it when my trust issues sneak up on me like that.

Tonight, I will work to change the litany. Before I go to bed, I will pause for a moment before the flame of a candle or three and remind myself that while light can drive away the darkness, darkness cannot extinguish the light. 

I will remember the Peace of the glorious sunset I saw earlier this week. I will recall the Joy I saw on the face of the tot in front of me in line at the post office this afternoon - his dad and I sang the itsy-bitsy spider song to him as he did the finger motions. I will bring to mind the faces of Love in my life.

I will trust the world to turn as it was taught; that winter's solstice will arrive as scheduled.

I will nurture Hope, because I can.

Goodbye, Uncle Jerry

Jerry John
November 2, 1932 - November 24, 2021

Another of my dad's brothers has died. (Eight of the nine children in his family were boys.) Uncle Jerry is the third to die this year, leaving just Eugene to hold down the fort here on earth.

I took a detour and went up to West Virginia to visit Uncle Jerry and Aunt Katie while on my camper van trip. While I was there, he decided I was old enough to hear some of the darker family stories - about how Grandpa would get in a bad temper when drinking. How my dad, seven years older, would melt into the background to avoid being the target of his dad's anger. How Jerry had the opposite reaction - he'd stand up, yell back, and presumably take more than a few licks of the belt for his trouble.

It was hard hearing, but I'm glad he told me the stories.

I can't begin to know how that unhealthy family dynamic warped his soul, but I do know that, while he loved his children, he also ended up having conflicted relationships with them. He could be a hard man to love - but he and Katie (OK, I gotta be honest, I give Katie much of the credit for the way their kids turned out) raised four great kids.

His Catholic faith was an important part of his life. He was pretty sure he was on the one path to eternal life, and did his best to convince everyone he met to follow the same road. He could be abrasive about it, and when I talked to him, I worked hard to keep the topic from turning to religion.

These past few years, as dementia took his mind away, I hear tell he mellowed. A lot. He let go of his anger, his unyielding certainties. His smile became unguarded, open. He became an easier person to love. 

His youngest daughter, my cousin Gina, lived not too far away, and made sure her parents were well cared for. She and her sister Theresa were there with him as he died - she posted a video of the two of them singing his soul on to heaven. I watched his funeral service dry-eyed, but tears flowed freely as I watched the two of them holding his hands and singing one of his favorite hymns.

Rest in Peace, Uncle Jerry.

I hope you are with your Jesus now; that you've made peace with your dad. I hope you, your parents, Aunt Florence, and your brothers are all sitting around in a big circle, busy catching up on all that's happened since you last saw each other. 

I hope your heaven is all you hoped it would be.

After Thanks

What a wonderfully chaotic heart-filling two days I had.

My quiet, orderly life was upended from start to end of the Thanksgiving holiday, and I loved every minute of it. I had the privilege of hosting the kid's house, and it reminded me of the good ol' days.

I had ten people staying here. These days, the 'kids' range in age from my granddaughter at ten, to Kate, in her mid-thirties, and everywhere in between. (I told my brother and his new wife that they had to get a hotel, mostly because I wanted her to still be speaking to us at the end of the weekend. I figured twelve people and one shower was too much to ask of anyone who hadn't grown up with our family.  I'm pretty sure I was right...)

Kate had taken the week off and came in last Sunday. We were able to just hang out for a few days and I loved it. We did the last of the house cleanup, stocked up on the food we'd need for the holiday. She slept in, and read books. We took walks and talked and talked and talked.

Everyone else trickled in starting on Wednesday afternoon. Dale and her crew, because they didn't have enough on their plates getting ready to host the entire crew the next day???, had invited us over for poutine; a pre-Thanksgiving treat. Those who were free trooped on over, and got to discover a new taste sensation. I'd not tried the traditional Canadian dish - gravy over cheese curds and french fries - but it tasted better than I thought it would. Delicious, even. Who knew?

On Thanksgiving Day, I got up early, per tradition, to make the pies. Once they came out of the oven, we all made our way back to Dale and Brian's place for dinner. She loves hosting the annual event, as she has for the past three or four big gatherings, and pulled it off flawlessly. After this year of spending so much time alone, my heart didn't quite know what to do with the physical presence of so many people it loves. The hugs and chaos slipped in to fill thirsty long-dried cracks and crevices in my soul, easing aches I wasn't even aware existed.

After dinner, we all made our way back to my place. Those who wanted to, walked down to watch the Plaza lights come on, one of my favorite parts of the day's traditions. (You might have to live here to understand why it's such a fun deal to meet up with tens of thousands of your closest friends to watch Christmas lights come on in an outdoor shopping center, but I have a lot of treasured memories around the event.) The walk comes with the added bonus of making room for pie, which was served as soon as we returned home.

Friday, we started out after breakfast so everyone could see Joe and Rita's castle and Ted's new house, so we could admire the work they've been doing to fix up their places. After lunch, I took shameless advantage of the available labor pool, and convinced them it would be quite fun to play a rousing game of rearrange-the-furniture. Dinner time came too quickly, as we all gathered one last time for turkey soup and biscuits.

They all left early Saturday morning in a flurry of hugs, taking their energy with them, leaving me to collapse gratefully in a chair. Two days later, I have the house straightened up. The towels and sheets are washed up, and the blankets have been folded; it's all ready to go back into storage for next time. The house is quiet, but they left a bunch of their love behind, so my heart is still content.

I am so grateful for those two good days. No drama, no fuss, no tears. Just friends and family and food - a reprise of celebrations past, a ration of hope.

Good Is.

Many Thanks

 

Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, is later this week. I am looking forward to the weekend - I have a bunch of family coming into town, and someone else is in charge of cooking the main meal. How much better can it get???

And so, I give thanks.

For sunsets. Good Is.

For music - one of the Spirit's ways of helping me get in touch with my soul.

For the park nearby, where I take walks that keep both mind and body on a healthier path.

For those coming to town, to fill my house and heart with life and activity and hugs

For all I have learned from those in my life who have died - they taught me much.

For a snug house, where the heat comes on in the winter, the AC in the summer. I have ways to both cool and heat the food as needed, and hot water comes from the tap on demand. I can wash and dry my clothes without hauling them to the laundromat, and have lights, so I never need to sit in the dark unless I want to.

For my back yard. It's big enough for flowers, which satisfies my need to play in the dirt, but small enough to easily be maintainable. And when I sit on the porch swing and look around, I am content. (Any place where it's easy to find my happy place is a good place. So says me.)

For the gift of time. I've been able to retire while I'm still healthy. (knock on wood.) I am having trouble - mostly thanks to COVID - figuring out just how I want to spend my precious hours, but I am so grateful to have them to spend.  

For my friends, who listen to my joys and woes and give me good advice to help me navigate the ins and outs of life.

For my family. 

My cousins and siblings are a link to my roots, the place from whence I came. 

My children, nieces and nephews, They bring me joy. They let me glimpse the future; the days which will come after my days here are done. 

My grandchildren, hope personified.

For those who faithfully follow these, my weekly musings. Who let me know they value my words; who tell me my voice would be missed if I were not writing. 

For the goodness I find in every day. I've gone through more than one dark valley this last decade. In the darkest days, when I remember to look, I always can catch a glimpse of the stars. When I remember to look, Good is there. Always. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

Precious Life

A couple of months ago, as I was wasting my time dipping my gaze into one internet black hole after another, I stumbled upon a small gem. It often takes me longer than I'd like to fall asleep, and whoever it was (I wish I could remember) proposed choosing a poem, and reading it aloud just before settling into bed for the night. They said to choose just one poem a month, to allow time for the rhythm and message to settle into your brain. 

I found the idea intriguing; figured it was worth a try. So, one night I picked up the handy-dandy volume of Mary Oliver poetry (title: Devotions) that just happened to be at my bedside, and let it fall open to a random page.

Sometimes, random doesn't feel very random. Sometimes, the words on a random page are just the ones your heart needs to hear. Sometimes, I feel like the Universe has seen me, wandering a bit lost, and decided to give me a little affirmation, a boost, a hug, even. I am short on hugs these days.

I read the poem, 'The Summer Day', that night, and every night for the next thirty days. After a week or so, I barely needed to glance at the page, and instead of mulling over my day as I laid down, the words of the poem kept circling through my brain.

Who did make the world? And swans and black bears and grasshoppers - what beautiful diversity! Have I ever really seen a grasshopper? No, not the way she saw that one. Do I know how to be idle and blessed?  No. I don't. But perhaps I could learn to be. I am learning how to pay attention, and God knows I'm good at the falling down part. 

Yes, everything dies at last and too soon, both in my life, and in the COVID19-ravaged world outside my walls. I don't know exactly what a prayer is, but I pray every day anyways. My prayer has no definable words, it's mostly a yearning for Peace. I'm not even sure to what Source I direct the prayer, but my heart sends it to the Universe anyways, hoping against hope I will be heard.

And my life IS wild and precious. I can't see much in this fog I've been stumbling around in for the last year and more, but the days I am able glimpse the value I bring to the world are good days. I'll keep working on that plan thing, incorporating the concept of being idle and blessed. I think I'd like to be idle and blessed...

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? -- Mary Oliver

P.S. If you'd like to read the entire poem, click here:

https://www.loc.gov/programs/poetry-and-literature/poet-laureate/poet-laureate-projects/poetry-180/all-poems/item/poetry-180-133/the-summer-day/ 

I don't have permission to reprint the entire text, but they do...

P.P.S. It's working - I fall asleep faster than I did before embarking on this path.

Note to self: It wouldn't be working so well if the volume of poetry I'd picked up happened to be the one by Edgar Allen Poe, which is also in my bedroom. A great poet, yes, but his are not images I care to mull over as I fall asleep. Good to know for future reference.

Attic Work

Ah, the glamorous life of a retiree. Somehow, when I was picturing what life would be like post-paid-work, the picture of myself climbing over mounds of insulation in a low-ceiling attic never once crossed my mind. Go figure.

It all goes back to the new roof I had put on this summer. When they replaced the roof, they swapped out the old turbine vents for passive vents, then added some soffit vents, telling me the new system should be equivalent to the old. Wrong. My second floor was at least five degrees warmer on hot days than it had been before. On the hottest days, in a few spots, you could smell the superheated damp air seeping down from the attic.

I went back and forth with the roofer several times, trying to figure out what was wrong. Since I hadn't had this problem with the previous roof, I figured that missing turbine vents were probably the root of the problem. After several iterations, he begrudgingly agreed. He'd remove the passive vents and reinstall turbine vents, as long as I paid the material cost for the new vents. Grumbling beneath my breath, I accepted the offer. I mean, if they'd just done it right in the first place... Never mind. No need to go there.

Which left the question of the new soffit vents - were they doing what they needed to do, and letting air into the attic? I guessed not, since I knew the attic was full of blown insulation, and the roofer hadn't sent someone up there to make sure the vents were clear. I brought this up to him, and for only another $350, he said he'd send someone up there to check things out. This is where I drew the line. No way was I going to pay that much money for an hour's work. Mostly because I didn't trust them to do the job right.

Which is how, last week after the weather cooled, I found myself hauling out the ladder and a screw gun, loosening the attic hatch, and climbing up there to see what was going on.

As soon as I stuck my head into the space, it was clear why the venting hadn't worked. Sure enough, insulation was blocking the soffit vents, which meant there wasn't any air getting into the attic for the passive roof vents to let out. ("Told ya so!", chanted my inner two year-old.)

I'd come prepared. I was properly dressed, covered from head to toe, except for my cheeks - long sleeves, long pants, hat, goggles, breathing mask, gloves, headlamp. I had baffles to clear the air flow, screws and an impact driver to hold them in place, and a rake to move the insulation around.

Using a couple of handy boards left behind by my electrician, I took a deep breath and started body surfing my way across the attic, making sure I had a good base so I didn't put a foot wrong and add 'fix the hole in the ceiling' to my to-do list. A good core workout, I told myself.

I'd scouted the soffit vent locations from outside, so knew about where to find them, and by turning off my headlamp, I could see a glimmer of light making its way inside where each was trying to do its job. I made my way to one after another of the three spots, raked piles of fluffy stuff out of the way, kinda-sorta put a baffle in place, and moved on. I gotta admit - my work wasn't pretty. It wasn't precise and it wasn't clean, but I didn't care. I don't think anyone's going to go up there and check it any time soon, and I got the job done.

Since I was up there (what the heck), I took some time to see if I could figure out why the smell of the attic had been coming down to the second floor. Once I'd wormed my way to that area, which, of course, was at the far end of the attic, the issue was clear. Someone had pushed the insulation to the side to do some work, and had forgotten to push it back - there was virtually no insulation covering that part of the ceiling. It took just a minute, using my handy-dandy rake, to fix THAT problem, and I was done.

I turned around and surfed my way back to the access port, stopping to rake a pile of insulation across all the bare spots I encountered as I crawled along.

As I climbed down the ladder, I checked the time. It had taken me a little over an hour to do the job. For once, my time guesstimate for a job had been spot on. Thinking about the $350 I hadn't paid the roofer, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. Who says I can't make the big bucks!

Since the hot days have passed for this year, I won't know if the problem has been resolved until next summer, but I'm not concerned. I'm pretty sure I got it fixed. That's one down!

No, don't call me to see if I'll check your attic. No, not even if you'll pay me the big bucks. Just, no.

Building a Gate

So. As part of my big remodeling project, I took down part of the fence surrounding the back yard. When I did so, I set aside one section of the fence to build a gate between the remaining back fence and the corner of the garage. I put the fence section out of the way, behind the garage, and added an item, "build gate", to my to-do list.

That was six or seven years ago, and the to-do item has moved from list to list to list. Each time I moved it, I'd think, "I should really just tackle the gate. I can't imagine it would take that long." The fence section has stayed right where I put it, but weeds grow up under it, and every time I'd have to yank it free it from its green tangle, and clear the mess underneath it, I'd think, "I should really just take some time and make this into a gate. It wouldn't take too long."

Then, I'd move on, and forget about it until the next time.

I've been bound and determined to get to the bottom of my outdoor to-do list this summer, and a couple of weeks ago, I decided I had time to build the gate. I started right after breakfast - it ended up taking four whole hours to complete, including the time it took to make two trips to the hardware store.

Every time I do something like this, I scratch my head. I mean, I know it wasn't a high priority, but I let the project take up head space for SIX YEARS before I did anything about it. Because????

I suppose it's because there's a part of me that's a master at procrastination. I got it from my dad, who used to pull similar stunts. He'd let something go for ages, finally tackle it in an afternoon, then stand there looking at it with a half-smile on his face, shaking his head at it. The practice drove me nuts, and I swore I'd never be like that, but here I am, half-smile, shaking head, and all.

And, I gotta admit, I wouldn't have felt nearly as righteous, getting to cross "build gate" off my list if I'd finished in a more timely fashion. I wouldn't have brought up the mental picture of my dad's smiling face - a face I dearly miss. 

I'm trying to be kinder to myself these days, so instead of dwelling on the part where I procrastinated on a simple project for half a decade, I'm going to try to focus on the second part - the part where I DID get it done. I will hold to the image of my dad peering down from his comfy perch on high, shaking his head with a half-smile, and saying to his brothers (who are lounging in their matching comfy perches), "she's done me proud."

I hope so, Dad. I really do.

NYT Crossword Puzzle

When I was a kid, there was a phrase that was the gold standard for someone's intellect. If someone was exceptionally sharp, people said of them: "She solves the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle each week. In ink."

The Times has changed along with the rest of the world, and it is no longer required to use ink, or any other physical marking device to fill out the puzzles - they have an app. As a retirement gift to myself, I bought me a subscription.

When I started working on the puzzles, two years ago, I could pretty much always fill in Monday's grid with no problem. Tuesday, I could do with some help from Google, Wednesday and Sunday were a bit iffy. Thursday, Friday and Saturday were beyond me. (The puzzles start with easy ones on Monday, then get progressively more difficult through the week, with Sunday's puzzle being a larger (thus taking longer to reason through) version of the grid, at the difficulty level of  Wednesday puzzles.)

Well, practice helps, and over time, I've gotten better and better at solving the puzzles. I do use Google to help me along, but I have rules for myself. Because the crossword puzzle is so popular, all you have to do is type in the clue, and the answer will pop up. I don't look at those sites, that's cheating. But I figure looking up the winner of the 2012 Best Actor award, or the MVP player in the 1994 World Series, or any other answer I could look up in my non-existent set of encyclopedias, is fair game. I figure this partly because the help guidelines from the NYT say this sort of lookup is OK, and partly because I'd never solve the end-of-the-week puzzles without the help.

Like most apps out there, this one has a hook. If you solve the puzzle, without having the app help you by checking for wrong answers, on the same day the puzzle is published, you get a gold star. If you check your answers partway through, or do the puzzle later in the week, you just get a blue star. And, it keeps track of your consecutive gold star days.

Not that I'm competitive with myself or anything, but this challenge is tailor-made for me. At first, I had only two day streaks (Monday/Tuesday puzzles) in my column. Then, those Wednesday puzzles started to be solvable, and my streak made it to four days.

One magic day, I was able to work my way through a Thursday puzzle; Friday and Saturday fell under my power shortly thereafter. (There is obviously a trick to these things...) My winning streaks got longer - 8 days, then 14, then 30! 

I started a new streak in early January of this year. I was able to figure out puzzle, after puzzle, after puzzle. Quite proud of myself, I was, and I made it 146 days before my brain just wouldn't work through a Friday puzzle. I tried doing it that morning, got stuck. I went back to it in the afternoon (usually a good way to work through a stuck point) with no luck. Later that evening, I tried again - same result. I went to bed with my shoulders slightly slumped, defeated.

I checked the answers the next morning - the clues hadn't been so devilishly difficult after all, my brain just hadn't been thinking right. *sigh*

Saturday's puzzle fared no better, but I was able to get back on track Sunday morning.

Since then, I've been watching that streak count creep higher and higher. 30, 50, 100 - I was on a roll. This past week was the real test. Friday's puzzle was the 146th one I'd attempted in a row.

It was touch-and-go there for a bit - but I prevailed. The successful completion of Saturday's grid brought me over the top! Quite pleased with myself, I am.

I mean, I'm not on the level of those geniuses of old - I have yet to complete a Sunday puzzle without help from Google, and I'm a long ways from filling in the grid without backtracking at least one answer - but I'm still thinkin' I'm better than the average bear (to quote Yogi).

I'll keep at it. Perhaps, someday, I'll solve the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle in (the modern equivalent of) ink.

 Hey. A girl's gotta have goals. Wish me luck!

 

October Morning

I'm pretty sure October morning light has magical healing powers.

I woke up in a grumpy space this morning. I hadn't slept well, and the only reason I got out of bed was because I had a headache and wanted to take drugs. My dreams had all circled around images of loss and loneliness; they were filled with stress and fear. I woke up with tears in my eyes, and it took a bit to convince me that the losses were just a dream. No ill had befallen those I love during the night.

After I took my headache drugs, and since I had a bit of momentum built up, I reluctantly got dressed and went downstairs to give the cats their morning drink of water and to get some breakfast and coffee. ("In that order, always in that order", say the cats, who race ahead of me down the stairs each day to jump into the sink for their morning treat.) 

With food and medication, my headache started to retreat, and so I decided I had enough energy for my morning walk, sad mood notwithstanding. As I walked down the front steps, I met up with one of my neighbors, out walking her dog. We fell into step, and started exchanging life updates. When we got to the corner, we stopped and chatted with another of the neighbor ladies for a bit. The cool morning air and cheerful company proved to be good medicine, and as I moved on after dropping my neighbor at her front door, my outlook started to brighten.

Down and across the street to the park I went, my mood improving with every step.

Soon, I was questioning why I'd ever been grumpy at all. Here I was, it was Monday morning and I'd gotten to sleep in. Again. When I did get moving, I didn't have to rush through my coffee. When I met up with the neighbors, there was no need to rush through the chance meeting - no  Monday morning Zoom call was waiting, there was no boss to wonder why I hadn't yet gotten online.

Nope. It was just me and the cool, clean, October morning air. Though the sun was bright, the light was softer than it had been just a few weeks ago. The trees in the park were starting to get dressed in their fall colors, and most of the people I met on the path looked like they were also enjoying the day.

I stopped several times just to breathe and enjoy the beauty of the trees, the feeling of the air quietly caressing my hair and skin, the gentle warmth of the sun on my face.

By the time I got home, my grumps had (thankfully) dissipated for the day.

I lost my grumps, but I never did find my ambition. My to-do list is still languishing on the table, waiting patiently for me to look at it and choose an item to tackle. Eh. I think it's not happening today. (Except for this blog post. This, I'm getting done. That counts, yes?)

Today is a day to stop and appreciate ephemeral beauty. There are not so many of these magical October days that I want to waste one being task-focused and grumpy and lamenting all the hard things in my life. I mean, the hard things are there, but so is the magic - and since I have the ability to choose where I want to focus my energies, today I chose to stop and notice the magic that Is.

I'm thinking I made the right choice.