Grandpop

My Grandpop, not to be confused with my other grandfather who I don't remember, was my Dad's dad and he saw himself as the self made man. The story is that his father took out the trash one day when Grandpop was very young and never returned. Grandpop, his mother and two younger sisters were on their own. He sold pencils in order to get the money to go to first grade and sold peanuts and newspapers after that.

In high school, when he was sixteen, the principal was so aggravating that my Grandpop threw him off the school stage and broke his arm. That ended his high school years and left him working as a grease monkey until Ford saw fit to hire him and bring him up to Detroit.

There he worked on the line until he had enough money to buy half a dealership, but, according to him, he struck gold when he insisted that it include a clause that if either he or Ford came up with a reasonable offer, he could buy the dealership fair and square.

Evidently during the great Depression Ford made him an obscene offer thinking it was a good way to get their dealership back in whole, but my Grandpop was able to come up with the money and they had to sell!

Grandpop was not an easy man. He fought Ford, the unions, and anyone else who got in his way making money. My grandmother often found him unconscious and bleeding on the front porch and it was seldom undeserved. I've heard he crossed picket lines by revving his motor and closing his eyes. I never heard he killed anyone though.

He had a strange sixth sense that seemed to serve him well. One day he took my father with him to Detroit to meet one of the bigwigs from Ford. Along the way he suddenly stopped, turned back and pulled into a gas station. A few minutes later the man he was going to meet pulled in beside him to buy gas! This was way before the days of car phones. 

He had a scholarship fund for worthy students where he paid for a new suit and a year's tuition. My Dad, his son, went to Washington University in St. Louis when he was sixteen as a pre-med major. He joined the navy when he was seventeen and Grandpop figured he was on his own after that. Dad managed to finish his Masters and work towards his doctorate without his father's help.

When I was almost five my Grandpop surprised his wife, my grandmother with a six week European vacation. He did not include their adult daughter living at home with her son, so my grandmother refused to go and he took my dad instead. Dad had a great time. 

Over the years Grandpop had many lucrative businesses and sold many others. He was never reluctant to ask for my father's help and always made sure to pay him if everyone else was paid and there was money left over. My father was a loving son who also worked teaching school, selling cars, and tutoring, so the work for Grandpop was all considered extracurricular even when it meant cutting meat for a restaurant, keeping the books, managing employees or working on taxes.

As he grew older Grandpop got a little more sentimental. He did not help with my senior trip, but he did pay me twenty dollars to answer his phone while he was in Washington D.C. with Dirksen and Goldwater. I did not go on my senior trip to Washington D.C., but Grandpop took my brother with him to run with the pages. Grandpop and I were always on friendly terms. I used him when I needed a place to stay after we moved away and I was dating a boy in Springfield.and he used us in whatever ways he could.

One year he decided he wanted to get in touch with all those people he had given scholarships to, so he asked me to contact them. I did not. He died in 1986 close to my youngest son's seventh birthday and my children met several of our family members at the wake for the first time.

I have always had a problem with funerals and weddings. In my mind they are both places where our family gets together and eats lots of food while reconnecting. Sometimes it is hard to know the difference which I find mildly disturbing.

Yet the experiences are generally both memorable.

Courting disaster

 

I have had two strange experiences lately. Each around 1:30 AM when I am awakened from a deep sleep. The first was the circle of women I saw with toddlers standing out by the lamp in the driveway.

The other was last Friday when I was awakened by flashing lights in the window near my bed. I've seen lights like that before when an ambulance was called, so I got up to look closer.

There was a fire truck backed up to the east side of the front door and five or six firemen in fire hats and coats hustling around. 

I remember I thought it was strange because one fireman was lying on the sidewalk in a fetal position and I wondered if this was some sort of re-enactment like they do at airports practicing for disasters. Another fireman dropped to one knee near this man and pointed out towards the fire truck.

I really needed to go to the bathroom so I left and when I got back they were all gone!

Now there was a huge thunder and lightning storm going on.

I don't remember seeing any ambulance or hearing any sirens and I am truly doubting what was as clear as day to me at the time.

Have I become such a sound sleeper that I can be aware of walking around, but actually dreaming? I really don't understand.

The inheritance

 

My grandmother had a terrible experience with her first husband at an age where she was very vulnerable and also very pliable. She learned early on that men could not be counted on and, in her experience, were unreliable sources of support. She became a very independent woman after that and no one ever breached her boundaries again.

Unfortunately for my mother that meant even her father, my grandmother's second husband, was considered less than by my grandmother. No amount of kindness and no attempts at pleasing her were really considered important. She did not need him beyond a home for her children and some financial support. Her love was fractured and it influenced those generations of women who came after her.

My mother loved my father. Their marriage was an amazing one.Until my father, in an attempt to please her even more decided they could move back to my mother's hometown so she could work in the family business with her mother. That was really the beginning of the end for their marriage as they had always known it.

My mother, who was always well intentioned, but also limited by her intense desire to please her mother, soon became part of the girl's club that found men flawed and simply things to be tolerated. My father continued to bend over backwards to please her, but it was pointless. My grandmother, mother, sister and even my aunt were part of an impenetrable clique that could never be breached. 

Anyone who was not one of them was less than and in the way of women who believe they are protecting themselves and their children, they cleaved to that idea like religious fanatics.

I never realized this for most of my adult life. I had moved away and only saw the slow disintegration of my father and their marriage from a distance. And that distance was filled with my mother's point of view that reinforced what she and my grandmother believed was true.

I am older now and having moved back to the same small town I am once more involved in family dynamics that people who have always lived here accept as gospel. It is only from an outsider's view that I see the damage that was done and that is faithfully carried on by my sister who spent most of her life trying to emulate the gods she believed my grandmother and mother were. Men are to be at the beck and call of the women they love. They are tolerated so there can be children.

It is a prime example of incestuous living that occurs with the best of intentions when children do not leave home and develop their own set of values. 

soul glitter

I've been working on a painting for a while now. 

This seems to be my gold period. Meaning I bought some gold paint and now I have it I want to use it. 

Of course I have over done it and painted over it several times. Who knows if I will even keep this painting when I am finished working on it, but it has given me hours of meditation during the process.

I sit starring at it with the intention of coming up with better ideas and choices, but then my mind wanders off into that great grey mist as it is wont to do.

I envision a soul leaving the body, evaporating into that great mystery I do not understand.

And then I see tiny flakes of that glittering soul gently settle onto and into everything.

And we are reborn, minuscule pieces of soul become part of flowers and trees and carrots and people and every breath taken. It glitters in the wind and sparkles in the snow. It is the twinkle of an eye, and the reflection in ice.

All the mythis are true to some extent. Each one hindered only by the mind of the imaginer.

Meditation on painting

 

I like to paint. I make no claims about my painting except that it gives me satisfaction to feel the paint slide onto my canvas and sometimes to watch it daub on in interesting patterns. I love the colors I use and the way they go together, 

I just like to paint.

I also like to look at other's paintings. I wonder what those people felt as they made them. I think about why they used certain colors and wonder if it gave them pleasure to look at them. 

I do the same things with my own painting, sometimes feeling as if someone else made them. I can't tell you where the actual ideas come from. I know where they start. That is usually a very conscious decision that soon gets lost once I actually begin, but I don't know why I pick the shapes or colors that end up there. That''s one reason it takes me so long to paint a picture. I can only paint until it feels like I am finished for that day. Then I have to wait until I am called to paint more.

I don't always see what the great art critics say is there. I think colors are personal and shapes even more so. What pleases one person bores another, or even offends some. 

It seems to me that good art is art that makes me want to look at it. It calls to some part of me that is so deep I don't even understand it. Like tendrils of fog it escapes my consciousness and wraps around those things it needs from some primal place.

Circle of mothers

 

I live in a building for people over fifty. That is the first thing I need to make clear..

Last night I woke up about 1:30 AM and looked out the window by my bed. I could see people down at the edge of the grass by the light.

They appeared to be women, maybe five or six or them and each one had a small toddler standing in front of them. A child young enough to be holding onto a parent's finger or hands while standing there.

I watched them for a few minutes. I couldn't see details or faces, just silhouettes in the dark, but they appeared animated like they were talking to each other and the children were fidgety.

I couldn't understand why they would be there at this time of night or what they could all be doing with such young children with them. I tried to imagine some kind of meeting just ending, but it made no sense. After a few minutes they began to disperse.

One of the infants picked up his legs and looked like he was making a fuss about going.

I wanted to stay and see what happened next. Did they all get in separate cars? What did they do? But I had to go to the bathroom and I was afraid to wait. When I got back there was no sign of them.

I tried to look at the scene through tree branches and light and see if I could reinvent them, to see if maybe I was imagining all this, but I could not.

The truth

 

Looking back on life I think two of the most important traits people can have is empathy and flexibility.

Empathy because if you don't understand how others feel, you will make lots and lots of mistakes.

Flexibility because life is in a constant state of change and the inability to roll with the punches is a great handicap. 

You can be kind and even gentle, but if you don't really understand the person you are with you are likely to hurt or annoy them more than ever. No one wants to be a stereotype or charity case.

You can be a genius or a fool, but an inability to change to accommodate the facts is lethal.

Truth is often in the eyes of the beholder, but a mind capable of assessing the facts without bias is an art.

Shopping

 

I did something yesterday that I have not done in a very long time.

I went to the grocery store.

Now that may seem like a normal thing to most of you, but for me it has been an unattainable feat for over two years.

Both Kroger and Walmart are set up to make you walk blocks and blocks just to buy groceries, but both also have a pick up policy so that if you spend over a certain amount you can simply pick up your groceries in the car.

This requires a lot of planning in order to get the products I need. I have to make sure I have enough to reach the amount necessary and I have to wait until I do and go without until then.

Lately I have lost some more weight and have been able to cut my diabetes medicine down to a quarter of what it was. I have been forcing myself to walk, really amble, for fifteen minutes after every meal. And I have received a handicap card for my car. All these things made my short fifteen minute trip yesterday possible.

I only bought an onion and some celery and I checked out at the first register, because these things were close to the door, but it was a big step. I almost didn't get the onion because four employees working in produce were all very slowly stocking things and visiting with each other. Oblivious to me and another woman who were blocked from the yellow onions. But just before we gave up, they finally dispersed.

Then an elderly woman in an electric cart was ahead of me at checkout and the whole process took forever, but I made it! On my way out an employee made a special request that I put that basket right back where I got it, which I intended to do anyway.

 Part of me wanted to complain about inconsiderate employees, but another part of me thought how bleak their lives must be if all they do all day is corral carts, or sort vegetables for what is probably minimum wage. Instead I simply celebrated my first freedom to shop in a long time.

Kumbaya

 

I have been taught to always put my best foot forward. 

As a first child my only examples were the grown-ups around me and of course everything they did was much better than I could ever hope to do or be at that early age. I don't remember any explicit directions to do better, but I think my inborn intuition was to succeed.I wanted affirmation that I was okay, doing it right, a good person.

As an adult I often find myself doing something and then stepping back to see if it is done "right." Is there a wrinkle or line out of place? What if I have company and they see this. Will they think I am doing it right? Is it perfect?

Then I have to ask myself if I am doing it for me or them. Why do I make the bed? Why does it have to be perfect? Am I really teaching those I love to do the right things or am I teaching them to be neurotic and obsessive?

As a preschool teacher I sometimes made a "mistake" just to let a student know that was okay. That the world didn't end if I did. 

Having the perfect house, dust free, wrinkle free, in a well designed space should not be the goal unless I am in a contest for house beautiful in some magazine. I need to cut myself some slack and allow the people I love the freedom to be at ease. Let them know that if they are not here I don't necessarily keep every spot of water off the faucet, or speck of dust off the glass.

My daughter-in-law once said, after the birth of their first child, "He thought when you came everything would be kumbaya, perfect." 

That has stuck with me, but it is still a challenge for me not to try to be perfect. Knowing there is a fine line between wanting that and obsession.

Someone

 

My sister did not want to continue living retired in my building. She felt that it made her no one and she wanted to go back to being what she considered someone.

Now she is back working part time and living in a house with a yard, she feels as if she is someone again.

I feel she was someone from the day she was born, but that she just didn't understand it. I suppose it depends on how you define someone and how you evaluated who they are.

For me it is important that I am as self sufficient as possible and to that end I have eliminated, or modified, most of  the things that require me to ask for help. I feel that being empathetic enough to realize other people are already very busy and do not need to be at my beck and call is a kindness I can offer. I enjoy their company, but they don't have to be doing something for me to see them. I want them to come because we have things to talk about, dreams to share, ideas to create -- not furniture to put together, or things to repair.

It is nice to be needed and loved, but that shouldn't become an obligation.

Being someone I am proud of is more about ethics and empathy than titles and possessions. 

Happiness

 

It seems every person has that one something that keeps them going. Then they have the thing that makes them feel put upon enough to feel useful.

My sister likes to buy things. Other than that she like to push things, a mower, a vacuum, a rag for getting rid of spots.

My sister-in-law likes to collect things and cook. Her penance is dusting all those things she collects.

My brother likes to garden and ride his stand alone bike.. He does anything else his wife doesn't want to do.

One of my friends likes to travel to meet friends. He walks his dog several times a day.

Another writes homilies that he shares with the world. He cooks because he likes to eat.

I like to paint pictures. I also like to write. I enjoy reading. None of these things are suffering in any way, but the closest I come to a need for suffering is keeping my apartment and clothing moderately clean.

People no longer have to toil from morn til night just to live and yet we still need that carrot that gets us out of our chair and doing something. Our puritan heritage in this country tells us we must also suffer some if we want to be considered good people.

We are moving closer and closer to a sane world where suffering is not our reason for being. It doesn't make us lazy. It makes us happier and there is nothing wrong with that.

Here, there, and gone!

 

It is given so many names.

Some people call it an attachment disorder.

Others call it being footloose.

I've heard it described as the wanderlust.

And sometimes it is just seen as restless, but whatever it is, it is me.

I'm not quite sure why, but I suspect I was raised to be it, by whatever name you give it.

As children we only know what we live and I lived with my mother, father and siblings. We had extended family of course, but the core was simple and solid.

My first friends outside this unit appeared when I was almost five years old. Julie and Paul, I still remember their names. They lived across the street and sometime we were allowed to cross that street and play together. They were called friends and I took them for granted like I did my family.

Then we moved and I never saw them again. I didn't make new friends until after we moved again to Springfield and I started kindergarten. Billy Pearson and Shawn Patrick were near me alphabetically and they became my new friends. Strangely enough one or the other appeared, or reappeared for the next twenty years, including first dates and coming out parties. I even ran into Bill on Facebook and discovered he told his children about me when they went home to Springfield, which was many many years behind us.

In the middle of sixth grade we moved again. Just across town, but I lost contact with all my elementary school friends, including Kathy Thomas my best friend. We didn't have a way to travel back and forth across town back then, but I made a new friend. Sandy Kirkpatrick a red headed girl who liked to roller skate and was a patrol girl like me. One day in seventh grade the bus was too full to let me on and Sandy's dad drove me all the way out to my junior high. Sandy and I usually walked home together in the afternoon.

Of course right after seventh grade we moved again. This time to a small town called Chatham where my dad taught school. I went to eight grade at a school out in the middle of the country and made one friend there. I can't remember her name now, but she was a new girl like me, We ate lunch together and played on the old playground equipment after lunch.

Halfway through that school year we moved back to our old house in Springfield where I went to six years of elementary school. I just assumed I would pick up with my old friends, but it didn't really happen. Life is awkward when you are 13. By then I had long stopped missing old friends when we moved. I just knew they were out of my life and accepted it. I did reconnect with Kathy and we remained friends through our junior year in high school when I moved again.

This time to a town where my mother was born and raised. To her it was going home and I had aunts, uncles, great aunts and a grandma there. I had cousins too. They were almost like my siblings. We were close, but I didn't really make any super close girl friends here. I did date some boys who were in band with me and I went to Homecoming and Prom, but it was a strange experience. I felt like I was going through the motions and doing what I was supposed to be doing in a book or something. I didn't really feel like I was a part of it in any deep emotional way.

I had a very difficult time when my mother died, but other than that I just sort of know I will have to let go of anyone and everyone I like or love. 

I am divorced and my children are scattered all over the country in Washington, Arizona, and North Carolina. I expected that. They were brought up in a town where most children went somewhere else after they were out of school. I am very close to all of them.

Most of the other people in my life are like faces in a long parade that just keeps getting farther and farther away. I remember them fondly, but feel no real emotional attachment to most of them. I knew from the start that our relationship was what it was and that one day it would change and we would drift apart. Unlike my siblings who live here I don't really have any local friends. I do have lots of acquaintances and people I can talk to when we run into each other. 

It's not exactly out of sight out of mind, but it is very similar. I am unlikely to move from this apartment because it is so nice and so affordable, but I haven't met anyone yet that I want a deeper relationship with. It seems my life revolves around whoever is here and now and a few people who are so close they are really my family of the heart and as close or closer than my siblings.

Curiosity

 

I walked into my second story living room this morning and there, right in the middle of my screen was a huge locust.

It was just sitting there. Not moving. Not even one leg flittering around and it carried me away.

Whatever could have brought it to such a place and caused it to stay so long without moving?

It's a great veiw, but that creature's eyes were not seeing what I see with my two eyes. First of all it has five eyes and none of them are quite like mine.

Then I began to wonder other more interesting things. Like why my window and not the others on the front of our building. Then, maybe God is not the all omnipotent father figure the men who wrote the Bible believed. Perhaps God is a variant on a three year old loose in the universe!

This morning it was playing with bugs and decided to put one on my window to see what both it and I would do.

It blew gently to see if it moved. It focused the sun on it to warm it up and then, swoosh, it flew away.

Distracted, it moved on to play with the other stuff in the sandbox, using its creativity to sort the molecules into multi-verses. 

A cosmic child unfettered by the restraints of mortal children.

Walk!

 

It seems as if I have spent my entire adult life worrying about eating too much.

Back in my twenties Twiggy was the one we all wanted to emulate and I managed it between 102 and 115 pounds for years. That's not a lot since I am nearly five foot seven.

Later after my pregnancy I hit 140 and thought I was immensely obese, which my husband concurred with.

And after years of crazy yo yo dieting, often losing as much as 90 pounds and gaining it all back I found myself as a type two diabetic with stage four kidney disease.

A1C is the blood sugar standard I use to see how I'm doing and at first I thought 150 was obscenely high, but then last year I started hitting 189, which is truly high

Recovering from my stint going back to work and catching COVID then moving down here left me chair bound for over a year. I am just starting to recover.

One of the most amazing things I am discovering is that walking for fifteen minutes after every meal drastically reduces my blood sugar! Now this sounds simple, but doing that is incredibly difficult for me. My feet, my hips, my breath and sometimes even my heart hurt even though I am barely ambling a long.

But the results are so amazing I keep on struggling to do it. Last night I gorged on an entire pizza. Yes, I am still an out of control eater, but my blood sugar this morning was 120 and I am keeping the weight below two hundred. Not amazing, but in the right direction.

Take two

 

I was at a potluck a few days ago and the main course was fried chicken.

I wondered how that worked out for a large group. Think about forty people.

I personally prefer the breast. I like white meat with a minimum of fiddling with bones.

I couldn't hear if there were any specific instructions for how much chicken each person could choose. There may not have been any, but everyone in front of me seemed to be taking two pieces. 

I took one chicken breast, pleased that I got my favorite piece and a little surprised.

Then I looked up and saw the woman who took the largest breast she could find and dug through the rest of the chicken before taking another huge breast. She was not a large woman, nor was she someone who looked malnourished.

I thought maybe she was short on money for the rest of the month and needed to save this for another meal. Or perhaps she was very hungry and would actually eat all that chicken in one sitting, but neither of these felt right.

She looked like the kind of woman who lacked either a conscience, or social grace. She was lean and muscular with a short gray haircut and no nonsense clothing. Not tailored, or sophisticated, simply down to business, a woman who was used to getting her way.

She was a woman I would not want to cross and I wondered what made me have all these thoughts of her. It had to say something about me.

Did I secretly want to take an extra portion of the best chicken? Was I envious of her almost arrogant strength? Did I somehow feel so threatened by her I needed to denigrate her actions?

I honestly don't think so. 

I think she was just a greedy, thoughtless person, possibly a narcissist, who took advantage of anything put in front of her.

Now that's a lot of thoughts about a woman I barely know.

Being noticed

 

Being noticed has both good and bad connotations.

It raises a million questions about why.

Am I unique, a puzzle, an anomaly?

What drew me to their attention?

What is it about me that is worthy, or cringe worthy, of being noticed?

And why did they look away the moment I noticed!

What's the point

 

Everyone has their own idea of what life should be. It's that infamous word, should.

People write volumes about what things should be. Usually to validate their own lives. To an athlete it is winning. To a minister it is saving souls. To a doctor saving lives. To many people it is making money.

I suppose we think we are unique among the creations on this earth. Most things in nature live to grow, reproduce and die. They come. They are. They transition back into the earth. Humans seem to feel we must be more and better than.

Better than what and how is the question. Other manifestations in nature help each other or facilitate other things, but they generally don't go overboard doing it. It seems to be a natural give and take.

Many people seem to need to over do things that have no real point in making their quality of life better. If they simply enjoy it then that is the point. But I see them doing it to impress each other and that is pretty fruitless in the long scheme of things. Impressing others lasts relatively short times. In the long run most people will not even recall it down the road.

I see people who go back to working their old jobs in their seventies because they want to buy things. Buying seems to become their main joy and focus. Most of these things are to impress those around them with their taste, or affluence, or whatever, but it doesn't seem to make them content. It simply drives them to overdo in other areas of their lives. If one flower is pretty, wouldn't a hundred be prettier? If one can of bug spray works, wouldn't two be better? 

It's the old give a mouse a cookie thing. If you give a senior a house, she's going to want flowers for the yard and the flowers will need a hose to water them and then the grass will grow and she will need a lawn mower to cut the grass and that lawn mower will need batteries to run and that means she will have less time to do other things, so the hose never makes it out of the car, so she needs buckets of water for the flowers and that means she needs to buy a bucket. (true story.)

Maybe we should focus more on what makes us content and stop looking for more extravagant reasons to be.

Bad news

 

Bad news swoops in like bats over a full moon.

It might not mean anything, but the implication is there.

Darkness blotting out the light.

I struggle to live in this moment, a moment when all is well.

The theory is good. I can't be anywhere else.

And yet a part of me wants to dwell in those dark spots up ahead.

What ifs that may amount to nothing,

But could be the pivotal point of everything.

At least everything I know now.

Lifestyles of the old and diabetic

 

I don't know how I would be able to do what I am doing if I worked. It takes almost all of my time and energy to stay healthy.

I have to count carbs carefully which means eating certain foods at a certain time of the day. For me that is around 12 to 1 and 5 to 6 and after each meal I have to walk 15 minutes. Not fast. I can't do that, but stay on my feet and keep moving. Afterwards I am usually exhausted.

I meditate 30 minutes after walking at noon.

And around all this I do my laundry, vacuuming, cleaning and shopping online.

I can do it all comfortably, but I don't have tons of energy left over.

I go to bed around midnight and fall right to sleep.

I wake up between 8 and 9.

For fun I play word games on my phone with different friends early in the day and read for an hour before bed. I also love to watch shows about decorating and re-imagining houses. And when the spirit moves me I paint or plan paintings, or do a bit of writing.

I am fortunate to keep in touch with some of my children and grandchildren on a daily basis too, by phone or text. Throw in the occasional family get together, or dinner and my life is full. 

I really can't imagine my life being any different at this stage.

Luxury

 

I don't think I knew the real meaning of luxury until this year.

I've had nice homes, even ones with huge swimming pools. I've had two cars in the family and sometimes three. Once that felt like a luxury. I even have very expensive high quality sheets for my bed, but it doesn't compare to what I have now.

A year ago my feet were in such bad shape I could barely make it from my bed to my chair, or even to the bathroom. Taking a shower was an agony even with a shower chair because I had to step in and out of the tub. I couldn't take my trash down the hall to the chute even using a walker, and doing my laundry was almost impossible.

Last night I walked into my bedroom and the curtain had blown up out of place. I was able to walk over and fix that without a second thought. That is a luxury!

Being able to navigate around my home, to be able to go to an event without being in pain, to walk down and get in my car. All of these things are luxuries. 

Real luxuries.

Health is priceless.

Success

 

How I define success creates a road map to my life.

If it is a collection of status symbols I become a slave to my desires.

If it requires measuring up to the expectations of other people or the world, it is the road to dissatisfaction.

Madly running around, or looking busy creates chaos.

Striving to be something I am not is pointless in the end.

Success is personal.

Taking my cues from nature might help. Mountains stand for eons. Mount Aetna is not Mount Fugi. Plants grow from their own seeds and bulbs. Daffodils are daffodils. Water flows. The Mississippi flows into the Gulf which flows into the ocean. Animals live and die never owning anything.

This doesn't mean I need to copy any of these things, but they demonstrate that in the grand scheme of things life was never meant to be something it isn't. I am given a certain amount of time to live and how I choose to do it makes all the difference -- to me.

Every moment is a blip of my eternity.

If I can look around me and say, "The air is sweet. This moment is peaceful. I am content." I am light years ahead of the person scrabbling to out do nature.

The Domino Effect

All of life is connected. 

Everything is important in its own way. Of course we have priorities, but it can be surprising how one little thing affects everything else.

For example: Mad Millie wants the old falling down decrepit shed next to the alley and promises to take it away before the end of the week.

The end of the week comes and the shed is still there. You talk to the guys putting in the fence and they agree to cart off all the shed pieces and burn them for you when they put up the fence.

Mad Millie really wants the shed and promises she will take care of it so you can put up your fence, build a new outbuilding and add an awning for your car.

The fence goes up. The new outbuilding arrives in big boxes that you stack in the living room. The shed is still there. You have lost your chance to have the fence men haul it away for you.

You begin doing things inside, but the boxes for the outbuilding remain in the living room. You finally decide Mad Millie is not going to take the shed. Your son has to tear it down and now he also has to figure out a way to dispose of all the boards and lumber and dig out the base before he can build the outbuilding.

The nails are a hazard in the boards for people moving them. The shed remains, making putting in anything new impossible. You want to finish moving in and set up your living room, but thanks to Mad Millie not doing what she promised you cannot, because the boxes for the new outbuilding are still in there.

Of course Mad Millie visits when the spirit moves her and makes token acts of helping, but four, maybe five people are caught up in the chaos she created.

Your son, who has a home, a wife, a full time job, and an ailing father to care for spends his free time working on your house so you and Mad Millie can be friends.

This scenario is not limited to the shed situation. There is always one person who pays the price for anything and everything you cannot do. Someone who buys your television for you, sets it up, tries to teach you to use a remote, puts together furniture that comes un-assembled, mounts doors and closet rods you want or feel you need. Taking care of you becomes a full time job just so you can be friends with Mad Millie.

You make token attempts to help. A few swipes with a lawn mower before someone has to find new batteries for you. Taking out a few nails in the pile of boards from the shed, because it is easier than unpacking all the stuff you could not get rid of and now have no room for. You get a part time job and count on your son to pull your life together. Over and over and over. And you are angry with your sister because she promised to help you arrange the tiny living room with the over-sized furniture you and Mad Millie chose for it and she won't do it until you remove the boxes for the outbuilding.

You have now impacted at least three maybe four separate families.

The domino effect.

Aging

 

Aging is one of the consequences of living. Good, bad, or indifferent it happens to each one of us.

In the beginning we applaud every little change. That first smile, first tooth, first step.

But we seldom view the last step or last tooth, or last smile with the same vigor.

And that is how it should be, I suppose. We are creatures born to live.

Dying is a fearful thing for many people. Going into the unknown is frightening.

And yet, it is unavoidable.

All things cease to be in their current form, but if we look at nature it becomes obvious that things don't disappear completely. They transition into something else and whatever that is usually is an integral part of what we call life around it.

Consciousness is another story. Who knows where consciousness goes to. Or where it comes from, really. It is possible that all things have some form of consciousness that we are simply unaware of. 

There is certainly energy, or power, all around us from the sunlight, the moon, the wind, or even things like gravity. This whole universe is a powerhouse of wonder.

Perhaps the secret to not fearing death comes from understanding that it is as natural to our being as birth and the mysteries of what it is may be ineffably wonderful too.

Freedom

 

Freedom is another one of those words like love. It means entirely different things in different contexts. 

Beyond the freedom to live in a place where you are respected and allowed to have a voice is the freedom of your personal life.

For some people that seems to be the freedom to make yourself the center of attention, or monetarily rich, or house proud, or a million other things that require someone or something else to conform to some expectation.

For others it is a personal thing. I am one of those.

My sense of freedom comes from having a space where I can be absolutely me. Naked and unafraid of any kind of criticism or judgement or even company if I choose. That does not mean I run around without clothes on or hide away from people at all. 

I love company. Invited company.

It means that I have a space where I feel safe from unexpected interruptions of any sort for as much time as I can manage. 

Imagine a three year old rambling around the house. Reading, writing, painting, re-arranging the furniture, napping, cleaning when the spirit moves me, or as it becomes necessary, wearing only those clothes that feel soft and comfortable. Happy. Creative. Free!

Now I suppose you can have that with people running freely throughout your house, but I have yet to find a grown-up who can resist having an opinion about me and I just don't want to even think about that in my own space if I can avoid it.

Some people may call me a loner, but I love company. Good interesting company. A person, occasionally two maybe, who want to get into deep lovely conversations over a cup of coffee or tea. But it is the space between us that allows us to have these conversations.

That is freedom to me.

Love

 

Love.

Touted as the be all and end all of everything, love is so over used it is an almost meaningless word.

According to many romance novels, television shows and movies, love is all you need to do anything. 

But love really is a simple thing.

You don't have to be president of the United States to be loved. You don't have to be beautiful to be loved. You don't have to clean your house, wash your windows, paint your friend's house, or do anything else to be loved.

You are lovable. 

Someone, somewhere loves you for exactly who you are with all your failures, all your shortcomings, all your problems, because that is what real love is. Nothing can change that.

Being loved will not make you anything you aren't already. It will not guarantee you will live happily ever after.

It can give you that warm fuzzy feeling that makes you feel happy, but remember happiness is an extreme, not a constant, and it can give your self confidence a boost, but you have to realize two things first.

1. You have to love yourself for who you are.

2. You have to recognize that you are loved and worthy.

So, I guess the secret to love is just to live honestly and fully. Drop the pretense. Lose the need to impress. Don't try to be what you are not, but be the best that you are.

A beautiful life

I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.

Words from one of my favorite stories as a child about a little engine who thought he could and so he did!

There are other cute stories with the same premise. All good things to hear and learn.

So why do so many adults do just the opposite?

They come up with a million excuses and reasons not to do something. It is honestly counterproductive in every way.

In my life I have discovered I can do almost anything if I want to badly enough. I may have to be extra creative. I may have to make careful plans. I may even have to force myself to start, but that is the kicker.

Once you start something it is often not as difficult or awful as you imagined it to be while putting it off.

They old athletic rah rah thing, "Just do it!" is good advice. 

Then? "Just keep going." Make that your mantra.

Make a plan. Have priorities. Get to work.

Don't let anyone, or anything get in between you and good choices and you will be amazed at how much better life can be.

Living in disarray and clutter is hard on the nervous system and if you've never tried to live without clutter and mess you should test this theory for yourself.

Peace reigns. Depression lessens or disappears altogether. Life gets easier without things looming over you. You think you don't notice these things, but your brain registers them. Your eyes see them. Your hands and feet work around them. It's sunshine of the mind in real life.

Second hand Rose

 

Second hand Rose. A song. A movie. All kinds of things come to mind.

But the first thing I think of is a woman who I think of as second hand Rose or the widow maker.

This person has gone through husbands and boyfriends like most people go through paper cups. She doesn't outright kill them, but she would drive me insane and my blood pressure would do the rest.

She collects "stuff." 

From the alley. From the side of the road. From moving sales. From any place where something can be picked up for free. 

She "plans" things. Without much thought. Haphazardly. Cheaply. (Made and done.)

She makes promises that she has no notion of keeping in this lifetime.

She is needy and will say, do, or promise anything to make someone "love" her in the moment.

She is an enabler of lost dreams that never really materialize.

She is not poor financially, but mentally? Something is not right.

We've all probably met someone similar to her, but if she were your best friend you would be in a world of hurt.

Waiting

  

Forty years ago today at this very moment I was sitting in a waiting room at a hospital in St.Louis. My mother had collapsed the day before and been flown in, not in a helicopter, but in a small plane in a sling because there were no helicopters available in Springfield. There were also no available cardiologists because one was in surgery and the others were at a convention. St.Louis was our closest hope.

I sat there all night with my grandmother, father, Aunt, Uncle, brothers and sisters and our spouses, waiting. It gave new meaning to the name, waiting room. We waited in silence mostly. Each of us channeling our best prayers, wishes and hopes, for a good outcome. I nodded off now and then, but almost immediately woke up. Once I thought I heard my aunt say, "Corrine!" That was my mother's name and they were best friends, but it was a dream. My aunt was as silent as the rest of us. We just waited in the waiting room.

In the morning we each got five minutes to see her in pairs and I remember trying to say something hopeful. I said, "It's all downhill from here." I meant the hard part, the worry, the waiting, was over, but when I said it she looked startled and said, "What?" I barely had time to explain before my aunt said to kiss her, our time was up. It was someone else's turn. Little did I know that this was the last time I would kiss my mother or see her alive again.

We all lined the hallway as they took her down to surgery, so the last thing she saw was a sea of loving faces, all wishing her the best.

And then the hard waiting began. We drifted in and out of the waiting room, getting something to eat, or coffee to drink. I had the notion that maybe I should go to the chapel, but when I got there it was under construction and closed. My father had the same idea he told me later.

After hours of waiting a woman took us all into a tiny room to tell us the surgery went well. A whole team of surgeon's had done their best and they just had to take her off the machines.

Not that long afterwards the same woman took us back into the little room to tell us they had not been able to do that. My mother was dead. I will never forget the piercing cry my grandmother made hearing that. She keened, "Nooooooooo. Corrine." They said we could go see her if we wanted to, that they would cover her up so we could look at her face and my grandmother wanted to go, but my aunt talked her out of it.

We left the hospital. Right outside the door my father stopped and hugged me. He said, "Your mother is dead." I will never forget that. He was not a hugger, but he was thinking of me.

What followed is another long story, but today I remember sitting in that waiting room the day my mother died.

Attics or addicts

Don't be an attic junkie, or a basement hoarder, or a closet stuffer. Spread that joy around!

Holding on to things that are stored away is not frugal. A junk room is not cool, it's an addiction to another way of life.

People used to keep everything, old string, old dishes, old clothes, even old cars. But those people used those things. They didn't go out shopping, they went to the attic or chest and remade clothing for themselves and their children, They scavenged parts of whatever they had to fix, or make new appliances for themselves. They gave the mismatched dishes to the newlyweds who didn't have used stuff to scavenge from yet. Buying stuff was not a realistic option.

This is not today's world. Newlyweds want new things. Kids prefer second hand stores to patched old clothes and many of us don't sew. We throw appliances away and buy new ones because most of us don't know how to tinker in any useful way. It is easier to buy another spool of string or thread than to take the time to unravel an old garment. Some people even use paper plates and cups or paper diapers now.

Good or bad, we live in a throw away culture, only some people haven't figured that out. 

Some people continue to save things they no longer want or need. If you don't want it you can give it to a second hand store, or a neighbor, or your kids, but if none of them want it? Throw it away! I suppose you can put it up for sale and if you can sit on it until the right buyer comes along, sell it, but you will probably be shocked at what it is not worth.

Saving things with the idea that some day some one will need or want it is just an excuse. If no one wants it now what makes you think they will want it later? And the same thing is true of collections. All that hype about the future value of most collections is truly only hype. It's only worth something if you can sit on it until it sells. If you truly love it enough that you keep it out and look at it and thank yourself for buying it, maybe it is a good thing, but don't count on other people sharing that love. It will simply be something to dust, clean, and fret over, or God forbid, store!

Storing stuff takes up space. It costs to heat and cool that space which still collects dust and mold and bugs.

If you absolutely love something, buy it, keep it, use it. Chances are the things you truly love will fit into your life for a very long time. People tend to keep many of the same color preferences and ethnic preferences most of their lives. When something you adore no longer fits your lifestyle, it can often be altered to fit in some other way. Paint it, restructure it, reimagine in some other way and if you can't? Do not keep it. Find someone else who will appreciate it, but get it out of your house!

Change

 

"I don't like change." That is a phrase I have heard many times, usually from older people who are being honest.

I, personally, do not like change that makes my life unavoidably more difficult, but otherwise I find change fun, stimulating and good.

I have been thinking about what people really mean when they say they don't like change. Some people prefer to act out of habit, or routine, but I believe that is dangerous because there is always the possibility of something unexpected happening, leaving me vulnerable, if I am not paying attention. Change surrounds me. It is three, maybe four dimensional.

Change requires me to rethink my thoughts and actions. 

It is natural to fear what I do not understand, so instead of dealing with that fear, I can refuse to accept that it exists, or blame it on someone or something that turns fear into anger. Anger becomes the shield that stands between me and fear (a.k.a.change.)

There is the possibility that I simply cannot, or choose not, to think. Reasoning out a solution might be simple if I gave it a chance. Many changes are positive experiences, like learning to look at the weather app on a cell phone before I go outside in order to know how to dress. That requires learning how to use my tools, remembering to use them and then actually doing it before making a decision, a three step process that most of us can adapt to by the time we are three or four years old.

I think conquering a dislike of change has more to do with choosing to take control of my own life. I can confront myself on whether I don't like change, or just refuse to believe it is a reality. 

I don't have to like change to know that if it is a reality, I cannot avoid dealing with it and be successful, so why not yield and just accept that change is part of living? Focusing on whether or not I like it is an unnecessary stressor.