The Dream

I dreamed I took a very young child, not much more than an infant really, to be healed. He was small with dark hair and sitting in a fetal position in a large glass cylinder when I began. Moving him was quite arduous, it required me to carry him sometimes and pull him along in wagons, or other conveyances at others.

We had a long way to go through a labyrinth of big brick houses and apartment houses that wound around and around the world. Normally I would have been terrified of dogs, but this time I knew they would not be a problem. The only problem was whether or not I would give up. I found myself stopping many times to rest, or think about other things, but there was a voice in my head, a female voice I thought might be the child's older sister, or maybe mother, maybe even an aunt, but some sort of female relative, that kept urging me on. I felt I had to be accountable to her.

Finally, in the midst of the most crowded conditions I came to a house surrounded by a wall. This house was flimsier than all the others. It was wood and bamboo, surrounded by a dense garden of tropical plants arranged like a Japanese garden. Slightly run down and very old, it ranged between decrepit and a venerable ancientness. I picked the child up and approached her gate, which was on the opposite side, or east side of the house and she answered.

Holding up the child I asked if she would take him to be healed and she was kind but very firm. She could not, there were too many others before him already. She simply turned away and closed the door.

I started to walk away, the doomed child resting his head against my shoulder when the voice reappeared and began asking me to return, try again. I tried to put it off by saying there was no use, but the voice reminded me that the child would never grow up to walk this earth as the adult he should be, if I did not succeed. I did not want to go back. Just like in my waking life, I feared rejection, but the voice began to sob quietly and say the child's life was at stake.

Finally, giving in, I returned to the woman's compound and knocked again. This time I begged her to please take him, to help him and she took him from my arms, turned around and, once more closed the door. I peeked through the chinks between the sticks of the wall surrounding a part of the compound I'd not noticed before and saw a huge pool of water. It was similar to the wave pools at the new water parks, but this water was completely silent and immobile. It appeared to be very very shallow, only ankle deep, at least where I could see, but people in black swimming trunks and black swimming suits were standing here and there holding children. The children were only in their arms, not in the water, but the people holding them had their heads tucked down close as if adoring them and the children were cuddled in close. It was as if they were being recharged, or fed by some energy connected to these people and the water.

All the people looked alike. In fact they all looked like the woman I gave the child too. I saw her go to the edge of the pool and hand the child to another woman, then turn and walk away and I wondered why she did not do this the first time I asked.

Honest And Open

Sometimes fatigue takes on a whole new meaning in my life. I wake up almost too tired to open my eyes and force myself to take Chauncey out for his morning walk. He seems to sense these mornings and whether it is to mock me, or try to bring me up to his standard of joy, he exhibits more excitement than usual. I can't help but smile, but with wan and quickly waning energy.

On days like this it is too hard to even sleep, let alone write, or do anything that is not absolutely mandatory. So I sit, or lie here with my eyes closed allowing my world to wind around me, waiting for it to pass. It will pass, experience has taught me that. All things pass eventually, it is just that some take longer than others.

Today I missed my first solo volunteering at the museum and that is a huge disappointment to me, but I haven't even had the energy to eat since yesterday morning and now the nausea has set in.

Obviously I am on the mend though, or I wouldn't be sitting here writing out my woes for all the world to see. I thought about trying to write about something else, but this is my world and these are my thoughts today, so honesty prevails.

If there is one thing My Thots has taught me over time, it is that I become more cognizant of who I am by writing as honestly and openly as possible and I guess that is really the point.

I love you. I love you not.

Why am I attracted to certain individuals? Obviously it is more than any one thing, but which combination is the killer combo?

Good looks? Well there are lots of ideas of who, or what is good looking. Physical attributes are not high on my list, although there is a certain type I am not attracted too.

Youth? Children are cute, but when it comes to adults I find myself all over the place. For me youth is more about actions than years. I am drawn to a certain amount of playfulness.

Intellect? I have to admit that I tend to prefer people who are creative and good at what they do.

Goodness? I am turned on by true goodness. Sweet to the bone people draw me like moths to a flame, but it has to be real. I can spot a faker ten miles away.

Strength? This one is a toughie. I love strong women and gentle men, but there is an oxymoron here, because it takes a strong person to be truly gentle.

Honesty? Absolutely! I need to be able to trust someone implicitly or that niggling doubt over shadows any other attribute they have.

So give me a strong, playful, creative individual who is good and honest and I am head over heels in love, but then who isn't? It's so easy to love these people.

The trick seems to be to love the needy weak ones who will do anything to get what they think they want. If you aren't one of those people who find clingy people whose conversations always start out or end up with a poor me story, necessary for your ego, you probably have to work very hard to appreciate them for who they are. The sad sams of this world scare me. Not so much because they aren't successful, but because I wonder if they will use me to reach their next goal.

I don't mind being used if I am aware of it and choose to be helpful in some way. I just don't care for being manipulated and I see a lot of that going on.

Working at the Y the other day, I had one child who kept running over and whining that so and so was chasing her. I saw other adults encourage this behavior by stepping in and making the whiner the center of attention by jumping on whoever she named. When she came to me I got the two of them together and asked first one and then the other what the problem was. Then I had them tell me what the other one said. And then I asked both of them what they thought a good solution would be? It took a little time, but it was time well spent. I don't think I ever saw her go to another adult after that. She always came to me and I always made them go through the same process, working it out themselves until one time I just called out, "Use your words."

She might grow up to be one of those people I really admire.

Between A Rock And A Choice

I like apartment living. I do not, however, like laundromats.

I like to believe that life is mostly what I make it. Some things are unavoidable, but most things in life are a choice and if I choose to live a certain way, then I have no reason to expect sympathy from anyone. Choices are truly that, choices! Placing the blame on anyone else is a cop out. Placing the blame on circumstances is often the same. I have watched people live in misery for years because they choose not to change a situation that benefits no one.

It isn't always easy to make changes, but it is usually possible. I am pretty adaptable. I love the ethnic diversity and the diversity of ages in this complex. I like how close I am to the places I need to go, but the laundromat I used today was one step up from beating my clothes against a rock in a torpid jungle. In all fairness, it is not the one here at the apartments. That one is over by the pool and only has a few washers and dryers, but maybe I should try it next time. Whatever I do, I will not go back to the one I used today. The dryers never did dry all my clothes, even when the toes of my socks began to curl up like the shoes of the wicked witch in the west, the tops were still wet. I am now the proud owner of a drying rack and I have clothes hanging all over the apartment.

Of course in the grand scheme of things this is not a critical problem, it is mostly an annoyance, probably exacerbated by the fact that I am not used to going to laundromats, but even little things can make or break a day. Start with the small problems and work up to the big ones.

Life is too short to spend it moaning about what is wrong, especially when I can do something about it.

Spencer's Song

John MacEnulty on his Native American flute, Sara McLachlin's voice accompanied by her piano, James Galway's golden flute, Pavarotti's dulcet tenor, Louis Armstrong's "It's a wonderful world," Three Irish tenors, John Denver, Bob Dylan, Peter, Paul and Mary, Roy Clark, and Iris DeMent's "My Life," where she sings,

But I gave joy to my mother.
And I made my lover smile.
And I can give comfort to my friends when they're hurting.
And I can make it seem better,
I can make it seem better,
I can make it seem better for a while.

All of these and a hundred more can turn me inside out. I listen to Spencer's song, "He's everything you want. He's everything you need..." and I am transported to a different time and space in an instant.

I seldom listen to music I am very familiar with if it has words unless I am reaching for a particular feeling, because that's what lyrics and tunes do to me. They carry me away as effectively as any time machine could ever hope to. No golden oldies for me, unless I want my heart ripped open and exposed to the light of memories almost too sweet to bear.

And sometimes I do. Sometimes I put on the CDs, or tune in the radio to a song that wrings the tears from my soul. It can be cathartic.

Or it can be so painful it is foolish to allow.

I've read that fire was a gift from the gods, but I think music is more powerful than even that. I don't think we have even begun to explore it's properties, but someday the right music may heal us, or alleviate our pain, or drive us to distraction. I'm sure of it, because some of it already does this to me.

Walk Carefully and Carry A Big Stick (It might keep you from falling off the tight rope.)

Everyone has their own idea of how the world should be. What is right, what is wrong, what is iffy. I fall into these categories someplace deep inside of me no matter how open minded I believe I am. I'm not sure where they come from, but I know they aren't new. Depending on how I view them, good, or bad, I am in good company throughout the ages.

It is Satan whispering in one ear and that good little angel yammering in the other. It is the key that opens the door to the long dark night. It is the vindication that says, "Do it! God wants you to!" It is cultural traditions and taboos. It is the nod of approval and parental admonitions. It is that smile my father thought he hid and a collective bag of other experiences and memories translated by and recorded in my brain. It is who I am.

Intellectual knowledge and desire, current popular beliefs and tried and true philosophies can't stand up to these things very easily. I can say and write all the right things, force myself to respond in all the correct ways and, because a very fundamental part of me doesn't really agree, I am still often only a very engaging and sweet charlatan. Not by choice and probably not even consciously, but it's there.

Today I bought a wide screen television. A very modest one by today's standards, but even though I could put it together and get it up and running, I could not adjust the color so that is is right. In fact, the picture is terrible. I did finally make a plea for help and I think my friend's son will come over next week and take a look at it for me, but it was hard. My old television is very small, less than twelve inches and nearly twelve years old. I can barely see the faces from across the room and I cannot read the tv guide at all. Intellectually I know it is okay for me to buy a new tv, but deep down inside is this sort of shadowy feeling that I deserve that lousy picture because there are a million better things I could do with the money I spent on it. I know people are hungry and living without even the barest of necessities and here I am buying what amounts to a very expensive toy.

This whole moving experience has been a little bit about this. I have spent a lot of money, most of it from my retirement fund, to buy things I could either have lived without, or bought cheaper versions of and it kind of dulls the shininess of all my new stuff. I got all those accolades for being so non materialistic when I left everything in North Carolina, but it turns out that I am pretty materialistic after all.

I'm a pretty accomplished debater too. I can justify rain during a flood and no one knows that better than me. And that is exactly why it is so hard for me to just brush off these feelings. I know it is not "bad" to buy things I want, but I also know I don't want to find myself making excuses for doing things I don't really feel are right.

On the other hand, I don't want to have to make excuses for doing things I think really are alright, because I believe that deep down inside of you and me are some things that just are who we are, and that is exactly the way it is supposed to be. Balance doesn't come from just one side.

Community

I got ready for the day by putting 50 sunblock on. I wasn't sure exactly what was going to happen, but I knew it would be sunny and hot. A crowd had already gathered by the time I walked into the old Bloomington-Normal airport and wound my way through the passage out to the waiting area. The passage had been deceptively empty and quiet, that ended as I stepped into the light on the other side. It was crowded enough that I had to really search for a familiar face.

I was looking for the Prairie Aviation Museum people because today we had volunteered to help Image Air meet and unload fourteen Cessna's as they returned from Lincoln, Nebraska with our local athletes. I found them and donned my orange airport security vest and settled down -- to sweat it turned out. The planes were a little behind, which is to to be expected when that many people are leaving Lincoln at one time. Someone said the live tracking on Flight Aware was pretty awsesome to watch as the planes all took to the air, but I didn't get to see that.

Eventually I was called out onto the tarmac and shown the boundaries for anyone not wearing a security vest. If people went over that line, everyone would have to go back inside. As new man on the team, I was one of two people set to guard this boundary. Then word came out that someone was smoking, they could smell it and the last thing we needed was a cigarette with all the jet fuel that was sitting around us. I never did find the culprit, but he, or she, must have caught on that we were serious and stopped smoking.

Then the first plane flew in, a Cessna business jet, followed almost immediately by two more in quick succession and I have to say that my heart beat a little harder as I watched it beginning to happen. Some of our people grabbed dollies and waited for the planes to turn and park. As they turned, I had to urge people back away from the lines, but it became easier as the hot air from their jets surged over us. Then we were all clapping and shouting and welcoming home the happiest bunch of athletes I have ever seen. They marched proudly in with their escorts, who kept everyone away from the the tail jets and I managed to keep the families close until they got to us.

The next few planes came in farther apart, but by the time the sixth ones were pulling to a stop, the first one had refueled and was on its way. There was much waving and cheering for the pilots and their planes as they took back off. Without them this would not be happening. It took about two and a half hours for all the planes to come in and take off and all of our athletes to rejoin their families, but the time flew. At the very end, when we had a very small crowd left and three planes disembarking at once, I was part of the crew that met the plane and helped walk them back in. It was fun to see their faces as they came out, proudly wearing medals and trying to maneuver backpacks through that small door. It was even more fun to hear their shouts of victory and the quick little stories they needed to tell right away. One guy said, "I was crazy, really crazy, but I won!" He was a swimmer it turned out.

Finally everyone was home and our work was done. We grabbed ice cold bottles of water and set off on all our separate ways, but for a while our community was exactly what I like to think all communities can be. Everyone was working together for a common cause and the feeling that pervaded everything was simply joy. It was one of those absolutely perfect days that just don't come around often enough.

Unsung Heroes

Standing all alone near the tarmac in the middle of Illinois corn fields is not exactly an emotionally packed setting, and yet as I raised the flag all the way to the top of the pole at the museum today and then lowered it to half mast in honor of those who died this week, I was surprised at the depth of emotion that came over me. I felt a need to do something more, but there was nothing more for me to do.

Knowing what to do is a big part of living and I often want to do more than I know how.

I realized, today, that I know so many really good people. People who are there to do those things others really need. They seem to have a built in understanding of what and how to do these things that I am often reluctant to do. Afraid that I might be imposing, I tend to step back unless something is terribly obvious.

It would seem that I should know exactly what to do. I have so often been the recipient of that hand extended in kindness, that hug given so warmly and freely, those words of encouragement whispered in my ear, or written to me in emails. You would think I would have no trouble turning around and passing it on, but sometimes I do. It takes a lot of courage to step up and offer oneself so openly. There is always the chance I will be pushed away, especially by someone who is already taxed to the limit and there is always the possibility that what I offer may do more harm than good.

My friends seem to either know the difference, or their love of their fellow man is so great that they are willing to take the chance when it is needed. I am in awe of these people, the ones who drive across town, or cajole someone to come visit them, or keep writing and emailing their encouragement until the one in need is comforted. These are the unsung heroes who save lives as surely as any doctor, or surgeon.

Here's to those who put themselves out there because their love is greater than their fear.

Chocolate Milk and Avocados

I used to sail into a new place and bam, it was home. Now it seems to take a while for me to acclimate. Perhaps because I am older and perhaps because I live alone. I lived two years out in North Carolina and it was just starting to really feel like home when I moved. There was food in the freezer, condiments in the refrigerator and the furniture had been rearranged several times.

Here nearly everything is new. I was reluctant to buy too much too fast. Partially because of the cost and also because I want to be sure I get just the right things. That is always the way I have done things, waited until just the right thing appears. Only now it seems sort of pointless. All those years I spent accumulating lovely old things and bright novel things and they are gone.

I bought a top quality mattress and recliner, a good computer and the rest will most likely be a bit more trendy. I love my dishes and silverware, got them at an upscale discount store. No longer the blue and white porcelain that was my trademark for so many years, these are more Tuscany. The tv stand was just downright cheap, but it got the tv off the floor. My side table is really a library ladder I bought on clearance and my dining table is made of rubberwood, an environmentally friendly wood. I am choosing to use eclectic side chairs, one from my sister's basement and one I have yet to find, then supplementing with a folding chair in the closet and my computer chair if I need it.

All I have in the refrigerator are the basics, orange juice, butter, eggs, cheese, romaine, avocados, chocolate milk and ice water. In the cupboards I have salt and pepper, garlic powder and coffee. I can eat off of this for quite a while, but eventually I will need to branch out.

I am also noticing that I really can't see the tv anymore. It is too small for my eyes, so buying a larger flat screen may come sooner rather than later. A couch would be nice too, but it isn't really essential yet. And I think I might buy one of those large electric fireplaces for this winter, the kind that look real, but aren't. These are just fun things, not necessities.

As I sat in my living room tonight I had the feeling that the place is very slowly morphing into me. Somehow the corners are softening and colors are coagulating into a style that says I live here. Now I need to add some homey smells, maybe brownies, or pot roast, just some memories that will remind me that I am truly home.

The Pleasure Is Mine

Last Saturday, as I was moving my furniture into the new apartment, our local athletes for the Special Olympics were gathering at the Bloomington, Illinois Airport.

The plan was to have 325 Cessna's bring approximately 800 athletes and their families from all over the country into Lincoln, Nebraska, but due to hard times, only 235 were available. The planes are all donated by their owners, who provide not just the planes, but also the pilots, crew, fuel and time, not a small thing for anyone to do.

Fourteen of these Cessna's landed here at our local airport and volunteers from Prairie Aviation Museum helped in every way, from planning, to handling luggage, to escorting the people to their planes. I could not be there, but I hear it was a stirring sight to see these planes lined up two by two down the runway and taking off one after the other in quick succession. I also heard that it was amazing to watch them landing in Lincoln, approximately one every two minutes. And someone who saw the flights coming in on radar said it was unbelievable to see them descending from all over the country.

This coming Saturday, our athletes will be flying home wearing their medals and I am proud to be one of those who will be there to greet them and make their landing as effortless as we possibly can.

People sometimes tell me how nice it is that I volunteer, but they don't realize how great it is to be allowed to be a part of so many things I would otherwise miss. I am loving this!

If you would like to see some pictures of our museum and planes,you can copy and paste this:

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=6791137&id=590231787#%21/photo.php?pid=6791137&id=590231787&fbid=458764981787

Water Dreams

The water is clear and cold and it fills me as completely as the finest wine, squeezed from top grade grapes at the peak of their freshness and set to age in dark cold cellars. In fact, it is better. There is no sweet cloying after-taste to the water. Some might say there is nothing to the water at all, but I disagree.

I used to dream about water as a child. I would be sleeping so hard that I couldn't wake up and when I did wake up I was afraid to get out of bed, so I dreamed of drinking water as it bubbled up out of a fountain and as it poured from a pump into a large tin cup and as it ran from the bathroom sink into the family glass my mother always kept on the lavatory. I was thirsty and water was what we drank.

I still keep a cold pitcher of water in my refrigerator and I still gulp it down after coming in from a walk on hot humid days. I've heard that our bodies are ninety percent water. I've also heard that this same water that I am drinking has been around since the earth was formed, so it must be recycled millions of times through all the plants and animals and people in this world. This water I am drinking ties me to everything else as surely as the air I breathe does. It's supposed to.

My mother kept a family glass in our bathroom and none of us thought twice about it. The idea of drinking out of paper cups still doesn't do much for me, although I must admit, I am more careful about sharing cups these days. But if the truth be told, water is the mother's milk of the earth. It runs through her body, nourishing all the children that spring from her and even though she provides no "family glass" she does provide us with ample opportunities to replenish ourselves and the vintage is awesome

My Own Way

I look at all the people who lead lives of quiet desperation. Lives spent frantically trying to please people and make them happy and then wondering why this isn't happening and it occurs to me that no one can ever make anyone else really happy, not for any length of time.

They can present opportunities that allow people to find their own happiness by discovering their self worth and self respect. Those are the best gifts I know for building a happiness foundation.

Other gifts become weights around the neck of the beloved. Weighing them down and keeping them there. Imagine a sinking ship. All the gold in the world won't raise that ship above the water's crest. Sometimes removing the gold is the answer.

When I am lost, or alone, sad, or suffering, the thing that feels the best, is a loving arm around me and a sweet voice whispering in my ear, "You can do this."

Even if it takes years, that voice and that arm are worth more than their weight in gold, because they allow me to find my own way.

Hugh Hefner And Strawberries

I am in my new apartment and starting to feel settled in already. The past few months have been a whirlwind of experiences and looking back I realize that many people might have found them to be very negative ones in most respects, but they actually didn't feel that way. There were definitely negative moments, very negative ones, but each one ended up leading me into something better than before.

I suspect I have always gone into transitions kicking and screaming, from the day I was born until now. There is something about me that says the status quo is worth fighting for, even when experiences point otherwise. I think that is necessary. Without it I might truly be a nomad in a world that does not really accept wanderers very well.

I've been having some pretty intense nightmares and last night, the first one in my own bed here at the apartment, that stopped. I dreamed I saw a bright red airplane with curved wings doing acrobatic demonstrations over my house. I took pictures of it and then took those pictures to show them to Hugh. Yes, I was living in the playboy mansion! (Not something I ever dreamed about in any way before now.) Hugh wasn't impressed with my pictures, but he did notice that I was carefully arranging seed in a small dish for some birds in an oriental cage and he asked if I knew about feeding birds? I told him no and he said he was going to ask me to take care of all the birds, but maybe I shouldn't. Besides, he and I were going out, so I wouldn't really have time! Later I had another dream that I was sitting in a row with a bunch of people eating off of trays. A man farther down the row had a very simple, very elegant tray, but his crystal bowl of strawberry preserves had tipped over and spilled onto his omelet. Although neither one of these dreams resonate with anything I am doing, or thinking about literally, I think they both point to the fact that for all my poverty and lack of "things," I am feeling very rich.

Moving away from here, I gave up all my adult history. I gave up my identity and allowed myself to be who I thought I was instead of who I had worked all my life being. It's nice to be back in familiar territory now. I was reading about a study to find the happiest countries in the world and some of the criteria they judged people on were things like whether they felt well-rested, respected, free of pain and intellectually engaged.

I can feel myself heading that way, in fact I'm two thirds there already.

"If you can't fix it, please don't break it."

Really powerful speech in Rio by young Canadian girl from Vancouver. http://media.causes.com/510213?s=cause (copy and paste to watch, or just type it in.)

A little girl speaks to the United Nations Conference on Environment and Development and says something I think most of us believe. I cannot imagine anyone not believing it, but the fact that this child was willing to save her own money and pay her own way and then speak so eloquently makes it so much more memorable in my opinion.

It is a short speech and it starts a bit slow. I almost didn't continue listening, but I'm glad I did. It's short, about five minutes, but it packs a punch that moved me.

The Beautiful Thing About Now

The beautiful thing about going without my own things is the way I appreciate them when I once more have them back.

Sleeping on a hotel bed is okay. Sleeping on my daughter's couch was sweet. Sleeping on the blow up bed my sister loaned me sure beat sleeping on the floor, but nothing is better than sleeping in my own bed, which I will do tonight.

The same is true for the little recliner I had in the hotel. It certainly served its purpose. The metal folding chair I have used for the past three days was better than sitting on the floor too, but never relaxing. I actually fell asleep in my own cozy recliner tonight.

While things are just that, when they are my things, they bring a comfort level I really welcome after all the changes of the past few months.

I am not feeling particularly philosophical, or spiritual tonight. I am simply sleepy and as soon as I mail this out into the vast world of the internet, I am going to climb into my bed, pull my own cover up over me and snuggle down into my pillows for a long night's sleep.

Sweet dreams.

I Cannot Separate Myself From You

Sometimes it is necessary to get far enough away from something to recognize what it is. I'm not talking about looking at hairs on the leg of an ant and then zooming back to reveal the whole little armored body. I'm thinking more about familiar things I see everyday.

I am thinking of those things that I choose to decorate my life with. The songs, the colors, the patterns and stories that become my favorites for reasons I cannot understand.

Some people claim they come from past lives, others that they are in the genes. Still others think we are programmed to like these things by our culture and family and will even go farther to say that we choose to like them after learning about them in our studies.

I submitted some lines from one of my thots to the new site "I write like" tonight and it said I write like Vladimir Nabokov. Having no idea who he was I looked him up and I was surprised at how much his life resonated with things I have dreamed, or thought about, or been intrigued with, but of course those could be things a lot of girls growing up the way I did might have found familiar. And the idea was to submit lines that exemplify your work. I'm not sure there are any one set of lines that do that for me, but I used:

I cannot separate myself from you.

You came into my life, caught me up and carried me away, taught me the futility of drinking weak tea, watered down until it had no real taste, tepid and muddied, leaving me wanting.

My tongue prefers to be scalded, to suffer the sting of blisters whose presence remind me of the intensity, the full bodied flavor of you. I want to inhale your fragrance at our peak. I want each tiny scar to stay here where I feel its presence and remember what made me who I am.

Of course I also took a picture of my kitchen with one of the plates I bought. I love these plates. The colors leave me feeling very creative and yet free somehow. It wasn't until I looked at the photograph that I realized it is reminiscent of some plates my grandmother used up in Minnesota at our vacation home. I just had to be far enough away to see the colors without seeing the actual pattern.

The point is that right now I am feeling as if my life is calling out to me with a familiar voice.

Support Systems

First night in the new apartment and I dreamed young dreams. That's a good sign, although it is also rather amazing, because I felt very old. Rolling off the blow up bed left me clinging to the folding chair to hoist myself up off the floor. It's one of nature's comical comments that I have an injured rotator cuff on my right shoulder and a swollen, don't even let the sheet touch me left foot big toe and metatarsal bone. One thing about growing older is that all those bone names I learned as a child introduce themselves to me one at a time.

Still, this morning, Chauncey and I discovered that if we go out the back door of our building we can walk around some beautiful old pine trees and breathe in that pine smell I love so much.

Life is just what it is. No amount of philosophizing is going to change it. I don't really know how anyone lives anywhere except the present, that's about all I can deal with on a moment to moment basis. Not being a "seer" it is seldom what I think it's going to be anyway, so any preemptive worrying is generally worthless. Someone wrote that I am their hero. Well, all I can say is that if other heroes function the way I do, we're all heroes.

We just go along, doing the best we know how, rolling with the punches and hoisting ourselves back up whenever we are down. What else can you do? For me I might make sure I have two folding chairs next time. It would make the hoisting a lot easier! Honestly, it is the support system that surrounds me that makes my life not just bearable, but good, really good and I am so grateful for those people.

So here's to good friends! Cheers!

Moving In

Murphy's Law is alive and well!

Yesterday, moments before I turned into the the parking lot of my new apartment I received a frantic call from the administrator. They had just inspected my apartment, the first one in my building to be renovated and it had to be shampooed! I would not be able to move furniture in until the next day. Not a problem, or so I thought. My furniture is not due to be moved in until Saturday.

However, everything I owned, otherwise, including my dog, was in the car and we had a heat advisory of 105 degrees for the next few days. They offered me the model apartment until mine was ready, so I hauled my computers and dog and dog bowls, as well as my perishable food up into the model. I put my little shopping cart together and prepared to settle in when I remembered that Comcast was set up to come between one and four and I had signed in blood saying I would be there. At quarter till one, the floors were finished. Not dry, but I could walk sock footed across them if I wanted to. They offered to let me shower, spend the night, even sleep in the bed in the model, but that felt kind of like sleeping in the windows at Macy's, so I hauled my computers and dog and dog bowls and perishable food down from the model and across the parking lot to my apartment.

Comcast couldn't find me, so I got to practice giving my first directions on how to find my apartment to the man I could barely hear on the telephone and then I went out to wait by my car, so I would see him as he drove in. Ten minutes turned into twenty and they weren't kidding about the heat index. Just before he arrived it occurred to me that I really should have a television in there for him to hook up and had to haul my little portable in. Well, it's my only tv right now, kind of funny looking with all the cords that do NOT attach to it, but it works and he hooked up a place for my computer, which I am glad to report I discovered also works.

Oh yes, I forgot to mention that the state of the art air conditioners for our building will not arrive until July 27th! So they had to hook up a little window one for me in the interim and it is huffing and puffing and killing itself to do its job in this heat. Last night I crawled up my daughter's steps and died on her couch, in her cool, cool living room and both Chauncey and I were so grateful! Today he went to the groomers and I came to finish unloading the car. It's been another horribly hot day, the construction guys across the hall gave up about two o'clock. That's about the time I finally finished and began to unpack things in here, only to discover there was no hot water, the shower rod would not stay up on the wall and I cannot work over my head for more than about thirty seconds with my injured shoulder. The fan and hood over the stove did not work and neither did the stove! I kept calling the office and getting a recording, so I finally walked over there and came back with the head maintenance man who must be at least seven feet tall!

He flipped a few circuit breakers and snapped the shower rod into place and screwed it in (eye level for him!) I got my computer up and running, washed some of the dishes I bought for here and am just about to go get Chauncey from the groomers. Life is good. Exhausting, but good!

I'm debating whether to sleep on the floor tonight, or set up my sister's blow up bed. It just depends on whether or not my energy returns before I crash!

Where Do I Live?

Once, long ago, when I was a test reader at the local high school, I had to register my car in the office. They asked what color it was and I looked rather ridiculous when I said, "Uh, silvery, no sort of tan, um....I don't know." It was an odd little car with that funny beige brown metallic paint that I still can't describe. The office woman eyed me suspiciously, as if to say she thought they'd made a mistake by letting me be a reader.

I have felt that same way several times during the last month when people asked where I live. I have stayed with my daughter, but am actually residing in a hotel. My driver's license has a Decatur, Illinois address on it and that is where my mail went and much of that mail still had my North Carolina address on it. I knew I would be moving into my new apartment on July 14th, but I wasn't legally there yet. Topping all this off is the fact that I haven't used many checks in the past two years, so they all still have my old Taylorville, Illinois address on them.

I went to the county health department to get a tb test and she suggested I use my daughter's address. I signed up to volunteer and they used my apartment to be address. In order to sign into the hotel I needed a "real" address, so I used Decatur.

Purchasing various and sundry things around town I was asked for my zip code. I'm sure I looked very suspicious when I floundered over that one. The truth is I haven't really known where I legally lived for the last month, but that all changes tomorrow when I move into my apartment!

I never dreamed I could ever be in a situation like this, but I have learned a lot in the last few years, about myself and the world around me. I just did it at sixty instead of twenty and the lessons are not quite the same, I am sure. They have been lessons, none the less and I am just as thrilled to be moving tomorrow as I would have been forty years ago.

"What's It All About?"

It is the great fluctuations in life that offer the most challenges. I think if there is one skill that serves people better than any other, it is the ability to "go with the flow."

I see this in nature too. The tree that can bend in the wind does not break during tornadoes and ice storms. The plants with long willowy stems survive the vagaries of the pond. As beautiful as the stately oak can be, it can come crashing down onto the top of my car, creating untold problems.

Of course when that oak was a sapling, it bent just as much as any tree. Even the icebergs ability to float around becomes more problematic as it grows from a tiny chunk in the ocean to a mountain of a landmark whose fractures are so magnificent, people go to watch.

What is the difference between the tragic uprooting of the oak tree and the awesome disintegration of the iceberg? I think in most cases it is only that the tree is perceived as alive and the iceberg as an inanimate object, but for me there is a little more. The tree that falls on a house, or car, or even the ground, looks broken to me. It appears that its usefulness in this world is over. It will no longer provide shade, or acorns, or any of those things I associate with oak trees. The iceberg never seemed to have a real purpose to me and even if it did, I see the parts that break off, floating away in the sea, Not useless, or ruined, just freed and smaller, almost given a second chance in the great ocean of life around it. Of course the tree is often still very useful as wood if someone chooses to use it.

In the end it is all pretty much the same thing. Perception, understanding and the ability to move on into what comes next defines the quality of being. I don't know about trees and icebergs, but I know human beings "are" on many different levels. As one, or more of these levels begin to disintegrate, the stability of the others comes into play. It is the honing of these different levels, these human abilities, that defines each one of us as a unique part of this whole.

It seems to me that the simpler the needs, the longer something lasts, but longevity is not everything. A candle that never burns is only a decoration and that is okay, but generally not as interesting, and useful, as one whose flame flickers and dances, providing light and warmth, and inspiration. Or, in more human terms, my friend, Marian comes to mind. Her death, her final "being" on this earth, at least the last part I could see and be part of, was one of the most incredible times in my life. Even her final disintegration provided opportunities for everyone around her, and her too, to grow and learn and be, on levels most of us had never before touched on.

Being able to "go with the flow" allows me to be aware of and gain a deeper understanding of just what this thing called life is. When I am not afraid to hold onto some things and let go of others, I gain the most amazing insights. Each one a step closer to the light that warms me from the inside out and I think that might be what it's all about

"The Road Less Traveled By"

I wander along this Way knowing that I really never take the wrong road, but sometimes I sure do choose one that has a lot to teach. Some of these little detours I have been on have left me on overload, but not this weekend. This was the path that brought me back to the main road.

No matter how old I am, in the long run I am only a child compared to the universe, so it is to be expected that I will want to try on the clothes of others, or walk in their shoes, even sleep in their beds! And sometimes I still need to go visit gramma and grampaw, or climb up into the lap of my father and lean back into the security of all encompassing love.

Resting is a necessity. Renewal is an art. It requires me to let go, let go, let go. The inconsequential things become all important and the things I thought were important stand by the wayside. The worldly acts of living can be set aside, bundled up and left in the shade of a grandfather tree while I go off to pick flowers, because the scent of those bouquets will enhance my life for much longer than I often anticipate.

Today I am renewed. Ready to go out and take care of the business of moving and step back into the company of loving preschoolers tomorrow, knowing that it is one of the most important things I can do.

It's been a long and rocky road lately, but here I am, back in familiar territory, walking along paths I have walked before, ready, willing, and able to stop and smell the flowers!

The Pulse Of This Night

The fire dances to the flute's music and the smoke carries my thoughts to higher and higher levels. I watch the shadow patterns flickering in the light reflected through the skin of my drum and lose myself in vibrations of my own making.

Meditations under the moonlight in the company of like minds has a power that I find nowhere else.

Chauncey lies beside me, silent in the grass. Uninterested in the fire, unperturbed by the drums, he lies motionless as a voice begins to weave itself in and out of the air, winding in and out between the warp and woof of a harmonica.

I would be hard pressed to put my finger on the pulse of this night. One moment it seems to surround me. The next I think it is coming from inside of me.

Whatever it is. Wherever it is. It is here and I am connected to it.

I Am Home

Walking the labyrinth, sitting in the Silence, it is possible to go home.

Here where the breath of the flute carries me away like the fluff of the dandelion and the silence wraps around me with the warmth of my old blankie. Here, where bowls of fruit taste like ambrosia and my dreams rock me into the deep sleep of childhood.

How could I have forgotten? Not the people, or the places. I remember these like the color of my own eyes. It is the love I had forgotten, the sense of belonging, of being inside myself and whole.

But it has not forgotten me, that is how I know I am home. My blood does not run through veins here, but my love runs through hearts, tying us like bundles of firewood, burning, growing warm with the desire to be together.

I am home. Only for a few days, but that will sustain me for so much longer.

"In my beginning is my end" T.S. Eliot

A really good cup of coffee. Carefully washing the plate I ate dinner on.

Defining moments that flank a great day.

Satisfaction is often achieved through the simplest of things. It comes when I can do the homely things and not think of anything else as I do them.

It is when I can be present in the moment and enjoy sipping the coffee, or wiping the suds from the plate and placing it in the drainer to dry.

"In my beginning is my end..........."

"And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well"

T.S. Eliot

Someone Else Said It

I have been trying to write a thot for the past three hours, during which time I also did laundry, ate supper and deleted umpteen false starts.

This past month has been a period of redefining my life and re-thinking who I am. I realize that I am the same person I have always been in most respects, just not quite as mellowed out as I thought I was. I still feel I have no choice when it comes to doing, or not doing, some things. I am who I am and that has not changed.

It makes my life hard, forcing me to do things that are out of my comfort level, but that is really nothing new. It's just not something I have had to do for a long time. I suppose that is really an affirmation. It means my work in this world is not as close to being over as I thought it was.

A friend wrote, "You're right, that things are really going just fine and you're finding a new place to live in your life." I know that, but it certainly was comforting to hear someone else say it. It has become my mantra in times of panic, or indecision. "Things are really going just fine."

And they are. I just need to remember that all things happen in their own time and that may not be exactly how I dreamed it.

Tomorrow I go to my first orientation for volunteering. It's at the Prairie Aviation Museum, now what do you think of that!

Emptiness

Trying to fill something that is already full results in overflowing and while overflowing can be a wonderful feeling, it is not always that.

Sometimes what overflows is pain, or confusion, then it is necessary to empty the vessel to make room for something new.

And, sometimes, it is necessary to remain empty for a while. Emptiness is not something I particularly enjoy. It is too easy for me to fill it with things like depression, or sadness, or thoughts of insecurity and personal failings. Still, my inability to live empty does not negate the need for its being.

It is only when I am empty that new things begin to settle in, new perspectives, new thoughts, new ways of acting and thinking and being. The possibilities are amazing and they have nothing to do with my age, or limitations. They have more to do with my ability to let go of old habits and belief systems, things that hold me back, that keep me from discovering more of my own abilities.

It is easier to embrace busy-ness, because that eliminates the need to look deeply into who and where I am. It appears to give me an excuse for staying in a way of life that is not healthy, or truly productive. The users in this world love busy-ness. It is one of the best tools they know of to distract people from the real issues. It's that old, "keep 'em barefoot and pregnant" thing, because if you are tired and cold and your feet hurt, you are less likely to be thinking of what you can do to make this world a better place.

It doesn't take much to start. It is hanging in there that is hard. Doing nothing, living with who I really am, learning to love her and embrace her actual abilities will fill me better than anything I can think of in the long run. Then I will look back and remember the emptiness as cocoon time, a period of growth and rejuvenation.

I need to remember that as night is to day and chaos to peace, so is emptiness to fulfillment, a complicated and wonderful balancing of what is with what will be. And another thing I need to remember is that it is an ongoing process. Just because I didn't achieve it last time does not mean it won't work this time. In fact the more I fail, the more I need to allow this process to continue.

Failure is not an excuse to quit. It is the reason to keep going, not mindlessly but mindfully -- always striving to fill my mind with the things that are truly correct, with a light as pure as I am able to allow in. Only then can I hope to find true fulfillment.

"Forever Home"

The fourth of July, my first major holiday in this segment of my life and it was a propitious one.

I was welcomed into a huge extended family connected to me through my daughter. It was a great day filled with lots of fun and a surreal sense of belonging.

I think I know what a stray dog feels like when it is taken to its new "forever" home now. Everyone at the party went out of their way to make me feel at home. Everyone meaning 92 year old great grandmas, sixty something grandma and grandpas, grown children, teenagers, right on down to a six year old hoyden, and I "got it." In this family there are no strangers, only newer members of the family.

There were games to play, boat rides to take, shelters from the sun to set up, great music to listen to, stories to share and no pressure to do, or not do anything. I was struck by the similarities in our stories right from the start and I don't know why that surprised me. It was my daughter, after all, who led me to this place and she hasn't fallen far from our family tree at all

My Friend

I'm homesick for an idea, for a person and a place, I've never been near.

An imaginary friend, if you will, no more real in my life than the words on my computer, or the wind that whispers in my ear at the park. And I am too old for imaginary friends.

Yet, this imaginary one gives me hope and brings joy into my life in ways that are unimaginable, which I suppose is what imaginary things do.

The unimaginable manifests and then, "poof," like the insubstantial smoke that it is, it will be gone. But it is here for me now when I need it and for whatever reason that is, I am grateful.

My life feels like a dream and I feel as insubstantial as the smoke I speak of, so perhaps this is where the magic comes from.

Deep within the mists and confusion of this time is a shape and a voice that flickers in and out and for all its impermanence, it is what is keeping me afloat.

Bumpy

I had a small bunny, called Bumpy, when I was very small. He gave me great comfort by his simple being. I have no idea what he looked like in the beginning. My mother washed him and mended him and even made new ears for him out of something when I wore the old ones out.

I have no real memory of him, at least not consciously, but I am still linked to him by a small movement I make with my thumb, the very same action that wore his ears off time and again. My mother called it twiddling and to this day I find myself twiddling my thumb. I have tried to analyze the times and the reasons why, but they are nothing I can actually pin down. Of course it is a comfort mechanism. Some children suck their thumbs, others have a pacifier. I twiddled and I guess the really good thing about this is, that I would have eventually had to give up the other two. Twiddling is mine forever.

I think it is a natural part of being human to want someone who will be with me forever. Someone who can listen to my every thought and not criticize, or judge me. Someone who brings me comfort and is always here when I need him.

Expecting that from a person is asking a lot even though that person is looking for the same thing whether he, or she realizes it, or not. It is the perfect love that appears in our myths and fairy tales and religious beliefs, the ultimate quest. It is the primal memory of expectations before being conscious of I am, left over from a time when "me" meant everything.

Whether I give it a name, or not, it exists deep inside of me. I carry it with me everywhere. The need and the answer, hidden only by my ability to see it, to believe in it, to utilize it.

Maybe I'll just call it Bumpy!

Choose Your Battles

It's always something. If I'm healthy and feeling good, finances may be tough. If the money is working out, I may be feeling lonely, or a little off. If I'm happy, or content, the body betrays me in some way.

Life goes on and whether it's onward and upward as a friend suggests, or down the garden path mostly depends on my attitude. I don't have to be a Pollyanna to be happy. In fact, happy is kind of an extreme. Content works for me most of the time.

I have a child like ability to recover quickly from most disappointments and problems, at least those that concern only myself. Those that affect others are more difficult for me. It is inconceivable to me that anyone would want to hurt those they love and yet I see it happening all the time. For me it has always been a given, do what is best for those I love at any expense, especially my own.

It's not that I love sacrifice, or get anything out of suffering. I don't. No matter how important what I do is, if it is painful, I hurt. I don't know if I suffer as much as you do, or the person next to you does. How could I possibly really know how deeply you feel? But I do know how I feel and I feel like I have no choice.

I have to do the best I can for everyone I can and that starts with me. It took me a while to learn that, but it's true. If I don't take care of myself, I cannot really take care of anyone else. My life style is the ultimate spokes person. It shows what I really believe is important, so sometimes I do have to just walk away. It might seem self indulgent, but it's not. It's the starting point, the place where everything else I do begins.

Nothing new in all this. People have been thinking about it and talking about it in a million ways since people began thinking. I'm sure of it. It's the old "choose your battles" thing. The old, "know when to hold em, know when to fold em" thing. No matter how it is expressed, it always boils down to the fact that I can only do so much and knowing when to quit is as important as anything else.

In a culture that values power, quitting is often seen as being a loser. Not quitting when something is over, when all reasonable solutions are exhausted, is just plain foolish. It is ego butting its head against a wall with nothing more to hope for than a sore head.

All this stuff goes along with onward and upward and tripping the light fantastic, and being led down the garden path, and just generally living a content and useful life. Life is not a simple balancing act with right on one side and wrong on the other. It is a million different decisions made by a million different people, the factored possibilities are astounding, but they're not all equal. Wisdom is knowing how to weigh one against the other.

Ever After

Going home is dangerous. There is always the possibility of tripping over a sacred cow and waking it up. Once awake and moving, it is unlikely to maintain its homey, kitschy aura and it is even more likely to take that first step towards falling from grace. No one wants to see this happen, especially not dewy eyed romantics popping in to visit after being gone a few years.

The dear hearts and special people who make up the memories fabricated by my absence are still here. They are pretty much the same as they were two years ago. In fact they are pretty much the same as they were ten years ago, or even twenty years ago. That's the thing about going home, nothing ever changes. Well, nothing except the memories. The fond memories of good ole Aunt Shirley holding court in her kitchen after Uncle Hal scraped her and Johnny Walker off the bathroom floor are less funny now that she uses a walker. And Cousin Zeb's funny forays down the local alleys in search of exotic fumes wane as his own kids begin to approach the hunting age. Gotta make way for the next generation.

Aunt Hattie's locked fortress begins to take on a slightly crowded look as the clothes over run the hanging space and begin to sit next to her on the living room sofa and kitchen table. And no one can remember which one of Aunt Pearl's cats begat who now that the generations are piling up in living fur balls everywhere. George forgot I was coming, even though I called to remind him twice, so I drive on by and nostalgia grips me by the throat.

I listen to the old songs on the radio and my heart lurches now and then. Was it really like this then? A green light pops up and I screech to a stop as three young teenagers slowly ride their bikes across the street in front of me. Right here, and I have a green light! Memories of another accident in this same place pop up and I wonder what is is about this corner? Is there some kind of hex that makes fourteen year olds court death here?

I stop at the local watering hole on my way out of town, but the pickings are slim. Cube Mountain water, the special kind that probably came from the fountain of youth, lots of sugary fake fruit drinks and some Pepsi, but no Coke, because everyone here knows that Coke eats up car batteries. They know lots of secret stuff here, but my particular brand of poison is missing so I drive on.

I came, I drove around and I drove away, a little sadder and a little wiser. This isn't my home anymore and these aren't really my people, just their memories are. Going home is dangerous, it rewrites the old stories and they cease to be funny, or cute, or even sweet. There are no happily ever afters here, only ever afters.

The Vagaries of Other People

I often wonder why it is that some people have so much and others so little. It would be easy to say that it is because one works, harder, or is more frugal, or more deserving, and that is true to a great extent, but it isn't always so. In my own life things ebb and flow, often depending on nothing more than the vagaries of some other person's thoughts, or actions.

Of course I make myself vulnerable to those things by how attached I am to these people, but life is about people. They are the biggest challenge and the greatest blessing and learning how to live with and around them becomes the art that defines my life. For some reason this kind of art reminds me of Vermeer, rich and deep, a study on people, not Monet whose work I love, but is more like my thoughts than my life, or Van Gogh and Picasso who touch on my feelings. This art of living my life is a complex thing that even I do not really understand.

My way of living seems to flow through and around me as if I am an isle lost on the edge of vast tributaries. Easily touched, and I mean to the core, by everything around me, I find myself fighting to respond and not simply react to the barrage of life's experiences. Yet, there is a warmth emanating from my center that is definitely me. You can see it in my eyes and my smile. It may slide out and engulf you in love, or pour down upon you like a thunderstorm from hell, but it is all legitimately me.

I am intense. It is who I am, so I am constantly full -- of feelings, thoughts and needs that paint the picture of my life. I don't know why I have so much, but I am grateful and I sort of expect it. I try to envision the best and often use the phrase, "this, or something better, will manifest in my life."

It doesn't always happen, but it's not a bad way to live.