I’m not disorganized, I have a lot to do!

Contrary to my husband’s core belief, I do not leave everything until the last minute.  He just doesn’t realize how many unforeseen things come up before company arrives or a flight leaves…or even before we leave for the movie.

The simplest things that make me late are immediate: I need to turn off all burners; put all food in the refrigerator; and check to see that the automatic sprinklers are set properly.

When company is coming it’s a bit more complex.  When I make the spare bed I notice the dust bunnies under it.  (Last week I was embarrassed by NOT having noticed the dust bunnies under a chair!)  Setting out the guest towels I notice that the plants haven’t been watered.  And when I am finding the pillowcases, I may as well iron all of the spare ones so I don’t have to do it the next time.

Even dinner guests can open the Fibber McGee’s Closet of last minute tasks.  The good flatware drawer is way too disorganized and there are crumbs under the drawer liner.  Getting the serving dishes down I remember that I haven’t written a note to the kids about Great Grandmother’s sugar bowl.   I forgot that I put the tablecloth away without ironing it, (knowing that it would be wrinkled with folds when I wanted to use it).

My husband hates that last minute flurry when the mop is still in the middle of the floor when the doorbell rings.  But I can relax knowing that if anyone goes to the bathroom and looks in the guest shower they won’t find a ring under the shampoo bottle.

When I am leaving for a trip I can tear apart the entire house.  Days of critical tasks are unwieldy to fit into the last 24 hours before lift-off.

1)    When I sit at my desk to pay necessary bills there is a HUGE stack of visa receipts to be reconciled and filed.
2)    When I look for my travel hair dryer I find a storage box of travel shampoos; old Q-tips, stray hairpins and cotton balls that must be sorted and allotted to the proper places in this not-so-new-house.
3)    It is important to leave the bathroom sink clean and organize my vanity so that if the plane goes down my family doesn’t think I am totally skanky.
4)    When I find my cashmere sweater I am reminded to go to the pantry, retrieve the dried lavender and find some small mesh bags to hang in the closet for the winter.
5)    There are 2 pony packs of Irish Moss and a nectarine tree that need to be planted before I leave because it might rain while I’m gone.  Rain will give them a good start.
6)    We’re going to a dinner party tonight so I should fix one little extra thing to help the hostess.
7)    The Dia de los Muertos altar needs to be packed away.
8)    We are out of birdseed.
9)    Etc.

Oh well.  I have almost decided what to take.  I’ll find my suitcase in the garage before I leave for my walk.  I only have three appointments before the dinner party.  We don’t have to leave the house until 4:15 tomorrow morning.  And I will have gotten more done in the last two days than I have in the last two weeks.  Cool!

Maybe he can wear a sleeping mask and earplugs while I am searching for my underwear and zipping my suitcase at 3:00 a.m.

 

Friends in New York

I am taking a trip with my friend.

She isn’t just any friend; she’s a since-freshman-year-in-high-school friend.

She brings out the best in me because she is everything I’m not: lighthearted in attitude, carefree in spirit, and open to the world on first instinct.  She finds the ridiculous in life and shares it with me.  She laughingly chides me for my intensity and sheds light into the dark corners of my thoughts. She has seen me at my worst and is still my friend.

We have flowed in and out of each other’s lives easily and happily since the days we parked behind the DeMolay building watching the Sophomore Studs, giggling with adolescent dreams and desires.  I smoked my first and last cigar at her slumber party and had to walk home because I was embarrassed to be sick at her house.  I helped her with her “job” cleaning her family’s business office (when janitoring seemed like fun) while I watched the burgeoning romance that flowered into the love of her life.  She took care of my children when I didn’t have a sitter.   She poured wine and listened to me when I learned my sister was dying.  She invited me on my first travel adventure.

And did I mention that it was all FUN?  I smile when I think of her and laugh when I’m with her. My cheeks hurt from laughing.

It’s great to plan another trip when everything is exciting.  Somehow we have channeled the enthusiasm of our youth into our anticipation of adventure.  We’re scared silly (will that young stylist make me look like my mother?), but eager, to get our hair cut in Nick Arrojo’s salon.  We have a list of favorite foods from chefs on the Food Network and we’ll gleefully hunt for sinfully delicious treasure.  We’ll go to the Jimmy Fallon Show even though we had to tape his show to know who he is.  We may even purposefully miss our flight to be at the Dr. Oz Show.

We’ll get lost on the subways and walk for miles in search of a bargain.  We’ll go to museums and comedy clubs.  We’ll gaze up at the skyscrapers because we live in small towns (even though we have each traveled the world).  We’ll talk ourselves to sleep at night, reliving the joys and sorrows of our lives.  We’ll laugh until our sides ache.

Maybe on our way back we’ll plan another trip.

 

El Dia de los Muertos

The Day of the Dead is one of my favorite holidays.  It isn’t a sad time.  It’s a time that warms us in the glow of loved ones remembering loved ones.

When I look at my ofrenda on the fireplace mantel, I have no sorrow.  My heart swells with pleasure that I have discovered an old photo of my mother, father and three older sisters.  They are captured in a black and white photo before the rest of us were born: a complete unit just as they are.  The photo of my husband’s parents freezes them in time: watching their grandchildren play ball game on a summer day.  My nieces have their grandparents.  The twins are together.  Smiles light the cherished faces.   On my altar, life after death is strewn with marigolds, candy, candles and a bit of red wine thrown in.  La Calaca* is dressed in many guises and is providing music as a skeletal mariachi band.

We prepare for their feast.  Warm memories carry me through the “heirloom” section of my recipes.  Can I really make Grandma’s bread with an inoperable wrist?  Probably not.  But I can make hummus for my sister who lived in the Middle East.  And in my family, beets will make a lot of spirits happy.  And off we go…

This year is special because my sister has come to cook with me.  (Well, maybe, considering my disability, she has come to cook FOR me.)  The sweetness of being with her for this day will flavor this holiday forever. It was a homey comfort to stand near each other in joint projects and to have the luxury to remember questions we wanted to ask.  We took time to drop our work and hunt through an album for a picture to prove a memory.

There was joy in the kitchen when our hands were dyed red from cutting beets.  There was laughter at my lame attempt at Mom’s cornbread recipe – where did I go wrong?  We cooked beans, grated salad and intermittently forgot that company was coming.   So while my sister was throwing everything from my counters into a paper bag, and I was washing my hair over the bathtub (too late for a shower); my husband rescued us by preparing his adaptation of his Mom’s Mac and Cheese.

Our friends and family arrived with their own memories: photographs for the altar, food for the table; and drinks to sustain us in our festivities.   We all joined in celebration.  We talked, we laughed, we ate, we drank; and the spirits were there with us.

I think they’re happy when we’re happy.

*skeleton

 

 

Deep Thought Withdrawal

Okay, so I knew I was addicted. I have gone so far as limit myself to checking incoming online info to three times a day. (It was amazing how much time THAT freed up!) What an eye-opener! I didn’t know realize how different my life would be.

This time, though, it isn’t a test and I didn’t give it up willingly. My wrist is giving me fits. I finally got the diagnosis and it isn’t serious, but it’s painful, which is a huge behavior modifier. I don’t do elective pain. And so…I haven’t been able to write.  The limit of my pain tolerance is reached answering ordering online… this by stacking unsorted papers on my desk to lift both the keyboard and the mouse to a position in which my wrist is level and straight. Bummer!

It’s the silence of my keyboard that has taken the longest to tolerate. I miss writing. I have an idea minute, I run to the computer, I lift my hand; and I whine in pain and self-pity. Writing thoughts and feelings is an interesting phenomenon. The path to self-expression claims my thinking time for a good part of the day, which leaves me a bit antisocial.

As a writer, I must keep my best ideas to myself. Not that anyone is going to steal my thoughts. It’s just that when the ideas are rushing around my head, if they don’t come out of my fingers, they are going to come out of my mouth. And then…goodbye thoughts! I think of them as little kids coming home from school. The first person they meet hears about their day in unexpurgated terms. After that first telling, the story goes downhill fast. If you’re the third person to hear it, you are getting a severely condensed version. That’s why I always wanted to be home when my kids got there. And that’s why I want my fingers to do the talking.

For the past two weeks I have avoided deep conversations with my friends and family. I have talked about the weather and the season. I have commented on clothing, fashion and reality TV; but I haven’t come close to expressing myself.  I am saving that for my computer.

Is that sad, or what!

 

An Act of Kindness

My husband and I have a new aspiration: to do an act of kindness for someone each and every day.  It shouldn’t be hard to do…but sadly, it’s a bit hard to remember. I go through many of my days without thought and am certainly not thinking of anyone else.

When I do think about giving, whether it is time, money or gestures; I am forced to examine my motives.  Do I give gladly and from the heart or do I give from distance? Is it a thoughtful gift, or do I click a button, write a check, or drop cash in a basket without connection or true caring?  Is that kindness?

I’m a big fan of Kiva and Women for Women, etc. so I believe in giving by clicking.  But it isn’t the same as a kind act, is it?   Maybe it does more for humankind but does it further my own humanity? Not so much. It’s good that I am touched by the needs of others. And I need more from myself: not instead of…but in addition to.

I have given from distance in hopes that I will never be in the same plight.  I have given, thinking, “Thank God, this could never be me”.  I have given with a feeling that I am somehow better, not for the giving, but as the giver.   In the depths of my heart I know that “There but for the grace of God…” but I am the happiest when I can be in denial and believe that where I am and who I am is a result of my own doing.  These are definitely not acts of kindness!

I want to be aware of those around me.  I want to help the person who looks lost and confused on the street of our small town.  I want to step up and to the clerk and translate for the old Latino woman who can’t understand the question.  I want to notice the man in a wheelchair who can’t quite get over the curb and out of the street.  I can give him that extra push.    I understand these difficulties and want to give back what I’ve received from others.   Yes, but this is still “tit for tat”, isn’t it?  It isn’t really kindness.

I need to go further. When I take things to the mission, I want to look the homeless men in the eye and acknowledge that I see their situation and don’t judge.  I want to hold the hand of the old woman and walk her all the way to her house even if it makes me late.  And I want to do it with interest and attention so that she knows I am with her and not thinking about my own destination.  I want to give two bags of groceries to the people down the street who have been out of a job for several months.  Then I want to remember them tomorrow and the next day.

Most of all, I want to know that I am these people.  What affects them affects me.  What they live through lives with me.   I want my heart to hurt with the pain of our side-by-side existence being so different in this world and try to do something about it.

That will be kindness.

 

Life Purpose

Our morning walk is always an adventure.  We have a lovely walking/biking path through woods that bloom with wildflowers in spring, blackberries in summer and every color of leaves and branches in the fall. There isn’t a morning that we don’t have some spectacular view of wildlife or landscape.  The birds vary from tiny finches to turkey buzzards and include the geese and ducks that land on a pond along the way.

One of the pleasures is a large creek, which crisscrosses our path and sometimes runs along it.    “The salmon are running upstream,” we heard as we started this morning.

I don’t know much about salmon.  I have eaten my share, thrilled to see them jump in the rivers, and even caught one many years ago.  I certainly didn’t know that they spawned in this creek that wends its way through the valley.

We followed a side path down to the water and were within a few feet.  I am in awe of them.

I wonder what their life really is…do they make plans when they leave that they will return with a friend?  Do they stay in the same school with that friend throughout their life, bonding and basking in the warmth of togetherness and the sight of each other?

Or is it a glorious single life in which they glide down the waterway to the ocean, swim joyfully and unreservedly through the blue sea enjoying the shafts of sunlight that pierce the water? Do they figuratively float on their backs and paddle through their days enjoying each moment as it is?  Or is their pursuit of life and livelihood enough to give contentment to their lives.  Is dodging their predators all the excitement they need to give an edge to their existence?

And so do they make the journey back as lifelong friends, encouraging each other when the river is hard to navigate and the path through the rocks seems ill defined and too narrow for passage? Or do they team up with strangers to accomplish their purpose?   Maybe they don’t need anyone and know exactly what to do and how to do it.

Do they know the hour and the day that is their destiny, or can they tarry longer in the deep water enjoying extra minutes of fine feeding and free swimming?

Still, I recognize that these powerful creatures know their life goal.  They are born with an inner compass that leads them through life and back to accomplish their purpose.  They have no doubt about where they are going or why.  There is no obstacle that will distract them if it is within their power to surmount it.

I’ll take some of that!

 

Almost a Friend

I met her several years ago.  In consecutive summers we rafted on a wild and scenic river with a group of women.  The trips and the women were memorable.  Between breathtaking rapids were relaxing floats in sunshine and rippling water.  In the evenings there were long talks fueled by tall drinks and a crackling campfire. It was the perfect incubator for budding friendships.

Her daughter is just older  my granddaughter who was visiting later that summer.  Generously, they shared tickets and we all went to  a local “Idol” event.   It was thrilling for my granddaughter.

We saw each other again when planning some event, which I can’t remember, and then once more at a shower for the two children she and her husband adopted.

We didn’t build a stronger or deeper relationship.  Our lives are very different and our paths don’t cross very often.

We have each had some health issues over the past few years but haven’t contacted each other.  No harm, no foul.  We don’t have that sort of connection.

But I value her as a person and appreciate the way she moves through the world.   I saw her yesterday.  All of the good thoughts and feelings flooded through me.

Every communication between us is honest.  When we look at each other we see each other.  There is a link between us that transcends the years between our ages and our visits.  It stays true in the shortest conversation and I’m sure would hold us together for the strongest of friendships.

It probably won’t happen.  Life will go on as it has with each of us busy in our own sphere.   But it feels good knowing she is out there…

 

The Kitchen Sink

Fanciful.
Philosophical.
Waxing poetic.

All apply to my yesterday.

I spend a lot of time at my kitchen window.  It is over my sink and so gives me a look at the world outside as I do all of things that are normally done at a kitchen sink.  I have put a lot of time and energy into the landscape outside that window.  It gives me great pleasure.

Yesterday, I saw it as a window on life.  There was a lesson for me every time I visited the sink.

The early sun shone on my Morning Glories, lighting their faces to an iridescent blue tinged with violet.  Do they know that their beauty is breathtaking and their time is fleeting?  Or are they cushioned by youthful faith that time is eternity?  Such mindless loveliness cannot be sustained but begs to be enjoyed.

The grape plant has wound its way around the trellis, full and rich and barren.  It’s new this year and is a lesson in patience.  Time and toil will train these rampant vines to be useful.  With judicious training they will live their best life and provide years of fruit.

The rose bush sent up two buds.  The tender pink is heightened only at the base of the buds and on the edges of the petals.  They are ready to burst into full bloom in a triumphant stand against the end of summer.  But the bush has a to do list.  The spent hips must be trimmed for other blooms to take their place.  If the trimming isn’t done quickly, the waiting time for more blossoms will increase.

The Sun Gold tomato plant is generous. It sprawls over the spent bulbs from spring flaunting its importance.  The sweet jewels drooping from its branches are proof that care and feeding produce fruit.

There is a villain in the piece.  The wall of bamboo is a friendly fence creating privacy and intimacy. But it has escaped.  It is forcing its way between the grapevine and the Morning Glory.  Its lone shoot is the visible sign of an enemy that lurks underground, the dark underbelly of the lacy stalks, which sway in the breeze and create a sense of coolness on sweltering days.  Now that it is free, it will be a source of constant labor to tame it.

The butterfly bush has passed its prime.  The fragrant purple spires have faded to gray bundles of dryness.  It spreads its generous branches and holds its place in the garden. Strong and abundant it waits to be cut back so that it can gather its energy for next year.  Older is good for the Butterfly Bush.

There is a time for everything in my garden…and in my life.  And there is work to do in both.  I am reminded of that at my kitchen window.

 

This grieving thing…

Maybe it’s the approach of El Dia de los Muertos or sorting old photos; something has pulled my grief from the back burner where it’s been simmering, waiting for its moment. It comes with questions: Am I past the acceptable time?  When is it time to grieve?  When is it time to stop?  Have I not done enough?

I envy the cultures in which mourners get to wail and bellow their grief to the world as they sit in the church, walk the casket down the street and then watch it lowered into the ground.  But this brings up another burning question: in the cultures that include caterwauling in the process is grief finite?  Does the survivor grieve and then go on?  I know there isn’t an end to the loss, but is there a quicker healing of the wound? I wish I knew someone to ask.  Maybe there’s been a study.

I find grief to be a bit exponential as I go through life.  When my sister died I missed my father.  When my grandniece died I remembered a friend who died in grade school.  Always, it seems to be unfinished grief: grief that is pushed aside to make room for going back to work; sorrow that is buried in the mountains of paperwork sitting on my desk; an aching heart that must be set aside to go to a friend’s wedding. It becomes a compound formula made up of the bits and pieces of pain that I have accumulated without letting any go.

And so occasionally I cry inappropriately.  I sob when the neighborhood bunny goes missing.  I have tears in my eyes when the ambulance goes by without knowing who’s inside.  I’m the walking wounded without a limp.

I am considering the tradition of wearing black.  Oh, not for any set time; and I wouldn’t want it to just be a little black dress.    If there were a national uniform for the days I am succumbing to grief, then everyone could recognize the times when they should be sympathetic, empathetic or slip quickly around the corner when they see me coming.

For now, I think I’ll watch sad movies for a week. Maybe I’ll see Shadowlands over and over.  Then I won’t have to cry the next time the Greyhound bus leaves the station with my parcel.

Xxoo

 

I am healthy!!!!!!!!!

My body is meant to behave.  When it doesn’t, I’m irritated.  Also, I am in a quandary: did it betray me or did I betray it?  My strong core belief is that I needn’t be sick, in pain, or incapacitated.

My mother used to say, “We don’t have to be sick to die.”  I believe her. For instance, I don’t get colds.  I say this, I mean this, and I haven’t had a cold since I made the decision.

I have a cold.

My body has won out over my will.  I have lost the struggle between treating my body well and being self-indulgent to my own detriment.

Back up a minute.  I have food allergies.  When I take care to avoid the foods that give me grief, I don’t have respiratory allergies.  When I indulge, my face breaks out and I don’t feel so very good.   I go round and round with myself about the allergies.

“Oh, I can have eggs every once in awhile.”

“Wheat isn’t that bad, it just gives me a bit of a cough.”

“Milk may not count if it is in baked goods, or cheese, or Greek yogurt.”

“I can have a LITTLE garlic.”

My constant mental game is about whether or not I have the allergies.  Can trick my body, and how far will it take me if I abuse it?  I know the answer…not very far without a tune up.

So how did I get a cold?
A.    Did I weaken my physical resistance?
B.    Did I let doubt weaken my will?
C.    Did some sniffling clerk expose me at the checkout?

I choose A and B.

I have been nose-to-nose with my grandchildren, lips-to-lips with my husband and side-by-side with passengers on airplanes, all of who had colds.  I haven’t been infected.  Now I have eaten everything possible that I shouldn’t eat; ignored the resultant cough, ignored exercise; and harbored a fear that my immune system is lagging because of my behavior.  Gotcha!

The first night I talked to myself in my wakeful hours.  “You don’t have a cold (but you deserve a cold}.” “How can you admit you have a cold, you don’t get colds.”  “I’m going to be VERY good tomorrow and settle these allergies down.”

Now I have been in hiding for two days.  My better reason is that I don’t want to expose anyone.  My selfish reason is that I don’t want anyone to tell me I have a cold.  I am in here trying to figure out how to regain my solid stance.

I don’t want it to be that I get colds once in a blue moon.  I want to say and believe that I don’t get colds.  I want to be secure in the knowledge that I worry about the swine flu.  I want my will, my courage, and my immune system to be indomitable in the face of exposure to illness and injury.  I want to see the cause from a distance and prepare my defense.

So I am creating my personal health challenge to myself: Walk the talk!

A-a-achoo!  Starting here, starting now…

xxoo