I met him at Lowe's a couple of months ago. Mom was with me, and she thought he was pretty nice, too. She approves of him. She thinks he'll be a huge help with getting chores done around here.
Do you believe in love at first sight? I don't know how I feel about that. I think we can convince ourselves that we're in love only to find it fading as quickly as it came over us. But this? This is The One. I knew as soon as I saw him. After we met, I spent hours daydreaming about him as I stood at the sink, stared out the window, and washed some of the unending piles of plates, bowls, cups, cutlery, and goddess knows what else was in the sink at any given moment.
He's not flashy, but he's nice to look at, he's quiet, confident, he works hard, and he does dishes. He does dishes! Eeeeee!
He's also nice to touch. Smooth, firm, steady on his feet, well leveled. He moved in yesterday and is already integrated into life at Casa de Crazy.
He's not camera shy so I took some photos of him just after he got settled. He's quite comfortable and I think he means to stay. He fits right in, and I'm hoping that this will last a long, long time. Even the kids are delighted to have him here with us.
Would you like to meet him?
Have a look:
Oooh, sexy devil...
Hmm...so strong...
He has a big heart...
Oh, yeah...
Wait, what? You thought I was talking about a person?
Oh...umm...no...no...but I guess I can see where you might think that.
Sorry 'bout the confusion.
Now if you'll excuse me (and even if you won't), I'm going to go fondle my new love, push a few of his buttons, run my hand lovingly across his front, and see how much of my dirty (dishes) he can handle at once.
I am preparing for race week. What this means for me is a little house cleaning, a little taking out the trash and laundry, a little doing of dishes, a little planning of menus, and a lot of making sure things get put into the van so when I go set up my registration area, I have what I need and don't have to make trips. I'm lazy and don't want to make trips. ~~~~~ After race week, I'm going to Ohio with the kids to camp and hang out with friends and not do much of anything. I lam looking forward to simply being in a place that I love with people that I love and no obligations to perform, vend, organize, or whatnot. First things first, getting through race week mostly intact. ~~~~~ Next Saturday, Someone gets out of prison. He wants the opportunity to talk and work things out. I can't, in good conscience, deny him at least the opportunity...but if I am true to my feelings, true to myself, I can't give him false hope. My emotional heart's tired and not in it. Loneliness is no excuse to hurt another person, and I'm already hurting him with this ending. ~~~~~ Autumn nears. If the crunchy brown leaves on the driveway aren't clue enough, today I hauled trash out and pottered in the garage for a little while and I didn't feel as if I was going to melt into a puddle after five minutes, and my clothing wasn't soaked with sweat. The mosquitoes are trying to convince me that it's still summertime, but it's a losing battle. ~~~~~ A friend of mine did an adult activity book called 'Murica, and it's available on Amazon. It has caused me much laughter. Go check it out, and maybe order a copy - you'll likely find something in it to make you chortle, and you'll be helping an independent and truly marvelous person make ends meet. ~~~~~ The Unpleasant Neighbor has many dogs. That's okay, I have many cats, I don't judge. However, several of her many dogs are quite vociferous. Especially when we exit casa de Crazy and try to enjoy our outdoor environs. Yarf. Yap. Bark. Woof. WoofwoofwoofwoofwoofWWWWOOOOOOOOOFFFFFF!!!!!
I try to ignore it, sometimes talk to it and try to reassure it that we're all good, try not to let it bother me, but when I am trying to sleep and it's before the sun is up and the kids let the dog into the yard as they leave for school and it barks incessantly and no one in their house wants to get up and let it in, and when that barking is done at the part of their fenced area that is almost on top of the outside of the wall against which my bed rests on the inside, well...I'm only human. It wakes me up every damned morning.
On the upside, if the irresponsible humans who have done nothing to train their critter friends and generally ignore them leave the dogs out during the day, they let me know when anyone has come down the driveway, so it's much more difficult for people to sneak up on Casa de Crazy. I do try to find the good in things. Woof. ~~~~~
This made me laugh entirely too hard. I neither know nor care if it's photoshopped. A laugh is a laugh.
~~~~~
I learned a new crochet pattern. It's meant to be a peacock feather but I kind of modified it to be a leaf-ish thing. I'm thinking of making a shawl of a whole mess of them. First I have to make the whole mess of them, but I can do that while I ignore the TV of an evening. It's a tiny thing, really, but many tiny things can be made into big things, and I feel pretty chuffed about it. ~~~~~ If you are on Facebook, check out the Bangor, Maine page. I adore it. If it were in the cards fro me to relocate to Bangor, Maine, that page would be one of the motivating factors. I could happily live in a place where even ONE of the officers has that kind of good humor. ~~~~~ This song was stuck in my head today. Now it can be stuck in yours. Cyndi Lauper has some serious vocal chops and I respect the hell out of her talent.
~~~~~ What're you up to, these days? Small or large, what's making you happy?
I got out of bed today. Oh, sure, I know, big deal. Well, yeah. It IS a big deal. There's this Thing in my psyche that doesn't WANT me to get out of bed, or do anything, so it can tell me how useless I am. When I disobey the Thing and get up, it gets angry and yells at me. So I got up and listened to the Thing grumble and complain about what a waste of time it was. Then I did things. The Thing doesn't like when I do things. It wants me to curl up and stare at nothing and do nothing and feel like nothing. The Thing feeds on all that nothing, and it's always hungry. So I got up and did things. Maybe it won't seem like much to anyone who doesn't have a Thing in their psyche, but it felt like moving mountains to me. I took trash out. I cleaned a cat box. I swept cat poop up from the floor in the room they've decided looks enough like their toilet to suit their needs because I left the cat box I cleaned for too long. I did dishes, and then some more dishes. I fed the outdoor kitties and pet them. Then I did more dishes because there are always more dishes. I cleaned my toilet. I cleaned the toilet in the hall bathroom. I took a nap. I shuffled through the leaves on the driveway and crunched them under my feet. I made a lap for the indoor cats to claim in the name of Kittykind. I am writing this blog post. All the while, the Thing is grumbling and growling and telling me how it's too much, it's not enough, it's pointless and useless and so am I. It's not a very nice Thing. It doesn't like for me to feel good about anything, to be proud of myself. It hates my music, photography, art. It hates when I sew. It hates that I figured out how to watch Netflix via the Wii because the Evil Genius's PS2 crapped out on us, and I figured it out on my own. The Thing likes to hit below the belt. It tells me I'm a horrible mother, that homeschooling my kids is is ruining them, that every person who tells me I should put them in public school here in Redneck Central is right and I am wrong and that I'm not smart enough to teach them. It tells me I'm going to be lonely for the rest of my life because really, look at myself, who would want anything to do with that mess? It tells me everything, everything, everything is futile. Despite the Thing in my psyche, I got up today. I get up every day. Maybe not for long, but I get up. I wash a bowl. I make breakfast for Sprout or encourage her to make her own. Maybe I sweep a room. Maybe I do a load of laundry. Maybe I run an errand. Something. I do something. And then maybe I go lie down again, because Thing wrestling is exhausting. And maybe I think about all of the nothing I got done and feel bad. But maybe I don't lie down, because Thing wrestling is constant and I have to remind it, remind me, who's running this show. Happiness is not a choice. Depression is not a choice. Dragging my tired, depressed self through one day and into the next IS a choice. I don't always want to, but I choose. Every time I get out of bed, the Thing loses. Maybe some day, if the Thing loses enough battles, it'll quiet down and let me have a few minutes of peace in my head. I'd like that.
It's late Monday evening and I'm just now getting dinner cooked for Sprout. Macaroni and cheese, if you'rs wondering. I think the girl could happily eat it every day. Hot dogs go well with it, in her mind, but not tonight. Not home made, she spurns that...nope, nothing but the blue box for my kiddo.
The Evil Genius is spending a few days with his dad. I always miss him when he's away, but it's also kind of peaceful, and he has fun with his father, and it's probably for the best that he's not here right now because I'm not well.
I had such terrific plans for this Monday, but things started going south last night and just kept on going this morning.
My right eye started to hurt last night. Just out of the blue, this kind of stabbing throb. When I gently touched my eyelid, it felt like my whole eyeball was bruised. It doesn't look bruised. It looks just like an eye. Eventually I realized that the OUCH! mostly came when my eye was adjusting to more light - when I looked at my phone or computer screen, walked into a room with more lights on, that sort of thing. Since I usually sit in the dark, that wouldn't seem to be a problem, but...I sit in the dark at my computer, and I couldn't look at the screen without feeling that stab-throb.
No idea what caused it, I figured I'd just go to bed and get on with Monday when it came. I had plans that included baking cookies, hauling my trash to the dump, and a friend coming over and doing some plumbing for me.
The best laid plans, right?
My eye hurt in my sleep. In my sleep!
All morning I had to sit with my eyes closed because keeping them open meant adjusting to sunlight, which bloody hurt.
My friend came and did the plumbing, and I called Mom to see if she could help me with the dump run because I didn't think I ought to drive. Bless her, she drove down and did most of the work because my stomach decided to rebel and...er...never mind what. I didn't mean for her to have to deal with all that grossness, and I appreciate that she stepped in and spared me the horror.
On top of all that, like a really awful cherry perched atop a garbage scented, barf flavored, eye pain sundae, was the depression which just laughed and laughed and reminded me that this is as good as I get to have it why I will be alone for the rest of my life because who would want me, all stove up and constantly struggling?
Stupid depression. Shut up.
I gave up on the day and crawled into bed a little after the dump run, fell asleep, and pretty much stayed that way until just before eight o'clock when I woke up and realized that I really should fix dinner for Sprout. Luckily she's pretty handy in the kitchen and got herself some snacks while I was in a coma slept.
To hell with depression, I will cook dinner for my kid. Good thing she's easy! Once she's fed, cuddled a bit, and in bed, I'm crawling back into my bed because I don't feel like taking on whatever Monday has left for me. I'll eat tomorrow...or the next day...
I have good days. I do. And every day I know that I have much to be grateful for. I know this sorrow, this grief, this darkness, is an illusion. When I'm in the middle of it, it feels awfully real and permanent, but I cling to the certainty of past experience - it will pass. Eventually.
Today I am struggling with feeling useless, pointless. The tremendous stone of "Why bother?" is trying to crush me. I'm staring out at the world through futility colored glasses. It just kind of came over me all of a sudden, the way that it does, and walloped me upside the heart. There is no cure for this. There's only endurance.
So I endure.
And I distract. I can't ignore the feeling entirely, but maybe I can distract myself a little, and so I try. I'm working on a crocheted thing for Sprout, who announced that she wished I would make HER something with the soft yarn. In fact, she wished I would make her a circle. So...a circle I am endeavoring to make. It's not perfect, but she's five and doesn't notice, or care. All that matters to her is that she asked and I am making, and I'm using some lovely soft yarn and soon she will have a circle for whatever a child of five needs a circle for.
The Evil Genius and I chatted about this Pokemon Go game he and Sprout are playing, and we decided that maybe later could be a nice time to go out and ferret out and stops in the area. I don't pretend to understand all of the details of this game, but I've cottoned on to the fact that one must go into the world to reload on balls that are intrinsic to the playing. I wonder if I could be forgiven for the lazy extravagance of taking the kids through some fast food joint and then motoring around our neck of the woods in search of Pokestops. It's a loose plan, we'll see if I can make it happen.
I learned how to crochet a feather/leaf design. In the grand scheme of things, who cares? But I learned something, a tiny little nothing of a something, and that's a kind of triumph over the weight of entropy that makes it difficult to breath, sometimes.
I am still fighting a war with my own brain. This battle, today's, is a losing one, but I can't win them all...at best, I can hope to win more than I lose and meanwhile keep slogging along until I get to the other side, where perhaps the sun is shining, I don't feel so damned lost and lonely, and maybe I can string together some good days into a necklace for my memory to wear when the bad days start knocking me around again.
I suppose every generation has their one day in history that defines their era. Where were you when so-and-so was shot? What were you doing when thus-and-such happened? For me, it's centered around September 11, 2001.
What I was doing, just before I found out about the towers, and then the Pentagon, was sleeping. At that time, T worked a late shift so we tended to get to bed late and thus up late. I was wakened by the fellow who'd come to do the annual termite inspection. As we chatted, he asked if I'd heard about the plane that crashed into The World Trade Center, I imagined a Cessna or other small aircraft. He said he'd heard about it on the radio. I turned on the TV (we had satellite, back then, and could watch darned near every channel known to mankind) and found a new station. I saw the smoke and watched with disbelief as the whole thing unfolded, a horrid spectacle. I even videotaped it because...I don't know why. Maybe I didn't want to believe it and needed lasting proof. Maybe I thought some day I would want a reminder of this surreal day.
Things I remember about 9/11/01:
I was dazed. Calling friends and asking had they heard? Did they know? What was this new thing happening? Waking T and telling him, standing in the living room and watching the TV, unable to turn away. Walking outside and looking up at the sky, and the emptiness of it. The unusual silence of a day with no aircraft going overhead. The juxtaposition of our ordinary day with the extraordinary horror of what happened in New York City and in DC. Crying, off and on, all day. Anger. A desire to do something, anything, to undo what had happened, or to help, or to fix it. How empty the roads were - no one was driving anywhere if they didn't have to. Wondering if there was more to come. Watching the towers. The realization that I was sleeping when the first plans hit, and I would have been sleeping still, unaware of this monumental thing that would shake our nation to its foundation, if not for the advent of a termite inspection.
Later there would be stories of heroism, and there would be liars and thieves who claimed a part in all of it in order to gain, and there would be stories of families blown to pieces, of people leaping rather than burning, of people going back in, back in, back in, refusing to give up as long as one more could be saved. There would be politicians, politics, anger, rage, demands for justice, for revenge. Later still would come the arguments about cleaning up, rebuilding. Then the laws would change, and change again.
Destroying those buildings, taking those lives, was only the first part of a plan that still to snakes its way through our world. The fear generated on 9/11/2001 continues to this day. Reactionary laws created ripples that our children's children will feel. We've given up countless freedoms in the name of safety, of prevention, of punishment. There are those who would wrap us further up in the name of protection, wrap us in steel and barbed wire and "Keep Out" signs. Those who would see every person armed, and those who would see every person disarmed.
For me, 9/11/2001 was shattering, not because we could be struck on our own soil - just because it hadn't happened before didn't mean it never would - but because of the hatred and fear it woke in my fellow citizens. Because of life wasted in the name of religion. Because I'm used to people hating what I am (no one who wears the label of Pagan or Witch can be unaware of hatred in the name of God, we deal with it regularly) but not used to that hatred striking on such a tremendous scale. It was also the beginning of a long, slow crumbling of some fundamental rights inherent to making us the society that garnered such hatred in the first place. Therein lies the triumph of the perpetrators of the event. It wasn't just the immediacy of the destruction...it was and is the prolonged disintegration of a nation into a fractured society full of isolation and distrustful, angry members.
Along with our innocence, along with life and property, we lost our cohesion.
I will not forget 9/11/2001. I will not forget watching the towers fall, nor the loss, the inexcusable waste of life. But also, I will not allow fear to take root in me. I will not let fear feed on ignorance and grow into anger, nor anger to blossom into hatred. On this day, fifteen years later, I celebrate the best things that came out of one of the worst days, even as I mourn the continuing losses we experience on a daily basis.
I slept last night like I haven't for quite a while. Deep, and dreaming, and still. I woke a few times, but not the kind of restless waking that leads to hours of staring into the darkness while my mind whirs busily through its business of nothings. Not the kind of wakings that happen when one is perhaps not alone in their bed but is beside someone they trust completely. The kind of waking that usually is followed by nestling closer to that someone before sighing contentedly and falling back into the welcome weirdness of sleep and the resting mind.
No one was with me.
Well, not no one. There were the usual cats, and later the usual Sprout.
I don't know what phantom was there in my room last night, but I felt as if they...he...was watching over me. It felt like there was an arm around me, and a kind voice telling me all was well. I couldn't have fretted if I wanted to, with this being there.
Whoever he was, wherever he came from, I'm grateful, and he's welcome to return at will. Sleep like that is to be treasured.
It's Labor Day weekend, and I plan to celebrate by...er...laboring? Well, cleaning a little, anyway. I'm trying to get Casa de Crazy a little cleaner by going from room to room and purging. Sometimes being surrounded by all this crap...er...future family heirlooms that no one will want...er...future donations...weighs on me.
I finally mostly finished the sun room - anything left to do in there is more like a daily thing, now - so it's on to the dining room. I suspect this will be a wee more difficult because I have so may things in there that I adore, but I hope I can be sensibly ruthless about it and make some breathing room. If I can get the bookshelf that's been lurking in there back downstairs, it'll help immensely.
So while I'm sweating, swearing, and getting covered in dust and cobwebs, here's a happy little song for your weekend.
The voice in my head, the one that sounds so god awfully familiar, the voice that told childhood me that I was too fat, too lazy, not tall enough, not smart enough, not graceful enough, too tall, not good enough, never, ever good enough, HER voice, that voice in my head is relentless tonight.
Oh, she is mocking me.
She tells me I am alone, lonely, because I'm not worth any effort. She tells me I am horrid to look at, so faded and wrinkled, used up and damaged, flabby and soft...how can I hope anyone would want to hold me, touch me, want me? For all that I try not to want these things, in the end I am human.
She taught me to want my Prince Charming while at the same time unceasingly reminding me that no Prince Charming could ever want me, and I fight with myself over the sorry wishing for him, admonish myself that I do not need him...but I want him just the same.
My head knows he doesn't exist, but my heart...my poor, useless, shattered, forlorn heart...keeps hoping despite all evidence to the contrary.
Damned voice.
Damned horrible woman who planted herself in my psyche with roots so deep it doesn't matter how often, how hard I try to tear them out, something always remains to sprout anew.
Tonight it was a kiss. Not mine. There are no kisses for me right now and maybe there won't ever be any more, or ones like the one that set her off. A simple, sweet kiss between two people who love each other impossibly, deeply, once in a lifetime strong and true, and I thought how wonderful to know such love exists.
So of course she started in, reminding me that such a love might be for some but certainly not for me because really, who could?
Fool that I am, I answered that there's no harm wishing maybe someone looked at my lips and wished they could kiss them. I'll spare you her answers. She's cruel.
She's cruel and tonight I'm tired and lonely and feeling all of my years and all of my depression is crashing down on me, and in these dark moments I find myself wishing for someone to lean against for a few minutes...and what I have is a pillow to cry into so my kids don't hear me, and my cats who don't understand, and the calm, gentle hand I wish for, the quiet and loving touch, is nowhere to be found, and the only phantom in my head right now is a mean-spirited woman in whose eyes I could never do right.
As I wonder if I will ever know an end to these nights of crying myself to sleep, she laughs and answers "No" with such certainty it's almost impossible not to believe her.
There is an emptiness that can't be filled by eating, or drinking, or physically consuming anything, but fill it we must or find ourselves starving to death.
Goddess knows I've felt this deep hunger. I've made mistakes in trying to ease it. I've compromised because I thought I had to, thought that the only way I'd find a place at the table would be to give up something of myself.
It's not always some kind of sadness, depression. Sometimes it's being tired, all kinds of tired, tired to the bone, tired in body, mind and spirit, tired to the point of stupid, tired but sleepless, tired, tired, tired.
Tired of thinking everyone else is tired of hearing it.
Tired of feeling it and talking about it and hearing one's self talking about it.
Tonight, as I write this, I am tired.
I was trying to find a name for what I'm feeling, in this moment. Not just tired, but...something...something else.
It occurred to me, just now, that what I'm feeling, in addition to everything else, on top of everything else, a little louder than anything else, is mourning. I feel as if I am in mourning. So sad, and lost, and as if I have lost something only I don't know what, cannot name it, but it's gone and I won't get it back, and maybe I never had it to begin with.
And there's a loneliness to this mourning because I feel so awfully alone.
As the hours grow later, I feel it more keenly, this isolation, this absence of presence. It gets heavier and I find it harder to breath, and pretty soon I am squeezed so damned hard that I leak out my eyes, hide my face in my pillow so the strange, strangled, keening cries that lurch out of me in fits and starts don't wake my kids.
And in the morning, I get up and move through the day as if it matters that I do, move through the day in a sort of daze, on auto-pilot, doing the things I should be doing because someone, somewhere, says I should be doing them, and I can't feel anything but this sort of lost, lonely, mourning misery, and no one can see it because I'm that good at hiding it and they don't want to see it or know about it, do they, because it's all so stupid and boring, and what right do I have to feel this way, anyway, shouldn't I be grateful for the life I have?
I can't touch the life I have. It's all around me and I can't feel it.
I try to remind myself that I'm really better off than so many who feel this but don't know what it is, but you know what?
Knowing this monster that's trying to devour me whole, knowing what it is and what it does?
Doesn't mean a damned thing when it has me in its teeth.
Most of the time, I like to cook. Especially baking.
I like the way my house smells when I'm baking, and I like to give baked goods to people and watch them smile and enjoy some home made goodness.
Even when I don't especially feel like eating, I like to cook. It's one of the ways I show love, cooking for and feeding people.
Sometimes, though, I just don't have it in me. It's not that I stop loving my family and friends and complete strangers, it's that I can't reach that love from the beige place where my psyche occasionally dumps my ass.
Whatever my feelings about food are, my kids have this unreasonable desire to eat. More than once a day, even.
I know!
Anyway, on nights when I'm feeling particularly lay or off, I make breakfast for dinner. The kids want that to mean waffles or bagel, and I oblige. Tonight, I decided that for me it meant making a little more effort and having eggs and home fries. My kids didn't want any, because they're apparently philistines.
It'll do.
Do you ever eat breakfast for dinner? If so, what's your favorite?
If you've been reading this blog for a minute you know I'm a wee musical. There's almost always some kind of song running through my head. Sometimes I have an extensive playlist in there, and sometimes it's just one or two songs over and over and over and over and...you get the idea.
I have this idea that the music on our minds when we aren't thinking about it is trying to tell us something. Music soothes, it agitates, it hurts, it comforts, it offers an outlet for expression unequaled in this world. When words fail, music speaks.
So this morning I woke with a few songs taking turns on the inner part of my noggin.
First was this:
Then this:
Then this:
What's that about?
Meanwhile, what kind of music have you been listening to, in or out of your mind?
Well howdy! You know that nifty thing we call "sleep"? Most folks do it pretty much every night for hours on end.
I used to.
Boy, oh, boy, do I miss that.
I slept some on Friday night. A few hours.
Then I was up through Sunday, and not for lack of effort...er...non-effort?...on my part. Then I slept Sunday night. Haven't slept since then.
Yeah, me! Not sleeping plays havoc with my appetite, my emotions, and my cognitive abilities. There's a reason that sleep deprivation is popular among the torture set. The last time it was this bad (worse, actually, but who's keeping score?), by the end of a week I could see the walls breathing, see flashes of light and color usually beyond human ken, could hear the whispers of creatures that weren't there, could hear voices from other dimensions, could understand languages never spoken by human tongue.
On the plus side, I have certainly been catching up on my reading and watching of the Netflix, the cats are feeling very much loved because I pet them all night, and there are worse things than smelling of lavender oil (Mom gave me some - putting it on the soles of one's feet is supposed to help with the whole going to sleep thing). Yeah, that's all I've got for the pluses.
So how's your sleep, these days...er...nights...er...whatever...?
Was it only seven years ago that I hid my face and you pulled my hands away and kissed me so deeply and my toes curled and my head floated and everything was possible and it was all before us spread like wings ready to carry us into the glorious sunrise?
And was it only seven years ago that I lay like that beside you, curled into your side , you arm wrapped around me and I was safe and warm and slept like I hadn't slept in years and nothing could touch us and we were incandescent and unstoppable?
And was it only seven years ago that I listened to your heart and your murmuring voice and we watched the night slide past the window and never counted the minutes or hours because we were outside of time wrapped in sheets and blankets and each other and music?
Was it only months later that your rage first burst through the veneer and shattered everything with hateful words and drunken slurs and for hours paced the hall and rooms and circled itself and us and snarled and glared and accused and finally left me ignored and alone wondering what the hell happened so I could be sure never to do it again, but it wouldn't matter how hard I tried, would it?
Was it only six years ago that I told you we'd made a life and asked what would we do and you walked away for a few minutes and came back and wanted to keep on and a moment more for you to find the joy in it and me wondering if I'd done the right thing in telling you and should I have been quiet and made it all go away but I can't do that, it's not in me to do that, and anyway didn't you say yes, let's do this?
And was it only six years ago you put your shaking hand on my swollen middle, grossly distended and writhing with the child within and felt her press herself against it and give a mighty shove as a hello to her Papa and you wept and grinned even and I felt utterly alone because your smile was for her but not for me and the only reason you wanted to touch me at all was to feel her and you had been so angry, spoken such angry words, had such angry eyes and when you were done touching her through me you turned your back on me and left me bereft beside you?
Was it five years ago that she came into this world, a lithe, wriggling, howling little girl who immediately became the focus of everything until she kept you awake at night, until she needed attention that stole from your pool and you shouted at me to keep her quiet and goddammit, you were so sick of the whining and I answered yeah, and the crying baby doesn't help, either and you exploded into dark fire and I turned away and sat with her, rocking, rocking, rocking, listening to your vitriol and letting it wash over, wash past, flow through this house like a river, holding her close and singing endlessly while she slept unaware of what you used to be or what you'd become and just so small and perfect and ours?
And weren't there those days, those few horrible days, when it could have been cancer, or not, and we'd find out, and there was a procedure that meant no sex and somehow that turned into me rejecting you and you were angry, resentful, bitter and I was left alone to wait for the results while you stared at the computer screen and wrote sweet, secret words to some other woman who mocked and jeered at me without my knowing and fed your ugliness so it grew large and threatened to smother me and I couldn't even give voice to my fear because somehow that would mean I didn't care about you and was just selfish?
Was it only four years ago that you had to go live in another place, still tied to us, still of our life yet of your own because your anger had become another resident here and we couldn't survive or thrive with it crawling through the walls and oozing around our feet?
Was it three years ago that you began to disintegrate and I didn't understand why but I knew what I saw wasn't right, wasn't you, but you, but something else was shaping you and it wasn't love any more and your eyes were wild and your words accusing and spiteful and everything and everyone was against you and there were lies and secrets building walls around you and somehow, somehow, somehow it wasn't your fault and everyone else did it and I was the chiefest among them, never knowing what it was I did to make this monument of misery that caged you in?
Was it two years gone that you called me and I didn't recognize the number but took it anyway, against my nature, and heard the recording from the jail and went cold and couldn't feel my legs or face and my mind went numb and I accepted the call and you told me you'd been arrested and it was wrong and all the things you needed from me, that I had to do, and I cried for days and you raged at me over the phone because I didn't know how to do this and tried but it wasn't good enough?
And was it only two years ago that I forewent medication so the money would be there for you, for bond and books and snacks and phone calls to me and phone calls to other people and I drove every week with our daughter to see you but you still insisted that I didn't care about you and nothing I said or did could convince you and I started to lose the feeling in my toes but it wouldn't have mattered to you so I didn't mention?
Was it only one year ago that I couldn't see the end, couldn't find my way out of your anger and hateful words and looked forward and saw only a bleak future trying to protect my children from your addiction to anger, the bitterness and horrible words, when I chanced to look into the mirror and saw a worn, grey, tired face staring back out at me, dead eyes telling me everything that I already knew?
And now...now that it's over and I've been alone, alone, alone all this time and fighting to stem the tide and finally given way and let yet more anger crash over my head like storm-built waves and cried damn near every night as I thrashed restlessly in the bed that was once a haven and a joy but now is a reminder of how alone I am, cried because there's no arm to hold me, there's no one to lean on, lean against, tell my dreams to, laugh with, touch and love and it's me and these kids and now you have sweet words and see the pain you've caused and want to make it right, but now, now, now I am empty and trying to see myself but I can't look in the mirror because I still see that used up, useless person and I need to be someone else, I need to shine and I cannot shine in my own eyes and I wonder if I will ever shine again, for anyone, ever, and will there be an arm around me that is the warm, loving, cherishing, comforting arm that I so need, desire, want, offering a few minutes' sanctuary from the world, from my mind.
Oy. I needed to lie down for a bit. While I was not napping, Sprout decided to take her scissors and cut up the lounge cushion, on the side that was still sound, and pull out some of the stuffing.
She has been dealt with, I don't need advice or admonishment about that.
I'm frustrated because she KNOWS not to do that. We all like the lounge, but this may be the death knell for it. I can repair a lot, but this? May be beyond my skill given where the cut is and the use that particular piece of furniture gets.
Sigh.
If I have to toss it, I'm leaving that space empty until I can get something NEW to put there...not a hand-me-down or cast off (mind you, I'm not saying those haven't been grand because if it weren't for hand-me-downs and cast offs I'd have had very little living room furniture and it's been just fine but sometimes a gal wants something new and right now I could USE something new and I'm willing to wait for it and maybe we aren't just talking about furniture here), but something I choose that suits me.
Double sigh.
Can't see that happening any time soon.
And for some reason I just want to cry and curl into a ball and give up.
When I said I wanted to declutter and purge, I didn't mean the things we actually use.
I can't always remember who I was thirty or more years ago. I know I was headed down a different road. I know I wasn't the me I am now. I know I still carry her in me, carry her hurts and fears and anger and scars. I know I carry her memories, even as I cannot recall them.
I remember people, and I remember what I thought they thought of me, but I know that my perceptions were skewed and I can't trust them today, but I'm too much a coward to reach out, reach back, and find out what's real and what's figment.
This is what mental illness does to me.
I have such clarity of memory, when I remember. Little things, scenes, a few words here and there, so crystalline and detailed down to the scent on the wind and the color of the trees and sky, but then when asked if I recall this or that incident, I stare blankly and shake my head - some seminal event is nonexistent in my noggin.
Everything I have experienced since a very young age had been filtered through depression, through shattered self-confidence and negative self-worth, through the tangled and thorny hedgerows around my mind and heart, until it bears no resemblance to its original form.
Still, today, I struggle with receiving information as it is given rather than through all of those horrid, dark, devastating filters.
I must remain honest and open even when I fear that my honesty and openness are costing me happiness, because that happiness would be built on falsehood and I could never trust it. I must remain honest and open even when I am afraid and want to curl protectively around myself and hide because how can my compassion and love grow if they are kept in the dark?
What we don't always show the world, what we don't always show even those closest to us, is how we tremble within, how terrifying it is to be open, how damaged we feel, how unworthy, how unwanted, how lonely, how lost. It's too much, too much to ask anyone to understand or bear with, and we've lost so very much, so very many, showing what we don't always show the world.
Still.
There's more to gain, isn't there, in revealing than concealing?
We have survived the complications of polyamory (his complications, as I have never been able to make other connections, have other relationships), both as they affected us and as they impacted other relationships. We have survived cheating and lies (on his part), rage , alcoholism, and drug addiction (again, on his part), and being pushed through the meat grinder we call a justice system.
We have survived advertisements on Craig's List for NSA (No Strings Attached) sex for him while I was out of town, and the anonymous mailing of printouts of those ads to me, and the repeat of the advertising months later. That I knew about the first lot beforehand didn't make the second easier to bear when I learned of them not through discussion, but through seeing them on my screen thanks to others pointing them out.
We have survived his alienating every one of my friends and family members and many of the people I call community out there in the world.
We have survived my mental illness, kids, weather, his moving out, and his insane jealousy at the mere idea that I might be talking to another man (with no intent to act sexually, plainly stated to everyone with an interest at the very beginning). He can't even stand that another man once complimented me very prettily and made me smile and blush because of it.
We have gone through so much.
But.
Now, nearing the end of his time in prison...now...we are not surviving. We are failing. I am tired. I am tired of the abuse. Tired of being told that everything I do is not enough, or not good enough. I am tired of the narcissism. I am tired of the anger. Tired of the blame. Tired of the bitterness. Tired of being denied my emotions or emotional support because of his anger. Tired of feeling as though I must dim what scant light manages to shine forth from me because it threatens his ego, his fragile sense of self. Tired of feeling that I must live only for his sake. Want to know what it is like? Go read this. I did, and cried, because yes.
I have tried to save us. I am a strong swimmer, a strong woman, but I can't save the titanic if I'm the only one bailing. Now, too little too late, he is trying to talk, saying he wants to do the work. Now, after insults and lashing out and words calculated to devastate, now when I have told him honestly that something has broken, has died, inside me and I don't know if it can be repaired or revived, now he wants to make the effort, and...
And I don't think it's working.
I know it's not working.
I know it is futile.
I found some value in myself, and he tried to kill it. I did something I'm proud of and he railed against me for excluding him. I strive to provide a childhood for our daughter and he complains about what he's missing rather than exulting that she is experiencing wonderful things in the world through the many people who adore her.
I get it. He IS missing out, he IS stuck in prison, but we're imprisoned, too, and I yearn to be free. I have to be free. I have to be able to breathe, to sing, without worrying that somehow I will wake the slumbering giant of rage and it will terrorize us. It's not right to expect us to molder away here, stuck in the moment in time when HIS choices put him where he is, but expect that, he does.
I have tried to tell him over the last few nights, but he won't hear me, keeps trying to turn the conversation to something hopeful or distracting, and I'm too damned tired to fight him for conversational supremacy but I have to, have to make him understand that this isn't his home any more, that I will love him forever but can't live with him any more, we are not partners and haven't been for a very long time and I don't have it in me to carry us both any more.
I'm lonely, and tired, and aching, and lost. There's no road map through this place. Where do we go from here?
I've been seeing this quote knocking around lately, and I like it. Also, I agree with it. And I want it. So, yeah.
"You deserve a lover who wants you disheveled, with everything and all the reasons that wake you up in haste and the demons that won't let you sleep.
You deserve a lover who makes you feel safe, who can consume this world whole if he walks hand in hand with you; someone who believes that his embraces are a perfect match with your skin.
You deserve a lover who wants to dance with you, who goes to paradise every time he looks into your eyes and never gets tired of studying your expressions.
You deserve a lover who listens when you sing, who supports you when you feel shame and respects your freedom; who flies with you and isn't afraid to fall.
You deserve a lover who takes away the lies and brings you hope, coffee, and poetry." - Frida Kahlo
What a week it has been in the nation I call home. What a horrible, violent, fearful, hateful week.
I will not hate. While I have been sewing and making happy plans, others have made threats, unleashed death, taken life.
I will not hate.
Tomorrow I take my kids and our friend Mizz A up to Wisteria for a week of camping, vending, music, and mayhem. We will spend a week out of one world and immersed in another.
I am frantically trying to prepare for an event that we're going to next week. We're leaving on Saturday and I still need to finish sewing about 100 pieces of clothing.
As I sew, I listen to music. Sometimes I sing along. It all makes a nice distraction from my thoughts, which are thick and heavy and unhappy.
Yep, this is a repost, but why re-write what already suits??
~~~~~
In writing the Declaration of Independence, in ratifying it, in signing their names to it, the men named at the bottom risked the very things they hoped to secure for themselves and for future generations. They were performing an act of treason, and by putting their names to it they made of themselves targets for the man, for the nation, they accused. They fought for the principles they named, fought for their families, for their lives, and for the burgeoning life of the tender new nation they hoped to nurture into a great place, a free place, a place where anyone could hope to not just survive, but thrive - a place where anyone willing to put their all into it, to do their very best, could find success, no matter what their gods, their nation of origin.
Since that time, people have tried to follow their lead, standing up and making their voices heard to help secure their rights, the rights of future generations. They have added color and sex to the list of things that cannot determine success, cannot be used as an excuse to deny equal opportunity.
You do the same when you vote. You do it when you attend council meetings, board meetings, town hall meetings, and speak your piece; when you ask the hard questions, protest with signs, songs, shouts; when you show people who think they own this nation to the exclusion of others, people who think they have the right to amend your rights to suit them, that you are watching them, that you SEE them, that you know better.
You do it when you tell our armed forces "Thank you for your service" whether you agree with whatever conflicts we're embroiled in or not - because they are standing up for our liberty doing a difficult, dirty, often thankless job - and they are there, ultimately, to preserve our nation and its principles (As an aside - thank you, men and women of the armed forces. Thank you, and blessed be, and come home safe to the families who love you, miss you, and hope only for your swift return.).
You do it when you teach the children in your life what it means to be free - freedom to fly means freedom to fall, and freedom to rise up again; freedom to succeed means freedom to fail, and to try once more; freedom to speak means freedom for dissenting opinions to be heard; freedom is not comfortable - at times, it is downright terrifying...but it is necessary to the human spirit.
Given a choice to be cold, hungry, ragged, poor, weary, worn and free, or to be clothed, fed, housed, succored, safe and bound - I will be free. Do not make the mistake of giving up your freedom for the illusion of safety - you will one day wake to find you have nothing left but the yoke you bound yourself to.
I could go on, but to what purpose? You understand or you don't - and my little rant won't sway anyone, I fear.
Here, then, is a transcript of our most essential document, the one that began it all, the one that first gave shape to our name, to our identity as a nation. Read, if nothing else, the first two paragraphs. They are as stirring, heartfelt, and powerful now as when they were first written.
~~~~~
IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776.
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,
When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.
He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.
In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.
Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
The 56 signatures on the Declaration appear in the positions indicated:
Column 1 - Georgia: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton
Column 2 - North Carolina: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn South Carolina: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton
Column 3 - Massachusetts: John Hancock Maryland: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton Virginia: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton
Column 4 - Pennsylvania: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross Delaware: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean
Column 5 - New York: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris New Jersey: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark
Column 6 - New Hampshire: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple Massachusetts: Samuel Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry Rhode Island: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery Connecticut: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott New Hampshire: Matthew Thornton
~~~
If you've made it this far, thank you. To support out troops, go visit Any Soldier or Troop BeBop (I know this woman - she's a force of nature!). I wish you a safe, joyous, and happy Independence Day.
Have you ever found yourself standing on the edge of a cliff, or atop a tall building, or in a place where the edge of solid meets the edge of sky with no boundaries between them?
In standing in that place with no boundaries, looking outward, did you see the infinite, finite blue, the great expansive disc the never gets closer, however far you travel?
Looking down, did you see the earth below? Did you feel yourself leaning forward a bit more, a bit more, a bit more? Feel the pull of the far distant ground drawing you in? Feel yourself answering the call with tiny steps until you teeter on that line?
I was very young when we flew in the helicopter. The man landed in the yard and frightened the horses and Mom put us in life jackets and into the dragonfly's head and we rose like a bubble and floated out over and around and under and I don't remember where, but I remember the feeling of being up, and being so small, so short, that I had to stretch to see out the window, and I remember sunlight on the water and wonder.
I used to sail. Nothing big, nothing fancy, and nothing requiring more skill than a young, not-yet-teen, then-early-teen could manage. A sunfish, and a four-twenty (I have no idea what it was actually called, only what they called it down at the harbor, and it was bigger than a sunfish and carried a few people and I didn't like it as much). I liked to be alone on the water, skipping across the waves, letting the wind carry me where it would. It was a kind of flying without wings.
I flew on airplanes a lot as a child, shuttled back and forth between family homes. I liked it. Delta was nice but Eastern was my favorite (I mourned them when they shut down). I liked it best when I could look out the window and see clouds below and sky above and feel as if there was no Earth to land upon. I pressed my face against the plastic and wished I could somehow phase through it to the other side, certain that so high up I couldn't fall but would soar. The smaller planes, the puddle jumpers, were even better.
I never feared falling from the sky.
I still don't.
On the edge, feeling tugged, I remember mechanical flight. More, I remember a time, a place, when there was nothing between me and the air. If I let myself take that one last step, gravity will not snatch me to earth, my memory tells me. I will rise, and rise, until I'm just a speck, unfettered by the concerns of the below-world.
It's a leap of faith, though. What was isn't what is, and maybe I will make a resounding splat. The question is, is it worth the risk?
Do I let myself rely on these nebulous memories of flight, or do I remain anchored in place ever more?
My mother knit a scarf and hat for the Evil Genius a few years ago. Bright green yarn shot through with other vivid colors. When we had the Great Mouse Invasion of the van the next year, the rodent gnawed on them, leaving holes.
Such a thing can be repaired, but Mom found it easier to simply use the last of the yarn to make new ones.
I still have the old ones.
They'll never be the same, even if I could mend them, but even full of holes and slowly coming undone, I can't bring myself to toss them away.
Help me do good today. Let me shine with your light. May I be compassionate. May I be kind. May I be loving. May I be my better Self. Help me do good today. ~~~~~ There are times when I am less that the above. Times where I strive simply not to do harm, when doing good feels far beyond my reach but I reach anyway.
Never, despite all of my madness or anger or fear or sorrow; never, despite the bitterness I have felt at human iniquities; never have I thought that anyone else should suffer or die because they didn't think, act, believe, worship, love or live as I do.
If we collectively worried less about who or how our fellows are loving and worried more about how we could do good today...perhaps the world might become a gentler, kinder, friendlier, happier, more pleasant place to live.
Photo found here and copied entirely without permission but not without respect.
For a history of this day, go here. Or here. Or here. In a nutshell, Memorial Day is for remembering the fallen. Perhaps one day, we won't have any new graves to decorate. Until then, I remember and (as best I can) I honor.
~~~~~ In Flanders Fields by John McCrea
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from flailing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields
Not ghosts. Ghosts don't bother with me. No, really - haunted places are suddenly not haunted when I'm around, and I have plenty of stories to back that claim.
They're kind of oblique, slippery, like they've forgotten how to say things. They feel around for words and meanings and try to catch a hold of what they want to say, but what's clear to them is mud to me.
Mostly I like sitting with them and remembering good times. We laugh.
Shayne's been around, and John Watson, and my grandfather. Someone who is either my father's mother or Amelia Earhart dressing in old-timey flying togs has come to call. Tom Swirble. Even Miss Pat, my father's step-mother. I really liked Miss Pat. I never got to say farewell to her - I was in boarding school and no one told me she was ill, and when she passed I wasn't given the option to go to the funeral. At the time I felt like no one wanted to be bothered with me, and I was left to mourn at school. I mourned quietly and never let anyone see my tears. That wasn't the beginning of a trend, but it certainly helped cement the behavior into place.
So, yeah, the dead are on my mind and I felt like posting some of my thoughts/rituals regarding the passing from one world to the next. ~~~~~
I believe that we honor the dead by living.
To me, Death, that incarnation of immortality, the archetype, is no one to be feared or hated. Death is the final lover, the last dance. The kiss of Death is what carries us away, and that embrace is the ultimate comfort. I don't seek Him (for me, he is male. It is what you need it to be) but I won't run from him when it's my turn.
Prayers for the dead:
May the waters receive her gently, Wash her clean of all sorrow, Heal her spirit Carry her home May the fire burn brightly for her Turn her burdens to ash Warm her spirit Light her way home May the winds lift her softly Clear away her confusion Help her spirit soar Help her fly home May the earth embrace her Wrap her in a loving embrace Transform her once more Now she is home ~~~
May her journey to the next life be swift and easy. May she leave behind her all memory of sorrow or pain. May she carry with her the memories of love and laughter and all that was good in her life. May she be met with joy and fellowship by those who went before. If she returns to the circle once more, may she be known by those who loved her in this life. ~~~
I'm the one who will laugh at a funeral. I will tell the outrageous story. I will remember how their eyes lit with mischief and how they taught my children inappropriate things. I will not likely weep where you can see, but laugh? Oh, yes, I will. I remember the living. The dead, I honor, but they are gone and what is left is a distillate of recollection. I wish it to be more sweet than bitter, and so I invoke Giggliata, goddess of mirth and merriment, and I send my beloved dead away on a tide of happy tales. I hope when I die, if anyone mourns, they'll mourn with jokes and stories full of warmth and humor. ~~~~~
What about you? How do you feel about death and dying?
I'm a bit late in the day writing this, but I haven't had a chance to open up Albino Bob the Wonder Computer until just now.
Strictly speaking, most of Mother's Day wasn't actually at Casa de Crazy, as we opted to haul our little gaggle of chaos on up to Mom's to celebrate there.
Sprout decided that for other's Day, I should have her company in the big, comfy bed at about 3:00 AM and enjoy her thrashing about and general covers-hoggery. She's a giver, that one. She also decided that I needed to have her little squeaky toy version of Grumpy Bear of Care Bears fame (Mizz A will understand better than most what a big deal that is).
We slept in, if "slept in" means I was thrashed by my daughter, walked on by cats, and had to pee twice, all before 10:00.
After giving up on any more sleep, I decided to give the mama cats in the garage a Mother's Day treat - they're being such wonderful mamas, especially for first-timers, they deserve a little something special. I mixed up some cat food with drippings from the chicken I roasted last night, and then added a little chopped chicken meat. They appreciated it, and I loved on the babies for a while. Oh, lort, these kittens are freakin' cute!
Then it was off to the grocery store to get lunch, some flowers, and a cookie cake, and on up to Mom's.
Mizz A joined us. It was nice, laid back. We had lunch, the kids and Mizz A played out in the yard and Mom and I played in her garden, then we enjoyed some cookie and came on home.
Home again, I've been doing dishes and drying laundry and am now about to fold a couple of baskets of clean clothes for the kids.
For me there were no flowers, no balloons, no breakfast in bed or spa day, none of the things that are supposed to be the usual Mother's Day...but I'm good. I enjoyed my Mom, I enjoyed playing in her garden and chatting with her and Mizz A, enjoyed listening to my kids play, and I even enjoy (maybe just a tiny bit) folding the laundry and getting the dishes done. I'm going to enjoy the fried chicken I picked up on the way home, and the mashed potatoes and caramelized canned corn I'm making for dinner, and I'm going to enjoy watching a movie of some kind after the kids and I come in from playing outside/watering the garden.
Simple gifts, yo.
Happy Mother's Day to any and every person who mothers, in whatever fashion. We're pretty freakin' amazing.
If you'd like to know a bit about the holiday, go here. Or here. Or here. Or Google search Beltane and duck before your computer spits out a load of links. When you're done reading, come back and giggle because I said "load of links". I won't tell.
Meanwhile, perhaps I will find something to burn and roast marshmallows over this evening, the closest thing to a Beltane celebration I'll have this year. Sigh.
A murder? Who thought of this? Who decided to name these avian historians such a dark and angry name when they group, as if the fault is theirs?
These crows, they fluttered, feather askew, ruffled by the capricious wind, flapped and fluttered like ragged scraps of Death's cloak torn free from his regalia and flung skyward with little heed for up or down or any compass points. Scattered into the dusking sky, harbingers of another soul parted from form.
Soul, or spirit? What's the difference?
It was a deer, doe, unwary, perhaps not understanding the huge and forceful mechanical monster that bore down on her with speed she couldn't comprehend or calculate, catching her mid-leap then tossing her aside and roaring onward with no consequence save maybe a chipped tooth and a shaking driver who has somewhere to be, can't stop, stupid deer should've known better, on a timetable, dammit I hope she didn't wreck my front end.
The crows are brave, hopping to the side of the road and then back to her bounty.
Soul or spirit?
She's an animal.
Ego would have us believe that she has no soul, for animals are dumb in more than one sense. But spirit they may have, for spirit is that little bit of the divine that all living things carry.
Soul, well, soul is for humans, only for humans, only for us because we are thinking, reasoning, self-aware, and more than that, aware of what is beyond us, of the indefinable. We are uniquely able to see through the light into the heart of darkness, if we dare.
Beautiful dark.
I love the dark,
I hate it.
Cold and slick, it slips around me with sibilant whispers and intimations of what should.
What should?
This and that and anything that isn't.
I love the dark, the night pierced by stars and streaming light and the inexorable dance of the planets into entropy's embrace and the music that dayfolk tremble to hear in all its ecstasy. Fearful, beautiful, loathsome, beloved dark.
I love the crows. Tell me a story, cousin. Harsh cries of "Aww! AWW!!" back and forth and sometimes they land and turn their heads this way and that, staring at me and wondering what I am asking, what I am trying to tell with my hoarse, coarse mimicry of their tongue. The crows don't know what should. They only know what was and what is. Something dies and they feast and remember and tell the tale and it carries from generation to generation from beginning to end, and in the end when the final darkness folds itself around everything, it will be the collective "Aww! AWW!!" that rolls out and slowly dies into a near imperceptible vibration that shakes the single point loose and bursts outward into the new being, rooted in the old and ringing with that corvid call.
But we're the ones with souls, I'm told, immortal souls that mark us as more and better and other and all that, and certainly the deer was beautiful in her life, and graceful, but I with my clunky motion and graceless form am the better? She provides life even in death and what do I do, in life, that is her equal?
I'm surrounded by death - dead eyed people staring at me because maybe I shine too bright within my darkness and maybe I don't care what they see with their flat eyes and cold gazes, dead spirited people who claim to have more soul, better soul because they pay lip service to something they don't believe, really, or at least they act contrary to the thing they worship.
All those shadows and shades, they don't like anything that isn't them and they claim soul as theirs alone and curse anything else.
The soul is immortality and so we are immortal, but that deer, she'll live forever in the crow's tales and in everything that feeds upon her carcass, certainly live long past the time the driver who hit her shuffles off this mortal coil and is buried in some vault where his body will never rejoin the whole and his precious soul will find itself astonished at suddenly being a deer wondering what that strange black surface is and if it can be crossed to find sweeter grass on yonder side, and what is that whistling, roaring noise?
My beloved blue grill/portable fireplace bit the dust. Literally - it lost another of its legs and tumbled to the ground, never to rise and burn again.
It happened when Sprout moved it so she could watch the roofer...er...roof, but I'm still sad about it.
Now I have no grill/portable fireplace, and I rather miss it. I suspect I will miss it even more as we enter into grillin' season. I know that Someone will be disappointed when he comes home and there's no way to char meat over burning stuff.
Sigh.
I still have the little grill we use for camping, but I kinda use that when we're camping which means it lives in the trailer and isn't awfully handy to the Casa.
I'd like to get a new grill for Casa de Crazy, one more suited to the use we put it to here, but it's not a priority. Meanwhile, I am thinking about knocking the last leg off of Old Blue and placing it in the fire pit...okay, hole in the yard...and grilling at ground level for a while. We're nothing if not adaptable and maybe a teensy bit redneck around here.
I found out this evening that the sheriff who lives two doors down was fired from his job because he allegedly had an inappropriate relationship with a detainee he was supervising.
The mind immediately leaps to conclusions, rather unflattering ones.
Mostly I feel sad for him and his family. If it proves to be much ado about nothing, his reputation is forever sullied. You can't wipe this kind of stain clean no matter how false the origins. Just ask the McMartin family.
If it proves true, he faces some pretty serious consequences. I don't know the family well, but if they're typical of this area, he faces losing his marriage, his kids, his job, perhaps his freedom and his future. It is unlawful to have relationships with detainees, even consensual ones. It is considered to be rape, regardless of the circumstance, and is treated as such. It's considered a gross abuse of power. A detainee cannot, under the law, consent.
I wonder if the horrid woman next door, the one who takes such a smugly superior tone with me when she hurls her judgement at me and my family, knows about this. While she still discourages her children from playing with or even speaking to mine, she hasn't kept them from visiting with him and his. I admit, this puzzles and galls - here I am, living openly and honestly and trying awfully hard to maintain my integrity and live a compassionate and loving life, and I'm snubbed and chastised...and there he is, accused of an egregious abuse of power and of breaking what are supposed to be vows so sacred that it offends them and their church to contemplate letting anyone outside their rather narrow norms take them, and he is still more acceptable company than my children.
Sigh.
Que sera, sera, but it is likely that I will keep watch from my distance, watch and wait and reach out to catch his family if they start to fall, make sure they are fed and can find solace if the worst occurs and the life they've always known disintegrates. The children are not guilty of the sins of the father, not that I believe in sin. He himself deserves compassion no matter what he has done, because he is human and may have lost his way, and being lost like that can be devastating to the human soul. I've wandered lost, myself, far too often and too long to let anyone else suffer for want of light.
I am mum to a twenty-year-old evil genius son (of course, I may be biased) and the clever and beautiful force of nature, twelve-year-old Sprout. They and my cats conspire to deprive me of sleep and sanity on a regular basis. I live in Redneck Central with my kids and cats. I call our home "Casa de Crazy" for a reason. It could be because I'm nuttier than a Claxton fruitcake. I have a foul disposition and the manners of a troll. What's not to love?
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