I wouldn't exactly call it a slamming on of the brakes....it was more like a moderate, sustained application. At any rate, the result was the same. You see, Baby Growndy Up Girl was driving behind me, as we went in search of the perfect little black skirt for her. As we turned into the parking lot, I was forced to stop rather hurriedly, to avoid hitting the car that without so much as a glance from it's driver pulled straight out of a parking space, right in front of me... then....BOOM. Baby Growndy Up Girl missed the fact that my car was no longer moving, and she rear ended my beautiful Gypsy Rose (recently sprung from the car hospital for the repairs needed as a result of the incident which shall not be named), with the force of something between a bump and a slam. I would argue that it was more of a slam, and less of a bump, seeing as how every muscle in my back and neck has now frozen up and I am in dire need of a muscle relaxer, but be that as it may, we quickly parked and jumped out to asses the damage. Remarkably, neither car bore a scratch, so maybe it WAS more of a bump, and I am just a wuss. After a mild lecture from me on the importance of being alert when driving, and striking out on the black skirt in the Boho store, we headed to the second shop on our list. No black skirt was found, but when we exited, she was the new owner of a cute tee, a new pair of pants and a dress (Happy Early Birthday to my girl). There we parted ways. One big hug and two I love yous later, I headed to my car. I was answering a text - vehicle still in the parking spot, like a good girl - when my phone rang.
It was Baby Growndy Up Girl, and I couldn't tell whether she was laughing, crying or both. I managed to make out the words "I didn't hit another car..." "Well....what did you do then?" I mean really....we had only been apart for a minute - what trouble could she have gotten into?
This might be a good time to insert that BGU Girl has always been a really good sport about the fact that she drives an antiquated boat of a Grandma car...a BUICK for goodness sakes. She calls him Gunter, and is appreciative that he gets her where she needs to go.
"Mom", she gasps...."I was trying to unlock my car...I put the key in the door, but it wouldn't unlock. I took it out, tried again, and then jiggled the door handle. Behind me came this old man's voice". "What the hell are you doing, young lady?!", he shouted. BGU girl was unwittingly trying to break into Grumpy Old Grandpa's car, having mistaken it for her own. "Oh Lordy...what did you do then", I inquired, trying to suppress the belly laugh that was starting deep within. "Well, I just kind of yelped, and ran off", she replied.
As I hung up, convulsing with laughter, I said to myself.....well, sometimes, Karma is a swift mistress - that is her payback for hitting my car and causing these spasms in my back.(OK, fine...I will own up to it - perhaps not the most Motherly of responses)
Off I went to the Teeter. Produce was my first stop. The aisles were full of people pushing buggies back and forth, jamming the up and down sides, going the wrong way and stalling in the middle....OH NO!! I silently began berating myself....this is THURSDAY....I try to avoid the Teeter like the plague on Thursday because it is SENIOR SHOPPING DAY. I always leave angry on Thursday, because in the last year, the Cashiers have taken to automatically giving me the senior discount - without even inquiring as to my date of birth...the Senior Discount is for people 60 and OVER. I am nowhere NEAR that....alright, FINE...I am not quite there YET.
I took a calming breath and persevered. I wanted the Pork Loin that was on Special, and I needed some cream for my coffee....and Asparagus to go with the Pork Loin. The required items being secured, I headed to the checkout. I scanned the Cashiers. I selected the kind looking new girl. I anxiously watched the register screen....and AAUUUUGGGGGHHHH....there it was. The discount....she entered it without so much as batting an eye - and I was wearing my best tie dye shirt and super cute earrings! To add insult to injury, as she put the last bag back in the buggy, she said it. "Can we take these to your car, DEAR?". Before I could utter a terse No THANK you, the Malibu Barbie that was unloading her kombucha and Kale in the neighboring lane fixed me with a knowing smile (displaying blindingly perfect white teeth) and gave me a cock of a perfectly manicured eyebrow as if to say "You really should take her up on the offer of help, DEAR".....I stood as tall as my muscle spasms would allow, gathered my dignity, and exited stage right. As I stewed in my aging juices, I could almost hear Baby Growndy Up Girl saying with a shake of her head," Laugh at me, will ya? Karma is a swift Mistress!"
Thursday, July 19, 2018
Sunday, July 1, 2018
Blessed and Messed
Yesterday morning, I had coffee with some friends. Laughter and conversation were abundant, and as these ladies were talking at the same time, one ended her sentence with "I am blessed" - the other "I am a mess" (referring to the flake of the delicious pastry we may or may not have been consuming).
You know how I love rhyming words....Blessed and messed. Those words have swirled around in my poor stroke addled brain ever since.
They really describe my week.
On Monday I took my beautiful Gypsy Rose car to the body shop, for the repair of the damage from the accident which shall not be named. Then, I waved off a beloved group of people heading to serve on the mission field...in Zambia.....where they will be spending time with my Peace Corps Boy/Man...able to hug him, assess his degree of health and happiness, and did I mention hug him? Messed.
On Tuesday, John and I marked our 30th wedding anniversary. Impossible to believe. Blessed.
On Friday, we woke early, to get a jump start on the fun. John had the day off, and we were going to celebrate Tuesday's anniversary. First stop, my nail place. Kudos to John for suggesting it. (Full disclosure - my feet were in rough shape - I was ruining the new sheets with my cracked heels, and I may or may not have scratched his legs once or twice lately.) After my pedicure, I decided to get my eyebrows done - seeing as how I was already there, and they were approaching giant caterpillar shape and size.
The lovely young woman stirred the wax and applied the strips. Before she yanked, she took my face in her delicate hands and murmured. "You need chin waxed", and rip - off came the wayward bits of eyebrow. After I caught my breath I stammered, "Beg pardon"? (As any good southern women would). "Chin. Need wax"...after further examination, she amended her statement - "Face. Face need waxed". (Full disclosure - I hate the fine hair that has sprouted on my face as I have gotten older, and nothing sends me running from a room faster than one of my daughters giving me the high sign. You know, the one where they discreetly point to their chin. That is code for - EEWWWW, you have a long white hair sprouting from your chin). "I.....well....ummm." I managed to get out - equal parts insulted and intrigued. "You can DO that? Won't it hurt?!" "For you, worth the pain" she responded. So, that is how I found myself slathered in hot wax - looking for all the world like Emmet Kelly with a clown beard. Riiiiiip...rip, rip, rip. I rose a good two inches off of the chair, and to quote Wanda Sykes - "Everything went white". It is not an exaggeration to say that when I finally made it to a mirror, I was astonished and mightily relieved to see that I still had a couple of layers of skin remaining. (Full disclosure - I love the hair free look, and I will be subjecting myself to this monthly torture from now on!) Blessed AND Messed.
The week was bookended with Two post stroke victories that I long felt would not be gained. Last Sunday, I had my first audition since the strokes, and am proud and astonished to announce that I will once again be treading the boards in an upcoming production of Steel Magnolias. Today, after 17 months and 2 weeks of having completely lost my singing voice, I sang in Church - 3 weeks after regaining the ability to sing. I mangled the last 2 measures, because I couldn't sing through my tears of joy.
It was a voice not quite as strong, agile and reliable as in days gone by. But I will take it. It's loss was so grievous to me, that I didn't speak of it to many. It was the thing I mourned the most - hands down the worst thing that the strokes took from me. I am so grateful that it has been restored to me. Blessed.
Each day this week, I have struggled with my anger at the state of our world - our country. Appalled by the mistreatment of the Stranger, the child, the other....Disgusted by the twisting of scripture to support things that are the very antithesis of the Bible I read. Flummoxed as to how we came to be so polarized and lost as a nation.....as people....as Children of God. Messed.....So Messed.
Messed and Blessed. Blessed and Messed. Rhyming words that not only describe my week, but life as a whole. In the immortal words of the poet Stephen Sondheim "Good times and bum times, I've seen them all and my dear - I'm still here. Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer, but I'm here. I've run the gamut A-Z, three cheers and dammit, C'est La Vie, I got through all of last year, and I'm here....look who's here....I'm still here". Blessed and Messed. I'll take it.
You know how I love rhyming words....Blessed and messed. Those words have swirled around in my poor stroke addled brain ever since.
They really describe my week.
On Monday I took my beautiful Gypsy Rose car to the body shop, for the repair of the damage from the accident which shall not be named. Then, I waved off a beloved group of people heading to serve on the mission field...in Zambia.....where they will be spending time with my Peace Corps Boy/Man...able to hug him, assess his degree of health and happiness, and did I mention hug him? Messed.
On Tuesday, John and I marked our 30th wedding anniversary. Impossible to believe. Blessed.
On Friday, we woke early, to get a jump start on the fun. John had the day off, and we were going to celebrate Tuesday's anniversary. First stop, my nail place. Kudos to John for suggesting it. (Full disclosure - my feet were in rough shape - I was ruining the new sheets with my cracked heels, and I may or may not have scratched his legs once or twice lately.) After my pedicure, I decided to get my eyebrows done - seeing as how I was already there, and they were approaching giant caterpillar shape and size.
The lovely young woman stirred the wax and applied the strips. Before she yanked, she took my face in her delicate hands and murmured. "You need chin waxed", and rip - off came the wayward bits of eyebrow. After I caught my breath I stammered, "Beg pardon"? (As any good southern women would). "Chin. Need wax"...after further examination, she amended her statement - "Face. Face need waxed". (Full disclosure - I hate the fine hair that has sprouted on my face as I have gotten older, and nothing sends me running from a room faster than one of my daughters giving me the high sign. You know, the one where they discreetly point to their chin. That is code for - EEWWWW, you have a long white hair sprouting from your chin). "I.....well....ummm." I managed to get out - equal parts insulted and intrigued. "You can DO that? Won't it hurt?!" "For you, worth the pain" she responded. So, that is how I found myself slathered in hot wax - looking for all the world like Emmet Kelly with a clown beard. Riiiiiip...rip, rip, rip. I rose a good two inches off of the chair, and to quote Wanda Sykes - "Everything went white". It is not an exaggeration to say that when I finally made it to a mirror, I was astonished and mightily relieved to see that I still had a couple of layers of skin remaining. (Full disclosure - I love the hair free look, and I will be subjecting myself to this monthly torture from now on!) Blessed AND Messed.
The week was bookended with Two post stroke victories that I long felt would not be gained. Last Sunday, I had my first audition since the strokes, and am proud and astonished to announce that I will once again be treading the boards in an upcoming production of Steel Magnolias. Today, after 17 months and 2 weeks of having completely lost my singing voice, I sang in Church - 3 weeks after regaining the ability to sing. I mangled the last 2 measures, because I couldn't sing through my tears of joy.
It was a voice not quite as strong, agile and reliable as in days gone by. But I will take it. It's loss was so grievous to me, that I didn't speak of it to many. It was the thing I mourned the most - hands down the worst thing that the strokes took from me. I am so grateful that it has been restored to me. Blessed.
Each day this week, I have struggled with my anger at the state of our world - our country. Appalled by the mistreatment of the Stranger, the child, the other....Disgusted by the twisting of scripture to support things that are the very antithesis of the Bible I read. Flummoxed as to how we came to be so polarized and lost as a nation.....as people....as Children of God. Messed.....So Messed.
Messed and Blessed. Blessed and Messed. Rhyming words that not only describe my week, but life as a whole. In the immortal words of the poet Stephen Sondheim "Good times and bum times, I've seen them all and my dear - I'm still here. Plush velvet sometimes, sometimes just pretzels and beer, but I'm here. I've run the gamut A-Z, three cheers and dammit, C'est La Vie, I got through all of last year, and I'm here....look who's here....I'm still here". Blessed and Messed. I'll take it.
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Number Three
It was a typical Sunday morning for me.....running around, doing my Children's Minister thing. I took my seat on the front row for the first Service, picked up the bulletin and perused it one last time making sure I had all of my ducks in a row. The All Saints insert slipped out, and I bent to pick it up. I had seen this insert multiple times this past week - in staff meeting, in an email, laying around in the office copy room.....
On All Saints Day we read the name, light a candle and toll a bell for each of our members that have died in the past year. 14 Saints this year. And as I read the list once again, it was as though someone hit me with a red hot poker right smack in the gut.....How close I came to being the third person on that list....between Billy Morris and Dana Hatcher....two wonderful saints if there ever were any..
I was shook. The kind of shook where you hope that no one is looking at you, or counting on you for anything in that moment. Crying and shaking, I felt, perhaps for the first time, the full weight of just how close of a call I had....If I had gone back to bed that morning like I wanted to do - I felt so unwell.....if I hadn't been standing in a crowded room when the larger of the clots hit my brain...if the ER Docs hadn't responded so well and so quickly....if the clot busting drug had not busted those 9 clots.....I could have been...would have been number 3 on that list today. My name read, a candle lit, and a bell tolled - for me.
My one year anniversary is weeks away....and I am feeling the effects.
This afternoon, my kitchen was full of laughter. Women from all periods and aspects of my life crowded into my kitchen for my first "Craft Social". Everybody brought their own art project, and we ate good food, and drank 3 pots of coffee. We worked and talked - face to face, not on FaceBook, or a text or a SnapChat...crowded around my kitchen table and a card table brought out for overflow. We squeezed around all of the chairs to get to the food, and the coffee and plugs for hot glue guns. The art was fun, the food was great - but the laughter...that was life giving. In the midst of it all, I saw clearly the thread that ran through us ...some people knew each other, some knew no one but me...they were my first self chosen friend at age three. My best friend through Jr. High and High School. A college friend. A favorite teacher that guided all three of my children through elementary school. Colleagues. Church friends....telling our stories, sharing our journeys....for those few sacred hours, in the confines of my kitchen... community.
From low to high in a matter of hours.
I was NOT number three on the list. I grow weary of being a stroke patient in recovery. I have had enough of an isolation that began long before I had my strokes....
I was NOT number three on the list. I am going to be intentional about forging community. Intentional in creating spaces for fellowship....and laughter.
I was NOT number three on the list. I am going to be mindful. The coffee was great....the Buffalo Chicken Dip was deeelicious....but the camaraderie - that was sublime. And the laughter.....as good as a clot busting drug.
On All Saints Day we read the name, light a candle and toll a bell for each of our members that have died in the past year. 14 Saints this year. And as I read the list once again, it was as though someone hit me with a red hot poker right smack in the gut.....How close I came to being the third person on that list....between Billy Morris and Dana Hatcher....two wonderful saints if there ever were any..
I was shook. The kind of shook where you hope that no one is looking at you, or counting on you for anything in that moment. Crying and shaking, I felt, perhaps for the first time, the full weight of just how close of a call I had....If I had gone back to bed that morning like I wanted to do - I felt so unwell.....if I hadn't been standing in a crowded room when the larger of the clots hit my brain...if the ER Docs hadn't responded so well and so quickly....if the clot busting drug had not busted those 9 clots.....I could have been...would have been number 3 on that list today. My name read, a candle lit, and a bell tolled - for me.
My one year anniversary is weeks away....and I am feeling the effects.
This afternoon, my kitchen was full of laughter. Women from all periods and aspects of my life crowded into my kitchen for my first "Craft Social". Everybody brought their own art project, and we ate good food, and drank 3 pots of coffee. We worked and talked - face to face, not on FaceBook, or a text or a SnapChat...crowded around my kitchen table and a card table brought out for overflow. We squeezed around all of the chairs to get to the food, and the coffee and plugs for hot glue guns. The art was fun, the food was great - but the laughter...that was life giving. In the midst of it all, I saw clearly the thread that ran through us ...some people knew each other, some knew no one but me...they were my first self chosen friend at age three. My best friend through Jr. High and High School. A college friend. A favorite teacher that guided all three of my children through elementary school. Colleagues. Church friends....telling our stories, sharing our journeys....for those few sacred hours, in the confines of my kitchen... community.
From low to high in a matter of hours.
I was NOT number three on the list. I grow weary of being a stroke patient in recovery. I have had enough of an isolation that began long before I had my strokes....
I was NOT number three on the list. I am going to be intentional about forging community. Intentional in creating spaces for fellowship....and laughter.
I was NOT number three on the list. I am going to be mindful. The coffee was great....the Buffalo Chicken Dip was deeelicious....but the camaraderie - that was sublime. And the laughter.....as good as a clot busting drug.
Friday, August 25, 2017
Ala Carte
I was in the WalMart this morning. It was my first big Church related shopping trip since my strokes. My list was made out in zones, so there would be no crisscrossing the store - hopefully allowing me to conserve my energy, so I could get it all done. We are having a Family Adventure Day on Sunday - cookout, games, a lesson, crafts, singing, sugar and more sugar, so there was hardly a section of the store that I didn't hit.
I had the first few items in my buggy when I noticed a middle aged woman staring me down. She took a step towards me, backed up, hesitated, then came towards me - little pamphlet in her hand. "I would like to invite you to my Church" she said - pushing the tract about Salvation into my hand, the name and address of her Church printed in large letters. "How nice of you" I replied, " I am a Children's Minister at another Church here in town - they don't let me out much on Sundays, but thanks for the invitation". I smiled at her as I went past.
And it hit me....she hesitated before giving me the invitation...she changed her mind, and then she changed it back. What was it about me, that gave her pause....I will readily admit, my white eyelet lace shirt had a wide rounded neckline - a little low, but nothing was showing. My skirt was mid calf length. I was short and roundish, just like the Lady in question. My makeup was light and my jewelry was simple....so just what exactly was she looking for? What made a person worthy of one of the Golden Salvation tickets she had stacked on top of her pocketbook?
I let my list fall to the bottom of my purse as I walked behind the Lady - interested in seeing who she would invite to her church....she passed right by the group of three young men looking at the peanut butter....they had tattoos. Down the cereal aisle, she went swiftly past a Mother and her 2 children when she heard the Mom say "Put that cereal back...it is too expensive". She didn't even return the brilliant smile of the Black woman in the snappy purple dress topped with a jean jacket and statement necklace. Up and down I followed her....past the Hispanic family laughing and joking with each other, quickly past the group of women sporting Middle Eastern heritage.
She took a detour around the ragged, grizzled looking man in the wheelchair, and zeroed in on another Mother - faltering only when that Mom backhanded her daughter square in the face because she wouldn't look at a notebook when asked.
I couldn't follow the Lady anymore.
As I filled my buggy to overflowing, I looked...really looked at the people I passed along the way. Happy people, dejected people. Dirty, smelly people, overdressed for WalMart people, beautiful women in Hijab, weary looking young Mothers, and sullen, leering men. People of every color, and multiple languages, A Mom, Dad and two cutey cute children - The Dad was bombastic and overbearing...the Mom quiet, afraid and flinching when the Dad stood by her....old couples, both holding on the buggy, so as not to fall. A woman wearing oxygen and smelling of cigarettes coughed her way to the pharmacy. A girl, younger than any of my grown children, pushing her baby towards the diapers, a homosexual couple, carrying paint chips and arguing over color, a flustered single Dad trying unsuccessfully to deal with three children under 5 - the middle of whom pulled his pants down in the middle of the aisle and demonstrated that he had really meant business when he said he needed to go potty....all different.....all in need of an Assurance - a Hope of Divine Love.
Who was worthy of the Woman's invitation?
As I headed to the checkout - exhausted because despite my best efforts, I had crisscrossed the store multiple times - I saw the Woman, pamphlets still at the ready, searching seemingly in vain, for the right kind of people..... people that were suitable salvation candidates...
It is late afternoon, and I still have the lump in my throat...the sick, sad feeling in the deep of my gut. As Christians, we should be dealing in the currency of Love, Grace, Peace and Rest for the weary. We don't get to pick - who is in, who is out.....If we are to live by the Red Words in the Bible, Ala Carte is not an option.
I despair at what we have done to our world, at how we have perverted and distorted the Gospel....the divisiveness, the hatred of the "other" - humanity's certainty that God hates who we hate.....It may not be politically correct to sing these lyrics anymore, but I have been singing them all afternoon...."red and yellow black and white, they are precious in his sight"...perhaps this old song should make a comeback.
I had the first few items in my buggy when I noticed a middle aged woman staring me down. She took a step towards me, backed up, hesitated, then came towards me - little pamphlet in her hand. "I would like to invite you to my Church" she said - pushing the tract about Salvation into my hand, the name and address of her Church printed in large letters. "How nice of you" I replied, " I am a Children's Minister at another Church here in town - they don't let me out much on Sundays, but thanks for the invitation". I smiled at her as I went past.
And it hit me....she hesitated before giving me the invitation...she changed her mind, and then she changed it back. What was it about me, that gave her pause....I will readily admit, my white eyelet lace shirt had a wide rounded neckline - a little low, but nothing was showing. My skirt was mid calf length. I was short and roundish, just like the Lady in question. My makeup was light and my jewelry was simple....so just what exactly was she looking for? What made a person worthy of one of the Golden Salvation tickets she had stacked on top of her pocketbook?
I let my list fall to the bottom of my purse as I walked behind the Lady - interested in seeing who she would invite to her church....she passed right by the group of three young men looking at the peanut butter....they had tattoos. Down the cereal aisle, she went swiftly past a Mother and her 2 children when she heard the Mom say "Put that cereal back...it is too expensive". She didn't even return the brilliant smile of the Black woman in the snappy purple dress topped with a jean jacket and statement necklace. Up and down I followed her....past the Hispanic family laughing and joking with each other, quickly past the group of women sporting Middle Eastern heritage.
She took a detour around the ragged, grizzled looking man in the wheelchair, and zeroed in on another Mother - faltering only when that Mom backhanded her daughter square in the face because she wouldn't look at a notebook when asked.
I couldn't follow the Lady anymore.
As I filled my buggy to overflowing, I looked...really looked at the people I passed along the way. Happy people, dejected people. Dirty, smelly people, overdressed for WalMart people, beautiful women in Hijab, weary looking young Mothers, and sullen, leering men. People of every color, and multiple languages, A Mom, Dad and two cutey cute children - The Dad was bombastic and overbearing...the Mom quiet, afraid and flinching when the Dad stood by her....old couples, both holding on the buggy, so as not to fall. A woman wearing oxygen and smelling of cigarettes coughed her way to the pharmacy. A girl, younger than any of my grown children, pushing her baby towards the diapers, a homosexual couple, carrying paint chips and arguing over color, a flustered single Dad trying unsuccessfully to deal with three children under 5 - the middle of whom pulled his pants down in the middle of the aisle and demonstrated that he had really meant business when he said he needed to go potty....all different.....all in need of an Assurance - a Hope of Divine Love.
Who was worthy of the Woman's invitation?
As I headed to the checkout - exhausted because despite my best efforts, I had crisscrossed the store multiple times - I saw the Woman, pamphlets still at the ready, searching seemingly in vain, for the right kind of people..... people that were suitable salvation candidates...
It is late afternoon, and I still have the lump in my throat...the sick, sad feeling in the deep of my gut. As Christians, we should be dealing in the currency of Love, Grace, Peace and Rest for the weary. We don't get to pick - who is in, who is out.....If we are to live by the Red Words in the Bible, Ala Carte is not an option.
I despair at what we have done to our world, at how we have perverted and distorted the Gospel....the divisiveness, the hatred of the "other" - humanity's certainty that God hates who we hate.....It may not be politically correct to sing these lyrics anymore, but I have been singing them all afternoon...."red and yellow black and white, they are precious in his sight"...perhaps this old song should make a comeback.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Empty grocery bags.
We got a late start. I fully accept the responsibility for this. The car was loaded, pets fed, breakfast dishes in the dishwasher...John was behind the steering wheel, and Babiest girl was wedged in the backseat - surrounded by pillows, cactus plants and pre-cut, pre-drilled wood planks for the desk hutch. I just stood at the kitchen sink,staring out the window - unable to make my feet move. I knew that the minute I closed and locked the backdoor, nothing would ever be the same again. More than just securing the house against our absence, I was closing the door on 24 years of Mothering - years of unending sleep deprivation, scraped knees, wait to the last minute science projects, Harry Potter movie marathons, puppy piles of kids on the floor, tears, life giving laughter, public fits (theirs of course, not mine) behavior contracts, a front seat sitting schedule - affixed to the dashboard of the van - designed to put an end to the fighting, toy jail, rowdy supper tables, did I mention the laughter? trips to the park (did I take them enough?), chicken pox, bedtime stories and prayers, learners permits, snow days, singing, lazy pool days..... and the love.....oh so much love.
And while one, or all may come and live here for bits of time in their Adulthood....it will never. be. the. same. Never. Ever.
Their new names are Peace Corps boy, Word Traveling Au Pair girl, and now....my babiest....College girl.
All day yesterday, Freshman move in day at the steamy, dreamy University in the deep south, the soundtrack relentlessly playing on a loop in my mind was that song.....the one that plays while Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are deep in grief at Ron Weasley's desertion in Deathly Hallows part 1....the scene where Harry removes the Hoarcrux from around Hermione's neck, and they dance in the tent....it is a dance full of the sorrow of the moment, yet it captures the joy of being young and dancing - dancing even when the music is sad....perfect for just such an occasion as moving your youngest child into her new home....
This morning, I woke up with that epic anthem of the 70's "Bluer than Blue" rattling around in my exhausted, stroke riddled brain, and I just can't shake it.....even though I know it was written about a lover, it is so pertinent to this day. "Because I'm bluer than blue, sadder than sad....you're the only life these empty rooms have ever had. Life without you is gonna be, Bluer than Blue".
It will take me awhile to get accustomed to having adult children....and who the heck is that guy in the chair beside of mine in the den? He has white hair....what?! Didn't he used to have Jet Black hair and dancing eyes? We were sweethearts once.....I remember....but who are we now? In these empty rooms? And what the heck do we talk about? And fill our time with? And how do I just cook for two?
She will not be happy with me, but I have to share one of my favorite Mother moments.....When she was about 7 or 8, the newly minted College Girl, in that earnest way she had of eloquently expressing herself, took my hand in hers and rubbed it saying - "I love your hands Mommy" (Now let me be clear - I thought she was getting ready to say something about how much they worked for the good of the family, or how she loved it when they brushed her hair, or some such mushiness....). She continued - "They remind me of old grocery bags, that used hold alot of good things, but then somebody took all the things out of the grocery bags, and now they are kind of wrinkled and empty".
And that is how I feel today....on the first of my empty nest days....like something that used to hold alot of good things, that is now wrinkled and empty.
I marked the page in my Jan Richardson book....the one that has served me so well since my strokes...the page titled "Blessing for coming into an empty house". I marked it, but left it unread until this morning, so that I could reap the full benefits of her wisdom, as I struggle to learn how to dance, even when the music is sad. I offer some snippets of it here, for all of my friends who are entering into this new stage of life....
"I know how every time you return, you call out in greeting to the one who is not there. I know how the hollow of the house echoes in your chest, how the emptiness you enter matches the ache you carry with you always. I know there are days when the only thing more brave than leaving this house is coming back to it...On those days, may the delight that made a home here find its way to you again, not merely in memory, but in hope, so that every word ever spoken in kindness circles back to meet you, so that you may hear what still sings to you within these walls, so that you may know the love that dreams with you here, when finally you give yourself to rest - the love that rises with you, faithful like the dawn that never fails to come."
So let it be said.....so let it be done.
Amen.
And while one, or all may come and live here for bits of time in their Adulthood....it will never. be. the. same. Never. Ever.
Their new names are Peace Corps boy, Word Traveling Au Pair girl, and now....my babiest....College girl.
All day yesterday, Freshman move in day at the steamy, dreamy University in the deep south, the soundtrack relentlessly playing on a loop in my mind was that song.....the one that plays while Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are deep in grief at Ron Weasley's desertion in Deathly Hallows part 1....the scene where Harry removes the Hoarcrux from around Hermione's neck, and they dance in the tent....it is a dance full of the sorrow of the moment, yet it captures the joy of being young and dancing - dancing even when the music is sad....perfect for just such an occasion as moving your youngest child into her new home....
This morning, I woke up with that epic anthem of the 70's "Bluer than Blue" rattling around in my exhausted, stroke riddled brain, and I just can't shake it.....even though I know it was written about a lover, it is so pertinent to this day. "Because I'm bluer than blue, sadder than sad....you're the only life these empty rooms have ever had. Life without you is gonna be, Bluer than Blue".
It will take me awhile to get accustomed to having adult children....and who the heck is that guy in the chair beside of mine in the den? He has white hair....what?! Didn't he used to have Jet Black hair and dancing eyes? We were sweethearts once.....I remember....but who are we now? In these empty rooms? And what the heck do we talk about? And fill our time with? And how do I just cook for two?
She will not be happy with me, but I have to share one of my favorite Mother moments.....When she was about 7 or 8, the newly minted College Girl, in that earnest way she had of eloquently expressing herself, took my hand in hers and rubbed it saying - "I love your hands Mommy" (Now let me be clear - I thought she was getting ready to say something about how much they worked for the good of the family, or how she loved it when they brushed her hair, or some such mushiness....). She continued - "They remind me of old grocery bags, that used hold alot of good things, but then somebody took all the things out of the grocery bags, and now they are kind of wrinkled and empty".
And that is how I feel today....on the first of my empty nest days....like something that used to hold alot of good things, that is now wrinkled and empty.
I marked the page in my Jan Richardson book....the one that has served me so well since my strokes...the page titled "Blessing for coming into an empty house". I marked it, but left it unread until this morning, so that I could reap the full benefits of her wisdom, as I struggle to learn how to dance, even when the music is sad. I offer some snippets of it here, for all of my friends who are entering into this new stage of life....
"I know how every time you return, you call out in greeting to the one who is not there. I know how the hollow of the house echoes in your chest, how the emptiness you enter matches the ache you carry with you always. I know there are days when the only thing more brave than leaving this house is coming back to it...On those days, may the delight that made a home here find its way to you again, not merely in memory, but in hope, so that every word ever spoken in kindness circles back to meet you, so that you may hear what still sings to you within these walls, so that you may know the love that dreams with you here, when finally you give yourself to rest - the love that rises with you, faithful like the dawn that never fails to come."
So let it be said.....so let it be done.
Amen.
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
TwoHundred SixtyTwo Thousand Eight Hundred minutes.
At the Fancy Pants school, the Senior Chorus members (as is tradition) select and stage a number that is meaningful to them, to be performed at their final concert....This year, our Seniors (MY Senior) chose one of my favorites....Seasons of Love, from Rent. Babiest would not divulge what the song would be....not even the slightest hint. My tears started with the first notes of the introduction. From my seat in the darkened auditorium, I felt Babiest Girls' eyes search me out....".Five Hundred TwentyFive Thousand Six Hundred Minutes, how do you measure, measure a year?"
When you plug in the number Two Hundred SixtyTwo Thousand Eight Hundred minutes, it doesn't have quite the same musical ring, but that is what I am singing this morning.....Half of a year. 6 months. 26 weeks. 182 days. 4,368 hours.....262,800 minutes.
Six months ago today, I suffered a series of strokes....9 blood clots to the brain.
I lost my speech, movement on the right side, the ability to formulate clear thoughts, and gained double, distorted vision. I was given tPa - a miracle drug, when it works. Over the course of the next 24 hours, I began moving, engaging in garbled speech, lost the double vision and embarked on my journey with scrambled egg brain.
In the days since, I have celebrated holidays. I have sent a son off to Africa. A Daughter off to Europe. I have returned to work and to working out. I have seen my last child graduate from High School. I have resumed cooking and driving. I have been to the beach and to the mountains. I am the same, yet not. I have learned many things about Stroke/Brain Injury recovery.
I learned, in the early days. what it was like to be dependent on others for everything....and I mean everything. I have learned to say "I would love to, but this time my answer has to be no." I have learned what is like to have difficulty reading, and to have an inability to follow directions - written or spoken. I have learned that there is no shame in an afternoon nap. I have learned about the debilitating nature of post stroke anxiety which strikes with no rhyme or reason and is no respecter of time or place. I have learned to laugh when I can't find the right word, or can't remember when you use the words "sale" or "sell". I have learned that it is ok to ask someone how to pronounce a word, when the word coming out of your mouth doesn't sound right. I have learned that I may have to come to terms with the fact that my singing voice might never return. I have learned that crafting is great physical therapy. I have learned that until the Auto Regulation systems in my brain heal, it is best to hold on to a piece of furniture if you need to bend over. I have learned to make peace with the new bifocals that help me combat the permanent damage to my vision. I have learned that no matter how much I hate it, I am bound to my pill box for the rest of my life. I have learned that I want to live, both in terms of not dying and with regard to the quality of my days. I have learned that there is much to appreciate - even with scrambled egg brain. I have learned that you can find laughter in anything. I have learned that hope is more precious than gold or rubies. I have learned the absolute truth in the little sign I inherited with my office so many years ago..."If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it". I have learned that high doses of Coumadin make you hyper aware of all the ways you could receive a head injury.....free bleeding is not something to take lightly! I have learned (okay...fine, I already knew it) that my Husband and Children are awesome. I have learned that red soft blankets are my favorite.
I have learned that you choose to live and laugh and keep on keepin on, every minute of every day, or you choose to quit....whether you have had a stroke or not.
I have learned that 262,800 minutes is just the beginning...
When you plug in the number Two Hundred SixtyTwo Thousand Eight Hundred minutes, it doesn't have quite the same musical ring, but that is what I am singing this morning.....Half of a year. 6 months. 26 weeks. 182 days. 4,368 hours.....262,800 minutes.
Six months ago today, I suffered a series of strokes....9 blood clots to the brain.
I lost my speech, movement on the right side, the ability to formulate clear thoughts, and gained double, distorted vision. I was given tPa - a miracle drug, when it works. Over the course of the next 24 hours, I began moving, engaging in garbled speech, lost the double vision and embarked on my journey with scrambled egg brain.
In the days since, I have celebrated holidays. I have sent a son off to Africa. A Daughter off to Europe. I have returned to work and to working out. I have seen my last child graduate from High School. I have resumed cooking and driving. I have been to the beach and to the mountains. I am the same, yet not. I have learned many things about Stroke/Brain Injury recovery.
I learned, in the early days. what it was like to be dependent on others for everything....and I mean everything. I have learned to say "I would love to, but this time my answer has to be no." I have learned what is like to have difficulty reading, and to have an inability to follow directions - written or spoken. I have learned that there is no shame in an afternoon nap. I have learned about the debilitating nature of post stroke anxiety which strikes with no rhyme or reason and is no respecter of time or place. I have learned to laugh when I can't find the right word, or can't remember when you use the words "sale" or "sell". I have learned that it is ok to ask someone how to pronounce a word, when the word coming out of your mouth doesn't sound right. I have learned that I may have to come to terms with the fact that my singing voice might never return. I have learned that crafting is great physical therapy. I have learned that until the Auto Regulation systems in my brain heal, it is best to hold on to a piece of furniture if you need to bend over. I have learned to make peace with the new bifocals that help me combat the permanent damage to my vision. I have learned that no matter how much I hate it, I am bound to my pill box for the rest of my life. I have learned that I want to live, both in terms of not dying and with regard to the quality of my days. I have learned that there is much to appreciate - even with scrambled egg brain. I have learned that you can find laughter in anything. I have learned that hope is more precious than gold or rubies. I have learned the absolute truth in the little sign I inherited with my office so many years ago..."If God brings you to it, He will bring you through it". I have learned that high doses of Coumadin make you hyper aware of all the ways you could receive a head injury.....free bleeding is not something to take lightly! I have learned (okay...fine, I already knew it) that my Husband and Children are awesome. I have learned that red soft blankets are my favorite.
I have learned that you choose to live and laugh and keep on keepin on, every minute of every day, or you choose to quit....whether you have had a stroke or not.
I have learned that 262,800 minutes is just the beginning...
Friday, April 28, 2017
Short Sleeved Shirt
I have read about it. I have heard about it on radio and T.V. Today, I experienced it first hand.
I guess it all started when I got dressed this morning. I needed a short sleeved shirt. I had to go to the Doctor for a tweaking of my blood pressure medication, and a calibrating of my home BP machine... With all of the BP cuffs on the docket, short sleeve was definitely the best choice. It's my day off, so I immediately gravitated toward my favorite Tee. I made it last year - using my Faux Batik method. It is a beautiful blue color, and the lettering came out perfectly, with a really interesting negative image fading around each letter. One word, emblazoned across the chest - COEXIST. With each letter representing a different culture - just like the Bumper Sticker. I added my super cool turquoise and pearl choker, some big silver hoop earrings, and, of course a pair of pants - I was ready to roll. After all of the cuffing and uncuffing at the Docs, I headed to the Teeter in search of some Coconut Flour for a new recipe.
I grabbed up my favorite low cal popcorn from the rack by the front entrance, a case of Cherry Seltzer water, found the Coconut Flour - added that to the buggy, and was on my way to grab some chocolate almond milk (Yes, I am back on my diet), when I found my way blocked by a Shopping Cart. The pusher of said cart, a beefy, bald, scowling 30 something man, came around beside me. Leaning over, he pointed towards my shirt and with a snarl, said in a menacing tone - "Just what is that supposed to mean?"
Now, the pre-stoke me, the one that was not inclined to back down from a fight, would have pushed my buggy into his and said "Just what the heck (probably not the word I would have used) do you THINK it is supposed to mean?" POST stroke me, tightened my grip on the cart to steady the shaking and panicked me. I looked around - we were alone on the aisle. I took a deep breath and said something to the effect of "well, it means that you should have an open mind towards all people, living in harmony - not hating folks just because of who they are and what they believe. That you should live out The Great Command, and love others as Jesus loved us" I could have expounded on my explanation and schooled him in the fact that Jesus often used the marginalized, the least, the "Other" in his teachings. I could have told him that Jesus himself consorted with all types of people...There are so many other things I could have said. But that was all that would come out...I didn't have enough breath for more, because by this time I was visibly shaking, and my knees were threatening to buckle. He stared at me for a time, said some version of "hummpppff", and moved his buggy, allowing me to pass.
No chocolate almond milk for me. I headed straight to the cashier. As I waited in line, I periodically looked over my shoulder. There he stood, on the same aisle, looking at some food item or another. I felt exposed...furious.... vulnerable. The cashier (one of my favorites) asked me if I was OK, after she noticed my hands shaking so badly I could hardly handle the money. I nodded, anxious to be finished with the transaction. As I got into my car, unleashing the tears I had been holding back, it occurred to me I didn't feel much safer in my car. The car which sports a bright yellow Hippie Chicks Rule bumper sticker.
Now lets be clear. I never felt like I was in any specific physical danger. I think his intent - his delight - was to intimidate.
And therein lies the problem. I have read about it. I have heard about it on the Radio and TV. And now, I have experienced it first hand. There is a segment of the population in our country that have become emboldened by the careless and dangerous words of those that lead us. Words that are tinged with inuendo. Words that grant tacit empowerment to those that lean towards bigotry and hate.
And there we are. I don't know what to do about it. I only know that it sickens me. It angers me. It terrifies me.
So, here I am. Back in my chair....under my red blanket. Since I fell ill, any strong emotion - good or bad, leaves me so mentally and physically exhausted that I can barely function. Even though I feel like I am not breathing, my finger pulse ox meter assures me that I am getting enough oxygen. I am still shaking so badly that my back is threatening to surrender to muscle spasms. I am wishing that I had that dadgummed Chocolate Almond Milk.
This was not some FaceBook meme that leaves me confounded with the way of our world. This was not Lester Holt reporting on some incident in a distant state. This was not hearsay, or some bit of vaguery. This was ME - in the Broad Daylight - in the Teeter - in my little southern town. I will stop crying. I will stop shaking. I will keep on keepin on. I will wear my shirt again, and should I meet this kind of hate and intimidation again, I hope I will once again stand my ground - shaking and all.
I guess it all started when I got dressed this morning. I needed a short sleeved shirt. I had to go to the Doctor for a tweaking of my blood pressure medication, and a calibrating of my home BP machine... With all of the BP cuffs on the docket, short sleeve was definitely the best choice. It's my day off, so I immediately gravitated toward my favorite Tee. I made it last year - using my Faux Batik method. It is a beautiful blue color, and the lettering came out perfectly, with a really interesting negative image fading around each letter. One word, emblazoned across the chest - COEXIST. With each letter representing a different culture - just like the Bumper Sticker. I added my super cool turquoise and pearl choker, some big silver hoop earrings, and, of course a pair of pants - I was ready to roll. After all of the cuffing and uncuffing at the Docs, I headed to the Teeter in search of some Coconut Flour for a new recipe.
I grabbed up my favorite low cal popcorn from the rack by the front entrance, a case of Cherry Seltzer water, found the Coconut Flour - added that to the buggy, and was on my way to grab some chocolate almond milk (Yes, I am back on my diet), when I found my way blocked by a Shopping Cart. The pusher of said cart, a beefy, bald, scowling 30 something man, came around beside me. Leaning over, he pointed towards my shirt and with a snarl, said in a menacing tone - "Just what is that supposed to mean?"
Now, the pre-stoke me, the one that was not inclined to back down from a fight, would have pushed my buggy into his and said "Just what the heck (probably not the word I would have used) do you THINK it is supposed to mean?" POST stroke me, tightened my grip on the cart to steady the shaking and panicked me. I looked around - we were alone on the aisle. I took a deep breath and said something to the effect of "well, it means that you should have an open mind towards all people, living in harmony - not hating folks just because of who they are and what they believe. That you should live out The Great Command, and love others as Jesus loved us" I could have expounded on my explanation and schooled him in the fact that Jesus often used the marginalized, the least, the "Other" in his teachings. I could have told him that Jesus himself consorted with all types of people...There are so many other things I could have said. But that was all that would come out...I didn't have enough breath for more, because by this time I was visibly shaking, and my knees were threatening to buckle. He stared at me for a time, said some version of "hummpppff", and moved his buggy, allowing me to pass.
No chocolate almond milk for me. I headed straight to the cashier. As I waited in line, I periodically looked over my shoulder. There he stood, on the same aisle, looking at some food item or another. I felt exposed...furious.... vulnerable. The cashier (one of my favorites) asked me if I was OK, after she noticed my hands shaking so badly I could hardly handle the money. I nodded, anxious to be finished with the transaction. As I got into my car, unleashing the tears I had been holding back, it occurred to me I didn't feel much safer in my car. The car which sports a bright yellow Hippie Chicks Rule bumper sticker.
Now lets be clear. I never felt like I was in any specific physical danger. I think his intent - his delight - was to intimidate.
And therein lies the problem. I have read about it. I have heard about it on the Radio and TV. And now, I have experienced it first hand. There is a segment of the population in our country that have become emboldened by the careless and dangerous words of those that lead us. Words that are tinged with inuendo. Words that grant tacit empowerment to those that lean towards bigotry and hate.
And there we are. I don't know what to do about it. I only know that it sickens me. It angers me. It terrifies me.
So, here I am. Back in my chair....under my red blanket. Since I fell ill, any strong emotion - good or bad, leaves me so mentally and physically exhausted that I can barely function. Even though I feel like I am not breathing, my finger pulse ox meter assures me that I am getting enough oxygen. I am still shaking so badly that my back is threatening to surrender to muscle spasms. I am wishing that I had that dadgummed Chocolate Almond Milk.
This was not some FaceBook meme that leaves me confounded with the way of our world. This was not Lester Holt reporting on some incident in a distant state. This was not hearsay, or some bit of vaguery. This was ME - in the Broad Daylight - in the Teeter - in my little southern town. I will stop crying. I will stop shaking. I will keep on keepin on. I will wear my shirt again, and should I meet this kind of hate and intimidation again, I hope I will once again stand my ground - shaking and all.
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