Still The Daughter.

Winter Pastoral 2014

2014-01-28T00:37:00.000-05:00

It's 11:52 PM on Monday, January 27, 2014 and here we are in the bleak mid-winter. I'm learning to celebrate the new winter rituals, especially in the wee hours of the night.

Usually in Rhode Island we'd see winter evening temperatures plummet into the teens and consider ourselves up to the challenge. Tonight we're entertaining the same, but the wind proves more formidable driving us down to a "real feel" of -7 degrees (a veritable heat wave in other parts of the country).

Our rituals are heartier now. Two coats for me, two coats for Dickens. Gloves for me, paw wax for him. An over-sized hood for me, he tucks his ears under his coat collar (if he doesn't wear the coat with a hood). Short walks just to get the job done, but the cold wind still stings my cheeks.

Once we're in for the night, I check on my feral foster cat, Amelia Luna Diva. She has two crates, a soft bed (that she hates) and a spot on an old jacket next to the baseboard heat (that she loves). I give her two treats (that she loves), fresh water, and inspect the litter box. She's good to go.

Next I check the man of the house (OK, the pup of the house). He's given a handful of kibble to keep the acid reflux in check until morning. I top off his water dish. He spins around to land on his fleece blanket on the recliner. In 10 seconds he's out like a light.

After the house quiets, I climb into my pajamas and prepare for bed. I shuffle off to the kitchen to make some lemon balm tea loaded with honey. While I'm there, I set the faucet to drip and paddle off to the bathroom to do the same to that faucet. I settle in my recliner with my knitting or my book .

It is as quiet as it can be. I hear dog and cat breathing accompanied by the steady -drip-drip-drip from the faucets. Dickens wears an expression of inner contentment as does Amelia as she snuggles next to the baseboard. The wind still howls outside, but this indoor winter tableau warms me from the inside out.

Good night!

Springing Ahead

2014-01-27T10:09:00.000-05:00

Today's forecast serves as a bit of reprieve. A chance to come up for air before the next polar vortex descends. Time to take a few deep warm breaths before the cold lashes result in sharp inhalations. Mother Nature's respiration forces me to regulate my own.

My soul longs for the tender breezes of spring. A time that sweeps away the ugliness of dirty snow and replaces the land with verdant life. Of thawed earth, birdsong, and air as crisp and clean as a babbling brook. Felled branches from harsh storms are cut & re-purposed to serve as garden borders and blankets of leaves are turned under to reveal tiny shoots.

However, while I dream of that time, the stark reality remains that we're a ways off from experiencing this awakening. Tomorrow it's back to layers, heavy boots, & mittens to protect my core from the sharp northwest winds. Winter bites. Literally and figuratively.

Staring out the kitchen window my coffee keeps me company. I placed the seed order last week and I'm praying the mail doesn't deliver a box full of frozen seed. The list of things to do calls to me. Scanning the list I ask myself if there's something I can do to advance the season while keeping my awareness in the present moment. Something that speaks of preparation, anticipation and the hint of good things must be on this list somewhere?.

And there it is...test last year's seeds. Paper towels and carefully marked Zip Lock bags appear on the kitchen counter. I moisten the paper towels with warm water then gently place five seeds down, swaddling them in the toweling, and placing them in their plastic incubators. The bags rely on the warmth of the top of the refrigerator. If they sprout, they'll find their home in the make-shift hydroponic outfit I'm trying.

This is the time where hope kicks in as I peek inside the bags each day to re-hydrate the paper towels. As I open each bag silent prayers rise that the tiny roots appear from the hard seed coating. There is no promise in this exercise. No guarantee of success. Yet, to me viable seeds represent the hope stored within us all. Hope is an energy. It has the power to create strong stock given the right conditions. This simple act mirrors my life now in so many ways, but as I struggle through the hard, cold shell of winter living on nothing but the energy within me, with the right conditions, I just might grow roots.

At least there's a seed of hope.

Horses At Work: Not a Walk in the Park?

2014-01-17T09:38:00.002-05:00

This week I learned of a brewing controversy in New York City regarding the Central Park carriage horses. Author Jon Katz told us the story on our creative group "Open Group for Bedlam Farm" upon his return from the Big Apple. We're having respectful discussions pro and con, but I keep thinking we're missing the broader picture.

On one side, animal rights organizations and others have spoken out for the ban, claiming abuse and misuse of the animals. On the other side, points made based on observation and discussion of the carriage ride industry and the wellness of the animals are all positive. Still others have made equally weighted statements concerning other issues and problems within New York City that have a direct impact on the human condition. All good and valid point and counterpoint, but I keep feeling there's more to the story based on the background research I've performed.

First of all let me make the following statements so you understand my point of view:

Yes, I've been to New York City. Yes, I've taken a carriage ride or two (or many). All the horses appeared to be in good condition. Getting on a carriage pulled by a scrawny horse ain't my idea of fun. I've also taken carriage rides on a trip to Rome. In fact, the horses proved to be the better way to get around Rome safely and efficiently. Roman cab drivers scare me to death!
Yes, I've owned horses. I've owned and worked as a stable manager where we took in horses from rescue organizations. Horses that were in deplorable condition, so I know the face of abuse. It ain't pretty. In fact, it's pretty heart-wrenching, but care and love brought these creatures back to health.
I also went to school with police officers who were accepted into our Mounted Patrol Unit when it first formed. They'd tell me about the mounted law enforcement training program. They'd relay the terror of controlling a 1200+ lbs animal under them during a tear gas exercise. Of reining in an animal as shots were being fired overhead. The horses came from rescue and donations. Some clearly too flighty for this type of work. A few broken ankles and wrists made that clear.
Very briefly, I had joined a rescue group and then unjoined. They ran on so much emotion and humanization of the animals that they couldn't see the animals from the humans and then stories began to surface of how they'd turn animals away, but if you slipped them $50. all of sudden there was room at the inn (or shelter, in this case.) My common sense antennae told me something was amiss. (by the way the stories were all first person accounts.)

So I did some digging into media reports to find the real story or at least to get a sense of where the arguments were going. Each article reported on the abuse angle, the 19 million dollars that carriage ride industry contributed to the city coffers, stories about large campaign contributions made by animal rights groups to elect the new mayor as well as alleged lucrative real estate deals should the carriage industry become history. Now celebrities are coming out for both sides. Cue the lights. Roll camera. Action!

Now here's where I have a problem with this mess (please stay with me on this). First of all, how all of a sudden did these groups come up with the scratch to make these campaign contributions? I'm the type whose heart bleeds every time she sees a public service announcements featuring sad, maimed and disfigured animals who've suffered abuse only to read that my sacrifice to donate went to a campaign contribution and not the welfare of the animal? Hello! Does something seem "off" there? This practice forces me to research these organizations to determine exactly how much of my scarce dollars goes directly to animal care. I do not intend to contribute to an organization in order for them to get their crony elected. Lobbying, maybe OK, campaign contribution? Not OK. It feels dishonest to contributors. IMHO!

Secondly, every article spoke to the dangers to the Central Park horses due to New York City traffic conditions around the park. Yes, a horse did pass at the hands of an abuser last month, which is awful, but the other 299 seem fine. Their solution to protect the animals? Put more cars on the road in the form of electric antique cars. Yessiree Bob, that'll fix it. Does this make sense to anyone? It certainly doesn't make sense to me, "fixing" a problem by compounding a problem. I don't get it.

And finally, and what I consider a major hypocrisy, lies in the continuation of the NYPD Mounted Unit. I don't know about you but the thought of a horse and rider standing in the middle of Times Square traffic doesn't leave me feeling all warm and fuzzy. Where's the outcry? Before anyone jumps to conclusions, I feel that this unit is vital and necessary to NYC law enforcement. Horse and rider are trained to precision standards. The same argument can be raised concerning their future, but none comes forward, which tells me that there must be another reason in back of the carriage horse issue.

That "something" might have to do with money. Could it be that the rescue organizations might be duped? Or could they garner something in return for forcing the matter? Can the electric car replacements generate more dollars?

I don't have answers to these and other questions. The purpose of this post doesn't focus on animal behavior, but human behavior. I got a feeling there's a rotten apple in the Big Apple somewhere and clearly the magnitude of the issue can't be compared to how humans neglect humans in need. And, folks that's not a walk in the park.

Reality. High Tide or Rip Tide?

2014-01-06T10:47:00.000-05:00

Over the past week I've found myself reflecting on a situation that began innocently enough, but now each time it presents itself, I want to run for the hills.

It began by making a casual acquaintance with someone via the non-profit group I support. Nothing out of the ordinary. Back then this relationship would have been labeled a "friendship," but rather one-sided at that. Having relayed her history, the thought never entered my mind that things might be a tad "off".

Fast forward to the present where the phone calls have escalated, the drama builds (on her side, not mine) and more and more the realization that she's not just calling me to vent, but to suck me in to a situation she, and she alone, created creeps into my consciousness. Despite the fact that she's a card-carrying professional who's achieved those letters "PhD" after her last name who makes a living helping other folks with their problems, my concern grows with each phone ring.

I guess another term for this behavior might be "energy sucker". Trust me after one call concludes, I want to reach for a cup of tea and knit until I calm down, but then that's my problem. This person hops from drama to drama. It's endless. At times, it feels as though she's feeding on her situation whilst I provide an audience. Whether learned or innate, I do care and worry about folks. I always wish them the best the world has to offer, but they've got to want it as well.

It dawned on me that true friendship doesn't create a vacuum...doesn't leave me gasping for air...doesn't have me looking for the nearest exit...dragging me out into an ocean of upset. My friends and, please God, I raise each other up during the low times and ride the wave during the pleasant periods. When I shared my concern with a friend, he said, "You've got to protect yourself from this person's behavior. Don't answer the phone. Just don't be available."

So, with gratitude for a lesson learned, this person shall no longer be a part of my reality. It's been a hard decision to make due to the fact that I'm one of those hyper-sensitive, see both sides of the argument kind of gals. It hurts to see someone behave this way, but this life-swimmer doesn't want to get taken out by a rip current.

The course of the past few days have taught me a valuable lesson, perhaps my "just older" brain failed to wrap itself around this notion in my early years or my caregiving duties distracted me from the obvious, but here it is: our reality is flexible. We allow folks into that space called "life" to learn lessons in gratitude for those we have and adjust our reality to show those the door who just don't get it. The funny thing being, I don't believe this person has a clue...an iota...a shred of understanding that her behavior has created her reality.

So, I wish this person well, but she can't crash in my reality. Lesson learned.

Mother Nature's Acid Reflux

2014-01-02T07:59:00.000-05:00

[Mother Nature, aka "MN" visits her celestial general practitioner.]

Doctor: Mother Nature, what's going on?

MN: It's back, Doctor. My acid reflux has returned.

Doctor: Hmm, so that explains the havoc we've seen on earth.

MN: I can't help myself. Now, things seem a little out of control. It all started with the fires in Australia (see here). I tried to put them out with some torrential rain, but my aim's been off and I wound up flooding Scotland (see here).

As the re flux grew, I figured I'd try to take a dose of some cold weather (here), but I forgot to close the Arctic's gate which led to extreme cold and some pretty strong words from the Canadians. Folks in Minnesota aren't too happy either.

Doctor: I see.

MN: That's only the tip of the iceberg. I thought my stomach had settled. Actually, I felt better. Until...

Doctor: Until...

MN: Yes, it gets worse. You see, I got a little rattled (see here). I think it may be gall stones or the Canary Islands, I can't figure it out. I felt as though my blood boiled and I suffered a bout of nausea right around Nicaragua (and here).

Doctor: So, what did you take for that?

MN: Well, with all the upset, it's been a constant battle. Cold, extreme cold, ice to no avail. I'm losing my touch. No more serene winter tableau, no more shots of sandy South American beaches with gentle waves. I'm telling ya, I don't know what's gotten into me. (She coughs). What else am I supposed to do? I can't control myself which leads to some pretty extreme measures.

Doctor: Such as...

MN: Well, if I were you I'd avoid the east coast of the United States today.

Doctor: Why is that?

MN: I'm sending them a Blizzard. Hopefully, that'll make me feel better.

The Eve of Leaving Behind

2013-12-31T11:06:00.000-05:00

It's New Year's Eve and I can't believe how long it's been since I've shared a thought or few on this blog.

Truth be told I've been doing personal writing in order to sort through my feelings concerning the events of 2013. I haven't re-read the diary, but the emotions described on those pages are raw and, at times, scary. However, the pages have been therapeutic. They've been a vehicle to self-discovery. They revealed a wounded heart that's been ignored for far too long. It's time to begin to heal from the inside out, rather than ignoring those parts that are still bleeding.

In order to do so, I had to cull through the emotions with a critical eye in order to stitch together a better life in the New Year. Here are the things I've leaving behind in 2013:

Over-whelming self-doubt: Let's be honest here. I'll always carry a bit in my back pocket, but there's enough in this house to sink a battleship or the Queen Mary.
Hyper-self criticism: Truly, the weeds in the garden of growth. It'll take me over if I don't do a thorough weeding.
Fear: If I have faith, then there's no room for fear. My life up to this point, especially the past five years, have been a testament to faith.

There are seeds and seedlings I'm taking with me into 2014. Whether they grow or not is anyone's guess, but here we go:

Determination: No matter what these eyes are going to be trained on achieving those goals toward a better life.
Self-acceptance: OK, so I'm not going to leap tall buildings in a single bound as Superman/Superwoman. That's OK. My luck when I reached the summit they'd be a huge chunk of Kryptonite smashing me to the ground. There are better writers, but at the end of the day, that's what I love. There are better knitters, but that's what I love. Ditto gardeners. It's what's important to me. I truly believe I'm a throw-back to another place and time, but whose crafts apply to this crazy modern world.
Learning: Push the boundaries outward learning more about those things I love and try other things to see if I love them as well.
Loving: Love does make the world go around. Loving adds fuel to the fire of achievement, production and purpose. One thing I know about my purpose on earth (still haven't figured out the rest) is that I am here to love.

In closing, it's important to carry my heartfelt gratitude from year to year:

My parents: Wherever you are, know I gave it my best shot. It has been my honor to know, love, and care for you until the end. You passed in a house of love that you busted your humps to hold onto to every single shingle.
My husband: A dozen years ago you left this world, but I love you and miss you more than you know.
My friends: Oh, how do I thank these people who walked through the fire with me? Those folks who put their own problems aside to listen, to act, to love unconditionally? I'll never be able to express my appreciation, except to say "thank you". Will they ever feel the depth of gratitude behind those words? I hope so.
Dickens: Just last year I felt as if I'd complicated my life (and not in a good way) by bringing home a puppy, even for all the right reasons. Despite all the problems, you've taught me so much. You've turned into a real life saver and helped me to listen to my life. Treats for you tonight, my friend.
Amelia Luna Diva: My 10 month old, jet black feral cat who arrived this past Halloween. In two months we've made some progress. You are facing your fears and I'm facing mine. We are indeed strangers in a strange land. Together we just might learn to trust each other and ourselves. The definition of rehabilitation, I guess.

And to you all, I wish you a Happy New Year! I hope that you achieve all you dream and your passions guide you throughout the year.

Love. Dream. Act.

Dickens and the Church

2013-08-18T20:54:00.000-04:00

The last two weeks have been painful. There. I said it. Profoundly painful. It's bad enough that the anniversary of my father's death stared me down, but to have my mother pass a year to the day of his funeral service slayed me. I remind myself of thoughts of last year. My heart knew that these two were joined at the heart. I hoped that Mom would be with me a few more years, but heaven had other plans.

When Mom took the final turn, the Hospice nurse and I agreed that the time had come for her to be given the Last Rites. Mom remained true to her Roman Catholic tradition while I had converted to the Episcopal Church. So, I called her parish priest and the Parish Secretary told me to hold on he'd arrive shortly. So, I did what I normally do - I paced.

After what seemed an eternity I heard someone turn the front door handle. Yes! Dickens barked. I ran to the front door only to find the priest running down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. (By then I had crated Dickens and rested in the knowledge the priest would not be licked into a frenzy.) I opened the door and called out to the priest, "Father, you're going the wrong way!" He turned around, I noticed his ashen face. "Father, what's wrong?"

Mom really like this guy because of his height, smile, and youth. He remarked during a hospital visit to Mom that he noticed me walking a "cute little dog". Now I knew this man-of-the-cloth knew Dickens. It's not like times of old when a priest made sure he visited the sick at least once a month. Now, the parish had a "call us if you need us" policy, which I have to admit rubs me the wrong way. I remember thinking that perhaps a phone call every now and again would have helped.

As I stood with the door open, the priest turned and said, "I'm allergic to dogs." I responded that my dog had hair, not fur, the dog had been regularly bathed, and that he sat in a crate. The priest stood with his hand resting on his car totally unmoved. He then responded, "I have an aversion to dogs." "You have a what?" I asked him to repeat what he had just said because a) I couldn't believe what I had just heard; b) I could not wrap my head around the fact that my dying mother might be denied the sacrament because of an 18 lb. Cairn terrier. I don't deny that some folks are afraid of dogs, but I had just told him about the crating thing.

The scenario reminded me of another deja vu moment last fall. A nun used to do a walking meditation through our neighborhood each Sunday. She always smiled and wore the most cherubic expression. One day as Dickens and I came out the front door, Dickens began to bark in his frenetic, bouncy way. The nun glanced over at my straining-at-the-leash pup-dog, adjusted her veil, raised her skirts (revealing well-worn Nike's) and took off like a Saturn 5 rocket, arms pumping by her side. Dickens and I looked at each other with perplexed expressions.

"Wait!" I yelled. I closed the door, picked up the crate containing the offending animal, and shoved Dickens crate and all into the bathroom, slamming the bathroom door shut. I returned to the front door. "Father, now there are two doors protecting you from my dog: the crate door and the bathroom door. Please, come in."

As he entered the house, I leaned forward and said, "Father, fibbing to me about your allergies? Seriously? Fibbing ain't the way to begin this home visit." I forced myself to put my feelings aside.
In the end, my mother received the spiritual comfort she deserved, the priest received the emotional comfort he required, and, as for me, I strained my back hefting that damn crate containing Dickens.

That night I noticed a tightness not only in my back, but in my heart. My days had been jam-packed with fear concerning Mom's care, but I did it anyway. Why couldn't others admit their fear and move through it. Did the sister really believe I'd serve her to Dickens for lunch? Did the priest honestly think he'd have to be gnawed before performing the Last Rites? I guess fear penetrates even those who are so called and profess a deeper faith. I wish faith reminded us of who we are as strongly as fear does. Fear grips us tightly, yet this human needs to embrace faith as Job did by never letting go; of tightening my hold with white-knuckled force to the power of faith.

Love Unconditionally

2013-08-07T21:31:00.001-04:00

Stephanie Perl-McPhee has a huge reputation in the knitting world. She's known for stitching like the wind, writing funny, but real books, and teaching knitting to eager students far and wide. She hails from Toronto, Canada. What people outside the knitting world might not be aware is that Stephanie has an enormous heart...strike "enormous," I mean ginormous.

Stephanie has been training and fundraising feverishly to participate in a bicycle ride. Not just a ride around the park, mind you, I'm talking forming teams, raising money, and biking, along with over 300 riders, from Toronto to Montreal in support of "Friends for Life" who are living with HIV/AIDS. Imagine clocking over 90 km [that's biking 55 miles for those not on the imperial system] per day in order to support people you don't know, but love anyway? Not to mention investing a week of one's life, facing risk on the road, and commanding one's body to push ahead...taking it to the limit.

As I sit here dreading tomorrow, the fear churning as I face tomorrow's funeral. There are distinct differences in Stephanie's and my circumstances. First, she chose to ride her bike 300 miles for a cause; I did not choose to say goodbye to my parents. Second, she's using her body to better a cause; tomorrow bids goodbye to a family.

However, the similarities are stronger, deeper, richer. She risked butt burn and aching muscles out of love, so did I. She doubted her ability, so did I. Stephanie felt the fear and did it anyway and so will I.

Peace,

[If you'd like to read more about Stephanie's journey, click here]

Peace Is At Hand

2013-08-01T22:12:00.000-04:00

So also you have sorrow now,

but I will see you again,

and your hearts will rejoice,

and no one will take your joy from you.

John 16:22

Rest in peace, Mom.

Rest in peace.

Peace On the Way

2013-07-30T15:31:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting by my mother's bedside. I await the final hour. Waiting for the holy men and holy women to welcome my mother to heaven. The nurse has been and gone as has the CNA. The priest has prayed and given her the Last Rites. We prayed. She's already somewhat at peace. She's comfortable. No pain that she's expressed. Her end could come this afternoon, tonight, tomorrow. That's information that heaven rarely shares.

So why am I posting a blog entry? I do not know. I've thanked her for the life she worked and provided for me...for the opportunities...for the gift of imagination...for working two sometimes three jobs to keep a roof over our heads...for taking care of her family and my father. She could have walked away. At times growing up I wouldn't have blamed her. She's a fighter. She believes in the power of love and her life reflects that story. She fought for her love story. My mother leaves this world with, I think, few regrets.

I'm telling you about one smart lady. At 17, she received not one, but three scholarships to universities, McGill in Montreal, one on Staten Island, and a local college. She's fluent in Latin, French, and taught herself Russian (so she could read the protesters placards during the end of the Cold War.) Mom read voraciously and wrote beautifully. She couldn't leave her family, so she vied for the local option. A job that lasted 45 years in pharmacy. A community she loved.

It's truly a miracle we're here today. You see, my mother should have professed and entered the convent. A dear music teacher and nun took her under her wing when my grandfather passed. This nun cared and nurtured her when my grief-stricken grandmother couldn't. My mother would have made a fantastic nun.

As I sit beside her I'm not balling my eyes out anymore. I'm remembering how she fought for me when the 8th grade elementary school teacher told her she should consider a less challenging high school for me due to my learning disability. (I was graduated near the top of my high school class. Take that Sr. Mary Grace.) Mom always sported a manicure. That day those manicured hands sprouted imaginary claws. You see, I always knew by the hands placed squarely on the hips of her 5-foot frame that things were going bad fast. She'd draw herself up and with the quietest voice tell whomever had stepped out of line (usually me; in this case, the teacher) where they had gone astray.

Mom, even to this very moment, held fashion in high esteem, sometimes to her own peril. This lady wore stiletto heals with every outfit. (I think she liked being tall in them). That all stopped as she sprained both ankles trying to catch up with my long-legged father one night after church. Yup, both sprained. She stayed in bed for five days. She switched to lower pumps, but I never saw her in an unmatched outfit.

Mom won't be waked. She drilled into my head long ago that she didn't want anyone to see her with a make-up job she'd not done herself, which brings to mind her visit to Ft. Jackson, SC for my graduation from Army Basic Training. We had a young female lieutenant who possessed both beauty and fashion sense. Mom befriended her, asked her why she wasn't working at a cosmetics house, and got her a job at Revlon. Whatever Mom wants, Mom gets.

So, I guess I'm telling you all this because the few stories I've shared with you make me smile...deepen my gratitude...show you the love she had for life...for people...for us. She's comfortable now. She'll know absolute peace soon. I've told her it's OK to go. I'll manage. As long as she's happy, I'm happy, but damn it I'm going to miss her.

"Love isn't love 'til you give it away." She's done her job.

Melody of the Pines

2013-07-27T10:09:00.000-04:00

Saturday morning. One of the two days I strive to take Dickens out late for his walk so that he doesn't startle the neighborhood. If we make it to 6 or 6:30 AM, I'm lucky. Dickens has taken an immediate dislike to all things vehicular and wards them off with barking that would raise the dead.

We head off gently. The neighbors are just beginning their days. Some running out in their pajamas to grab the morning newspapers; others are bustling to set up yards sales or to load up the car for a jump ahead of beach traffic. The neighborhood rises with various intentions.

The walk leads up the street about 100 feet. We pass a few neatly landscaped lawns. Lawns that say I'm well cared for...I matter. Lawns that remind me that our lawn looks neglected...overgrown...but in a strange sense wild and free. Still that sense of the wilderness doesn't conform to the neighborhood proper, so I make a mental note to whack the crap out of it as soon as yesterday's rains evaporate.

Turning right brings us to something the municipal planner calls "a paper street". A dead-end, but to me it's the road less traveled. The street's more of a pathway...about70 feet of pathway, leading down a small hill. It's forested with tall maples bending to the wind. My tiny forest primeval hosts squirrels, birds of all kinds, rabbits and chipmunks. A virgin ecosystem among a 21st Century, overly manicured plat.

We move down the hill, Dickens sniffing for new scents as we descend. He knows we'll be turning left to walk along more houses. More houses with statuary and fences. He stops though to confirm our route. Moving on for another 20 ft. our destination reached. Before us, in the middle of all this humanity, we hear the song. First a soft hum and touch as if caressing a small child, then becoming louder, bolder to announce its greatest. We've come upon a stand of pines. Old pines. Tall. Majestic. Survivor pines worthy of attention and gratitude.

Most would say the wind produces the tone or the pitch, that settles my heart. That same wind blows throughout the maples, but there's no song, only creaking branches. The pines take the wind's energy to create music. Lyrical. Mystical. Healing. Nurturing. The melody moves me to tears. I stand there in front of a complete stranger's house under the guise of a sniffing dog in order to drink in the melody of the pines.

My heart tells me that I need to live with pines. I long for the day where I can tune in the melody by simply opening a window.

....That Which Passes All Understanding

2013-07-24T10:06:00.004-04:00

I wandered into Mom's room at 6 AM. It's a small room...maybe 10 x 12. She lies in a hospital bed. The bed seems enormous compared to her tiny body. She might now be 80 lbs. Over the weekend she developed problems swallowing. Admittedly, I hold my breath, pray that she's still breathing...that she's still with me. Seeing chest heaves I say a silent prayer of gratitude, but it always winds up with the phrase "Just a little more time, Lord, please just a little more time." Mom sees me and grabs my hand. Her hands are my hands only hers wear the test of time. Her nails are neatly manicured with her signature blue nail polish.

She has a little to drink, looks at me and says, "I have to go with them, you know." I ask who she plans to travel with. She doesn't answer me. Her eyes are wide and fixed on something or someone known only to her. She then says, "I don't want to go. I don't want to leave you." I say that I don't want her leave me as well. I remind her that today's the day her Hospice volunteer visits. That she might want to postpone her trip until then. Mom's eyes light up. I pray anticipating the volunteer's visit might entire her to postpone her trip.

As I sit for a few minutes of quiet meditation in the living room, the tears begin to flow. These are necessary and that strangely fuel my strength. As my meditation deepens the tiny, soft voice emerges.

Me: "What am I doing? Is Mom hallucinating or are these visits real?"

The Voice: "I know this is hard. She's going to be leaving. Did you ever think you might be standing in her way?"

Me: "What? I took care of Dad, remember? I think I know how this works."

Voice: "Do you? Do you understand? Really? How would you describe her existence here now...at this very moment."

Me: Isn't she comfortable? She looks comfortable."

Voice: "Is comfort enough? What about something else?

Me: "What are you talking about?"

Voice: "What about Peace? Right now she's conflicted. She wants to go to the light, but she doesn't want to leave you. What if she knows you are at peace with her passing. What if she looks forward to that magnificent peace, just like the volunteer's visit, but feels she can't leave you? Will you deny her that?"

Me: "Good points, but you know what tomorrow is, it's the first anniversary of Dad's passing. You know I'm thick. Stubborn. Yes, genuinely selfish, but I'll try. I'll really try. Just a little more time, Lord, please just a little more time."

Putting It Out There and Bringing it Home

2013-07-21T11:09:00.000-04:00

In an effort to escape the heat and humidity, I did some Internet research on saving damaged tomato plants. Fried green tomatoes aren't supposed to be fried on the vine. Late this spring I planted San Marzano tomatoes. These babies are reputed to make THE best tomato sauce. The heat's done a number on them, but some plants survived.

As I clicked and scrolled I came upon something that spoke to me - fairy gardens or miniature gardens. Ooooooh, now there's something I can wrap my brain around. Imagine small cabins surrounded by miniature plants to create a forest, tiny stone garden paths, and other things Lilliputian to bring my dreams to life. I'm hooked.

I divert my search to learn more about these flights of fancy only to find that mini-gardens are to be sold at Bedlam Farm's Open House today. What I wouldn't give to be there! That would be the best! "Damn it, now I feel like Cinderella. Everyone's going to the ball." I promised myself today of all days I would stay up in mood and motion, so that involves planning and imagination

The image forms in my mind. How can I make that cabin-in-the-forest become a reality? I check Amazon only to realize that their idea of pricing isn't mine. Yikes, I want to own, not rent. So, tomorrow I'm off to the dollar store to see what I can scrounge. Then a quick trip to the nursery for my fields and forests.

As designs whirled in head the phone rings. It's my dear friend who tells me she's yard sailing on my street. She said she stopped at this house with a little dog named Bentley. She put two and two together when someone let Bentley loose. On this street, that's a "huge no-no". I've told her about Dickens's and Bentley's friendship. She told the owner she knew all about Bentley from what I'd told her. Bentley's owner then asked if she'd call me so Dickens could apprehend Bentley. After a little game of bob and weave, I handed Dickens's leash over to Bentley's owner. The shock on that dog's face - hysterical. He did not like being replaced and neatly trotted over to the fenced in yard. And I spotted a set of three dishes perfect for miniature gardens and Dickens scored a stuffed toy for a job well done.

For now if I can't have it life sized, trust me miniature's fine by me. It's a step toward manifesting my future and that little cabin in the woods. I just have to have faith and trust in this wonderful universe!

In the meantime, I wonder if Dickens might want to set up a dog finding service?

The Man Who Loved Me

2013-07-21T00:12:00.001-04:00

Today's a very special day. One of celebration, gratitude, and love. I think it's fitting that this day falls on the first day of the week because I have a new way of life, new hopes, and aspirations.

The man I'm writing to you about came from very humble beginnings. He came into the world as the second oldest and the family grew to a family of 15, including parents. All his brothers and sister have unique attributes and gifts, but this one, my man, could only be called "the special one." This man and I were married, very much in love, and verily I tell you, soul mates. The man who loved me was born today.

The day we met he sported aviator sunglasses and I wore a clavicle collar as a result of a horseback riding accident. He looked much better in his eye wear than I did in my sling. I gotta say entering into a relationship of any kind did not cross my mind. He had asked me out a few times for coffee, but my school work mattered most to me. No way. Eventually, I said yes and that, as they say, was that. I fell in love, continued with my education, but I didn't think we'd last. You see Frederick was a Harley Guy and I was an Equestrian. Never the t'wain shall meet. He often remarked that we came from two different worlds.

I never understood our relationship. I still don't. I never understood why he fell in love with me. Why did he believe in me? I believed in him wholeheartedly. He liked risk. Thrived on it. When we met I didn't have a job. He kept telling me I shot too low in my job search. "Damnit, aim higher!" One night he told me about a job at the local television station that he'd seen in the paper. He wanted me to apply. I did on a lark. I got the job.

Our relationship traveled this course and whenever he saw something he thought I'd like, he'd prepare a nice dinner and we'd talk. He came from a business background. He had owned a restaurant and knew how tough people could be. I came from a book background and, well, totally clueless. My time in the military made adjusting to television difficult. Sure, I had the discipline, but dealing with a bunch of creative folks who I admired turned me into a mouse. For about a month, I'd come home dejected as I had run into yet another ego run amok. One night he had had enough. He said, "You have just as much talent as they do. Get mad. The next time XX gives you "sh(*t, get mad. Slam those scripts down and let him have it." I did. It worked.

Little by little I let my inner child crept out of the closet. I began to have fun and get noticed leading to more demanding assignments. I loved each and every one of them. Telling him about my day became the highlight of my day. I still remember his smile as if he'd known all along.

Back in 1989, he suffered two massive heart attacks, but survived. Frederick insisted he'd work again and he did until he couldn't. I believed this man could scale Everest with his drive and determination. I told him he'd start another business. I believed he could be whatever he wanted to be, so he went back to school. Unfortunately, his health got in the way forcing him to withdraw. He loved his math courses.

Life morphed from future aspirations to the daily aspirin. Throughout his illness his love drove me to work harder and better in order to spend more time with him. He never wanted to see me worried. We started to take vacations, to talk about his wishes should he predecease me, and I'd chase that issue away.

Finally on March 9, 2002, Frederick passed away due to surgical complications. Nothing's felt the same since that day until today as I realized what a special and sacred gift the heavens had sent me. What a remarkable gift! Frederick was my lover, husband, teacher, best friend, and protector throughout our lives together. He taught me to stand up for myself...to believe in myself...to be myself. I no longer feel that he has been taken away from me, rather I feel as though he completed his job and can now rest. He needed it after dealing with me.

So with deep gratitude and infinite love, I wish you, Frederick, a Happy Birthday! I miss you, love you and delight in the day you were born. I'm gonna celebrate! Hope you are, too!

Pressure (Barometric and Otherwise)

2013-07-20T22:13:00.000-04:00

Whew, first time I sat down today. Saturday kicked my butt. Up at 4:30 AM to tend to Mom and pup.

Today made good on its promise for a temperature change but it took a long time coming. In the meantime, my charges had a tough time dealing with the upcoming change. My mother suffers from agitation due to her dementia. Every five minutes she'd pop up in bed to address a thought or hallucination that had invaded her mind. Medication only goes so far. Monitoring her closely keeps her from straining her heart, or worse, deciding to chase a hallucination resulting in injury.

Dickens, who normally can be best described as a nut, decided to have a bark fest over absolutely nothing. A neighbor asked me if the dog was mad at me or I was mad at the dog. Dickens had been responding to another dog who lived across the street also barking. When I explained this to her she seemed to understand, but by late in the day patience had left me. I refrained from a snarky remark. We were gone no more than five minutes, when Mom decided to resume the 'jack-in-the-box' routine.

About 4 PM, the recon storms arrived. You know that renegade band of storms that come on fast and furious leaving the air twice as saturated. Yeah, those storms. The change in barometric pressure also resulted in a house whose agitation meter reached a red line point. At one point, I brought Dickens in to visit Mom to work his magic. This resulted in a licking, yet barking dog, in concert with a 89-year old woman trying to quiet the dog by yelling. Mom continued her erratic behavior, Dickens continue his erratic behavior and my stomach growled because I hadn't had dinner. So, I did what any other red-blooded American caregiver would do, I retreated to the bathroom. For some reason when I announce my intention to visit the "Oval Office" they cut me some slack.

After counting to ten, I exited the 'office' and began to get everyone ready for bed. Finishing my mother's evening care, I snapped a leash on Dickens, who by now looked like a panting, hot mess, for his evening constitution. Just as his lifted leg hit the ground, the lightning flashed and we flew into the house.

The storm has passed, my charges are sleeping soundly, and now I'm going back to the Oval Office for some actual self-care and boy am I grateful!

"All Will Be Well In All Manner of Things All Will Be Well" - Julian of Norwich

2013-07-19T08:15:00.003-04:00

This morning's walk with Dickens revealed something that I regarded as normal, but now I'm not so sure. As Dickens enjoyed those peaceful hours of dawn, I saw that my mind skipped over events that occurred yesterday.

Dickens's "Scoots": I blame and at the same time absolve myself. It goes something like this, "What caused this? I don't know. Should I have done something different? He's in an air-conditioned space. Did he walk too much in the heat? No, I've been careful to limit time and distance. Did he get into something? I don't think so. I'll have to watch him closer. Could I have done something different? Why didn't I do something different? He's a youngster, I should know better. Is he sorry he wound up with me? Am a good dog owner?"

Mom: Could I have made her more comfortable yesterday? Is she in pain? Can I do something to entice her to eat more? Did I get the formula right on her medication? Yes, yes, I did. Does she need more fluid? She did drink more yesterday. Is being at home the best situation for her? What if we had lost power yesterday? Am I doing enough?

The House: I've got to get on that lawn. I'm giving urban farming a bad name. What's wrong with those tomatoes? They been watered twice a day, why aren't they getting bigger? Maybe I should give up on urban farming? And look at those weeds. I've got to begin to get this house ready for winter. I'll make a list when I get home The inside doesn't look much better. I've got to throw this junk out of here. What happened to the interior painting project? The window project? Now, I'm a wreck.

My angel, pre-weeds.

We get back to the house in ten minutes. The chatter continues about other stuff, exhausting me. Finally something, someone in my head intervenes saying, "Stop it. Dickens is fine. He's eating, drinking, playing, & right now trying to turn the fan over. Your mom's doing well enough. She's happy to be home. You'll get to the lawn and the plants? You'll get to the housekeeping. You moved from your house to this house so fast that things haven't been unpacked. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Listening to this free form garbage's doing you no good. Have a cup of coffee and relax."

The intervention snaps me from the jaws of self-recrimination, blame, and self-defeat about my efforts (or lack thereof). If anyone had told me a year ago that I'd be worried about my mother's end days (after just losing my father), a poopy puppy, and an overgrown urban farm, I would have told them they had rocks in their heads.

I don't know if the caffeine's finally kicked in, but I begin to believe that it'll be well and done well (at least to my standards). I'm just going to let the chatter go through me without believing it. That small inner voice, (whether she be my angel or whomever) can stay. She's keeping me sane at the moment and for that, I'm grateful.

I think Julian of Norwich was on to something...

104

2013-07-18T16:47:00.001-04:00

OK, then, the bathing suit plan has kept me reasonably sane. Bravo, that!

The National Weather Service (not the "henny penny cable guys) report we have (past tense, thank you, God) hit 104 degrees. That's 104 degrees. So far we're all still here.

Dickens can't understand why he can't go for longer walks. I'm holding his dinner an hour later so he can walk without dropping. He's a considerate dog as he refuses to use the lawn as a "toilette". He prefers the street next to us. He's a terrier. He's stubborn.

One more day of this (well, actually a day and a half, but I'm rounding at this point) and temps should fall back to their seasonal low-80's.

Can't happen soon enough!

Thank You, Canada!

2013-07-18T00:01:00.001-04:00

Photo from accuweather.com
Relief provided by someone much greater than us!

Madsummer or Midsummer?

2013-07-17T22:36:00.000-04:00

I have no ambition to continue rambling about this God-forsaken heat wave. When it ends, I'll merrily change the subject to something else less irritating and more engaging. Blame my artistic temperament, blame global warming, whatever, as tomorrow's weather forecast has gone from "we're watching some hot weather" to "we're warning you about dangerous hot weather." Like the Robot from the older than dirt space fantasy, "Lost in Space," weather folks are pointing to maps, waving the arm, and popping their heads up and down in front of the camera issuing dire warnings. It irritates me. Really irritates me.

Hmmm, as I look around this week I see a trend has developed. Midsummer has developed a rash of irritation leading to Madsummer. Online, in traffic, in the markets, etc., folks have heard so much oppressive stuff that they've turned oppressive. While I'm the first to admit I've looked to the sky this week and shaken my fist, I haven't waved it at any human beings. That's not to say I haven't been sorely tempted.

So I'm changing Madsummer to Midsummer. New weather report. Thursday promises showers. Lots of 'em jumping into the area. In my bathroom. I have decided to wear my bathing suit all day in order to facilitate the "jumping" part. Heat creeps up on, I drown it immediately. Humidity grabs me by the neck, I break the hold with a hand held shower head. Hydration hits the skids, douse myself with an ice cold beverage.

You might ask where this epiphany rose? Good question and I'll tell you. My attitude shifted based on two events today. The first, the Hospice Spiritual Chaplain called to ask if we needed a visit. Second, the Hospice volunteer arrived with flowers on a 94 degree day! I thanked the first telling her I had been up since 3:30 AM and I needed a nap. She understood. I told our volunteer to go home. Enjoy your family and your air conditioning. We love you both for coming, but we're good.

One could have stayed in her air conditioned office and the other could have stayed home, but they are dedicated to what they do and who they're doing it for. It's a hard job offering comfort and support to terminal patients and their families whether one gets a paycheck or not. Yet they do it and they never grouse about their lot in life, their online woes, or the weather. They are wired much differently than me and my attitude toward heat waves.

Tomorrow morning, as I don my bathing suit, I'll pray for those who are on the road during 104 degree heat. I'll add special prayers for those folks who leave their personal preferences behind to be of service and comfort to others. I won't like enduring the heat, I won't like worrying about my mother and my dog, but with support like I've had today, the day's going to pass

This is for the Lizards. Enjoy your day!

very quickly.

And, that's the way I like it!

Carpe Diem

2013-07-17T07:59:00.001-04:00

This morning began at the tender hour of 3:30 AM. That's AM. Very AM. Mom began shouting loudly for help.

Now normally I'd just get up and pleasantly ask her what sort of help she requires, but this weather has done a number on my head. Most of my housework takes place after sunset in the un-air conditioned parts of the house. The result being, I don't get to sleep until well after midnight. So, one can only imagine my demeanor between horizontal and vertical as I rose to heed her call. Suffice it to say think Godzilla in a nightgown.

It's always the same. Something in my brain, or heart, or wherever nudges me that something's amiss and that I must rise from sleep. Check that. Truth be told, responding at half-past cat's you-know-what feels like being shot out of cannon. Half my brain struggles to focus on the present moment, whilst the other half blasts in my head, "I WAS SLEEPING!"

Compound the yelling and the committee meeting going on in head with the ergonomic safety issues involved in said response. Things like, "Where the hell are my slippers?" (Necessary, since I might have to lift Mom.) "What did I do with my glasses?" (Note to self: They are usually on top of my head.) Often times as evidenced by the permanent bruise on my right leg from the running into the bed's foot board (see preceding eyeglass query) I'm a bumbling mass of humanity trying to scramble myself together. As all this takes place, my mother continues to cry for help even though I am at this point screaming that I'm here and that I'm coming to her aid. As much as I repeat that response, she'll keep calling me wildly until my countenance (disheveled as it may be) presents itself by her bedside.

The "emergency" turned out not to be an emergency after all, which irritates the sleep deprived side of me to no end. Mom, at last, proclaims she's now comfortable. Great! Super! Now, I can catch another hour's sleep. I scurry back to my bed, anticipating a short, but healthy rest.

I round the corner only to be greeted by a Cairn terrier who apparently has his own call to be met since he heard Mom's pleas. He appears to have his legs.. This requires locating suitable attire because I never know who I'll run into at 4 AM. Right? At 4:10 AM, we return to the house after Dickens has decided to announce "dawn's early light" to the neighborhood.

By now it's 4:15 AM. The outside thermometer points to a saturated 78 degrees. My body has decided to demand coffee.

Screw it, I'll sleep in October.

Play Dates in the Sun!

2013-07-16T12:23:00.000-04:00

We all know by now how this whether messes with my mood no matter how hard I try to resist it. Really resist it.

This morning, as soon as Mom's aide arrived, Dickens and I set off for a short play date over at my neighbor's. Thirty minutes of talking about anything else not related to care giving felt like a cool spring washing over me. Thirty minutes of a slowly sipped cup of coffee. Divine. Thirty minutes watching my boy play with my neighbor's dogs. Happiness.

Dickens presents himself sometimes as a captive who hasn't seen the light of day in years. He enters hyper. The nose and ears are on high alert. My neighbor shows such ease around him. She reassures me that the dogs are capable of policing each other. To leave it alone. To enjoy a cup of coffee, relax, to talk.

Joanne has to be the canine version of the Pied Piper. She's so natural around dogs, understands them, and has the right voice so they listen. Dickens slobbers Joanne and her husband with kisses. He runs back and forth between them. Then he runs over to their dogs to see what they're up to and how he can join the fun.

All too soon the time has flown, but I'm rejuvenated by caffeine and Dickens actually seems to be tired. He's asleep now, but I think he's smiling on the inside.

Thanks, Joanne, Ed, Junior and Bruno for everything!

The Tale of One Puppy

2013-07-16T08:00:00.001-04:00

Who me?

As you all know, or may not know, this is my dog, Dickens. He's a 15 month Cairn ~~terror~~ terrier. Cute, eh?

Let me tell you about what cute doesn't cover. Cute doesn't excuse the fact that in a past life, he operated as a paper shredder. He's a literary dog. Actually, he's selective about the titles he chews. Very selective. He leaves the classics alone and makes short work of anything else.

During walks I keep an eye out on the road ahead. If he spots anything white, he'll get it. He has a serious white fixation. White plastic bags, tissues, napkins, drinking straw covers have all fallen victim to his jaws. "Leave it" works sometimes depending on how worked up he gets. Ditto what folks toss out of their car windows as inedible. The Secret Service should hire me for the sidewalk surveillance involved in walking this dog.

Dickens also has a fierce loathing of trucks no matter the model. A friend well versed in all things canine drew herself up and said, "Of course, he's a terrier. What did you expect? This is typical terrier behavior. They are very determined dogs." Well, thanks for that news bulletin I didn't take out an ad that said "Must love trucks." Who thinks of these things as their selecting man's best friend?

Which brings me to the subject of terrier determination . As I attempt to write this Dickens has decided that he has other things in store for me. He has tossed his bone into my lap. Grabbed his rope bone and flung it at me. Picked up his now empty food dish, only to stare at me with said dish hanging out of his mouth in an Oliver Twist expression that says "More, please."

Ditto for treats. Neighbors are still giggling about the time Dickens hung off the back of my pants because he felt he deserved a treat. Or the time he almost pants me in a valiant attempt to help himself to a plastic bag hanging out of my pocket.

This small bundle of cuteness doesn't stop at the word "no". He hears that as a challenge to be met and eliminated. "No bark" equals "bark louder" in his mind. The bark that emanates from that small body would make a soprano at the Met envious. This little guy shouts one note that commands respect. As we walk by houses I wonder how many crystal glasses he's shattered.

Despite all his flaws and idiosyncrasies, we are crazy about each other in a very weird relationship way. He knows when I need a break. That fierce determination for a walk also serves as "taking care of my lady." He does know.

Having him as been an introduction to the neighborhood. Dickens draws folks to him. The neighbors and I have struck up friendships, support, and security, barking at all. I apologize for this dog's crazy vocalization. Many shrug and say, "I didn't notice. He's too cute." I am grateful.

We've come a long way with a longer path to follow. We take care of each other. There are some days I believe this dog doesn't love me...that he wouldn't know if I fell off the face of the earth. Then, there are those days as he runs around during a play date with that grin and shining eyes that I can't help but believe he loves me more.

When the tears flow his rapt attention and kisses don't make it all better, but it doesn't hurt either. He's a compassionate dog. He has the capability to help me fight the lows and honor the highs. I'm starting to believe he doesn't want to see me sad.

I've always believed love would never come one's way if were based on our faults. The love train would pass right through the station. And, no doubt, if Dickens could right a similar post, he's probably begin with, "Why my lady doesn't understand me." He'd be correct. We're still working it all out. In the meantime, we'll just let love do the heavy lifting.

The Burning Question

2013-07-15T14:00:00.000-04:00

The Hospice nurse left a few minutes ago. He's a real peach. His name is Andy. Mom likes him and he certainly knows how to communicate with her. All pluses in my book.

He examines her and we discuss comfort, medication, and little things to make her days as joyful as possible. We discuss this blessed heat wave. He tells me not to worry about food intake, focus on clear fluids. The room is comfortable he tells me. He says I'm doing a good job.

Toward the end of the visit he always asks "What's your greatest need today?" It always sends me sideways. My snarky side says, "Bring back my 40-year old mother." My care giver side says, "Help me. Help her." My soul weighs in with the honest answer. That one undeniable response that wells up inside me, "Give me strength." I try to hide the tears that well up, wishing them to the back of my eyeballs.

Many folks stumble through life buying this and that telling themselves they NEED it. Gotta have it
The thought of what lies ahead in the weeks to come demands strength. The might to put my needs aside, yet the determination to take care of myself for her. The strength to transfer her from bed to commode without spraining my back. The fortitude to hold patience up as Mom clatters on about subject matter unknown to me when all I want to do is run back to the safe space of my writing, or my knitting. The restraint to say, "It's OK, you don't have to eat", rather than do battle with her in an energy sapping conflict. And at the end, I hope I'm strong enough to say, "It's OK, Mom, you can go now. I'll be alright" and mean it. All that and more takes backbone. Not the might of Hercules, but a different sacred, loving, will power.

I never understood my greatest need until today.

So, what's your greatest need

Are You Kidding Me?

2013-07-15T07:52:00.000-04:00

Accuweather.com Forecast

My soul wants to bask in the glow of positivism. I really, really want to accept and embrace the day, but in light of the forecast that light's going to add more heat to my day. So, the gloves are off. Political correctness cast aside.

I detest the hazy, hot, and humid days of New England summer. Truly. Yes, I realize folks living in other parts of the country have it worse, but I'm not living in other parts of the country. In fact, when this phase of my life passes, I'm going find a place to live free from this tropical nightmare. The Arctic Circle? Antarctica? Ireland? There, I've said it. No apologies. No remorse.

Today, I'm throwing economic caution to the wind and installing another air conditioner. If I'm going to live in the moment, it had better be a cool moment so I can get things done. At least in winter months I can bundle up, add a sweater. There's no low cost remedy in summer. (OK, if you count cool showers, one.) I'm calling this purchase "medically necessary," so I don't go insane.

Yes, I'm a lightweight. I'm positive.

The Stubborn Sunflower

2013-07-13T19:35:00.005-04:00

I'll open when I'm good and ready. Not a moment sooner.

Nikon E-4600
f/7.4;1/50 sec
ISO-50; Aperture 3