It Takes a Village - To Celebrate a Birthday

Some things you can do on your own.  Sometimes it takes a comrade-in-arms.  And sometimes, well, it takes a whole village that extends throughout the world.

I've documented how our lives were changed when my handicapped mom came to visit us in Maine for the last year.  I've recorded and ups and downs, the surprises, the setbacks - everything that she brought to us by her presence.  When her 89th birthday was approaching, I was stumped.   As I've noted before, the usual gifts one buys for Mom are neglected because "it's too pretty to wear" or some such attitude.  There's very little she needs except food, medicine, assistance, attention......ah, attention.  Hmmm.....  And there begins the saga of Operation Birthday Card.

If you consider it, a great many endeavors in life start with "what if?"  So this is where I started.  What if, I thought, Mom could get a lot of cards in the mail for her birthday?  She never gets mail except for medical bills and her church newsletter.  She craves mail so much that she thinks she hits the jackpot when I bring her the Vermont Country Store catalog from the mailbox.  I can buy her a cake, the family will come by for a visit - yes, all that is going to happen easily.  But how do I get a bunch of birthday cards mailed to her?  And even more fantastic, how do I get cards from all over the country, and dare I think it, even a foreign country or two?

And therein lies the village.  I was intrigued to see if complete strangers would send my mom birthday cards on her 89th birthday.   Were people that gracious anymore?  Did folks really care about a lonely elderly stranger living away from home on her birthday?  I was going to find out.   Once my little plot was hatched, I contacted my sister and my kids.  "Please ask your friends to send Granny birthday cards!"  Then I went online, starting with my medical transcriptionist chat room, my dear "friends," most of whom I have never met in person but whose lives I have been a part of for years now, and asked for their help.  They said they would be delighted!  Theirs were some of the early cards.  I had designated the whole month of May, even though Mom's birthday was toward the end of the month, so she could get cards in the mail in a steady stream.  I instructed everyone to be sure to write down the state where they lived so we could see how far away the cards were coming.

Next I went to Facebook and posted an appeal.  My cousin's wife even reposted my post, so her friends got the message.  I called the offices of both our Maine US Senators and asked if they could pitch in (thanks, Susan Collins!).   I sent a letter to Mom's home church in Memphis, asking for their help.  I sent an e-mail to my contacts who I thought might be willing to participate (again, one leader in the transcription field reposted my appeal on her blog, and again, more folks agreed to send cards).  Then I went to a Prince Edward Island blogger who is known for her stunning island photography (I love her pictures!), and posted a comment, asking if she or any of her friends could drop a card in the mail from Canada.   Finally, I e-mailed Mom's favorite disc jockey, Rick Foster of WDEA AM of Ellsworth, Maine, asking him to send a card (which would have thrilled her just by itself)....and lo and behold, he kindly offered to wish her happy birthday on the air!

So, the cards started arriving.  The first one we got was from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, from a name I didn't recognize.  Mom was a little confused.  "Who is this?" she asked.   I said, "It's a stranger to you!"  She said, "Well, who is it, though?  Do you know her?" and I replied, "It's a stranger to me too!"  Well, that really confused her, LOL, but I basically said that some people heard it was her birthday month and they wanted to send her a card.  She thought that sounded so sweet.  As I did with every subsequent card, I carefully cut the return address/postmark from the envelope, taped it to the back of the card, and hung the card on the wall in her room.

That solitary card was not lonely for very long.  Before long, she got two cards in one day, then three, and one day even got 28 cards in the mail in one day!   After a while, the wall was too crowded, so I took the cards down and put them all in a box.   Every day I added to a list of where the cards were coming from (I'll publish this list below).   With the exception of one beautiful card from Beverly where the state of origin fell off the back of the card, I believe I got every one recorded accurately.   Mom was really surprised to get a few cards from outside the United States!

Every evening when my sister called, Mom gave her an update on how many cards she got, smiling all the way through the conversation.   There were sweet cards, gorgeous cards, funny cards, religious cards, and cards made by kids.  There were personalized cards (one lady sent a card that said "Hey, 9-year-old!" and drew an 8 in front of the 9 so it said, "Hey, 89-year-old!"), a card with the Memphis skyline, cards with wonderful descriptions of where the senders lived, and some people even sent more than one card a week or two apart!  One of the cards that made us laugh out loud was from a boy named Zack.  He is a student in my daughter-in-law's class, and was one of the many handmade card creators from that class.  His card was made on green construction paper, had a red heart, had on the front "Happy birthday!  Love: Zack," and the inside said this in big letters:  "89!  That very cool!"  In another heart were the words "Wow! 89!" and then under that, "I hope you stay alive forever."  (We could tell those elementary school kids were awed by somebody being 89 - it probably sounded like she was 150 in their eyes - one girl even wrote "89!!  OMG!")

My Canadian blogger really came through, as not only did we get cards from Canada, but she knew some folks who lived in other countries, too.   And Rick Foster, the DJ extraordinaire, bless his heart, not only wished Mom a happy birthday on his radio show - he played her favorite song, and then after her birthday, drove out to our house and delivered a CD he had burned with the recording of that tribute and that song for her to listen to over and over.

Every card was a gem, every card was a surprise, every card was so much appreciated - I wish I could mention every name of every person in the global "village" who made my little idea a reality.  You blew me away with your kindness - the kindness of family? Of course! The kindness of friends? Very gracious and much appreciated!   The kindness of strangers?  Unbelievable.

Mom is going back home to my sister's next week.  The box full of birthday wishes will accompany her; it is a most treasured possession.  Thanks to you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and especially YOU......

Here is the final tally as of June 26 (will be updated if need be!):

Alabama (Mobile, Huntsville)

Arkansas (Sherwood, Little Rock, Jacksonville)

Arizona (Scottsdale, Cave Creek)

California (Redding, El Dorado Hills, Corona, one unspecified)

Colorado (Ft. Collins)

Florida (Coconut Creek, Hernando, Pensacola, South Daytona, Panama City)

Illinois (Lockport)

Indiana (Mishawaka)

Kansas (Overland Park)

Kentucky (Bardwell, Versaille, Paducah x2)

Louisiana (New Orleans, Lafayette)

Maine (Fairfield, Old Town x2, Madison, Winterport x2, Glenburn, 19 from Lewis Libby school)

Massachusetts (Oxford)

Michigan (Troy)

Mississippi (Olive Branch x3, Tupelo)

Montana (Billings)

Nebraska (York, Omaha)

New York (Scotia)

North Carolina (Knightdale, Thomasville, Monroe)

Oregon (Eugene x2, Gresham)

Pennsylvania (Sugar Grove, Bethlehem, Freeland, Grove City)

South Carolina (Cheraw)

South Dakota 

Tennessee.....(Memphis x36, Eads, Cordova, Franklin, Arlington, Nashville, Murfreesboro)

Texas (McKinney, Corpus Christi)

Utah (West Point)

Virginia (Chincoteague)

Washington, DC (US Senate, the White House)

West Virginia (Chester)

                              Out of country:

England (Warkwickshire/ Droitwich/Blackpool)

South Africa

Wales  (Llandovery Carms)

Canada:  Montague, Prince Edward Island (PEI) / Williams Lake, British Columbia / Vernon Bridge, PEI / PEI nonspecified x2 / Belfast, PEI /


Manila, Philippines


Australia

                             TOTAL

28 states plus Washington DC, 6 countries

136 cards

Now the Sweet - An open letter to Mama

What a wild ride of a year it has been for us!  I know the last thing you wanted to do was  pack up and come to Maine for an indeterminate length of time, but you did it.  I know how hard it must be to live with your daughters - but you have done it.  In fact, you are a survivor - and we are so proud of you!

You never cease to amaze me with your endurance and determination.  Sure, you have days when you’re tired and the pain seems to get the best of you, but most of the time you are willing to do whatever I ask with just minimal fussing.  You’ve said, “Let me try to do it myself,” and then you try.  If you don’t succeed, then you try again some other day.

Through it all, you still have your sense of humor intact.  Remember the first shower I helped you with here?  You stepped onto the mat, and said, “I feel like there’s something kind of hard under my feet.”  Busy, I replied, “Nah, that’s just the mat.”  You persisted, and when I finally took a look, I was mortified. I had put the mat in upside down and your sensitive feet were stepping on all the suction cups!   You just laughed, and then I laughed (after I profusely apologized!).  I’ve put your arms in the wrong holes in T-shirts, I’ve gotten tops caught over your head, I’ve put your pants on backwards, I’ve even put your shoes on the wrong feet and hit you in the head accidentally!   In spite of everything, you have laughed along with everything.

We’ve had a lot of fun while you’ve been here, haven’t we?  Many times I will say several sentences to you from a distance away, and when I wait for an answer, you look up and say, “You talkin’ to me?” - so much that Ed nicknamed you Robert De Niro.  We’ve laughed at Reader’s Digest jokes, chuckled at the comics in the newspaper, and cracked up watching Chris blowing music through dandelion stems.  You let Ed and me tease you about how we hate Lawrence Welk, yet we sit through it every Saturday night with you.  We’ve had a lot of giggling about how you never throw anything away - whether it’s chewed gum or used Kleenex or empty Aspercreme tubes.   Remember when you were enamored with the pretty scene pictured on the shoebox top, so I got a tack and nailed it to the wall like a fancy painting?

You always remember to show gratitude.  Every night when I help you in bed or help you rub pain medicine on your knee, you always thank me for everything.  You thank the kids for coming to see you, you thank your  friends and relatives when they telephone, you always thank Ed for cooking, and you even thanked your Maine doctor at your last appointment for overseeing your health care while you were here.  You never take things or people for granted, and everyone around you appreciates it.

Your financial generosity is overwhelming.  You are always trying to pawn off $20 bills to us or the kids for this and that.  I remember when my kids were little, we would bring them over for you to babysit and you would pay us $20 for the privilege!  Some things never change.

You’ve been brought into the technological world and see Facebook pictures as soon as they are posted, and have video chatted with all the grandchildren.  I always love to see Joshua’s face light up when you appear on the iPad screen and he says, “GG!”  (For those not in the know, that stands for Great Grandmother.)

I’ve been able to relive a lot of childhood memories these last few months.  When your radio falls off your lap (as it does about 4 times a day), I think of how Joy and I used to lie down in your lap during Sunday night church services.  How that lap has held grandchildren and great grandchildren and nephews for years and years!   Your body has a lifetime of stories.   You gave me life, and your eyes looked on me adoringly when I was a baby, your hands cared for me as a toddler, your lips gave me kisses and your arms gave me hugs, and your smile never let me forget that I was always loved unconditionally.   Now I have been fortunate to have the opportunity to take care of you for a little while.

We share common memories.  As I get older, there are fewer and fewer people left who remember Daddy, but I can always talk about him with you.  I have started many conversations with, “Remember when...?”  Sometimes you remember, sometimes you don’t, but we have fun reminiscing just the same.   

Well, we will always have those old memories, but we have made some new ones, haven’t we?  You have gotten to spend time with two of your grandchildren and all three great grandchildren.  You attended Joshua's first birthday party last summer, and  with your own eyes have watched him go from crawling to walking and running.  You have enjoyed personal violin “concerts” from Caroline and Charlotte (and even Rachel!).  You were here when Matthew began selling his own software in the Apple store.  You’ve eaten homemade applesauce cooked by Sarah, and vegan food cooked by Rachel.  Your favorite DJ, Rick, came by to see you last summer and this week even wished you happy birthday on the radio, then played your Old Bones song!

And now as I write this, you have received over 70 cards in the mail from people all over the world in honor of your 89th birthday.   You are indeed a special person to many, many people who send best wishes, and especially to us, your family. We will soon start that journey back to Memphis, which I know is stressful for you to think about, but you are one tough lady and can get through anything.  Be proud of yourself - you have survived a Maine winter.  Not everyone can lay claim to that.

We have been honored to have you with us for almost a year.  You have graced us with your presence, your humor, your generosity, and your kind spirit.  We love you so much.  We will miss you beyond words.

You favorite song these days is the poignant “Old Bones” sung by George Burns.  I’ll end this post with the lyrics:

Old bones inside an old raincoat

Old bones inside of old shoes

Old friends at the hotel

Come by to wish me well

And keep me up to date on all the old news

Sometimes I have an old whiskey

And I fall asleep in my chair

And I dream that I'm a man

Much younger than I am

I bet you'd think by now that I wouldn't care

But I love life, I'd like to do it again

Though I might not be much more than I've ever been

Just to have the chance to turn back the hands

And let my life begin

Oh yeah, I'd like to do it again

It's time for takin' it easy

It's time for takin' it slow

Old bones don't move so fast

As they did once in the past

Now if I have to run, I simply don't go

But I love life, I'd like to live it again

Though I might not be much more than I've ever been

Just to have the chance to turn back the hands

And let my life begin

Oh yeah, I'd like to do it again

First The Bitter

Well, my experience having my almost-89-year-old mother living with us has almost drawn to a close. For various reasons - her declining health and long distance from other elderly relatives are two major ones - my sister and I have decided to have Mama move back to the Memphis area, and in less than two weeks, one week after her 89th birthday, my husband Ed and I will be driving the long journey to take Mom back home.

So it is understandable that I take these last two weeks for reflection.  When I am frequently asked for my thoughts on Mom leaving, I have consistently replied, “It’s bittersweet.”  Like life itself, the experience/experiment was full of surprises, but the best description is still bittersweet.  I thought I would take a couple of posts to blog about each half of that poignant word.  So for today, I’ll focus on the bitter.

Anyone who says care-taking is a piece of cake...well, they’re eating a different dessert than I am.  It is hard work.  For the last year, in fact, our life has been turned upside down in ways I couldn’t imagine earlier.  Ed, bless his soul, has been the care-taker during the day when I’m at the hospital.  His day starts at 6 a.m. when he makes her breakfast and ends at 8:30 p.m. when he puts her to bed (I have to go to bed at 7 p.m.).  I cannot praise him enough for his lovingkindness to Mom.  He has put up with a lot, but he loves her like his own mother.

OK, so care-taking is hard.  What has been the bitter for me?  It’s run the emotional gamut....

Fear.  As I’ve said before, looking at Mom is like looking into my possible future.  How much of her medical problems are inheritable?  Will I be engaged in nervous humming when I am her age?  Will my bones be so deformed from arthritis?  Will I get so disabled that I will depend on a walker or wheelchair to do the most basic ambulation?  Will I end up living with one of my kids (Lord help them!)?  Like Ebenezer Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, I recoil in horror at my intended fate, and wonder if the actions I take to preserve my health today can help me avoid all this or am I just doomed...

Regret.  I guess we could have taken the car keys from Mom 4 years ago and she would never have been in that wreck, but how difficult that attempt would have been will always be unknown.  In fact, every decision my sister and I make is fraught with anxiety and second-guessing.  Should we have given away Mom’s dog?  Should we have moved Mom up to Maine for a year?  Is she prepared for the long car ride back?  Is she functional enough for assisted living somewhere?  Are we missing something important that should be checked out?  There’s always anxiety in decision-making and all we can do is try to make the best decisions we can with the information we have at the time.

Disappointment.  I used to tease Mom on the phone: “You’ve got to come visit us in Maine, Mama!  Ed and I already live like old people, ha ha!  After supper we watch those old movies from the 1930s - those movies you love - and we have some nice places to go out to eat, and we can take you to see the grandkids, and we’d have a marvelous time!”  Reality was quite different.  Oh, Ed and I still watch our old movies, but the first time we excitedly sat down with Mom to do so, she was asleep in ten minutes.  The only successful movie-watching we have done was around Christmas - we watched them during the day, and even then, I had to keep poking her to wake up.  She won’t go out to eat anymore because she can’t eat most restaurant food and “it’s just too much trouble.”   She certainly won’t ride to visit the kids; she has trouble getting in and out of the car.  Her vision is getting worse and she can’t read much anymore.  Every day I am reminded that there is unfortunately little I can do to bring pleasure into her life.

Anger.  You knew it was coming, didn’t you?  Of course anger is a part of it all.  It stems from frustration.  Why does she do the very thing we ask her not to do, and yet the simple things we know she can do, she balks?  When did some important tasks become arbitrary? Why do I have to force her to do things that are good for her?  Why do I end up making her cry?  Why doesn’t she understand how hard she is making this?  

Sadness.  I have been plagued with an overwhelming sense of sadness.  I have to watch Mama struggle physically and emotionally and it just devastates me.  I wish I could take away her pain.  I wish I could make her whole again.  I wish I could bring back her function.  She told me once that she agreed with what a friend had said - “It’s hell getting old.”   I’m watching it firsthand and can do little about it.  Some of the things I try to do to help her seem to end up making her suffer more.

Loss.  This is the biggie.  There has been a major relationship change, and though my Mom is alive and interactive, I have come to the realization that something important has made a dramatic shift.  I suppose it’s been a long time coming, but it is only this year here in Maine that it finally dawned on me that I am now the Parent and she is the Child.  For most of us, all our lives, our parents are our Solid Rocks.  We depend on them.  We count on them.  We know that whatever life throws at us, they will be there for us, strong, sturdy, and will always take care of us.  Then there comes a point where the shift insidiously begins, almost imperceptibly, especially if we live a distance away.  

We had to buy a transport wheelchair for the trip back to Tennessee.  For one thing, we might have to hurry her out of the heat, and for another, some parking spaces at rest stops are too far away from the door to have her use the walker and try to reach in her half-inch-at-a-time faltering gait.  When we brought the wheelchair home, she cried.  Her reaction, I have learned, is always according to her interpretation of the event.  I remember when Rachel and I flew down to see her in the hospital after her accident, Mama cried.  I asked her what was wrong.  She said, “All of you coming down here - you think I’m not going to make it.”  And thus it was with the wheelchair.  Some part of her felt as if we were giving up on her, as if she were doomed to forever be nonambulatory.   I explained why we wanted it for the trip, and she understood, but kept crying because she was so anxious about traveling, about moving back, about changing routines, about everything.  I held her in my arms.  I wiped away her tears and consoled her.  I told her we would never let anything happen to her, there was no need to worry, we were there to take care of her, we will always be there for her.  We were her Solid Rocks.  She could depend on us.  And then, all of a sudden, I started crying too.  Because it was then I realized I had lost my Mama in a way that didn’t involve death or even dementia - because I had become the Parent and she the Child.  I had had inklings of this when I tried to encourage her to do something she was afraid of doing, or when I forced her to take a shower or change her clothes or brush her teeth, or cut up her food into tiny chunks, or watched to make sure she didn’t fall, or helped her get dressed...I was just too afraid to admit that our roles had become totally and irrevocably reversed.

One of the poems I had to memorize in school was “My Heart Leaps Up” by William Wordsworth.  I still remember it, and this week I am especially pondering one specific line - a line I didn’t understand in junior high but a line that resonates in my whole being today: “The child is father of the man.”  Only it has become “The daughter is mother of the woman.”  Life has become full circle.   My sister and I are parents again - with all the anxiety, stress, and heavy responsibility that entails.  God help us to be up to the task.

But, glory be, that is not the end of the story.  The bitter is always followed by the sweet....

...And your little dog too.

That's me!  Do you see me?  I'm in picture #1.  I am riding the bicycle that takes Toto away from Dorothy.

Only it's not Toto, it's 7-year-old Jenny, and instead of Dorothy, it's my almost 89-year-old mom, and my heart is breaking.

It's odd that the reason we brought Jenny with Mom up to live with us in Maine is that when we first broke the news to Mom she would be coming here, she started crying, saying, "I'll miss my Jenny."  To save her from despair, we told her we'd take Jenny with us.  Now we're hurting her again.

Logically, it is the only thing to do.  Jenny is even heavier than she was at my sister's house, and Mom is more frail and weak and imbalanced.  Jenny has run into her bad knee once, and ran under and through the walker a second time, almost knocking it down, and sometimes sleeps half under Mom's bed where when she gets up, she would step on her.  Wanting attention, Jenny sometimes puts her front paws on Mom's painful legs and stands on them, putting her whole weight on them, which hurts them even more. When we got a puppy in September (bad move, but could I say to my husband no because we were taking care of my mom and her dog?), Jenny attacked her twice and from then on, we had to keep them separated.  Poor Jenny, she likes to be the head female or the only dog, both impossible in this house.  Now my sister has got another dog, a female, and if Jenny went back to her house, who knows what would happen, and if she couldn't get along with the new dog, Jenny would have to be taken to a Memphis shelter which euthanizes.  No matter where Mom lives in the future, she does not need to even be around a dog because she tends to drop pills and is not able to pick them up - a potentially dangerous situation - not to mention dog toys and bones all over the floor to trip her.  Mom can't even bend down anymore to feed Jenny or take care of her in the simplest of tasks.

Here, Jenny is cooped up most of the day behind baby gates, doesn't get good walking (at least all winter), does not get the attention she craves and deserves, and our local shelter assures us they will find her a good match for a loving home, it's spring in Maine and the shelter has no dogs right now and people are wanting to adopt and they told us it will be no problem to adopt her out, and assured us they will be picky about where she goes.....and so logically, this is what needs to be done.  For everyone's sake, it is a good move logically.

Logically.  Because emotionally, this should never be done, and in a perfect world, it would never be done, it is never a good time to be done, and I feel like the Wicked Witch barreling down the highway.

We had a neighbor who volunteers for the shelter come by to reassure Mom.  That helped somewhat.
But the day has finally come.

When she cried last May about missing Jenny, we did the only thing we could - we kept them together. Now we just don't see any other way out.

Jenny is indeed a good dog.  She can sit, shake, come when called, loves to go for walks and ride in the car.  Her owner, though, is now too disabled to care for her and circumstances at both daughters' homes complicate the situation of caring for her.  It will be certainly hard enough to get Mom back home to Tennessee without having to take Jenny too.  We are trying to preempt a possible accident that would cause Mom to fall - I can't guarantee it would happen, but if it did and I had done nothing to prevent it - even though I foresaw the probability - I would be devastated.

Poor Mom lost her husband in 1980.  She has since lost the use of her right hand, lost much of her vision, lost her normal ambulation, lost her independence, lost her house, and now we are taking her dog.  I know she feels her life is crumbling piece by piece.

So I am the one with the old-fashioned dress and hat sitting on the bicycle with the good dog in the basket.  It's hard to steer, though, because of the tears streaming down my face.

It's driving me CRAZY!

Most of the time, we humans as a whole are not very aware of our...well, eccentricities.  Peculiarities.  Quirks.  The things we do that other people see/hear all the time of which we ourselves are blissfully unaware.  Sometimes, though, I catch myself saying something that I realize I say over and over and over and it must be driving everyone around me crazy.  The phrase is - yep - “driving me crazy.”  I say it all the time.

Everything is driving me crazy, it seems.  People at work, a computer problem, handling my elderly disabled mother, fitting a dress I’m sewing, the mushmouth dictator, the light coming in the window when I’m trying to sleep at 7 p.m. (gee, thanks, Daylight Saving Time).  Oh, and I cover past, present and future equally in my frustration.  “That used to drive me crazy!”  “This is driving me crazy!” “This is going to drive me crazy!”  

Occasionally I’ll substitute another word:  “This is driving me insane!”  Either way, it’s the same phrase and perfectly reflects the frustration I feel at whatever the problem seems to be.  It was just today that realized the true victim-hood of that particular choice of words.

It intrigued me that I was always using the word “driving.”  Something or someone is driving me to someplace I don’t want to go.  Driving me at full speed towards the brink.  Driving me against my will to a point of mental instability.  

When I really thought about it, I had to laugh at the silliness of it all.  If something/someone is driving, then I’ve given up control of my own life, my own reactions, my own plans.   The ironic part is that the driver hasn’t taken control to steer me in wild abandon on the Highway to Insanity - I have willingly given over the keys.

One of the most important things I’ve learned in life is that we can’t control the actions of other people, can’t control the weather or unavoidable schedule changes, can’t control how our co-workers do their jobs, can’t control our kids, can't control our relatives...in short, we just can’t control life in general.  That’s a given.  What we can control, however, is our reaction to all these things.  And what is a common reaction to things?  At the very moment we can truly assume our rightful control, we hand over the keys to the problem and brace ourselves for the hellish trip and almost certain wreck at the end.

As I’ve mentioned before, my favorite life instruction is the Serenity Prayer: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference.”  After I have heard myself complain over and over that someone/something/some situation is driving me crazy, I now realize an important point:  Once we identify the things we cannot change versus the things we can, and if then we take the things we can always change (attitude/reaction) and still give over the keys to insanity...well, that’s...just....crazy.

So move over, you out-of-control driver.  I'm taking the wheel now.  I have some pretty good directions and know where I want to go.  And it's not to Crazyland.

In His Stead

Having Mom here has just reminded me that she's not the greatest gift receiver.  Oh, she will ooh and aah and thank you for whatever, but in her mind, it's too expensive/pretty/too much trouble to wear or use, and the gift lies dormant for quite some time.  I realize this stems from her innate reluctance to spend money/time/effort on herself, and she would much rather slip me a $20 bill and say, "Get me some gum and keep the change" than spend that money on herself.  She just doesn't realize that the expensive orthopedic-type shoes my sister got her for Christmas should be on her feet, not in a corner, and yes, they have to be broken in to feel like the old shoes (exact same style) she has worn every day for 3 years.  She also doesn't realize that the Polartec vest Ed and I painstakingly picked out for her at Christmas should be on her body, not languishing on her bedpost.  None of this is because she doesn't appreciate the effort; I think it is simply because she thinks deep down she doesn't deserve it.   She has always been one to give more than receive.

As I recently pondered her inability to enjoy the usual material things in life, I tried to figure out what does make her happy.  And I will tell you my conclusion:  To make Mama happy, you make other people that she loves happy.  That, in a nutshell, is her philosophy of life.  She experiences gift-giving vicariously.

My sister understands this, of course.  Ever since her accident Mama has had a contraption for hip replacement patients who can't bend forward that helps her put her socks on.  You slide the sock on the contraption, then use ropes to lower the contraption to your feet, and while the sock remains nice and stiffly snug around the plastic, you slip your foot in and pull on the ropes to get the sock over your foot.  Now, Mama's best friend in Memphis has a son who has had diabetic problems with his feet.  Mama thought it would be great to get him one of these things, and my sister in Memphis immediately went to a local store, bought one, and drove it over to this lady's house.  When Mama here in Maine found out what my sister had done, she smiled broadly and talked about it for days.  My sister made Mama happy....by making someone she loved happy in her name.

This is basically honoring my mom by honoring someone else.  It brings her intense pleasure.

If I give a gift to one of my kids, Mama is so joyous that it is as if I had given it to her.   If I hear good news about the grandkids, Mama beams as if she herself had won the lottery.  If my sister’s daughter gets accepted into college, Mama is ecstatic.  

I should have had an inkling when I was growing up that Mama likes to live vicariously.  I took piano lessons for 5 years.  I love playing the piano (didn’t love the lessons!), so I’m glad I was “forced” to learn.  However, I still remember the reason that my parents decided on piano for me when I was in second grade.  Mama had told me, “I had always wanted to play the piano, and never got the chance, so I wanted you to learn.”

In a way, Daddy was just the opposite.  He cherished his gifts of ties, cashews, peanut brittle, and page protectors.  He wore/ate/used them consistently and proudly.  I miss being able to give Daddy gifts, since he died when I was 26.

I think, though, in a way we are all like Mama.  To see loved ones happy and well cared for...well, who couldn't be pleased with that?  Then I realized that my sister and I are giving our dad the ultimate gift.

We are giving Daddy gifts every day as we give to Mama.  We are taking care of his beloved, the girl he married when she was 19 and he was 27, the girl who assumed he would take care of her and protect her the rest of her life, who was unexpectedly widowed at 57.  One of my favorite Bible verses is Jesus’ reminder that when you are kind to another human being, you are being kind to him.  So my sister is giving Daddy gifts when she balances Mama’s checkbook, pays her bills, picks out her Medicare plan, and cleans up Mama’s house to sell it.  I  give Daddy gifts when I wash Mama’s tired body, when I rub lotion on her legs, when I make her laugh with some lame joke in the comics, and when I show her pictures of the family on Facebook...the same things my sister has done for her these past three years.  Daddy is not here to do it anymore, and so we do it, not only because we ourselves love Mama, but also because we love Daddy and know he wants the best for her.

We honor Mama, we honor Daddy, we honor our childhood, our memories, each other, and the people and environment who formed us with love.  In this way, the giving never stops.

Caution....and Kindness

On my way to work every morning, I pass a house located on a corner prone to flooding after heavy rain. I've noticed it's for sale.  I have so much empathy for those owners!  I know they must pray for dry weather when a potential buyer comes by, because they know if their yard is flooded, no one will touch their house with 10-foot pole.  Their yard is indeed dry 95% of the time, but that other 5% - well, it's a mess.  Of course, from the viewpoint of the buyer, one does have to check into these kinds of things.  The experts tells us that it is ideal to see a property in all kinds of weather and seasons before you sign that contract.  At this specific house, a beautiful dry day in summer looks vastly different from a spring day after a storm has moved through.

On the other hand, maybe it's the opposite with relationships.  Here, you aren't trying to make a huge financial investment and want your risks minimized; you are just encountering fellow human beings on good days and bad.  On my way home from work, I usually stop in at the grocery or another shop for an errand.  Most of the cashiers and salespeople I interact with are cheerful and smiling, but occasionally I get a grumpy one.   My first reaction is to be apathetic or even irritable myself.   Then I started wondering, "Am I seeing a normally nice person on a bad day?"  Hmmm....maybe 95% of the year they are charming and the other 5%, for whatever reason, they are not at their best?  Of course, there are some people who are 100% grumpy - we all know them.  But it is unkind, I think, to automatically judge a stranger based on one interaction.   Did they get some bad news?  Are they worried about their kids?  Are they afraid of losing their jobs?  Going through a divorce?  Fighting an addiction?  Burying a parent?  Or - maybe they just have indigestion or diarrhea and find it intolerable to think about 6 more hours trying to be friendly?  There's no way to know, and we probably ought to let our good natures shine and give them the benefit of the doubt.

It all reminded me of an article my sister wrote once about Mom.  Here is an excerpt from her touching tribute:

She was always especially fond of store cashiers, perhaps because she was once one herself in an earlier life, a life that existed “before motherhood.”  I remember Mother’s encounter with a particularly challenging cashier once, a woman who at first appeared to be completely impervious to Mother’s friendly banter.  We were at the grocery store on a very busy day.  The line was long, and it inched forward ever so slowly.   It was a stressful environment, to say the least, and it obviously was taking a toll on the lady behind the register, too.  She said little, and when she did open her mouth, the words that came out were surly and borderline rude. 

“My goodness, it sure is busy today!” Mother said cheerily.  No response.  “That’s a really pretty necklace you’ve got on,” Mother went on.  A gruff “Mmm-hmm” emanated from the woman’s lips, but I could see that the tightly drawn corners of her mouth were beginning to soften.  “Honey, it must be awfully frustrating to do your job,” Mother cooed.  “I really don’t see how you do it.  You must be worn out by the end of the day.”   

That did it.  With tears in her eyes, the cashier turned to Mother and began to pour out her heart.  I stood there in amazement, watching while Mother listened intently to the woman’s tale of woe.  That was years ago, and now I don’t even remember what the lady said.  All I know is that Mother’s willing ear and caring heart allowed that cashier to unburden herself to a complete stranger.  And as I watched the two of them together, for the first time, I realized that Mother was more than just a hospitable giver.  She was also a recipient.  She found a deep joy and satisfaction in encouraging someone else, even if it was just by offering a glass of tea or an attentive ear. 

The exchange only lasted a few minutes.  Once the sacker had finished bagging the groceries, we paid the bill and Mother grasped the cashier’s hand with a sweet, “Honey, now don’t you work too hard!”  As we pushed our cart toward the exit, I turned back to see the woman standing a shade taller, her shoulders pulled back and her head held high.  She looked as if she couldn’t stop smiling.   

And neither could Mother.  

Paper towel valentine

As you may be aware, my husband, Ed, used to be an active alcoholic.  He once told me he never drank on holidays like St. Patrick's Day.  When asked why, he said those were days for amateur drinkers and he was a professional.  He's been sober now since 1984, but there is one similar aspect of his personality he still reveals.  He is not a big gift-giver on days one would normally give gifts and he does his best gift-giving spontaneously and unexpectedly on other days of the year.  His reasoning is that a gift loses some of its innate charm when it is expected and "supposed to be given," e.g., birthdays, Christmas, and, yes, Valentine's Day.

Ed and I never "do" Valentine's Day.  I think we much prefer to show love the rest of the year instead.  Take the above picture, for instance.  Every morning I have to leave for work at 5:00 a.m., so I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on a low-carb tortilla, wrap it in foil, and take it in a bag.  Then I eat it before I start work, while I'm sitting at my desk, getting things arranged for the day.  For my preparation of this delightful meal, I put out a paper towel or two on the granite countertop, a knife for the peanut butter, and a spoon for the jelly.  Several evenings after I have gone to bed at 7 p.m., when he thinks about it, Ed sets up my breakfast-making supplies on the counter before he goes to bed, so when I get ready to make my sandwich, there it sits, like a still life painting.  Except...it's a love painting.  It's a tiny thing my husband did to save me a little time in the morning, and to show he was thinking about me the night before after I was fast asleep.

Have you seen the surveys where women say what really makes them feel special and loved?  It's not always the boxes of candy, the flowers, the romance, the jewelry.  I've read articles where a woman said her partner saw a trinket at a store and it reminded him of her.  Another woman said her partner graciously volunteered to wash dishes, or wash clothes, or surprise her by doing another chore which was usually her own responsibility.  One lady gushed that her husband said, "I'll watch the kids for awhile, honey; go take a bath or read a book."  It's the little things, sometimes things that cost nothing but thought and consideration, that matter.  That paper towel valentine with its knife and spoon mean more to me than a dozen red roses and it makes me smile spontaneously more than any expensive exotically wrapped piece of jewelry could.

I've been blessed to have family members and good friends who through the years have done just that - sent me something special, maybe something no other person in the whole world would care about, but they knew I would appreciate it - with the simple message, "I was thinking about you."

In fact, I recently got a book in the mail entitled "Juggernaut" published in the 1920s.  I read it when I was a young teenager.  It was a suspense/mystery novel that both scared and entertained me simultaneously.  I long ago lost it.  I tried to find it when my sister and I cleaned out Mom's attic, but it wasn't there.  I even tried to see if Amazon sold it, but, of course, no.  I couldn't even remember the author's name.  So one day last month, the mail brought me an envelope from New York with a strange return address.  Inside was no note, no message of any kind - just a copy of the precious book I had so loved.  It took hours for me to figure out where it had come from.  Had I blogged about it once and someone who read that post sent it to me?  Who could have done it?  I finally learned it was my sweet sister who had tracked it down for me.  Apparently I had told her in the attic that day that I was hoping to find it up there, and she put that in the back of her mind and subsequently had combed the internet trying to find a copy.

So there we have it - a paper towel, knife and spoon - and a wonderful old book.  That, my friends, is love, friendship, care, kindness, generosity - all the things one associates with gifts, but do not always accompany them.

Now in closing, I must mention my son, Matthew, whose name means aptly "Gift from God."  He has written Mac software for the iPad called "Headlines" (it interacts with Google Reader) and he has sent it this week to Apple to be hopefully accepted and sold in their app store.  It takes all the blogs and RSS feeds and sites you subscribe to and gives them to you in a great reading format, learning along the way which ones you like the most so it can give those to you first.  (I beta tested it so I know how it works.) The only problem is my blog never comes up on his favorites.  He says I must not use the key words that Headlines knows he likes, which the program uses to move his favorite type of articles into his queue.  So I will hereby end this post with enough key words Matthew might "like" so that this poor little unseen blog will pop up at the front of his Headlines queue soon:    Apple.  Mac.  Computer. Programmer.  iPad.  MacYenta.  IOS.  Elegant Simplicity.  Steve Jobs.  Apps.  Rainstorm.  Headlines, Headlines, Headlines.  Flatcap. Beta.  Tomatoes. Crescent Fresh.  Buzz the Bee.  Buzzmobile.    Yeah, those last ones are a stretch, but you never know.

A loss to the senses

Two of my favorite things in life are books and fabric. I can remember how in my high school study hall, held in the library, I was overwhelmed by all the books surrounding me, especially Carl Sandburg's Lincoln series, which I coveted for years until one day, through generous friends, I received my own precious set.  I still enjoy going to libraries and bookstores. I love the smell of books, the feel of my fingers around their edges, the physical motions of turning the pages, the heaviness or lightness of the book in my hands.  I had a friend once who had an intriguing habit of signing his name on the book's page that represented his age when he read it (e.g., if he read the book at age 41, he would sign page 41) for a small bit of personal historical documentation.   Of course, a book's primary purpose is for information/education or pleasure, and that in the end only depends on the written word, no matter how it is packaged and sold.

My other love is fabric - all kinds - quilting fabric as well as fabric to sew into clothes.  If I had to have lived in any place other than my home growing up, I would have divided my time between the library and Hancock's Fabrics.  Again, the overwhelming sensation of entering a fabric store is familiar to quilters and seamstresses - the overpowering sense of color that jars the senses, the smell of all that new fabric, and, of course, the ultimate in sensation, which is the feel of the fabric.  From denim to velvet, cotton to tweed, I have always loved to "fondle" the fabric.  Again, fabric's purpose is in its use, regardless of how it is packaged and sold.

I find the tactile, olfactory, and visual stimulation from these objects heartwarming.  Both collections of books and fabric make my head swirl and calm down at the same time.  Both demand a response from my imagination - how will I take what I am reading and make use of it in my life?  This book has the power to the life-changing for me!  It can transform me, it can make me healthier, it can make me relax and laugh and it can open my eyes and be aware, and, yes, it can make me cry.  Every book, good or bad, demands a response from me.

It's the same thing with fabric.  On the bolt, it sits there without purpose, but people who sew don't see it just on the bolt or folded on a table; we see it as a dress, a blouse, a skirt, a pair of pants, a Halloween costume, a curtain, an apron, a stuffed animal, part of an incredibly beautiful quilt, and countless other ideas overpowering our creative brains.  Fabric certainly demands a response - before it is ever cut and bought.   Sometimes there is no idea or plan, but the fabric itself is so appealing that you buy it as an object whose future is uncertain and entirely open.  Sometimes the fabric just calls to you...and you respond as if in a trance.

I thought about these two classifications of things I love this week as I am reading the news on my iPad and browsing through www.fabric.com and www.gorgeousfabrics.com.  Oh boy, am I in the digital age or what?  And the news I read yesterday?  A local bookstore chain in Maine is going out of business after decades of existence.  There's a Mr. Paperback in Ellsworth and it's our only local bookstore.  Immediately I felt guilty.  I used to spend a lot more money there before I bought an iPad.  Now I read most of my books digitally.  In fact, digital book reading was cited in the article as one of the reasons for the closing - people just don't read regular books much anymore.   The iPad is so convenient - no matter where I am or what I'm doing, my books are by my side.  Of course, holding an iPad is not anything like holding a book, and as much as they try to simulate the book experience by "swiping" pages that "turn" and giving you options to "highlight" and "write" notes, it's still a computer.  It has none of the character of a book, and certainly none of that ink and paper aroma.  There's no variation between a heavy book and a light book - they all weigh exactly the same: the weight of an iPad.

And the fabric?  That's been a bit harder for me.  Our Joann's Fabrics in Bangor is the only large fabric store in our area, and even this, there is a limit to what they can carry, especially since over half the store is dedicated to other crafts, scrapbooking, etc.  I'm very tempted to get some fabric online, but even when I enlarge the sample fabric picture, I'm still looking at a computer screen.  Colors may be off, you can't really see what it looks like, and you certainly can't touch it.  But I know many people who have been exceptionally pleased with fabric purchases from well-established Internet sites such as these.  Certainly in Maine, choices are limited in everything locally.  We're kind of "at the end of a dirt road" in the world of shopping.  The Internet is a godsend for people in out-of-the-way places who would never be able to enjoy the choices it provides.  Joann's seems to do a brisk business, and I am hoping they are around in Bangor for a long time, but you never know.

I love technology, really I do.  I love my iMac and iPad and can't imagine life without them.  But I'm sad this week, because I have the niggling feeling that we have lost something in the process.  The very thing that drew me to "in-person" interaction with my beloved books and fabric is shifting; it is disappearing as fast as the brick-and-mortar bookstores themselves.  The ad with the catchy tune, "The touch, the feel of cotton...the fabric of our lives," is hard to measure against when one is peering at a square of fabric on a computer screen, trying to read a definition of something that can't really be defined in words because yes, it has to be touched and felt and interacted with in a very intimate way.

I'll probably be buying some fabric online soon, and I'll still be reading my books on my iPad, but I'll be the first to admit - it's just not the same.  I fear something precious is disappearing from the landscape - and it's a loss to us all.

The Same Age

It has dawned on me this week that I have now surpassed the age my mother was when Daddy died.  The above picture was taken on Easter, 1979, and it shows my parents with their granddaughter, Rachel, who at this point was close to her 1st birthday.  Daddy would be gone within in about a year, as he died shortly before Rachel's 2nd birthday.  Mama was 55 and Dad was 63 at the time of this photograph.

If I ever needed to have an inkling of what Mama went through at that age, this realization would do it.  I can't imagine being a widow at 57.  I can't imagine the sudden shock of suddenly being on my own, the sudden awareness that the "until death do us part" of the marriage vow had actually come to fruition.   It would be devastating.  She at the time of his death had two daughters in their 20s and one small grandchild.  She would live to see 3 more grandchildren born, and later (at the present time) 3 great-grandchildren.  She would experience decades more Christmases and anniversaries and birthdays without her partner by her side.

That would be heartbreak enough, but to understand Mama, you have to understand how dependent she was.  Daddy was the bank teller; Mama had stayed home to raise Joy and me ever since we were born.  She didn't have to pay bills or write checks or do taxes or even do much driving. He did all that.  He even wrote the Christmas cards!  She felt assured he would take care of her, as he did, her whole life - and it ended up being his whole life.

Of course, most everyone knows the statistics that the husband will probably go first, but that doesn't help when it happens, especially if you are middle-aged and caught off guard with little warning.

I know my sister Joy and I miss Daddy terribly - and I can imagine how much more that applies to Mama.   Oh, she managed well, even better than we expected, living independently, with some help from Joy and social contacts such as good friends from her church.  She's a survivor.

But it can't have been easy.  Now as I am caring for her here, I am looking at her with fresh eyes, knowing that here, at my very age, she was still trying to navigate a world turned upside down.  And here she is now at 88 years old, again trying to navigate her world turned upside down again, because after her accident, she is now dependent once again on her family, this time her daughters and sons-in-law.  It is a sacred trust on our part, one to Mama, one to Daddy, that in his absence we are to make sure she lives out the rest of her days in security and love.  In 1980, Daddy just passed the torch.  I hope we are worthy of carrying it forward on a rocky, frustrating, sometimes difficult but amazing journey.

Before The Bite

Eating - as essential to our life as breathing and sleeping.  Yet, what/when/how to eat has dominated and confused our society with each passing year.  The act of eating should be simple, but it has become unfortunately very complex - and in the journey towards simplicity, complex is not a welcome word.  After much research, I've concluded that there are many reasons why the whole food thing is so confusing.  It's not easy to eat anymore, and here's why:

Misleading information on what is healthy.   Uh-huh, we're supposed to believe what the experts tell us, right?  Experts like the American Heart Association, American Diabetes Association, American Dietetic Association, USDA, etc.?  There have been more flip-flops in the "guiding wisdom" offered by these and other so-called expert groups than can be found on a California beach.  We have a DVD of old TV commercials, and one of the saddest ones is an ad for margarine - good for the heart, more healthy than butter, they said.  Years later, we discover margarine with its transfats is one of the worst things you can eat.  Eggs are bad for the heart, they said earlier.  Now eggs are one of the most nutritious items on the menu!  Wonder bread builds bodies....now whole grains are the answer!  Wait - even whole grains are not heroes...(more on that later...)  Unfortunately, you can't just assume everything you hear, even from the "experts."  Do your own research, which will lead you inevitably to the fact that...

We've screwed up our food.  Oh yeah, we've really made a mess of things.  Antibiotics are given to cows who are force-fed corn when their stomachs aren't made to digest corn.  Growth hormones are given to many dairy cows.  There are fast food joints on every block.  And get this:  The wheat you buy and eat today is not the same wheat grown generations ago.  It has been genetically modified and tweaked so much that the ol' amber waves of grain are patented by Monsanto, et. al., and their "patented seed" is blowing into the farms of organic farmers, so everything is pretty much contaminated.  We've overfished the seas, and what's left is filled with mercury and other pollutants.  Pesticides cover everything.  Fruits and vegetables are grown to withstand a lot of travel and handling without bruising - not for taste and certainly not for nutrition.  Crops and animals are grown by large-scale industries who control the majority of our food supply and who appear to have little in the way of ethics. Which brings us to....

We have become aware of our food sources.  At first, this seems like a good thing, right?  Recall, however, the story of the Garden of Eden.  Adam and Eve were happy and naive in their own little world until "their eyes were opened."  In other words, they received the blessing/curse of knowledge, and they had to deal with that knowledge.  Anyone who has not heard of "Food, Inc" or "Fast Food Nation" or other books and movies has either been leading a sheltered existence or has deliberately avoided the ugly truth.  Our daughter and daughter-in-law are vegans for ethical reasons, but even from a purely health reason, to allow some of the "food" on the market into our bodies is pure insanity.  Descriptions and pictures of animals standing in their own waste, calves taken from their mothers and/or killed, chickens whose beaks are cut off so they won't peck each other from the anxiety of being stuffed in a cramped space, turkeys bred to have such big breasts that they can't even walk, - well, it's not a pretty picture and it is certainly not appetizing.  I'm not a vegan, not even a vegetarian - but it's getting harder and harder to eat the way I've been eating guilt-free.  I, of course, try to find my own way, meaning....

Everybody, literally every body, is different.  Whether you're allergic to peanuts or gluten, whether or not you can easily digest milk - you have to find out what works for you - a way of eating that is sustainable, where you can maintain a healthy weight and keep your body at optimal performance.  There is no one-size-fits all.  There will probably be compromises along the way.  Not everybody has the same system, or....

Financial resources.  Yep, you knew money has to figure in somewhere, right?  Organic food costs more, grass-fed beef costs more, vegan ice cream costs more.  Your budget can only go so far so you have to make some hard choices.  As our daughter posted on Facebook recently, our government kindly subsidizes the very crops and industries that are harming us - so we can get that cheap "food."

Eating - something that should be simple and instinctive - has become a burden so emotionally draining that it gives me a headache just to think about it.  Before the first bite, we have to consider the conventional wisdom versus our own research, the contamination of our food supply, the ethics of how our food is raised, our own body's reaction to what we eat, and how much we are willing to financially invest in our health.  It's still an ongoing journey for my husband and me to figure this all out, but if anyone hears of a magic pill I can take once a day so I can quit eating altogether, I'd appreciate a heads up.  What a bummer!  The next thing you know, we'll have problems with the simple act of breathing....oh dear.

I had it backwards!

I love to document things.  I have fun making all sorts of lists and I especially enjoy journaling.  I've been keeping a daily diary for years now; in fact, in 2009 I bought a 10-year journal that allows one small paragraph for each day of each year encompassing the decade from 2009 through 2019.  I may record anything - the title of an old movie we watched, or what Ed cooked for dinner, or maybe how things are going at work.  (I've got some excellent documentation of how many inches of snow we shoveled...and shoveled...and shoveled last January!)   I also have a journal on my iPad where I record my health progress for the day.  I also keep a running to-do list where I delete items after I complete the tasks.  Mostly, though, I just write about events of my day.

I, of course, do these things at the end of the day.  Well, duh, you have to wait until something happens before you can document it, right?  At the end of each day, I sit down and write what happened - if I got any exercise done, how much sleep I got, how many lines I transcribed, if I got to post on my blog, if I managed to work on the quilt or pay bills or balance that bank statement.  I sit in front of the computer or on the couch with my iPad with my various journals and reflect on my day, frequently chuckling over something funny that happened, or, in contrast, finding that I'm still stewing over a frustration at work.  I also intermittently end up chastising myself for not having done the things I thought I would get done that day.  I had such great plans, but now as I write the day's events down, they seem lacking.  Where did the time go?  How did I waste so much of it?  How many people had I snapped at?  Did I really eat that big piece of cake?  How many times was I in such a hurry I didn't pay attention to the important things?  So here I write, in the here and now, looking back in my immediate past and evaluating it.

This week I had a revelation when I read a quote from one of my Facebook friends:  "The bad news is time flies.  The good news is you're the pilot."  Or, as I prefer to look at it, I am the author of my own story.  

I realized then that I had it all backwards.  I was sitting there with a keyboard or pen trying to write the story of my day, when in fact, my day's story had already been written by me.  From the moment I awoke, I had been writing my story as surely as if I had held a pen to paper every second of the day.  Every choice I made created another sentence in the story.  Every attitude, every reaction, every bite I ate or word I said - it all went into my evolving journal.  Alas, by the time I physically sat down to write, the story had been written and it would stay unchanged and forever sealed.  There would be no going back, no editing, no deleting the things I regret having said or done, no adding things that I wish I had said or done - it was already written and - yes - published as it really happened.  A nonfiction documentary, a self-published autobiography, in real time.

I wish I could describe the feelings of energy and power that enveloped me when I had this epiphany.  To take responsibility for my own story?  Really? Oh, I'll admit other people contribute to the story.  (Yeah, like the nice gentleman who backed into our car last week - he tweaked my story quite a bit.)  But how I reacted to his contribution?  That was solely up to me.

I want to wake up and think, "What do I want to document in my journal tonight?"  Then, as they say, I want to "just do it."  The journal is not written after the day is done.  The journal is written as soon as the day starts.  If I want to laugh during the day, I will find opportunities to do so.  If I want to love and feel loved, I will do that too.  If I want to be in awe of the wonderful blessings I have, I will find time to pause and feel blessed.  If I want to be healthier, I will eat right and find time for exercise.  What goes into the story is up to me.  I can document my day's story in the evening, but I certainly can't write it.  That part has already been done.

Join me in this wonderful journaling as we write our own lives, minute by minute, day by day, choice by choice.  It is an awesome power we have been given and just as awesome a power to waste. I never again want to feel the helplessness of looking backward, wishing things were different.  I'm my own pilot, my own author, and darn it, I want to fly high with purpose and write my life with love and joy!

Release

Lily, our border collie puppy, is as energetic as they come.  She shares the cute trait many other dogs have - loving to play fetch.  We throw her a toy, ball, or frisbee, and she runs like a bat out of hell to get it, then brings it back.  Then we usually have a problem.  She doesn't drop it.  She prances and dances and wants to play tug-of-war with it - anything but drop it.  Little does she know that we can't continue playing until she gives the toy back to us.  We've tried saying things like "Hand it over!" or "Drop it!" or "Put it Down!" and even "That'll Do!" and nothing works.  Trying to snatch it out of her hand just gets her excited and may even get us an accidental laceration.

After reading several books on border collies, the term we finally settled on was "Release."  So that's what we're teaching her as an instruction to drop the toy.

I've always liked the word "release."  I've heard at funerals that the deceased had suffered terribly from cancer or whatnot and had finally been "released" from his pain.  Release is the at the core of the AA mantra, "Let Go and Let God."  When I picture the word "release" in my mind, it's always accompanied by a big, deep sigh and a little smile, as if in releasing a heavy burden after walking with it for a long, long time.

But it's not just pain and guilt and heavy burdens we need to release.  It can be good memories, too, that we are carrying - memories that are so good, in fact, that we still live in the past, clinging to the good ol' days of when we were young or attractive or talented or popular, tightly gripping in our teeth the perspective that that time was so extraordinary that life ever since has somehow been deficient and will never ever bring us happiness again.   Sometimes it's something else - we might have a chokehold on our worldview, our paradigm for what we believe (segregation, anyone?), and no matter how wisdom has shown us otherwise, we refuse to change.

The thing that we can't get Lily to understand is that until she releases the toy, the play comes to a halt.  Her fun is in limbo because of her stubbornness.  But she will learn eventually.  She will come to comprehend that the very thing she is avoiding at all costs - putting the toy down - is the very thing which will bring her more excitement, joy, and companionship with her human family when the play resumes.  Once she lets go, she can open her mouth for the next catch - and as we do the same, we can open our hearts for the next blessing just around the corner.

My hope for 2012 is that we can all learn to release what is necessary to let go of - so we can receive again.

Feathers

One of my favorite Christmas movies is Christmas in Connecticut.  In it, Uncle Felix, a rotund Hungarian chef, steals the show.  He is part of the plot to make his friend, played by Barbara Stanwyck, appear to be a Martha Stewart type character to keep her job as a magazine columnist when in real life she can't cook or do anything even loosely connected with housekeeping.  When her wedding is about to take place, Felix, who is a good friend of the bride, is asked by the judge if he will give the bride away.  Felix, who is frequently confused by American/English idioms, replies, "I don't give nobody avay.  Alvays I keep my mouth shut."

Sometimes people ask me why I bother blogging.  I'm not specialized enough to have a bunch of people interested in what I say (e.g., don't write about sewing or cooking or specialized hobbies), yet I still write every week or two.  My answer is that I mainly write for introspection, because it is only when I put things down that I realize what my priorities are and what problems I need to work on.  The only other reason is my grandkids.  I won't be on this earth forever, and I certainly can't assume I will still be here when my grandchildren are grown with the their own families (a situation my Mom enjoys), so I hope this blog serves as a window for my grandkids into their Grammy's mind and heart.  Maybe they can learn some life lessons from my mistakes and successes.

So here's my life lesson for this Christmas Eve:  "Don't give nobody avay.  Alvays keep your mouth shut."

Knowing when to just keep your mouth shut has to be one of the hardest lessons in life to learn.  Kids today grow up with rewind buttons everywhere, and the sooner they realize there is no rewind button for life, the better.  You'd think folks my age, born in the '50s without rewind buttons, would have easily assimilated that fact, but no.  I can speak from personal experience.   I speak, then I think.  Unfortunately, that's backwards, but hey, sometimes I'm a stubborn student.

There's an old story about a spiritual teacher who had his students roll all sizes of stones around a big area.  Then he asked then to go gather every stone and bring each one back.  It took a little time, but they did this with no problem.  Then he gave them feathers, and asked them to scatter the feathers and bring them back.  As you can imagine, the wind carried those feathers miles and miles all over the place.  They came back to the teacher in frustration, saying, "Master - the feathers have dispersed over miles; there is no way we can gather every one of them and bring them back to you."  The wise teacher said, "And that is how it is with words.  Once you say them, they are scattered forever and you can never take them back."

Throughout my life, I've said hurtful things on purpose.  I've said hurtful things by accident.  I've talked about people in a negative way to others.  I've said things that should have been left unsaid.  When I felt  accused, I've talked back defensively by reminding others that they're as sloppy/hurtful/inept/forgetful as I am.  I've offended, wounded, and distressed both people I am only acquainted with and people I dearly love.  It breaks my heart at times and fills me with awful regret.

Of course, my husband Ed has this fault, too.  I'm constantly berating him, "Why did you SAY that?!!" and many times he will reply, "I know.  As soon as it left my mouth I asked myself the same question." Ed also has taught me that the bad habits/transgressions that irritate us about others are a mirror into what we hate about ourselves.  I know when I get upset with him that down deep I am just upset with myself for harboring the same problem.

It only takes a moment to filter words in your brain before they are said out loud.  One of my New Year's resolutions is to be careful with words - once they are gone, I can't bring them back.

I wish everyone the blessings of Christmas and the New Year.   Live life in 2012 with the assurance that you don't need a rewind button, and watch those feathers.  They're light and buoyant and can be gone in an instant.