I'd like to reminisce for just a moment about the Halloween's of my past. I really don't remember the costumes too much, although I recall quite clearly going out as a "hobo"--a politically incorrect term if ever there was one. I remember the hauls of enormous amounts of candy we would bring home, usually in a pillowcase of all things (because a bag would break and the pillow case was cooler). The mounds of candy on the living room floor staggered the imagination. Because there are 4 siblings in our family, we would spend hours, even days swapping back and forth for our favorite candies. And nary an x-rayed thought crossed our minds (even after the razor-blade-in-the-apple scare).
But what I remember most was the lady with the fountain in her house. You had to make sure you allotted enough time to go to her house, you see, because you didn't get candy, you got to go into her house and look for pennies. That's right! She opened her doors to a few kids at a time, and you rooted through the house for all the pennies you could get. The concept staggers the mind today! You would no more open your house to a bunch of kids you didn't know today than jump out of the third story window (and you wouldn't do that without making sure all the doors were locked first). Picture if you will, scores of children dressed up in made at home costumes from clowns to ballerinas to doctors to "hobos", going from one house to the next down a nice suburban block. They all troop to each house, go up the long sidewalks to the front steps, ring the bell and when the householder opens the door, they all yell, "Trick or Treat!" The adult (and sometimes the older sibling who no longer does this, but eats the candy just the same) brings out the "full size candy bars!!!" for all and the kids say thanks and troop over to the next house. But as you get to this one block you notice the kids are lined up outside of a small bungalow type home. There are enormous boulders set in stone on the facade of the place and a porch that seems dark, yet inviting on the front of the house. The kids are giggling, and excited, not just by the day, but by the fact that they are going to be NEXT! The older woman opens her front door and a bunch of laughing kids clamber down her front steps you think, comparing notes about the amount of money they found in her house. She allows the next few kids inside and they begin their earnest search. Only the ground floor rooms are part of the search--not the bathroom--this was the 60's after all. You wandered around looking shyly at first when she tells you to look under things and around things you become a little bolder. It's about then that you hear the sound of water and you wonder if she has left the water running in the kitchen sink. You're following the noise when you suddenly look up and see a small pond at the back of her house and IT'S INSIDE THE HOUSE. Now this is the sixties, I'll reiterate, so they didn't have those small ponds they have now with little kitschy waterfalls. This was a pond in her house with all these plants around it, so it looked like it was outside! Only it was inside. And there was water flowing down into the pond but it didn't overflow! Unheard of! It was so magical that you forgot to look for any more pennies! You were amazed. And then your time was up and you had to go outside and you were talking with all the kids who had been in her house with you and while the kids in line outside thought you were discussing the money you found, you were actually discussing the amazing waterfall and pond inside this woman's house!
I don't remember much else, but I recall that trip inside vividly. I remember when our parents would drive by the back of her house I would strain to see the jungle growing at the back window which signified the location of the pond. I remember never going back to look for pennies again. But I will always remember that waterfall in her house. And that magical Halloween.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
One of those days
I'm having one of those days. Things aren't really wrong, just off kilter. I'm afraid if I get too close to something sharp I could do some serious physical damage to myself, not on purpose mind you, but well, I just wouldn't be able to stop the knife from dropping into my toe or something of that ilk. I put on a striped shirt this morning and decided to wear one of my colorful sweater vests which proclaim the season. But it felt like the striped shirt clashed, so I changed the shirt for my old- reliable-button-down-plain-blouse that goes with everything as it has a non-descript color. I got to work and realized it had a hole in the armpit. That's okay, I'm not raising my hand for anything, but still, it was annoying. Every time I started to try and tame the beast of the data base that requires feeding constantly at work, the phone would ring, the door would buzz, a kid would come in to see the nurse, a teacher would come in and need something right away. I couldn't accomplish anything today. I started getting cranky around lunchtime and stayed that way until the end of the day. I left work, ran to the drug store, ran to the grocery store and ran home thinking I should make this really good dinner. But by the time I got home I didn't have enough time to make it. I know each day is different, so tomorrow will probably be much better. But I'd really like to just try and forget today if possible.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
A Liddle Code in the node
I remember getting colds as a child quite frequently. They involved really sore throats and lots and lots of tissues. This was before Puffs, too. You had to be made of stern stuff to wait out a cold. It seemed to last forever (like waiting for Christmas only not as good). And while everyone around you was sniffling and sneezing and wiping their noses on their sleeves, you were vainly trying to not get pink eye to compound the already grotesque stuff coming out of your face. But when I was a child someone cared if I was sick. Someone (read mom) gave me chicken soup, and read to me and allowed me to cuddle up in her lap and even nap in the afternoons. It's no wonder I was always staying home "sick". It was a great place to be. Safe and warm.
But I'm an adult now. I have 120 sick days accumulated because no one takes care of me anymore. I take care of myself and it just isn't as nice and warm as someone doing it for you. Trust me on this. I stayed home today and tried to veg out. But it didn't work. I realized that if I didn't empty the dishwasher, no one would. If I didn't make the bed no one would. And if I took a nap in the afternoon...I would be up until 3:00 in the morning and no better than I was this morning when I decided to make it 119 days. I miss that being tended to. No one does that for adults anymore. What would happen if we instituted the "Rent a mom" program and for a small fee you could have someone...a motherly type (oh, don't get all Gloria Steinham on me...you know what I mean) who would rub your head and feed you chicken soup. How much would you pay. Yeah, I wouldn't pay for that either. It sounds creepy writing it down, but i thought it had potential when I started. Oh, well. I'll just get another hot lemonade and watch some more old movies. Maybe it wasn't such a wasted day after all.
But I'm an adult now. I have 120 sick days accumulated because no one takes care of me anymore. I take care of myself and it just isn't as nice and warm as someone doing it for you. Trust me on this. I stayed home today and tried to veg out. But it didn't work. I realized that if I didn't empty the dishwasher, no one would. If I didn't make the bed no one would. And if I took a nap in the afternoon...I would be up until 3:00 in the morning and no better than I was this morning when I decided to make it 119 days. I miss that being tended to. No one does that for adults anymore. What would happen if we instituted the "Rent a mom" program and for a small fee you could have someone...a motherly type (oh, don't get all Gloria Steinham on me...you know what I mean) who would rub your head and feed you chicken soup. How much would you pay. Yeah, I wouldn't pay for that either. It sounds creepy writing it down, but i thought it had potential when I started. Oh, well. I'll just get another hot lemonade and watch some more old movies. Maybe it wasn't such a wasted day after all.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Sunday Shopping redefined
We just got back from the grocery store. Sunday's we usually hit the store before the Eagle's game comes on. It used to be a small thing to go to the grocery store, get stuff for the week and come home, veg out for a while then turn on the game. However, we have a "mega" store now...a Wegmans. For those who are Northern East Coast challenged, this translates to "OHMIGOD look at the fruit/vegetable/prepared foods selection in this place!" This also translates to a major pain for those who want to go to a store, get in and get out. Because Sunday has become the day to gather at Wegman's and see and be seen. There are people collecting in the bread section talking about the previous evening entertainments. There are people in the deli aisle talking about what the kid's schools are doing this week (overheard one conversation in passing, "I think I'll just eat out of the car, it's easier". I do NOT want to know). People in the prepared food aisle were wondering what to eat while watching the game, what to eat while watching the later game, what to have for lunch--before the game. And the people in the fruit and veggie aisle, were just looking self-righteous and smug. It's bewildering and somewhat annoying to have to run the gamut of shopping carts, screaming children, pushy adults and people who seemed to have wandered off the street and are wondering what this place is. I just wanna get my stuff and get out, for crying out loud! The parking lot is huge, and is filled to the gills with everyone in the immediate 15 mile radius. You park in the out reaches of Mongolia, trudge to the store, fight tooth and cart for what you need, come out feeling shell shocked and abused, only to realize you have to trudge back to Outer Mongolia to schlep all your stuff to your car. While you place your beloved "reusable" bags in your car, someone is waiting right behind you to take your space because there are no other spaces.
So maybe my husband and I will have to rethink our Sundays. Perhaps we'll go to the grocery store the evening before. This is a good strategy, except the shelves are not fully stocked because "Sunday's coming", so not only are there ample parking spaces, there is ample shelf with spaces. Flip a coin.
Don't know the answer yet, but let's just say it's a work in progress.
So maybe my husband and I will have to rethink our Sundays. Perhaps we'll go to the grocery store the evening before. This is a good strategy, except the shelves are not fully stocked because "Sunday's coming", so not only are there ample parking spaces, there is ample shelf with spaces. Flip a coin.
Don't know the answer yet, but let's just say it's a work in progress.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The love of words
So I went to this eyeglass place to get new glasses. There are all sorts of side stories I could give to this: the fact that the glasses weren't really needed as the eyes hadn't changed that much, the fact that the young man trying to help me find frames that weren't the usual huge ovals I've become accustomed to--I've grown accustomed to her frames--, the fact that by the time I'd picked out the frames it was later in the afternoon than I hoped and dinner looked to be a rather slap/dash affair again and to top it off I got a flat tire on the way home...yes, ignoring all these wonderful and enlightening side stories that I might at some time pick up and run with the thing that really made me smile today was the wallpaper at the eyeglass store. I was sitting there waiting for the young man to type/compute and figure out how much these specs were going to run me when I noticed the wallpaper. It was full of words. And not just any words, but words related to seeing, looking, peering...oh, it was amazing! The light blue words marched across the wall with all manner of nuanced meaning from blush (as in the first blush of spring) to gleam to peruse to, well, you get the idea. I wanted that wallpaper in my house! Especially in the living room where I sit and read. In my usual way, I began to peruse if it would come in different colors, then different fonts (hmm, I thought, Courier would look just like a typewriter--wouldn't that be a hoot!). By the time I left the store, I was humming to myself and quite pleased that maybe I could indeed find this somewhere in a wallpaper store and buy it for myself. Unfortunately, all those other things happened and I forgot all about it until just now, at 10:30 at night, when I'm too tired to even look it up on the internet. But tomorrow, well, it is after all, another day (as Scarlet was wont to say).
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
the past is past
I don't like it when I hear people say, "the past is past" or today is for the living as if those events and people who came before had no say in the present. That's doo-doo. Everyone's past is sculpted, shaped and molded by the past that came before. Would Hitler have become what he was without Germany going through what it did before he even came on the scene? I think not.
Dwelling on the past is probably not the best thing one can do, but seeing it again is not such a bad idea. What is that quote, "those who ignore history, tend to repeat it?". That's probably not the quote exactly but the sentiment is the same. How can I hope to go forward if I cannot respect where I came from? My sense of self was shaped from my parents, my grandparents, other family members, my friends, my not-friends and those quirky satellite-people who I've met over the years.
One thing that I've dragged along with me all those years is my faith. I learned about it from our parents. I learned that you could sleep in church during the sermon, but don't let anyone see you do it. I learned that fidgeting in the pew was not the proper way to behave and that the songs that were in the red book were there probably 500 years ago and sung in probably the same way. But I also learned that Christianity is community. People caring for each other, when maybe you don't even like each other is what faith and belief in a higher power is what life and existence are supposed to be about. Watching my mother do something as charitable as listening to my Aunt Alice tell the same story for the 50th time without interrupting and saying, "Yes, you said that before," was a lesson that I haven't forgotten even now, when I wished I had. Seeing my dad go over to a friends' house and help them build a deck or rebuild a kitchen (while neglecting what needed to be done at our house) may not have been the best example of caring and giving, but it showed me how generous he was for others. Going to committee meetings seems tedious, but I saw both of our parents do that to show their support and concern for the "work of the church". I learned it wasn't just about the offering on Sunday, but the offering of the self in other places at other times.
Sometimes I watch my children and wonder what they have taken from their views of my husband and I. He stayed home while I went to church, every Sunday, went to Sunday School every Sunday, taught Sunday School every Sunday. They don't go to church and don't seem to miss it at all. Is this a lack of communication? A lack of my influence or simply something they don't think they need to drag along with them? I don't know. And I can't make them take it with them. As much as I wish I could.
so the past which helped to shape me, is not necessarily helping to shape my children. But they'll know I am Christian, I hope by my actions like my parents before me. Maybe that's enough.
Dwelling on the past is probably not the best thing one can do, but seeing it again is not such a bad idea. What is that quote, "those who ignore history, tend to repeat it?". That's probably not the quote exactly but the sentiment is the same. How can I hope to go forward if I cannot respect where I came from? My sense of self was shaped from my parents, my grandparents, other family members, my friends, my not-friends and those quirky satellite-people who I've met over the years.
One thing that I've dragged along with me all those years is my faith. I learned about it from our parents. I learned that you could sleep in church during the sermon, but don't let anyone see you do it. I learned that fidgeting in the pew was not the proper way to behave and that the songs that were in the red book were there probably 500 years ago and sung in probably the same way. But I also learned that Christianity is community. People caring for each other, when maybe you don't even like each other is what faith and belief in a higher power is what life and existence are supposed to be about. Watching my mother do something as charitable as listening to my Aunt Alice tell the same story for the 50th time without interrupting and saying, "Yes, you said that before," was a lesson that I haven't forgotten even now, when I wished I had. Seeing my dad go over to a friends' house and help them build a deck or rebuild a kitchen (while neglecting what needed to be done at our house) may not have been the best example of caring and giving, but it showed me how generous he was for others. Going to committee meetings seems tedious, but I saw both of our parents do that to show their support and concern for the "work of the church". I learned it wasn't just about the offering on Sunday, but the offering of the self in other places at other times.
Sometimes I watch my children and wonder what they have taken from their views of my husband and I. He stayed home while I went to church, every Sunday, went to Sunday School every Sunday, taught Sunday School every Sunday. They don't go to church and don't seem to miss it at all. Is this a lack of communication? A lack of my influence or simply something they don't think they need to drag along with them? I don't know. And I can't make them take it with them. As much as I wish I could.
so the past which helped to shape me, is not necessarily helping to shape my children. But they'll know I am Christian, I hope by my actions like my parents before me. Maybe that's enough.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Just wondering
So here's the thing about getting older...you are are reminded sometimes delicately, sometimes not that you need to get "check ups" on certain things. You need to get mammograms, colonscopys, ears, eyes and well, in general your body checked on a periodic basis when you reach say 50 or so. I just came back from an eye exam. The doctor proclaimed that my eyes were in excellent condition (except for the tri-focals, which seems a contradiction in terms, but I digress). I'm supposed to go ever 2 years. So if I'm not having trouble with my eyes, why do I have to keep going back every two years? I'm sure he has a perfectly valid reason, maybe his kids aren't done college yet. Oh, that was unfair. I happen to know that all of his kids have graduated and are working at various and sundry jobs. But really. If every time I go to the doctor I'm told, everything looks good, why am I going back?
A couple of years ago a mammogram found a cyst in my breast. After much weeping, wailing and wringing of hands I was wheeled into pre-op only to have the junior surgeon poke a hole in said cyst and deflate it. I was extremely appreciative. But for the next two years I went ever 3 months to have my breasts examined. This was outof pocket money, not insurance covered. There was never another cyst, lump or suspicious whatevers. I know I am lucky and I'm not making light, honest. But for crying out loud--every three months, $95 to a doctor to tell me that everything is fine and good? I'm just not sure the preventative visit was worth it. So I stopped going every three months. I make an appointment after having a mammogram, but no follow ups after that. If nothing shows on the mammo, then nothing she does to me in the office is gonna make a difference. Trust me on this.
The eye doctor gave me a new presecription for my glasses. It's a slightly stronger one. Can I read without it? Absolutely! But this is where the doctors get you...if you don't go for a follow up...what if something is wrong? What if just this ONE TIME you don't go, that one disease is there the next time and it could have been taken care of sooner if you hadn't dissed the doctor's office. What if? What if?
So I guess I'll keep going back and getting looked at in the hopes that I'll be able to spit in the doctor's eye when I'm 80.
A couple of years ago a mammogram found a cyst in my breast. After much weeping, wailing and wringing of hands I was wheeled into pre-op only to have the junior surgeon poke a hole in said cyst and deflate it. I was extremely appreciative. But for the next two years I went ever 3 months to have my breasts examined. This was outof pocket money, not insurance covered. There was never another cyst, lump or suspicious whatevers. I know I am lucky and I'm not making light, honest. But for crying out loud--every three months, $95 to a doctor to tell me that everything is fine and good? I'm just not sure the preventative visit was worth it. So I stopped going every three months. I make an appointment after having a mammogram, but no follow ups after that. If nothing shows on the mammo, then nothing she does to me in the office is gonna make a difference. Trust me on this.
The eye doctor gave me a new presecription for my glasses. It's a slightly stronger one. Can I read without it? Absolutely! But this is where the doctors get you...if you don't go for a follow up...what if something is wrong? What if just this ONE TIME you don't go, that one disease is there the next time and it could have been taken care of sooner if you hadn't dissed the doctor's office. What if? What if?
So I guess I'll keep going back and getting looked at in the hopes that I'll be able to spit in the doctor's eye when I'm 80.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
If an ant, walking along in a forest
...falls over a log, do the rest of the ants just walk over him? The answer is probably yes. Or they may grab and eat him for not keeping in step. Or they may shove him out of the way, thereby making it impossible for him to ever rejoin the colony as if they can't smell the trail they can't get back. And why you may ask am I thinking of ants? They're all over my kitchen counter! Okay, not that many. But I came home to their meandering scurrying and while mashing them into the counter tops before cleaning the trail away with cleanser, I began to think about where they were coming in and how they managed to find the counter and YEE Gods! they were even on the stove top!
I was in a cleaning frenzy no longer thinking of their little antennae waving about trying to find each other. No ant was safe. I even started picking them up and feeding them to the fish! I know it was cruel, but the fish did look hungry and he hadn't eaten since this morning, so I thought, why not?
And so then after all that, I began to think of all the Nature shows I watched about ants and the above leapt into mind. So now you know.
I was in a cleaning frenzy no longer thinking of their little antennae waving about trying to find each other. No ant was safe. I even started picking them up and feeding them to the fish! I know it was cruel, but the fish did look hungry and he hadn't eaten since this morning, so I thought, why not?
And so then after all that, I began to think of all the Nature shows I watched about ants and the above leapt into mind. So now you know.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Thinking through Sundays
One of the best/worst things about Sundays is this: when attending church in the morning, if I haven't sent my inner editor off to buy coffee, we listen to the sermon with a jaded eye and critical ear. This Sunday the inner editor didn't want coffee and couldn't be enticed with doughnuts either, so it stayed with me throughout the service. It was a bad service to stay with me. It was critical of the fact that the organist was on vacation again, so the service was accompanied by the guitar-playing pastor, who has a lovely voice and is an accomplished player of the guitar, but when juggling the service around the music, well, it just seems like a bit much.
The real inner complaining came about though during the sermon. The gospel reading on which the sermon stood, had to do with a man who was deaf and Jesus healed him of both his deafness and speech impediment. And see I'm deaf. Okay, if I wasn't wearing the hearing aids I probably could have still heard most of the sermon. But see, I don't like it when the pastor who hears pretty well speaks to the masses about these healings and makes it sound so, well, euphemistic. See, the inner editor wanted to say out loud...the man in the reading wasn't not comprehending what Jesus was doing, he was physically not able to hear. He wasn't stupid or misguided, he COULDN'T HEAR. Preachers twist those words of the gospel so everyone can be included. But not everyone is included in the physically disabled world. Couldn't we have a sermon that says, look there are those in the world who are disabled, who can't hear, or see or speak and Jesus might have healed a very few, but there were and indeed still more others who aren't healed this way. What happens to them? How do we heal them? Do we keep do this interpretation of disability that essentially says we're all disabled when we aren't? I don't want to stand on the soapbox and beat this, but it's true. The man was unable to hear or speak because of his physical inability to do it. NOT because we are all unable to hear, but because HE couldn't hear. Do you see the distinction? Do I want people to see me or understand me only because of this disability? No. Do I want them to understand that it does place me in a different place because of it? I think sometimes the answer is yes. I am not in the same "hearing" place as you are. I believe I perceive things differently because of that disability. Don't encompass all with the blanket, "we all don't hear" because that just isn't true. It glosses over my pain and makes others not aware of it.
Am I wallowing in my inability to hear? Well, maybe sometimes i am. But I think in this case today, I am not. I want people to understand the uniqueness of the position people with disabilities are in. I want them to see that we are yes, all people of God, but we are all not the same. It's nice to encompass all in the love of God, but can we please not say that we are all "blind" or "deaf"? Because in the physical world we all live in, that just isn't true. I almost feel militaristic in my disability right now. I am standing up for my right to be recognized as not being whole in the purest sense. And that's where someone has to reach me. Not in my mind's eye but in my real out of focus vision. Not in my "listening" but in my ability to distinguish a b as in boy to a d as in David. If I were to share this with Pastor, would he feel I was being nit-picky? Maybe. But I do feel somewhat justified in my righteous indignation. I am deaf. Not healed, not yet, anyway. Can you tell me what Jesus is saying to me now, without spitting in my ear?
The real inner complaining came about though during the sermon. The gospel reading on which the sermon stood, had to do with a man who was deaf and Jesus healed him of both his deafness and speech impediment. And see I'm deaf. Okay, if I wasn't wearing the hearing aids I probably could have still heard most of the sermon. But see, I don't like it when the pastor who hears pretty well speaks to the masses about these healings and makes it sound so, well, euphemistic. See, the inner editor wanted to say out loud...the man in the reading wasn't not comprehending what Jesus was doing, he was physically not able to hear. He wasn't stupid or misguided, he COULDN'T HEAR. Preachers twist those words of the gospel so everyone can be included. But not everyone is included in the physically disabled world. Couldn't we have a sermon that says, look there are those in the world who are disabled, who can't hear, or see or speak and Jesus might have healed a very few, but there were and indeed still more others who aren't healed this way. What happens to them? How do we heal them? Do we keep do this interpretation of disability that essentially says we're all disabled when we aren't? I don't want to stand on the soapbox and beat this, but it's true. The man was unable to hear or speak because of his physical inability to do it. NOT because we are all unable to hear, but because HE couldn't hear. Do you see the distinction? Do I want people to see me or understand me only because of this disability? No. Do I want them to understand that it does place me in a different place because of it? I think sometimes the answer is yes. I am not in the same "hearing" place as you are. I believe I perceive things differently because of that disability. Don't encompass all with the blanket, "we all don't hear" because that just isn't true. It glosses over my pain and makes others not aware of it.
Am I wallowing in my inability to hear? Well, maybe sometimes i am. But I think in this case today, I am not. I want people to understand the uniqueness of the position people with disabilities are in. I want them to see that we are yes, all people of God, but we are all not the same. It's nice to encompass all in the love of God, but can we please not say that we are all "blind" or "deaf"? Because in the physical world we all live in, that just isn't true. I almost feel militaristic in my disability right now. I am standing up for my right to be recognized as not being whole in the purest sense. And that's where someone has to reach me. Not in my mind's eye but in my real out of focus vision. Not in my "listening" but in my ability to distinguish a b as in boy to a d as in David. If I were to share this with Pastor, would he feel I was being nit-picky? Maybe. But I do feel somewhat justified in my righteous indignation. I am deaf. Not healed, not yet, anyway. Can you tell me what Jesus is saying to me now, without spitting in my ear?
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The past revisited
Okay, so I haven't done this for 7 years. What did I expect? Well, I expected to feel a little more in control (of course I would expect that, given me!). Then I expected to feel like I belonged...so much for that. Then I expected to be needed. These are universal themes for the likes of me. Unfortunately, they should not be employed at all times and in all situations. I didn't totally suck today. But I wasn't exactly on "my game" whatever the hell my game is supposed to be. It will get better. I know it will. However, I'm left to stare at the screen or the mirror and wonder a few things.
How did I get older and why isn't this second nature to me. See above first line.
None of the parents looked even remotely familiar. Again see above first line.
I probably should've/could've taken a refresher...no, make that taken a NEW course in the data base they are using. Never had to do the stuff before I had to do today. See first question three lines up.
Well, as Scarlett used to say, "tomorrow is another day." Or was that the Monkees? Whatever...
How did I get older and why isn't this second nature to me. See above first line.
None of the parents looked even remotely familiar. Again see above first line.
I probably should've/could've taken a refresher...no, make that taken a NEW course in the data base they are using. Never had to do the stuff before I had to do today. See first question three lines up.
Well, as Scarlett used to say, "tomorrow is another day." Or was that the Monkees? Whatever...
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Transitions
The "new" job starts on Monday. It's in quotes because really it's my old job only I'm going to be doing it at two locations. But this time as a perk I will have benefits, vacations and representation by the union (Dad would be so pleased).
The biggest problem with going from one job to another though is this: what do you do with all the sh*t you've accumulated while at this location? I'm not a particularly neat person, but I know where stuff is. It probably doesn't look like I do, based on the condition of paperwork, but as God is my witness, if you ask me for something I can usually put my hand on it, if not immediately, then at least within an hour or so.
I was given about a week and a half to empty my desk of all this detritus. A week and a half people. In the course of this time, my own particular boss did little, if any relenting to my duties. I was expected to fit in all the things she was giving me at the same time I was tidying up for the next schmo. Well, guess what? It isn't done. It won't be done. I'm considering coming back into the office on Sunday to try and at least sort out some piles so whomever comes looking for something will have a geographic region to start with. I can't tell you how annoyed this makes me. I was beginning to make some headway at the beginning of the week, but then the meetings my boss was attending were deemed not important for her attendance, so she came back to give me more stuff to do before I left. Stuff that was essentially divvied up to my co-workers on Tuesday. Has anyone asked me how to do any of those things I'm currently taking care of? NOPE. Has anyone offered to help take something off my plate? NOPE. So is this going to get done by tomorrow? NOPE.
It's just this kind of thing that makes me crazy. I want to be able to leave one place in a reasonable semblance of order so no one can come looking for me to ask, "where's this?" or "how did you do so-and-so?" I'm going to be relearning a new job, I don't want to be saddled with having to do someone else's job as well as my own. But I fear that is what will happen. And the two new bosses will think that I'm hopeless as I left so much at loose ends. Except I was trying to tie them up. But couldn't. So now, I'm tied up in knots about these strings and the puppet pulling them is out of town for the weekend! AAARRGGHH!
The biggest problem with going from one job to another though is this: what do you do with all the sh*t you've accumulated while at this location? I'm not a particularly neat person, but I know where stuff is. It probably doesn't look like I do, based on the condition of paperwork, but as God is my witness, if you ask me for something I can usually put my hand on it, if not immediately, then at least within an hour or so.
I was given about a week and a half to empty my desk of all this detritus. A week and a half people. In the course of this time, my own particular boss did little, if any relenting to my duties. I was expected to fit in all the things she was giving me at the same time I was tidying up for the next schmo. Well, guess what? It isn't done. It won't be done. I'm considering coming back into the office on Sunday to try and at least sort out some piles so whomever comes looking for something will have a geographic region to start with. I can't tell you how annoyed this makes me. I was beginning to make some headway at the beginning of the week, but then the meetings my boss was attending were deemed not important for her attendance, so she came back to give me more stuff to do before I left. Stuff that was essentially divvied up to my co-workers on Tuesday. Has anyone asked me how to do any of those things I'm currently taking care of? NOPE. Has anyone offered to help take something off my plate? NOPE. So is this going to get done by tomorrow? NOPE.
It's just this kind of thing that makes me crazy. I want to be able to leave one place in a reasonable semblance of order so no one can come looking for me to ask, "where's this?" or "how did you do so-and-so?" I'm going to be relearning a new job, I don't want to be saddled with having to do someone else's job as well as my own. But I fear that is what will happen. And the two new bosses will think that I'm hopeless as I left so much at loose ends. Except I was trying to tie them up. But couldn't. So now, I'm tied up in knots about these strings and the puppet pulling them is out of town for the weekend! AAARRGGHH!
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Summer to Autumn
There is a quality of the light as the summer winds down. When you either go to school or work on the school's schedule you begin to notice the sun's comings and goings. This morning was an autumn morning. It was already 80 degrees outside with the humidity sticking to the air in great globules. But in the air conditioned sanctuary of home, the light coming over the trees told me autumn is on the way. Summer seems to gush out between peeking fingers of houses, trees, clouds. But autumn sort of slides across the horizon and slowly comes up out of the ground, like waking up. Summer is boisterous, noisy, clambering and exuberant. Autumn is contemplative and almost shy. With the job change this year I will go back into the rhythm of an elementary school. The cadence of the days, the children growing before your very eyes like pumpkin vines. They will probably make me yearn for the days when my own children were in school, with the drama and excitement and the new experiences along the way. But Autumn is a time of yearning as well. A time to stop and watch the roses grown brown on the vine instead of smelling them. A time of watching and waiting for winter. I have written about Autumn before, its coming and going. But this year when the light is slower and different, I wonder, what will things be like? What will the year bring? I never really appreciate or even like summer much, it's too, well, too much. But autumn and I get along just fine. Perhaps it's because my birthday is in autumn? I think though that the rhythm of the season is what appeals to me. We slow down and look at things differently in autumn. We understand each other.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
The Job
This post is gonna be a pisser to write. The reason is two fold. One, hubby and I didn't sleep well last night and lest you think you're gonna read something juicy and lurid, forget it. We didn't sleep as we kept waking each other up. Because each of us was thinking about my job which is the same "pain in the ass" thing I've had for the last 7 years, 7 months. The boss called me in yesterday to explain that I would now be doing a different job. The new job is similar to the job I left before I had this PIA job. I liked it a lot, but the pay was low and the hours were short. And no benefits. Ya gotta have benefits if your husband doesn't have any. So I left it for a longer hour, better paying, benefit producing job. And my boss is telling me that I will be working essentially at the old job, but at two different locations.
I wish I could say I was thrilled. I'm older now. Nine years older. I don't know/think I'm going to be as good at this as I was before. I'm slower off the starting gate and my stride is more sedate (okay it's an analogy, but it works...ugh, sorry). And I wasn't warned that my current job was in any jeopardy of changing. It was a complete surprise to be told, oh by the way in two weeks you'll be doing a new job which is essentially your old job, at two places.
I don't know why I'm not ecstatic. But I'm not. I'm still feeling kind of put out. I told hubby that if people see me back at my former location, they'll think I did something wrong and got demoted. He says what do you care what people think. Yeah, I think, what do other people have to do with this? Except I will care that they think I screwed up. I will be concerned that the new bosses will be watching me to see what I could possibly have done wrong to get moved to this new set of circumstances. I feel like I'll be under scrutiny for something I didn't do.
I have to clean up my desk, my act and my attitude in two weeks. I'm working on it!
I wish I could say I was thrilled. I'm older now. Nine years older. I don't know/think I'm going to be as good at this as I was before. I'm slower off the starting gate and my stride is more sedate (okay it's an analogy, but it works...ugh, sorry). And I wasn't warned that my current job was in any jeopardy of changing. It was a complete surprise to be told, oh by the way in two weeks you'll be doing a new job which is essentially your old job, at two places.
I don't know why I'm not ecstatic. But I'm not. I'm still feeling kind of put out. I told hubby that if people see me back at my former location, they'll think I did something wrong and got demoted. He says what do you care what people think. Yeah, I think, what do other people have to do with this? Except I will care that they think I screwed up. I will be concerned that the new bosses will be watching me to see what I could possibly have done wrong to get moved to this new set of circumstances. I feel like I'll be under scrutiny for something I didn't do.
I have to clean up my desk, my act and my attitude in two weeks. I'm working on it!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Betwict and Amongst
One of the things I most often DON'T post about is my faith. I guess because I'm ambivalent about how people will perceive what I believe and of course, I don't want to offend. But I made an observation today and I feel the need to write about it.
One of the biggest tenets of Christian faith is that being in "community" is what makes being a follower, truly a follower. You can have faith as small as a mustard seed, but the community of faith is the watering and nurturing needed to get that plant going. Many people may not understand that basic premise. Christianity seems to be for the singular, believing, Bible thumping sinner who will work out his or her salvation through the individual and God. And no one else need apply. But truly Christianity is for the group. This was brought home to me in several ways.
I attend church by myself most Sundays. This is not a "pity me" statement. It is a fact brought about by the moving on of children and the steadfast husband of the "see ya when ya get home" religion. The people at the congregation I attend have developed their own theories of me, I'm sure. It doesn't matter. I am an accepted member of the congregation, having attended there for almost 30 years. They are my brothers and sisters as surely as the siblings I lived with in that small town next to the Delaware. They have watched my skits, my announcements and even a sermon and heard my questions, fears and beliefs sounded loud and clear through all these things.
But they are not in my presence the rest of the week. I do not have them with me when my waspish tongue lashes out at the laziness of a co-worker. When my temper is frayed by the uncaring community of people at my place of business when they trample on someone else's right to do things because it doesn't fit in with their ideas. And they are definitely not with me when I use my sarcasm as a cutting tool for the perceived fools of the public who don't see things my way. I think if my brothers and sisters in Christ saw me during the week they a)would claim they didn't know me and b)disown me from the family of Christ. And therein lies the problem.
Because they aren't with me everyday, I see things differently. I feel cut off and separate from Christ. I allow the world's treasures to obliterate the treasures of heaven. My eye on the prize is one of acceptance of the world and it's jewels. My husband doesn't seem to care how sarcastic I can be (unless it's unleashed on him). My children think my anecdotes about my co-workers are funny especially when I can show them in a darker light than my own.
I come to church the following Sunday filled with self-loathing and with disgust at another week gone by where the teachings of the "Ultimate Teacher" have gone unheeded by me. I grovel at his feet, promise to try and do better and find that by Monday afternoon, I'm going to hell in a hand basket once again.
And yet, I know that the lens of Christ is with me still. I know that if I were to ask for help in all this there are those who would walk beside me. They cannot be with me at home and in the workplace, but they are with me in e-mail. And only a phone call away from being by my side. Yea, though I walk through the valley of self-importance at the cost of all others, they are with me. They are like a rod and a staff, to poke, prod and sometimes drag me off the path I seem determined to follow. My siblings in the Lord are still with me, even though they are not.
This past Sunday I was wallowing in self-pity. I don't like sitting by myself in the pew. I don't like being the only believer in my home. I don't like not being able to discuss things of religious importance with anyone unless I have to go out to find them. After taking communion I was sitting in the pew, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a woman who is suffering mightily with cancer. She is courageous in her battle and even at her age, she is determined to keep going. She smiled at me and grasped my hand as she unsteadily made her way up the pew to take the bread and wine. She smiled at me. Her hands were cool and not terribly strong, but she took my hands in hers and was glad to see me. She was glad to see me. I still get choked up by this. I don't know why she would be glad to see me. I certainly wasn't glad to BE me. But she shared a piece of herself with me on her way to taste and see the Lord our God. We are one in the body, we are one in the blood. That's from a hymn or song I know. If it weren't for the people of the congregation I am part of, I'm not sure I'd be part of anything. There is certainly something more worthwhile in this fellowship than any other committee I might have been on for the PTA!
I don't deserve her smile. I don't deserve the Lord's gift of grace either, but thank the good Lord above it is given to me and all I have to do is reach out and be received amongst. Amen
One of the biggest tenets of Christian faith is that being in "community" is what makes being a follower, truly a follower. You can have faith as small as a mustard seed, but the community of faith is the watering and nurturing needed to get that plant going. Many people may not understand that basic premise. Christianity seems to be for the singular, believing, Bible thumping sinner who will work out his or her salvation through the individual and God. And no one else need apply. But truly Christianity is for the group. This was brought home to me in several ways.
I attend church by myself most Sundays. This is not a "pity me" statement. It is a fact brought about by the moving on of children and the steadfast husband of the "see ya when ya get home" religion. The people at the congregation I attend have developed their own theories of me, I'm sure. It doesn't matter. I am an accepted member of the congregation, having attended there for almost 30 years. They are my brothers and sisters as surely as the siblings I lived with in that small town next to the Delaware. They have watched my skits, my announcements and even a sermon and heard my questions, fears and beliefs sounded loud and clear through all these things.
But they are not in my presence the rest of the week. I do not have them with me when my waspish tongue lashes out at the laziness of a co-worker. When my temper is frayed by the uncaring community of people at my place of business when they trample on someone else's right to do things because it doesn't fit in with their ideas. And they are definitely not with me when I use my sarcasm as a cutting tool for the perceived fools of the public who don't see things my way. I think if my brothers and sisters in Christ saw me during the week they a)would claim they didn't know me and b)disown me from the family of Christ. And therein lies the problem.
Because they aren't with me everyday, I see things differently. I feel cut off and separate from Christ. I allow the world's treasures to obliterate the treasures of heaven. My eye on the prize is one of acceptance of the world and it's jewels. My husband doesn't seem to care how sarcastic I can be (unless it's unleashed on him). My children think my anecdotes about my co-workers are funny especially when I can show them in a darker light than my own.
I come to church the following Sunday filled with self-loathing and with disgust at another week gone by where the teachings of the "Ultimate Teacher" have gone unheeded by me. I grovel at his feet, promise to try and do better and find that by Monday afternoon, I'm going to hell in a hand basket once again.
And yet, I know that the lens of Christ is with me still. I know that if I were to ask for help in all this there are those who would walk beside me. They cannot be with me at home and in the workplace, but they are with me in e-mail. And only a phone call away from being by my side. Yea, though I walk through the valley of self-importance at the cost of all others, they are with me. They are like a rod and a staff, to poke, prod and sometimes drag me off the path I seem determined to follow. My siblings in the Lord are still with me, even though they are not.
This past Sunday I was wallowing in self-pity. I don't like sitting by myself in the pew. I don't like being the only believer in my home. I don't like not being able to discuss things of religious importance with anyone unless I have to go out to find them. After taking communion I was sitting in the pew, when I was tapped on the shoulder by a woman who is suffering mightily with cancer. She is courageous in her battle and even at her age, she is determined to keep going. She smiled at me and grasped my hand as she unsteadily made her way up the pew to take the bread and wine. She smiled at me. Her hands were cool and not terribly strong, but she took my hands in hers and was glad to see me. She was glad to see me. I still get choked up by this. I don't know why she would be glad to see me. I certainly wasn't glad to BE me. But she shared a piece of herself with me on her way to taste and see the Lord our God. We are one in the body, we are one in the blood. That's from a hymn or song I know. If it weren't for the people of the congregation I am part of, I'm not sure I'd be part of anything. There is certainly something more worthwhile in this fellowship than any other committee I might have been on for the PTA!
I don't deserve her smile. I don't deserve the Lord's gift of grace either, but thank the good Lord above it is given to me and all I have to do is reach out and be received amongst. Amen
Monday, July 27, 2009
The frustrations of not being independently wealthy
The above title leapt fully formed into mind today because I was at work today. It wasn't a strenuous day, not particularly busy, nor too many cantankerous callers either. But I was at work. I wasn't writing, or painting or sewing or gardening or even sitting around picking my scabs. I was in a place of employment for 7.5 hours. I begrudge every minute of it. The slow slog to the desk. The mind numbing waiting for the computer to boot up. The tediousness of getting up and copying something or faxing something or taking something upstairs to make sure it's supposed to go upstairs. When God told Adam it would be mandatory for the rest of his life (and subsequently all our lives) that we would live by the sweat of our brow, did it include typing, faxing, stapling, filing? Thanks a lot, Adam! Geez! You couldn't stay away from one f*cking fruit tree???
Our lives pass us by as the sun moves across the window shades during the day. We witness the green leaves rustling, turning to brown leaves shuddering, then the bare branches scraping the window panes, then the green shoots forming and the leaves again. One season following another, per Tevye. But I'm not singing and I'm not feeling charitable either.
Our lives pass us by as the sun moves across the window shades during the day. We witness the green leaves rustling, turning to brown leaves shuddering, then the bare branches scraping the window panes, then the green shoots forming and the leaves again. One season following another, per Tevye. But I'm not singing and I'm not feeling charitable either.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Visiting old friends
I went to bed last night, but wasn't tired. I was reaching around this kind of headboard/tower/sock holder thingee next to the bed, looking for something to read in my lazy way, reaching without really looking at what I was doing, when my hand grasped a paperback. It was sort of like Russian Roulette without the blood. I pulled the book out and figured whatever it was I would begin to read it, even if I didn't like it that much. I have to admit, I have a few books that I really don't like all that much, but I don't get rid of them. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I think if I get rid of it, I'll be intrigued by the title (which is why I bought it in the first place), I'll buy it again. Of course, this happens already, since I can't remember what I bought and have no list...do people make lists of the books they own? Anyway, I digress...
I pulled out the book and lo and behold it was one of the books by Robert Fulghum. The "Kindergarten" one. The one that started his whole prowess of publishing. And I remembered. I loved reading these. I mean really loved them. He made me feel like he knew me and could tell me anything. He made me feel like I could write just like him and maybe even get published like him. He made me dream and wish and laugh out loud and feel melancholy and all those things. He is not Tolstoy or D.H. Lawrence or William Faulkner. He is honest and upbeat (most of the time) and I could read all his books at once and never get tired of his musings. They're just like my musings, only he's a man, older, and he's done more stuff than me. Okay, maybe my thoughts aren't just like his, but geez he puts thoughts together in such a lovely melodic way that I get hooked every time.
I stopped reading him after he published a collection of things that other people had said and I thought, "I don't want to read this compiliation, I was to read his thoughts." It was the same disgruntlement I felt when I read Stephen King's Misery and thought he was poking his fans in a not very nice way.
But it was lovely to visit again. I read a few pages and was chuckling then chortling when my husband rolled over and said, "are you going to bed tonight?"
I turned out the light, still thinking of his observations on leftover meatloaf and how an ancient tribe yells at trees to make them fall down (and they do!). It was like coming home from a friends and thinking about the shared memories you have. It was lovely. I think I'll visit again tonight, only maybe a little earlier, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep.
I pulled out the book and lo and behold it was one of the books by Robert Fulghum. The "Kindergarten" one. The one that started his whole prowess of publishing. And I remembered. I loved reading these. I mean really loved them. He made me feel like he knew me and could tell me anything. He made me feel like I could write just like him and maybe even get published like him. He made me dream and wish and laugh out loud and feel melancholy and all those things. He is not Tolstoy or D.H. Lawrence or William Faulkner. He is honest and upbeat (most of the time) and I could read all his books at once and never get tired of his musings. They're just like my musings, only he's a man, older, and he's done more stuff than me. Okay, maybe my thoughts aren't just like his, but geez he puts thoughts together in such a lovely melodic way that I get hooked every time.
I stopped reading him after he published a collection of things that other people had said and I thought, "I don't want to read this compiliation, I was to read his thoughts." It was the same disgruntlement I felt when I read Stephen King's Misery and thought he was poking his fans in a not very nice way.
But it was lovely to visit again. I read a few pages and was chuckling then chortling when my husband rolled over and said, "are you going to bed tonight?"
I turned out the light, still thinking of his observations on leftover meatloaf and how an ancient tribe yells at trees to make them fall down (and they do!). It was like coming home from a friends and thinking about the shared memories you have. It was lovely. I think I'll visit again tonight, only maybe a little earlier, so as not to disturb those trying to sleep.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Summer vacation
For some time now, we have not taken a vacation at home. Everytime we had vacation time to use, we went somewhere. Down the shore for a week, to California to visit the youngest. But we never stayed at home. This year we stayed home. This year we decided that since the youngest was coming home for the Dad's birthday, then staying home was a good idea. It has been eye opening in a way. The husband has gotten all sorts of miscellaneous chores and projects done, that I frankly didn't know needed to be done. He bustled from sun-up to sun-down. I on the other hand, took a vacation.
Before the younger got home, I had scrubbed and polished and straightened with a verve bordering on, well, the husband's. But I have not done much of anything since the beginning of the vacation. I have re-read parts of books that are my favorite (The Once and Future King, Winter's Tale, some romances which just grab you around the heart and pull). I sat for 2 1/2 hours with the son watching West Side Story, a musical he has never seen. I'm considering painting my toenails. I've stared for long periods of time at the clouds and the small patch of milkweed I grow in the off chance some poor misguided monarch butterfly will find it (one did! and I scared it away in my exuberance). I have even sat and petted the cat for a while-- an unheard of occurance. It has been blissfully quiet and peaceful. And I find that I catch up on my dreams when this happens. I dream of learning to play the piano again, of learning to speak in sign language (perhaps for future use), of learning to shoot a gun just for the experience of doing it. I find myself wanted to sew again, hand sew or do cross stitch--I even went so far as to buy something to make for my mother. Vacations remind me that life is full of other things than the computer, the phone, filing, writing notes, answering questions about things that don't relate directly to real life, just life in the employment world. I like me better during vacation. I like what I do better. I like the way I am with the world and my God better. Is everyone like that on vacation, I wonder? The stay at home vacations where you aren't rushing to Mt. Rushmore or scrambling to get in line for the 30 second roller coaster, those things are not really a vacation. They are filling in the full life you had in another location. It feels like a vacation because you are looking at something else with the same pointed intensity as what you look at when at work. But it feels different.
This vacation feels very different. It is easier. Nicer to be home. I think I'm going to stop writing now and do my nails...maybe even my toenails and watch the clouds for a while longer. See you soon.
Before the younger got home, I had scrubbed and polished and straightened with a verve bordering on, well, the husband's. But I have not done much of anything since the beginning of the vacation. I have re-read parts of books that are my favorite (The Once and Future King, Winter's Tale, some romances which just grab you around the heart and pull). I sat for 2 1/2 hours with the son watching West Side Story, a musical he has never seen. I'm considering painting my toenails. I've stared for long periods of time at the clouds and the small patch of milkweed I grow in the off chance some poor misguided monarch butterfly will find it (one did! and I scared it away in my exuberance). I have even sat and petted the cat for a while-- an unheard of occurance. It has been blissfully quiet and peaceful. And I find that I catch up on my dreams when this happens. I dream of learning to play the piano again, of learning to speak in sign language (perhaps for future use), of learning to shoot a gun just for the experience of doing it. I find myself wanted to sew again, hand sew or do cross stitch--I even went so far as to buy something to make for my mother. Vacations remind me that life is full of other things than the computer, the phone, filing, writing notes, answering questions about things that don't relate directly to real life, just life in the employment world. I like me better during vacation. I like what I do better. I like the way I am with the world and my God better. Is everyone like that on vacation, I wonder? The stay at home vacations where you aren't rushing to Mt. Rushmore or scrambling to get in line for the 30 second roller coaster, those things are not really a vacation. They are filling in the full life you had in another location. It feels like a vacation because you are looking at something else with the same pointed intensity as what you look at when at work. But it feels different.
This vacation feels very different. It is easier. Nicer to be home. I think I'm going to stop writing now and do my nails...maybe even my toenails and watch the clouds for a while longer. See you soon.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Writing and time
I write when I get home from work. That is the best time, when I know I won't be disturbed or the phone will ring. But lately, there is so much to do at this time. Running to the store, running to the cleaners. running to get money from the ATM so I can run and do something else. I hardly have time to sit and read let alone write.
My inner editor is telling me that if it was all that important I'd just let the other go and come home and write. But if I die a flabby old lady, it's becuase I didn't go to the gym to try and not become the couch potato I'm so prone to be. And if I get cardiac arrest from eating all the shit left over in the freezer from when the kids were home, because I didn't go to the store and buy more healthful stuff, then I can't write then either.
Prioritize! Yes, that's the word. But the problem is this, writing is not the priority it could be. Oh, I love to sit and tap away. I love to read what others write on their blogs. But have to? Well, not really. I fantasize about what I will write on my short stories, but when I get home I find the trash men have once again sabotaged the trash can and the wheels are broken off again. I find that the plants outside which should be soaked to the skin by now are believe it or not at your own peril--bone dry and wilting. And since the sun made an appearance for the first time in two whole weeks, I sat outside and got some much needed Vitamin D. And read some more of Harry Potter to refresh my memory for the movie coming out.
Was this busy work? Was I ignoring the writing time. Yep. But I've stopped feeling so bad about it. I feel bad about enough things (thank you mother--I learned from the best). I don't need to feel bad about not feeding this particular child. However, I do need to be mindful. Of this particular child. When I let it go too long, I feel bad and moody and unfulfilled. So balance is the key.
My inner editor is telling me that if it was all that important I'd just let the other go and come home and write. But if I die a flabby old lady, it's becuase I didn't go to the gym to try and not become the couch potato I'm so prone to be. And if I get cardiac arrest from eating all the shit left over in the freezer from when the kids were home, because I didn't go to the store and buy more healthful stuff, then I can't write then either.
Prioritize! Yes, that's the word. But the problem is this, writing is not the priority it could be. Oh, I love to sit and tap away. I love to read what others write on their blogs. But have to? Well, not really. I fantasize about what I will write on my short stories, but when I get home I find the trash men have once again sabotaged the trash can and the wheels are broken off again. I find that the plants outside which should be soaked to the skin by now are believe it or not at your own peril--bone dry and wilting. And since the sun made an appearance for the first time in two whole weeks, I sat outside and got some much needed Vitamin D. And read some more of Harry Potter to refresh my memory for the movie coming out.
Was this busy work? Was I ignoring the writing time. Yep. But I've stopped feeling so bad about it. I feel bad about enough things (thank you mother--I learned from the best). I don't need to feel bad about not feeding this particular child. However, I do need to be mindful. Of this particular child. When I let it go too long, I feel bad and moody and unfulfilled. So balance is the key.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Acquaintances and pals
I got an e-mail from church today telling me that Fred had died. I knew Fred for a long time. He was one of the first people I met at the church I attend. He wasn't the loudest, the showiest, the most flamboyant or even stand-out-ish person you ever met. He would say things softly, almost under his breath. They were usually quite witty things and I enjoyed it when I could hear them (which later on wasn't very often). He was devoted to his church and his wife. I admired his devotion to those things. And I genuinely liked him.
When I got the e-mail, I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. He had been sick, really sick for a while. And I knew I would hear about it soon. But it hit me hard. Because I was going to send him a card. Just a note, really. Letting him know I was thinking of him, praying for him, wishing him well. But I never got around to it. I would come home from church after hearing his condition and think, "I'm gonna sit right down and send him a card." But I would forget, get busy, get distracted. And now I can't do it. I can't tell him I thought of him at different times of the day and night. Of how I hoped he was at least comfortable. Of how I missed our sly comments about the service and what went on with people behind the scenes. I missed my chance.
Of course, then I go on to berating myself that this isn't about me! His death will hardly impact me at all in the everyday sense. It isn't like he was my best friend or something and doesn't his family deserve to be considered instead of this pious, why-didn't-I-do-this-thing tirade. But grief is all about personal stuff, so maybe i'm not beyond redemption in this. Grief is all about your own personal reaction to the fact that a person who was living and breathing and walking around and somehow or other was part of your sphere, either in the peripheries or in the center is not going to be there any more. And you can wish that you let them know you cared, but really, if you didn't let them know before this, what's the point now? And sorrow only let's you borrow from it's well for a little while, before, it slaps you on the hand and says, that's enough now, move along (in it's best Obi Wan Kenobe voice).
So I wrote this down for Fred. Because I will miss him during the odd hours of the day and night. I will miss his presence in the back pew on the left.
When I got the e-mail, I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. He had been sick, really sick for a while. And I knew I would hear about it soon. But it hit me hard. Because I was going to send him a card. Just a note, really. Letting him know I was thinking of him, praying for him, wishing him well. But I never got around to it. I would come home from church after hearing his condition and think, "I'm gonna sit right down and send him a card." But I would forget, get busy, get distracted. And now I can't do it. I can't tell him I thought of him at different times of the day and night. Of how I hoped he was at least comfortable. Of how I missed our sly comments about the service and what went on with people behind the scenes. I missed my chance.
Of course, then I go on to berating myself that this isn't about me! His death will hardly impact me at all in the everyday sense. It isn't like he was my best friend or something and doesn't his family deserve to be considered instead of this pious, why-didn't-I-do-this-thing tirade. But grief is all about personal stuff, so maybe i'm not beyond redemption in this. Grief is all about your own personal reaction to the fact that a person who was living and breathing and walking around and somehow or other was part of your sphere, either in the peripheries or in the center is not going to be there any more. And you can wish that you let them know you cared, but really, if you didn't let them know before this, what's the point now? And sorrow only let's you borrow from it's well for a little while, before, it slaps you on the hand and says, that's enough now, move along (in it's best Obi Wan Kenobe voice).
So I wrote this down for Fred. Because I will miss him during the odd hours of the day and night. I will miss his presence in the back pew on the left.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friends and Lovers, Barb S
I have this quirky friend. Well, truth be told, I have a bunch of quirky friends being somewhat of that ilk myself. However, this friend is the one I'm focusing on at the moment. She writes her "holiday" letter of family news in June, sometimes July, sometimes May. Whenever I get this letter, I rip it open right away. It is ALWAYS entertaining and informative. Full of introspection and gleeful observations. Full of quotes from some famous (and not so famous) authors. Full of her. During the Christmas holidays when everyone else is penning these litanies of how wonderful their children are and what they have accomplished (going to Harvard on a full scholarship while finding a cure for cancer!), I find myself frequently less than enthused reading about them. It's not that I don't wish them well, or even that I don't appreciate the wonderfulness of their life, those letters always seem more to me like boasting. Or being a show-off. Or mushing your face in their accomplishments. I know in my heart they aren't doing that, it just feels like it.
But this friend, well her letters are full of her joy and her news. and I cherish them. I don't see her very much anymore. She doesn't live that far away. In fact, she works right across the school lot from my office. But our lives don't intersect like they once did. At least twice a week.
She is the director of a Nursery School. Not the more prestigious (snooty) one, the fun, full, wonderfully joyous one my kids attended. I loved her conversations caught in the hallways. I loved spending time with her in the classroom while she talked to the kids. I loved her presentations to the parents. And I adore her ability to listen to anything you might blurt out. She listens to kids like that too. She is funny. And so empathic she takes it to a new level. And wise.
When my children were preschool aged, we would sit and talk while they were attending school. I knew she had work to do, but she never rushed me, never made me feel like what I had to say was trivial. She'd look you right in the eye, too. None of that looking at your feet stuff or checking out the wall hangings. Uh-uh. She is intent in hearing you and listens for the nuances you didn't even know you were making. Some of the parents didn't like her presentations...thought they were too rambling or full of idealized scenarios--but they were magic to me and my soul. They made me feel like parenting wasn't as scary as it sometimes felt. She made me a better mom. She wasn't trying to, she was a signpost, a marker. She had problems with her own kids, but she never made you think you're neurosis was trivial compared to hers. It's weird when I see her now, in passing. We never seem to have time to share. But when my husband was out of work for a while, I found my way to her office at the pre-school and she listened once again as if we hadn't parted company so many years ago.
One of the ways I keep in touch with people is with e-mail. It's easy and I'm usually at the computer, so it's convenient too. I had her e-mail address, but I lost it. I saw her about a year ago and she gave it to me again, but again, I can't find it. Maybe my communication with her can't be quick or uncomplicated. Maybe we were meant to share letters like those long ago pen-pal days of my youth.
Whatever. I will always love her dearly and cherish her "Holiday" Greetings received in June, July or whenever the spirit hits her. And I hope she keeps sending them.
But this friend, well her letters are full of her joy and her news. and I cherish them. I don't see her very much anymore. She doesn't live that far away. In fact, she works right across the school lot from my office. But our lives don't intersect like they once did. At least twice a week.
She is the director of a Nursery School. Not the more prestigious (snooty) one, the fun, full, wonderfully joyous one my kids attended. I loved her conversations caught in the hallways. I loved spending time with her in the classroom while she talked to the kids. I loved her presentations to the parents. And I adore her ability to listen to anything you might blurt out. She listens to kids like that too. She is funny. And so empathic she takes it to a new level. And wise.
When my children were preschool aged, we would sit and talk while they were attending school. I knew she had work to do, but she never rushed me, never made me feel like what I had to say was trivial. She'd look you right in the eye, too. None of that looking at your feet stuff or checking out the wall hangings. Uh-uh. She is intent in hearing you and listens for the nuances you didn't even know you were making. Some of the parents didn't like her presentations...thought they were too rambling or full of idealized scenarios--but they were magic to me and my soul. They made me feel like parenting wasn't as scary as it sometimes felt. She made me a better mom. She wasn't trying to, she was a signpost, a marker. She had problems with her own kids, but she never made you think you're neurosis was trivial compared to hers. It's weird when I see her now, in passing. We never seem to have time to share. But when my husband was out of work for a while, I found my way to her office at the pre-school and she listened once again as if we hadn't parted company so many years ago.
One of the ways I keep in touch with people is with e-mail. It's easy and I'm usually at the computer, so it's convenient too. I had her e-mail address, but I lost it. I saw her about a year ago and she gave it to me again, but again, I can't find it. Maybe my communication with her can't be quick or uncomplicated. Maybe we were meant to share letters like those long ago pen-pal days of my youth.
Whatever. I will always love her dearly and cherish her "Holiday" Greetings received in June, July or whenever the spirit hits her. And I hope she keeps sending them.
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