Over and Out

Jules writes to ask where I’ve been and I’ve got no real excuse for not blogging.  Well, actually, I have about 200 reasons, of which I’ll share just a few. 

First, I’ve been watching so much television that revolves around cooking competition that I’ve decided I should rename my blog to UUmami.  Whaddya think?

Second, my health.  I’m fine.  Really and honestly I am.  I was diagnosed with a mild form of lupus in August which makes the rest of my life make total sense (the constant fatigue, mostly).  Still, I’m avoiding thinking about it in any real and tangible way.  The illness affects me mostly in my joints and the worst part of the day is the time between getting up and getting my nice, hot shower, which generally loosens things up enough to get me going. I continue to work; I continue to attend my children’s concerts and events; I basically keep going with all that I have been doing but I understand more fully that the truth of my life is this: I have two speeds, stop and go.

Third, we have become the parental taxi service we dreaded becoming.  Eldest daughter will be eligible to get her driver’s license this week (how can that be!), but even so, she’s got herself scheduled up the wazoo, so I don’t know that we will ever be able to rely on her to help transport the sisters.

Finally, my work.  This really is the main reason I don’t blog much any more. I have great work in a great institution that puts me in line to help some of the most amazing people in our faith tradition. I have been very busy, but I also feel like this blog can no longer be the vehicle for me to bellyache and moan.

You see, I think of the blog much as I used to think of my handwritten journal (something I don’t do at all anymore because, I think, of all the reason ennumerated above)–a place to be immediate and rash and sometimes blithely irresponsible. I vent, sometimes.  I do.  I haven’t yet decided what I will do with all the journals I wrote when my girls were young and I was the stay at home parent who really should have been working. I didn’t much like my life back then.  It just took all these years to see it.  I wrote frankly and honestly about how I felt IN THAT MOMENT. And then, when that moment passed, well, I usually went in and stroked my daughters’ heads, took a deep breath and loved parts of my life anew.  But I never wrote about THAT.  I only wrote about how much I HATED things (and people) and I vented all over the gosh-durn book.  (I think I just decided it is best to burn these tomes.)

Unless you write, I don’t think you get that–that sometimes first writing is a visceral release of all that you can’t really say to anyone lest they think you are suicidal, homicidal, or just freakin’ nuts. Not really therapy, just a release of the PC valve so that you can then address the people in your life with a strong bit of sturdyness.  This, of course, does not make sense, because this, of course, is first writing.  I’m sleepy and heading to bed and I hope to welcome a silence as I sleep tonight that will bring me back to myself. And I write this with the full realization that my next move toward a lasting sanity is to open up a blank book and start filling it with the unexpressed venom of my psyche–just not here.  Just like I don’t want my children to read what that was like, I don’t want to spew on about how tough my life is when, truly, it isn’t any tougher than the lives of a kabillion other people–in fact, it is much easier than 90% of those kabillion (if creature comforts are how we measure things). I just don’t want people to interpret how I feel IN THE MOMENT to be how I feel ALL THE TIME.

That’s all I’ve got.  ‘Cept to say I’m so glad Chef Baldhead is off of America’s Next Top Iron Chef, or whichever show that was.  This is uumami, over and, perhaps, out.

Relief

I woke from a dream this morning and in the dream was a family that had attended our church but now reside in Alaska. Also in my dream were my mother and my father. Rev. Dr. Bill Sinkford also played a cameo role, but that isn’t the most interesting part about this.

The dream was a stress dream–trying to get many things done at once and it appears that this one was about church start-up and religious education. And in the midst of this, there were my parents. Not UU, apparently visiting me.  My father was obviously quite ill. I kept running to one thing to check on something, then running back to make sure they were okay, then running off to attend to something else.  The one thing I remember was carrying a small, shallow shovel, trying to move a greasy, gooey mess  from one place in the sanctuary to another. Then my mother called me to attend to my father and when she called the grease fell onto the carpeted floor just in time for Rev. Sinkford to have to step over it.

Weird.

But the strangest thing happened when I woke from the dream. In those seconds of reckoning–is this real? is this dream?–I thought of my father and there was missing him followed and then swallowed by the relief of knowing he was dead and the words that came to me were “at least none of us has to live through his dying again.”

It seems weird to say it in that way, but it was relief.  I don’t have to do this again–at least not for real.

Look who shares a Birthday with the President

(Hint, the one who is smiling)

Happy 11th Birthday, youngest daughter.

Shake your groove thing

So I went to the local coffee place yesterday morning and this was playing on the radio as I waited for the coffee to brew:

I started doing my old white girl moves from back in the day–in my head at least.  And then I decided this is a most excellent way to start the day–much more reasonable on a sunny summer morning than, say, NPR. 

Have a “groove thing” day. A litttle freaky now.

Cardinal song

Yesterday, it was gray and rained a lot and I wanted to take the time to say “hallelujah” at the sight of the leaves that seemingly appeared overnight on the trees both front and back of the house.  And the glorious colors that stood up underneath the big tree in front, the many-colored tulips that push up and up and open when the sun shines but stay closed yet still beautiful on a gray morning full of water.  Yesterday I wanted to take note of all this, the grayness and the newness and the freshness of color against that gray.  But the morning got a way from me and all I could do was stand at the window and whisper “thank you.”

And, after a long day with worrisome issues, I stepped out of my van and onto the deck and was greeted by a full and lusty cardinal song. Laden down with computer bag, coffee mug and an armful of files I determine to wade through today, I stood on the deck in a still-gray day and saw the flash of red stop on a limb and give voice to my morning joy–nature’s way, I divined, of saying “you’re welcome.”

While I was away …

… from the blog, there has been a lot of activity on posts where there are elephants.  Elephants.  Not just any elephants, but “funny elephants” seems to be the search phrase that is pulling people to me site while I let it sit dormant. Elephants.  Not children, not parenting, not church, not even Survivor–in essence, not the things I think I’m talking about when I’m actually writing. Elephants.  It’s a bit of a wake up call, but I’m not sure to what.  So, as I ponder, enjoy!

Better …

Hard work and a few good times have put me back in a place that makes laughter a little easier.  Last night at dinner we started talking about the biscuits middle daughter made sort-of from scratch (not the can, but the box).  Somehow, it got around to the point where my husband and I looked at each other and said “Rubububer Biscuit.”  Husband started singing it, I started giggling, girls thought we were out of our minds.  So, after dinner, I did what all good mothers do: a YouTube search.  For your enjoyment:

I should be sleeping.  It is quite late.  I’ve just watched “Mrs Dalloway” with Vanessa Redgrave and am more sad than I ought to be. 

But that is not what I want to write tonight. What I want to write and what I will write may not work themselves out.  I am home now, back from a trip to South Carolina for spring break.  It was, as vacations go, a very good, albeit quiet one.  My sister had just booked a cruise for that week when I called to see if we could come see her. But she said it would be great if we could stay at her house then, anyway, and take care of her dogs.  My mom heard what we were doing and decided to join us.

The weather was not perfect, but it was very good.  The dogs were not perfect, but they were very good.  The children were not perfect, but they were–and I do not say this lightly–very good.  (I will say that portable DVD players and I-Pods make for wonderful travelling companions–and all five of us survived, mostly genially, the more than 30 hours round-trip in the car.)

That said, I spent today in a bit of a stupor. I’m weary in a way I can’t pin down. I’m anxious to do something, but I’m not sure what, and I’m anxious to not talk to another soul for the rest of my days.  Until next week, at least.

I’m word weary.  Again.  I want to write and yet the words don’t match up easily with the sharp dullness that pierces me these days. ”How are you, where are you in this?” my mother asked when she and I had a few minutes just the two of us.  And I didn’t want to answer because if I ascribe words to it, then that’s what I have to be.  I’d much rather just sit here in this place than pin it down.  If I were a color right now, I’d be gray–not even a dark gray that hints at being solid, but a light gray that hints at mist.  This is what I am these days; this is where I live–in a mist that has not feet, no settled spot, but hovers, closely and intentionally, knowing that if I become solid again, all will be well.

The worst of this is that I can see my daughters looking at me as if I am fragile to the point of scattering, like mildewed cloth dried to a dust that stubbornly clings to its previous shape because that is what it remembers.  This is what I was, I tell myself, so this is what I must be.  And those two older girls watch me like hawks and I feel like I’m stealing something from them — stealing an assurance of who I am, who I was, who I will be tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.  And I see them growing into me–full of emotion and words and ideas — as if they are filling the space I’ve left open.

You see?  I didn’t really want to write this. But I also had to write this. It feels so incredibly self-indulgent to feel this crappy after what was a very lovely week of being able to be away from home and of having the money to do so.  And this is what I’m running away from right now–that pull toward self-indulgence.  Because it feels weak, because it feels sick, because it feels … redundant. 

One step in front of the other.  That’s what I told Jacqueline at MoxieLife earlier today, like I know a thing or two. One step in front of the other.  And today, the step I was stepping around was this—writing my way through and around it.  Now, though, it seems like a worthless fight to have had with myself all day. But I guess that’s the thing: I just needed to struggle and avoid until I couldn’t anymore.

Dear God,

Give me sight so I may see the gray
and look deeply into it until I see
the other colors that live there, too.

Let my heart lead when that sight fails
or when my eyes refuse to focus beyond the gray

Guide me to the peace of the moment;
remind me it does not need to last in order to
do the work my heart needs

Bring me out of the mist, dear God,
and make this heavy body feel solid once again
rooted to the now and not the then or the not yet

And, God, help me to find my own words again
so that I may lead my daughters to find theirs
instead of allowing them to fill the space left empty by me

I am weary, God, but not yet broken
I am lonely, God, but not yet alone.

Aching to wake in the light

In a few weeks it will feel normal, but for now, can I just say, Daylight Savings Time sucks.  It was nice, last week, to wake up early and find it light.  This week, we are dragging — all of us.  Most especially me.

I do not like the cold; I do not like waking up in the dark.  These are conditions for throwing the clock against the wall and sleeping until we naturally wake — when it is light and the day reaches out to greet us.

Perhaps it is the 40 degree temperature swing — temps were over 60 yesterday, though it was windy and rainy, it was warm.  Today, they say there is a chance of snow.  SNOW!  We’ve had enough, dear gods of the weather.  We are weary and long for sunshine to replenish the Vitamin D we no longer have.  Sun, gods!  Send us sun and warmth.  (But keep the mosquitos)

One Year

Seems obligatory to post.  Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of my father’s death. I’m expecting to feel some great sense of relief on Monday.  Ah, no more “firsts since …” And yet … I’m sure Monday will feel no different than today.

Strange reminders rear up.  Middle daughter tells me of the middle school concert scheduled next weekend and I am reminded that last year I sat through the same concert with my phone in my hand, quite certain I would get “the” call during it.  But no, it was later, when we went out to eat lunch at a restaurant I never really liked and to which I’ve not returned. It was noisy and I made my sister repeat what she called to tell me.  Hard for both of us, and yet, it is death in the midst of living.

I know I won’t ever “get over” this. The week that I spent with him as he was dying (but not yet gone) still feels like the time in my life when I was most connected to breath, to energy, to life. I suppose there is nothing like watching someone else breathe with the expectation that each shallow breath will most likely be the last to keep you centered on that.

I’m not the same.  I’m not fundamentally changed.  I’m not sure that is possible. But I am more deeply rooted.  I suppose that sounds odd to people who feel their fathers are their anchors.  But death this close has grabbed me by the lapels and forced me to consider what matters … what truly, deeply, sustainably matters.

As I read through blogs this morning, and I couldn’t even tell you which ones or what they said, but I had this sensation of finding myself with my nose pressed to the glass of faithfulness, of the comfort one finds in truly believing and loving God.  Is this, I wondered and find myself still wondering, the hunger that is stirred by death? Can it be filled, this wanting to connect beyond my own small needs? We feed it by different means, I think: through art, song, service, prayer, even (I’m told, as this has never been my way) through physical movement.

I’m giving myself these few moments to consider this anniversary and the ground I’ve covered this last year, and then it is time to resume the other work, the laundry, the groceries, the … pedestrian stuff of living.  Ah, yes, but this, too, is living–the remembering, the longing, and the desire to identify that which I am longing for.

Dear God,

I’m feeling the need to be held, today. Held not physically, though that, too, would be nice. But held in the strength of an abiding love. Perhaps this is where my nose leaves smudges on glass. I have conjured you, dear God, to be the supplier of that love I have neither earned nor deserve, and I have conjured you as someone who neither desires or requires my love in return. And perhaps this is what I long for , dear God, the ability to love what I have conjured with the understanding that that love will sustain me–not the love I receive, but that which I spread around.  Let me pull my nose from the glass now and focus myself outwardly, once more. Amen.