Thursday, 03 July 2008
When our youngest was a baby, she looked like a teddy bear person to me, so I began giving her teddy bears, and she loved them. Her collection grew through the years, but when she moved out, she got rid of all of them. Every. Single. One. It broke my heart. I actually cried. I asked her how she could part with things she'd loved so much, and she looked at me and said, "I was never a bear person, Mom. You're the bear person."
I was thunderstruck! I only owned one bear, and that was a grubby little thing my husband had packed into my suitcase when I left for Oxford so that I would have someone to hug. The bear had served its purpose, but it ended up in a corner when I returned home to the real thing. There was no way that I was a bear person!
Last year, in a gift shop, I found an adorable, fluffy, cuddly bear with a curious expression and a music box inside that plays a lullaby. I told my husband and myself that it was perfect for our grandson, but when I told my daughter about it, she said that he already had too many stuffed animals and that I should keep it for myself.
I was so disappointed. He was the perfect bear, really. Poor unwanted little creature. So I sat with him in the rocker and cuddled him, and my husband came into the room and found me like that, laughed, and said our daughter was right. I am the bear person.
Hubby pretends to be jealous of my bear. I dress the bear for holidays. I give him good books to read and my glasses to read with, a warm cup of tea and a lamp. When I'm sick or sad, he cuddles a box of Kleenex. He keeps me company and plays the occasional joke on my husband. And, while my husband's photo is the background on my cell phone, the bear's photo is the last thing I see when I turn it off at night.
When a grandchild needs comfort, the bear sings him or her a lullaby. He serves as a prop in their plays, joins us for tea parties, and always is ready with a hug, but everyone knows this bear is not a play toy. He's a member of the family, yet this fluffy little guy is mine, all mine. He makes life bearable. 
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Tuesday, 01 July 2008
The sky flirted with darkness off and on for a few hours, then slam! the first boom flicked the lights and rumbled the floor like an old wooden roller-coaster. A quick glance through the window revealed trees swaying like blades of grass in the wind. We paid the tab and made a hasty exit. The door played us like a stubborn two-year-old, at first refusing to budge and then dramatically slamming open in a fit of hot, humid rage. An empty water bottle careened across the parking lot, serpentine fashion. She said the rain was here; I said, no, that's too thick; it's got to be a dust storm. She was right. The wall of rain raced across the parking lot, a visible moving menace; we raced for our cars and almost outran it. Almost.
I drove, at a crawl, to the bank. Cars were pulled off along the road along the way, defeated by the wrath of nature. The drive-through window seemed a wise choice. I cut the motor, rolled down the windows. All the banked heat the air-conditioner hadn't been able to tame flew out the window. Lightning flashed around me, thunder boomed, but the roof sheltered me and the machines whisked my transaction through. I laughed out loud at the big bully storm, which sent three lightning bolts my way in quick succession, as if to say I. Don't. Bluff.
As I pulled into the drive, I remembered that I'd left my umbrella in the bathroom to dry from yesterday's storm, so I pulled right up to the door. And stepped out into three inches of water. I raced up the other three steps, fumbled with the key in the lock while looking up to see if the old porch roof had withstood the storm thus far. It had. I wiped my feet on the rug and went straight for the dryer, where the towels were still warm. I fluffed myself dry, brewed a cup of tea, and curled up near the window to watch the storm slowly trickle off into a steady drip, drip, drip from the eaves.
The tree frogs began their chorus of joy, accompanied by a tone-deaf alto.
Monday, 30 June 2008
Does anyone have a better term for "well-being"? It seems so...bland, somehow. But that is where I am. A state of well-being. I wake up happy each morning, excited about a new day. I go to sleep smiling. Amid hot flashes from hell, an office piled high with boxes and boxes of forty years of family memorabilia and twelve years of student/teaching debris, and coming off a week spent with doctors and adjusting to surgery and meds, like James Brown always sang, I feeeeel good!
I'm happy to be alive, to be on the mend, on the move, to just be here and be me, this last day of June in 2008. 
Thursday, 26 June 2008
Today I see the fourth medical professional this week, this time for a painful minor surgery. The bad news is that I've let a lot of minor health issues go too far, through procrastination and laziness. The good news is that I can fix all of them. However, because I'm committed to spending this entire summer with my husband, I'm out of town a lot, so I have to crowd stuff in together, and I start feeling a bit overwhelmed by the appointments, the research (so I can make sound decisions), and the expense.
The results are worth it. From head to toe, I am slowly getting better. Similarly, the house is slowly improving. It occurred to me, after the fact, that my reading room is positioned in the center, or the heart, of my house. I sit there with my first cup of coffee, gazing at my newly trimmed massive old oak. I tend to spend an afternoon hour there, reading one of several books I've got going right now. And my husband and I planned out our vacation work project there together over the course of several evenings.
So I am working towards a happier future while trying to actively live in the present, a tough act for this old worry-wart. This very moment, I am well. In a few hours, I'll be in pain and a drug-induced fog. But then I'll be well again. And if I accept the pain, even somehow manage to embrace it and listen to what it tells me, I will learn something that may prove useful in the future.
This morning, I am here. I am alive, well, a little scared, but a lot joyful.
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Wednesday, 25 June 2008
Yesterday, I got another email about what plastic bags do to the environment and felt renewed shame. We have cloth bags, but we never remember to bring them with us to the store. Then in the middle of making dinner, we lacked a crucial ingredient, so we ran to the store, ended up with much more than the one item, and as we checked out, the eternal question of plastic or paper reminded us. I said, exasperated, I've got to find a way to remember the cloth bags. And the bag boy handed me a car window magnet reminder. And the cashier told us that they make micro paper bags that fold so small you can keep them in your wallet.
This idealism and commitment from high-school kids snapped me into action. The cloth bags are now hanging on our front door knob so that I will put them in my car the next time I go out the door. Every time I put away groceries, I will put the bags "away" on the front door knob. New habits that I hope become ingrained, thanks to some practical tips from teens. The next time someone gripes to me about our youth or says you can't change the world, I'm going to tell this story.
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Monday, 23 June 2008
Lately I find that, by the time I've caught up on my blog reading, there's no time left for a post. Once I got over my lethargy, I got moving, and I've been really busy lately. Weekends are taken up with family. My nephew left this weekend for Camp Lejune, and our kids came over yesterday for the first of what I hope will become semi-regular family dinners, just the eleven of us. Spending more time with my sisters and parents too. I guess, in a way, we're all redefining, adjusting to life's changes.
Weekdays are spent cleaning, clearing, and sorting. We've decided, against our better judgment, to hold a garage sale. Madness, I tell you, but necessitated by the recession and a house that has become cluttered somehow.
My hot flashes are already intense, coming in tidal waves that are difficult to fend off, even with air-conditioning, ceiling fans, and a little Southern Woman's hand-held paper fan in every room. Since I'm having oral surgery this week, I've opted for watching the baby indoors while the others take care of the sale. At least he won't mind my drool and perspiration because he does that too.
We're preparing for our "vacation" too, have selected the new shower for our old bathroom. Now it's just a matter of picking up the sledge hammer and getting going. What a nightmare that will be.
We've rearranged the house. Couldn't buy new furniture this year, so we've moved it all. What was the family room is now the dining room, larger and lighter, perfect for those family dinners. The old dining room is now my sitting room, cozy and lined with books and photos of children. Currently the guest room is a storage room. There is so much more to do here, but we've started moving in the direction I've wanted to move for a long while.
Have to run...the tree service arrives soon. Getting rid of dead wood and letting in the sunshine. A good metaphor for where I am.
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Wednesday, 18 June 2008
Listen up, boys and girls, I've got a lesson for you today: good health is finite. You actually can use it up, often without noticing, until the warning lights begin to flash so brightly that you awaken with a jolt at the railroad crossing of midlife, where the message is clear: repent and abuse thyself no more or thou will crawl into old age like a reverse evolution sketch.
The problem is expediency. I learned it as a 40-year-old college freshman honors student with two kids still in high school. I was determined not to slack off on any areas of my life. I was supermom and super-student on steroids. Something had to give. I remember my honors director telling me I could sleep when I was dead. Graduate school merely intensified the focus. Now I feel near death.
The pain awakened me this morning like an orchestra tuning up: first the joints, one section at a time: the knees, the ankles, the wrists. The skeletal section quickly followed, neck popping and the head throbbing like a string section. One sip of hot coffee, and the tissue section of my mouth chimed in. Now they're all warmed up, a symphony of discontent. Clearly, my body is pissed at me. I've mistreated it, and it refuses to play any soothing music. Sour notes abound.
The same thing can be said about our house. The problem with practicing meditation and awareness is that you can hear the groans of your house and the munching sounds of the insects gnawing on it. You smell the decay of leaves and ancient wood. You see the clutter, and it glares back at you.
There are no topical treatments for such abuse and neglect. There is only slow, plodding, expensive repair that must be carefully budgeted. That which is expedient is expensive, and the results cannot be undone entirely, but we can salvage what's left, both in our old "houses," and in our old home.
So expediency goes, but there is a joy that I'd nearly forgotten, a sweet awareness of each moment, a different kind of expectancy. It's not dissimilar to pregnancy, a slow growth of new life, ancient and orchestrated by the steady beat of hearts in synchronicity.
Friday, 13 June 2008
A random comment by Neutron Norman on LITM's blog really got me thinking this morning. Plastic was the pejorative term of the 60's. Yes, plastic! In the 60's, wasn't everything plastic? I remember as a child picking up an apple from a bowl and biting down on plastic. My mother had plastic plants in her planters. Grandmothers covered their "good" furniture with plastic. "The Graduate" pointed to plastic as being what was wrong with our parents' generation. They weren't "real."
But plastic was the wonder material of their generation. Plastic kept food fresher, it was easier to clean, it was lighter and more portable. It was cheap. Plastic was disposable, but it was durable and could be reused. How could that generation, coming of age during a world war when the world was so much larger and the population so much smaller, see anything bad about plastic?
Boomers, the children of this "greatest generation," rejected our parents' values. We wanted to be "real," not "plastic." We wanted to be free of our parents' constraints, connections, and connotations. We rejected their brand of sincerity, of patriotism. We wanted to be individual, yet we conformed to our generation's concepts of individualism. We "turned on, tuned in, and dropped out" to an amazing degree.
And then we began raising children, and we used the very plastics we'd condemned. By sheer volume, we are the ones who filled the landfills that successive generations will have to deal with.
It's arguable how much we've learned from our mistakes. But what we've really learned is blame. We point fingers at our parents, we point them at our political leaders, and we even point them at ourselves. We've yet to understand that blame leads to paralysis.
When a glass of milk is spilled, we can react several ways. We can conduct an investigation as to what factors led up to the incident. We can determine who the spiller or spillers may be, who might have contributed to the spill. We can locate spill victims, determine how much damage they've suffered, and compensate them. We can study ways to prevent such a spill in the future.
Eventually, however, someone must clean up the mess. The sooner the better, or the finish on the wood will erode, the residue of milk soaked in fabrics will sour. Perhaps we should simply pay more attention, clean up our messes as quickly as possible, and move on with our lives.
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Thursday, 12 June 2008
I cut back on coffee the past month, sticking to my two-cup limit, but I've been feeling the caffeine itch for a couple of days now, so I'm brewing two more cups. It smells so delicious.
I'm also gradually increasing time spent reading, in the hope that I will actually finish what I've started for a change. I'm really good at starting, horrible at completion. I've always liked beginnings more than endings, but I'm trying really hard to be more childlike and less childish.
We spent two days hauling around defective dining room sets and have returned all. I'd no idea that what most furniture stores label as "solid wood" is really solid wood products. We like our wood solid around here, so I think we're going to have to spend more money and time, and this project, like so many others, may wait another year.
Really, we were just running away from the bathroom. It needs to be gutted, but we're lacking in expertise and money, so we may just repair, but even repair involves replacing walls and possibly floor, so why not go the whole nine yards? Because of the horror stories. We'd be one of those Can This Marriage Be Saved? couples, I'm sure. He wants to go in and whack away walls and build them and do plumbing, and I'm, to be honest, horrified. We are amateurs. One tiny leak, such as the one caused by the original professional crew, and we'd be doing this whole thing again in ten or twenty years. I've been watching home improvement shows and reading the magazines and websites, and he's been jumping around like a two-year-old with a hammer. We keep going round in circles, and we're both dizzy.
So the bathroom sits, and we are never home, and when we are home, we buy furniture which we return because, frankly, it's easier than facing the elephant in the bathroom. And the tree in the yard.
So, right now, before I can chicken out again, I'm calling the tree service. And then I'm going to dig in and really clean this house because I think we're going to be moving some furniture tonight. And he'll order more tractor parts. And we'll look at our dwindling savings account. It keeps the bathroom demons at bay.
UPDATE: I'm so excited! The list...it's dwindling! I'm on a roll, making phone calls, scheduling things, organizing and cleaning. I hardly know myself. It feels so...satisfying. Feet, don't fail me now!
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
I walk in the glass door and wait my turn bleakly. She has one of those annoying summer colds, but it does not detract from her usual cheeriness as she asks the usual questions. I look at the chart, where everything is doubled because of the worsening cataract and blurrier because of the retina problems, and, with glasses on, am only able to read the top line with my left eye. I knew my vision was worse, but this confirmation heightens my tension. A round of eye drops, and I am sent back to the waiting room, waiting for my pupils to dilate enough for the exam, making my eyes more black than blue.
A cranky, fidgety woman waits there with a man who constantly reassures her in an overly solicitous tone. The assistant comes in to check pupils and tells two people they're not ready; the irritated woman calls after her that she is ready. She raises sightless eyes to the flashlight and is told she is next. Her voice raises, becomes more querulous. She asks the man why she has to be here, and his quiet answers fail to appease her. She begins to rail loudly about her cancer and the fact that no doctors can explain her vision loss. Eyes all around the room empty of irritation and fill with compassion.
My pupils grow large enough that I am moved to the exam room. He's backed up today, so I have time to practice meditation, an art I think I will always practice and never master. Every second my thoughts intrude. Last night I dreamed that I was about to eat a gummy worm when it came alive in my hands. thinking. Remember to look for the museum passes. thinking. Laundry basket piled high. thinking. Did I wait too long after the symptoms started? thinking. I'll never get the hang of this.
The doctor patiently explains to the woman in the next room that her problem probably has nothing to do with her surgery and may be related to her diabetes. He sharply reprimands someone outside my door over a chart error. Then he softy reassures someone else that her eyes are okay. He's in a good mood today. My door opens.
He explains that my symptoms are probably due to the vitreous fluid still separating, possibly some more bleeding in the back of the eye, but that the repair still holds; no new tear. Now I am aware of my breathing, simply because it returned. He wants to monitor me weekly again. I whisper the hope that I can have the cataract surgery before I return to work. He laughs, not unsympathetically, and says there is no surgery in my near future. We have to wait for resolution with the retina first.
I stumble to the receptionist to schedule my next appointment and make a light, but not-so-funny joke about the irony of eagerly anticipating cataract surgery when you're only 52. As I wait for my receipt, I hear a young girl's voice say that my blouse is very pretty, and I turn and look into eyes that radiate contagious sparkles. Out the door, the sunshine is blinding, but then, so is my smile.
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