Song.

Yes, I'm still here. But, I haven't been idle. I've been working on an essay, and I think it's finished, finally. I will send it in to the contest after the weekend.

I have a new friend, Song. That's what I'm calling her. Her life sings. She's not a particularly compelling person, although I would imagine, as an acquaintance, anyone would like her. When I first met her, not quite two years ago, I did. At first impression, she's spectacularly ordinary. But, something struck me. A feeling that I should get to know her better. I procrastinated. In the meantime, a year later, her husband died. Suddenly, unexpectedly, at a truly terrible, tragic time.

This is what I've come to know about the circumstances. S.H. (Song's Husband) was getting ready to retire at the end of the month, just after his 55th birthday. He had put in his time at the factory. He was going to become a personal trainer. It would fit in nicely with Song's massage therapy business. They would work together. They had sold their home, Song has some chronic health problems, under control, that made the daily living and maintenance difficult. And they could better use their time and effort for other pursuits. They bought a condo. S.H. was looking forward to his very active role on the association's Board of Directors. He was going to take care of a large portion of the grounds keeping. He missed his yard and garden. He and Song were married, I believe, twelve years.

S.H. has three children from his first marriage, all in their mid-twenties. On the day of his death, S.H. received a phone call at 2:30 in the morning, from his ex-wife. His son had been arrested, on a felony charge. Song and S.H. stayed up talking. Song was concerned, repeatedly asking her husband if he was alright. He felt some pressure in his chest, but after the emotional blow he had just received, who wouldn't? He was tired. He needed to sleep. Song was wide awake. Anger will do that to you. She left S.H. sleeping and prowled the condo, finally dosing on the sofa. She woke around 9am. S.H. wasn't up. This wasn't unusual when he was working second shift. At 10am, Song found him dead in their bed.

All that day, in addition to dealing with the police, coroner, funeral home, family, and friends, Song fielded phone calls from the Ex. dealing with the dilemma of her incarcerated son, exacerbated by the news of his father's death. He was now on suicide watch. Song had to make the phone calls notifying S.H.'s two daughters, both with young children of their own.

Within the first few days following S.H.'s death, Song was informed that financial considerations would be substantially less than anticipated. S.H.'s insurance coverage was cancelled and negated by a "pre-existing" situation that was reported "untruthfully". S.H. had previously gone to the emergency room for chest pain, but was never admitted because test results showed no problems. When filling out the insurance application, he had checked the box marked "none" , under the heading, "Previous Hospitalizations". His retirement pension, only a few weeks away, was replaced by a small lump sum "courtesy".

And then the really hard part begins.....

Song had to continue living.

In the year since S.H.'s death, Song has given up her massage therapy business. Her heart isn't in it. She has sold the condo and moved into a mobile home, she needs the security and stability that a small bank account provides. She has worked at low-stress, part-time jobs to fill in financial gaps and too much time. She's recently started a new, full time position with responsibility reflecting her capabilities and experience, and potential for the future.

This is to be expected. But what makes Song's life sing? It's not the crushing grief that morphed into anger. It's that, through it, she's reached out for help. She hasn't nursed her pain, wallowing in sorrow and self pity, demanding a savior. She's dressed her wounds, seeking out company, council and therapy. The new "flesh" of future contentment, joy and peace is evident around the gaping holes of despair, confusion and defeat. She was flayed by unfairness. Losing not only her husband's life, but their life together; their plans, her security, the future. But, in accepting the inevitability of uncertainty and by giving up the illusion of control, she's covering the raw places with tough, lasting resolve. She's getting stronger.

We can never calculate the cost of her effort. She will never be free of the scars. But, someday she'll embrace them, knowing, believing how much more capable, effective and affirming they have made her. She will see the beauty in her survival. And her song will become a symphony.

So Sorry, Not Gifted...

There's been something that I've been thinking about for a few days. And I think I've come to a conclusion.

I'm not gifted.

I'm not surprised by this....just a little disappointed.

I'm not an artist. I am "crafty". This isn't impressive. I can sew, bake, and cook. But, this is only because I can follow instructions and I don't mind prep work. I actually like prep work. I enjoy laying out the patterns, cutting precisely, assembly the ingredients and measuring correctly, I like to chop up vegetables, stir till a sauce thickens, and fill individual serving dishes with exactly the same amount of vanilla pudding. I prefer projects that are precise and not free form. I enjoy cross-stitch more than crewel work. I agonize over the uniformity of my knitting or crochet stitches. I like my cookies the same size and my cupcakes to look virtually identically iced. This also makes me obsessive. Well, perhaps "obsessive" is too strong a term. Picky, ...fussy,... anal.

I do not "scrap book". Too free-form. I do not cut my pictures into fun shapes or add bows, ribbons, or bits of cloth. I assemble photos in an organized way that chronicles a specific time period or particular subject. I save little mementos that I intersperse with the pictures, like ticket stubs or receipts or menus. Flat, appropriate memorabilia, so as not to disrupt the way the album closes or lays flat on the desk or stands precisely on a shelf.

I have not tried quilting. When I do, I bet I will pick a pattern with precision cut geometric shapes fitting together in repetitive designs and possibly machine stitched. I don't like the idea of using a sewing machine for quilting, and my hand hemming is arguably the best and most exact that you'll find anywhere, so I can only hope I'll be just fine.

I am adventurous with color, but only on things that can be easily changed. I prefer neutral walls.

I am not an athlete. My most important attribute when it comes to physical activity is that I am stubborn. Really, really stubborn. Pigheaded. If I set out to do something, or, God forbid, someone tells me I can't or shouldn't, I will complete the task or die trying. I have no natural ability. I don't run, I waddle. I have short legs. But, if I set out to run three miles, I will complete those three miles if I am sick, injured, and irregardless of the weather. I had lightening strike not 25 feet from me on a run a few years ago. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. You could smell the ozone. I waited it out on someone's porch and finished my course. I attend a kickboxing class once a week. I love it. I'm older than anyone by 10 years. I attended covered in poison ivy rash. No one would partner me. But I wouldn't leave. It's what I do on Wednesday nights. I have run races with blisters bleeding into my sneakers. But, I'm not competitive. I only enter races where they won't shoot you if you're last, because I have come in last. And I've entered races since then.

Which leads me to the next little item. I am not a genius. Probably not even close. I don't know what my I.Q. is, but I'd bet I won't be pleasantly surprised. I read voraciously. But, mostly novels. I try poetry, but it hasn't been pretty. I will read the occasional non-fiction selection (I enjoyed "John Adams" by David McCullough, but who didn't?). But mostly, I just read for enjoyment. I read the paper everyday - the comics, the advice columns, and the letters to the editor. I know how to, and I can, balance a check-book. I will not quit till it agrees with the statement. I then close the check-book and couldn't tell you what the balance is to save my life! I multiply on my fingers, for God's sake! Sudoku makes me physically ill! I do enjoy watching Indy films. That's either a big plus, or proves my point.

And I'm afraid I may not be a novelist. What if I'm just a "journalist"? And not a good one?

And there's something else I need to confess. Daughter is pregnant with her third child. This is wonderful news. And even though this baby is no larger that a shirt button, I love it with every fiber of my being. I can't wait till March, when she's due. But, I wonder if I'm up to it. I have limits and that scares me. I HAVE LIMITS! I know this from experience. It's a lie from the pit of hell that we can do and have time for everything we want to do. Sometimes, I'm so tired. I don't want to be too tired for those babies. I don't want to be too tired for my daughter. And I want to have something left over for Tall One. You wouldn't believe how patient and supportive that man has been for the last thirty years. And there are so many others that I treasure, that I don't want to let down. Not for them. They love me, they would understand. But for me, ME. Life flys by. And, I'm not gifted....and I think I might need to be....

The Fun House Mirror

My dreams were indicative of my waking emotional state. Settling for instant gratification...Contemplating shoplifting birthday party favors for my grown nephews...Sandra Bullock at the grocery check-out, opening and explaining all my purchases...Spending too much money. In the light of day, there may be rational explanations for my restless dreaming. Too much to drink, too much to eat and watching the end of "Marie Antoinette", visually beautiful, but disturbing and depressing, just before going to sleep. On Sandra Bullock, I'm completely stunned.

I woke up in a foul mood, full of self-loathing and self-doubt. This doesn't happen often, but it's terribly troubling today. I wonder who I've offended, who I've put off. Am I really so self absorbed and selfish that I can't see beyond my own wants and desires? I don't believe that I see myself correctly. Do any of us? We see through the filter of others, our own perceptions and prejudices, and the veil of fantasy with which we surround ourselves. It's how most of us survive.

Daughter called to tell me a "gym story". In her late teens, Daughter was a competitive body builder. She's still very physically active and works at the gym a few hours a week. One of the ladies that she's known from her body building days, a former competitor herself, was in for her workout. Daughter and Former Competitor were talking about kids and summer activities and Former Competitor told Daughter that her children go to the pool everyday with their father. Former Competitor doesn't go. She won't wear a bathing suit. This is a fit, firm, low body fat, workout fanatic, with an impressive boob job. She would look amazing in a bathing suit. And, yet, she chooses not to spend pool time with her husband and children. I don't think that she's making this decision for positive life affirming reasons, like not making the rest of us look awful, or not enticing men-not-her-husband to lust. I have a strong feeling that how she sees herself, physically, is extremely distorted in an unflattering way. This is an all too frequent phenomenon. I don't believe it's any different with our character or personality. We're looking in a fun house mirror.

So what's true for me? How do I gauge my own obnoxiousness? Am I compassionate or perceptive, intelligent, wise? Or am I just a major fuck up, gaily moving through the world causing offense and damaged feelings? Could I be doing ill, thinking that I'm ok? I know that I'm not perfect. There are things that I'm aware of and working on changing right now. I don't set out to purposely hurt people. I try hard not to judge. I smile. I'm competent in the day-to-day minutia of life. I can use a computer, cell phone, and program a DVR. I love.

Some days that's not enough. But, so far, I'm not afraid enough of negative consequences not to act. As insecure as this day began, I've talked to Daughter and Dude, walked with Tall One, briefly related to business clients in a professional and friendly manner. I've tried to brighten Nana's day during our phone conversations. I cleaned, did laundry, and took out the trash. I showered, brushed my teeth, made the bed, watched TV, and ate ice cream. This is not a chronological list. Nor is it complete. But in all I've done or tried to be, I've to the best of my ability behaved honorably. I haven't lied for personal gain. I haven't cheated. I haven't yelled obscenities at small children or kicked puppies. I don't hate.

Perhaps the fun house mirror is the best we can hope. Some days we can laugh hysterically at the clownish distortions, other days we howl at the grotesque image leering back at us. Most days, thank God, I don't even have time to look.

No Regrets.

Well, this morning turned out to be a little slice of my own personal hell. I slept poorly. I had recurring dreams where I would try to call out warnings, but couldn't make any sounds. When I'd wake up, I'd feel nauseous. I really thought of food poisoning, but I'm better this morning. No more nausea anyway.

I followed my normal routine, until I got the phone call from MomMom. She's my mother-in-law. She deserves a page in "Excellent Adventures". She's one of the "good guys". She called to tell me about "The-First-Great-Goodbye-Pig-Roast" hosted by O.S. and D.I.L.ly. They have sold their home, stored their furniture, and are moving to New Hampshire. I am glad and relieved. I did not attend. The reasons will most likely come clear over time in future posts. MomMom knows that there are "issues", but this morning I told her that the situation goes far beyond a familial misunderstanding. There is no common ground for reconciliation. There probably never will be. I love my son and his wife. I just won't live with them anymore (I never literally lived with them, I'm talking in the metaphorical sense). I'm done being manipulated, I'm over any sense of guilt or responsibility, I won't stand the abuse. And I do mean abuse in the literal sense. The blame and accusations, the misrepresentation of fact and the misinterpretation of motives is over. I no longer want to talk, I can't listen. I wish them well in their life, not in mine. I'm having to say this to a grandmother, a mother, a woman with feelings and hurts I can't begin to understand. But, I'm understanding my own hurts pretty well, so my imagination of her pain isn't pretty. We ended the conversation as we always do, with cordial love.

Take a deep breath and answer Nana's call. My mother, a grandmother as well, embroiled in this situation, not of my choosing. She's suffering, too. She's had a front row seat to this attempted annihilation. She got involved over a year ago, when D.I.L.ly choose her as a trusted confidant. Nana got a phone call yesterday from O.S. He can't bear to leave for the New Hampshire wilderness without seeing her and saying goodbye (Nana did not attend the Pig Roast Party either, and the lack of her attendance is laid squarely at my feet). So, he will stop by sometime after work. Nana told him to come alone. We'll see. This doesn't feel over.

So, now I've done my best to comfort the two grandmothers. Daughter and Surfer Dude are justifiably angry, annoyed, and disillusioned. They are carrying a huge load of offense for me. I don't want them to do anything regrettable, because they have nothing to be sorry for so far. And we're coming down to the wire. D.I.L.ly really does deserve any retribution she may incur from all the pain and hurt and destruction she has wreaked, but my heart's desire is that she be left to go quietly into the night.

I can't save my son. I can't save D.I.L.ly. They will just pull me under the water with their flailing...and I will drown.

No regrets. I have 25 years of memories that will never be taken from me. Some truly good and fine moments with O.S. and D.I.L.ly, separately and as a couple, that I will always treasure. I still defend them, but not their actions. I still like to hear about their life, just not directly. I've sacrificed nothing that I wasn't willing to surrender. They've taken nothing but what I've chosen to give. This is my choice, given the options.

Healing?

I want to get this down quickly. I own this, but I can't live here. I'll come back later and clean up. This is where I am right now....

Have you ever been sick, and not realized how sick, until you started to feel better? When you're in extreme pain, you know what steps to take. Ease the pain, take the ibuprofen, lots of it, all the time. You start to heal, and you don't expect to be limited. Let's run with the example of physical pain. You've hurt you're back. You can barely breath for the pain. So you go to the doctor, get the muscle relaxants, and walk around in a blissful stupor, not feeling the injury. You're in shock. Time passes and now you're in physical therapy. You have goals, you're actively working at your recuperation, you see progress, you feel the pain. Once done with therapy, everything looks normal, but there's still that dull ache. You don't acknowledge it all the time, but there's a stiffness. You aren't what you used to be. You move differently, gingerly, to protect the sensitive part. You're conscious of the injury, but no one else would notice it.

I've had a series of emotional train wrecks and beatings. My heart is broken, shredded, crushed. My soul's been slashed. My mind's been bruised, a freaking hematoma. When the injuries occurred, I took the steps I needed to survive. I clung to the people who loved me and trusted their wisdom, I focused on my grandsons (pain killers). Then I talked, and talked, and talked with my Daughter, we read, and read, and read for understanding (physical therapy). Now things are quiet, and I'm realizing that this has affected me in subtle ways.

Tall One is a loving man. His greatest characteristic is that he loves me. He wants the best for me, always. He's my friend and confidant. He's been hurt, too, deeply. He's walked through all this with me.Yet, lately he is like cloth on a brush burn. I want him with me, to comfort and soothe, like I'd want the dressing changed on a cut so that it will heal cleanly and with minimal scarring, but because I'm afraid it will hurt, and because I don't have the strength for the pain, I keep slapping away the hands that would help. I'm irritated by him. It's the annoying itch as the wounds start to heal. Scratch it and you open them again. There is nothing he can do to alleviate this. He isn't doing anything wrong or differently.

I'm exhausted with talking. With Daughter, I think I'm making sympathetic sounds, and possibly sense, but there's a screaming echo inside my head, and I'm numb. Even small talk with friends, everyday issues with family, pleasantries, are physically difficult. It's the pain of recovery. I can't stop or my emotions will atrophy. I'm not strong enough to facilitate complete recovery by myself. I need to communicate, to endure , to grow stronger again. I can't stand the noise, yet silence is worse.

I'm fulfilling my responsibilities. I'm not shutting anyone out. I'm not shutting down. But, everything is muffled and muted. I'm swathed in cotton. I'm still weak from the beatings. When I'm alone, I'm restless and anxious, I can't focus. But, being with others is brutal. One relationship, an important relationship, one I will always have even though trying, is especially irksome right now. And I need to be sympathetic, really, there are issues involved! The joy and delight in my grandsons is stifled. The physical and emotional energy isn't there. There are questions and concerns, little daily caring gestures, that I want to extend to family and friends, and I just don't think of them, or if I do, procrastinate. My motivation is unrecognized, or doubted.

This is not "unto death". Even with a cold, I take physical limitation personally. I don't imagine it's different with emotional virus's.

Ok, I've left to deal with the mundane, I've come back and finished feeling what I'm dealing with. I don't live here, but I do own this.

Woebegone Conclusions, Contrite Apologies

Garrison Keillor is morose!

A few months ago, our local newspapers, one published in the morning (liberal), one published in the evening (conservative) merged their Saturday publications. I'm afraid this is a precursor to a total merger, and this will be disappointing. I'm not happy with the new format. They've done away with the advice columns and kept the teen perspective section. They run all the comics from both papers. (I'm assuming the backlash from readers will be daunting if and when they downsize and combine. I'm also fairly sure they would get rid of my favorites. I will not, however, write to complain. I'm currently enduring the Sunday Comics' new format stoically, in the true spirit of martyrdom.) Garrison Keillor's column has been included on the editorial page along with Andy Rooney. Andy Rooney's getting old, he rambles more and more incoherently. I read his perspective just to keep track of his deterioration. I also read Garrison Keillor. It's only been a few weeks, but I was surprised at the disparity between my preconceived perception of his writing and NPR program (which I've never heard) and the reality of his views.

His program is called "A Prairie Home Companion", as I'm sure everyone who has peeked from beneath their rock or momentarily focused on something other than their own self absorbed preoccupations would recognize. So, I was thinking Sheriff Andy from Mayberry? The guy's from Minnesota. So, I envisioned references to lazy days of ice fishing, or walking barefoot while chewing on wheat stalks, sweet and sappy? But, week to week as I actually read his articles, I'm picking up on disillusionment, disappointment, and a bout with depression. And, it's not subtle. There's not too much "aah, shucks" going on.

Last week, Mother's Day, he talked about the loss of possibilities, individuality, and intelligence inherent when a women produces and then raises offspring. The example he gave of a mother's love and tenacity had to do with fighting to the death to get said child acquitted of murder charges. Definitely worthy of a sentimental Hallmark tribute. A few weeks ago, he expressed the opinion, that I thought was unique to me, that the anniversaries of tragic events just serve as narcissistic opportunities to wallow in self pity. This week, he closed with a story about a classic (and obviously classy) soprano that sang on in spite of a couple of dozen drunken hecklers. His last line struck such a chord* (*clever use of a musical metaphor) that I decided to use it in my blog design.

I'm astounded to identify so closely with views expressed by an NPR program host. I'm amazed at the similarities in our writing styles. I'm humbled, and not a little apologetic. This is an example of how easily and grossly I can misjudge someone on very little information. Nobody's ever asked me what I thought of Garrison Keillor. But if they had, I would have offered a completely irrelevant, wrong and false appraisal based on....nothing substantial. I formed an impression on the titles of a radio program, book (Lake Wobegon Days), political party (Democrat) and NPR affiliation. I still don't know much about Garrison Keillor, but now I know I don't know much.

I remember forming a judgemental opinion based on nothing at ten years old. A neighborhood friend asked me if I was going to watch the newest t.v. show sensation, "The Monkees". "No, that's just stupid." Not very sophisticated, but certainly ignorant. I knew nothing about the program. When I did, I became a life long groupie of Mickey, Peter, Mike and especially Davey Jones. More recently, there was the girl who became my maid-of-honor, HBO, "Desperate Housewives", pop-corn flavored ice-cream, and lesbians. I really, really should have learned my lesson back in our "super-Fundy" days.

When Tall One and I were first married, and for 15 or so years after, we were members of progressively less fundamentalist Christian churches. The first was the worst. We were so narrow and bigoted that we actually believed in "second and third degree separation". This is the doctrine whereby you do not associate with someone that associates with someone that doesn't agree with your convictions. Say that three times, fast. Leaving there, we went to a more "liberal" church. You couldn't eat in a restaurant with a salad "bar", seriously. We were run off from the next church for encouraging the youth in idol worship. It's a long story. The next, because of a huge disagreement over building vs. people. And the last, increasing profound disillusionment.

I want to stop making snap judgements and drawing uninformed conclusions. It's embarrassing. It's an awful character trait. I find it unbecoming in others. But, I'm doing it unconsciously. I'm just not thinking....oh...yeah...right. Sorry.

http://dir.salon.com/topics/garrison_keillor/

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh..............

"Sometimes when things hurt too badly for words, words are the only solace. Comfort may be found in simple things, but only momentarily. My cup of coffee, familiar if not particularly flavorful. A favorite candle. The flame dances, higher or lower, forcefully or gently depending on the height of the wick. It was given to me by a beloved friend. This room with all it’s treasures, gathered from the places my husband and I have traveled, and housing this computer with it’s immediate, impersonal lifeline to the world.
We have not suffered a death. There is no disease, mutilation, or deformity. No physical or financial calamity. There is just loss, deep, incomprehensible, irrational. And fear, how far can this go? How much can I bear?
There is no logical explanation for what we have been going through. I’ve been over each piece till it’s worn smooth and might be almost endured, and then the next shard, completely unanticipated, is driven into that most sensitive place, my heart, my home, my life, and all those I love most dearly.
I don’t even cry, at least not in that abandoned, cathartic, tears running down your cheeks, feel better for it way. Instead, my heart and mind constrict, my eyes well up, but not to overflowing. It’s hard to breath. Inwardly, I keen, silently and tearless. I fathom the ritual of the wake.
I want to understand. How did it start? Why did it start? What causes a person you love, care about deeply, to pull, rip, shred apart your life and damage themselves, possibly irreparably, in the process?
I want to help, to make it all go away, or at least better."

I wrote this August 7, 2007 at 4:12am. Things have gotten worse, much worse, in all the worst ways, at all the worst times.