A Three Story Life: Smudge, Then Call a Friend

A little while ago, there wasn't enough smudge in the world to clear the negative energies. I could barely see the computer screen and was still cranky. My sister keeps telling me that patricide is illegal in Michigan. So I called wonderful friend Nancy to help me. I just hollered at Dad that he's mean. He doesn't give a shit that I think he's mean. My father has his own demons to wrestle, and some of these I recognize. My mother told him what to do for 50 years and he's done being told what to do. By anybody. I understand that. I do not understand grabbing food out of a serving dish with your bare hand. When I asked him not to do that, he went off. I got up from the table and put my dish in the sink. He said, "what, you in a hurry?" I said, no, the grabbing and the yelling made me sick. He said, "then run away and puke." That's when I said "you're mean." And I called Nancy. Nancy gets doses of mean, too. We both are smart, capable women and we witness the frustration, anger, sadness of our parents losing control of their bodies, brains and their life. And we know in the back of our heads that none of this lashing-out behavior is personal. But it hurts in the front of our brains. And it feels like a knife to the heart. I told Nancy I want to slap my father when he acts like this. We agreed that's probably not the best course of action. And we decided that when we're told we can't cook, or told to go run somewhere and puke then, we'll call each other. And we'll know that even if we don't reach the other right then, help is on the way soon with love and deep understanding. Meanwhile, I'm running out of smudge. Cough. Cough.