Some Things Are Glowy, Some Not So Much

Carol, lovely friend, and I find this life philosophy satisfying for now. I'm dazzled by energies flying around these days, even when each day my yin is being yanged, or my yang yinned. The garden is growing beautifully, although it's so crazy hot that the lime basil has gone to seed already. That's the second year lime basil fail, but I will be back next year to try it again. Once you decide you can live with having no control over a plant, well, there you are. I can live with Dad's negativity because it's not mine, and I have no control over it. I can live with Scott's disappearance from our world, and hope he is finding some joy in his changing brain. I saw a bumper sticker the other day and I couldn't read it all, only the bottom line. Notice. Choose. Act. Looked up the phrase, and I think it's about bullying. I'm going to adapt it to my life, and quit bullying myself. I am noticing. Glowy things. Not so glowy things. And I am choosing. I am choosing not to act. Dad's life is his. So, I stay out of the rush of nonglowy stuff in his world he believes he needs to share, and choose the glowy things I share in mine. I rejoice when Scott is present. I recovered from the lime basil seeding by thoroughly enjoying the thyme. I picked some, a big deal for a new gardener. The smell! I showered, washed dishes, and still I had thyme on my hands. Makes me laugh. I gave my neighbor some. "I am delighted to share thyme with you," I told her, and we both laughed. Glowy things. Friends with beautiful laughs, and extraordinary brains, lighted souls. Glowy things are not rare. Glowy things are ours to notice. I choose glowy things. And I saved the lime basil seeds.

A Three Story Life: Grayscale

On this beautiful spring weekend, I cannot get myself out of the funk. Lowdown, hollow gut funk. Accumulative malaise. Scott is having an upbeat week. Dad maintains his usual life is a pain median line. All's well in the 'hood. But I've lost the color in my story. Depression is probably not catchy, but living in its weightiness long term is. For 7 years it has been my job to keep the mood elevated in the house. I haven't done a great job, but we kept going. I am unable to contribute right now. Every lift is harder than the last. I can act in a way that helps Dad deal with his issues of aging, and help keep Scott out of the way of Dad's mood, but I have trouble helping myself now. I'm down the blue scale to indigo, and the flight plan back up is missing. I know better than to read the news, or watch television because the news and television makes me scared and mad. Today I read about Walker in WI signing Act 219, reversing the equal pay law. Ron Christy on Hardball with Smerconish last night spouted the litany of Republican crud that the war on women the Republicans are waging across the country is a construct of the Democrats. And my gut gets hollower. The war on women perpetrated by drone Republicans doesn't impact my life as much as every tshirt put in the wash inside-out does, but it feels similar. It feels like progress is ephemeral and pointless. Tried to pay my car insurance yesterday. $12/month increase. And she warned about $30/year per driver Michigan mandated increase coming in May. I was so defeated by this I walked out. I actually said out loud I can't deal with this right now. I commented to Dad about it yesterday, and he got further depressed. My bad. Just now he said I want to help you out. He wants to give me $20 to buy a pair of sandals he just bought. It's a lovely thought, it's shoes, and I'm grateful for his offer, but it just made me sadder. I thanked him, demurred, and he said he doesn't want me to miss out on the sale. Sigh. My sadness must be terribly obvious, when Dad wants to help me cheer up. There are so many of us caregivers in the world, doing the best we're able, while we lose surety of our ability to do our best. We lose the essence of appreciation when we cannot appreciate ourselves. And we must appreciate us. To all the caregiving, weary, big-hearted women who wonder if there are good thoughts ever to be had again, I'm sending mighty good thoughts in your direction right now. Hold yourself tight, sisters. Hug yourself, pray, suck your thumb, cry, write a blog post, go to bed and pull the covers over your head, but find a way to heal for this moment. The next moment will take care of itself.

Out of Patience. Ditto Girlish Laughter.

If I see that ad with a 57/53 year old mom who looks 27/25 again today, I'm going to hit something. And the belly shrinking ads. Ugh. And where are the women in the streets, protesting the deluge of anti-women federal and state legislation? I'd write my congressman, but that just gets me back on his mailing list. And my father has given up using plates and utensils to eat. If I see one more piece of buttered toast on the arm of the couch... And I have lost my drawing skills as well as my writing chops. And who knew a baby car seat costs $189? And what is a Sprinter Go-Lightly Travel System? And who do I have to stomp on to get a shower that doesn't switch to boiling hot or freezing cold for no good reason? And why isn't there a decent sushi place in this town? Okay. Whew. I feel better. Maybe I need a walk or a nap. Maybe a walk and a nap.

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.