Walking in the rain this morning, dressed like a bathtub rubber ducky in bright yellow, the beak of my hood bumping low branches, I felt virtuous for dragging out of the house so early. The freedom to walk without aid, sloshing through puddles in my plaid wellies, washed away any cobwebs in the brain. Ten minutes out and ten minutes back, just to dispel any whining that might creep in, dragging my good intentions to a halt before the socks are on.
On the return ten minutes, I passed several groups of children with mothers on their way to school. I smiled at them and remembered how it felt at their age to be slogging off through the rain to school. I was usually hungry as the oatmeal porridge my mother made was repulsively slimy and a breakfast of fresh air was more appealing. On my way home now instead of school, I knew I'd be having hot tea and something tasty, soon, and that my home would be warm and dry.
Why can't I do this more often, I wondered, as I always do when something so simple turns out to be easy and not the dreary drag I was anticipating. I added another layer of luster to my halo by calling a person I know who's recovering from surgery and has asked for support. The important thing to know about that is that I haven't had a happy history with this person so making the call was stretching myself. But after a walk, stretching is easier. My brain seems to function as if the oil is working, for a change. So the soft rain and the oiled up brain have me set on a different course for the rest of the day and I have to agree it.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
Charged Up
The batteries on my car and cell phone ran down at the same time yesterday. Made for some tense moments calling for roadside rescue from Triple A. Though it all turned out perfectly in the end, as it usually does, the way I passed the time between crisis onset and rescue was very different for me.
The very patient and honey voiced customer service lady on the phone told me I had anywhere from five to thirty minutes before I could expect the welcome thrum of the service truck, so I ducked into Safeway to pick up a cup of tea, determined to make myself as comfy as possible. With only one person in line ahead of me, I thought it would be a snap. What I didn't know then was that the counter was staffed by a very new and VERY slow moving heavy-set young woman whose attention span seemed taxed beyond her fair limits, bless her. When I say bless her, you know that I am being polite and avoiding the opposite which would begin with the sixth letter of the alphabet. When she eventually turned her body and eyes in the direction of the customers, her voice was sweetly soft and utterly inaudible. Had I been on the consulting team that hired her, I would have perhaps noted "not job ready" on her file, however... I had to repeat my order a couple of times as she wasn't familiar with the menu of drinks yet and I suppose the weird pronunciation of rooibus tea was enough to throw anyone who's service training might have been less than customers would prefer. She also might have been absent for the portion where the names of the drinks are pronounced.
However, we eventually sorted it out, then she had to call over her co-worker, a pimply youth who was a perfect Jack Spratt fit for her, to enter the order correctly and set up the cash register function. Between the two, eventually I managed to pay and moved over to the drinks receiving end of the counter. Mr. Spratt was dancing attendance elsewhere, however, a large empty milk jug in one hand and his other entering the next customer's order while Ms. Slo-Mo looked on blankly. Meanwhile, at eye level was a skirt and pair of legs on a ladder in front of a cabinet behind the counter. From the lack of uniform and tennis shoes, I guessed this person to be a manager of sorts, but she was very busy labeling items in the cabinet and painstakingly peeling off sticky tags. I let out a sigh and appealed to the good lord for patience.
Meanwhile, the line at the counter was now six people deep and included a mother whose three boys were clustered around her shopping cart, parked nearby, bumping one another, as boys do, and calling each other names. The youngest was trapped in the infant seat and kept calling for his mother who kept calling back words of reprimand and comfort (ok, she was yelling a bit)and reminders that she was "right here". The boys and I did well, considering our levels of anxiety - my neck was straining past the line through the window to the parking lot looking for the rescue truck, remember, and with no truck and no tea in sight and a shopping cart of three active boys about to topple over, the level of comfort I had hoped for had long evaporated.
I just gave up and focused instead on the fact that AFTER ALL I had the money and time to buy a cup of tea, that I wasn't stranded on the freeway at 2am, and that the three boys had a mother who felt confident enough to let them handle themselves around a shopping cart for an indefinite wait, something I could never have done. Modern motherhood is a source of amazement to me.
Of course when it finally came, the tea was too hot and I burned my tongue. This happens so often that I call it the Starbux Scald. I returned to my stalled car, and took up a lookout pose watching for the rescue truck. At that hour, however, the sun was glaring down at horizon level in the very direction I had to face, which meant heavy squinting - yes, I agree, wearing a hat would have helped. It's a bit much being scalded, blinded and stranded all at once. I was only glad that I didn't have to pee, which I usually do when anxious, like a fretful puppy.
Turning my back to the sun for a few moments, to stave off a migraine from squinting, I decided to investigate a box of ceramics my daughter had left in the back of my car. She's created a beautiful line of plates which I am selling to friends and this was her latest batch. As I was rustling through the newspaper packing and admiring my daughter's handiwork, along comes a friend I haven't seen in ages, and she tells me how much she loves her new job and how well her life is going. She asks after my health and I find that talking about the recent low levels of energy and mood are not giving me pleasure at all, so I skip over it as quickly as I can and next thing you know the rescue truck arrives.
It's the full length open bed type with a car parked on it's back and the owner riding shotgun in the rescue truck's cab. I fret for a moment wondering how the heck the busy parking lot, the truck and my jump start will work out, as if somehow I am the one who has to know all this. In fact, I didn't have to handle ANY of it.
Past experience with grimy fingered grunting types, with beer bellies and plumber's crack attractions had me understandably worried. But, as with mothering, times have changed in the rescue business. A svelt, clean and polite youth hoisted himself down from his cab toting a slim case like a laptop computer which turned out to be a portable battery pack. He relieved me of my ignition key, smooth as a pickpocket, I hardly felt a thing. Took my membership card just as deftly and run a pencil over a piece of paper he'd placed over the card to get the imprint on the form, using his thigh as a desk. Cool, I thought. Couldn't have been easier. He advised me to run the engine for the next 3o minutes and to go home and leave the car idling in front of the house instead of driving around in the commute traffic. An angel, I thought. Somebody's son caring for somebody else's mom. Wanted to send him home with a casserole. Used to be I'd give these guys a tip for some beer. Perish the memory.
So at the end of the day, here's how it all shakes out. If we are in fact all sons or daughters, when we help one another it's no different than helping one of our own, it's just somebody else's mom or child. Why is it so difficult then for us to be patient loving and kind at times? Good thing I have an appointment to see my therapist today, perhaps we'll explore some of my resistance issues, or perhaps I'll just paint some more postcards and send them to friends instead. Beats housework.
The very patient and honey voiced customer service lady on the phone told me I had anywhere from five to thirty minutes before I could expect the welcome thrum of the service truck, so I ducked into Safeway to pick up a cup of tea, determined to make myself as comfy as possible. With only one person in line ahead of me, I thought it would be a snap. What I didn't know then was that the counter was staffed by a very new and VERY slow moving heavy-set young woman whose attention span seemed taxed beyond her fair limits, bless her. When I say bless her, you know that I am being polite and avoiding the opposite which would begin with the sixth letter of the alphabet. When she eventually turned her body and eyes in the direction of the customers, her voice was sweetly soft and utterly inaudible. Had I been on the consulting team that hired her, I would have perhaps noted "not job ready" on her file, however... I had to repeat my order a couple of times as she wasn't familiar with the menu of drinks yet and I suppose the weird pronunciation of rooibus tea was enough to throw anyone who's service training might have been less than customers would prefer. She also might have been absent for the portion where the names of the drinks are pronounced.
However, we eventually sorted it out, then she had to call over her co-worker, a pimply youth who was a perfect Jack Spratt fit for her, to enter the order correctly and set up the cash register function. Between the two, eventually I managed to pay and moved over to the drinks receiving end of the counter. Mr. Spratt was dancing attendance elsewhere, however, a large empty milk jug in one hand and his other entering the next customer's order while Ms. Slo-Mo looked on blankly. Meanwhile, at eye level was a skirt and pair of legs on a ladder in front of a cabinet behind the counter. From the lack of uniform and tennis shoes, I guessed this person to be a manager of sorts, but she was very busy labeling items in the cabinet and painstakingly peeling off sticky tags. I let out a sigh and appealed to the good lord for patience.
Meanwhile, the line at the counter was now six people deep and included a mother whose three boys were clustered around her shopping cart, parked nearby, bumping one another, as boys do, and calling each other names. The youngest was trapped in the infant seat and kept calling for his mother who kept calling back words of reprimand and comfort (ok, she was yelling a bit)and reminders that she was "right here". The boys and I did well, considering our levels of anxiety - my neck was straining past the line through the window to the parking lot looking for the rescue truck, remember, and with no truck and no tea in sight and a shopping cart of three active boys about to topple over, the level of comfort I had hoped for had long evaporated.
I just gave up and focused instead on the fact that AFTER ALL I had the money and time to buy a cup of tea, that I wasn't stranded on the freeway at 2am, and that the three boys had a mother who felt confident enough to let them handle themselves around a shopping cart for an indefinite wait, something I could never have done. Modern motherhood is a source of amazement to me.
Of course when it finally came, the tea was too hot and I burned my tongue. This happens so often that I call it the Starbux Scald. I returned to my stalled car, and took up a lookout pose watching for the rescue truck. At that hour, however, the sun was glaring down at horizon level in the very direction I had to face, which meant heavy squinting - yes, I agree, wearing a hat would have helped. It's a bit much being scalded, blinded and stranded all at once. I was only glad that I didn't have to pee, which I usually do when anxious, like a fretful puppy.
Turning my back to the sun for a few moments, to stave off a migraine from squinting, I decided to investigate a box of ceramics my daughter had left in the back of my car. She's created a beautiful line of plates which I am selling to friends and this was her latest batch. As I was rustling through the newspaper packing and admiring my daughter's handiwork, along comes a friend I haven't seen in ages, and she tells me how much she loves her new job and how well her life is going. She asks after my health and I find that talking about the recent low levels of energy and mood are not giving me pleasure at all, so I skip over it as quickly as I can and next thing you know the rescue truck arrives.
It's the full length open bed type with a car parked on it's back and the owner riding shotgun in the rescue truck's cab. I fret for a moment wondering how the heck the busy parking lot, the truck and my jump start will work out, as if somehow I am the one who has to know all this. In fact, I didn't have to handle ANY of it.
Past experience with grimy fingered grunting types, with beer bellies and plumber's crack attractions had me understandably worried. But, as with mothering, times have changed in the rescue business. A svelt, clean and polite youth hoisted himself down from his cab toting a slim case like a laptop computer which turned out to be a portable battery pack. He relieved me of my ignition key, smooth as a pickpocket, I hardly felt a thing. Took my membership card just as deftly and run a pencil over a piece of paper he'd placed over the card to get the imprint on the form, using his thigh as a desk. Cool, I thought. Couldn't have been easier. He advised me to run the engine for the next 3o minutes and to go home and leave the car idling in front of the house instead of driving around in the commute traffic. An angel, I thought. Somebody's son caring for somebody else's mom. Wanted to send him home with a casserole. Used to be I'd give these guys a tip for some beer. Perish the memory.
So at the end of the day, here's how it all shakes out. If we are in fact all sons or daughters, when we help one another it's no different than helping one of our own, it's just somebody else's mom or child. Why is it so difficult then for us to be patient loving and kind at times? Good thing I have an appointment to see my therapist today, perhaps we'll explore some of my resistance issues, or perhaps I'll just paint some more postcards and send them to friends instead. Beats housework.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Home Sick
As my mother would sometimes say, "Och, I'm no weel. No weel at a'". That's how I feel, not well at all. I canna' sleep right and my eating is regulated and recorded and isn't giving me the pleasure I'd like. Poor wee me, eh?
It reminds me of the old Scottish grace," Some ha'e meat and canna' eat and some ha'e nane that want it, but we ha'e meat and we can eat and so the Lord be thank-et." I have the meat and I can eat and I know I should be grateful but I canna' get to there from here today. Aye, I know, I'm a wee bit doon, and just not feeling as I'd like to.
Can that happen from lack of sleep, sustained over a long period, say 6 years? Probably. A few nights ago I managed to have SEVEN whole hours of sleep, broken only by a single bathroom trip in the middle. And it was glorious. My eyes didn't sting and water, my demeanor was magnanimous to all - but alas has not been replicated. I reviewed my food intake for that day and saw that I'd eaten something everything 2-3 hours, thus strictly regulating my blood sugar which tends to low. My nutritionist pounced on this as a clue to my insomnia and was very excited by the good news. But last night it was up at 2.30am for 4 hours then back to a light doze for a couple of restless hours and the usual dragging out of bed this morning. Blah blah blah.
So, in need of some cheering up, I rang up my dear old auntie Eileen in England, who's my mother's sister. She still speaks in the Glasgwegian accent of her youth and has nothing but funny stories to tell. She and her husband, my uncle Geoff, ran a pub for many years after she trained as a barmaid in other pubs to learn the business. She's a natural entertainer is auntie Eileen, and listening to her is just like going to the pub without the hassle of cigarette smoke and booze, which suits me fine.
I commiserated with her about the volcanic ash from Iceland that currently has all air traffic grounded in Europe and kidded her about not being able to take her private jet to Paris for the weekend. She rifled through her mental file cabinet and quickly found a story under Iceland about the time she was working as a barmaid when she got a call from her older brother, my uncle Johnny. He and his wife and a couple of guests wanted to drop in for a visit that night on their way back from a holiday somewhere. She agreed of course, but was caught off guard with food supplies since the shops were closed for the mid week half-day early closing that used to be common in those days. They lived in a tiny village with one grocery shop and if you didn't have food, you had to manage. (note that half-day early closing did not apply to pubs). So her boss, the pub owner, told her not to worry and supplied her with frozen chips (french fries) frozen peas and frozen gammon steaks (ham) for their dinner. The only problem she foresaw was cooking frozen chips because she'd always just made her own fresh ones. I began laughing at that and she told me, wait, we aren't at the funny bit yet.
So in walk uncle Johnnie, auntie Yvonne and the two mysterious guests, whose brown skin tones and lack of English were tactfully explained by uncle John as due to their being native Eskimos from, tada, Iceland !! "Bloody hell, Carol" says auntie E, "imagine how I felt serving frozen food to Eskimos. It's a good thing I didn't serve them fish fingers (fish sticks) at least it was gammon."
After a good chuckle, she gave me an update on uncle G's Alzheimers, "getting worse" and avoided details on how she's affected. He sleeps in front of the tv during the day and she can't talk to him much. I have a feeling she welcomes my phone calls just for the chat and a toddle down memory lane. She says she thinks she should go back to the library and start reading again and recommended Emil Zola and Ken Follet to me. I now have homework in the form of a book report, which is just another welcome excuse to call her again in a few weeks.
By the end of the call my spirits were a bit brighter. Sometimes you just need a touch of home, be it a voice, a food, a smell or a few notes of music. I worry what that will mean for my kids when I'm gone. I worry too much about that I know, but I think insomnia feeds the worry bone marrow and keeps it going longer than I'd like. So later today I'll go for a wee walk somewhere, away from the laundry that has piled up this week and listen to birds, get the spring breeze going through my hair and shake out some cobwebs.
It reminds me of the old Scottish grace," Some ha'e meat and canna' eat and some ha'e nane that want it, but we ha'e meat and we can eat and so the Lord be thank-et." I have the meat and I can eat and I know I should be grateful but I canna' get to there from here today. Aye, I know, I'm a wee bit doon, and just not feeling as I'd like to.
Can that happen from lack of sleep, sustained over a long period, say 6 years? Probably. A few nights ago I managed to have SEVEN whole hours of sleep, broken only by a single bathroom trip in the middle. And it was glorious. My eyes didn't sting and water, my demeanor was magnanimous to all - but alas has not been replicated. I reviewed my food intake for that day and saw that I'd eaten something everything 2-3 hours, thus strictly regulating my blood sugar which tends to low. My nutritionist pounced on this as a clue to my insomnia and was very excited by the good news. But last night it was up at 2.30am for 4 hours then back to a light doze for a couple of restless hours and the usual dragging out of bed this morning. Blah blah blah.
So, in need of some cheering up, I rang up my dear old auntie Eileen in England, who's my mother's sister. She still speaks in the Glasgwegian accent of her youth and has nothing but funny stories to tell. She and her husband, my uncle Geoff, ran a pub for many years after she trained as a barmaid in other pubs to learn the business. She's a natural entertainer is auntie Eileen, and listening to her is just like going to the pub without the hassle of cigarette smoke and booze, which suits me fine.
I commiserated with her about the volcanic ash from Iceland that currently has all air traffic grounded in Europe and kidded her about not being able to take her private jet to Paris for the weekend. She rifled through her mental file cabinet and quickly found a story under Iceland about the time she was working as a barmaid when she got a call from her older brother, my uncle Johnny. He and his wife and a couple of guests wanted to drop in for a visit that night on their way back from a holiday somewhere. She agreed of course, but was caught off guard with food supplies since the shops were closed for the mid week half-day early closing that used to be common in those days. They lived in a tiny village with one grocery shop and if you didn't have food, you had to manage. (note that half-day early closing did not apply to pubs). So her boss, the pub owner, told her not to worry and supplied her with frozen chips (french fries) frozen peas and frozen gammon steaks (ham) for their dinner. The only problem she foresaw was cooking frozen chips because she'd always just made her own fresh ones. I began laughing at that and she told me, wait, we aren't at the funny bit yet.
So in walk uncle Johnnie, auntie Yvonne and the two mysterious guests, whose brown skin tones and lack of English were tactfully explained by uncle John as due to their being native Eskimos from, tada, Iceland !! "Bloody hell, Carol" says auntie E, "imagine how I felt serving frozen food to Eskimos. It's a good thing I didn't serve them fish fingers (fish sticks) at least it was gammon."
After a good chuckle, she gave me an update on uncle G's Alzheimers, "getting worse" and avoided details on how she's affected. He sleeps in front of the tv during the day and she can't talk to him much. I have a feeling she welcomes my phone calls just for the chat and a toddle down memory lane. She says she thinks she should go back to the library and start reading again and recommended Emil Zola and Ken Follet to me. I now have homework in the form of a book report, which is just another welcome excuse to call her again in a few weeks.
By the end of the call my spirits were a bit brighter. Sometimes you just need a touch of home, be it a voice, a food, a smell or a few notes of music. I worry what that will mean for my kids when I'm gone. I worry too much about that I know, but I think insomnia feeds the worry bone marrow and keeps it going longer than I'd like. So later today I'll go for a wee walk somewhere, away from the laundry that has piled up this week and listen to birds, get the spring breeze going through my hair and shake out some cobwebs.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Good Friday to you!
I was at a meeting a few years ago where someone was complaining in detail at length. Eyes were rolling and sighs were as subtle as the hiss of city bus brakes. The sound of chairs shifting threatened imminent walkouts. Eventually from the back of the room, an Irish voice: "Will ya get aff the fekkin' cross, we need the wood !"
Good advice on this Good Friday. No more suffering fools gladly, or injustice against those too weak to stand up for themselves, no more stifled pain. These days I am, by necessity, a peace lover. But that doesn't mean I'm a wimp or that I will always say things nicely. Sometimes this love business gets a bad rap because gentleness is mistaken for weakness and a request or real need is dismissed by others who only pay attention when the noise is loud, or colorful, or witty and funny or really angry.
I have the energy of a crumb right now, so I am settling for direct no frills communication. No more wrapping up my anger or frustration with a pretty bow to please others. I am not responsible for how you react to my anger. Your response to anger is your own business and at some point in the business of being a grown up you learn how to listen to another's pain without taking personal offense. Let's face it, I am not a threat with knives at the ready and a sharp tongue is sometimes the only way to cut through the clogged ears of those who are wrapped up in their own worlds so tightly they are not capable of serving others as true listeners.
My true friends support my moments of anger and invite me to share about the pain behind it instead of staying stuck in their own reaction and blaming me for it. I have room in my life for more true friends. One such dear friend just called to remind me that no matter what things look like, it is always a blessing and that every experience is here to enrich us in some way. We create our experience by our thoughts words and deeds and have free choice over it all. I trust this friend and her words of wisdom and will hold her loving reminder in my heart.
Today is Friday and it is good.
Good advice on this Good Friday. No more suffering fools gladly, or injustice against those too weak to stand up for themselves, no more stifled pain. These days I am, by necessity, a peace lover. But that doesn't mean I'm a wimp or that I will always say things nicely. Sometimes this love business gets a bad rap because gentleness is mistaken for weakness and a request or real need is dismissed by others who only pay attention when the noise is loud, or colorful, or witty and funny or really angry.
I have the energy of a crumb right now, so I am settling for direct no frills communication. No more wrapping up my anger or frustration with a pretty bow to please others. I am not responsible for how you react to my anger. Your response to anger is your own business and at some point in the business of being a grown up you learn how to listen to another's pain without taking personal offense. Let's face it, I am not a threat with knives at the ready and a sharp tongue is sometimes the only way to cut through the clogged ears of those who are wrapped up in their own worlds so tightly they are not capable of serving others as true listeners.
My true friends support my moments of anger and invite me to share about the pain behind it instead of staying stuck in their own reaction and blaming me for it. I have room in my life for more true friends. One such dear friend just called to remind me that no matter what things look like, it is always a blessing and that every experience is here to enrich us in some way. We create our experience by our thoughts words and deeds and have free choice over it all. I trust this friend and her words of wisdom and will hold her loving reminder in my heart.
Today is Friday and it is good.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Wild Night
I've been visited by ghosts recently, mostly those of the past and a few of the future.
They've been keeping me up at night and I'm tired.
My sweet Larry did his best with back rubs and comforting words, holding and rocking me like a child because that was indeed how I was behaving: a scared child. I feel betrayed by my body, by people close and far, past and present and yesterday the world did not seem a friendly place. Eventually I was soothed into a short sleep and today I shall trudge through chores the best I can manage on the light refreshment. It feels as if I am fighting in a bull ring, fortified with a diet of air and nothing but a paper towel between me and the charges.
Thank God for phones and friends who love me no matter what, and I am blessed that there are a few. Though I confess, when I'm feeling this fragile, words slide off me easily and it's the surprise bouquet, pretty card, shoulder rub, chicken soup that really do the job.
It's not easy for me to trust and absorb the tenderness of others so when it comes, as it did eventually yesterday, I cannot find adequate words to express my feeling. The two simple words thank you are not big enough. I wish gorgeous, voluptuous rainbows of good fortune to shower gold upon the lives and hearts of all I know, in all category of relationship, those near or far, friend and foe. I may not be able to pay back, but I promise to pay forward. Keep the love moving, right?
They've been keeping me up at night and I'm tired.
My sweet Larry did his best with back rubs and comforting words, holding and rocking me like a child because that was indeed how I was behaving: a scared child. I feel betrayed by my body, by people close and far, past and present and yesterday the world did not seem a friendly place. Eventually I was soothed into a short sleep and today I shall trudge through chores the best I can manage on the light refreshment. It feels as if I am fighting in a bull ring, fortified with a diet of air and nothing but a paper towel between me and the charges.
Thank God for phones and friends who love me no matter what, and I am blessed that there are a few. Though I confess, when I'm feeling this fragile, words slide off me easily and it's the surprise bouquet, pretty card, shoulder rub, chicken soup that really do the job.
It's not easy for me to trust and absorb the tenderness of others so when it comes, as it did eventually yesterday, I cannot find adequate words to express my feeling. The two simple words thank you are not big enough. I wish gorgeous, voluptuous rainbows of good fortune to shower gold upon the lives and hearts of all I know, in all category of relationship, those near or far, friend and foe. I may not be able to pay back, but I promise to pay forward. Keep the love moving, right?
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