It seems natural, so simple Impulsively holding Hands — an honest symbol Nimble fingers folding
Intertwining; act of sharing Bearing with a person Touch that asks, how are you faring? Caring lest things worsen
Could be a sister or a mother Hovering and steady Or a new romantic other Druther — am I ready?
Feeling again perhaps tingles Mingles with fear sincere [oh dear!] back among the singles Fingers, hands — meet, cohere
2014 — When my father told my mother that my brother had died, he reached for her hand.
The week’s W3 prompt is to use the word “again” in a very specific context: Write a poem about experiencing something familiar as though it were happening for the first time again.
I thought about the act of taking or holding a hand, the simple spontaneous touch between two people who care for each other.
The dechnad mor is an Irish poetic form that employs quatrains with these guidelines:
Four-line stanzas.
Lines one and three have eight syllables and end rhyme with each other.
Lines two and four have six syllabes and end rhyme with each other.
Each end rhyme is a two-syllable end rhyme.
Each line features alliteration between at least two words. (I did not do this one)
The end of the first line rhymes with the beginning of the second line.
The end of the third line rhymes with the beginning of the fourth line.
This is a draft written February 6, 2015, pulled from the draft folder because of the RDP prompt word: tame
From across the room, I heard the man bellow, “NO!”
I had no clue what this was in reference to — he was across the room, after all, and I was attending to my mother in the midst of her ritual folding and unfolding of her mealtime protector (aka – bib) while waiting for the food to arrive.
A woman at his table shouted out, “SNOW!” It was snowing out.
She laughed at her rhyme, a dry cackle-y laugh, not because she was a witch, although it did make me think of one, but because she was very old and shriveled, and even her laugh bore witness to that.
“He said, ‘NO,’ and I said, ‘SNOW,'” she said gleefully, and it reminded me of the little “jokes” that first- or second-graders make, when the littlest thing sends them into gales of laughter.
However, the jokesters were across the room, while my mother sat at the feeder’s table, a table set aside for residents who need assistance with eating. She dines with five other ladies with dementia.
To my mother’s left is a dear lady that reminds me of a sparrow. Her voice is quiet and sing-songy. Sometimes she makes sense and sometimes she doesn’t, but I always have to listen very closely when she speaks. (Professor Trelawny)
Next to Sparrow is a woman with a chiseled angular face. (Professor McGonigle) She never speaks. She sits erect and stern, like a statue of a school matron staring across her desk at a wayward student. However, I had met her many years before, when she was an OB nurse. She had come into my room after I had given birth to somebody because she wanted to tell me about my father.
“I remember your father’s first day at the hospital,” she said. “He came in toting a little black doctor’s bag. A little black bag!” She laughed when she told me the story, and her eyes twinkled with the delight of that memory. My father still has that black bag with its stethoscope, reflex hammer, otoscope, and other doctorly treasures.
To her left sits a white-haired lady whose dementia has a Dr. Jekyll-Mr. Hyde effect on her. (Quirinius Quirrell) One minute she is sweet and the next she is spewing venom.
Next to Mrs. Hyde sits the newest diner at the feeder’s table. I’ll come back to her.
To Newby’s left is Mrs. Tiggywinkle, so designated because of her hedgehog hairdo. Teens pay a lot of money and use a lot of product to get hair like hers, sticking straight up all over her head. My father has to repeatedly request that my mother’s hair get combed. Some of us are just stuck with wayward hair that no amount of combing can tame, and I suspect that’s the case with Mrs. Tiggywinkle.
The draft ended and I never finished it. I don’t remember who the person I called Newby is, so I can’t come back to her now. I don’t even remember the point of this story.
My mother died 9 months later.
Reading drafts and posts from that time in my life are interesting to me. I’m glad that I chronicled the journey.
Advice to anyone going through a stressful time: Write down what you see and hear and feel. It’s a gift to your future self.
Man, it has been a week. I’ve had a cold (not COVID) and, for whatever reason, struggled to write much.
Kudos to those of you who crank out quality posts every single day, sometimes multiple in one day. I spew forth something occasionally, nonsense most of the time, but this week the well has been fairly dry.
Honestly, I had no idea. When have I ever felt infinite? Pretty much never.
I tried writing something about swimming, because there’s something about stretching out in the water, and reaching towards the far wall that’s very Zen, but not infinite. That poem went into the trash.
On one of the days when I was home sick, I decided to tackle some of the sorting that needs to happen in this house. I live in my parents’ house, the house I grew up in, and it is chock FULL of stuff.
I found the remnants of my mother’s wedding dress. She had given it to me so the lace could be used for my wedding dress. For whatever reason, those remnants were saved. In a box. Under a bed.
The remaining lace was quite yellowed. The heavy satin that the lace had been layered over was spotted and almost brown.
“I should throw this away,” I said out loud. I resolved to do just that.
But I couldn’t.
Kudos to those of you who can or could.
It’s just beyond me.
I closed the box.
But I went back to it multiple times, wrestling internally with what should be done.
That’s when I decided that I would ask one of my sons to help me bury it. Somehow, allowing that satin and lace to become one with the earth again seemed fitting for my mother’s dress.
She always loved a garden.
Finite? Infinite? I’m not sure.
But I did crank out a poem if you care to read it at the bottom.
My mother on her wedding day
Me on mine — Dad, me, Mom
My mother gave her wedding dress To me so I Could use the lace for my gown. I frown, I sigh
As I find the remains of that Dress so many Years later. A wreck of a thing – Fitting, any
Joy I might have had now replaced With a heartache. The box holds scraps of what once was – I pause – head-shake —
What do I do? “Throw it away,” Says one voice in My mind. “It’s just garbage now.” Somehow the bin
Is not the proper place for it. It is a wreck – Like my life – but I simply will Not kill that speck
Of what – Love? Hope? Truth? Connection? It is a dress! Nothing more and yet so much more – But for my yes
My own promise — oh, how I grieve! I will bury The scraps. My heart is still not free To be merry
Here it is, another Saturday, another Stream of Consciousness writing prompt (perfection), another day when I allow myself to write more than 23 words — in other words, another day of blather.
I’ll admit that I’m one of those people who wants things to be perfect. Seriously, are there people who don’t? Doesn’t everyone like that feeling of having done something really well — in fact, so well that it falls into the realm of perfection. I mean, I get satisfaction from a perfectly folded towel, a perfectly baked cookie, a perfect question (you know one when you hear one), a perfect answer (easily recognized as well), a perfect evening spent with a friend.
Imperfection plagues me.
I read a poem by Brian Doyle earlier this week in which he talked about rejection. “Learn to be neighborly with no,” he said, and I thought, I need to learn to be neighborly with mistakes; specifically, MY mistakes.
Seriously, who wants mistakes as neighbors? Who wants to invite them in for a cup of coffee and a chat?
Blah.
It’s so much easier to show grace to others than ourselves.
Perfectionism is almost a cancer. Strike that — it IS a cancer.
This is my own A-to-Z Challenge for the month of June — likes and dislikes. I’ve fallen behind but haven’t given up! If you want to join me, just add a comment naming something you like and something you don’t like that begin with the letter I.
My favorite book in the Old Testament is Isaiah.
It was maybe 10 years ago when I started memorizing chapters from Isaiah. Whole chapters. I started with Isaiah 43, then did chapter 6, then 50, 51, 52… all the way up to 63. A few years ago, my memory cache was full — over-full, in fact, because when I look back at those last chapters that I “memorized”, I remember very little of them.
I can, however, say this with some level of confidence. Memorizing chapters straight through — and thereby memorizing verses that didn’t initially “speak” to me — was a life-changing experience. My view on many issues did an about-face. I can’t point to a single verse that led me there — I only know I got there, and I credit Isaiah’s words with speaking deeply to my soul — Love people. Love them where they are.
Part of my memorization process was writing the chapters out over and over, and sometimes I would write them in my own words. I published a post in 2015 of a paraphrase of Isaiah 56. Looking back at it, I see how Isaiah was shaping me.
Initially, I was going to use incompetence for my “I” dislike. Let’s just say I am frustrated at work.
“Are you sure you want to write about that?” one of my daughters asked. “It might be kind of pointed.”
Ahh — she was right. I would be venting — via blog — about mistakes someone else made and that doesn’t profit anything.
The Peter Principle is that people are promoted to the level of their incompetence. The Dilbert Principle is that incompetent people are promoted to get them out of the workflow. Either way, the result is incompetent people at high levels in organizations.
One day, as I was grumbling in my heart about incompetent people in management positions, I caught a glimpse of someone’s insecurity — and I can honestly say that my grumbling heart was flooded with compassion. It washed away my resentments.
How awful it must feel to realize that you are in over your head!
How terrible to look back at a job you were really good at — and that you aren’t doing any more — with longing while you’re stuck in an office trying to do a job that requires skills you don’t have!
And here’s the real rub — everyone resents you. Everyone complains about you. You’re alone in your little office struggling, and you can’t admit that you can’t do the job because that would be failure. That would be a losing face, losing respect from other people. You used to receive accolades for a job well-done. Now it’s the opposite.
Insecurity raises its ugly head — and you begin to lash out.
I don’t like incompetence, but I think I dislike even more the insecurity that comes out of it.
Scottish Gaelic: Is toil leam Isaiah. I like Isaiah. Cha toil leam mì-thèarainteachd agus an dòigh anns a bheil e a’ toirt air daoine a dhol an sàs. I don’t like insecurity and the way it makes people act.
How about you? What’s something you like that begins with I? What’s something you don’t like?
’twas nine days before Christmas
and my throat was so sore
my muscles so achy
I couldn’t ignore
So I drove to a walk-in
and waited a bit
before being ushered to
a new place to sit
With my butt on blue vinyl
and my foot on the step
I told the provider
“I need a rapid-strep”
Looking over her glasses
she tried to assess
this hoarse bossy patient —
should she say yes?
“I’ve no time to be sick,”
I tried to explain.
“A script for penicillin
and I’ll be on my way.”
A swab of my throat
a twenty minute wait
a knock on the door
then came the update —
No strep.
Dang. It was not the news I was hoping for. Not that anyone hopes for strep throat, but it’s a known quantity and a relatively easy fix.
“I could check for flu,” she said, but I declined. I doubted it was flu. I had no fever and I wasn’t feeling that bad. Just a sore throat and achy joints.
But the sore throat got progressively worse. Over the next few days I couldn’t swallow without pain. My children watched while I grimaced to swallow the Advil that brought some level of relief but I had to take twice my normal dose and repeat it every 4 hours.
I stopped eating. Well, mostly. Yogurt slid down with minimal pain. If I cut the thing I wanted to eat into tiny bits and chewed them a gazillion times, I could swallow, but it would take a good half hour to eat a single piece of toast with peanut butter on it.
Christmas loomed on the horizon. I really didn’t have time to be sick.
“Just make it go away,” I prayed. Surely God understood how inconvenient this was. I longed to wake up in the morning and swallow painlessly. But it didn’t happen.
I made an appointment, this time to see a doctor.
“Do you have a primary care provider?” the scheduler asked.
“No, I haven’t for a few years,” I told her. The older I get, the less I like to go to the doctor.
“Would you like to see a male or female provider?” she asked.
“I really don’t care. Just put me in with the next available,” I said.
She set up an appointment for the Thursday before Christmas with a new female provider.
When I met Dr. Cerna, I immediately liked her. She was pleasant and thorough. She listened well. She respected my concerns. Then she gave my problem a name: Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease. She drew a little picture of it for me on the back of a piece of paper.
“I’m not a very good artist,” she said apologetically, but I could recognize the esophagus, the stomach, and the duodenum. Then she added little arrows showing the direction things should be going and more little arrows that showed the direction things were going.
Finally, she sent me on my way with a follow-up appointment scheduled, information about Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease which included dos and don’ts, and a prescription.
So here I am, one week later, and I can swallow again. I can eat without pain. In fact, I feel pretty darn good.
AND — I’m ready for 2018 with some new eating guidelines.
Small meals.
Small bites.
Chew well
No rushed eating
I’m going to keep a food diary, to hold me accountable, and to see which foods affect me negatively.
Over Christmas, when I failed to eat properly, my body reminded me. GERD (Gastro-Esophageal Reflux Disease) feels almost like a gift, forcing me to slow down, allowing me to gain control over an area of my life that I have often felt is beyond my control.
Sometimes gifts come in the most unexpected packages and arrive in the most unexpected ways. The quick fix isn’t always the best thing. Good things don’t always feel cozy.
My “theme” for 2017 had been “Leaning In.” I didn’t post every day, one of the goals I set for myself — but I did pursue relationships and I tried to train myself to find the beauty in things.
So finishing the year with GERD felt like a final exam. Lean in. Embrace this thing. Find the beauty in it.
This past Lent I carried a little brown rabbit in my pocket every day.
I named him Tuga, the Bosnian word for sorrow. His purpose was to remind me of the season, of the pain in this world, even when we can’t see it because it is hidden in a person’s heart — or in a pocket.
Tuga had come to me as part of a set. The other rabbit, a white one, I named Aleluja, a word we aren’t supposed to say during Lent. I hid Aleluja on Ash Wednesday, planning to bring him out again on Easter Sunday.
So Tuga was my companion for 40 days.
I carried him with me on my walks.
He was with me when I cooked, when I did laundry, when I read.
He went with me to swim meets, staying in my pocket while I officiated from the bulk head or along the deck.
Often I would reach down to pat my pocket and feel the hard corners of his ears, reminding myself that he was there — and why he was there. Or I would put my hand in my pocket and turn him over and over, like a fidget toy.
You see, in 2014, in the early hours of the morning on Ash Wednesday, my oldest brother, Stewart, died of a heart attack. I went through the Lenten season that year feeling numb. Everywhere I went, I saw people talking and laughing, but I felt like my heart had, at least temporarily, turned to stone.
Stewart
For me, the anniversary of Stewart’s death isn’t a specific date. It’s Ash Wednesday.
Tuga, in 2017, reminded me of that Lent.
In fact, I had hidden Aleluja behind a picture of Stewart. Life hidden behind death. Sorrow in the midst of life.
When I was packing to go to Bosnia some months later, trying to choose only the barest of essentials because I needed to fit two weeks worth of stuff into one backpack, at the last minute, I grabbed Tuga and Aleluja off the shelf in my bedroom where they had been since Easter Sunday.
While some people worried that it would be risky to travel there, I wasn’t afraid. I was going to a place that had been scarred by war. Tuga would remind that the people I would meet bore scars — but those scars may be hidden in their hearts.
While I was in Bosnia, I began thinking of things that I would do differently next time.
First, I would bring my computer. I intentionally did not bring my computer on this trip, so I could “unplug” a little. I had my phone which I thought would be adequate.
I learned something about myself, though. When I journal with a notebook and a pen, I tend to write little notes to myself. Reminders of the day. Conversations occasionally, but with minimal extras. When I write on my computer, I write complete sentences. Or complete thoughts. (<– see what I did there?) I edit, delete, rewrite, and write a little more — because the process of writing helps me to unfold my thoughts more completely.
In Bosnia mosques and churches – side by side — something I’m still pondering
For two weeks, I didn’t do that. Now I am left with a hopelessly tangled knot. I try to write about an experience I had there and I can tell something isn’t right about what I just wrote, but I’ve lost the moment. Sigh.
So — next time, the computer travels with me, and journalling will be worked into the schedule.
Second, I would bring more gifts. I was overwhelmed with the generosity of the Bosnian women. They gave us clothes, jewelry, hand-made lace items, plums — not because we needed them, but because they wanted to express things that only a gift can express — Thank you. I appreciate you. I want you to remember me. I was thinking of you and I wanted you to have this.
Group photo — I’m holding some clothing given to me as a gift
Quite frankly, I wasn’t prepared at all for that. I had thrown a few things in my bag to give, and gave them on our last day. (Stay tuned for a future post about that.) But I really wished I had more, much more, because I wanted to say all those things that only a gift can express. (See previous paragraph.)
Third, skip the brick brigade.
Passing bricks
Ostensibly, we were there to help build a house. I was a little skeptical of my part in that from the get-go, but figured there must be something I could do. A prerequisite for the trip was the ability to carry bricks uphill. Well, we carried them downhill. And not even that. We formed a brick brigade and passed them down the line in the many-hands-make-light-work spirit. Moving a palette of bricks took, maybe, 20 minutes. It just felt like, um, fluff — well, as fluffy as brick-moving can be. Later in the week, I saw a truck deliver bricks much closer to the work site. It made me wonder how much of the original delivery site was so that the Americans could feel useful. I didn’t want to feel useful; I wanted to be useful.
Which is why, fourth, I would have volunteered more in the kitchen. On the last day, I went into the kitchen with the Bosnian women. Perhaps I should have stuck with moving bricks because I was pretty terrible at scraping potatoes. Had I started earlier in the week, by this point, I might have gotten the hang of it. Had I known I would be doing that before we left, I would have brought some peelers. As gifts. To say, I want you to remember me — every time you peel potatoes.
Cutting cabbage
But peeling potatoes and cutting cabbage were the highlights of my week. We communicated through hand gestures (when the translator stepped out) and demonstration. We laughed at my clumsiness – ineptness needs no translation and neither does laughter. The women asked if I wanted to make the traditional pie, but, if I couldn’t peel a potato well, I was afraid what I would do to the pie.
Our hostess making pie
Next time, though, I would head straight for the kitchen. I would help with the daily bread-making and soup-making. And I would learn the Bosnian way of rolling out pie dough. (It was pretty amazing!)
Last, I would leave the photography to other people. If I had left my computer home so I could be unplugged, I should have left the camera off so I would stay in the moment. I’m not the greatest photographer. One girl on the trip was truly gifted in that area. My pictures are adequate at best.
In addition to shoveling cement, Nicole took fabulous pictures
Once, when we went out on a boat, Amina, our translator, asked me to take a picture of her. The first three or four pictures that I tried to take were so bad that she turned to someone else. I should have warned her that I was lousy photographer.
As the week went on, I took less and less photographs. I tried to memorize the things I was seeing, smelling, tasting and feeling. All the pictures in the post were taken by someone else — proof that I didn’t need to take any.
A number of people have asked if I will go back to Bosnia.
About a month ago, I received a curious piece of mail.
When I opened the envelope, I found a folded-up piece of yellow construction paper. In red marker, the sender, Juliette, a little girl from our church in Greene, had drawn a heart, an elephant, a waterfall, and some flowers covered in dirt. (Her grandmother wrote explanations for me.)
It also included a dandelion. I actually love dandelions. I loved when my own children were of the age of bringing me dandelion bouquets.
That letter made my day. It was so fun to receive something so unexpected. I knew I needed to respond, but, in the craziness of getting ready for France, I didn’t do it until the other day.
I made a card for Juliette.
The rabbits were just a little too big to fit neatly on my card, so one rabbit’s ear and tail fold around onto the back. I guess you could say its back side is on the back side.
I asked her grandmother for Juliette’s address. She texted the address back and added, “She is fascinated right now with giving everyone the pictures she makes.”
Juliette is learning at a young age that giving is its own gift.
***
Last night at the dinner table, as my father repeatedly repeated himself, I found myself wondering at the wisdom of bringing my children here to live with him.
It can be frustrating and even, sometimes, a little irritating to listen to the same comments about the blueness of the skies and the greenness of the plants.
I’ve heard Mary patiently explain how to operate the remote control to the television and sometimes resort the explanation of “magic” when asked how she found the right channel. The other night I heard Karl trying to explain the remote control. Again.
My youngest children have to live in a house with rooms still full of items from previous occupants. My parents’ house became a repository for so many things from other family members that it’s hard to find space for its current residents.
I wonder repeatedly, is this good for them? Is it good for our family to be a little fractured for the sake of the eldest member? Is it good to stretch between two homes, and in so doing, to almost have no home? Is it good to see their grandfather needy and weak and forgetful?
But I remember my mother caring for her mother and mother-in-law. With patience, sacrifice, and great love, she did for them what they could no longer do for themselves.
I suppose I’m following in her footsteps.
It’s a different kind of giving from sending a sweet greeting in the mail.
Sometimes this kind of giving seems like a terrible gift, but I need to remember that it is a gift nonetheless.
I need to lean in. Embrace each moment. These gifts are good.
Karl (dark 14) and opposing 14 running for the ball
This is probably one of my favorite pictures of Karl playing soccer because he and the other player are right at the same place in their stride.
I loved watching Karl play soccer.
Karl and Michael — high school doubles
Tennis was fun, too.
Karl and Michael made a good doubles team. In the picture, they’re sort of synchronized — weight on the left foot, backhand ready.
They did pretty well at tennis — for a couple of soccer players. Against the odds.
I heard their tennis coach give them the same advice over and over that year. “Just play your game,” he told them.
“Their game” was a fairly simple one. Return the ball.
While their opponents were trying to put spin and speed on the ball, not always very successfully, Karl and Michael simply returned the ball. Over. And over. And over.
Sometimes it aggravated their opponents. You could see them thinking, What the heck?! These yahoos don’t know squat about real tennis.
But Michael and Karl knew how to return the ball.
When one of them tried to get fancy, it inevitably failed. Coach would call them over. “Just play your game,” he reminded them.
It worked until they encountered a team whose skill was so superior that neither of them could return the ball. (See “Laughter“)
Hot Dogs and Marmalade 