Statistics, Studies, Realities

This is really absurd. I have written three opening lines for this post, and they all mentioned the weather, even though after the first time, I said, no, I am not talking about the weather. But each time I tried, a weather reference came through my fingers.

But I shall open with the fact that we love Skip’s bagels and omelette. We went there for years before we moved, and continue to return there each time we come back. We bought a dozen to take home and freeze.

Where we live, bagels aren’t the thing. There is one restaurant that has them, but they are not Skip’s bagels.

Do you like bagels? Just curious.

I was thinking about God and hearts and love and friends and disappointing people and accepting some decisions that must be made. Oh, I also thought about a conversation I had with a friend at my grandson’s basketball game.

We chatted back and forth with one eye on each other and the other eye on the game. It was a life discussion. It encompassed many topics, including health and eating and expectations and even death.

Boing. Boing.

She brought up a good point. She is in her early 60s and I was turning 67 the next day. She mentioned that we had both had good runs, full-life runs. And at this point, she really didn’t want to deny herself the pleasure of things she liked. In moderation.

Both of us have gone through breast cancer. She had more advanced case and had to go through so much more than I did. More surgeries and treatments and after-treatments. She is a trooper.

So, she knows of whence she speaks.

So, I have been thinking about things such as, is there ever a point that we throw caution to the wind or say, ok, no matter what others say, this is what I want to do, consequences accepted? Or, simply put, as Ol Blues Eyes crooned, are we going to go out singing, “I did it my way?”

There is living and there is LIVING.

Is length of time the most important part, or is the choice to live the life we desire, more important? Do we live by studies and statistics or by desire, thoughts, and, without other people’s or companies’ guidelines.

Do we live in the statistical grid or go about the life we see in our own mind’s eye?

This might be why I took my sweatshirt off on top of Jellico Mountain.

There is so much data that is massaged and manipulated to try to make us adjust our behavior. Within my life, I can’t tell you how many times studies have been done, exalted and then a few years later, proven to be wrong.

Boing. Boing.

We should do this. We should do that. Studies say that we should do this, statistics say you should do that.

The really came in my face, yesterday, when I watched one of my medical documentaries about Hopkins Medical Center in Baltimore.

A doctor who specialized in cancers in the female organs, who was wonderful, well respected, tops in his field and wonderful with patients, died a few hears after this episode had been filmed. He was 47, out running, and dropped dead from cardiac arrest.

I was gutted when I read that.

I can let things like that stick in my craw. It is more valuable a learning aspect than a study or statistic made up by people, groups or a company or organization, that most likely, has some sort of agenda.

So, my mind goes here and there and I finding myself in mental discussions with myself … and I ask, what is the way? What is the path of life, at this time of my life?

Does the Big Plan of life fade and be replaced by the one day at a time, mantra? One moment at a time? One life in a day?

If I die today, is this that place I want to be? What more do I want from this life that has already been, in time wise, toward the end of its run?

The statistics say that there are years left, but what if today is my last run? Have I done what I wanted and needed to do, said what I have needed and wanted to say?

I have a half smile on my face as I write this. I am smiling at the life I have lived, the questioning look is about the life that has yet to unfold.

Susan

A Light Spirit

This morning, I wasn’t going to write. Wean yourself off of it, myself said to itself. Just live and stop the dribble.
 
And then, I read a comment that was written by one of our readers, and it said that I was such an inspiration, which was very nice, sweet, and kind.
 
Sitting here in my Barney robe, which is as purple as purple can be, hair pulled back in a bit of a slick mess, I don’t quite feel like an inspiration. Just a human. Simply a Norwood Girl who gives life a whirl and reports in on her doings.
 
It couldn’t
be that I am in a “light” mode. I just decided that is what this time is, my period of healing. I am always concerned that I will accidentally write that I am trying to learn how to heel. Ruff, ruff.
 
It is a time of reflection, but a different kind of reflection than normal.
 
Though I whipper-snap my way through many things, last year, life, some of my ways of thinking, some of my less than stellar habits, and, perhaps, an awakening to the fact that body, mind and spirit must work together in order to have a healthy life.
 
Because of the events of last year, I have stepped back. I am studying, learning, letting go of focus, breathing deeply, sorting through my mind and decluttering my thinking.
 
It is a joyful experience, for the most part, but I can still give myself the stinker, for a nanosecond, because I am not busy doing, you know, creative things.
 
I am working on spirit. Don’t laugh. And I am trying not to get so far up my own periscope, that it all becomes about me. But right now, a lot of it is. And that is fine. When you hit a car, a wall, or end up in the hospital with someone asking if you want to be revived, you are an idiot if you don’t see that as a sing that something you are doing, isn’t right.
 
What a gift that I have been given to be here to write this. What a joy it is to step back and not try to make life happen. Come to terms. Adjust. Change.
 
Yes. I am changing.
 
I am more into the spirit of living than creating for creativity’s sake. Peace. Saying no, I can’t go there.
 
That is a new little sentence for me. I use it, now. I didn’t use it, before. I am amazed at how good it feels. Perhaps it is a boundary that I have put up to protect myself. So be it. I should have done it years ago. But to those of us who want to save the world, save others … those are hard words to spit out.
 
I say them proudly, now. Instead of making me feel weak, they make me feel strong. It si empowering to realize your limits.
 
I have been listening to som songs that I love, contemporary songs of spirit and praise. There is one that I have loved for years, and I played it when I was asked to do a minister at a church service. It is actually a prayer by St. Francis of Assisi. It is sung by Elaine Silver.
 
Here are the words. I leave them with you on this Friday, a cold day, with rays of sunshine, rays of hope and a beautiful Carolina Blue sky.
 
Susan
 
Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
 
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
 
Amen.
 
st. francis of assisi – 13th century
Coastline at the beach.jpeg

Experience Is Portable

When we moved to my new beloved South, I threw out big box after big box of newspapers and magazines where my articles appeared. It was a virtual history of my world, my life, in writing. It was also a history of my writing timely pieces. I recall the first one published that had national scope, was about Elian Gonzales, the Cuban child who was sent back to Cuba.

Why did I do it … throw them away?

Because, sometimes, the baggage, even accomplishments of your past, must be let go to make room for future growth.

I do have copies of some of the pieces on a computer, but by no meas, all.

My kids didn’t want them. That was a lot of paper. And it was my take on life and not theirs. They are here to tell and write their own stories.

As I went through to lone box in our garage the other day, along with the Stars and Stripes, I found a newspaper artle written about me, not by me. It was from one of my previous lives, you know, a chapter of this one that was long ago.

There was a time when I sculpted people into puppets. Yep. And I do not like puppets. They are a notch beneath clowns. But I used them as a tool.

The firts year that Winterfest at Kings Islan opened, they put out a call for artists and craftspeople to have booths in the Festhaus, where people ate and a show was presented. To this day, if Nick or I hear the song, “Food glorious food,” we groan.

Weird thing happened, they seemed to like my work and invited me. So I sat in the lower level of our trip-level in Mason, and inhaled clay dust and sewed puppet outfits.

That hwole Chritsmas season, from Thanksgiving until New Years, I was at a booth at the Festhaus, schlepping my puppet people.

Because they were unique, the pr man from Kings Island, took a liking to them and had photographers take photos. We became friends and would have lunch for years. He was a good man.

Somehow, Ohio magazine got wind of them and shot theym and they appeared on their cover for unique gifts. There was a blurb about them in Cincinnati magazine, and that is how The Bob Braun show found me. I was then doing workshops with kids, using making puppets, to teach communication skills.

So, I was asked to bring a couple of the kids, make a puppet of Mr. Braun, and appear on the show.

When I told my mom, here comment was, “It s too bad you gained your weight back. That was a real boost. I was 6 ft. tall and weiged 155.

Oh, to weigh 155, again.

I was also asked to make puppets of Robert Taft’s family. He was governor of Ohio. Carl Lindner was another one I was asked to do and Willard Scott was created as Carmen Miranda. That one, I did for the heck of it, sent it to him, and never heard a word.

I didn’t like doing the workshops with kids. I had to haul a lot of stuff. And frankly, teaching a group of kids isn’t my thing. I just couldn’t let them know that. But I am fessing up. I love teaching workshops with adults, especially women.

I remember at sign0ups for the workshop, one mother, a snoot, said, “My boy doesn’t need communication help. He talks all of the time.”

Uh-huh.

Some people don’t understand that communication is more about listening than talking.

Making the puppets went well with my solitary-isn, personality. No, I am not a total lonaer. I am a leader, too, if I am in a group. But I find that that s more perfomance art for me, an energy expender, where creating alone, and being able to learn at my own speed, quickly, is what I like.

I didn’t know all of this at the time. I was young. I didn’t have a clue as to who I was, which made me sort of lost. My energies were spent having and raising children. That, I loved.

My kids, all small at the time, would be given a hunk of clay and they would sit with me and make a puppet head (or creature). They have always know that I was a clayhead.

Bob Braun was very nice to be with. He knew how to do a show and make his scared guest look good. They people in the audience didn’t bother me, but those cameras and lights were something I hadn’t experienced.

My foray into people puppets only lsted a year or so. For me, life has been about learning and practicing and then moving on and taking that experience with me.

Experience, not boxes of newspapers. It travels much lighter.

Susan

Prom

There you go, Debbie Simpson. You asked for it, I delivered. My junior prom photo. Larry Schneeman was my date.

I believe he had recently broken up with someone, so he invited me. It was a one-out date.

Larry was a very nice guy. I don’t remember much about the night except he had car trouble and I thought he was trying to bail, but I had my hair done, so I wasn’t going for that out.

As for many things I anticipated in high school, and life, the thought of it and getting ready for it was the fun part. And that had nothing to do with Larry, but with me.

What is a “prom” anyway? You didn’t say you were going to “the” prom. You simply said, “I am going to prom.”

For a girl, the getting dressed up part might have been the best part, unless you were in love with your date and it was all our of “True Romance.”

Prom and HOmecoming dances and soroity formals were never my thing. I went because I like to get dressed up, and hoped that something magical would happen, but it never did.

It was so anticlimatic that I didn’t go to my senior prom. It was in the spring, and my head had been out of high school since I had learned that fall that I was going to Ohio University the following year.

I know we went bowling at Madison Bowl afterwards.

So … that is that, about that.

I have a photo of the back of my hair from another formal. I had the best curls. I loved that hairdo.

My first formal, when I was a freshman, was for the sorority I was in … GBA. We even had a song.

We are the girls of GBA

You’ve heard so much about

K-O hides their faces

Whenever we come out

We are the pride of Norwood High

And we aim to please

We always wear our dressshort

In order to show our knees

As we go walking

through the halls of Norwood High

You can hear them saying

the girls from GBA were number one … Cha, cha, cha.

Or something like that

Why do I remember that and can barely remember the years my kids were born?

Oh, I think part of the reason that I didn’t care for dances was that I was so tall and most of the boys werre short. That got me. Made me self-conscious. And I didn’t feel as though I was pretty enough, not little and cute. So there. That is enough of that trip down memory lane. I spilled part of my guts.

Now, I love being tall. I have loved it for years. It is who I am. I can reach tall cabinets. And leap from building to building in a single bound.

Kerplunk.

Here is a question … did anyone feel pretty enough in high school?

Oh, that’s right, I said I was done.

Yesterday I had a hoot at the eye doctor. I am going to a new one and there is a woman on staff, who does the eyeball pre-check, who gets me. I had her rolling on the floor. We thought we were going to get kicked out.

She is in her forties and still finding her way to herself. I am a good teacher of that. I thought she was going to have a conniption when after my phone made a noise and my stomach was grawling, I said, “Wowo, I am a symphony. Just wait until I fart.”

That was after a bunch of other fun things I was teaching her.

We walked down the hall to the photo segment of the program, laughing like we were, well, in high school and a teacher lost his toupee. She asked if I could stay all day.

Okay. I am down 25 pounds and have started doing the stretches and moving more. Yeah, heay, don’t get excited. Whether I win of lose the weight battle won’t be known until I am dead. My nemesis … but I keep trying.

Enough of the rain and gloom here. I ould use a Carolina Blue sky and Southern sun. This isn’t even for the birds.

I finished my clove covered orange. I love those. It is sitting next to me. And … I put flamessl candles on the silver abouve my bathtub. They are on a remote control. Just call me Oprah (or not) with my new favorite thing.

And this is the way it is on Hedge Apple this morning.

Peace, heatlh and a good bladder, be with you.

Susan

Christmas Sounds And Feelings Brewing

The train horn and slight sound of the wheels on the tracks reverberate this sleepy house in Deer Park. It reminds me of my childhood in Norwood, where a freight train yard was up the street, turn left, run downhill,make a right and run slightly up and down another hill.

I didn’t do that but once. It was not on a route I took and though so close, you left Norwood and entered Cincinnati. Norwood was my small world that was safe. Cincinnati was too big.

The train is quiet now, passing. Probably on those tracks that ran through Norwood. There is a website called, “Everything Runs Through Norwood,” and it is quiet true.

Why am I talking about trains and Norwood when I was going to talk about taking time to look at the ornaments on a Christmas tree?

I am staying. Not in Norwood, but Deer Park is pretty close. So it was that sound of the train that took me back, took me home, to Christmas when I was a child.

I love this sound of silence. Nick is sleeping and so is our youngest daughter. Remember that feeling as a parent, when all of your children were tucked into their beds and home, safe? The world was “out there”, someplace. That feeling, now a memory, is one of the gentle memories of this life I have lived.

My heart is beating, tick-tick, tick-tick, and it is marvelous. It was two weeks ago, today, that the ticker got fixed. This morning, I began some gentle exercises. I plan to be an athlete, yet.

Yesterday, I stopped at Trader Joe’s. It was delightful. My speed of store … not too big. You know me and the vapors. Nick pulled in front of Krogers in Montgomery, because I wanted some distilled water. I said, “Are you kidding? I’m not going in there.” The parking lot was packed and throngs of people were going in and out. I looked at him and said, “That place gives me the vapors.”

So far, I have heard both daughters laugh. We’ve shared a couple of meals. Today, I will see one of my sons and do something we do when we are in town. He and I will meet at Starbucks and sit and chat for a long time. Catch up. And then, tonight, the Christmas festivities begin.

I was so not in a Christmas spirit a month ago. Other things were on my mind. Things began to shift when we celebrated Christmas at our son’s house in South Carolina, on the 16th. It was wonderful. I even sang karaoke with my grandchildren.

And now, after one of our best drives up here, we are and will be in the arms of people we love, people who make fun of us, who know us deeply, and understand the love that we have for them. People we would do anything for, including giving our life.

That is deep love.

I will call both sisters tomorrow and say Merry Christmas. I will think of my friends, here and in South Carolina, and wherever they may be. I know one friend is making a four layer carrot cake, one is having dinner tonight with friends, and another has seen grandchildren and their parents, staying at her house all week. Aye-yi-yi. And she loves it.

I will be thinking of my brother-in-law, for a reason that just is.

Of course, I called Camp K-9 to see how The Boy is doing. He is having a great time. They love him, too.

I was looking at my daughter’s Christmas tree. I mean, really looking. She placed every light and ornament on it.

The spirit of Christmas was awakened in me.

Oh, here is another Christmas sound. The garbage truck picking up trash. Ho, ho, ho.

The fact is. All I have are blessings to be grateful for. Love surrounds me. I actually feel the presence of Jesus, and the purity of his actions. Was he real? Did and does He exist? Is He really God, the father?

I choose to believe som. It gives meaning to my life, and offers a guide to be good to people and, it checks my behavior. I don’t know enough about life and I can surely use the help and guidance. It is through Him, that’s I find my purpose. I am a wobbly human, and the walking partner shows me the way.

Good Lily of the Valley, I am spilling the beans.

So, with that, though I am taking the week off, I am here to wish each of you, whether you are Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu Atheist or whatever, Merry Christmas from a wonderful, kind and forgiving man who was born in a manger on Christmas. Peace be with you. May light shine on our troubled world and may all your Christmas dreams come true.

Susan

A Non Inflammatory Post

Wrapping it up.

The gift bags, boxes, and random wrapped gifts are stationed at the table in the big room. The wrapping paper has been put away. And the gifts I have to deliver, are on the counter.

The Ohio Express is getting ready to join millions of others on journeys near and far.

Yes, it is over to Asheville, turn right and head northwest. Passing through two sets of mountains, and then into Kentucky, we will have a rented minivan full of Christmas cheer.

Since my Subaru bit the bullet, we have been driving Nick’s old Prius. I haven’t wanted to think about replacing my vehicle. And we are seriously thinking about going down to one car. We might scour the Automall, if we get a chance. But shopping for cars is not my idea of a good time.

It is a creepy game. Time consuming. Expensive. It gives me the vapors.

And I love it when they place their attention on Nick … not realizing that I am really in the driver’s seat on this event.

Does anyone else look at the multitudes of expensive cars, trucks and SUVs on the road and wonder where people get that kind of money?

I do.

How did I go down that road?

There is something that has happened since I was involved in my wreck. I am at heightened alert for cars … where they are coming from, how fast, and the uncertainty of driving.

I used to love to drive, but not as much anymore. There are too many people driving, in a hurry, ignoring laws and acting like jack rabbets wearing asshats.

I still love driving in the country, meandering and moseying, but to go into the “zones” of craziness … aye-yi-yi-yi.

I sound so poo-poo, which is funny because I am starting to fee much better. I am down 20 pounds since my wreck and I have health plans and an agenda for the new year.

From what I have been reading, inflammation is a big health problems. Truthfully, I knew that, but last night, I watched a YouTube video by a cardiologist about things to do to get your heart better.

Since I have entered what shall I say, “Heartland”, I have been learning a lot. I have learned how sleep apnea effects the heart, how inflammation from what you eat can trigger other things to go haywire and that there are things that I can do to get my body back on track.

I did a good job of turning things around a couple of years ago, but I had this battle in my head of “Do I want to live this way … denying many of the eating pleasures.

Caution to the wind, I ate too many good things and then bad things.

After the wake-up call and self flagellation and week of anesthesia brain, I am ready to charge on for a better today and tomorrow.

I am still cogitating what I would like to accomplish and figure out where my purpose will lead me, next year. I really don’t know if it will include FB writing. There are times when I think that I should leave before you tell me to. And FB, with its recent BS going on, it brings my love/hate relationship as a writing venue to the surface.

I operate better with a purpose, but there are times when I wonder if I should find a new purpose, of simply just lied days unfold.

Nah, I stink at that.

See, I am working things through. Oh, there are days when I think I should go be a monk and wear a brown robe with a hood. I like hoods. I also can make fudge to sell at the monastery gift shop. But I would need to be in an order of monks that laughed … a lot. I might also get kicked out of chapel for playing tic-tax-toe on the visitor cards.

How do you ponder and figured out what you want to do with your life? Note: there are many of you in the throes of working and child-rearing, so, you are on your march to survive all that goes on with that.

But for those who have the time, how do you determine what you want your life to be? I am curious.

This post feels like driftwood.

Are any of you heading anywhere for Christmas?

I am glad I don’t have to go to Sandringham for Christmas with the queen, although it would be fun to watch Prince Charle and Camilla get it on.

If we had a queen, who do you think would be a good one? Miley Cyrus might be fun.

Well, I am rails off the rails, now.

Off to go to the backyard to graze on some grass. I don’t think it is an inflammatory.

Susan

PS. My lunch yesterday at Jim and NIck’s/ I drove myself there to pick up some biscuit mixes for gifts, and decided that I needed to sit at the bar and have lunch/dinner. That is the tastiest said … and I didn’t eat both dressings.

Seeing The Light

Ho, Ho, Ho,
 
No, I wasn’t calling anyone a name.
 
I was saying that the spirit has risen and is shining in one lit candle and thre fake ones.
 
On my desk, as part of my new enlightenment, I have a lavender oil candle lit. I like to stare at the dancing flame. I find it a marver that, though, we can’t really see the movement in the air, we see a bit of life that shows us that life is there. It is all around us. We just don’t pay attention.
 
I also just blew on my left hand. I felt the breeze, the movement of air. And get this, I just took a piece of heavy paper and fanned it by my face and felt air move.
 
Yep, I am back! Looking at life through any avenue I can take. There is alos a plexiglass container on my desk, that holds The Boy’s treats. I just noticed that there is a reflection of the flame shining on it.
 
Simple, maybe magically simple, explained by science. Yet, it amuses me. It is like being n a cavern and yelling and hearing the echo. This is an echo of light.
 
There were some days this week that I wondered if I would ever look at life as I had before. Those aren’t fun times. Recovery isn’t always easy. It can be work, too. You are told to take it easy, relax, let things go.
 
That can be stressful for me, especially if you have anesthesia brain and are not seeing the forest for the tree sap. Illness and not being in control and having to take medicines that help one thing and mess up another, can wreak havoc on your psyche. Is this the new you? The icky new you? Will you return to the old you, that really had its weirdness, too, or will a new and improved version show up at your door like Mary Poppins, and grow your new life?
 
I have a term for this mental confusion. It isn’t a nice term. It is two words and the first word is cluster. The other one, take your choice of a prime four letter word.
 
So, you try to listen when people say that it takes time and you try not to compare yourself to the 35 year-old guy on YouTube who had an ablation and participated in a race the next weekend.
 
It isn’t that it is “poor me,” … for me it is more like, “Oh, Shitzu,” where do I go from here?
 
And you finally, remember to talk to God and pull pback and stop fighting time and energy and phantoms of imaginary futures that are less than your fancy.
 
“Thank you, God. I am sorry it took me this long to say that.”
 
Silence.
 
“Thank you for the blessings and the people who helped me and, say, (this is in the back of your mind because when you pray and talk to God, you really don’t want to wear your asshat), can you please give me a sign, a sign that says life can at least get back to parts of the way it was?”
 
And then I think, Eh, I was not necessarily in a good place. I was playing Russian Roulette with eating and using my brain more than my body and yep, maybe going back to the old me isn’t the best thing, after all.
 
So then, my boundaries came down and instead of being afraid of the future and looking at this as a permanent position, I breathed deep with my new and improved heartbeat, and gave God time to chew on what I said and to give me that sign. Yep, I sometimes use God as my dumping ground … but usually a bit late in the process … after I have churned things up and made a stew and tried to fix things myself.
 
Sometimes, my name shoud be Half-Ass Backwards.
 
Then like I said, yesterday, I finally got myself quiet enough, took moved my orange collapsible fear canisters andopened my mind and heart.
 
That is when the healing began.
 
I was fighting healing. I didn’t want to put the time, thought and energy into healing. I just wanted to be fixed. But that isn’t how life is. At least, rarely.
 
It can be so easy to look at this moment in time and plant yourself on it and forget about life as a whole, a living breathing organism, like my little flame I am looking at as I type.
 
I am sure glad that God has a bigger plan for me and that I am simply his tool do some good on earth. I can say that if “I ruled the world, it would be better.” But the truth is, if I ruled the world, there would be way too many paintings of weird looking women, words, everywhere, a tidy kitchen but a mess of wars and stupid human stuff that I wouldn’t know how to deal with.
 
The light is not only at the end of the tunnel, but it is right near my face, flickering, warm and kind, saying, “Come on, Susan, let’s dance. You are breathing, life is good. And keep the flame alive.”
 
Susan

All In Good Time

I thought about making up a story about a Finnish Christmas, complete with reindeers and dancing snowflakes and all, but then I started picturing the Flying Monkeys from “The Wizard of Oz,” a movie that scars me to this day, and decided to talk about other things.

This mornng, about 4, soon after Winston came head first onto the bed for his morning moments ot laying with his head on my pillow, I decided to get up and make ssome hot lemon water. I am not doing tea. I am not juge on herbal tea and am staying away from caffeine. I tuened on the hot pot and went through the old bag of lemons … threw out a couple of moldy ones and kept the good ones, then decided to go into the guest room and lie down on the bed.

It is a very quiet room. There was a new blanket that my daughter bought when she was here. I put that over me and thought of her and the kids and grandkids and decided to go into a bit of a relaxation mode. Have good thoughts. Work on it. And enjoy serenity.

There have been so many things that have looked like a scattering of pick-up sticks. Thoughts here, thoughts there, thoughts that didn’t do me any good, which I still think were anesthesia induced, plus fear and unsettledness. Yes, gratitude, too, but that hadn’t been at the forefront.

I was feeling that I was becoming a victim of myself.

I don’t do victim well … or for long.

So, as I lay there, I weeded through the garden in my head. It has gorgeous flowers, spikey weeds and wild flowers that pop up when I least expect them to.

Yes, the reset button was in gear

I figured out what was not working for me in my life, in my thoughts and behavior and habits. And then opened my heart to what could and should take their place. For slots I emptied of residue that just wasn’t cutting it, I fthought of an action or something easy, doable, to replace it.

As I mentioned to my family, of late, I finally know what my breaking point is. In a certain way. The way I have dealt with stress and hard situations , has been to stand strong, get through it, be a warrior.

That is all well and good, but if can also take a toll, if you don’t know how to release it.

So … that is part of my awakening.

It felt good to acknowledge that. The earth didn’t quake. The sun still didn’t come out from the grey. No leopard jumped into our car.

I can’t explain how I will deal with this, but I going to figure it out.

There are some steps I plan to take that will get me where I want to go in terms of health, joy, laughter and engagement. I feel lighter just thinking about it.

This year, I have laid my life into many people’s hands. People have tried to help “fix” me. Through most of it, I didn’t feel broken. I didn’t feel breast cancer. I didn’t get “hurt” in the car wreck. I didn’t have a heart attack. But things were going wrong.

People were there for me. When I think back on how well each of these, plus Nick’s medical problem, went, with people taking our hands and leading us through the medicals system maze, it is very, very life affirming, as far as humands and technology go.

They did their jobs.

And now, it is time for my growth spurt as a human, to begin, again.

It has taken me a while to see that this is a anew beginning. Yes, I see each day as a new beginning, but this is a NEW BEGINING.

It is up to me to write the next chapter of my life … in a new year. Pretty cool, huh?

Here is one for you. I am so into silence. I love peace. I love, love. I love joy. I don’t have time for so much of what is out there and thrown in our faces. I shall choose, more carefully, what I see, hear and read.

I am eso excited about focusing on love, joy, laughter, kindness and good things, that there is nothing but wonder ahead of me.

Oh yes, the shitzu will no doubt fall and I will find myself having to make choices about how will I react. What happens might not be up to me, but my reaction is. And that is what I will work on.

Time, has to be only of this moment. It can’t be projected or controlled or sat upon. I have to keep that in mind.

And frankly, I am glad I don’t have an IV stuck in the back of my hands.

It will be fine. It will all be fine.

Susan

Stories Are My Life

Stories. My stories. Your stories. The stories we have lived, and the stories we have denied.
 
I am not sure how you see your life, whether it is one big ball of silly putty, or a string of events that don’t seem to have much rhyme or reason.
 
I can’t handle my life as one big ball of silly putty. I am more like a book. I have moments that are words, some are sentences. Some sentences stand alone and others morph into paragraphs. I have also lived in vignettes, almost stages settings that I have envisioned prior to them happening.
 
There are parts of my life that have revealed themselves in chapters. Short chapters, long chapters … that will, eventually, become the book of my life.
 
Writing and thinking in such a manner help give me some structure and order to my life so it doesn’t totally go out of orbit.
 
Yes, there are times when my thoughts and emotions get sling-shot to outer crazy land. But in putting what has happened into context, into a story, pulls me back into a place where I can live.
 
If you think about it, how do you see you life? Is it a story-board? Is it random things that seem as hough you have no control? Do you drag the past with you or carry it in you purse like a tube of lipstick? Or, do you see it in some other way?
 
I was so enthralled with the podcast I listened to, yesterday, that this morning, after cleaning up the remainder of the stuff in the kitchen, from our baked ziti dinners that we cooked for hurricane relief, I needed something to pull me back to center.
 
I scrolled down the list of podcasts on Invisibilia, and found won that sounded interesting. It was about a woman whose husband had died, leaving her bereft, who could not function well. She decided to jump out of an airplane. You will have to listen to the podcast to get the story, which is part of the reason that I am writing about life as story, today.
 
The other part of the episode was about a couple from Montana who raised bees. Someone stole all of their bees at the worst possible time, (not that there is a good time to steal bees).
 
Again, a story of loss.
 
We all lose things, don’t we? keys, purses, glasses, receipts, friendship, friends, spouses, children, parents?
 
We mourn and go over and over the past and the emotions and the stories of the past. Sometimes, we change the stories to make us feel more comfortable.
 
There are times in our lives, dare I say, that we don’t even know how we will move on, or if we want to try.
 
Think about the people who lost everything, including loved ones, in the recent hurricane. Many will have to start their lives over.
 
How?
 
As this podcast told so well, those who are able to move on, do so, in part, because they learn to create new stories for their life. They mourn the past, but instead of sticking in “I, I, I,” mode, they begin using pronouns such as “him, her, we, them.”
 
I know that is how i push myself forward. When it is too much, “I,I,I,” I know that there has to be a shift. My thinking needs to change. My attitude needs a vacuuming and there is a need for letting go.
 
Maybe, that is why I do some things that others think, “Why does she do that?”
 
I can tell you why, as it has become clear to me.
 
Because I want a new story to live, to experience, to share. There is something in me that drives me, and entices me to try this or that, so that it becomes a paragraph or chapter in my life, and that helps me engage with others.
 
There are times when I wonder if I could or would I want to go on if Nick dies before I do. When the woman in the podcast, the one who was grieving for her husband and her lost life, said that she didn’t get joy out of doing the things they used to do, together, I put myself there. I can bring myself to tears thinking about that, especially if I am driving in the car, alone, and hear a song that moves me.
 
Who knows if that will happen?
 
But in my mind, I pray that if that does happen, I will do as this woman does … jump out of a plane, metaphorically, and begin a new, different chapter. And if I look at it like that, I think I might be able to handle it.
 
Susan
 
https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510307/invisibilia

The Power of Voice

It has been an emotionally busy morning. I have gone from my usual, subtle morning chipper, to laughing about a text, to being brought to tears by a podcast I listened to, and then. laughed.
 
That is a full day of emotions.
 
I have a neighbor named Mai. She is a kick. She has the energy of a hopped up driver at a demolition derby. Her flowers are gorgeous and she has an enthusiasm for life.
 
She brought us dinner when Nick was sick and when I had my bit of breast cancer, (that is weird to say), she gave me a hand crocheted shawl. Her daughter recently gave me a dating bracelet she made.
 
She likes my treats.
 
I saved her a big piece of carrot cake, that had received great reviews on our neighborhood page. I texted her to ask if she would like it.
 
Sure. That was a no brainer.
 
Then she mentioned that she was glad I didn’t burn the house down the other day. Yep, word gets around, especially when you write about the stupid stuff you do.
 
Man mentioned that she was going to get in contact with me because she had something to give me.
 
Guess what it is.
 
A fire extinguisher.
 
I laughed as I wrote back. She said she would drop it off tonight. I said, good, we can make a trade. Carrot cake for a fire extinguisher. Pretty great, isn’t it?
 
That got my day off to a lovely start.
 
There was laundry to fold. It had been sitting on a chair by the counter for a couple of days. It was time to fold it an put it away because today, I am making baked ziti dinners to raise money for hurricane relief in the Carolinas.
 
My friend, Yamini, is coming over at 10, to help make brownies. She is first in line to volunteer to help me. She and her family also love desserts.
 
I dropped a piece of carrot cake at her house and Rasheed, my best customer and critic, came down the stairs. I said that I had carrot cake and that was enough to send him scurrying up the stairs, saying, “I’m not going to eat carrot cake.” That cracked me up.
 
But here is where the bit of an emotional bath came over me, this morning.
 
I decided to start listening to podcasts. I went online and typed in ‘best podcasts for women’.
 
I found one called ‘Invinsibilia’ on NPR. Its blurb sounded interesting.
 
Today’s podcast was “Leave a Message.”
 
A man spoke. He mentioned how the millennial were causing the death of many institutions.
 
I listened, not knowing where this was going.
 
And then he mentioned the death of voice mail. And that took the turn into voices … how we don’t hear peoples voices like we used to because people text and don’t call.
 
That got my mind intwined with the message.
 
The podcaster told the story of his own mother, how she used to leave long voice mail messages to him. She was trying to connect. He thought her long paused, messages were banal and a waste of time.
 
He didn’t listen to the whole message, hitting delete soon after the message began.
 
One thing that I have told many people is that a great day for me is when I hear each of my kid’s voices.
 
It doesn’t happen often. Yes, I hear from them, but it is often by text. But there are days when the sunflowers all look the same way, when I get to talk to all of them.
 
Recently, we had dinner with a man who said he called his mother once a month. I told him I would die if that was all I would hear from my kids.
 
He mentioned that he loved her, but she was a bit strange, to which I replied, “Aren’t we all?”
 
There is something about their voices that trumps text. The call might last a minute or fifteen, but those voices go straight to my heart. Frankly, they are pretty much what I live for.
 
The podcaster mentioned that his mother got breast cancer, had a double mastectomy and chemotherapy. She was good for a short period of time. Then the cancer returned and she was admitted to Hospice.
 
He sat by his mother’s side and read to her. While talking too one of his friends, the podcaster said his friend told him to make a tape of her voice. But it was too late.
 
All he wants to do now is hear her voice.
 
My mother’s voice is etched in memory, but I had the foresight, with my dad, to interview him. I have a couple of ads of me interviewing him. When I want to hear my dad’s voice, I can play the cd.
 
I don’t do it often, but I know it is there. My dad is in the drawer.
 
I tired up throughout the podcast but at the end, they played some voicemails that people had saved of loved ones.
 
They made me smile.
 
And on with my day.
 
Susan
 
Invinciblia at NPR
 
https://www.npr.org/podcasts/510307/invisibilia