Sunday, May 27th, 2018

CUMBERSOME WITH A TOUCH OF FINESSE

My life has been out of sync with a kind of finesse to it, meaning that it was so cumbersome in so many ways, there seemed to be design to it, a kind of artistic flair.

Mexico was just plain irritating. I had two GI infections which is not at all like turista. The symptoms are fatigue, dizziness and stomach ache. It starts out subtle and takes a while to realize you are sleeping six hours a day!!! To see a doctor seems like climbing Mount Everest. Taxi to doctor, taxi to lab, taxi back to doctor, taxi to pharmacy, taxi back to doctor, taxi to lab again. Finally, I stay awake all day.

So I had to take a few taxis, so what?  Well. Our street which is really a little alley is ugly. It’s always been ugly—stones and trash and an empty lot across from us owned by the past president of Mexico who fences it off and lets it run wild. (I love that the neighborhood just cuts hole in the fence and make paths that are helpful short cuts. Do not fence us out!! So we were thrilled to hear our street would be repaired and new sewer put in.

The work began. The communication was sparse. The road was to be impassable for three months. No cars. And then the phone company decided to do work as well.We had twelve foot mounds of dirt and gravel to travail to get to the corner. Our gate was now four feet above the road. Two ditches were dug in parallel that were four feet deep. Each household had their version of a bridge/plank/ or corrugated tin to get across the abyss. . I fell twice and slashed my leg. I love to be plucky, but getting groceries from the taxi at the corner over the hills and through the dales of stone and gravel to our gate, walking the planks and then carrying up the 40 stairs to the kitchen lost its pioneer challenge  fast.

I decided that sequestering was the best choice. . So I signed up to write a book in nine weeks, except that I put a trip to Maine in the middle of the nine weeks (bumping suit cases over the planks and stacks of stones (progress of a kind). Let’s just say I finally sat down at my Mexico office desk  back in Mexico with just three weeks left to write the book in order to go  take to a three day workshop in DC for editing and review.  I spat out a book (which I have yet to read) and left for Maine to head next to DC.

My computer gave up the ghost. It had no display. The workshop demanded a manuscript in Word on a computer.  I had pledged to watch my daughter’s daughter. She and I spent a day in the Apple store. She wins the ‘good kid” award of the year. I finally bought a new computer, they transferred the content the next day and I was off to DC. Never shut your eyes and just point and buy a computer and go to a workshop that demands familiarity with said computer. Even the USB thingies are different. What do you know! Word doesn’t magically appear. It has to be magically downloaded. Laugh all you souls who are not 74. My tech anxiety makes me whimper. My vision for it is great. The difference between the two define cumbersome for me.

The barriers to ease and getting things done continues.My purse strap will get elegantly caught on a door knob in a way that would be impossible to do deliberately.  Needed appointments collide with fantastic cancellations and changes. The topper was I called my Oregon daughter to ask her to come to Brussels with me and then to Paris. She has wanted to take a trip with me for a long time. Her voice sounded funny and told me she appreciated me asking and would get back to me. Odd. I expected a little delight. Then I got her email telling me she was leaving the following to go to Paris with her mother-in-law!!!  See what I mean? That is art. That being out of sync has finesse. Artfully awful.

I have just come out of a staycation thinking I would luxuriate and read for pleasure. It was, instead, somewhere in between the life of an invalid or a woman in an old bathrobe with a cigarette in her hand wandering listlessly as she slipped into slovenly bliss.  I watch daily triple episodes of House trying to get to get to his final self- destruction or salvation.

I sit as I write at the chiropractor, healing my Mexico fall. I just came out of four days of watching my five year old granddaughter. I had to function and function well, so I did. (But still haven’t won one game of Sorry.)  But the days stayed “bumpety” which is what we call days, when we lose shoes, Elsa’s dress and our favorite book and most of all when we drop things and have to pick them up over and over and over. We prefer “yes” days when we say “yes” to everything and everything says “yes” to us.

And I am heading to “yes”.  “Yes,” here I come.  I’m ready for you. My arms are open.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Monday, April 16th, 2018

Brooding

Boy, it’s hard to stay true to Truth Burping. It’s so tempting to put a good spin on life. And I do have plenty to good spin about. But today the thought that is in my head is “brooding”.I love words. I trust them. I thought maybe I just wanted a break to muse which has a nice meditative quality to it. “Oh, I think I’ll just gently muse about my life. But no, I trust my unconscious and it just won’t let go of “brooding”.

And wouldn’t you know it, the definition is “deep unhappiness of thought”. Darn. Or “feeling sad, worried, or angry for a long time”. Yikes! Where did my joy go? I prefer the definition, “engaged in deep thought”. Some dictionaries focus more on how a person looks rather than how they feel. Merriam Webster talks about being serious and sad. Bingo. I am serious and sad right now. I carry a lot a lot a lot of joy. That’s my default position but I am sad and serious today. Here’s why.

I am not sure how I want to spend my time and that irritation is trumping my joy. Writing (with deadlines) is demanding and takes time. I love it. I love this. This is my truth place. I’m already slipping away from brooding as I write. I love my kids and grandchildren and some live very far away. Mexico is good, very good. We have an entire alternate life here, which takes us away from our other alternate life and home. Reading is essential to my breathing. Lots of reading.

This could be all an embarrassment of riches except for one thing.I have a major deadline approaching that burdens me. It’s called death. (Are we still having fun?) It looms. I have ten more truly productive years—if I want to produce!! Am I morbid? No realistic.

I have always been aware of death from the time that my brother’s fiance’s family were killed in a car accident caused by drunks. Grandparents, parents, nine year old boy, 9 month old baby. One seven year old girl lived as did my brother’s fiancé. This is when I learned to cherish.

I write this on the date my dad died. I forgot thinking about taxes.Then my daughter texts to say my granddaughter had a bad dream about me—that we were in a bouncy house and I went into a section full of light and she tried to follow me but I was gone. Well, then.

I have two projects with deadlines, people wanting to be clients, five grandchildren I enjoy as people, a husband writing a major tome, a million books to read, beauty to relish and grocery shopping to do.

I am brooding but I now kind of smile as I say that.It’s too important sounding. I want to choose how to spend my life energy with careful choice or go totally random and enjoy the ride. But I’ll probably choose a touch more of denial and go my merry way.

The awareness of finite time can be a pain in the—-neck or a gift to stay awake. Not “or” Both.

I have a very funny story about literal brooding of chickens that involves Hubert Humphrey. Later. I’m too busy brooding with the touch of a smile.

 

 

 

 

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Monday, April 9th, 2018

Lovely Pang of Grief

My parents have been dead for twenty-four years. Weird. They had great deaths. And great living.They were quite alive until the very moment of dying. They died easily and within ten days of one another. My mom died on April 5th, my dad on April 15th of the same year.

I have wonderful stories about their deaths—funny and poignant and not terribly sad, which does not mean I was not hit hard. On another day, I will tell the story fully. Today, I’m saying I’m surprised by a wave of grief.

My mom died three minutes after my April 4th birthday so the two milestones are automatically intertwined. Megan’s birthday is three days after the date of my dad’s death. I was just made an officer at Hannaford the year my parents died and never got to tell them.

Some years, I sail right through this crazy first fifteen days of April. Happy, sad, happy, sad, bewildered. This year I have a sharp grief. So I will honor it and be a sad and still.

At their funerals the mantra was, “Oh we had fun.” “Oh we laughed.” I can’t think of a better descant for a life. And I hope, that 24 years after my death, my kids might have a renewed pang of grief missing me.

 

 

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Monday, April 2nd, 2018

Here I am in the land of Easter and I dropped out. I didn’t color one Easter egg for the first time in my life. Now I am big on decorations in general. I have great Easter decorations from Sweden, Bruge in Belgium and the Czech Republic. Gorgeous eggs with intricate designs, tiny glass eggs, pewter ornaments for Easter. I always have a tree branch that I decorate with ornaments. My fireplace mantle always has Easter bunnies made of paper mache and happy chicks of all kinds. And then, there is the Easter table cloth. And the Easter curtains in the kitchen (made of dish towels with Easter eggs on them) Over the top?

Yep. Makes me happy.

Now those decorations are in Maine and we are often in Mexico for Easter (on steroids) I have usually had neighbor kids come over to decorate eggs and hunt for candy. Not this year. We have a gap. We have young adults and babies. Did not matter to me. I did not drag our one seven year old over to play Easter with me.

There was plenty of Easter going on here. Processions galore. The churches decorated with oranges, wheat grass, gold foil and chamomile. The church bells were silent all day Saturday until Midnight. On Easter Sunday, life size effigies of Judas are hung over the street. They are filled with fire crackers and when set off they blow-up one by one and kids scramble for a piece of Judas to take home. Often they make forms of famous people are not popular.I wonder who it was this year. Hmmmmmm. Let me think.

Anyway the rhythm of the season permeates. I was very happy to hear from my grown kids about what they had done to celebrate Easter and our family rituals. One had a tree branch they decorated, one mentioned using a list to help kids find candy (what would you do with five kids where one always got all the candy in the first five minute???) and another colored Easter eggs with the familiar fragrance of vinegar in the water bringing back memories.

No one works here on Easter. No one. It was hushed all day Sunday.The weather was perfect, glistening with new leaved and popping with bougainvillea. David and I wrote, then sat, then wrote, then sat. It was a protected moment of beauty that carried the sacred easily.I was gratified to have my kids do the traditions of Spring and Easter.I didn’t feel left out or lonely. I felt like my job was done—well. I was content.

 

 

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