Equilibrium

It's amazing how quickly something can command your attention and take over your life.

When I first joined Facebook over three years ago, little did I realize how much time it would take out of my routine. Not that it did at first. I would spend an evening catching up with friends. Then I'd turn on the computer right after getting home from work and before long, all my spare time was devoted to not just "lurking" but also posting things, playing games and liking or commenting on others' pictures or posts. That along with blogging, became my go-to place when I was home, especially if I was "bored."

Photo "Golden Brass Scales Of Justice" courtesy of Vichaya Kiatying-Angsulee at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

A few days ago, someone challenged me to take a look at what I spend the most of my time doing so as to determine what was most important to me. When I realized how unbalanced my life had become by spending so much time on social media (Facebook, Google Plus, twitter) and watching television, it was quite a shock. "If you could only spend 90 minutes a week watching your favorite TV series, or 'liking' and 'commenting' on Facebook," this person said, "would you feel out of touch somehow?" 

I had to admit that I would. 

Don't worry, I'm not going to sign off my accounts or anything. But the challenge made me think. 

Balance. Equilibrium. It's like my world had become top-heavy. Keeping in touch is great; enjoying yourself is great too. However, the routine of get-home-and-turn-on-the-computer-and-TV was close to becoming an obsession with me. Other things started to slide. Priorities re-arranged behind my back. Suddenly things were out of whack, and I wondered why I was feeling so out of sorts, like there was never enough time to do what needed to be done at the end of the day. 

When I started getting my priorities back into line, the balance I was seeking started to fall into place. Things that weren't necessary fell by the wayside. Stress levels reduced. I had more time to do what needed doing, to do what was most important. I started to enjoy the little pleasures again: the company of a good friend, the time to write, a good cup of tea, and the comfortable quiet of quality family time.

I'd missed that. 
I'm glad to have it back again.

Tommy

When I was fifteen, I went to see a movie that, had my parents known what it truly was, I would never have been allowed to go to. It was the original rock opera, "Tommy" - featuring Elton John. Basically, it was the story of a young man (Tommy) who was deaf, mute, and blind, and who finds his niche playing pinball, to the point where thousands of young people wanted to emulate everything about him - even putting plugs in their ears and covers over their eyes and mouths.

I was completely weirded out by that movie - it seemed so chaotic and surreal to me (which I guess was the idea). I was most freaked out by the scene of Elton John wearing a rhinestone white suit and three-foot-high elevator shoes and falling off the stage into the crowd... but we won't go there today.

Of course, what made it an opera was the music. The songs were somewhat memorable; everyone who went to this thing remembers "Pinball Wizard" of course, but the thing that stuck with me most was just a line in the middle of all that chaos, the internal voice of Tommy, singing "See me. Hear me. Touch me. Feel me." 

Tommy didn't care about the fame and acclaim. He didn't want anyone to like him or hate him. He didn't want to be "fixed" or to "fix" anyone else. He just wanted to be seen, heard, touched, related to. He didn't want to be what everyone else thought of him as being. The one who was known only as the Pinball Wizard soon became a one-trick pony, trotted out for everyone's amusement. Nobody thought of him as anything more. Deep within, though, he longed for some semblance of humanity, of connection. He, like everyone, wanted above all to know and to be known, to matter for who he was, not for what he could or couldn't do. 

"Woman Hand With Microphone" photo
courtesy of thawats at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I've sung that song inside of my spirit for many years since. There have been times that I felt that some people hung out with me only for what they could get out of me, that either they stayed away from me because they thought they couldn't do what I did (especially in the singing area, even though that gifting was not of my own doing) or they flocked to me and wanted me to trot out my one trick for their enjoyment. 

Even in the area of regular interpersonal relationships, I've often felt like poor Tommy, seen as two-dimensional - nothing but appearance - with people playing out their own agendas on me rather than actually taking the time to know what I'm about. I've frequently caught my inner self singing that melancholy plea, "See me. Hear me. Touch me. Feel me." 

Thankfully, a few precious people have done just that. I've been blessed with friends who, even if they don't understand fully, at least try, and by them trying, I know that they care about me, not just the surface - and that they respect me too much to give me trite answers that follow whatever party line they (or I) adhere to. 

When I share a problem or open my heart ... I'm not asking for someone to mount their white charger and ride in to rescue this damsel in distress. I already have a White Knight; I find the One sufficient. 

All I'm seeking is to be seen and heard, to have a touch-point, to know that there is someone who can relate to me or to my situation, to have someone acknowledge my feelings and to tell me I'm normal for feeling them. 

That's all I can ask for.

TL4E

Hubby listening to someone
tell a story

Today I celebrate thirty-two years of marriage with a man I love more and more as time goes on. In a day when even TWO years seems the breaking-point for some, some folks marvel at our time together and wonder what our secret is, given all we've been through together.

The key word is together - it is not some great secret. We are best friends first, and while each of us has his or her own interests, many of them overlap and we can share them and enjoy each other in the sharing. We spend our spare time together. We agreed long ago that any lengthy social event that would separate us (especially overnight), even if it were to be touted as "good" - was not something that the person invited would attend. This has not been a sacrifice for us, but a happy choice, because it gives us more time with each other. That time is precious to us because there are so many mandatory things that demand our time (work, for example) that we treasure the opportunities we have to spend time with each other - even if it's sitting in a room saying nothing while each is doing something different on the computer.

Together we have faced so many things better than we would ever have done apart: for example, among other things, severe financial difficulty, early parenthood, and family-of-origin issues for both of us, not to mention the frustrations inherent in working with others (misunderstandings, people playing politics, bullying, fatigue). We support each other and gain strength from each other. We pray with and for each other. We put each other's needs before our own. We don't approach the relationship from the perspective, "What can I get out of this?" but rather, "What can I give?"

That's love. TL4E - True Love 4 Ever.

If there's a secret, it's that love is not about getting what you want, but giving what you dare not keep.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart.  ♥ 

Reviving an old tradition

There are many things about my childhood I would just as soon forget; I've talked about those memories from time to time, and I won't talk about them in this post. 

There was one tradition I observed when I was growing up, however, that has stayed with me all of my life. I'm not even sure if it's still done anymore in the area in which I grew up, but it was so meaningful that it stayed with me.

Two days a year, Mother's Day and Father's Day, people wore a carnation boutonniere or corsage to church so as to "honor" their parents. If the parent was still living, the flower would be red; if not, it would be white. I remember my parents kept a collection of plastic corsages in the top drawer between the fridge and the sink, right beside the tea towels. Every year, they'd dust them off and each person would be given a flower of the appropriate color to wear on either the second Sunday of May or the third Sunday of June. 

They used plastic flowers, because it was too expensive to use real ones.

When I married and moved to my husband's province, the locals had never heard of this custom. They thought it rather sweet, but strange as well. 

I did it anyway. 

Several years ago, the church we attended started handing out carnations to all the mothers in the church on Mother's Day. It was May 1989, and I was pregnant with our first child. Since our denomination believes that life begins at conception, I stood in line to get a flower. "No," I was told. "You're not a mother." 

Hurt and bewildered, I found my seat again. I never forgot the sting of that remark; even though I have forgiven it, and even forget who said it, the experience made me resolve never to treat a first-time pregnant mom like that ... ever.  

But I digress. As the church handed out the flowers to moms anyway, I got away from wearing a flower on that Sunday morning and instead, I made a corsage out of the one I was given at the morning service to wear that evening. 

Nowadays, for various reasons, Mother's Day is very painful for me, but I thought I could at least remember my dad. And since my kids don't go to church - for their own reasons - I thought I would honor their father as well, because - well - he's an awesome dad!

They have that in common, in different ways, but they also share a love of woodworking and especially of music. My dad sang bass (yes, I know the song) - and such a full, rich voice he had - and my husband sings baritone, almost the same thing but not quite. 

So tomorrow morning, and possibly tomorrow evening, I plan to wear a little something to commemorate my own father and my children's father. For posterity though, I thought I'd stage a symbolic photo as an extra tribute :

A lapel corsage
Two tiny roses - white (for Dad) and red (for Hubby)
surrounded by baby's breath (for purity of heart)
and rose leaves (for persevering love)
and sitting squarely on Middle C.

Happy Father's Day ... to both of you. 

Across the Bridge

She rode between my knees in the vehicle, and didn't even go to the window to look out. Standing on her back legs would have been too painful for her, I thought to myself. And it was one of her favorite things to do when she went for a ride.

Hubby slowed and stopped, pulling over by the side of the road. I unhooked my seat-belt and opened the door, and got out. She didn't hear me; normally she'd be out before I was. 

She got out of the van, half-excited, half in discomfort (adrenaline can mask pain) and I tightened the leash and closed the van door. I waved goodbye to my husband; he had another errand to run and would pick me up after.

After. I tried not to think about after. All that mattered was now. 

Slowly, leisurely, even amid spits of rain, we sauntered up the long lane, lined on both sides with shade trees, grass, and all kinds of mixed wild flowers.

Raspberry canes had begun to bud already. I looked at them as we passed slowly by; their prickles were glistening in the morning's rain shower. The faint scent of raspberry blossoms not yet opened greeted me as I would stop when she stopped to explore a scent trail. After all, her sense of smell was almost the last one she had left completely intact. 

I thought of earlier times. Times when I'd have to call her back as a young dog from the neighboring field because she'd followed a scent trail out there and didn't quite know where we were or have the sense to follow her own trail back. Times when we'd scratch her just above the base of her tail and when we were done, she'd chase that tail and catch it ... and keep going round and round. We'd call her "bagel dog" because that was the shape her body made. Times when we'd be sweeping the floor and find one of those orange hockey balls she loved (and chewed on) so much. We'd throw the ball and she'd go racing after it, trotting back with it to us, and we'd have to take it out of her mouth because she wouldn't drop it unless we grabbed it first. Just two throws and the ball would be covered in dog saliva ... so we called the game "slime ball." She loved that game. As time went on and she was less able to run, she even learned to throw the ball for herself, watch it roll down the hallway and then trot after it.

A spit of rain managed to get past my glasses. It awakened me from my trip down memory lane and brought me back to the moment, on this our final walk. She was sniffing at some grass, and she nosed under some branches to get to the next patch of grass.

Among the foliage at the base in between the birches and beeches, I spotted first one, then a few, then several bunch-berry plants, the kind I used to call "trillium" ... until I knew what real trillium looked like. No, these had four smaller white petals in the center of a cluster of six much broader, green leaves. By the side of the lane, to my surprise, I saw a few late wild strawberry blossoms. Most of the flowers had dropped off most of the plants, but there were a few late bloomers amid the developing green fruit. A couple of them had flowered early, and had almost fully grown and ripened. I stopped to pick them, and tossed them gently into the greenery farther back, to start even more wild strawberry plants; I wasn't hungry. 

She was enjoying the moment. Her tail wagged a little as she smelled each new smell.

As we got closer to our destination, she hesitated more. Perhaps it was the smell of spilled oil in the parking lot that deterred her. I got her past the rainbow-streaks in that area and let her explore the front lawn of the clinic. She squatted a couple of times. It wasn't raining hard enough for her to feel like shaking off the water. 

Amid the budding "devil's paintbrush" at the top of the lane (dandelion-like flowers with multiple blooms on the same stem) I spied one lone buttercup, fully opened, symbol to me of promise and rest. They don't usually come out until July. 

Finally, after one final squat, I led Shari to the door of the clinic. 

The staff were very kind. They gave us as much time as we needed, and in their mercy gave me the paperwork to fill out beforehand rather than afterward. 

Afterward, I would be in no shape to sign papers and pay the bill. 

"Who's all in today?" I made conversation with the new girl behind the desk. "Doctor A____," she said, and Anne-Marie." 

That was such a relief for me. Anne-Marie had been there as a receptionist the first time we needed the vet's services back in the year 2000 for Shari's bladder stone surgery. Through the course of time she became the vet's assistant, and a competent and compassionate one. Though I knew this was hard for her too, I was glad she was there - a familiar face at the end.  

It made this just a tiny bit easier to bear. 

A few minutes later, Anne-Marie came out and we chatted. I told her how this had just crept up on us slowly and how the dog wasn't even asking to go out anymore; she was just doing her business wherever she wanted to inside the house. That, together with the growing discomfort in her joints, the digestive upsets, the deafness, the cataracts, the fatty tumors that pressed in on her heart and made her cough at the least excitement or exertion, the seizure she had two months ago, and the "doddering" she did when standing still (her head would "bobble" slightly), we could tell that her quality of life was starting to get really poor and that it would only get worse. 

"Yes," she agreed with me. "When they don't even bother asking to go out anymore, it's time." Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine. 

She asked me if I wanted Shari's collar and leash; I did. She switched out the collar and leash with one of theirs, handed me our set, took Shari in her arms - there was little if any struggle (unusual for her) - and carried her into the back. After having been present at Cody's final trip, I knew there was no way I could handle that experience again. I was so grateful that Anne-Marie was there.

Five minutes later, it was done. I know that the last thing she knew at the end was the touch of a compassionate hand. That meant a lot to me. 

A few minutes later, hubby was back from his errand, and he took the box containing her remains back to the van. We passed the return trip mostly in silence, only talking about anything but what had just taken place. 

I remember reading a book once by John Eldredge on the day-to-day relationship with God - it was the chronicle of just one year in his life. In the book, he described the relationship between himself and his dog, a golden retriever who loved to play ball - except he would never want to let go of the ball when he brought it back. The time came for him to say goodbye to his furry friend, and family and friends gathered with him at his home while the vet administered the final dose. At the moment of the dog's passing, even though the dog made no sound, two in the circle of friends heard a dog's bark. And then one of the friends got a strange, perplexed look on his face, turned to Mr. Eldredge and said, "I just got some words - I think they're supposed to be for you, John." 

"What are they?" John asked. 

"I'm not sure what this means, but I hear the words, 'He won't let go of the ball.' " 

That's one more reason why I know she went across Rainbow Bridge - and that as I write this, even now she is playing slime-ball.

Shari inviting me for a game of slime-ball

  And she won't let go, either.

The Deadly Dance

She's been getting more and more frail for many months. It happened slowly, ever so slowly, like ice freezing over a pond - by inches, sometimes millimeters. Joint problems, cataracts, deafness, and the worst thing to watch - dementia.

For the last 2 to 3 years she has suffered more and more from osteoarthritis in her toes right up into her hips. Anti-inflammatories still didn't help when she went to make her way down the stairs of our deck. When the weather was bad, she'd refuse to go out and then she'd eliminate in the house. We weren't happy, but it didn't happen often, so we cleaned it up and hoped for more success the next time. 

In the winter, she started going out the door to the deck itself and doing her business there in the snow. After the snow left, though, we wondered what would happen. 

This spring, she was doing fairly well, because our daughter had injured her knee and needed to use a wheelchair, so we had a temporary ramp over the stairs. But a little over a week ago, there was no need for the ramp, so hubby disassembled it and took the bits that couldn't be re-used to the dump. Within two days the occasional "accidents" became more and more frequent to the point where she was going in the house several times a day, without even asking to go out.

This is upsetting for us especially because there had been a few falls over the years associated with wet spots on the hard surface flooring (from previous incidents with various pets), and equally because our daughter is on crutches and the wet spots pose a serious safety hazard. 

Shari - December 2012.

So, I am faced with a difficult decision, one I discussed with the vet the last time I needed to call - for a seizure she took a couple of months ago. The vet said seizures could happen more and more often.

Now this.

It may be time to take that final walk. 

I looked at her this evening, really saw her, for what might be the first time in several weeks, perhaps even months. She is not a happy dog. She sleeps most of the time, and when she moves, she moves slowly. Her coat is scraggly, she can't hear unless the noise is low, loud, and very close. She coughs - hard - after any kind of excitement or anything-more-than-sedentary activity, sometimes to the point of vomiting. The vet said this was probably due to some fatty tumors pressing in on her heart. 

We've been - I've been - dancing around this issue for far too long.

Her quality of life is slipping.

So is ours. It's not an easy decision. We'll see what happens.

Getting Swept Away

Hubby and I have been picking away at a renovation project in our bedroom. The window (an old slider one) has needed replacing for a few years, and the room has had the same carpet in there ever since we moved in, in 1989. Over the years we got rid of one piece of furniture and bought another, so after a while, nothing matched anymore. 

So, last fall we began making plans to replace the carpet with laminate flooring, and the project got put on hold because other things took priority. 

However, this spring we decided to have it done, once and for all: new window, new floor, and new (and matching) dressers and night-stands.

The window was first to be replaced. A few days ago, a couple of people came to the house and replaced our window with an energy-efficient casement style window. It works great!!

For the past couple of weeks, hubby has been lifting up the carpet. Unknown to us, there were two layers of it in there: the emerald green we knew, and under it - well, let's just say that the previous owners were into the 70s African savannah tree-house motif or something. Eww. And let's not even imagine the dust and the mess.

Anyway, lifting up the carpet meant that we had to unearth the storage bins that seemed to be hidden everywhere. And all of them - I say red-faced - were filled to the brim with my clothes, clothing that I'd accumulated over the last ten years. All different sizes and styles were all jumbled up together - some pieces were winter pieces I had forgotten I owned and had bought new ones, and others were pants as small as size 8 Petite (yes I know that this is not considered small by some standards - but to me it is!) 

Bin by bin, I stood and sorted clothes by destination: closet, dresser, donation, garbage. It was daunting, but I took each bin as it came and dealt with each piece with a critical eye.

Photo "Dustpan And Brush On White" courtesy of artur84
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Some of my old favorites were painful to release: they were chock-full of memories of thinner, healthier times. I could picture how I used to look in them. Those were the hardest ones to let go, because they were all tied in with the hope I've had for many years: "Maybe I'll fit into that again." It was the vain hope of turning back the clock that kept me stuck in the never-never land of eternal discouragement when I couldn't measure up to a younger, much thinner me. Letting go of that unrealistic hope was not pleasant. But let go I had to - and after an hour, there was a garbage can full of items, plus three and a half large leaf bags full of various-sized pieces to donate to a local thrift store. 

And you know, afterward, I felt differently than I thought I would. Yes, it was tiring, and yes, it was dirty and I had to take a break from it once in a while because the dust was flying so much and quite frankly, my back couldn't take much more standing still in one spot. However, when I'd sorted the last piece, I felt ... freer somehow, unencumbered, as if the future was not tethered to the past anymore and that if my size changed, I could have the pleasure of shopping for new things that fit and flattered me in the moment. Not ten years ago. 

Sometimes it helps me to simplify my life; lately, it had gotten rather cluttered with a lot of baggage - emotional, spiritual, and mental - that simply didn't need to be there. Doing my "clean sweep" helped to remind me that there are things that are worth holding onto, and there are things that really aren't, and need to be released so that there's room in my life for new things, better and more enriching experiences, and fresh ideas. 

I think that tonight I will sleep well, and I am glad that tomorrow is a new day, full of promise and potential. Everyone needs a fresh start - and I am part of everybody. And it's okay to pare off what doesn't belong and keep only what fits. It helps me stay in today. 

And you know what? Today is pretty good.

Hurry Up and Wait

Last night I took the plunge. I applied for admission into a graduate-level university program. 

I've been talking about doing this for a couple of months, and since the decision to "move up" my start date from spring 2014 to fall 2013, it's occupied more of my thoughts and my time.

The deadline for applications for students wishing to begin their program in the fall semester is July 31. So lately, knowing that time can pass quickly, I have been in "hurry up" mode. I had conversations with potential referees, worked on my application letter, reviewed my finances (several times) and slowly, things started to fall into place.

I realized a couple of evenings ago that I had compiled everything that I was responsible to get together except a copy of my curriculum vitae (resume). Since my old Mac computer had all the versions I had for use at home (and since it is now "toast" and I'm using a Windows 8 platform which won't read the jump drive I had made containing all my documents), I had to remind myself to send a copy of the resume I have at work to my home email, which I did yesterday. And last night, after a long day at work, I still couldn't wait (ummm, see the title) to start working on it to take out job-specific jargon and replace it with information that anyone could understand. 

Before I knew it, it was after midnight. I had started my application online, and I was attaching my c.v. and my application letter to it and hitting submit - when it hit me. 

I was doing this. I was really doing this. 

It's a peculiar feeling: uneasy, unsure, hopeful, nervous, excited, scared, and determined all in one big ball of "I don't know what to call this." Me, who is almost never at a loss for words - especially in print. 

Part of me was freaking out. Just plain freaking out. That same part of me still is. My life will change so much - if they accept my application - in the next few months; what I do in the run of a day will barely resemble my "normal" routine now. It will be a LOT of work - and I will not have much time to do much of anything except work and study. 

For a while, I remind myself. Only for a while. 

Until that starts, though, I am back to waiting. A frenzy of activity and then .... nothing. Zippo. The only things missing from my application are things I don't have any control over: my transcript being forwarded to the institution and my references sending in their recommendations for my candidacy. 

Photo "Daily Planner With Pen" courtesy of
BrandonSigma at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

So, June will most likely be spent doing just what I'm doing now - only with the added flavor of anticipation and all those other things I mentioned (in varying degrees on various days or moments). 

And I'll be checking my email more often. 

I'm sure that other projects will come along to occupy my mind between now and the time I hear back from the university. Life does go on: my daughter is still recovering from surgery and learning to walk again (so impressed with her determination!), there are a couple of previously scheduled renovation projects that are happening in the next couple of weeks, and the weather is warming up (finally) so I'll be taking more time to appreciate that, because it lasts such a very short time here! 

And there is a lot to be said for the slogan, "One day at a time." (Sometimes, it's "One moment at a time"!) For today, I get to spend time with my husband and daughter, and run a few errands in town, and weed out my closet and all the tubs of clothing that I had set aside last fall. 

That ... I can do. I don't even have to hurry up. OR wait.