This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #51: Green
This was the view outside my home a few days ago.
The color green is everywhere.
Spring time explains it…before the heat of summer dries the grass to a crispy brown.
There is something comforting about blue + yellow.
I chose green as the color for my first bedroom-of-my-own when I was 11 years old. Emerald green carpet. Green diamond patterned wallpaper (which I loved, even though it aggravated the paper hanger). The only green in the house. A marked contrast to my sisters’ purple and pink florals.
The woods I explored. The leafy tree I climbed. The grass I sprawled out on. Looking up…studying cloud formations.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #50: Acceptance
“There’s release in knowing the truth no matter how anguishing it is. You come finally to the irreducible thing, and there’s nothing left to do but pick it up and hold it. Then, at last, you can enter the severe mercy of acceptance.”
Sue Monk Kidd The Mermaid Chair
Acceptance…may mean making peace with an overwhelming, ugly truth. Living with it in your head.
My head.
The new raw reality nudges me. Breaks my concentration on a bright sunny day. I take it out. Examine it. Until a familiar gnawing sickness in the pit of my stomach makes me look away. I put it back before it drops from my shaking hands and explodes.
I’m a member of a club I never asked to join. But was accepted into anyway. I don’t belong here. But it turns out I do. Surrounded by the nameless who also lost their pasts. Exposing ragged edges of grief. Struggling to reach a place of resignation in a stark new reality. Healing measured in tiny steps.
Get over itMove onLet it go…well meaning, but frantic pleas from those who care, but…they aren’t in my head with the unimaginable truth. How could they possibly get it?
So for those of us who struggle to accept what life has thrown up on us…for those of us with battle scar tread marks on our backs…we yearn to beaccepted…frailties, brokenness and all. In order to be whole again.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #49: Gadget
Tell (or show) me about those gadgets in your life, or better yet, put on your creative caps and invent something new.
flashlight magnifier
It is right here on my desk.
A gadget of sorts that I tossed in a drawer over 25 years ago.
Thinking…I can probably use this thing once in a while. If I ever need it. Someday.Maybe for teeny tiny print on a label…
Teasing my husband – who is a year my senior – you’ll probably need this before I do.
Little did I know….
The truth is…I kept it because it was Oma’s. My grandmother, who ended up nearly blind from macular degeneration, viewed life through a blurry haze. Despite the thick glasses she was forced to wear in the last few decades of her life.
When Oma moved to an assisted living facility near me after Opa died, I arranged for her to have cataract surgery – with amazing results. Honey I can see colors! At 84, the blurry haze was finally in color.
Many years earlier she had gone to the Lighthouse for the Blind in New York for help. Which is where she got this flashlight magnifier. A marvelous invention.
It turned out to be more than a gadget. It was her pathway to reading greeting cards, letters from family and friends. Reader’s Digest. Restaurant menus.
She died at the age of almost 87. I saved her letters. Her photographs. A few pieces of her jewelry. The hand mirror that emits a laughing sound when you pick it up. And the Lighthouse for the Blind flashlight magnifier.
It has been dusted off and put to use a few times over the years. However, the older I get – and the more I have to reach for those DARN reading glasses – the more I switch on Oma’s gadget instead…
So handy when I examine Opa’s color slides…checking for dust…before scanning them for this blog.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly challenge #47: In-Between
This week, I need your inspiration – where do you go in the in-between? How do you survive it? Or maybe the in-between is ripe with gifts?
~~~
We will call you when the all the lab tests come back… Pathology could take a while…
You’ll have to wait for the results.
Waiting
Watching
Worrying
Wanting
What If
When Will
What Now
What Then
Why
When
Where
Waiting
The monkey mind churns.
Stealing today’s minutes in-between.
Poof.
Gone.
Helpless jumble of thoughts line up unbidden Bumping into each other Scrambling gibberish Is it five minutes or five hours I can’t stand another secondof….
Turn It Off
Short circuit the loop of lunacy.
Plug in
Three minutes of song.
Shut frantic tired eyes
One-Two.
One-Two-Three-Four.
Volume up.
Way up.
Melodies seep past fear laced neurons
Soothing the gray matter of terror
A foot tapping rhythm takes over…
Three minutes of happy.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #46: Response
For this week’s challenge, I thought it might be interesting to create a post in response to someone else’s work. This might be a poem in response to an image, or an image in response to a poem. It might be an imagined dialogue, or a response that demonstrates how the other has inspired you. As always, be creative, and remember to create a link to the original piece.
~~~
Pat at 2squarewriting posted “The Art of Letting Go – Moving On Without Losing Everyone You Know” on April 4, 2019.
My response…
It’s okay to
wrap up the
indignation and despair
for what was real
but really wasn’t
grateful to know
the difference
from years grown up
tethered to an illusion
of close connections
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #45: Anniversary
…pick a date (not necessarily a date of traditional significance) and look back.
~~~
In some places the leaves were just starting to change colors.
The day my friend Becky died. On September 18, 1999.
It will soon be the anniversary of that date.
Twenty years since the woman who was my close friend for over 20 years…and partner in crime at work…left this world.
After 6 years of fighting the fast growing cells that had already spread to her lymph nodes. Discovered after a radical mastectomy in 1993.
She refused a wig and a prosthesis…too much trouble, she said. I willbeat this.
She was 40 years old.
Chemotherapy. Physical Therapy. Radiation. Repeat.
Intermittent remission.
Until there wasn’t.
I’ve watched friends die of breast cancer. I guess I can do it too. She announced one evening…looking at me over her half-eaten plate of scallops and mixed vegetables. As we sat together at our favorite Chinese restaurant.
I stared at her. Speechless. But Becky always got right to the point.
She continued…You know, life is hard if what you want is pure enjoyment.
It would be one of our last dinners out. Before we switched to meeting for breakfast. When she had a bit more energy and had shifted to part time work.
By early September 1999, she was admitted to a local hospital for the last time. Coincidentally I had started working there again the year before. Where we had worked as side-by-side dietitians 20 years earlier. Before our first children were born within weeks of each other. And we began sharing the joys, fears and trials of motherhood and marriage. No subject off limits.
I slipped into her hospital room. Becky it’s me.
With her eyes closed, she asked about my 17 year old daughter thinking she was still 12. Her husband stood nearby…looked at me and shook his head.
There is nothing they can do, he said. It’s in her liver. She’s in kidney failure. Too late for the new drug study.
He may move her to a rehab place for pain management.
What about hospice? In your home? I asked. I hadn’t thought of that, he answered.
That was where I spent my last hours with Becky. Beside the hospital bed set up in her living room. Between two bright windows…the September early morning sun peeking in at us.
No coffee. No muffins. No Chinese food or wine this time.
I pulled up a chair. Reached in between the metal rails and held her left hand in mine. The head of the bed up. Her face turned in my direction…eyes shut. Corners of her mouth turned down.
Breathe in. Breathe out. In. Out. Her mouth opened slightly with each breath.
Her hair was just starting to grow back again. Wispy buzz cut style.
Her hand was cool and smooth as I laced her fingers between mine. We were alone. It was quiet. A slight breeze blew in through the open windows.
Her leg twitched. Her arms jerked upward a bit.
I whispered in her ear…Are you cold?
Turning slightly toward me she murmured…No I leaned closer and whispered back…You always were a hot number. I saw a tiny crooked smile.
Her eyes opened slightly. Looked at me for an instant, their blueness in stark contrast to her colorless skin. What is it? I ask.
But she can’t tell me.
I picked her hand up again and held it between both of mine.
Her large gray cat stepped over my feet. I felt its softness brush against my leg. I don’t like cats much. Never have. She had always teased me about it. I leaned close and whispered…Somehow this big cat got in here. A hint of a smile…and she mumbled Be nice to the kitty. It’s a nice kitty.
It was late morning. I was still holding her hand. She shifted in bed. Sighed. Sighed again.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I stopped counting. Becky do you remember that time when we tried to get a picture of the kids sitting on your couch? They were about 6 months old. We’d get them settled and then by the time we’d step back to snap the picture they would both slide sideways on top of each other? And they’d start to cry? And we’d prop them back up again?
A faint smile came and went. I squeezed her hand.
The front door opened and closed.
The hospice nurse had arrived.
To care for my friend Becky. Wash her. Make her comfortable. Ease her pain.
I bent down to kiss Becky on the cheek, feeling the soft coolness of her skin. I love you Becky. I hope she heard me. But even if she didn’t, I knew she knew.
The next morning I picked up the ringing phone.
Her husband’s shaky voice… Becky died this morning. She was 47 years old.
Even now – years later – I catch myself thinking I have spotted her in the grocery story parking lot. But of course I didn’t.
Becky’s place in my heart is rooted deep.
The epitome of strength and love and loyalty.
And what a fighter.
She loved her family and her friends and her God.
I am privileged and grateful to have known her.
I’m a stronger person for it.
And a better friend.
She will soar into my conscious thought at random times…cheering me with her signature humor. Triggering a memory of times past.
And our life adventures together.
Cut far too short.
Reminding me…of the precious gift that friendship truly is.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #44: Numerology
Did you notice the unit number?
Yes, I did.
Well?
…I’m going to let it go.
…and that was that. My husband could exhale.
The 3 digit unit number for our potential new condo added up to 13. A possible deal breaker. Theoretically. Based on past history. I won’t even book plane seats in row 13.
I hold fast to the significance of there being almost exactly 3 months between the birth dates of my husband, my 2 children and myself. And that my birth date involves multiples of the same number. The symmetry of their birth date numbers (all containing an 8) offers a strange comfort…which I have never questioned.
I was the first child of 5, born into a family of 7. Odd numbers. Still pondering that.
When bad things happen, I’m not surprised when the 3rd follows the first 2.
Even – rather than odd – numbers just make more sense. After all, you have 10 fingers. 10 toes. 2 hands. And so on. At least that’s the plan, if you’re born lucky.
Using V.J.’s link, I looked up my life path number. Which turned out to be 7. The personality traits, according to the Numerology theory…are surprisingly (or not so surprisingly…) spot on for the most part. Especially the part about “always looking for the answers….”
When we bought our first home in 1980 and realized the house number matched what had been our first apartment number, I knew it was meant to be. And it was.
However…36 years later…in 2016…I could not make the rest of our lives contingent on such things as…numbers. And, one might say, superstition.
Fortunately the square footage numbers added up to 17.
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #43: Rain
What is rain?…
RAAAIIIN!!
RAAAAIIIN!!
RAAAIIIN!!
A warm July evening…
A small boy dashed from one puddle to another…his voice pitched high with excitement. His wispy blonde hair matted from the downpour.
Be careful Buddy!…
He jumped back from the edge of the concrete steps…onto the lawn. The ground soaking wet. He hopped. One foot. The other foot. Arms waving.
Do you like the rain?…
He stopped. Gaze fixed. On the grass. The garden. The fence. Through the rain drops. Watching. And listening. The summer shower hitting the porch. The roof. Dripping down his forehead. His nose.
He blinked fast to clear his eyes.
Short legs planted firmly. Arms spread wide.
His body momentarily a statue…
RAAIIN!!
Another hop. A small jump. A twirl. Fingers patted the evergreen bush.
The ground spongey. T-shirt stuck to his tummy. Shorts soaked.
The brick walkway puddled.
Splash…one blue sneaker. Splash the other one.
A two-year old’s happy tap dance. A smile plastered in place.
Do you like the rain?..
RAAIIN!!
Where’s the rain coming from, buddy?
SKY!!
Little wet hands reached out.
Unfolded.
Palms up…
RAIN!!
Do you like the rain?..
He paused. Pointed and…turned to his parents.
His outstretched arms raised in celebration…
A Victory V…
…and a final shout…
This post inspired by V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #42: Farewell
Every day is a farewell of sorts.
I am reminded of something I learned in science class years ago. To every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.
For every farewell, there is a Hello.
A Welcome To sign.
A Chapter One.
Sometimes, if you’re lucky, a do-over.
Farewells accumulate more quickly…the older I get.
Crowding the rear view.
Perhaps blocking the front view…
…now that I have more time to notice.
This came to mind upon reading another blogger’s post today: The Art of Letting Go. The coincidence of finding this post in my inbox as I was contemplating V.J.’s challenge is probably more serendipity than coincidence.
One of those Pay Attention moments.
Farewells are often difficult. While trying to maintain connections. To people. To what is important. To who we are. It is a decision with consequences after all.
I have bid farewell many times in the last decades.
Mostly by choice…
Downsizing – thousands of farewells with every trip to Goodwill. Sale on Craig’s List. Yard sale. Donation to charity. Trash and recycling day. Even “stuff” that brought me joy. The reality of space as the priority. Realizing it was okay to let go.
Moving – from a home of 37 years. Where my marriage bloomed. Two beautiful children slept, ate, played, laughed, cried, hugged, stomped, yelled, studied, loved. And then bid farewell. A home where the grass grew tall. The trees and flowers blossomed. Glorious forsythias…a special Mother’s Day gift…flourished. Now all in the rear view.
…Also goodbye to mowing the lawn and shoveling snow. Raking leaves. Climbing stairs. Taking care of a big house.
Emptying the nest – There was always that catch in my throat as I watched the train pull out of the station. Or the bus leave for the airport. Carrying my son, backpack in hand. My daughter, her oversized purse packed with books. Back to college. Work. A new home. In another city. I waved frantically…hopefully at the right window. Or from the front steps of our home…as the car backed out of the driveway, shifted to drive and before I knew it, rounded the corner and disappeared. Farewell. For now.
…Also goodbye to listening for a teenage driver returning home late at night. Responsibility for raising ’em right. Laundry. Tuition.
Farewell to worry? Not so much.
First farewells – Perhaps the most etched in memory. My daughter – my oldest – at 3. Her first day at preschool. Pink corduroy pants. Flowered turtleneck. Eyes bright. Huge smile. More than ready. Sun shining that March day as I walked her into the coat cubby room. “Bye Mommy!!” A hug and a kiss. She hasn’t looked back since. A bittersweet farewell. That made perfect sense.
The most difficult farewells…the unexpected ones. Not by choice….
When doctors started concluding office visits with “now that you’re 35…” these things happen. Which 20 years later morphed into “now that you’re menopausal” these things happen. To – finally – “autoimmune” happens. It might as well have become my middle name.
The doctors shrug. No longer look me in the eye.
Another farewell to who I used to be. What I could do.
No do-overs here; but adjustments for a new path.
Refocused.
…Relationships desperately needing a shift.
Unexpectedly…no longer healthy.
Perhaps the most difficult. Challenging.
Familiar connections gone terribly wrong.
Out of my control. Into the deep end.
Leading to…Farewell.
~ Hello Welcome To
the new chapter.
one letter UP ~ diary 2.0 