TREES!

I need trees!

The pictures just aren't doing it today

At @20 degree temps, I can admire the waterfalls from my chair, but it's just not working for trees. I need the shaded hidden green areas where the giants dwell. They needn't be green themselves, which is fairly rare in this place at this time of year, but they need to be somewhere in the verdant hidden spaces that only tree lovers can find and cherish. And touch and smell, and be immersed in.

I need to put my hand on the bark, and feel in my mind the stirring of the sap as the year begins again. I want to feel the moss, live and lush from recent snowfalls, or dry and dusty from cold, and feel the incipient life therein. 

I want life to blossom and winter to end.

I want to touch the trees  that touch the stars.

The Rhythm

Yesterday's entry was NOT what I meant to write when I started out. It took off in an independent way that surprised even me.
Although, while my fingers were flying and I was wondering what the heck, the words and feelings coming up were true and honest and deeply felt.
That is why I let it stand.

But the faint persistent rhythm I had in mind was the daily rhythm of my life; perhaps my circadian rhythm.

The day begins around 4 when I am finishing up work. Home and playing on the computer, sometimes writing, until 6 or 7, depending on mood, fatigue, and insomnia.
Awake at 8 to make sure Hailey is getting started on getting ready for school. Most days I am mire observer than participant in this ritual, but some days I am fully involved.
Then, if Warren is still sleeping or sleepy, I can get some sleep. Depending on Warren, who loves to play with his mammaw, this can last to anywhere between 10 and 12.
About 2 I start feeling tired again and sometimes can nap, but usually not.
4 is time for Hailey to get home and I try to be awake for that, just so she knows I care.
5 is average suppertime, and time to eat and sleep.
7:15 time to get ready for work, which usually starts at 8.

I have tried to sleep through these days, or sometimes remain awake through them so that I can dramatically collapse at work or in the middle of a store, but I'm a darned failure at that type of self serving drama. The confounded infernal, persistent rhythm takes over and keeps me living my (somewhat boring; somewhat routine) life.

I don't like it.
Don't want it.
But there it is.

Life and Love and Other Things

I have been trying to write of other things than my own problems. I don't want this blog to be a whining moaning list of things to complain about. I don't want it to be a pity party for me. I don't want it to be about me, specifically.

I want it to be about life in general. Politics, social media, diet, religion, education, children and grandchildren -- all the things that make up the array of things we grapple with from day to day. That's what I want.

For now, I can't seem to think beyond my own life-box. 

I'm stuck and I can't seem to move beyond these limitations.

Someday I will, I'm sure. 

Someday, I'll live again, love again, have opinions again, and I'll re-find my writer's voice.

Someday.

That day isn't yet.

I have many beginnings of ideas, thoughts, concepts to discuss. A recent facebook discussion inspired an article about the education system. But it remains unwritten, as headaches and busy-ness and the visitation of the demon build up walls faster than I can build windows. 

And forget about doors! There's no time for doors. 

The important thing is to keep a little light coming into this thick and sturdy box.

Why keep writing, then?

Well, that is the best way to poke holes in the wall and let a little light in.

Also, there may be someone out there that needs to read something like this.

Someone who needs to know there can be light in darkness.

Someone who needs to know that tears can cleanse as well as burn.

Someone who needs to know how someone else navigates the pitfalls of an empty life.

Someone who needs to know about hope, and choices, and giving up.

Someone who needs to know that, in spite of it all, there remains life, and love, and other things.

Dying to Live, or Living to Die

I wonder if anyone of you realize how fast the end of this disease (COPD) can come upon you.
My husband went to hospital with pneumonia and an exacerbation because of it. He got worse, got better, got worse, got better. Then he tried to sit up unassisted in the bed and the doctor is saying, "This is end stage. Do you want kept alive by machine and stuck in a nursing facility, or not?" And, before we could even take that in, he crashed again and the goal was to keep him alive until his daughters came.
Of course, he lingered after that, even so still reluctant to leave us.

The point is, it all happened too quickly. We knew it would come, someday, and some day soon, and had discussed things in general -- health care directives and funeral 'plans' and such.
I urge you to get specific.
Do not make your loved one have to make the decision in the space of a few minutes or a couple hours.
Talk to your doctor about how it ends.
Talk to your family about how you want to end, and where.
Write it down somewhere.

Then go back to your business of living every day and enjoying every breath you take while you are taking it.

We all know that death is waiting for us. Those with chronic illnesses such as this know it more than the general population does. We know that we can have choices to make and there are choices our loved ones will have to make.
But do we want to put the burden of our decisions on their shoulders?

Know what you want, exactly, precisely.
Tell them what you want.
And now that this business of dying has been settled, go back to living.
.
Thoughtfully.
Gratefully.
Fully.

Welcome Warren

It's been a while. I apologize. One of the many new distractions was the birth of my grandson Warren Daniel Ruhstaller. He was born March 29. He's a tiny little fellow, especially since his mommy had got to be so huge in the last few weeks before his birth We were expecting at least a seven pounder instead of barely making five-and--half.

He looks just like Hailey, his big sister, did. My daughter says that she had the same baby twice. Looking at the pictures, if Hailey's picture wasn't in a beautiful multi-colorred dress, it would be hard to tell which child was which.

Rex hasn't seen him yet. We're hoping to get that organized, but timing  hasn't yet worked.  The baby has had dr appointments and wellness checks, Tam is trying to organize some type of support for her family while she's off work,   But new baby's are always a bit of a fuss, and always precious.
Now, days begin to settle back to normality.

Until the thunderstorms start rolling in.

Fall is Coming

An old favorite of mine, from when my little ones were little ones. Caught myself singing a version of this to the grandbaby last week.

Fall Is Coming

Fall is coming, oh me, oh my 

Fall is coming, the leaves will die 

Fall is coming, and winter soon 

Fall is coming, and the harvest moon 

Fall is coming, the year's most gone 

Fall is coming, summer soon gone 

Fall is coming, and will soon be here 

Fall is coming, the end of the year 

Fall is here, the leaves have turned 

Fall is here, summer is yearned 

Fall is here, and life slows down 

Fall is here, Summer's crown 

Fall is here, and winter is coming 

Fall is here, the harvesters are running 

Fall is here, let's get everything in 

Before winter comes in, cold as sin. 

Lawns are Overrated

This summer may be as memorable for its Lawn Mowing Crises as it will be for its No Bathing scenario.

When last we mowed, the riding mower  wasn't starting, so not running, and our quasi son-in-law had been mowing when the push mower decided to oil both him and the yard, as if from a cut artery. Rex went to a yard sale and bought another push mower. The Doofus mowed, but before he finished, he managed to break a ceramic guard off the newly purchased mower.

Rex managed to start and run the rider a few times, through the magic of jiggling and wiggling the fuse box, so the yard was done after a fashion. Not that he has had any business outside in heat and humidity, throwing up clouds of cut grass and pollens.
Earlier this week he was mowing on the rider when it quit cutting. It was running, but it just quit cutting the grass.
His diagnosis: a bearing on the deck went out. (Later he said it might be a broken or stretched-out belt, but of course the first thing he thought of was the most difficult and probably the most expensive cause.) We're waiting for Doofus to come and help him check it out, since it isn't something Rex can do alone or with my feeble assistance.

Yesterday I got out the push mower. I couldn't start it. Starting a push mower requires more co-ordination than I have ever had, and a fair bit of strength. I had hoped to have some mowing done by the time Rex woke, but that wasn't going to happen.

The sad thing is, he no longer has the strength to push/pull/hold and start the mower. At least, he didn't yesterday. It may have been a bad day for him. More likely it is his chronic illness catching up with him.
He's not ready to concede that, and it will take something from his spirit when he does.

What's so important about mowing anyway? Have you ever tried letting your lawn grow and seeing what Mother Nature will provide when you don't scalp her abundance to nothing?

There are shy little white flowers, with sprinklings of gold fairy dust that will creep out from the exposed roots of trees. There are exquisitely tiny johnny-jump-ups that jump up from nowhere. There are, of course, the golden sun discs of the dandelion. The white-to-pink-to-purple fronds of clover. There is the weaving waving sinuous grass-in-the-wind. And that's just the plant life!

Lawn mowing is overrated. It's too bad that so many towns require a certain amount of lawn mowing, because Nature provides a nice variety of textures and colors and scents and sounds and general liveliness that will never be felt, seen, smelled, or heard in a properly manicured and subdued lawn.

I cherish the variety Nature provides. I also cherish my husband, and I mourn with him that he cannot do this one thing that he has taken pride in being able to do -- keep his yard looking nice. If we cannot fix or replace his rider, or get a push mower that doesn't need starting (my first brother suggested an electric mower -- a wonderful idea for the purpose), then we will have to look into a different living arrangement.

Different indeed, with no lawn for him to mow or me to watch nature grow. It will be sad to leave the roots and wonders, but a joy to leave the(before, during, later on) malfunctioning machinery behind and have it out of our lives.


When that day ever comes. It's taking its time, as Nature takes hers, and fills my yard with flowers.

Fear of Phobia

I'm becoming, I'm afraid, a borderline agoraphobic.
No, I have become a borderline agoraphobic.
The becoming I'm worried about is the full blown phobia.

I don't think that will ever happen. I have too many chores and a granddaughter. That should be enough to keep me getting out on a fairly regular basis. And there are doctor's visits for my husband, and going to the pharmacy, and grocery shopping.

Those things should all keep me going, keep me out and about. I'm not so sure they will. Even if they do, I'm not sure that some of those things count. I don't enjoy them. I don't relish going to Walmart after prescriptions. I don't stop at this store or that and peek and poke and just enjoy myself, just enjoy getting out, even though God knows I rarely get alone time except in the car. Maybe alone time isn't really that important, anyway. I can always be alone inside myself. Inside my computer, or lost in a book. (That's not really alone, though. There are people in those books, and some of them are stupider than the ones in real life. Who'd've ever thought that was possible?)

In some ways, I feel I've been heading that way -- this way -- for all my life. I've never been able to easily or naturally speak to other people, sometimes not even those I know well. I have had my electricity and my water shut off because I was unable to make the telephone calls to make arrangements to pay. (Many years ago; not recently.)

But now I leave reluctantly. Not even my writers group holds the same interest for me, because my life has so changed. For a year I had limited contact with the real world.
I had no telephone and no internet. Because of Rex's hospitalization, and his doctor's and medicines, and having to pay other people gas money, the bills got way behind. So there was little talking with anyone, except when I needed something. That doesn't encourage socializing from either party involved. At least I didn't feel that it did. .

No car -- I had to get rides, or arrange rides, everywhere and anywhere. Few trips were worth the trouble. My writer friends were the ones with the most available help, but my sisters were always there also. The writers happen to live and work closer.
But even with their help, I was isolated and alone, and there's too much to handle alone, but I did it.



I did it all, from the safety net of my home.

I'm afraid, often. I'm afraid to leave because I worry about Rex getting sick or falling when I'm gone. Some nights I can't sleep, because I'm afraid I'll wake up and he won't be breathing. I'm afraid to drive anywhere, because what if I'm involved in an accident and get hurt? What will happen to Rex when someone else brings him that kind of news? Who will take care of him while I can't?
My God, what if I get crippled?
What will happen to Rex if I get killed?

Rex, bless his heart, encourages me to go to my group, and to go to family events, if he knows about them. I usually don't tell him, because he won't /can't go. And I don't want to leave him alone for hours at a time. All the what-ifs come alive when that happens.

I can't let this progress. It must not be allowed to get any worse. Even I cannot live that self-contained. There are chores that must be done, errands that must be run. And what kind of example am I setting for Hailey if I turn myself into the Hermit Grandmother? It's bad enough that Pappaw is already that way.

Thank goodness for summer, for the season of picnics and reunions and weddings. Thank God for sisters and friends and other family who will coax me or bully me out of my little blue hole. They, more than anything I can do, are what keeps me straight, keeps me trying. Keeps me on the sane side of the line,

I can thank none of them enough. Ever.

Another Good-Bye

Dick Clark died today.
Davy Jones died a few weeks ago.
Mike Wallace.
Whitney Houston.
Thomas Kinkade.
Before that, someone else.

Of course, people die every day, just as people are born every day. Deaths of celebrities really have small meaning in the real lives of real people, except that they give us pause. A pause to remember a time in our lives when they were that important, perhaps, or just a pause to acknowledge that, hey, they did something with their lives. They made multiple lives better, somehow.

Of course their contributions are no greater than the lives of a grandfather succumbing to age -- Alzheimer has already stolen his mind and heart. The loss of a celebrity has less meaning than the loss of a young bald woman leaving behind children and one more clue in the fight against cancer. No celebrity death touches that of a  death in utero.

2012 has already had more than its share of celebrity deaths, or so it seems.

2012 is supposed to be the end of the world, according to ancient Mayans. They even predicted an exact date, in spite of our completely incompatible calendars and the many changes we've made to ours over the years.

There's a theory that the end of the world could be the end of the world as we know it.

As our artists and entertainers and informers die off, one by one, we know there may be something to that. The leaders of one of the greatest eras of entertainment are dying off, and We Who Made Them Great must mourn, and know that it will be our turn, one turn sooner than we'd thought.

Blogging

I've been reading a lot of blogs about blogging, so I decided to add mine to the mix. Most of them are about  focusing on the topic of your blog.
I should be okay there. My blog is about life, and that's a pretty broad focus.
More specifically, I hope it is about the absurdities of life, and the finding of the positive in the negative. It's up to me to make it about that.

Yes, the writing is important. Writing is why I'm writing a blog, but it isn't 'about' writing. There are many of those and, eventually, they aren't anymore. They still claim to be, though.

Writing is crazy, life is crazy. Writing life is crazy. Everything has its funny side, or a sunny side. Sometimes it's hard to see, and we need to be directed where to look. I hope that's what I accomplish with this blog.

And if it interests others in my writing, that's good, too.