Oct 30, 2014
I began calling myself old at about sixty-five, but I wanted to claim the title even earlier than that.
My friends in their eighties laugh at the notion that I’m old at sixty-seven. Still, how long can one go on being middle-aged? Middle-aged carries all sorts of responsibilities and burdens – working for a living, saving for retirement, caring for teenagers and parents. Old brings freedom and power.
image:usatoday.com
As an old woman, I’m free from hoping that men will find me sexually attractive. When I was younger I was on an everlasting honey-hunt. I dressed and walked and talked to entice the male of the species.
the honey-hunt image:businessinsider.com
I’m free from trying to be what other people expect me to be. I can’t say I’m free from worrying what other people think – ‘How can she let her daughter dress like that?’ ‘She only reads bits and pieces of the Times’ ‘She doesn’t compost’- but I no longer expect perfection of myself, having long since stopped expecting it of anyone else.
I don’t let her dress like THIS. image: amazon.com
I am aware that when I simply act like myself – blunt, profane, opinionated – some people enjoy it because I don’t fit their notion of sweet old grandma. But as I have told Amanda, who is in middle school and at the painful peak of self-consciousness, the only person who pays much attention to me is me. Everyone else is far too busy worrying about themselves.
As an old woman, I feel powerful despite the crumbling – the whiny joints, hole-y memory and various other ailments. When my hair began to go gray, it was a tweedy pepper and salt. I died it purple for a couple of years, and when I let it grow out it had become a lovely puffy white. Irrationally, I gained confidence from my white hair. I walk into a meeting and believe people think I know what I’m talking about and am worth listening to. This may be delusional; it is contrary to the common notion that old women become invisible.
worth listening to image:nydailynews.com
The world doesn’t want me to call myself old (insofar as it’s paying attention, having rather more pressing matters to attend to.). Huge amounts of internet verbiage are dedicated to avoiding the word. As soon as people find out that one or another synonym means old, and refers to them, they apparently get pissed off and the word becomes verboten in its turn.
I believe people shy away from the word out of fear. Along with freedom and power, aging brings loss. Regardless of what you call it, the last twenty years or so of the journey will have challenges and growth that we never imagined when we were younger.
One of the lesser challenges is how to respond to young people who insist on denying we are old. A waiter recently asked, “And what will the young lady have?” Finally fed up with this sort of thing, I said, “I’m sure you don’t mean to offend, but I’m not a young lady. I’m old.” He actually began to argue. I insisted, “I’m proud to be old,” and he retreated, looking very uncomfortable. I left a good tip to make up for it.
image: huffingtonpost.com
A group of journalists interested in aging issues surveyed 100 journalists about appropriate ways to refer to old people. (They didn’t say whether any of these 100 were nearing 100.) In Words to Age by: a Brief Glossary and Tips on Usage, they came up with guidelines “intended to help journalists represent midlife and older people in socially neutral language that respects their individuality without appending presumptuous labels to them, either directly or indirectly.”
The favorite term was “older.” Than whom, I have to ask? They also approved, with much discussion and many cautions: elder, middle-aged, midlife, boomers, senior. They disapproved of: baby boomers, senior citizen, elderly. After a while of reading all this I stood up and yelled “OLD, OLD, OLD.”
So if I’m rejecting synonyms and euphemisms, and insist on old, is it old lady or old woman?
Hip young men used to refer to a lover as “my old lady.” Though the phrase has a nice musical sound, ‘lady’ belongs to a class system and a set of rules. The concept puts women on a pedestal. It’s a great place to be if you want to be revered, but it restricts travel. I never heard those hip young men call themselves gentlemen.
old lady image:enchantedserenityperiodfilms.blogspot.com
As a young feminist I rejected the sense of ownership, the elitism, and all the strictures that come with the name. My father used to tell me to sit like a lady – ie legs down and closed. A lady doesn’t admit to having genitals, or if she does, she calls them private parts. She doesn’t ever use bad language. Now, as an old feminist, I can’t possibly call myself a lady, since I’ve taken to dressing inappropriately, in warm weather wearing nothing but a caftan all over town, letting my body take the air.
Just half the collection
Old woman. The words come to a full stop. The sound is forceful, not flowery. Woman is strong, generative, sexual. Since I stopped being a girl I’ve been a young woman, middle-aged woman, and now I’m happy to call myself old woman.
Old is a proud title. By the time we are old most of us have walked many miles and climbed many mountains. We have survived our own mistakes. We’ve had lots of sorrow and lots of joy, some triumphs and accomplishments. We may have the wisdom to keep regret and pride in proper proportion. We have a lot to think about: our past is a multi-volume novel, and our future looms close with some of the biggest challenges of our life. I am awed, and yes, scared. I know I may have a very hard journey toward the big End. It will be no easier if I try to deny it.
Sep 27, 2014
Congratulate me – I am a Parent of a Teenager, or POT. Oh, technically she’s not a teenager – she’ll be just 12 in November. But she’s been well into puberty for a year, and where her body goes, her psyche, behavior and attitude follow.
they got attitude source: gettyimages.com
You know, I’ve done this before. My son, now 44, was once a teenage boy. He did what many boys do – barely spoke to me for several years, and occasionally took my car at night and went Lord knows where. Once he got it stuck in the mud behind a convenience store and the police brought him home. Another time they caught him swimming in the public pool at midnight. He did twenty hours of community service.
source: beforeitsnews.com
Amanda’s mother, now 31, was once a teenage girl. She spoke to me a great deal. She also spoke on the phone a great deal, and I remember our life together as a constant battle to prevent her from using the phone late at night. (This was before cell phones). She ran up over a thousand dollars in phone calls to psychics and sex-chat lines, and I ended by cutting the wires in the phone jack in her room. POTs are sometimes driven to bizarre actions in a desperate and futile attempt to keep some control of the situation.
source:spiritsconnect.com
So here I am on my third go-round. (My stepdaughter Leah doesn’t count, as she lived with her mother, who took the brunt of it.) It should be easier this time, because I’m not doing it alone. All POTs sorely need a woe-sharer and perspective-provider, and Joe is a most magnificent partner. On the other hand, I’m 67, and have been heard to mutter, “I’m too old for this shit.”
maybe I’m not too old for this shit source: imgur.com
Many parents turn to books to help them through all the ages and stages of child-rearing. My Bible is Get out of My Life, but First Could You Drive Me and Cheryl to the Mall? by Anthony Wolf, a clinical psychologist. When I’m living with a teenager, I’m always talking to other parents to find out if theirs is as horrible as mine. Wolf’s book is full of dialogues and situations that sound as though he’s been spying on us. It reassures me that this is all normal, and I’m not alone.
A strange experience for POTs is to hear about their child from other adults – coaches, teachers, friends’ parents. We met last week with all of Amanda’s teachers, and the praise flew around the room – responsible, mature, engaged, willing, bright, asks good questions. The one that moved me close to tears was ‘happy.’ But I did wonder if they had the right child. It’s enough to make you believe in doppelgangers.
are there two of her? source:loscuatroojos.com
Wolf says the child self and the becoming-adult self live side by side in the teenager, and if things are going right, she will reserve the child-self for home, while the outside world gets the grown-up. “The self that adolescents bring out to deal with the world is in fact a truer reflection of the level of maturity that they have achieved.”
The adolescent’s job is to break away from her parents. The stronger the bond, the fiercer the struggle. And the feelings are ambivalent. It wasn’t all that bad being a little kid – it’s tough to give up all the perks of childhood and venture out into a world where you’ll have to make your own way and do your own laundry, especially when you secretly fear you won’t be able to. All the feelings of loss and fear distill into anger at those all-powerful creatures, your parents.
out into the world source:flickr.com
Most of my interactions with Amanda are at meals and in the car. In about fifty percent of them I am the target of her contempt. She may tell me that the way I eat apples is disgusting, or ask what that red bump is under my nose. She can express contempt silently, with only a glance or a glare. This morning I put on my turn signal earlier than she considers appropriate, and the scorn shivered about her skin like heat on a pavement.
I usually handle all this loathing pretty well. But sometimes in response to withering contempt, I do wither. I feel despicable and disgusting. Other times I fume silently: ‘All I do for you…you can walk home from the bus stop in the rain…forget about the earrings I was going to buy you…and the Halloween costume? you can just go as a bitch.’ The worst is when I giggle; teenagers hate to be laughed at. But what else can you do when after 60-odd years of eating apples an 11-year-old tells you you’re doing it wrong?
maybe there’sa better way
I have read Wolf’s book twice. What I have taken from it is the following: teenagers lie, disobey, and refuse to do household chores. The job of parents is to cope with this. Wolf accepts the reality, doesn’t waste energy in wishing it were different, and advises us how to handle it. “You do not win the battle for control with teenagers.”
The lying is interesting. They will lie adamantly, indignant at your doubt, surrounded by all the evidence that belies them. When called out, they will say something like, ‘oh, I forgot.’ Wolf gives spot-on, very amusing examples of this, and says, “If the trustworthiness of teenagers is the foundation of integrity in our society, we are in big trouble….Lying is bad. I am not defending it. But it is also the normal response of the vast majority of teenagers either to cover up a wrong or to manipulate a situation to advance their cause.” All we can do is verify when possible, especially if the issue is important, and call them on their lies.
a weak foundation source:pullyourownstrings.com
Though adolescent in her moods and attitudes, Amanda is still only 11. Her sins are mostly venial: leaving dirty dishes in her room, watching Netflix when she’s used up all her screen time, putting on makeup the minute she’s out of my sight. Sex, drugs and booze are still a little way down the road, though I know we’ll get there sooner than I wish. But Wolf’s general approach to disobedience applies to all levels of crime. We must not abandon our rules and requirements, but restate them firmly each time they are ignored. We should be judicious in devising and imposing consequences Piling consequence on consequence produces only a thick book of crimes and punishments, and a child grounded until she is 37. We probably don’t want them around that long.
a book of crimes source:durgeshlawhouse.in
As for refusing to do chores: “An absolute fact of adolescence is that if you do not nag, they will not do what you want…If having a teenager do nothing is acceptable to you, then do not nag. But if it is not, you are stuck with nagging.”
I always find myself surprised when it works. I tell her to change the kitty litter and walk away before she can argue. I repeat it every hour or so, always with no emotional involvement. She waits long enough to make it clear that she’s doing it only because it suits her, not because she has to obey me, and then she goes into the atrium and cleans the litter.
Teenagers are masters of manipulation and diversion, swift to turn a discussion of homework or chores or curfews into an emotional battle with “I’m just stupid and I’m dropping out of school,” “it’s not fair,” “you don’t trust me. ” Parents have to stick to the issue at hand. They must try not to let the outrageous statements and their own guilt and uncertainty pull them into the maelstrom. When our teenagers are hysterical, we must try not to be, and reserve our creative counterattacks for our rich fantasy life.
avoid the maelstrom source:zmescience.com
In the face of insults, defiance, and deceit we should continue providing the basic maintenance they need (feed them, buy them clothes and school supplies, drive them here and there) as well as go on doing all the loving, special things we used to do so happily when they were young and adorable. If we followed the rule of Tit for Tat, our children would probably starve and go naked, and we would certainly have to cancel Christmas, birthdays, and all family outings.
Wolf discusses a good deal more than I have mentioned, always with humor, intelligence, and a startling acceptance of reality. He covers specific problem situations with suggestions as to how we might cope. He does not expect us to be saints during the stormy years, nor to avoid mistakes. But he helps us to trust our judgment, and assures us that it is very likely our child will turn out to be an ok human being. Not all teenagers are hellions. But if you or someone you love is raising one who is, I strongly recommend this book.
Aug 29, 2014
My sister Luli has charisma. Her charm is compounded of her eccentricity, her humor, and her avid interest in all sorts of subjects – gypsies, lepers, neanderthals, nuns, books, cats, food, gardens – and especially other people.
image:bbc.co.uk image:societyofgenealogists.com
Luli makes friends everywhere and all the time. Some are friendly acquaintances, like the bus drivers with whom she shares gardening stories or the copy store clerk who helps her create her homemade greeting cards. Some are new friends, like the women she meets at the gym. She’ll arrange to meet for coffee, and soon progress to lunches that can last several hours. And then she has her long-time friends – the group of writers she calls the coven, her friend Mary Jane in New York.
meeting for coffee image:theconnector.co.nz
She has formed independent friendships with several of my friends, and arranges to have coffee with them when she comes to visit. This used to feel like poaching, but our sibling rivalry has diminished with time. (It’s okay as long as I know they love me best.)
Luli’s charm has overcome the usual distance which medical professionals maintain with their patients. Like all of us, she has had her share of medical issues. The most frightening was a pulmonary embolism, which, after many horrors, led to her joining a research project on effective dosages for blood thinners. She so charmed the doctors who were following her that they asked her to describe her experience to a class of medical students, and speak on a radio program about the research.
Listening intently, to Luli? image:classroom.synonym.com
But Luli’s most significant medical problem is not the thickness or thinness of her blood. Luli has had depression most of her life. Anyone who has experienced depression in themselves or a loved one knows it is an absolutely godawful chronic disease. Treatment is complex and long-term. Finding effective medication is a matter of heartbreaking trial and error, and some medicines will work for a while and then lose their efficacy. But medication alone is not enough to suppress the demons; I believe most experts agree that counseling is essential.
Since she moved from Manhattan fifteen years ago, Luli has been very lucky to have found a psychiatrist who suits her. And because Luli is so loveable, she and Dr. Shrink have formed a close relationship, and the doctor has gone to extraordinary lengths to help Luli through the terrible times.
A faculty member at a medical school, she is a consultant to the cardiology fitness program at a very swanky and expensive gym, which I shall call Merry Meadows. Because she believes that exercise is an essential component of treatment for depression, Dr. Shrink arranged a scholarship for Luli, who has a heart condition, to participate in the 12-week program, where trainers guide and monitor progress.
As she always does, Luli plunged in full-force, and astounded everyone at Merry Meadows with her enthusiasm and hard work. When her twelve weeks was up, she drew cartoon thank-you cards for the staff, and the program director told her she had been an inspiration to everyone, staff and geezers alike.
A swanky gym image:galleryhip.com
Meanwhile, the Merry Meadows program director has asked Dr Shrink to write a proposal for an exercise program to treat depression. I was lying in the hammock, watching a hummingbird play in the bamboo, when Luli told me about this in our daily phone call, and I immediately had a brilliant idea: the proposal should include a stipend for Luli.
Luli’s duties would include a monthly tea date with the director or a designee, who might be a program participant -Tea with Luli could be a bonus part of the treatment program. She would participate in publicity – TV or radio interviews – for the Merry Meadows program. But her primary duty would simply be Being Luli. It would be like a MacArthur Fellowship on a smaller scale.
Being Luli
Even when she’s a teapot, she’s still Being Luli
As for the stipend, $20,000 a year for the life of the program seems appropriate. (Luli said we should ask for a million, but as an old grant-writer, I told her that would look ridiculous and scare them off). In addition, Luli would get a lifetime gym membership including a trainer at Merry Meadows, and a lifetime supply of nice T-shirts to work out in. She says the participants don’t dress up, but I’m sure none of their attire is quite as stained, stretched and hole-y as Luli’s.
image:makingmecranky.com
Finally, when Luli, aged 99 and pleasantly exhausted from her Merry Meadows workout, fails to wake from a good night’s sleep, Merry Meadows will provide a lavish funeral, and pay travel costs so her nearest and dearest can attend. This is not an exorbitant demand. There probably won’t be that many of us by then; nobody’s offering ME a free gym membership.
Note to Luli: If you look to the right you will see that you now have your own category, so you can read about yourself till the cows come home.
Aug 27, 2014
From time to time I'll post photos from my garden, to follow its changes. I've indicated the volunteers, aka weeds.
The clematis (volunteer) and drift roses are fragrant.
Giant liriope
Ginger (it's really pink and yellow)
Beauty berries are ripening (volunteer)
Weird phallic plant (volunteer)
Marigolds and zinnia
Tibouchina and salvia
Honeybell orange
Rosie in the garden
Jun 28, 2014
I
There were five on the boat
In the middle of the night:
Two in the cabin cramped under the deck,
Three with the ice chests under the stars.
Fishing all day
Under flat hot haze,
Drinking beer.
(The boy drank juice,
Sucked oranges.)
They let him cut the head
Off the maco shark Tom caught.
He sawed it with a bait knife
And saw what was inside.
No other boats that day,
Twenty-five miles out.
At Currington’s Ditch
The Gulf gave wonders:
A blowfish, valiant puffer,
Three porpoises,
And always sharks.
‘When you reel in your line
There could be anything.’
The sky began to clear
In the afternoon,
And sunset gave them glory
Yielding to stars.
They grilled the maco on the camp stove,
Finished the Fritos,
And cut into the chocolate cake
That Joe’s wife Sara sent.
Coffee kept them fishing in the dark,
With Coleman light and stars.
No moon until they slept.
Bill started in the cabin.
They sent him out for farting
And so he joined the two:
Joe on the ice chests,
A jacket for a pillow;
Wayne on a lounge chair,
Hand hanging in fish scales.
Bill took the rear,
Spread a tarp,
And lay watching stars swing above him.
Cradled in the rocking,
He slept.
And woke to water pouring in beside him.
Shouted,
Rose,
And watched Joe stand as
Wayne fell off the lounge chair,
Boat fell from their footing
And water welcomed all.
Bill came up.
Mound of white hull
Tracked by moonlight.
Tom climbing up one side
Joe clinging on a line
Wayne coming out from underneath the bow
And no one else.
The boy was gone.
Bill looked again:
The boat with three men clinging now.
He bellowed my son’s name
And fell under a wave
And rose to cry again.
Joe caught his arm
And hauled him out.
He caught a breath to shout again
When brown arm curving
Past the second wave
Gave answer.
Five on the boat again
Under the stars
Traitor turned over
They clung to her hull.
They talked of how it happened;
No one knew.
Of rescue, and Joe said,
“It’s Sunday one A.M.
They don’t expect us back
Till Monday night.”
So all fell silent for awhile
And watched the solid sea.
‘This was not my mother ocean.
No crest of beauty moving toward the shore
Nor sails near and far.
A bird perhaps
Or sometimes more
Who flew in safety and in power
Above us as we lay.’
They lay face down like sunbathers,
Lined up to broil.
And when the rain brought blessing
Embraced to hold their warmth against the cold.
Watched empty ocean over others’ shoulders.
‘This was another ocean,
Of curve and wave
And endless motion.
The sky itself would not be still,
But glittered stars
Or drifted clouds
And nowhere could our eyes have rest.’
Watched empty ocean teeming still below
(When you reel in your line…)
Thin sounds, thin light,
Dream-fish washed pale,
Seahorse, nightmare,
(When you reel in your line…)
Man o’ war from Portugal,
Tuna, grouper, mackerel,
Lemon, maco, hammerhead
(There could be anything.)
II
Inland, I had no idea of danger.
Free of lover and of son,
Three-day weekend to unwind,
I had no plans, I could do anything.
When Monday night came
And they didn’t
Angry at first (Bill promised he would call)
And then began to wonder.
Empty ocean, one head bobbing,
Pushed the vision under and
At midnight called the Coast Guard.
Dreamed: we’d found them
Woke: we hadn’t
All in a rush
Upon my chest
Seavisions sat
And stayed.
Thought motionless above a sword:
No certainty, no pain.
Waiting brings its own reward:
At eight o’clock, at ten, the phone again.
“No word.
They say a storm is building
North of Tampa Bay.”
“I know. I heard.”
And through the day and into dusk
No word.
Until the call from Joe’s wife Sara.
News so easy, words so plain.
“They found them all
And all are well.
Come to the house.
We’ll drive to fetch them
Back from Cedar Key.”
What story would they tell,
What could they say
To wash my fury and my fear away?
The engine died,
The truck broke down,
We lost our way?
Then at the house,
Joe’s mother in the door,
“I have bad news.
The Coast Guard called us back.
They only rescued four.
We know that they have Tom and Wayne.”
“But of the other three”?
“One of them is missing.
They wouldn’t tell us who.”
In the living room a country family.
Trophies on the mantelpiece,
Coffee on the table.
The television gave us light
Until an aunt turned on a lamp.
In the bedroom Sara lay
And waited by the phone.
Joe’s sister
Sat with her.< br />Two pregnant women waiting.
I stood by a window,
It will be finished soon.
When this cigarette is gone,
When that runner turns the corner
God, he runs so slow!
“The Coast Guard wants you on the phone.”
My son is dead my son is dead.
Someone walked me down the hall.
“Your son is safe, he’s doing well,
We need consent to treat him.”
“But Bill and Joe,
Which one is gone”?
“We cannot tell.
You all must come.”
And so Joe’s Dad and Mom and I
And theirs was dead or mine was dead
Took Sara’s car
(She had to rest and wait in that dark room.)
We took one car
And drove two hours
And I watched cars, clouds, trees, flowers,
And theirs was dead or mine was dead
We didn’t know.
III
We didn’t know how long
The time had been for them.
Three days, almost three nights they lay,
No sleep, no food, no water.
No rest for eyes from emptiness
Though weary minds devised odd sights
And some they told aloud.
My son saw fires on the waves,
Wayne saw a barge,
And on the second night,
Bill saw Death in a cloud
And watched it pelting toward them lit by lightning.
The storm brought waves above their heads
That threw them off the boat.
They struggled back to cling
To the hull and to each other.
Third day brought thoughts of rescue.
They knew the search was on.
By afternoon Joe’s mind was gone.
He seemed to cheer a football game,
Cursed, and shouted Sara’s name.
All vision now inside his eyes
Behind the brown stain rising as life fell.
Bill held him on the boat
Still and heavy in his arms.
Did he die there
Or in the wave that threw them off again?
Bill swimming out to pull him back.
“He’s dead Bill. Let him go.”
And as they spoke, he sank,
Lean scarecrow in the water.
A half an hour later
The helicopter came.
IV
Thank God for days
That heal salt sores in the flesh
Change funeral to memory
(Joe’s mother in the door
Turned as I neared
And would not speak.
Her son was dead.)
The story encrusted with telling,
The pictures in ambush at night
Come fewer and fade.
Thank God for days.
But something stays.
Under wave the nightmare,
Under surf the stones.
And in a year I go
To the beach north of Daytona,
Pitch my tent behind the dunes,
Sleep and wake to rain,
Stagger between boulders
And on the rock beach
Sit and watch the sea.
The rain ends with the sunrise.
Horizon shows the dawn:
No glory, merely da
y.
Above the line, pearl light.
Mist to the north tells rain.
Twelve pelicans measure the sky.
Below is broken slate,
But if there be measure of dread,
Dark under water confuses my eye.
Dark underwater:
Five lying, one dying,
The trying to save him
The waiting, the waves, yes
This is part of what they saw
Grey ocean, silver sky.
But from no land,
From grave instead.
My son is dead.
‘He is not dead.’
He almost died.
‘He did not die.’
He might have died.
‘He did not die.’
My son will die. Dark ocean, let me be the first to drown.
image:callipygia600.com
Dear readers: I wrote this poem over thirty years ago. It is a true story, though the names are changed.
COMMENTS: I’D LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU! CLICK “COMMENTS,” BELOW.
NEXT POST: JULY 25
May 30, 2014
Recently I went to a presentation billed as “Silencing the Inner Critic.” It was very disappointing, and the speaker was very irritating. She teaches all-day workshops on creativity, and her hour-long talk was nothing but an outline of those workshops. It was full of enthusiasm, vivacity and charm, but very little matter. As you can tell, she certainly didn’t silence my inner critic.
image: pathseekerslifecoaching.com
But there’s always a nugget or two to carry away from these things. Nugget #1 was my resolution to resume daily, first-thing-in-the-morning writing in my notebook. And #2 was the gratitude journal.
image:gemrocksauction.com
I’ve kept a notebook for many years, a cheap spiral bound thing, badly battered by the time it is full. Once I tried keeping several – green for gardening plans, blue for my diary, red for writing projects. That was a silly, if elegant scheme – I can’t keep track of three notebooks – and I soon abandoned it. Now my notebook is always red, because I would like to be read. (We seldom-published writers must have our amusement.) My current notebook, a lovely fat one, is extra-special because it was a Christmas gift from Amanda. It was the first time she gave Christmas gifts, and I was delighted by her empathetic selections (Joe got a foam rubber football.)
image:amazon.com
My notebook holds my diary, my free-writing click, first drafts of fiction and blogs, and many shopping and to-do lists. Sometimes in my diary I describe or celebrate a special day, but more often it’s where I focus on my troubles and try to come to terms with them. Sometimes it’s therapy. Sometimes it’s whining.
image:pal.ua.edu
I had heard the term “gratitude journal,” but it never grabbed me. Now I thought I’d give it a try. And I have been surprised at the effect. Here are samples, one from my normal diary, one from my new gratitude journal:
May 16. Friday. Tonight is Amanda’s Honors Chorus Concert. Yesterday I had a gloomy, out-of-sorts day followed by a night of poor sleep due to an upset stomach. Boy, this is writing that cries out for me to stop, and is also putting me to sleep. My life is irksome. I stay irked. I think I look for things to irk me. I am falling asleep.
May 19. Monday. Gratitude: I am thankful that yesterday I could talk with Joe about my misery in this hard time with Amanda. Only he understands what is happening here; only he need know. And yesterday he gently reminded me what Dr. Lynne said about temporarily letting go of the demands we would normally make as parents. That makes it easier for me to try and let go of my demands without feeling I’m being lazy, irresponsible, without feeling the people looking over my shoulder saying I’m a lousy parent.
I’m grateful that he wants so much for this trip to NY to be what I’m hoping for, and that we are going to NY and staying in Chinatown.
image: wikipedia.org
I am grateful – almost breathless with excitement – that I’m driving to Orlando Thursday to meet Sue and Anne, staying in a luxury hotel. I think we’ll drive back to Gainesville on back roads.
I am grateful that yesterday Amanda played in the pool with me – a little hostile, a little aggressive, but still we played.
I am grateful that I took away two precious nuggets from the empty talk yesterday at WAG – the gratitude journal, and the renewal of daily writing, which has disappeared in the chaos and grief. I do indeed, have indeed, focused on my misery instead of my joy, and am/was becoming a negative gloomy glump. Maybe there was something to Dad’s reply to “How are you?” “Oh, I’m always well.” He did live to 98, after all.
Always well: Dad at 90
I am happy that I planted my three gaillardia yesterday, maybe rescued (I hope) the one poorly-planted cleome, THAT A MONARCH BUTTERFLY finally came to my thriving milkweed, and that I have three more milkweeds to plant. Soon, if the monarchs come, I will have six ugly naked stalks. And maybe the ugly nameless plant Bill gave me, with its tubular salmon-colored flowers, will bring me a humming bird.
image:thebutterflysite.com
I am grateful that I am making progress with singing. An die Musik – itself a song of gratitude and perfectly tailored to my situation, about the escape, comfort, release, shelter of music – is coming along. Two techniques – head singing and pushing out my diaphragm through a whole phrase – should solve my range and breathing problems. Though I have trouble executing both of them. Still, my range in warm-ups is already wider than it was – down to Bflat below low C, and up to high E. These music lessons are my salvation. Indeed I have many salvations.
I am grateful that I can talk to Joe, and that he is helping me ease back on Amanda by taking on some of the reminding himself.
I am grateful that I have this morning time. The quiet sleep-breathing of Trisket behind my chair – she always wants to be where I am.
I am late to the party. I googled gratitude journal, and of course I found a long list of links. I could read 8 tips for starting one, or take 11 steps to a powerful one. Berkeley presented research. Oprah weighed in. I found ads for beautiful little notebooks titled Gratitude, prices ranging from $9.99 to $156 for used(!) Amazon offers free two-day shipping if you subscribe to Amazon prime. You can also buy the “Bargain Attitude Changer. The #1 gratitude journal app for over five years. Use it for at least three weeks and your life will never be the same again. See demo.”
available used for $156.19 image:amazon.com
I think I will pass. I’m perfectly content with my red spiral notebook from the dollar store. It makes a big difference to begin my day rejoicing, and it helps me notice small delights throughout the day. I am grateful for my gratitude journal.
