Black Crow, Blue Sky

Whoo! I went to the mall and bought a James Brown CD and I can report it’s as good as a hit of caffeine. At 8 p.m. yesterday, I was listening to the CD and mopping my kitchen, and it was actually fun!

Time to cook! I invented a new cassarole: whole-wheat pasta spirals, fire-roasted tomatoes, tomatoes cooked with Vidalia onions and garlic, feta cheese, a sprinkle of olive oil. Cook pasta, add the other stuff, stir until blended. Put a portion in a microwave-safe bowl, layer shredded cheese on top, and heat for about two minutes. It’s so delicious! And completely vegetarian, unless you count the feta cheese.

I feel that the underground energy of Spring is already stirring in my soul. Even in the dark days of mid-winter, there is life going on. I refuse to give in to sadness. I will grieve what I need to grieve, but I will not give in.

When we lose our parents, the worst part of missing them is knowing that the relationship with them was not as good as it might have been. In this, it’s a lot like divorce. There is a finality when the last words have been spoken. Yet so many nights, you’ll lay awake thinking how things so easily might have been different, if the other person had been more understanding or more loving or more committed. And the question of “why?” just has no answer.

Losing your last parent removes the comfort of knowing you can always go “home.” After that landmark happening, you have to make home yourself. You have to learn to carry “home” within you, in your heart. You find that anywhere you are is “home.” Or can be.

I’m lucky in that I have daughters for whom I can still be home, both literally and figuratively. I’ve always said to them, “as long as I have a home, you have a home,” meaning that whatever I have to share, it’s theirs as much as mine.

The whole point is to get up offa that thang and keep moving, keep dancing, keep thinking positively, keep giving. That’s what I’m gonna do.

So 2008 is departing from the station very soon, and before you know it, will be only a trail of smoke on the horizon. Most of us can’t wait.

This has been a tough year for a lot of people, and only the most optimistic among us thinks next year will be better. The advice we’re getting is that things won’t be really straightened out until 2010. However, the wisest among us have been simplifying our lives and finding lots of things we can do without, like land lines, internet at home, cable tv–indeed any TV at all. We are being more practical and more frugal than ever. We are stripping our lives of any suggestion of surplus or excess. And we’re kind of enjoying it!

One of the ways I am sanctifying my home is recycling all the excess paper that came into it this past year. Some of it went to the dump, some to the recycling center. I gave away a lot of stuff; returned stuff to the stores where I (impulsively) bought it; exchanged things I didn’t really want for things that I really do want.

My life has been stripped down as well. I no longer have a mother to worry about. My mother has joined her ancestors, leaving me with the memory of a troubled and difficult childhood that I have mostly learned to deal with. Now that I am no longer a daughter, I am truly a grown-up. Last Sunday I participated in a Burning Bowl ceremony at my church. We were to write on a little piece of flammable paper all the things that we wanted to release and be rid of before going on to the new year. I wrote guilt, low self-esteem, worry, resentment, fear of lack–and I should have added, procrastination. I watched the paper disappear in a poof! as I dropped it into the candle flame of the burning bowl. Then I took a deep breath and smiled.

Nothing of the past can be changed, but the way I think about it can be changed. I can heal the damage with good humor or with reframing the way I think about it. Truly, we create the reality that we live with. We choose how to feel about things–no one “makes” us feel.

My aim for 2009 is to get on the gratitude train as it pulls out of the station and heads for adventures as yet unimagined. I am thankful. I am thankful. Welcome, new year!

The other day I noticed a young oak tree that bore an untidy nest of leaves on the end of a sturdy branch about halfway up. I’m not sure whether it was a squirrel’s nest or a crow’s nest. I noticed it because of its precarious location–not next to the trunk, but about halfway out on the branch. I can imagine that the builder of this nest took into consideration a lot of dangers and yet decided that this location–this particular arrangement–boded best for herself or himself and a growing family.

I am trying to imagine what I should take from this. Maybe “don’t try to be too safe.” Maybe “time is short and life is uncertain, so don’t worry too much.” Sure, babies can fall out of the nest or be bitten by snakes or seized by hawks. Don’t get too attached to outcomes.

However, as humans, we are attached to outcomes. We, as a species, spend most of our lives worrying about our survival. Taking vitamins. Drinking water. Going for walks. Locking the door. Checking to make sure the door is really locked.

When we consider the dangers of existence, it’s a wonder we’re not paralyzed with fear. In any case, we spend a lot of time strategizing ways to help ourselves stay alive and stay solvent. To what end?

To live we have to leave the safety of our tree branch. We have to expose our fragility to the forces that can crush us. We have to take chances. And sometimes, we fall.

Oh my friends, don’t wander too near the edges this holiday season, I beg you. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel. Eat well, drink deeply. Release your worries and take hold of peace. I’ll try to do that, too.

Little Harry, the youngest Yorkie, sticks his cute little tongue into my ear every morning at 5 a.m. because he’s discovered that it gets me out of the bed almost instantly and sends me stumbling down the hall to the dogfood closet. Thor, the bigger Yorkie, wouldn’t stoop to such trickery; he just stands at the bedside and barks.

Izzy, the yellow lab with the beautiful brown eyes, lets the little guys do the talking. She gets fed only in the evening. The Yorkies get a little morning and evening. It’s amazing how much energy and personality can be packed into a doggie who weighs less than a brick and looks like a fluffy dustmop with ears. Harry’s little tail is only a couple of inches long, if that, and yet he wags it vigorously when he’s happy, which is most of the time.

Then there is Paladin, the gray cat who sleeps in the basement. Paladin dislikes Yorkies and they heartily return the favor. So Pally has to be fed on the basement stairs and then tossed out to spend the day outside. It’s a routine he’s totally used to, but he protests ever so slightly when I have to scoop him out of his warm, soft catbed. I know he thinks I’m some kind of fascist.

The fog this morning in Forest Hills lent the brooding atmosphere of the Scottish highlands to this urban subdivision. The skies gradually lightened as the sun came up. I look forward to getting home before dark tonight, if possible, so Izzy and I can go for a walk.

I am remembering my mother more and more now, as the frozen avalanche of my heart begins to thaw. It’s absolutely true that when a person receives devastating news, the heart freezes. It’s the body’s way of protecting itself. While I’m in the frozen state, all my senses are on full alert. I have superhuman energy to do whatever needs to be done. It’s only when the immediate crisis passes that the heart begins to soften again, and memory returns. Of all the things my mother owned that I would love to have now, the topmost choice would be her big old button jar. I spent many a childhood afternoon sorting out the buttons by color and by size. There were so many! I think people used to cut the buttons off old clothes for possible reuse. My parents and grandparents had lived through the Great Depression and the subsequent wars. They had strong opinions about being thrifty and saving money. Those days are back, in case you haven’t noticed.

The good thing is that it’s chic these days to have an uncluttered house, and even more chic to have an uncluttered mind.  We can learn from dogs, cats and 2-year-old humans to stay in the present, in the great, warm, uncluttered now. Dog biscuit, anyone?

When my mother died last Friday, a week ago, at the age of 88, it was no surprise. When I got the call from my sister, my body started pumping adrenalin. Got to go to Tennessee.

From house- and dog-sitting, I had acquired enough organizational skills to make packing relatively simple. But I kept losing things: my keys, my cell phone, my watch. It was as though my brain was running on several levels at once. Thinking and doing, usually working hand in hand, had disconnected. I kept putting things down and forgetting where I left them.

I got to Tennessee on Saturday night, late. The next morning, Sunday, I met my sister and her new husband and her 26-year-old son, my nephew Chris, whom I hadn’t seen in a long time, at the funeral home. My mother looked very polished lying in her casket with newly coiffed hair and newly painted fingernails. The firm line of her mouth looked unnatural. The heavy makeup gave her the appearance of radiant health–if you didn’t look too close.

My sister brought a spring of mistletoe tied with a fluff of pink ribbon to place in Mother’s hands. Ever since she went to the nursing home a couple of years ago, Mother had been waiting for Daddy to pick her up, not realizing that he had passed away in 1996. Now, at last, it seemed he had come for her. Who is to say he didn’t?

At 1:15 p.m. precisely, the funeral home attendants came to announce that her grave was prepared and they would be taking her to the cemetery, where, with a 10-minute service supplied by my sister, my nephew and me, we committed our mother and (Chris’s grandmother) to the earth. She was buried in a poplar casket and sealed into a concrete vault. She had a blanket of pink roses and a spray of pink roses, but nothing else. Not like family funerals of the past, where the room was crowded with sprays and pots and baskets of flowers. My sister had declined to run an obituary or inform any of the family or family friends of Mother’s passing. So many of Mother’s contemporaries are elderly or have predeceased her that Barbara thought it would be a kindness just to bury Mother ourselves. I had dinner with a friend that evening and went back to motel to go to bed. I was emotionally drained, but I still had manic energy going. It was hard to go to sleep.

The next day, my sister and I met at Mother’s house. From being shut up for most of two years, the house had deteriorated badly. Rust and mold and mildew were everywhere. The carpets had been ripped up. The upholstered furniture had been discarded. It was a sad afternoon looking through Mother’s stuff. How little she had. How little it matters now!The next morning, after going out to the nursing home to thank the nurse who had been with Mother at the end, and after giving a necklace of Mother’s to her roommate, who loved her dearly, I hit the road for North Carolina.

The rain was pouring down as I went through the mountains. I could barely see to drive. It was a huge relief just to get home. On Thursday, I spent the day trying to put my own home in order. I took trash to the dump and a load of clothing to Good Will. I was still running on adrenalin. I didn’t get hungry. I didn’t want anything to eat. I just wanted to work, to clear some space. I had given Mother a set of silhouettes of my daughters, made in 1982, and they had hung in her living room. I found my hammer and put them up in my bedroom. One day I’ll give them to the girls, but not yet.

When I finally went to bed and closed my eyes, I could see old Bud Coomer, the owner of the funeral home, who has buried at least two generations of my relatives, just as I saw him on Sunday afternoon at the cemetery: tall, thin and gray-headed, in his long overcoat, with his professional smile, he is the very personification of Death; and when I turned away from Mother’s grave, his eyes met mine–not unkindly. I went over and embraced him and thanked him for all he did for the family. He won’t come for our family anymore; his son Buddy is running the shop now. I’m almost sorry I won’t be their customer. It will be a break with tradition.

I didn’t know how I’d feel about losing my last parent. I know I’m not the person I was a short week ago. I’m still feeling my way into my new identity as a motherless and fatherless being. I threw away my old running shoes and bought some new ones; how’s that for a new tradition? Step into the future; all that lies about you is opportunity. And don’t waste the time you have left mourning over the past. Take what’s good and leave the rest in the dust.

As Jesus said, cryptically, “Let the dead bury the dead.” And, he might have added, let the living go forth in new shoes.

There is nothing like a sore tooth to bring suffering. Blisters on the feet are one thing, but a sore mouth is exponentially more distracting.

This pain began on Monday, increased on Tuesday, drove me to the dentist on Wednesday, and forced me to call her for a different prescription on Thursday. The amoxicillin is not working. My doctor has called in a prescription for clindomycin. That has worked for me before, and very quickly.

I need a root canal. Even with insurance, the co-pay for a root canal is somewhere around $300. If I can wait until after January 1 to get the root canal, my health reimbursement account will pay the co-pay. I am willing to endure a bit of inconvenience for $300. I just don’t like pain.

“We are beings of light in a vast universe of light,” says David Simon of the Chopra Center. It’s the sort of quote I’d like to have posted where I could see it every day. But we are also made of dust, and it’s important not to forget that. We are created in God’s image, yes. Our bodies are God’s temple, yes. But blisters and infected teeth are a reality, just as, however divine they may have been at our birth, our souls are a little dinged and warped by now because of the experiences we’ve been through.

Understanding our weaknesses and our imperfections should draw us closer to each other, and closer to those other human beings out there who are of a different culture, who speak a different language, wear different clothes, live in different kinds of dwellings and worship God as they understand God, which may not agree with the way we understand God.

What is it all coming to? Predictions are that our world will experience a major terror attack within the next five years. It could be bioterrorist or nuclear in nature. It could severely impact our survival as a species.

What are we doing to stave off such an attack? Torturing our captives and tolerating hate speech against our enemies is adding to the likelihood of disaster. With all our strength, we must resist hating others and we must stop condoning torture by our silence. We must speak and think peace, or else there will never be peace.

I will do all I can, and I know you will, too.

The last sight I had of Goldie this morning was his fine haunches slowly parading out my kitchen door. He had spent the previous night (at least up until 1 a.m.) on a special bed in my front room, a bed positioned right in front of the window that looks out into the front yard, so he could keep an eye on things.

From 1 to 5:30 a.m., I have no idea where he went. Goldie is silent about his midnight excursions. He may have joined the Maquis or he may be a member of a nocturnal vole-catching team. He may have an owl for a girlfriend, someone he sees only at night. What goes on outside my house, stays outside my house.

Of course, Goldie presents himself at the kitchen door the minute I turn on the light in the morning, and must be fed even before I microwave my oatmeal or pour my first cup of coffee. He also must be snuggled and checked for ticks. I found a big one on his neck yesterday morning. He was not pleased when I removed it. I squashed the tick, wrapped it in paper toweling, burnt it and drowned the remains in a cup of water and threw the water out the back door. I know ticks. That one is probably convalescing somewhere out under the leaves and will return battle-scarred and mad as hell to attach itself to my behind. In your dreams, tick!

So I agree with those who tell me Dr. Phil is a dope who knows nothing about men or women. I personally like men. They are good to be near: they often carry exotic scents (pheramones?) that could curl a girl’s eyelashes if she got too close. I like their voices, very reassuring in a crisis. I like the fact that if I fell off the roof, the medics that hauled my broken carcass away would probably be men with muscles. Some men even have a good sense of humor.

I would like to honor men with this journal entry; for all their quirks and aggravation, they are, generally speaking, delightful companions and sometimes downright endearing. I hold both my sons-in-law in the highest regard; I love both of them up to the moon and back. And I have several male friends who are extremely dear to me.

I single out for special praise a very nice man at my church, who, on Thanksgiving day, when we were going around the table telling what we were thankful for, said,

“I’m thankful for all the beautiful women in this church, who look so gorgeous and smell so good.”  There is a man who has his priorities straight. Thanks, Tim!

Wow, I managed to go for 72 hours without spending a single penny. This is some kind of record. On Thursday I spent Thanksgiving with friends from my church. On Black Friday, I enjoyed a delayed Thanksgiving with my kids, who had spent the day before with their other in-laws. And on Saturday, I stayed with my granddaughter so that her parents could attend to their poor old doggie Leda (15 years old) who had to have surgery removing half her jaw because of a malignant tumor.

So I made it through church on Sunday, and then I headed out to T.J. Maxx. Even there, I managed to hold it down to less than $30, plus a chicken biscuit from Bojangles!

Today I’m back at work, brown-bagging it, and trying not to buy anything online. It’s so tempting when the businesses are offering discounts and free shipping. But I know that the fun of buying is very greatly lessened when the bills come due. Thanks to all the frugal websites I’ve been reading all year, I’m better equipped to withstand temptation, especially since frugality has permitted me to clear the balances off all my credit cards and pay off my car!

So that’s under control, but my love life has pretty much flat-lined. I am filling the gap with family and friend time, plus the loving attentions of the next-door cat, Goldie. Goldie’s owners (if a cat may be said to be owned) were away this weekend attending a family funeral, and I was charged with his care. He came with dignity morning and night for his food and his loving. He’s about the size of a two-month-old baby, but is not particularly into being rocked. He goes all limp in my arms and narrows his eyes as if to say, “I’d rather be up a tree.”

Ah, so there you are. I just read Dr. Phil’s book Love Smart. It didn’t comfort me much, since Dr. Phil says that men are just not thoughtful or sympathetic; they care only for food and sex (and not necessarily in that order); and if you are willing to put up with that, go looking for a mate. If you want someone who can carry on a conversation, buy a parrot. If you want to be loved, adopt a dog. If you want to have something to show for your spare time, get some yarn and some needles.

Christmas! For Pete’s sake, don’t forget your antidepressants……

I stepped out onto the deck this morning well before sunrise and saw little diamond stars twinkling here and there among the bare black limbs of the trees behind my house. The moon was just a thin silver sliver of itself, like an elegant brooch against the deep blue. What a world. And to think, so often we don’t even see the dawn sky because we’re huddled in front of the TV with coffee.

TV has been one of those good news, bad news appliances. It charms the lonely and babysits the kids. It brings us some real news once in a while, as in when terrorists are flying into buildings. For the most part, however, it brings us weather, traffic and fluff. Walter Cronkite would be humiliated if he could see how far journalism has fallen since his day.

So we watch and get fat. TV is full of trash talk and semi-nudity. Yet I keep turning it on because I get lonely, and at least it shows me that there are some live people left in the world, even though all I see of them is dancing around in less fabric than my great-grandmother used to blow her nose on.

When I can’t stand it anymore, I read. Currently I’m reading Breaking Free, which is a collection of essays by women in the second half of life. Lord, you would think they would be over complaining about their husbands. I think if I had an old husband, I would be enough used to him by now to accept him with all his faults. Sometimes I would give a million just to have someone to help me get the groceries out of the car.

Yet, I am a fortunate woman to have a wonderful family and terrific friends and part ownership of a congenial cat. I am thankful most of all for my gorgeous granddaughter, who is such a good leaf-pile-jumper and tree climber. She reminds me that the best things in life are priceless. Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Yeah, I did myself in yesterday with a new pair of shoes. I had decided to wear heels and dress up for work, since I was going to be helping with a holiday service project that involved sitting at a table in a public area trying to entice people to take a tag off our Christmas tree and purchase a pair of pajamas and a storybook for a homeless child.

Participation in this project involved toting a lot of stuff–a poster and an easel, a card table and some chairs, a box to put donations in, and a Christmas tree covered with tags–from the building in which I work to the cafeteria in another building. The new shoes ground huge blisters on both my feet. I actually had to walk barefoot back to my office.

So I’m wearing running shoes today and I’ve announced that I am not doing any unnecessary walking. I can’t blame anyone else; I did it to myself.

The dogs I am dog-sitting didn’t get their walk, not only due to the blisters but due to utter darkness at 5 p.m. This is the dark of winter, and we will have more of it before we have less of it. Isn’t that just the way with everything? We just have to muddle through.

Here is something to cheer about however. I have bought a ticket from the Durham Harley Owners Group for their 23rd annual motorcycle raffle. If I win, I get a 2009 Sportster 883 Standard Harley motorcycle. I will park it in my living room and hang my knitting on it. Can’t wait to see my granddaughter’s eyes light up when she sees that!!

I do believe Harley owners are a special breed. They are the last of the Great Generation and they are the producers of the Greatest Generation, which is the one we’re raising right now. Gee, this is a great time to be alive!