1-.31.14 Thoughts On Culture and Halloween and Age

          It seems as though, when we were young, regardless of the gross differences in culture then and culture, now (gross in so many ways) (Don't forget Socrates purportedly maligning and whining about the weak-willed, irresponsible youth)  that there is a developmental issue here, also. For many of us, getting dressed up in something we made, something thrown upon us (a sheet...where are the eye holes?.....the 5 and 10 cent story plastic wrapped thing we lusted for...esp if someone in the home was all up into creating something THEY wanted to see on us)  and venturing out into the night, wind blowing, darkness, other kids wandering about also, going door to door to be given (gasp) CANDY! was quite something. Mysterious. Unusual. Exciting. Right? One night a year, the whole deal.
          I recall that curious phenomena, as an independent 20,21 year old, where the goal as a female was to dress in black, and skintight. The chance to be your big bad alter-self. Evil luring woman.
           I remember my oldest, within the confines of my very very best feminist offerings-but-not-projections-i-hope, moving from parent initiated costumes to parent-assisted costumes to...yup...THE BLOODY MAN.                                                                                  
            The Bloody Man could be a vampire, a dark scary figure, a monster: so many things. But it was a definite draw, and fascinating to watch as he was drawn to it, and then culturally stayed with it for a long time, as it was acceptable to peers. Manly. Scary.                            
         And too, when we are  kids, by and large, we look at things from such a young perspective. Not saying kids these days aren't stupidly allowed to see all the tv and news, and discover that, ACTUALLY? People are really doing those horrible horrible things to each other. And that it actually isn't just a fantasy.                                                    
          I think that's what lets them do the costumes with childish glee. The innocence.                                     I remember my daughter and younger son dressing up as Pippi Longstocking, as 2 and 3 year olds. Both of them LOVING the stick-out braids. The wandering about. Their 12 year old brother tolerating the boy-in-skirt thing his baby brother was doing; helping get them all set, til he got ready to be a bloody man.                                                
         Maybe, when we are parents or aunts or uncles and involved in young lives, we slowly get tired and burnt from all the lovely important sweet exhaustion of it all. And wonder what on earth it's like to do the Halloween deal now, in this day and age. With internet and technology and everyone a phone and all.                                                                                              
          I think of  the horrible (I know. I went through it all. Maybe you did too) video games they wanted and you tried to check out and they were still given..... (where you ....trigger warning...get to choose to violate a woman. Yup. As part of a video game. That one went flying in the trash. But was casually at ALL THE FRIEND'S  HOUSES.)                      
           I remember going out and sitting alone previewing Sylvester Stallone and Arnold Schwarzenegger movies, to make sure I thought my kid could see the things the next weekend, with friends.                          
          As adults, we KNOW all this stuff happens. HAS been happening. In wars. In crime. On and on and on.                                                
        And if you watch tv at all, and are not into silly laugh-track sitcoms, then it's the detective/cop series that have some quality.                    
       And of course, they're all about somebody really harming/killing/etc. someone else. Which reinforces some idea of normality to 'horrible things being done out there', which IS true, but all these 'normal' tv shows? Sigh.                                                                                    
          It seems to me that when we get to 50's or 60's we have lived some life. We have possibly been the excited little kid, in the not perfect, but ok childhood. Or the not ok childhood...but often, we got to go 'trick or treat'. We were little. We knew not what was 'real' and not 'real'. It was exciting. Maybe scary. But just remember, the candy.                                                                                                                 Many of us are now doing a different developmental deal.                  
        We are orienting ourselves to what we most probably will not do. What most probably will not happen.                                                      
         As Simone de Beauvoir did in her 60's, seeing if we can resolve ourselves to what is. To saying goodbye to all the 'maybe's we had all those years, and settling down to what select one or few things we may want to focus upon now, in the event that, between health, finances, energy, and drive, we may want to invest ourselves in chiseling away at a project.                                                                             Or, instead, manage/relish/endure/cherish each day as well as we can, realistically, with radical acceptance, and settle in.                            
          I also had that pre-Halloween experience, of seeing all the all the profane and violent stuff, recently. Ewww.                                        
          Years ago, with teenagers, I would have sloughed it off. Oh right, geeze, all that stupid stuff.               Now, I somehow am surprised. Even shocked. As in .....Why would this interest anyone at all?? Especially adults.                                          
          But who knows. Big wide world out there. Big funny country we got here.
        Many of us on the same page, remembering the historical origins....the cultural origins...the little kids and big kids we have known....our own being a little kid.
       And now? I'm dusted. Cooked.
       I pre-empted by buying little things for the little kids next door, just in case. Dropped little bags off in the afternoon.
        And then? Even way out here in the woods? I went and turned off the outside light.

10.30.14 At The Height Of All Things

At the height of all things, I had three bathrooms to clean. Now there is one.
     In those days, sixteen years ago, there was my husband and I , with our three kids, the oldest’s 18-year-old girlfriend, the 14 year old nephew, and for one crystalline month, the oldest's two best friends, another couple, who were homeless.

     I had found a rental, a huge colonial, with apartments on either side, and room enough for my enlarged brood.
     When my kids were younger, I taught them each to pick a room to clean, and then went around , getting them started. Pretty soon they were well-trained. With encouragement. 

     And then, we would all walk down to the little town library in North Amherst, and pick a video for them all to watch. That seemed good enough for them.
     Years passed, they got older, and their involvement with the world ,school and sports increased. The amount of stress involved with getting a 22 year-old to clean the stupid bathroom was phenomenal.
     I did what we often do. I succumbed.
     I far preferred to scrub the stupid toilets and surrounding areas and tubs and showers and floors and mirrors and fixtures and sinks, and empty waste baskets, and replace toilet papers, and wash towels and washcloths, than risk the ire while twisting arms.
     So funny to think back. Now, everyone has gone their separate ways. My kids all living within a mile of each other, some of them together, in another state. All of them pretty happy.
The couple that stayed with us long gone. The girlfriend gone. My nephew is off somewhere, I hope doing well.
     How we learn, as years pass, that there are seasons of life. All the different flavors of life you can have, by choice or circumstance.
     It took me a full two or three years of everyone being gone before I stopped shuddering every time I thought of all the soccer games and teacher conferences and concerns and challenges and all the homework struggles and sneaking out and all the other things. Despite knowing that it was over and done with, just thinking about it made both of us quake.
     We used to tell our kids that no one, but no one-was allowed to get pregnant. Until we had recovered -from them.
      But we have, and they can do what they will. It's one of life's finest blessings, to have offspring be happy enough.

     And now, like all precious and challenging experiences, there is the tender; the bittersweet, and then the gratitude.
     The seasons of life? Well, when you get a bit older, and if you had kids, if they're grown, and pretty okay, there is this reparation that occurs within you. The simplifying; paring down. So much delicious silence. Where you don't necessarily have it to rise to any occasion, even if an occasion happens with them.
     Not that stuff doesn't happen. But it's a really good reason why, if you have kids, you just do the very best you can.so that they end up as ok as possible.
     So when parenting lets up, they can still call you and go on about what they're trying to figure out. You can listen and empathize. And you can help them financially a little bit, if you can, here and there. And then you can just let them have their lives.

     Sometimes I think it’s the natural way of things : getting burnt out enough that you really can’t fret or try to get them to change or go fuss about in their lives. You simply sit in your own, loving them, and have your own tired hands, full.
      And if you have a partner? Why, you turn toward them. You look at them with surprise. You say "Why, there you are! ". Learning all over again who you each are, how you fit together, how to grow close all over again.

      

10.30.14 On Forgiveness

I visit sometimes. At my age, I keep thinking of things to forgive myself for. I had no idea there were so many. Like cement blocks, tied to your ankles, dragging along . 

The more I forgive myself, the more I realize ways I have not forgiven others . For small things. That don't really make sense. I disapprove of them being an issue at all .

But at 62, I'm starting to see the truth of it. It really doesn't matter what I think. It matters what it is.
Accepting it; and dealing with it. Effectively. 

So I'm slowly moving through all the things I have not forgiven myself for. And gradually realizing the small tawdry things I have held against others for years. A lifetime. Secretly. 

Without me knowing. I'm shedding light on them, and saying, "Oh crap. Alright. It's true. I'm holding that stupid grudge. I guess it's time to let the stupid thing go."
And then, I do.

I do, and I feel different. Fewer cement blocks, is my guess. As I forgive and let go and the weight ,where ever it's been lurking, lessens. Noticeably . 

And yeah, there are the bigger ones. The van that swerved just to kill the snake making their quiet way across the road. It was a mom, or a dad in that stupid thoughtless idiot car. They just added an errant killing , just for something to do; added it without a thought to their day.

I stopped. Brought the beautiful dying creature into the woods. Sat with them til the last breath. Scared them like crazy? Maybe. We have our best intentions . We just do the best we can.

The biggest baddest meanest things to forgive? I have no idea. They look so big and bad. Some of them have caused such serious lasting malevolent injury. 

To us. To others .

So I don't sweat those. I realize, like discriminating against others, that if the time comes to forgive the heinous, I will be the one to benefit.

But I don't wring my hands or feel badly. There is too much of that already , in the world .

We can each just wander along, making our way , the best we can.

 Seeing what unfolds , perfectly, next.

10.29.14 Autumn Plummets As The Earth Turns

It was a day of drama in the skies, the foggy wet morning with all sheathed in mist... 
On to the cool autumn day preparing it's shift into November, 
which always sounds more serious than. 'September'. 

Through the quiet, cozy afternoon of almost all leaves on the ground, so many ,save the Beech and Oak done with foliage; 

the Sassafras I noticed today, with it's tender Spring buds formed, to hold tight all winter , til Spring light signals the tree's juices to begin flowing .

Birds searching about for winter shelter, as the sounds of Hawks calling to one another fades with their departure ,and we hear the Canadian Geese honking their way across the skies ,as they land far below , in the river's outwaters, for rest and sustenance, on their journey south. 

The Bluebird family babies are all grown , to be seen frolicking on the wooden garden arch, as I snip the last of the White Sage and Purple Sage ,for an annual herb bundle to hang and dry in the kitchen. 

Going about the garden gathering plant seeds, to dry and plant next year, as I bid goodnight and good rest to them all. 

Frost always coming all of a sudden, early or late, surprising us with its finality.

As the hills resound with gunfire, and will, for some time, itching fingers waiting for the signal that hunting season has indeed arrived .

As I go about my days, slow , quiet : broken by long arduous rollicking dog walks , as the 5 dog pack plummets themselves through the woods, plunging into the lake at the end of the forest's path, rearing up and biting furred ruffs and rolling each other about in pure and glorious play. Coming to my friend and I for kisses and accolades for good behavior and treats. Til all return home, satiated and confident and learning and pleased.

As the skies darken this afternoon , and I half expect to catch sight of a painter, with her easel, long skirts and cloak, rendering Romanticism unto our modern day clouds, upon her canvas; or perhaps a mythical figure on a cart, pulled by racing horses, dwarfed by the majesty of the skies.

But there is only New England Fall , advancing here, with its predictable wet , then dry ; cool ,and then hot days, til it will turn upon us, swathing us in a wild snowstorm, or freezing rains, as the temperature falls, frost paints upon our chilled windowpanes , and Autumn plummets by, as the earth turns.

10.29.14 Fall Over Wednesday

Well, it's Fall Over Wednesday, just because. Seems a must time to recharge and rest and get out of the way and all, so I can do some restoration. 

Between my outrageous brother's gifts (I call him The Annihilator. To his face  ) and Dr. Christopher's Ear and Nerve Tincture applied topically, my rotator cuff tear is healing nicely,
NO pain, excellent range of movement,

and excellent chiro BJ Tomlinson in Belchertown gave me the certificate for Poster Person for Great Shoulder Mobility. Whoa. 

Dodged that bullet. When you tear, you hurt. you immobilize your arm. Good not to set it off, but it needs to be knowledgeably released (dug at), dispersed, treated with LOADS of natural anti-inflammatories, rested, given gentle range of motion movements when the pain/restriction is down, and chased after to head off Frozen Shoulder at the pass,
so that you don't step one toe in that land.

Cool to watch it try to come on, over and over, and kick it's butt, releasing every few hours, til Sam just annihilated it all to crap.
Course, I'm a lucky one.I did this for a l

iving. I have insurance and flex benefits and can see a chiro for the origins. 

Origins? Clean out what crap you eat and drink or it becomes sludge staying in you.
Scar tissue and adhesions are MADE from sludge and inflammation.

See if you can find a natural effective Anti-Inflammatory, so you cut down on or stop NSAIDS. Because they are vital if you have pain that exhausts, harms your immune system, your heart, slams your sleep . But they harm your liver, thus heart, cholesterol, blood pressure, and chances of getting the big C. See what you can find.

Stop sleeping with arms UP. Find a way to transition from sleeping on your stomach- HUGE disaster maker. (Try a pillow under your torso, side arm folded next to you, for a sort-of-stomach-comfort-sleep. 

Start using what you don't wanna lose. Movement moves junk in our bodies so it can exit. Movement breaks up scar tissue and adhesions. Movement moves lymph so you get immune cells and garbage removeal. Movement increases circulation and metabolism. That sort of thing. 

Dogs are huge. Dogs are a pain. Dogs are wonderful. Dogs mean you HAVE to walk them. Or they behave badly. 

Grateful. Oh so grateful, after years of seeing clients treading water in the land of frozen shoulder. It is SO much easier to inch away, than climb out, once fallen in. 

In the meantime, in my little home, being quiet and all, I sit and look at these, and imagine and feel inside how it would feel. to be all these places. hmm.

10.28.14 If A Day Could Be Thick

If a day could be thick, today was thick. 
Thick and slick and tough as nails. 

And yet, moments of sweet. 
Of piquant beauty. 
All over the place, it was. 

Til it came to me, of course, 
that it wasn't the day, per se, 
but me, in my life,

 as things shook, rattled and rolled.

10.27.14 "Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past." Annie Lamott

Well, ultimately it SOUNDS like over time,

or in some way,

one comes to a deep internal acceptance.

Which precipitates a completion;

and then, it slowly composts into the universe,

the experience,

 and then as less and less is there,

we open our hands and hearts

 and off it goes.

However, sometimes

 things are heinous.

Long standing.

And were comported into

every arena of our beings.

Lies.

Acts.

Repetition of such.

And then, in the fabric of self,

this may happen thousands of times,

 in thousands of tiny ways.

 Which simply IS.

Radical acceptance is not always comfortable,

to say the least.

That's where the comforting and identifying

 of what we are feeling

 and the grounding and the validating ourself,

being given the gift of witnessing and validating as we move on the path,

can be vital.

The oft' harmed being growing new strong parts,

but always remembering the times of harm.

10.27.14 Next Time Around

I'm telling you, both this year and last, I saw him come out with his plaid bathrobe, dark slip on slippers, Sunday mornings each time, a mug of coffee I presume, in one hand. In mid August, no less, leaning down to weed a small , maybe 3 foot wide , circle of garden. 

Plant a flowering annual in the clay pot. Sprinkle some white rocks about the soil, as well, Plant a couple more annuals. 

Then you'd see him, some summer evenings- maybe back, after work ? Standing quietly, admiring his little garden. I mean, it was pretty. 

I love that. I think back to it ,all year round, as I drive by each day. 

Wondering what this is - the noticing, but not knowing, of neighborhoods. 

And wondering if I'm going to catch sight of the creation moment , next time around.

10.27.14 A Small Short Story

Some days were just like that, for Lilith. Days when you just might as well go lie down. "I am so lucky ", she thought to herself. How her friends had situated her, this way. 

That they felt this way about her. That she had room to be the courageous, powerful, maimed individual she was . The best friend of Mira , as a child; Mira who had thought and planned and got her away from her family to Mira's boisterous loving parents and protective big brothers, to finish her growing up in love and laughter and peace .

Some days, she would emerge from her small cottage, tucked to the side of Mira and Gemma's house. Where the fence enclosed the whole property, made by Forest. To look decorative, but in truth, to make Lilith feel protected. Even as she was learning that she did not need protection. 

Her front door had a large dog door, and a small dog door. For the families' dogs to come and go, as they wished. Dog doors in the main house too. So that the dogs at times would wander in, in the middle of the night, and crawl into bed with her. Sleeping with her. Cats too. No fishercats here. The dogs keeping the coyote away. So the cats seemed safe. Back from the road. 

And they would wander from one house to another. 

So she had her place here, on Mira and Gemma's land, up close to the house, built by Forest. Her own tiny cottage, enclosed by the hearts of her friends. Family, now, really. 

And somehow, over the years, over the number of times that Mira showed her ,truly. And Forest. And Gemma. And the children. That there was a place for her here. Simply because there was. That she owed no one. But they had enough, and they had chosen to do this. 

Just because it felt true, over time, she found peace with this. Not as a weak person. But rather, as a particular sort of being on the earth. In need of space. Time. To spend her days in the dance and the consequence and the needs of unwinding injuries. As she slowly rebuilt herself.

When it was a distressed day ,when everything was spinning about , she would put up a deep blue flag. On the inside glass window of her front door.
And the children would understand. They'd been taught. 

Maybe they would come and knock on her door, and leave Chamomile tea and coffeecake, from Gemma. Or a sachet that they created from the dried flowers of the gardens. Or a drawing of something vibrant and hopeful. Or a salt clay sculpture, warm from the oven, of two hands , holding each other. With their initials and hers on perspective fingers.

On days with ease and resilience, she put up a yellow flag. And then maybe she would have no visitors, or maybe Forest would've come by to do one thing or another with house or kids or Mira , or Gemma ; and, catching sight of the door, would come wandering over. To start fixing up something on her small front porch. He was so subtle. 

She would smile to herself, and go out, offering him some cool well water. Sit in the swing he had attached to the roof of her porch. The porch of the house he had built for her. Saying to her "Why not?" And "We all need your wise self here, with us, in our family." 

And eventually he would perch upon the stairs, and talk casually about one thing or another
Or Mira would show up, taking a break from writing, the two-year-old and three-year-old and five-year-old and seven-year-old and 11-year-old with her, in unpredictable combinations. 

All of them playing an hysterical, raucous game of kickball in the yard between her cottage and the house, the dogs underfoot. And she could not contain her laughter, spilling out of her one magnificent room cottage, running into the fray with them. 

On good days, she would make up a vegetable bean loaf, with gravy, big, and bring it over in the late afternoon; then sit down at the long kitchen counter with Gemma, drinking cafix or tea , sitting quietly, or talking about simple things, as they folded laundry, took care of kids, or mended things, as Mira finished writing upstairs. 

Sharing dinner with the whole lot of them. Helping to clean up, folding a few more stacks of clothing, meandering off in the labyrinthian home, to put things away, dropping in on kids here, stroking curled cats there, in all the nooks and crannies of the home.

One day she looked out, and saw all of them getting on their hands and knees in the herb garden, which was shaped like a maze, and scooting about, each one making a different silly noise. 

Bumping into each other and making a big crashing noise! Turning about, like a robotic vacuum cleaner, heading off in a different direction. until she would laugh, having had too much of it, and go crawling out of her door too- both dogs coming up to her with delight, bumping her with their muzzles, lick licking her face, as she laughed, playfully grabbing one paw , and then the other ,to tease them. And then slinking through the maze, until she went around the corner and surprised one or the other of them. Both screeching!

It was then that they would all sit up, and suddenly you could see everyone's heads. All ages. So many hues. Sizes. Then they would all laugh and laugh. And then the kids would cry "Again! Again!", and they would all slink down once more, and start all over .

So often she would be listening and soothing upset teenagers. Helping 11-year-olds with their most frustrating math homework. Playing board games with the 5 year old, as he explained in blazing detail how one machine or animal or mathematical dynamic worked, laughing like a sweet nutso , cat in lap , as he prepared to win! Holding the two and three-year-olds on her lap, (who by-the-way entered and exited through the dogs doors if the welcome flag was up)

She would hold them while they sobbed about one thing or another, taking their small turns, interrupting and filling in for each other, telling the story all over again. 

Forest or Mira or Gemma sitting quietly on her porch swing, glad that the children had someone to go be with , at times like this .

10.26.14 For Yourself: For Others

51°, Sunday. Beautiful cloud covered skies, with some piquant blue showing now and again. I'm on the road, on the way to my brother's, to trade acupressure.

I see the flock of wild turkeys standing quietly on the sides, waiting for cars to notice, so that all of them can safely cross. In this area of town, they've known loss. They've known death and fear. They've learned. That some stupid humans don't stop. And some intelligent humans do. 

Gloriously beautiful, all of their muted colors, their soon to be full-grown babies of this year.
A Red-tail hawk overhead, following the updrafts. 

As we move into town, everyone is walking. Walking everywhere. A wonderful thing.

A few pastures: donkeys and burros and a pack of black horses , and sheep and goats all in their respective places, enjoying the rich fall grass, enjoying their momentary freedom. As their coats thicken and their layers of fat change , set off by the shifts in the light. Their bodies knowing of the season changes coming soon.

At the Lonewolf Deli, , and the Black Sheep Deli, fathers are breakfasting with college sons. Lovers are locked in kisses. People are huddling on benches, or scurrying by with children on their hips.

The beautiful silhouetted figures of Emily Dickinson conversing with her friend, just before her house, reminds us that she was here. Alive. Lived in those rooms. While she slept and wrote. Her Home, with her, long gone, open for visitors today. To wander about, and try to imagine what it was like to be her. And her days . Her choices. The origins.

Hope and Feathers Gallery is open, bright lights and signs, glorious artwork shining through the windows.
The Amherst train station stands as solid and in good repair as it might've been when it was built years ago. Awaiting changes in our train use, awaiting more people coming by, and soon, we will have a train coming through Northampton, too. A good thing, finally.

Further down, are all the homes where students live. . And everyone is fast asleep. Not a soul about. As the leaves continue to fall, sparkly and brazen in their colorful glory .

As high school students run along the sidewalk. Past huge white Stallions cavorting out in a deep green field. . Amethyst Brook rushing by, clean, gloriously beautiful.

People with dogs doing their constitutional's, smiling, the dogs with a bounce in their step, tails wagging, faces smiling with delight.

Kids walking past together, of all ages, laughing, debating, pushing each other's shoulders , back and forth.

Inimitable signs of life. As I drive past a large mailbox set up on a wooden post. Past a woman leaf blowing assiduously, coming to the end of it all with her yard.

The road now double lanes, with a canopy of branches and pine needles and bronze Oak leaves above, protective and beautiful.

As the homes before them hold clusters of chrysanthemums. Gourds. Stuffed people with pumpkinheads. Lovely things.

In neighborhoods where people own their homes, where there's little crime. With adequate food and shelter and warmth. Education. Access to jobs. Even in the easy places, life can be tough.

Imagine life in the tough places. Say a little prayer, today. For your own heart and mind . For your devotion to your species. For the small things you can do. For yourself. For others.