Get real

I came across this on FB the other day. It gave me pause.

It is a lovely sentiment; however, it reminds me of something a person would write AFTER they lost a friend to suicide.

In truth, I don't have friends who want to listen to me talk about the dark thoughts that periodically drag me down. Their eyes glaze, they change the subject, they have to leave, they start telling me about people who have it worse.

This realization doesn't make me angry. I still love them, and I enjoy their company. I just don't look to them for help. They don't know how to help. Why would they?

I think Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez got it only too right when she recently said: "it’s a painful fact for many survivors of trauma that they must deal with people who try to minimize what they experienced when they tell their stories, in an effort to silence them."

When I'm feeling overwhelmed, I pay a shrink to listen to me and help me through it. It works for me.

If you are having a mental health crisis, I strongly recommend getting professional help. Or call a suicide hotline ASAP. It is physically impossible to pull one's self up by your own bootstrap. Sometimes we all need help. There's no shame in that.

Pirate Pillaging and Play

We had a visit from grandson, N, the other day. Since COVID, N and his sister, E, do virtual school and his Dad works from home. His Mom is a stay-at-home mother. They live about 15 minutes from us, comprising our pandemic "bubble."  

N will be turning 9 soon.  He is a lonely little boy, as are many other little boys in these plague ridden times. When he comes to visit he expects us to play, so we play.  

Yesterday, we played pirates. We all loaded up with "loot" from inside the house and grabbed our weapons, weapons being Viking swords, and a sun bleached plastic baseball bat. There's even a plastic shillelagh from one of Tom's old Halloween costumes (Ogre).  We have excellent pirate weapons.

Then we each claimed our pirate kingdoms in various parts of the yard. The fun involved raids, theft, the absolute glee of pillaging the other's loot.  

I am the worst pirate, I'm afraid.  I AM crafty and ruthless; however, I have a hard time running or even moving fast since my knee injury.  I'm about 95% recovered, but I doubt it will ever be better than that. Still, I'm happy to be able to move. I'm happy to pretend I'm a 9 year-old pirate.  And, dontcha know, I can pillage with the best of them!  Arrgh!

  

Watercolor?

I signed up for an online watercolor class. I paid $175 to take this 6 week class. Each Friday the teacher releases a new lesson with text, video, and assignment. The lessons are well thought out, well laid out, and I am learning things. 

Learning things is the easy part, I find it hard (painful, even) to do the work. I want to skip school. I want to throw $175 away.  I also want to learn how to paint a damn apple.  

Lesson 1: Fruit was released on a Friday. The following Sunday night, I still hadn't started the assignment. I keep my materials in a box. Before going to bed that Sunday night I put the box on top of my keyboard so when I woke up the next morning I would know I meant business.

Voila! The somewhat pathetic first step. The frame around the painting was required. It is not meant to be in perspective. It is just a frame, the instructor's whimsy, ostensibly to add interest. Surely I could do perspective if required? Right? Well, maybe. We'll see.

Today is Sunday again. I haven't started Lesson 2: Leaves. I can't believe I have to do this again.   

I am happy, but weary to my very bones

I know I should

I know I should write a post concerning my thoughts about yesterday's attempted coup/acts of sedition.  I want to, but I'm still a little shell shocked.  Let's see if I can spit something out.

• It was obvious this nonsense was coming.  
• It isn't over.  
• It might get worse before it gets better.
• A Democratic Republic is worth fighting for.

Ending 2020 on a positive note

 Here are some photos I took at Lake Apopka in Central Florida in the last days of 2020.  

It was 50 years ago today.

50 years ago, Tom and I moved in together.  We had no money, jobs, skills, or education. In fact, at 19 years-old we had hardly any brains at all!  

When we decided to give it a go we had been an on again, off again couple for two years; never exclusive, rarely in the same city at the same time. I was indulging my creative imagination, seeking revelations, finding my self. Tom was a traveler, a hitchhiker, an adventurous Lost Boy. We were perfect for each other!

Ours has been an alternative love story, complicated and edgy. It isn't a simple romance, or even a particularly appropriate tale to tell young, impressionable grandchildren. The late 1960s and early 1970s were outside of time for some of us. But for crying out loud, we beat the odds.  

Trees and Memory

Certain of my mother's grandparents came from Germany. Mom grew up in a home where German was still spoken. In later years, when Mom was especially frustrated, she would let loose with a heartfelt "Mein Gott im Himmel." Hearing my mother speak German gave me pause. It didn't happen often because she only remembered a few phrases her father used.  Now I only remember this one. 

Oh wait, she also said "Ach du lieber" or something like that. Again, there were strong emotions involved. Maybe there's more. I should consult my memories. They are all there, somewhere.

I have written before about my mother decorating the tree. Her father put the tree up on Christmas Eve, after the children went to bed. Waking up to a shining tree was the ultimate magic of her Christmas morning. They used real candles, so Grandpa got up early to light them before waking his Katholisch horde.  

That's how it is with me and Christmas. I have my memories and I store my mother's, too. It seems I save some of her father's Christmas memories, as well.  I'm a computer hard drive. A storage unit. Mnemosyne, daughter of Heaven and Earth.  Mother of the Muses.

I would rather be Demeter so I could sleep all winter long.  

https://mythologysource.com/mnemosyne-greek-goddess/

  

I love and hate Christmas

I love colored lights! The Surly Republican across the street goes all out decorating and illuminating his house. Every night I open the door and walk out on my porch to savor the display. I told him I enjoyed it. He barely answered, didn't make eye contact, and walked away. Sucks to be him.

Going through ornaments and thinking about the why or the who is always a profoundly moving experience. I hold them in my hand, thinking hard about people who gifted them to us. 

I enjoy giving presents. I realize gift giving is a poor excuse for showing love, but when it comes to that particular emotion I throw caution to the wind.

I'm heartened by the softening of hearts, opening of wallets, and end-of-the-year donations to the poor. I wish we were always open hearted, but at least we have this season to remind us how good generosity feels.

OMG! Consider the yummy cookies and scrumptious meals we only make at Christmas. These foods are precious because of their limited availability.  I'm like a little kid. I can't wait!

I hear from so many loved ones my heart nearly bursts. Wide open. Phantasmagorical blood spurting everywhere, y'all.  Ouch.  

Which brings me to the "hate" part of Christmas. I am emotionally overwhelmed. The stress of buying the right presents sets my head spinning. And I worry about eating and drinking too much over the next 3 weeks. Because I will. 

Find your voice

I'm a strong woman and I'm proud of it.  I don't swallow my anger because I don't care if my anger is perceived as not being "ladylike."  I don't care if some people don't approve when I speak out. I don't aspire to join the bourgeoisie.  I don't care if traditional men or women don't find me attractive.  I don't find them attractive either.

I care about truth.  I care about justice.  I care about respect.  In fact, I demand respect.  You can disagree with me, but never roll your eyes when I speak.  

Find your voice.  Make it heard.  

In the words of the great Maggie Kuhn: