Good Grief: Lessons.

My big sister Patti on the left, me on the right.

i keep thinking of what i have learned this past year from grief and my Favorite Mental Health Professional. What with losing my sister in March it was a pretty intense year that way, leading to many posts with the word "grief" in the title. i think it boils down to a few simple (yet profound) things.

1- Give yourself permission to feel all the attending feelings when they come. This means you may have the blubbering-est face in the universe, you will find depths of snot you never knew you were capable of (where does all that come from??) but you gotta do it. If you don't let it out it just stays in there and festers like that stupid sliver you got when you slid down the railing your mother told you not to.

2- Write about it. There are lots of things i didn't even know i felt until i started writing. Talk about pulling my finger out of the hole in the dam! Damn.

3- There's no right way to grieve. Yes there are "steps" like denial and anger and all that, but they are really more just "pieces" of grief, and they come randomly and often all together in a big flurry. And how it feels at that moment is just what you gotta feel to get through it.

This may sound too basic somehow, but trust me on this one, it's the truth of it. i've long struggled with thinking i had to make sure i wasn't bothering anyone else with how i felt, but who wants a festering splinter in their bum?

i talked about "clean grief" in this past year of loss--i know it was partly because there was no major weirdness between my sister and i, so i was able to just feel the loss. There wasn't all the "i shoulda" and "why didn't they?" stuff that can follow along in other more complicated relationships we grieve. And since for the first time i felt free to just follow the tide of emotions, be sadder than sad, be so pissed off at life at God at my parents at my brother, was really cleansing.

Mostly i'm tired from it, and i'm still sad about Patti not being in my world. And i guess i wanted to share these few things because if i didn't know about them, maybe somebody else out there needs to read them too.


Skimmer's Recap: Grieving: it's good. Do it.

Belle and Anne Lamott.

I was once terribly insulted when a co-worker called me "provincial." After all, even Belle in "Beauty and the Beast" uses that like a bad word. Remember? She's singing about her village, and "provincial" goes along with "every day like the day before" and "small." I had enough knowledge of the word to feel offended, but I had to look it up to be sure. The Free Dictionary says things like "not fashionable or sophisticated." Heyyyy, I resemble that remark! I am not a city girl. I've never been a city girl. But I don't HAVE to be a city girl--it's not the boss of me!

The co-worker, a single, better traveled, more independent and worldly soul than I, seemed to be saying "Your life is so much smaller than mine." Okay, so I live in the suburbs, I have a husband and children and dogs, and I don't go traveling by myself and am honestly a cowardly person who fears being irretrievably lost if I pass the border of my neighboring handful of towns, true.

And I do so admire those women who have the confidence to just get on planes and go to foreign places like France or Chicago, I really do. I'm just more of a tag-along kinda girl. Is that so bad?

Saturday night I went to hear Anne Lamott speak in Napa, California with a group of women. I can feel "less than" so easily when I hear of the adventures of Others. Because I'm measuring myself always against Others. And there are so many people who are Thinner/Prettier/Better Traveled/More Together/have Nicer Houses/are Braver than me. And I let myself feel small.

Anne speaks about what everyone is dealing with: aging, accepting yourself, parenting. She says she's pretty much settled with the fact that she has the body she's going to have. This makes me sigh. She's a year younger than me, and I had "hopes."

So who did God make me? I may not be like Anne Lamott with humor drier than a piece of English toast sitting in a rack, but my humor comes from my beginnings, and the things I've lived through and how I see them. And my love of people comes from the same. And there will always be someone thinner than me because I'm built for luxury and not for speed.

And so again I end up facing the question of who am I before my Creator, before Others? And the really cool thing is that even at 59 I am still learning the answers, and I'm still changing and becoming, even at this age where I had hopes for knowing more and being more already so I could maybe just sit down and have a coffee.

So, observing Anne, I'd say I need to embrace the who and where of me, and take good notes. "If you're a writer, always have a pen, or God will give me your ideas."--Anne Lamott. 


Skimmer's recap: It's true what God says, that He made me. So why do I spend so much time arguing with Him about it? OH--and, read Anne Lamott! I'm pretty sure she makes God laugh.

Poeming: Choosing.

Life. It's a crazy ride.

What i like about writing: when it takes you in a different direction than you thought you were going, and teaches you something that was in your brain all along.

CHOOSING

 

Accepting
that childhood spoke truth
of my life,
then leaving behind the
very craziness that defined it,
growing and learning
as I left it,
could I be reborn,
knowing new
living new?

 

Accepting
that adulthood speaks truth
of my life,
then opening eyes to
realize the tumultuous
ride that defines it,
growing and learning
as I see it,
can I be reborn,
knowing new
living new?

 

Life remaking itself
as people/hopes/dreams die
and we move forward
riding the crazy ride,
growing and learning,
choosing to form it
into something new
with new hopes,
reborn.

jle 2012


The prompt was to write about birth, or being reborn in some way.

Poeming: Never the same.

This is me, early '70s, in Vail, CO where i moved to
 be with my sister Patti. Dig them bell bottoms!

i decided to use a previous poetry prompt that was to use the last line of your previous poem to write your poem. (Did i say "previous" and "poem" enough?) So here it is.



NEVER THE SAME


the day I first felt Someone bigger than me

in the sunshine waterfalling from the window

I was never the same


the day I sang hymns in my Grandma’s basement

soothing away my parents’ breakup

I was never the same

the day I got off the bus and my nose-hairs froze,

to live and laugh and learn with my big sister

I was never the same

the day my Grandma died, me full wombed

hating the knowledge they’d never meet

I was never the same

the day I held each swaddled grandbaby

three on each side of the ocean

I’ve never been the same


So many days have passed, now my sister too,

and through changes of all descriptions

and through the changing and growing of me

some things are always the same

I still know that “Someone bigger,” and He

is leading me holding me loving me,

and through all of life’s changes


He’s always the same.

jle 2012

The good, the bad, and the just plain ugly of being an emotional sponge.

Here's the Story of the Day: Ghosts of the Past I'd probably have more trouble with the ghosts of the past, she said, if my memory wasn't shot to hell.

One of my hubby's Alabama cousins introduced me to StoryPeople. Whimsical, odd little things like the above arrive in my email daily. I love them.

If I were writing for them, I'd write one about myself that went something like this:

Being far too emotionally driven to be of

use in the real world, she has decided to

reside in a fantasy world where she wears

flowing skirts and is thin.

For this to make sense to anyone but me, I should tell you what I mean by being an emotional sponge, which is how I see myself. I seem to absorb the emotion of those around me, soaking up their anxiety, anger, depression, whatever. I then seem to internalize it, feel it, take it in personally, which then causes stress which makes my body hurt.

The "just plain ugly" of the above:

    *Pain, the fibromyalgia pain that reigns supreme in my body when I get too stressed. Let's face it, pain of any kind is just plain ugly!

The "bad":

     *I can't really watch the news or those Cops type shows. Sad humanity burns to my soul. As does sad-animal-kingdom. (Weirdly though, I'm so fascinated by Hoarder shows that I can watch that particular sad-humanity-sad-animal stuff. And the animals always get taken care of.)

    *I'm very susceptible to having my emotions put through the wringer. I give you as examples, the AT&T phone company commercials on the "Reach out and touch" theme that ran during my pregnancy with my daughter (seriously, so touching, people reuniting...grandchildren calling.... *SOB*) and movies/books/tv shows can cause me serious emotional trauma. For instance, Grey's Anatomy. I was done with the show after sobbing my way through the last part of the first season. And don't even get me started on that French novel, "The Elegance of the Hedgehog" we read for bookclub.

The "good":

    *I can be pretty caring and compassionate.

    It makes me a good nurturer, and being a foster mom to drug-affected babies suited me well those ten years, and I love being a mom!

    *I like most people and enjoy talking to strangers in stores, and love knowing people's stories.

    *If I ask you how you're doing, I actually want to know.

So I guess like most of life, it has its good points and bad points. I'm glad it occurred to me to write this post since all I was seeing was the negative side, but now I've reminded myself of the good. So I guess I just need to be willing to wade through the bad and the ugly to get to the lovely land of the good. 

Skimmer's Recap: Note to self: buy yourself some rubber boots and just keep moving.

   

 



On Life: Embracing It.

I'm feeling, closing in on 6 years after my fibromyalgia diagnosis, 10 years after my mother's death sent me to therapy, and 57 years into life, like I actually want to embrace life. My head's in a better place than it's been, my body is getting better at dealing with the fibro pain, and surely all that is worth shouting "hallelujah!" about.

I've dealt with depression most of my life--coming from crazy can do that. Honestly, in all my years I have never thought "whoopee! I hope I live to 100!" To a depressed brain, that sounds like a sentence, not a gift. But mentally off-kilter mothers and such be thanked, since at least that relationship sent me to make new friends of Mental Health Professionals, and they've helped my brain become better balanced.

At these realizations I find myself (tentatively) hopeful. It's difficult to be a negative positive person, since one should cancel out the other. But at my core, given God's grace in my life, I am positive, I have hope. But life has at times taught me to be negative, to be fearful. Yet I desire to Embrace-- hope, life, the fact that I'm constantly surprised to find myself in my late 50s.

Thinking about embracing life got me thinking about other times of learning to embrace. When my oldest daughter was dating her first husband, he startled me by hugging me. I wasn't used to that, but it made me rethink my physical and emotional distance from people.  My in-laws were not physically affectionate people, but when they retired and moved a 7 hour drive away, my husband and I decided we would start hugging them. It was awkward at first, but--well, but nothing, it was always awkward. When my close friend was diagnosed with ovarian cancer of stage Too Late, she refused to talk about the possibility of dying. Her friends didn't know what to do with that--how could we prepare for the loss? Say goodbye? I learned to embrace the simplicity of saying "I love you" whenever we parted. Now I'm a serious hugger, holding all my friends close to me while they're in my life.

It's important to demonstrate how we feel toward each other. In the same way I've learned to embrace my friends and others I love, I'm hopeful to learn to cherish my future, and not fear it.


Skimmer's Recap: julie thinks about life, gets all mushy-wushy about it, but publishes the post anyway.

Mother thoughts.



That's a very young me on the right, holding three-month-old Corinne, and my
mother Margie. "Windy Hill" is what my mother named the acreage in the midst
of wheat fields in Nebraska where she and my stepdad lived. 

 Ten years ago today my mother died. Two days later I found out.

Not the sort of mother/daughter relationship a friend of mine had where she lay in the hospital bed with her mother, cradling her in her arms as she died. But is that the typical bond between the daughter and the mom who nurtured her? I don't know. The relationship between my mother and me was anything but typical.

Her cancer had come back. She mentioned this to nobody, not even the Replacement Children in her more recent life in Nebraska, the three women of the approximate age of my sister and I. My sister and brother hadn't spoken to our mother in years, and though my dealings with her had grown more and more strained, I was still trying to keep in contact from states away. But I'd been replaced by less complicated relationships with those she hadn't birthed.

Her lawyer called me because a next-of-kin was needed to sign the cremation certificate. Without that need, would I have heard at all? I suppose I would have figured it out once the boxes of my mother's "treasures" started arriving, filled with items from her life, all with notes attached. The notes must be nostalgiac explanations of the when and where of the items, you might think--wrongly. No, the notes explained my failings as related to each item, and were dated and initialed, apparently so I would be aware of the many years she'd been planning this After-Death-Surprise for me.

I was destroyed by the box after box of Post-It noted pieces of her life. How could the mother who gave birth to me and who was supposed to love me without condition and protect me be the one who attacked, who torpedoed my personal worth? How could the woman seen in happy photos with my baby be this cruel person?

Therapy followed, since my wise husband could see me falling down a deep, dark hole. It saved my life and my sanity. For years I had tried to make sense of this woman who could be so bright and happy sometimes and so mean and hurtful others. I won't ever know what all was at play in her head or heart, what undiagnosed illness she may have had. I can see from here that she was always at a distance from me emotionally, and her happiness or unhappiness really had nothing to do with me. I wanted her happiness to be because of me, but I think she was much more at the mercy of whatever demons lived in her head.

I've kept some of the things she sent--in fact, some are still tucked away in the same boxes they arrived in. These items and their notes hold a fascination for me, since I still wonder at the workings of her mind. What did it feel like to live inside her head? What ruled her, what drove her decisions? Was there an underlying sadness like I thought I saw at some times in her life, or was that just me trying to make sense of what couldn't?

Humor doesn't come easily around this subject, even though humor has always been my friend. One small smile that's come of it is that my mother even died on a date I can never forget. "Jean loved house numbers with 1s in them," she had told me about my stepfather. Her address had recently been redone by the county and now included 1s. Why my brain chose that bit of information to remember, I don't know. But when she died on 1/11/01, I muttered to the bit of her that lives in my head, "Hah! I bet you planned that."

So on this date I remember her with a mixture of fondness and sadness, much like my life with her played out. I'm finally learning that our relationship makes as much sense to me as weather, and was simply what it was: somedays thunderstorms, somedays sunshine. And I think I've learned from both.

New Year's Anti-Resolutions, OR, Things I've Learned from New Year's Resolutions.

i am the first person at the end of the year to make a resolution for the new year--that of NOT making any resolutions. Why should i resolve to become organized in the new year, or thin, or to save more money? Why should i make a big statement that i am destined to fail?

Negative, you say? My hubby calls it "being a realist" when i accuse him of being negative. i'm borrowing that for the moment.

It's called "knowing myself." Big statements do not work for this girl. i have always moved at a slower, more casual pace than many others. i'm a big believer in the "don't sweat it" style of being. Not that i don't have my convictions--i do, it's more that i have always had the tendency to beat myself up for my perceived failings. "You idiot" is at the ready in my brain when i make a mistake. "You slob" is waiting to pop into my head when i look around at the casual mess of my space. (Which is exactly what happens when you don't sweat it.)

This year, i think i'll put into place the things i've learned from New Year's Resolutions past:

*i will correct myself just like i would correct my children when i hear "idiot" and "slob" and such words in my head. NO NAME CALLING!! Certainly if i work to avoid calling people names in traffic, i can at least extend the same courtesy to myself, right?

*Frankly, my "getting organized" isn't as much of a problem as KEEPING organized. Well, really, they both go against my nature. i am a visual person--i tend to forget things if they are out of sight (in that perfectly organized world.) Therefore i will accept this and try to work with it. i will have pretty things out to pile things in, creating decorative messes. i will continue to work toward a paper organizing system that works for ME, and i'm pretty sure that will also include pretty containers.

*i will accept that i love to start things before i finish the last project. i am fickle. Today i want to knit, but tomorrow i may want to use my new loom. It is what it is. Again, i think decorative containers may play a part.

*i will accept that i am a jack of all trades and master of none. i have fought this for years, calling myself names when i can no longer limit myself to one thing, like writing. God made me the creative disaster i am, He knows i love many things. Writing makes me happy. Fibers make me happy. Scrapbooks make me happy. i'm sure i'd be tidier if i had fewer hobbies......HAHAHAHAHAAA!!!  No.

*i know more about diets than most, because i've been on most diets. Do they work? Not generally, but they make for good reading.

***This year i will focus on making a better choice one choice at a time.

i will not resolve to become thin, i will choose to eat healthier each time i eat.

i will not resolve to become wealthy, each time i think i need that beautiful skein of yarn or pack of scrapbook stickers i will choose to pause and ask "do i need it," and maybe the answer will be "no." If i then put that money in savings, will it add up? i bet it will.

i will think more and treat myself less. This includes purchases, foods, even the most sacred of all, chocolate.

i will keep working one choice at a time toward organization in small ways: putting "like with like" (no more chasing the cell phone chargers etc through the entire house,) and choosing to put things away where they go.

If i bring something INTO the house, something else must go out--- hahahahaa! i can dream.

i will choose to work within the realities of ME. And i choose to take on this new year of 2011 one choice at a time. (It's less scary that way.)

Skimmer's recap: Not so big on resolutions. How about you? Are you a resolution maker? If so, what kinds of things do you resolve to do?

Saying goodbye to Uncle Joe.

He was my father-in-law's "little" brother. They were tall. Like "how do I hug them?" tall. My father-in-law, Eldon, was 6 foot 6 or 6 foot 7, at that height i couldn't see up there anyway so I'm not really sure. Tall was (and is) their family's "thing."

I'm pretty sure they were each other's favorite brothers out of the 4 boys in their family. (I think they all doted on their beautiful little sis, Mary.) I remember many stories of the boys' escapades when they were kids, crazy stuff like hunting skunks with pop-guns. Country living is so far from my upbringing in Portland, Oregon that I was always fascinated. I mean, the only wildlife I saw was some of the neighborhood kids, and they'd be a much safer bet to hunt with a pop-gun.

As adults they stayed good friends, and I would hear stories of Uncle Joe's clothing factory from my in-laws. We still have an old platform rocker from my side of the family that I slipcovered in sturdy suit fabric brought home to me probably 25 years ago from Joe's wife, Pat. She had her own business running a fabric outlet of leftover fabrics from the factory. (I only wish I could still fit into the coat they sent home to me at the same time!)

My father-in-law meant a lot to me. He was kind and loving to me, and would do things with me he wouldn't with my mother-in-law, like shop or eat tuna sandwiches. He sat with me in silent support through the years of my miscarriages, he helped us build our second story house addition, he called my m-i-l's peanut brittle "peanut brutal" and tuna sandwiches "cat food" sandwiches, but he'd eat them if I made them. And he absolutely without a doubt loved his grandkids.

His brother Joe was that same sort of person. Unfortunately I didn't get to know him very well, but when I saw him a few years back, he was the same kind of sit-down-and-chat guy that my father-in-law was. He had a ready smile and an accepting heart. He had the same sparkle in his eye, and oh he made me miss my father-in-law.

When my hubby and I visited the Alabama family just a few months ago, I got to see him with his great-grandkids--and I loved it. Again, it brought me back to memories of my father-in-law graciously letting my children and foster children use him as a climbing wall. The two brothers shared a lot in their attitude toward little ones and in their quiet faith in God. And if anything, Uncle Joe was even more of a family man.

This is why I know that Joe will be so missed by his wife, his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and other family and friends. As much as I miss my father-in-law, I have a fair sense of the loss Uncle Joe's home-going to heaven will mean to those still stuck on the ground who loved him.

Goodbye, Uncle Joe. We will miss you.

Fret Free Friday

My brain has gone blank frequently these days, therefore I am declaring today a Fret Free Friday and putting something up I wrote a couple of years ago. Besides, I like this post!

Apricot Thoughts.

The bible verse that kept me going during my recent Fentanyl withdrawal experiment was the one about the vine and the branch, where Jesus says, "I am the vine and you are the branch. If anyone remains in me and I in them, he will bear much fruit. Without me you can do nothing." (That's a loose-ish paraphrase of John 15:5.) While i was feeling so detached from life i needed to feel attached still to my Creator, so i would repeat it but from my end of it: "You are my vine, i am your branch." It's yet another version of something i've said to God in the past while going through what seemed an impossible situation: "i may not be able to see You right now, but i will not turn my back on You."

You see, i remain aware of His thoughts toward me, and his persistence in loving me even when i don't seem to be able to carry off my end of the deal. Sometimes simply voicing that desire for connection with God has helped me hold on.

Anyway, later in reading a random bible verse i read something written by the apostle Paul to the Christians in Colosse, "Let your roots grow down into Him and draw up nourishment from Him so you will grow in faith, strong and vigorous in the truth you were taught." (Colossians 2:7.) These thoughts meshed for me. i choose to remain attached to the vine that is Jesus, and that is because i will then stay rooted to the source of nourishment, and will stay strong.

Recently i picked apricots from my daughter's tree with the help of her two girls, Haley and Cassidy. A few branches here and there had been broken away at their place of connection to the bigger tree. The only apricots they held were stunted and dried up, inedible. Other branches were heavy with apricots, growing vigorously from their solid connection to the tree, and were ripe and plump and beautifully colored.

Even i get the visual there--remaining strongly rooted to the source of nutrients grows plentiful, enjoyable fruit. The interruptions of life that we may let break us away from the tree causes dryness and immaturity of fruit.

Good stuff.

Skimmer's recap (and no, hubby of mine, i cannot set this blog up to send you only the skimmer section, sorry--): Attached to the tree= healthy growth. Not attached=little growth if any growth at all.

Apricot Thoughts.

The bible verse that kept me going during my recent Fentanyl withdrawal experiment was the one about the vine and the branch, where Jesus says, "I am the vine and you are the branch. If anyone remains in me and I in them, he will bear much fruit. Without me you can do nothing." (That's a loose-ish paraphrase of John 15:5.) While i was feeling so detached from life i needed to feel attached still to my Creator, so i would repeat it but from my end of it: "You are my vine, i am your branch." It's yet another version of something i've said to God in the past while going through what seemed an impossible situation: "i may not be able to see You right now, but i will not turn my back on You."

You see, i remain aware of His thoughts toward me, and his persistence in loving me even when i don't seem to be able to carry off my end of the deal. Sometimes simply voicing that desire for connection with God has helped me hold on.

Anyway, later in reading a random bible verse i read something written by the apostle Paul to the Christians in Colosse, "Let your roots grow down into Him and draw up nourishment from Him so you will grow in faith, strong and vigorous in the truth you were taught." (Colossians 2:7.) These thoughts meshed for me. i choose to remain attached to the vine that is Jesus, and that is because i will then stay rooted to the source of nourishment, and will stay strong.

Recently i picked apricots from my daughter's tree with the help of her two girls, Haley and Cassidy. A few branches here and there had been broken away at their place of connection to the bigger tree. The only apricots they held were stunted and dried up, inedible. Other branches were heavy with apricots, growing vigorously from their solid connection to the tree, and were ripe and plump and beautifully colored.

Even i get the visual there--remaining strongly rooted to the source of nutrients grows plentiful, enjoyable fruit. The interruptions of life that we may let break us away from the tree causes dryness and immaturity of fruit.

Good stuff.

Skimmer's recap (and no, hubby of mine, i cannot set this blog up to send you only the skimmer section, sorry--): Attached to the tree= healthy growth. Not attached=little growth if any growth at all.

Habits of Happy People.

First off, welcome back to me! i say. Nearly a month is way too long for any self-respecting blogger to go between posts--

Friday i went back to the Chronic Pain Management Class at Kaiser for my 2 month follow-up day. Other than the nurses trying to kill me by having us do ALL the strength exercises i have not been doing faithfully, it was a good day. Even an encouraging day.

The last thing of the day was time spent with the psychologist--she spoke of Intentional Happiness. What is that, you ask? Why, i would be *happy* to tell you, i answer.

The psychologist started out by commenting that for all the years there have been studies to define the many types of mental/emotional illnesses and their treatments, no studies had been done on people who are well-balanced and happy in their lives. Surprising, you comment? Truthfully i had never given it a moment's thought, i respond.

This study was done with a goal of ascertaining what differentiates a person's capacity for happiness or unhappiness, thriving or failing. It encompassed people who had lived through horrible circumstances and events: the holocaust, loss of children, illnesses, etc. Those who survived and thrived had several habits in common. But first to set the stage:

If you draw a circle representing 100% happiness in your life, what percentage of that circle do you suppose genetics plays a part in? Take a guess--no really, just guess! i was totally off. It's FIFTY PERCENT! This would include things such as coming from a long line of family members with depression and/or anxiety, other illnesses both mental and physical such as a predisposition toward cancer, diabetes, etc. So HALF your happiness is affected by genetics. (Again i apologize, dear Corinne, child of birth--you are so screwed.)

Now, of the 50% remaining, what percentage do you think you are solely responsible for? This includes your behavior and habits, that sort of thing, the parts only you control. FORTY PERCENT!! That's right. A whole hunk of it is up to us. Our choices. Our habits.

This leaves 10%--that is the percentage determined by circumstances: events, disease, pain and such. A mere 10%. BUT, and here's the kicker, when that 10% starts taking over our thinking and actions, it swallows up the 40% that is our behavior and habits to become FIFTY PERCENT. Holy negativity, Batman!

So--this brings us to the answer to the original question: What are the common habits of happy people?

*Intentional happiness. This is the choice to look for the good--what happened today that was good? What went right? (NOW who's talkin' smack about Pollyanna, huh?)

*Support. The habit of seeking support and working to maintain and improve those supportive relationships.

*Hobbies. Those who thrived in the midst of bad circumstance had hobbies! Since i am a big hobby person i understand this one. My hobbies focus me on the immediate. i have no thoughts of past failure or present pain, i'm lost in the moment. And lest you think a hobby means craftiness, a hobby can be many things that don't mean having shelves full of yarn and scrapbooking supplies and fabric and....yeh. That would be me. A hobby can be as simple as reading a library book, or watching a movie. All hobbies don't require huge amounts of supply space and/or money, they simply are an activity that gives you something to focus on other than your circumstance.

*Flow. This was an unfamiliar term. As soon as the psychologist explained it i understood--that feeling you get when you're doing something that absorbs you and puts you in the moment? That's flow. For me all those hobbies i mentioned, the reading/creating and such, those put me in "flow."

*Meaning. Finding meaning for life is a habit of a happy person. For me there have been many things that contributed to that--none of which i can do as easily any more, given my energy-free life. Once upon a time i loved providing infant foster care, i loved being a part of students' lives for the years i worked in the church high school department. i loved providing a safe space for the occasional teen who needed a place to stay. i loved (and still love!) loving my kids. i find that i am in a time of redefining what i can do, given the change in health. But that's okay--no place does it say i have to do the exact same things to have meaning in my life. For me it has all been driven by the unconditional love i have known from my Creator God, and the desire to share that in my actions toward others. i need to accept that i will do this in my flawed way, but the desire is there and always has been. i just need to do some thinking to find a different way to perform the acts that give me meaning and purpose.

As simple as this all seems, the practice is the key. My choice to look for the good, to seek support, to find ways to be focused and absorbed and in the moment, to find meaning--these choices are the key to thriving in the midst of crappy circumstance. Crappy circumstances are the things we often see as interruptions in our real life, when in fact they are our life at that moment.

Skimmer's recap: Half your potential for thriving in life is determined by your genes. Only 10% is determined by your circumstance. That leaves 40% dependent on your personal choices and habits. That's a whole lot of control.

Long time no see!

Wow. Some time has passed, things have happened to make big changes around here. Let me attempt a brief overview. (i hear some of you laughing at the word "brief" out there..)

i actually went back to attend my last week of how-to-be-a chronic pain class. The Monday found me in fear and trepidation, calling my hubby before class to say "i don't think i can do this!" He said, and rightly so, "if you just go in you'll probably be fine!" and i was. i guess i figured that in the land of Pretend and All Is Good that i'd have a tough time dealing with my grief. As it was the doctor, the nurse, and the psychologist all assured me i wasn't strange to grieve over a dog--the doc said, "they're part of the family" (true) and "you don't have to like it, you just have to do it" about grief. Think i'll quote him on that. i was pleasantly overwhelmed by their kindness.

The really really cool thing of the week, besides getting a nifty signed diploma of graduation, was inspired by a fill-in psychologist. The Wednesday "group" meeting was covered by the supervising psychologist of our usual young, sweet Dr G. He asked if any of us had questions, and went over the "This is what we can talk about, this is what we try to 'check'." Everyone was quiet, just looking at each other, or at the floor. He laughed and said, "Is this how it usually is in here?"

After a couple of tiny polite questions, i asked, "Can i ask you a question about the program itself?" He nodded. "Well, there's just stuff i don't get--like, today, Beverley said 'God bless you' to somebody who sneezed, and she got called out on it as 'helping.'" He leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Honestly, i just don't get why some of the things we're 'redirected' on are wrong."

He gave us the best talk on the sympathetic nervous system and the "Fight or Flight" syndrome, explaining how even positive comments can knock a person out of their neutral state into a state of heightened arrousal, which can also awaken their pain. Anyway, it was very comprehensive, and made the nurses' attempts at redirecting make some sense, in our positive as well as negative comments.

The psychologist asked me, "So, how have you seen the positive talk idea work in your regular life?" My response, "Honestly, i'll still in my regular life say the name of the movie and games 'Resident Evil," bringing T-shirt Boy awake--"My first day, right?" He had worn a shirt with the Umbrella Corporation on it, from that series on his first day. i had commented on it, since that's my son's favorite movie series ever, but when someone asked what movie or game it was from, when he said "Resident Evil" he was "redirected" on the word "evil." He's seen it as his personal mission to test the boundaries of T-shirt statements each day since.

"But on the other hand," i continued, "it's given me some freedom to tell people when i need to change the subject because i'm getting anxious due to what they're saying. And it's helped me see where times i think i'm helping somebody, i'm not AND i'm hurting me."

The doctor liked that.

At the end of the discussion, i said, "THIS is what i needed for all this to make sense! THIS needs to be part of everybody's experience in this class!" He laughed and said, "I'll take that suggestion to the powers that be." That made me happy, but on the Friday i got even more happy.

When i went to see the doctor on Friday, and mind you, this is the guy who heads up the program, he said, "We've taken the suggestion, and we're going to incorporate it into the program." i made some happy garbled noises, and danced my way out of the office. Then i graduated! Woo hoo!

i was proud of myself for returning to class, finding out that i could indeed do something when i thought i could not. And i was thrilled with the positive aspect of the whole "how your brain works" suggestion taken. i felt powerful for a day!

And now i'm home, and on my own, and tomorrow i will tell you the turn THAT has taken.

;-)

Letting go.

As i sat in the waiting room before Pain Management class began, i did the usual people watching. i scribbled this on a piece of paper:

"Don't want to be a lumpy-bumpy old grandma with lumpy-bumpy clothes. But she looks happy. i know how to look happy, how to say, 'i'm fine!' when asked how i am, so i fit that Pain Class rule to a T. But i'm not so good at being peaceful on the inside. There i am a bunch/bundle/gaggle of shaky anxiety. 'i'm trying to learn to let go.'"

i was feeling pretty fragile, having to see Dean take Dynamo off to the vets for who knew how long at that point.

In the afternoon i took a few minutes to write this down:

"'Letting go'--seems to be the theme, especially for me. Cried halfway through the day, worried about our dog, feeling very much that it's out of my hands, but feeling the stress. Hard time with the heavy internal traffic, difficult to focus on the morning meditation and exercises. Pain was worse as the afternoon went n, but somehow released after the meditation and psychologist group session.

i want to get everything i can out of this class, improve myself and my life as much as i choose to. So i ask questions a lot--i seem more talkative than many. (Okay, no surprise there.)"

Letting go. i've been a worrier since birth. i think that things felt so out of my control as a child, subconciously i did feel very much the victim of my parents' craziness. i just as young learned to "put on a happy face." i mean, i was a cheerful child, i think that was honest and true to who i was, but i learned early that was the face that helped me slide by in my family and stay out of trouble. So i learned to smile and be outwardly happy in the face of all the things that made no sense to a small child surrounded by hostility and chaos.

This causes a a conflict in me. At Pain Class i feel well suited to shine it on for the folks, acting positive, answering "fine!" "good!" or other acceptable smiley-face responses. But another part of me says, "this is bull-pucky." i've spent so long learning to be a person of truth that being cheerful feels like a lie often times. I hurt! Why can't i call it that? The Pain chasers say it doesn't help, it only hurts to talk about our pain. i'm not quite there in my understanding. Sometimes i just want to be able to say, "i'm having a tough day." Not being a victim, just stating the facts.

This Pain class coinciding with Dynamo's troubles speaks to the letting go process as it relates to real life in its totality. Needing to let go of my useless fretting and trusting Dyno to the more capable hands of the vet requires a difficult level of "learning to let go." Needing to change the way i try to deal with my pain requires an even more difficult level. Having to chart hourly what i'm doing and what is my pain level has let me see the connection between the emotional part of my life and the pain part of my life, how much the emotional effects the physical. That's the point in this class--the body and mind connection.

Once again i have rambled--sorry, folks.

Skimmers: dog sick. Body hurts. Need to learn to let go of both.

Apparently not that funny.

i tried to find a cartoon relating to today's subject, but apparently trying to help a teen understand finances and budgets is no laughing matter.

My son, as adorable as he is, as sweet as he can be, is not terribly receptive to the idea that he should not spend all of his paycheck on video games, movies, and fast food restaurants. Not unlike some of the recent discussions about chores, a great deal of heavy sighing accompanies these talks between he and i--and he's not so happy about it either.

We've done run-downs on the costs of keeping a house, and what his share of that would actually be if divided equally between those of us living here.

We've run the numbers on his income and disproportionate (and mostly unnecessary) spending.

We've discussed that a twenty hour a week job does not a fortune make, and yet a fortune does his entertainment take.

We've reviewed the costs, both monetarily and physically, of the work involved in providing things like the groceries and cleaning of and upkeep for a house and home.

All these discussions are part of our desire to help him become a wiser money manager and useful, contributing member of society. Besides, if he never learns to budget his money, how will i ever get that spare room for all my hobbies?

[Bracket} thoughts.

Now that my California cold that followed closely on the heels of my English cold has receded into a mere shadow of its former snotty glory, i feel almost clear enough to write again.

What keeps coming to my mind is the simple clarity of the month spent with my English family--why did that time feel so much more clear? On the most obvious point, it was just excellent to be with them, and enter into their lives, and get to just chat about the everyday-ness of life. But why else did it seem so clear and simple?

Anything outside my normal life has some magic to it, and some clarity. This i suppose arises from the fact of being a piece of time in brackets. You know, {Vacation} {Birth of a baby} Those are finite times with edges. My normal life is open ended...no brackets...just some vague dots trailing off...into...whenever...

i think that's one reason i enjoyed the whole baby/toddler/child raising time--it had edges. It had brackets. There needed to be meals, and naps, and baths, and bedtimes. Those were my mini-goals, to make it from breakfast to naptime, from dinner to bath to bed. Small brackets around small bits of my day.

While i was in England, the days were pretty clear--there was breakfast to be eaten, and the dishes from that to be washed. There were grubby boys to play in the garden, and clothes from that to be washed. There was a clear path from morning till night, with chores to mark the divisions of the day. Simplicity. Clarity.

Of course, i must factor in that my daughter has The Gift of Organization. As i've mentioned before, she'd rather wash dishes frequently than save them up and have an overwhelming pile. She'd rather pick up the toys and vacuum at the end of the day than to already have a mess at the beginning of a new day. i suspect she can actually see brackets: {these things go together in this drawer} {this is a logical time to do this chore.} i am challenged in these matters.

Other than the natural bracketing of the meals and naps of child-raising, i tend to be easily overwhelmed by life. i'm not schedule oriented, i enjoy being flexible and creative. But sometimes the open ended-ness of my life is daunting, especially when some of its days are so achy. i think i'm unsure of how to find the balance.

Any thoughts?

Everything i needed to learn about life, i learned from playing Snood.

Okay, well maybe not entirely--but i do love Snood! And while in my Happy Snood Place one day, it occurred to me, there are lessons to be learned...

For instance, the lesson of Do-Overs. If i try and fail, i can hit "R" and replay that same game until i get it right! But sometimes i'm just bashing my head against the wall, so, life lesson wise? Persistence is good. Trying again is good. Unless you realize what you're trying to do is pretty much a useless venture. Then cashing it in and trying something else is good. Or as Dr. Phil would say to someone's futile attempts at control etc: "And how's that workin' for ya?" That takes us to the lesson of Plan-B.

Plan-B says, my personal stubbornness is not always going to pay off--sometimes i need to learn when to walk away. That could be because i'm trying to change something that isn't really mine to change, or it could be because i'm being stubborn just to be right. Like being too stubborn to say "sorry." or maybe what i'm so stubbornly trying to do just isn't really part of my personal set of talents or skills. So maybe i should ReThink rather than Replay. Try a New Game rather than keep beating the old one to death.

There's also the law of consequences--in Snood, take a bad shot, stuff piles up, and then BAM. Game over. BUT--you can press "M" and call up a Mulligan. This will allow you to take as many shots over as you'd like in that game--but if you do win the game by using a Mulligan, you get a big Cheesy icon by your score, indicating your cheesily assisted win. This is akin to "Milli Vanilli's" musical talents, not quite a genuine "win." So, the life lesson of the consequences of our decision making--will my "success" be worth it if i take a shortcut? Okay, so maybe for a while i'll have the hot groupies and the tv appearances, but wait till they find out i'm only lip-syncing.

Well, i'd love to go on rambling about Snood, but i think i'm going to go play a few games now and see if i can get enough honest wins to get rid of that cheese icon by one of my scores.

Lessons learned from Oliver.

Oliver is my grandpuppy. We're watching him while daughter Cori is on vacation. He was a rescue doggy when she got him 4 years ago, and he still has some "issues." He's a bit skittish, he's a bit distrustful, but he is a small, fluffy delight nonetheless.

And he does love his walks! Corinne walks him regularly. They live in an apartment in a family neighborhood with tree lined streets and real sidewalks. We live in an unincorporated area, which translates to some concrete sidewalks, some dirt walks, some pebble covered walks. But Oliver doesn't care, he just loves his walks, whatever the surface.

He and i have gone for a couple of walks since he's been at our house--this morning was one of them. i pulled on some clothes and tennis shoes, did nothing to my hair (to be honest, at 6:30 a.m. i barely remember i have hair) and got out his leash. Our other dear left-behind dogs had a howling fit, but i was only taking Oliver. We were out the door around 7, a practically unheard of time for me. i don't really care for hours in the morning that start with 5's, 6's, or 7's. But i was awake, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

As we headed down the street toward the corner market, delivery men were busy with their trucks and coffees and conversations. One of them cheerfully waved and said, "So, he got you up for an early walk, eh?" He was obviously One Of Those. You know the type--probably opens the blinds and talks when he gets up in the morning. A Morning Person. i have a daughter like that. It just isn't right.

i tore my gaze from his cup of coffee and managed something to the effect of, "Yeh, he does love his walks..." We rounded the corner, the sound of their extremely animated morning conversation still in the air.

This is the way i figure it--in order for me to walk for at least 30 minutes, i have to walk so that i am at a point of no return by 15 minutes. That way there's no wimping out, once i'm 15 minutes away from home, it has to take me another 15 to return. No shortcuts, no, excuses.

So, on my way home (which by the way ended up taking me a full 40 minutes total) a thought occurred to me. When i was giving Oliver a bath, he didn't do like my dogs do and try to climb out of the tub, he didn't shake the soap all over the room, he just took on a resigned look. An "I will endure" look. And just did it. He doesn't love his baths, but he doesn't fight them. He just does it because otherwise nobody wants to be near "his stinky self" as my daughter puts it.

i don't have to love morning. i don't have to love 30 minute walks whatever time of day. i don't need to be one of those people i've never understood who just have to get into the great outdoors and stretch their legs and admire the neighbors' roses. i just happen to be one of those people who loves my computer and my crafts and my books and all those other sedentary pastimes. But do i want my stinky self to live longer and breathe better and loosen up this sore body of mine, and possibly burn a calorie or two in the bargain. Then i don't have to love it, i just need to do it. Like Oliver.

Somehow that makes it seem more manageable to me, because if i wait to love it, it's never gonna happen.

Life Lessons.

Life's just full of little lessons--for instance, the TLC Channel "Life Lessons" figurine that reminds us that children learn from us, and will repeat every single thing you say--usually at the most inappropriate moment.

Here's another: do you know somebody who has to one-up your pain? You know, when you just want to have a good gripe but they keep telling you what they have that's worse? Yep, fine, you want to tell them, You win in the 'Sucks to be you' contest of life, but dang it, i still need some air time!

You know that internal dialogue, the one where you're really hoping it's "that still small voice" generally associated with God, and not just *you * upping the Crazy Quotient of the family tree? Well, like i said as i closed an earlier gripe-post, there's stuff i can do with fibromyalgia but not with a cast, and vice-versa. It's the first category i'm honing in on here.

It's like the Still Small Voice is saying, "well, look--you used to be able to do that with fibromyalgia--oh, and that--" (Here the Still Small Voice gets the tiniest bit cheerfully sarcastic, which is part of why i worry that possibly, just possibly, it's really that family tree business i mentioned earlier rather than God--) "Hmmm....So, do you think that maybe there are things that are more limiting than fibromyalgia? And that you should be thinking of what you can do with the fibro rather than what you can't?" Yeh, whatever.

So, life's little interruptions may not always be the End All they seem at the time, as much as i hate to admit that. It's so satisfying to have the occasional whinge, and i've always been one to tell someone "Your pain is your pain" and isn't less simply because someone else has it worse. But how can i have a really good whinge about the fibro with that cheerful Still Small Voice in my head pointing out that it could be worse? i mean, it's not as if i can't drive and get out of the house or something--Oh wait, 2 more weeks in this cast. Dang.

Life's Interruptions/Life's Lessons. They seem to have a connection. i hate when that happens.