Hoarding

The cover for our under-cabinet lighting cracked and fell, and needing replacing. I went on a search to find a new one, that landed me at a nearby lighting store, where they very helpfully found me a new one. The process gave me quite a bit of time with the woman helping me, and I learned a great deal from her:

1) She was moving
2) They (she and her husband) had found a great deal on a house
3) They had purchased it from the parents of a hoarder, who were selling the house "as is," complete with all the contents
4) The owner was a single woman with no children
5) The contents included, but were not limited to: a crib, toys, a full nursery, gifts for an imaginary fiancé, three truck loads of unopened packages that had arrived in the mail, eight truckloads of trash

Long after I replaced the light cover and moved on, in body, to other tasks, my heart stayed with this poor suffering soul, whose parents had moved her to a psychiatric facility many states away, and sold her house and everything she cared about, out from under her.

I have known my fair share of hoarders and perhaps that is why the story touched me in the ways that it did. Although my need to have bare spaces and no clutter surpasses my need to purchase and save, that doesn't mean I don't hold onto things that don't serve me well. One can hoard memories, fears, resentments, expectations, disappointments, all kinds of things we once thought we needed, and really don't.

Cut Free

Years and years ago, when the kids were very young (15 years ago, at least), I dressed the kids up, stood in line to see Santa, and fitfully got through the ordeal. Santa handed each kid a seedling, and me being me, I came home and planted each in a small pot and nursed them until they were big and strong enough to transfer to a bigger pot. And so on. Months turned to years, we moved, and the small trees came with us. Eventually, we planted them in the ground, and they grew too big for that space, too, and required another transplanting.

The trees have been growing in our backyard ever since, not quite "making sense" there, but meaningful and significant to our family story, none-the-less.

Woohoo didn't come home for Thanksgiving this year, and that meant our annual tradition of going out and cutting down a Christmas tree, the day after Thanksgiving, would be different. We decided this would be the year we'd cut down one of the backyard Santa trees, and use it for Christmas. It's crowded where it is, it's grown too big to fit where once it did.

This was Woohoo's tree, and much the same way, she has grown beyond the limiting space she had in the home, and it is time to be cut loose. In five short months she will graduate from college and be on her own. She is not the little girl that got the seedling from Santa, nor is she the grown woman she will one day be, but she is ready to stand on her own, light her own way, and shine.

Unfair

Had a weird dream last night that I was in a class, we all had to buy a certain book of poetry, and the poet/author was in the class signing them. Then, after having our own signed copies, we had to pass them around the table the next day, and play a sort of musical chairs with them. I "lost," and was the only one in the class not to get a book.

The dream continued in much the same way, whereby everyone got lunch but I didn't, then, when I went to order my own lunch from a lunch stand, there was some mix-up, and I couldn't get lunch there, either.

I was deeply concerned about everyone having the wrong book, not the books carefully inscribed for them, and worried about where "my" book ended up. About that time, some mom (no idea how old we all were) came up with a frozen lunch, and told the teacher it was for her son, but her son took someone else's (mine) by mistake, and maybe that person could have the frozen one. Some other person/child nabbed "my" frozen meal, and for the third time, I was left without a lunch while everyone went along eating.

After waking up and shaking off the dream of unfairness, I recalled a time in second grade when we had a substitute teacher, and she gave every kid, except me, an STP sticker from the local gas station, at the end of the day. When I asked her why I didn't get one, she said something along the lines that I should know why.

To this day, 45-years later, I still don't know why, and, evidently, it's still bothering me.

The unfairness in the world is evident every time we turn on the news, or open our eyes. It's so hard to keep the faith, the hope, the love. It's so hard to practice mercy, compassion, forgiveness and understanding.

This week of Thanksgiving, I give thanks for all those that hold and share the Light.

Life is But a Dream

Did you guys watch your "Super Soul Sunday" last night with Thomas Moore? That show, alone, makes it worth having cable. Moore, a former monk and now psychotherapist, talked about how to make A Religion of One's Own. Loved it and everything about it.

He also spoke about the importance of our dream life, and tapping into it for greater understanding and healing. I just came across two dream journals as I continue to purge, and although I eventually tossed them, it was interesting to see what I've dreamed and wrestled with in the past, as opposed to now.

A few nights ago I dreamed I was running a marathon (I am a huge walker, but not a runner). I was running alone, and apparently, the only runner in the marathon. The marathon was unmarked and held none of the hoopla marathons typically do. I couldn't even tell where I was on the course - no end in sight.

I kept running and running and wondering, am I almost done, yet? I looked down at my shoe to see if there were a chip that was keeping track for me, but there was a padlock, instead.

The dream ended when I finally decided enough was enough, I must be close enough, or more than likely, past the unrecognized finish line.

The marathon part of me.

The running (not walking) part of me.

The unmarked part of me.

The no-hoopla part of me.

The no-end-in-sight part of me.

The padlocked part of me.

The unrecognized part of me.

The self-determined finish line part of me.

I'm OK, You're OK

Wil and I are spending a lot of time together, as in, 20-hours-a-day. Yes, certainly, some of that is spent sleeping, but if you don't think he's on my mind when I'm sleeping, you've got another think coming.

Wil has a wonderful Personal Support Worker (PSW) that spends four-hours-a-day with him, and I am trying to re-shift the way I spend my days, my time, my energy, to be home and stay home during those four hours, and drink in the silence. Maybe it's a matter of not enough medicine, maybe it's a matter of boredom, maybe it's a matter of happiness over-flowing, but when he's home and awake (which is after I've gone to bed and before I've gotten up, lately), there is constant noise coming from wherever he is.

I've taken to recording 10-second snippets on my phone and sending them to my friends to torture them, and to elicit sympathy. You take those 10-seconds, multiply them by the hours and hours a day over 19-years, and you'll have greater understanding for why I have trouble stringing words together these days, either written or spoken. "I'm shot," my husband said the other day, after spending many weekend hours with Wil, "he 'shots' me."

And while we are both "shot" and our basic skills compromised, Wil is thriving. He's happy to be out of the school structure. His square peg is relieved to be out of the round hole. He is volunteering at two different Catholic grade schools, and loving his time with younger kids and staff. He is ready to officially be the teacher he's always unofficially been.

Andrew goes with Wil to his volunteer jobs, and then before or after their shift, they usually go get something to eat, which Wil has now reduced to doing once-a-day. Don't ask him to eat more than that. It's unhealthy, expensive, inconvenient and a pain-in-the-who-ha, but it's a phase that ain't going anywhere soon.

Yesterday, Andrew returned Wil from his job but had to be somewhere else right away, so I took Wil to lunch. We had heard about a new pizza-by-the-slice place, and he was willing to venture beyond the tired places we usually frequent, so away we went. We found a parking spot on the busy street, but it had his side of the car opening wide into oncoming traffic. I wanted him to either crawl over and get out my door, or wait for me to open his door until I could get around and monitor the situation carefully.

He wouldn't hear of it, and opened up the door, with no regard, to the speed and distance of approaching vehicles. I shouted a warning, "Wil! Wait! Watch for cars!"

He replied, equally adamant, "You've got to realize, that when I'm in trouble, you're OK."

Like I said, the teacher.

Past, Present, Future

We all have a friend or two, or even more, if we're very, very lucky, that always guides us to just what we need, when we need it. My friend, Val, is like that for me. She came over for tea this summer, and with her she brought a set of Mother Mary Oracle cards, and taught me how to use them.

The deck contains 44 beautifully illustrated cards with accompanying guidebook that offers practical healing processes and affirmations.

It should be noted that I have yet to draw such cards as the ones above, and have even dug through the stack to make sure they were included in my stack. No, I continue to draw Our Lady of Truth, Our Lady of the Inner Gate, Our Lady with the Moon at Her Feet. Go ahead and say it with me, "No accidents."

Over and over I receive messages such as, "You must provide the trust in me that gives you courage to take the journey." "Your world is changing, triggered by the transformations already happening within you as you grow spiritually." "I will help you outgrow that which no longer serves, so that what you struggle to attain now, through effort, in time will come naturally to you."

There is also a theme running of not getting what I want, because something different is intended, which begs the question, why even ask?

Each morning I try to quiet the monkey mind, sit in my prayer space with lovely music and lots of candles, and pull a card after shuffling with some degree of inner guidance. One option outlined in the guidebook is to draw three cards, and line them up left to right. The first one you draw represents the past, the second the present, and the third, the future. You are to have the intention of integrating the past, understanding the present, and opening up to your best possible future. This is what I drew today:

By integrating the past, I know that the changes I have encountered, were actually blessings of answered prayers. By understanding the present, I know that I have to surrender all doubt and fear, and trust in Mary's loving grace. By opening up to the best possible future, Mary promises to replace fatigue and struggle with boundless energy of compassion and passionate purpose.

Yes, please.



You can order yourself a set here.

Mesothelioma Awareness Day

I first became aware of Heather Von St. James and her blog, Dying to Be Heard, only a couple of months ago. I had not heard of mesothelioma, and did not know if it's devastation. Won't you please take a moment to read about it, and possibly "donate" your social media? Thank you for your help!

Letting Go

I had this comment from a reader, recently, and the question has been with me ever since, "Was it hard to learn to let go? To just believe that the right things would happen? I struggle with this and just wonder if you ever do."

While I know it in my bones, and feel it in my heart, and have proof all around me, yes, I still struggle to let go and believe the right things will happen. 

I'm not sure what that's all about. Probably a messy combination of being human, needing to feel in control, habit, mistaken belief that if I'm not worrying, I'm not "doing" anything, and the influence of outside voices and forces.

To spend any significant amount of time dwelling on the past, or projecting fear into the future, can whip me up into a right proper frenzy, instantly. 

I think more needs to be made about the word "right," too. Do I believe the "right" things will happen? Do things have to go my way to be right? When things aren't going "right," it's very easy to fall into the trap of generalizing, globalizing, panicking and believing everything is a catastrophe. Sometimes, perhaps often, the "right" thing comes into our life wearing a clever disguise.

Wil starts his new job today. He's been out of high school for three months now, having pretty much the time of his life, doing only what he wants to do and very little of what he doesn't. He's been happy, and the temptation is to keep it that way, arranging life carefully for him, so that he only has to do the things he enjoys and finds easy. We've been working to create a volunteer job for him where he will spend most of his time doing the things he prefers, but at least part of every day he will do something that challenges him, something he doesn't necessarily like and doesn't find easy. He will have a job coach, he will have supervision, he will have support, he will have checks and balances to make sure it's all going well, but there are many aspects of his new job that I am simply not in control of.

It's very hard to let any adult child go out into the world and face the challenges you know they will face. It is particularly hard to let a special needs adult move into the world, even with a lot of support, and enter the work world. But it's time. It's necessary. It's the next step towards greater independence. It's the next step towards greater self-actualization. It's the next step towards letting go.

Cancel, Cancel

You may recall that my dear friend, Terry Whitaker, AKA "Toeless," once gave me a healing session (via phone) with Pat Longo. Pat is known largely through her connection to Theresa Caputo, the Long Island Medium, which is how I heard of her. She was able to help heal Theresa's anxiety, that had plagued her for years, and help her discover and accept her gift of speaking to the dead.

Anyway, this is not a post on Pat Longo, except that one thing I learned from her that has really stuck with me, is the "trick" of canceling negative thoughts before they take root and manifest into other things. She says that when you catch yourself starting to spiral, when you have a negative thought that wants to grab onto others and really get going, you say, "Cancel, cancel." You yank that thought back from the Universe and keep it from gaining any momentum. If you believe that our thoughts turn into "things," then it's important to stop the thoughts that we do not want to give strength to.

I have an iPhone, like many of you. My phone doesn't work as well, and sucks up a lot of battery usage, when I have a bunch of apps open - things I don't want open, necessarily, but have not bothered to close. I remember the day I learned the trick of double-clicking the home button, and pulling up all the open apps, then giving them a swipe and making them go away. One friend even showed the the joy of flicking them shut, and if you are really feeling feisty, using three fingers and closing the apps three-at-a-time.

In essence, by closing the apps,  you are "canceling" what you don't want "out there," and are concentrating your energy for what you do.

Flick, flick, cancel, cancel.

Manifest, manifest.

Amen.

Living Autism Day-by-Day

12 years after Pamela Bryson-Weaver's son received his diagnosis of ASD, she decided to write a book about her arriving at a place of acceptance and peace, and the realization of the many blessings in her life, as a result. Since this struck very close to home, I was intrigued to see how Pamela would structure her "story." Part inspirational, part calendar, part journal, part reference, the book is aimed at busy parents/grandparents/caregivers, family and friends affected by autism spectrum disorder.

Seems like about the right amount of time - 12 years. One does not arrive at a place of acceptance, peace and the appreciation of blessings, quickly, in my experience. This book can help with that process. While faith-based, it's not preachy. The quotations are lovely, and come from a whole myriad of people. There is room to write in it, and it would be fascinating to write in it for a year, then start the book all over again, and see how your thoughts have evolved, or not.

With the numbers being 1 in 50 children being diagnosed with autism now, there are so many people that stand to benefit from the support, education and loving care this book offers. You may order your copy of Living autism day-by-day through Amazon.

Storm the Heavens

Wil and I recently spent a weekend at "Family Camp" with our church. Correction: we spent all day Friday, and all day Saturday at camp - we were not overnight campers. There are many things Wil enjoys about Family Camp, namely, the time to meander and chat up a lot of his favorite people. There are many things Wil does not enjoy about Family Camp, namely eating, sleeping, and using the communal bathrooms. This creates a bit of a challenge, so we decided to day trip it this year, and we experienced great success.

He made it very clear that we were to "pretend we don't know each other," he went his way, and I went mine. We would meet only after everyone but him finished dinner, then we'd head back down the mountain. Occasionally, I'd see him with a group, sometimes other adults, sometimes teenagers, sometimes younger kids, sometimes a mix. He was happy, and I was left with a whole day at camp, to fill in any way I chose, it was great.

Many of my favorite people were also at camp, so it was easy to find someone I'd been wanting to catch up with anyway, and enjoy doing just that. Sometimes I'd start talking to someone, we'd walk to wherever we needed or wanted to be, and then we'd bump into another person or group, and the weekend progressed organically, with rich conversations and time spent in community.

One such "chance" meeting had us in a small group discussion about the power of prayer. One of the people in the discussion is going through a personal challenge, and is feeling the prayers that surround her from the community. The question came up about whether there was just as much power coming from one single, focused, ernest, prayerful person, as there was when a whole group was praying. Do we need to "storm the heavens" for God to hear us?

My uneducated response is, yes and no. I don't feel like God requires a "petition," with a certain number of names on it before "He" starts to pay attention, refusing to move our little prayer to the top of "His" pile until it has all the pre-requisites. Certainly, one "little" prayer is heard.

I think, instead, that prayer is energy, and raises vibration. I think that God/Universe/call-it-what-you-will, is love. I think that love is energy. I think that when we truly pray (as opposed to wishing), we are aligning our energy with that of God's, and raising the vibration. The more souls raising the vibration, the more energy and love there is - which, in effect, "storms the heavens."

Goodbye

                                           

(First day of kindergarten - only 2 boys in the class)

Wil has a million friends, perhaps more than his "fair share," but that doesn't make saying goodbye to this one, any easier.

Ian will be heading off to the University of Montana this morning. He made sure to pick up a Grizzlies T-shirt for Wil when he went to visit, and intuitively, Wil put it on yesterday, not realizing that would be the very day he said goodbye.

The day was hot, super hot, near 100. I'd lowered the shades on one side of the living room in the morning, to keep the morning sun out. As the sun moved to the front of the house, Wil lowered that side, making a cave-like effect. 

I hated it.

Wil loved it.

As the sun went down, I tried to raise the blinds more than once, he wouldn't hear of it. 

I tried to turn on a lamp.

No.

Wil had already had an unusual evening in that he'd gone to the mall with three friends. When they came back to our house, he entertained them in the darkened living room. They left, he was humming and stimming in the living room, decompressing and getting ready for bed, when I got this text from dear, sweet, how-will-we-live-without-him, Ian:

Ian showed up in a car with three other friends, two newish, and another dear friend that has also been in school with Wil since kindergarten, Claire P. I wanted to stay downstairs, hang out, turn on the lights, open the shades and hear the banter, but he wanted privacy with his friends, and deserved that, so I poured myself a G & T and went upstairs. Looking out my window while distracting myself on Facebook, I saw another car pull up. Three more friends, including one in Wil's special program from high school.

There is something very right in the world, when six "typicals" make it a point to spend time with their very dear friends, who just happen to have special needs, before heading off to college.

The room may have been darker than I would have liked it to be, but the world isn't. There is every reason to believe this next generation is kind, considerate, loving, selfless, compassionate, and good.

Thank you, friends, for giving us all reason to believe in the light.

Personal Support Worker

They say the hardest part of writing is getting your butt in the chair, and keeping it there. That is certainly true for me, and especially true in the summer when there is no consistent schedule - only consistently inconsistent interruptions.

This summer is a summer like no other, in many ways it's the easiest, and in some ways the hardest. It's the easiest in that I've never had more help. It's the hardest in that Wil is not going back to a full-day school schedule in September, and my fear is this "perpetual Saturday" will be our new norm.

Wil qualifies for what is called here in Oregon, Support Services Brokerage. He has been assessed and assigned a certain number of hours a month (a lot) that he is able to have support with things like activities of daily living, community inclusion, and in September, job support/coaching.

Because there are no accidents, and an abundance of angels, Wil has had the great blessing of a friend as his Personal Support Worker (PSW) this summer. Long story short, I met with a friend in the spring, was casually telling her about Wil's future, and when I mentioned we were in the process of finding a PSW, she said her son would love to be that person. Actually, a dream come true.

And a dream come true it's been for us. This friend, Michael, as in the Archangel (no accidents) has been doing fun things with Wil all summer, and it has been liberating for all of us. They have many mutual friends, and have been able to do outings, without me, that are age-appropriate, fun, and are giving Wil independence skills. He's learned to use a wallet (and has only left it behind once, where Michael quickly retrieved it, fully intact). He's ridden bikes, walked, hopped on the bus and light rail, as well as taken Michael's or others cars all over town, including downtown. His horizons have been broadened, his pallet expanded, his comfort-zone stretched.

Michael, unfortunately, is leaving for college soon, and we will be adjusting to a different PSW or two. We have two wonderful ones in mind, and I'm certain others will be "there" when we need them, too.

Simultaneously, I've moved into a personal support worker role for my mother-in-law. She, too, needs help with activities of daily living and community inclusion. She, too, needs someone to be her second pair of ears, to hear/interpret/feed back to and help form appropriate responses. She, too, needs someone being the second pair of ears to make sure the wallet comes with us, stays in our possession, and is returned to a safe place when we get her back home. She, too, needs someone to do the driving, the arranging, the making-it-all-happen.

That's the circle of life, isn't it? We go from dependent, to some level, ideally, of independence to dependent again. I know there are spiritual lessons intrinsic in the recognition of that circle, the acceptance, the hopping on and off of it when it's our turn to be helped, and be of help, and back around again.

It helps to detach from all outcomes, to simply show up, be a support "worker" of the personal kind, and have no expectations of "results," or effectiveness. It stretches one's definition of what true support is and isn't, what is "personal" and what is simply a matter of pertinent fact, and what is "work" and what is simply love.

The Power of Now

Had a dream last night I was driving without my headlights on. Suddenly realized the night was dark, and I couldn't see a thing. Even during the dream I was alarmed that I hadn't realized they were off. Still not sure if the symbolism is:

A) I didn't turn them on, and preferred being in the dark

B) I was able to drive along not knowing where I was going

C) I realized I could shed light on the subject anytime I wanted

D) All of the above

So, that about sums it up around here. We are in a period of unknown, change, transition, uncertainty, in more than one aspect of our lives. It's hard for us Planners, the Type A'ers, the ones that thrive on efficiency, and execution of a well-prepared plan. 

I am having to remind myself daily, sometimes hourly, to stay in the moment, stay present. Breathe. Let go of outcomes after doing my best. That being loving is more important than being right (or heard). That some karmic ties and stories just have to play out, despite any efforts on my part to change that.

"Unease, anxiety, tension, stress, worry — all forms of fear — are caused by too much future, and not enough presence. Guilt, regret, resentment, grievances, sadness, bitterness, and all forms of nonforgiveness are caused by too much past, and not enough presence" Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now

Enough to Go Around

It is my great and sincere honor to tell you about my friend Tanya's latest book. Tanya's first book, Slip, came out after I'd already become a fan of Tanya's writing, and an appreciator of all the good work she's done to spread awareness on the topics of autism and bipolar disorder. I was given the opportunity to be an early reader of Enough to Go Around. The book was sent to me as an e-mail attachment, and I damn near got carpal tunnel from scrolling, scrolling, scrolling for hours on end, as I was unable to "put it down." Below is a short interview I did with Tanya, about her latest work. Enjoy!

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR PROCESS OF WRITING THIS BOOK:

Enough to Go Around has been a process of discovery and a labor of love for most of my life. As a child I would go to my paternal grandparents’ home for various holidays, and while sitting around the dining room table eating traditional Slovakian food I would listen to many stories my grandparents told about their growing up years in Czechoslovakia and their immigration experiences. I was intrigued and often entertained by these stories, and when I was assigned a genealogy project in seventh grade, I brought a tape recorder and a notebook to their house and listened intently while they retold their stories. It was then that the idea of writing a book about them came into being.

Years passed – worked my way through college, became a single parent – and the story began to take shape although there wasn’t much writing time. Characters evolved, a video was given to me of a trip my dad took with his sister to Slovakia, and I borrowed books from my dad to use for research. My initial idea was to create a fictional account of my grandparents’ experiences (because there were a lot of facts and details I didn’t have), but I also wanted to weave the stories of the past with a present-day extended family and everyone’s lives. I spent years jotting down extensive notes and writing at least a dozen different outlines.

In 2007 I was blessed to take a trip with my father and my sister to Slovakia to do research and meet relatives. It was an amazing and emotional time. We saw the villages where both of my grandparents grew up, visited the graves of my great-grandparents, and met relatives we didn’t know we had. 

My life with my two sons, one of whom has autism, influenced me to write Slip, my first novel. I set Enough to Go Around aside for a while (which at the time had a different title, one of five over the years). My life was deeply entrenched in the world of special needs and that was where my mind was for several years, so I focused on that subject matter.

But a few years ago I was very happy to get back to the story of my family heritage. I wrote the first full draft during NANOWRIMO in 2008. Since then it continued to evolve into its present state. I am privileged – and thrilled – to be able to share it.

WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT YOUR READERS TO KNOW:

Enough to Go Around focuses on the theme of family life – its complexity, troubles, and rewards. I wanted to share my family’s heritage, of course, but also other elements of life, such as mistakes, regret, love, loss, and forgiveness. I wanted to foster awareness about bipolar disorder, which one of the main characters has, and how it can affect family life. For this I draw on my personal experience of bipolar, as well as the pain of losing a close family member to cancer, another element of the book. (Sadly, my father died of colon cancer in 2011 and did not see this book come to fruition.) Life is messy, families are fragile, and there are no easy fixes. But sometimes you can sit around the dining room table at Easter and tell jokes and stories and laugh and look around the table and realize that your life may be far from great, it may be really hard at times, but you have these moments to hold onto, these – and other – moments of grace that are just as much a part of that life, and perhaps even more important.

Order your copy here!

Shelia's

On another venture out of seclusion, I go in search of an ice cream cone. I don’t have to go far before I see a tiny pink building with BJ’s Ice Cream on it. I pull in, and a man appearing to be the owner, pops up from the single table in the place, occupied by what appears to be two of his friends, and welcomes me warmly.

“See anything that looks good?” he asks, “Need a taste of anything, let me know!”

“I see something I know will be good,” I answer, and I don’t need a taste, I’ll have a junior cone with cappuccino fudge.”

He starts to very carefully scoop the ice cream, it’s obvious he’s in no rush, and neither am I, for once in my life.

“Where you from?” he asks.

“Portland,” I reply.

“Oh, then no need to show a passport,” he jokes.

I ask him if he’s from around here, and he says he’s from Lexington, Kentucky. I learn he moved to Oregon when his wife had a job in Eugene. I tell him I used to live in Eugene, too. Turns out we lived very near each other, at the very same time.

“My wife was from England, loved to come to the Oregon Coast, reminded her of the weather in England. When she died, I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself, so I bought this little place and named it after her.”

“BJ?” I ask.

“No, BJ is the type of ice cream we sell, see the little sign next to it, the one that says ‘Shelia’s?’”

“Oh, yes, I see it,” I say.

“Gonna get a bigger sign made, “ he assures me, and I nod indicating my full support.

With each careful scoop of the ice cream scooper, the man honors a woman from England named Shelia. A woman he loved and lost.  A woman who loved the Oregon Coast because it made her feel at home, and now this man makes others feel that way.

Eye-to-Eye

I am away at the beach for three days with the sole purpose of sensory deprivation. I want less. Less sound. Less vibration. Less text alerts. Less of anything and everything that lets me know someone wants something from me.

Two days in, I’m so bored I’m climbing the walls. There is no Wi-Fi. I’ve received notice on my phone we are about to exceed our family data plan for the month. I’m “cheating,” checking e-mails, getting on Facebook, sending a text, making a call.

I’m bored and lonely and I never thought in a million years I’d be bored or lonely.

So, I drive the couple miles into town, and by town, I mean town. First stop is the local convenience store, which promises free Wi-Fi, espresso, used books, some videos for rent, and other sundries. I grab some saltwater taffy, light bulbs, a 6-pack of Mike’s Hard Lemonade, pay and ask for the password. 

I sit down at one of two two-person tables with a vinyl sea-patterned tablecloth, and get to work. I reply to emails, I write a quick blog post, I “like” several things on Facebook.  I’m about to order Wil’s graduation pictures that the professional took of him sort-of shaking the principal’s hand, when a woman wheels up next to me on a motorized scooter.

“Do you mind reaching in the back of my chair and getting out the charger? I’m heading over the bridge, and don’t want to run out of juice!” She is a large woman, spilling out over the chair, gray hair in a ponytail, a face that could be 40, 50 or 60. “The community all chipped in and got me this chair. Great community. I’ve only had it since February. Medicaid is buying me a new one in August. It’s great, now I’m not housebound. I can get out.”

I find the charger, and plug it in directly above my left shoulder. It appears we will be neighbors while her chair charges, as there is nowhere else for her to go, and the cord is not very long.

“Don’t let me bother you,” she says, as she sings the oldies songs that come on the radio, picks up the rocks that are 4 for $1.00, loudly expressing pleasure with each.

It’s clear that whatever nonsense I’ve got going on my computer screen is nothing compared to the story that this woman has, and so I venture in. “Are you from around?”

“I’m from everywhere. I’m Native American. I’m from Montana, I’m from Colorado, I’ve lived all over.”

“So, this community chipped in to buy you this chair? You must be well-loved by the community,” I offer.

“I am,” she smiles. “I’ve got a lot of health problems. I’ve got lupus. I’ve got fibromyalgia. I’ve got arthritis, the kind that’ll cripple ya. I’ve got epilepsy. I’ve got heart issues. I’ve got a lot of health issues. I'm going to give this chair back to the community when Medicaid gives me a new one. It's important to give back, pay it forward. My mom taught me it's important to give back. I like to help people."

She sees the Portland Marathon shirt I’m wearing and asks me about it. It feels cruel to go into too many details of my marathoning, while listening to her long list of health issues.

“I was only supposed to live until 21,” she says, “but I’m 48. I’ve defied the odds. I was a congenital twin. When we were separated at birth, by brother died. I’ve had issues ever since.”

I learned she lives in Section 8 housing with a care giver and the care giver’s husband. “Three’s a crowd, I’m moving out into my own apartment in August.”

I’m ashamed for the few minutes I buried my head in my non-important Internet “needs” while ignoring this woman who so clearly needed human connection.

“It’s not nice here very often, I try to get out when it is. I don’t like crowds much, but I don’t like being in my house all the time, either. “

I learn she takes 20 pills with breakfast, 10 with lunch and 30 with dinner. I learn she technically died three times just last month. “If you have something to say to someone, say it. Don’t take tomorrow for granted,” she wisely shares.

I learn that the life I thought I needed a break from, is a piece-of-cake compared to so many lives riddled with pain, suffering, poverty, isolation.

I learn that sometimes a need for connection goes beyond the tap, tap, tapping of the keyboard, straight into the eyes of a stranger.

“I think my chair is charged up, would you mind unplugging it, rolling up the cord and putting it in that pocket in the back?”

I do so and she asks, “Is my wallet back there? It has a dream-catcher on it. I want to make sure my caregiver put it in there.”

“It’s in here, “ I say.

I hope she catches her dreams.

Very Busy

Graduation is over.

I would tell you all about it (and I will, eventually), but for now, I've very, very otherwise occupied.

Centering

I think Wil may be right, we may "need a divorce." When you've managed not to swear at your child, let alone drop the F-bomb in almost 19 years, and then you do, merely because he adjusted the knobs  and buttons to control the heat/defrost in the car (AGAIN), something's got to give.

But, I ask you, is it too much to ask that the person driving the other person day in, day out, essentially wherever and whenever said person likes to go, have some control over the internal temperature of the car, and be able to see out the windows?

A lot of emotion going on and a lot more coming our way before it's "over." We've had a family member in the ER, there's a funeral coming up, there is way too much to do and way too little "reserves" to do it. But, the days are numbered and long days of nothing will be stretching out in front of us in no time.

Isn't life like that? Feast or famine? Too much or too little? Too fast or too slow? Too packed or too boring? The "controls" too "hot" or too "cold?"

It all comes back to the Middle Path, moderation, the gray, the center. And returning to that which we can control.

Our attachment.

Our responses and reactions, or lack thereof.

Our breath.

Amen.

My Better Half

Wil has two weeks of school left. After today, only 4 academic days, then he is done being the student, sitting in the chair, being asked to do the last thing on earth he wants to do, forever.

He's a bear every year at this time, but this year it's bear squared. It's allergies. It's spring. It's being done. It's had-enough-yet-can't-get-enough. It's endings and beginnings and transitions and the great unknown. It's being left behind and wanting to spread his wings. It's needing help and wanting to be independent. It's being almost-nineteen in body and about half that in most other ways.

We're both fried, overly emotional and easily upset. In general, we're quite companionable and when we do get on each other's nerves, it's brief and we move on almost instantly.

The last several days we've been at each other's throats. He's being so extra defiant, bossy, demanding, difficult, that it brings out the hard ass in me. Wrong combo.

Yesterday, I picked him and his friend up from school and we were driving home. I asked some innocuous question along the lines of, "Do you have your phone?" and he lost it. Maybe it was reminding him of what he needed to do when we got home. Maybe it was asking that when he take a shower, he remember to wash his hair. Whatever it was, he was not happy with me, and I was not happy with him.

"That's it! We need to break up! We need to spend some time apart! You don't need to worry about me! You worry too much! You don't need to know all my business! We need a divorce! "

His friend chuckled from the backseat, "Wil, are you guys married?"

"We're not married!" he shouted, raising an arm with index finger extended for emphasis, "we're sidekicks!"