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 |  Just play: don't look at your hands! |
What a dumb title for a person who never got a single star  on her piano lessons!Daily practice is the thing though: the practice of noticing as well as of writing.  However, I'd much rather play duets than solos, so hop right in! You can do the melody or the base part, I don't care.  Just play along--we'll make up the tune as we go. I'll try to write regularly and deliberately. Sometimes I will do it poorly, tritely, stiltedly, obscurely. I will try to persevere regardless. It seems to be where my heart wants to go, and that means to me that God wants me there too. See you tomorrow. ![Merit Badge in Journaling
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| I'll probably come back and blog some more tonight, but here are a couple of links some of you might like. This is the place for the Weight Watchers Zero Point soup recipes: http://www.weightwatchers.com/util/art/index_art.aspx?tabnum=1&art_id=47881&sc=3... This is a site where you can spend hours laughing at animal pictures, mainly cats, and learn a new language at the same time: http://icanhascheezburger.com/ Last night I obediently sat on the sofa next to Bill, (instead of the loveseat where my laptop is plugged in,) and looked at many, many videos of Oshkosh, the international fly-in in Wisconsin put on by the EAA (Experimental Aircraft Association.) Flying to Oshkosh (and pilots mean the event, not the town) is every pilot's dream. As someone said to me, it's "the Sturgis of airplanes." The control tower there, during that week every summer, is the busiest in the nation. If you plan to go, you make reservations well in advance, and they send you a video of how to land there. Motel reservations must be made many years in advance, and most pilots camp out under the wings of their airplanes. The camaraderie is supposed to be par excellance bar none; and I have no doubt it would be, if I were nimble enough to sleep on the ground and still move the next day. After watching the videos, I showed him a picture from the cheezburger site, and we sat and looked at pictures, literally laughing out loud, for infinity pages. At first, the strange dialect of the captions was irritating; but the more I read, the more I got into it, and pretty soon we were both talking like that! It's called lolspeak, and that's pretty funny in itself. |
| Here's a picture I took Friday of the plowed field and wheat stubble up against the Blue Mountains. You can see a little of the new, green wheat coming up on the right side of the picture. |
| I can't think of any highlights for the day, but will list the only things that made it different. Went into the chat room this morning about NoWriMo. I hadn't been there before, but that was the only thing Frankie mentioned about the project. I didn't even have the address for the forum, probably because I signed on at the last minute of February by email, otherwise known as coming in through the back door. So, I went into the lobby. Most of you have done this, so it won't surprise you. I thought it was strange and funny. Two people came in, said nothing, went out. There were a number of people supposedly in chat rooms, but I didn't know how to find them. So I shouted "hell-l-lo-o-o, anybody in there?" or something like that. Someone did come and told me what to do. She was the only other person there for NoWriMo, and she asked if I'd like to stand and talk chat in the lobby, or should she open up the room? It didn't seem right to chat in the lobby, with people silently coming in and out, some going to a place called "darkness." That certainly didn't sound good to me. Besides, if it wasn't too much trouble to open the door and air out the room, I wanted to see what it was like. Needless to say, it was like nothing. I told her it was like Alice's trip down the rabbit hole getting there, and asked her if I was any taller. She laughed. Eventually I went out, walked into "darkness" and out again, and then into the room for live exercises. Writing exercises, I should say. There was nothing going on in there, live or dead, as far as I could tell. So I left, and started working on my story, which wasn't all that interesting as I was watching my time to leave for a funeral. Ugh. Can you believe I have to go to funerals on weekends too? I read some blogs, here and other places, and found out I'd won something for the poem I posted here on the 28th. (It was for a prompt at an off-site contest.) I was very excited. The prize is 20 lovely prayer cards, hand made by the blog hostess. They look very pretty in the pictures, but I'll tell you more about them when they come. Anyway, I then noticed that the prizes are awarded by drawing names of the entrants from a hat. Awwww. Made the next variety of Weight Watchers zero points soup, one with a more Italian flavor, with spinach, zucchiini, onion and garlic, tomatoes, fresh basil and oregano. There was supposed to be 2 cups of escarole in it too, but I don't know what that is. The grocery I went to didn't have any anyway. I uploaded a couple of new pictures on wunderground.com. Would have put a couple here, but Bill came home and needed his computer. Say, do you know what vegetable can only be eaten fresh? Never cooked, frozen, canned, dried, or anything else-- if you can think of anything else anyway. That's your little quiz question for the day. 'Night. |
| The visual disturbances that started out looking to me like small bugs whizzing past, gnats maybe, have now metamorphed. In the day light, they are like wisps of hair I occasionally try brushing out of my left eye-- annoying. As the sun got lower, they became like summer lightening that you see only on the periphery and turn to see the actual show. Oh well. It's very common, I hear. I had three new patients today, only one of whom I got to meet. Her family, it was reported, was the most in need of some support. She lives the farthest away, and, although she had just gone down for a nap, her daughter and nephew were very talkative. Then she got up, and she was very talkative too. From what they'd said, I hadn't expected her to be that communicative by now, and it was a pleasure to hear her. She is in her 70's, used to drive an 18-wheeler from Vancouver to Florida, and remembered every date, weight, charge and payment for every trip. Her family had told me that she had certain house rules, mainly about allowing only cheerful conversation. They didn't think she was religious, had never known her to go to church except for weddings, but said she believed in God. When she wakened, she stayed in her room, which was closed off from the rest of the old house built in 1896 by French doors. Her daughter said she was just using the commode and she'd talk to me in a few minutes, but I could see her having a cigarette in there. Then she came out, told everybody where to move, how to situate her chair, what to bring her, and sat down to talk. She is clearly a woman in charge, and one who is not ready to die yet, even though it may not be long. I hope it will be, unless her tumors become as uncomfortable as I fear they will. I will enjoy visiting, and am welcome to come any time. I don't have to call ahead, or even knock, just come in. That's a treat. |
| I didn't get back last night to post the picture because I started seeing flashing lights in my left eye. At first I thought it was a little bug flying fast past me, although it isn't the season for bugs. About the fourth time it happened, I decided I was "seeing things" and I Googled for information. In the past, although not recently, I've experienced interoccular migraines, where I see the aura but don't have much headache to follow it. It looks as if I'm peering through beveled glass, with sharp, bright lines that usually go from the upper left to the lower right of my vision. It usually starts in one eye but quickly goes to both, and sometimes there are blank spots in my sight, so that if I'm staring at a person's eyes, I cannot see the bottom half of their face at all. Having been to the doctor about this years ago, I know not to be frightened of it, although it's always alarming. This was different though, in that it was only one eye and the flash definitely moved, still usually starting in the upper left but not always. And it didn't go away. By eleven o'clock I called the ER and found out they didn't have an eye specialist on call last night, so I went to bed. I did so with some misgivings because I read that those symptoms can be signs of a retinal detachment and fast action is necessary to save your sight. Anyway, I called the opthamologist first thing this morning and was told to come right in. Bill agreed to take me, and I wanted him to go to the clinic for his own respiratory stuff anyway, so this was a good time to make that happen. Thank God, I don't have a tear or detachment of my retina. The doctor said I have a vitreous detachment, and they are common in people over fifty. They themselves don't do any harm, but they need to be watched to make sure they don't somehow pull the retina and tear a hole. There, more of that wonderful stuff you can look forward to as you age! Anyway, my topic today was going to be on connecting, not inside your eyeballs, but with other people. I wrote a prose-y sort of poem about it yesterday, and then stumbled on a blog in which the author talks about questions, how some open conversations and some close them. I'll give you the poem first, then the link. Searching for Connection Visiting the old folks I strain forward in my seat, trying to coax from them stories of who they are, where they’ve lived, what they’re proud of. Sadly, and too often, pictures on the night stand tell the only tale I’ll hear: him in his uniform, her in her wedding gown. Sometimes, the best that I can do is whisper in an ear, “You’re beautiful,” or pat a shoulder saying, “I’m so proud to know you.” Later, in the paper, I may read of an extraordinary life I never got to know. Loss of memory, loss of self, are barriers greater than time. http://paintedprayerbook.com/ |
| Bill's late coming home tonight, so I've had extra time fiddling with making an entry on my blogspot site. I haven't gotten the hang of editing there, or maybe I've had it and forgotten it. Wish I had a good friend who was familiar with it at my side. Anyway, it took too long for me to now try posting a picture here and writing about it. I have a great picture I took yesterday from my car while I was stopped at a stoplight. The pickup ahead of me was stacked with wood, and it was so overloaded I can't imagine that it ever reached its intended destination without an accident. Maybe later I'll get it up here and you can see what kind of a prompt it might be. Had some good nursing home visits today. One lady who seldom says more than a word or too stayed awake and listened with delight to a story I told her. I shared party of 5's blog entry with a new social worker who is also a climber, and we had an interesting conversation about memory. He could completely understand a climber's excellent recall of every detail of a trail with no recollection at all of meeting party before. |
Tuesday is my mish-mash night, or at least tonight is. missilaneous n. That's my new word for a shopping list folded into a paper airplane and launched at my husband on his way out the door. It bombed. *** I thought of a new invention tonight, or, rather, a new accessory for the old workhorse, the vacuum cleaner. If I could figure out a way to hang a metal detector in front of it, just think how many earring backs I could avoid sucking up! I am, coincidentally, missing a whole small earring at the moment, but is it really worth pulling all that dog hair laden nastiness from the vacuum bag? *** The Asian style Zero Point soup I made last night was pretty tasty. I'll try the Italian version next. I just made a batch of no calorie Russian tea, like we used to make with Tang, for those of you old enough to remember. I think I got it a little too tangy, but not bad, and I can fiddle around and add some more Splenda. *** I've been reading blogs tonight, still trying to catch up ones I missed while I was in Florida. (Did I remember to complain that I never even got to the beach?!!) (Oh, I did? Sorry.) What's with the Black and pink and black and cream notations I've noticed at the bottom of blogs? Some secret society? If I scribble black and blue at the bottom of mine, will I be in? Or will you send Adult Protective to check on my welfare? *** The book I read on the plane was quite entertaining. Anne Tyler's Digging to America is about two families who meet at the airport while waiting for the infants they've adopted from Korea to be delivered. One of the book's themes is the difficulty everyone finds of fitting in, and the characters come at in from several different angles. It was thought provoking as well as fun to read. I'm reading Maeve Binchy's latest now. It's a style she's written at least two other books in, maybe more. Each chapter is a different character, and they all tie in together. It sounds like an interesting way to write a book, maybe an idea for the March NoWriMo. I haven't signed up for it yet, but I thought it was really worthwhile when I did it last year. Black and tan -- Is it a drink, or a coon hound, or.... |
About last night's entry, it was fun to write from a prompt again. I haven't entered any contests forever; and so, tonight, instead of composing the blog I've been rolling around in my head, I wrote a flash fiction story for the daily contest.
As happens sometimes with lines I'm supposed to get into a story, they don't fit as well as I'd hoped. But I liked the rest of the story, so maybe will go back and rework the line another time. It's wonderful to be able to go back and add as many darn words as you want, too! 300 is just not enough. Now I'm going to go make a Weight Watcher Zero Points soup, but first, a comment about yesterday's blog. I wasn't trying to fish for compliments, but thanks for them anyway. I also wasn't trying to make a self-improvement to-do list. What I was thinking about, or reacting to, was a patient who died recently. He was only 58, and this tumor came out of nowhere, probably related to his occupation as a stone carver. It attacked his nervous system, and he could no longer walk, and barely talk. He was bone thin. But he never lost his sense of humor, never complained. That has to be a choice, to decide to make the best of every day and try not to make life any harder for those you love. He and his wife loved each other and loved being together. I never heard any self-pity, or anger, or irritation from either of them. Every thing they said and did was loving, and there was nothing put-on about it. Sure, there were frustrations, but they were very careful not to take them out on each other. Once he said she was mad at him about something he wanted to do that she was afraid for him to try. But you could see he understood that she had his best interests at heart, and vice versa. I think we are more able to be the people we want to be than we give ourselves credit for. Conversely, I think we don't pay as much attention to the effect our words and deeds have on others as we could, or should. It's easy to try to make ourselves look better with a joke about a spouse's messy habits, etc.; but is it worth it? Probably not. And that's all I have to say about that. Off to the soup. |
| I don't really have a topic, you see, tonight. That is, I have one or two, but not the time and quiet and frame of mind to write about them. So, like last night, I've been trolling through the blogs hunting for something that caught my imagination. Last night I forgot to come back in time to write though. I hadn't made a comment at alfred booth, wanbli ska  's blog for a while, so I stopped by. I'm still catching up on the ones I missed during vacation, and so I came upon his "If I were a ___" entry. Normally that sort of game doesn't appeal to me, but I had fun doing it.One problem I encountered was that he did not specify what animals I would like to be, just which ones I would be. For instance, if I were a bird I would probably be a waddly old penguin with very cold feet. But I'd rather be a swallow, dipping and diving, whirling through the sky, putting up my mud nest anywhere I pleased, maybe even making the yearly trip to Capistrano. Now here's the other problem: what would it feel like to be a tree of any kind? Would it be better to be tall so the eagles might land on you, or would you be afraid of the lightning? Or are we to make these choices only by thinking which ones are the most attractive, or useful? Will people love me more if I provide good shade? Or will they be thinking about cutting me down for a Christmas tree? That would be a short, but festive, life. I can't remember at all what kind of dog I said I'd like to be. How terrible! And I committed to it, and now I'm stuck with it for life? Oh well, maybe I can change. Whatever kind it is, I hope I can run through the orchards and the fields chasing rabbits, then thrill at the sound of my master's voice calling me in for chow and a good scratch behind the ears. "Good dog," will be such a pleasure to hear! In fact, maybe I'd even like it now, those amiable pats and praises. Doesn't that sound good to you? As for a flower, I think I'd prefer to be one that fades slowly, maybe pressed in a book at the end of my life, rather than one like an iris that just shrivels into a gelatinous goo. Now, more to the point, I think: what kind of person do I want to be? And how much control do I have over that? I mean, I'll never be an athlete, but I might be stronger and more graceful with the right training and practice. I'll never be one of those marvelous, joy-filled people who are so affirming and always positive in their outlook. Truth be told, I don't want to be as sweet as all that. I prefer a person with a little tartness, a little bite: a key lime pie, say, rather than a praline or divinity. But I can try harder to say positive, encouraging things. I'd like to be a 'holy' person, but for the wrong reasons, so that won't work. I'd like to have that inner serenity that comes from being in touch with myself, and more, with One who is greater than myself, the Source of all being. I can work more toward that connection. I'd like to be like my grandmother, and my father, who I never heard speak angry words. They were peaceful people, and content in themselves enough to not be threatened or become defensive when others acted badly. I'd also like to be a better friend, and that includes to my children. So, I'd better get off this laptop and get on the phone before it's too late to call. Good night all. |
| I am still dragging a little, and the idea of investing myself into new relationships with four new patients and families sounded taxing. The new patient I met yesterday had not been able to communicate; but his family was there visiting, and they were delightful. Today's first visit was with a man who had been dying last week, but is now making a speedy recovery, a fact that he seems cognizant of without any show of emotion. Since he has no family around, I can't tell if his frequent answer, "I don't have it," means he can't hear me or can't recall the information. Too bad, since it included his name. "That might be it," he said, but without any sign of recognition. He did agree to prayer, and said "Amen" at the end. I left puzzled, wondering if there's anything I can do that will feel supportive to him. Sometimes I worry that my questions and their loss for answers may cause distress. I asked him, though, if it bothered him to not remember things, and he said no. My second new patient was asleep in his recliner and wakened only when I was standing in front of him. He looked neither startled nor welcoming, but indicated that I should sit on the bed, at least that's what I thought. He was very difficult to understand. When I made out that he wanted his hearing aid, I found it for him and then tried sitting in a chair on the other side. That time he was clearer that I should sit on the bed, evidently near his better ear. He told me there wasn't much use getting to know him because he won't live much longer-- he'll be 99 on his next birthday. He was one of eleven children, seven boys, none of whom ever married! He worked as a maintainer in a TB hospital, and he built a greenhouse for them because he enjoyed plants. He also likes animals, and his young kitten kept attacking me playfully. My third visit was a lovely man and his pleasantly demented wife. He had been a businessman in Hong Kong, and she had stayed home and raised six daughters. If she is to be believed, and he didn't dispute her, she wrote several biographies of businessmen and their work. She was distressed that she didn't know where the books were, but he said they hadn't been moved yet. They are charming, articulate people, and I hope his health remains stable for a long time. I might have put off the fourth new patient until Monday, since she lives far out in the country on a farm and it was getting late; but I'd heard she might not survive long. She is a beautiful woman in her early 50's with breast cancer. The noise and activity of her family were bothering her, and she was restless. They had obligingly moved their piles of photographs to label and organize several rooms away. The kitchen counters were covered with cupcakes fresh from the oven, and the smell of bread baking was inviting. The daughter-in-laws had been busy. Her husband took me back to the family room where she was reclining. He said she'd told him weeks ago that she didn't want any people coming in. He'd told her, he said in his quiet voice, that people needed to see her and talk to her, and he let them in anyway. They were always glad they'd come and done what they could, and she was always glad afterwards that she'd seen them. He wanted the three of us to pray together, and we did. On the way out, he showed me a marvelous scrapbook people at her work had put together. It included all the cards she'd received, and messages reprinted from emails, all beautifully laid out and decorated with some children's pictures and scripture verses interspersed. It was a work of art. He said he couldn't look at it closely or he would cry. This house, and this family, was filled with and surrounded by love. It was a good day. Whenever you connect with people, it's a good day. |
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I love your poem. It brought back many memories 
