Restart

 Herself speaks.

I did not mean to stop writing. 

Things got busy, and there was Stuff, and there were Feelings about Stuff, and not enough time to process the Feelings, and... now here we are.  

One of the blessings and curses, I have found, about using antidepressants, is that now there are more Feelings present, and they are felt. The days of numbness of grief and obligation are (relatively) in the rear view window -- but that means that time must now be taken to process feelings as they appear. And they are everywhere: sitting at the table or on the couch, looking back at me from the mirror, riding alongside in the car (they especially seem to love car rides). It gets very crowded. I am having difficulty naming them all, figuring out where they came from and why they are there, and finding the right space for them to occupy. Processing them? Who has the time? 

Apparently, not me. I need to make the time, though. Which is why I am here now: one of the best ways to process, for me, is to write -- and so I need to resume, for my good and for the good of all the Feelings that are wandering around bumping in to one another. 

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Let's look back to when we got lost and nearly dropped off the face of the earth, and start there. 

I believe it was in February when the pace of life picked up; and then March happened. I had one false start attempt to try again toward the end of March, without success. It's true that February was significantly occupied by the Orange Project, and there really is not a lot more to say about that.  So let's look at March. 

March always begins with Offspring the Second's birthday, followed in short succession by Beloved Husband's birthday.  Since this year was a milestone for Beloved Husband (sixty!), we worked on trying to get all of the Offspring back here to this desert land for the occasion.  We did not manage to have everyone here at the same time -- Offspring the First already had unchangeable plans -- but Offspring the Second came back home, for the first time in years, and we celebrated his birthday along with Beloved Husband's. Let's talk about Offspring the Second's homecoming.

 And this is why I stopped writing: I am not sure I can write about his homecoming. I'll try, though.

My heart was so full, to see him. This independent, self-confident, fully-fledged person who I raised and saw grow up, now a fantastic adult with a life of his own, with his own plans and friends and job and sphere of activities that are a mystery to me. He is the same as ever -- witty, smart, thoughtful, kind -- and yet wiser and happier than ever before. I am not really part of his life, and although I know that's ultimately the goal of every parent -- to no longer be needed -- it's heartbreaking in a way to know that he exists elsewhere and I cannot see his marvelous self more often, to enjoy the way he is and to vicariously experience his success in life. Yet this is how it should be: he has made his own life, and I am glad for it, because he seems happy. Who could ask for anything more? 

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The visceral love for children is an extremely painful experience, because it needs to be contained: it must not oppress the children or be wielded like a weapon.  Children must be set free into the world, unburdened by any expectations from us, or obligations to us. Be free, my children. Go forth and prosper.

My only remaining goal is that I, like my lovely Daddy before me, can somehow, quietly and in the background, make their lives easier for them. And to let them know that I am always here for them. 

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

-Kahlil Gibran, On Children, from The Prophet

Taking a Walk

Nice. 

Whoops

 I did not mean to drop off the face of the earth! 

The Orange Project that I have mentioned a few times before, was in high drive throughout the month of February -- occupying SO MUCH mental space, that there was barely room for anything else at all. Nearly all other occupations fell by the wayside; I could barely manage household tasks, Work, self care. And then it finished on March first, and we promptly rolled into several family events in a row, and then I tried to catch up on everything I'd neglected, and NOW HERE WE ARE. 

Everything's fine (thank goodness) with the people I love. On the other hand, the whole political situation of the US (and various countries into which the US has inserted itself without authorization) is a Flaming Dumpster Fire. I read the news with one eye and my head half turned away, alternatively filled with rage and with sorrow and dread. 

I've combed back through my photos over the past two months (it truly is embarrassing that I've neglected the Blog for so long), and there are a few highlights that I'd like to to mention here. I'll take it one item at a time until we are caught up. I'm going to work hard to get back Writing again, because Writing is good for me, and I need to do more things that are good for me. 

So, hello, gentle readers, and thank you for your patience. I hope that this time of quiescence is over.

 Let us start our journey together again. 

A Little Weather in the Desert

January: Oceanside

 In case you have not been able to guess yet: last weekend, I was able to escape my corner of the desert for a few days and go visit Cherished Friend in Oceanside. 

It was lovely.

He is himself, as always. It is a pleasure and a comfort to spend time with him, to listen to him talk, to sit in the quiet of his house, to contemplate the Scrabble board, to take a walk in the Oceanside trees, to look out over the actual ocean. 

Every now and then, the temptation to be self-conscious creeps into the back of my head; but he (a little frighteningly, actually) knows me so well -- oftentimes predicting what I am going to say -- and forgives me my awkwardness, flaws and foibles, that I choose instead to just let go and acknowledge that for whatever (very mysterious) reason, he accepts me just as I am. And a rare sense of serenity results. 

I have worried on occasion that the Many Terrible Things of the past several years have made me cold and hard and unfeeling; there, I am better able to tap into my well-hidden core of warmth and be myself. 

The only hard part of visiting him, is the knowledge that the time in Oceanside is very short. It is so important not to anticipatorily grieve leaving again; and yet, it is so difficult. I do my very best to stay in the moment. 

I know he has a well-established personal space sphere, and I respect that, keeping distance to ensure his comfort. He was kind enough, though, to tolerate sufficient proximity to take a selfie of the two of us together before I left. (Actually, several, until I could manage one in which I did not look like a demented chipmunk.) I'm grateful. 

When I think of Cherished Friend, I often think of the saying: Friendship is a sheltering tree. It is rare that I am able to be in the shelter of this particular tree, but the peace and safety there are immeasurable.

January: Earworms

I have started listening to YouTube Music occasionally, to see if a subscription to it -- rather than Pandora Radio -- would be useful or if I would end up with the same type of mix either way.

YouTube seems to think that I'm a very angsty teenager, though. (How much overlap is there between angsty teenager and tired middle-aged woman? Is there more than I realize? Oh dear.) 

It's serving up songs such as the following:

Exile (Taylor Swift). I'm not a Swifty, but this one is growing on me. 

Don't Put It All On Me (Noah Cyrus).  Which, well, that's an earworm for sure.

On the other hand: could we have a few more upbeat bops, please? 

Like this: APT (Rose and Bruno Mars). It's complete fluff and eminently dance-able. I need more of this. 

Let's see what more we get in the weeks ahead.

January: Manteca Nightmares

 I experienced a charming \sarcasm font\ bit of shaming a couple of days ago. 

I had a routine annual appointment with the cardiologist. I was not particularly worried about the appointment; he's (normally) a very kind man, everything usually goes smoothly. I had my lab results from the end of October of 2025 -- and according to my primary care physician (who had already reviewed them with me in November), everything was fine.

Dr. Cardiologist had different thoughts, though.  He breezed in with a student doctor, whom I welcomed (I'm always a fan of student doctors learning on the job) and commented right off the bat that he was concerned about my triglycerides. (Which, admittedly, are a bit high, though my primary care doctor was not concerned.)

He turned from the computer where the numbers were displayed, looked at me, and asked, "Did you eat a lot of grease over the holidays?" 

Well, Jesus H. Christ riding a bicycle. 

I got stuck momentarily in figuring out how to answer because 1) my labs were from before the holidays and 2) no, I don't normally eat a lot of fatty foods (I do tend to eat simple/processed sugars, especially when migraine-y, and that too can raise triglycerides). Was I supposed to answer either of those things? Probably not.  

I resorted to, "Well, I ate a lot of feelings over the holidays."  Which, putting you on notice that LIFE IS F*CKING HARD RIGHT NOW, SIR, PERHAPS A MODICUM OF TACT MIGHT GET YOU FURTHER. 

I wonder what the student doctor thought? Or if he noticed how horrified I was? Dr. Cardiologist did not, or if he did, pretended not to. 

Dr. Cardiologist instead glossed over my response and followed up his condescending question by asking if I'd ever had a stress test. Which, no.  We went over the whys and hows and whens of a stress test (there was more ick in that discussion, but I was still stuck on the grease).  He concluded with, if the stress test was fine, we'd just have to make sure I ATE LESS GREASE, and walked me out to the scheduling cubicles.  

The whole thing took maybe 3 minutes. 

I am still stunned. 

Horrified.

What does he think, that I'm just sitting in a corner with my spoon and a tub of manteca? And is making his point that way, really the best way to do it? In front of a student doctor? What was he teaching them, exactly? 

Whatever his intentions, he succeeded at one thing. I have felt shame about every single food item I have put in my mouth since then, and it has in fact resulted in my eating less. Well done, Doctor - you have turned slightly disordered overeating into vague orthorexia, just through the use of the word grease.

The stress test will be fine. And it'll be good to have a baseline and to address any concerns. 

In the meantime, I will chew on my shame.