Herself speaks.
I think that I should give up on apologizing for taking so long to get back to regular posting. Gentle readers, you know I am sorry. There's just been... a lot in the way. Let's play catch-up, shall we?
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Fifty-nine.
So, I turned fifty-nine years old early last month. Fifty-nine isn't in and of itself a bad thing. It's still in the 50s. The problem with fifty-nine is that SIXTY looms so ominously on the horizon. How can this be? Surely it's not less than a year until I hit the sixth decade. That's the point when newspapers start referring to us as an elderly woman or an elderly man in articles. Lord help us. I'm not ready to think about that yet. The birthday itself was fine, as far as birthdays go -- though (at my choosing) the focus of the day was primarily on a celebration for Offspring the Third, who was leaving town the following day. Good luck with your endeavor, Offspring the Third! We love you and are incredibly proud!
Thirty-five.
Beloved Husband and I celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in the middle of last month. That's 59% of my entire life that we've been married (a nice coincidence with my 59th birthday). My Mother, who is still adjusting to the fact that she turned eighty-nine earlier this year, commented, "I can't believe I am old enough to have a child who has been married thirty-five years!" Yes indeed. Where did the time go?
Beloved Husband and I celebrated with a nice quiet dinner at a new restaurant nearby (and we went on the early side -- because Lord Help Us, we are getting Old), a few gifts (he outdid himself this year in thoughtful and interesting presents), and some time together that did not involve Work. Nice. Who could ask for anything better?
Scars misbehaving.
I feel at this point that I should be on a first-name basis with everyone at the dermatologist's office, due to the frequency with which I cross their threshold. While I was there, I had one of my scars -- the one on my chest from a basal cell carcinoma removal -- checked. It's doing something funny. A bit red and raised midline. What does it mean?
Fortunately, it does not appear to be a recurrence (unlike the most recent precancerous spot, which I had to have frozen again, because who doesn't love a little liquid nitrogen on their face?). It's most likely a suture granuloma, which means that one of the internal stitches hasn't quite dissolved yet, and my immune system doesn't like having it there and is objecting. We'll have to wait and see what it does -- will it go away on its own? Will it need a steroid injection? Nothing is ever easy. I don't particularly enjoy having extra-visible scars. Visible, fine. Extra-visible because problematic and possibly inviting questions... notsomuch.
What's with the boxes?
The boxes are metaphorical. They are boxes of grief: each box contains a person, a concept, a wish that I am letting go and grieving. I am trying so hard to compartmentalize them, so that I can mentally tackle them one at a time. Sometimes the boxes overflow and the bits and pieces get jumbled together and I have to re-sort everything all over again.
There's one tidy box, and that is my lovely Daddy's grief box. His picture sits on my desk at work, and I say "Hi, Daddy" each day when I sit down. Missing him is not as acute as it once was -- it's the absence of one instrument in the orchestra of life. Every now and then I dream of him, and it's so bittersweet to hear his voice. I hope I never forget what it sounded like.
There is a box adjacent to Daddy's box: that one is a box of What-Once-Was that I must also let go. In that box are items that remind me about how things used to be. These items surface, for example, when I double-check his email once a month and pay Mom's bills; or when Mom talks about her current activities and friends an busy schedule; or when Offspring the Third is off on his new adventures to places where Daddy once traveled, and Daddy is not there to talk with him about his own adventures in the same places once upon a time. This What-Once-Was box is a messy box, frequently and unexpectedly spilled, oftentimes by something small that someone else says or does in passing. It's taking a lot of time to tidy up.
There's another box: the I Broke My Rose-Colored Glasses box (we'll call it the Reality Box for short). Since the multitude of terribles of the past few years, I have worked more at looking at my life as an observer, rather than getting caught in the wishful-thinking-inside-place where I'd been living. It's been very eye opening. The biggest lesson so far, relates to People:
People are who they are, and everyone has limitations. No matter what we want, we cannot actually will them to do anything. We must take what is offered, and that is all that we can get.
Thus, the Reality Box. The grief inside this box relates to relinquishing hopes that are attached to other people: wishes that they will behave a certain way, or take certain actions under certain circumstances; that they will remember certain things that are important to me but which are practically irrelevant to them. These things will not happen. I need to let go.
This box is a tricky box because just when I think I have put something away neatly inside the box, I find it again outside the box and need to put it back all over again. A Sisyphean task.
And so you see, with the juggling of all the boxes, writing ends up being a very low priority. That's not my intention, because I do love to write. Someday, when I have finally gotten a solid grip on my boxes, I will be able to write more.
There was something about skunks?
On the bright side, I have a new hobby!
About a month ago, one night I looked out the front door and there was a tuxedo cat standing at the end of the walkway, looking at me. It had something to tell me, though I didn't know what.
I began putting out a small bowl of kitty food and some water in the back of the house, in case the cat was feral and in need. And I put out one of the cameras I had from years ago to monitor the bunnies, to keep an eye on activity at the kitty bowl.
And wildlife observation began!
As best we can tell, we have several regulars: tuxedo cat; a spotty tabby cat who is oddly tall; a bunch of birds of assorted sizes and shapes; and (we think) FIVE skunks -- two large adult skunks; two little skunks who always appear together (Frick and Frack); and one small skunk who appeared once or twice with one of the large skunks, and now appears alone. According to the Googles, at this time of year, juvenile skunks are learning how to forage and starting to go out on their own, so my best guess is, we have two mother skunks, one of whom has Frick and Frack babies, and the other has a singleton baby, and they all live nearby (where, I have no idea).
It's surprisingly polite at the kitty food bowl. Everyone has their regular time to have a bit of kitty food; there is no fighting (though the birds squawk at one another sometimes); it's tidy and there is no poop. And no skunk smell! We do not go out when anyone is getting a snack -- they are all feral, and do not need human contact. (Plus skunks are a vector for rabies. No, thanks. Yikes.) The skunks are so cute. And surprisingly small, except for the tails.
We'll see what happens come winter. I may put a kitty house out, up on legs so the kitties can get in safely but the skunks cannot. We don't really want a giant pile of skunks wintering in the yard.
I shall include here, a few representative pictures, and then (hopefully) will be able to entertain you with additional wildlife observation photos in the future. It brings me a few molecules of joy, and that is a delightful thing.
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