Out with the Old

2022 was... quite a year.

What will 2023 hold?

There are few certainties. 

Let us hope for moments of contentment, and peace, and a few Good Things along the way.

Wild/Civilized

Saw this distinguished gentleman -- deer, I believe -- while traveling yesterday. Delightful. 

No, But Thank You

I appreciate the reminder email, but I know just where Tiny Dog is, and always will. (Her ashes are on a shelf in my study.) Let's make that "update email notification preferences" button in the email larger, shall we? Thank you. 

Bunny Butt

Everybody Else's Feelings

 Herself speaks.

This is a tricky point in personal history right now, as lovely Daddy's decline continues apace. The members of my Family of Origin (brother, sister, mother, Daddy, and I) are all coping in differing ways and with varying degrees of success with the current state of affairs and the shadows of Things To Come. Emotions are colored by half-a-century-or-more of relationships, old hurts, current states-of-relationships, imported feelings from external relationships beyond the Family of Origin, and more. It's a lot. Beyond the emotions, there are the mundane conversations: how many days of home health care are necessary? Beyond necessary, how many more should there be, to ensure safety and sanity and peace of mind for all involved? Who is capable and willing to do what? We would all do everything if we could. We cannot. Resources must be deployed to fill in the gaps and bring everyone literal and metaphorical comfort. 

The hardest part for me, is that everyone else's feelings are nearly Deafening. I can hardly hear my own over everyone else's. I need to listen to mine, but others are SO LOUD that I cannot. It is frustrating. Frightening, even. I am terrified that someone is going to hand me their wailing, screeching Feelings, and I will have to somehow tend to them. No thank you. I cannot. Please do not make me. 

If it happens, I will do what I must, because I always do. Do what needs to be done. What will be the cost? Only time will tell. 

-----

As a youngster/teenager, I never learned how to help other people with their emotions, because in truth I did not have help with my own. I did not have a good example of how to acknowledge someone else's Feelings, how to help someone to feel Feelings safely, how to come out on the other side of an emotional difficulty and move forward. 

Even as a young adult -- or even as an adultier adult -- validation of Feelings and assistance with moving through them, has been sparse and hard-won. I feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to explain my Feelings to the very few people with whom I am comfortable discussing such things, and even then I feel as though I have limited success. It's extraordinarily painful. I often don't even want to try. But I still do, because even after all this time, I still long to be understood. To be Seen.

Somehow, I am always surprised when someone is nice to me when I am experiencing Feelings.  

-----

I don't really know what else to say at this juncture. I am putting one foot ahead of the other, one day at a time. I don't know how much, or how little, time there is. I don't foresee anything getting easier any time soon. If I am silent, gentle reader, it is because everything around me is So Very Loud. 

We'll get there. 

Please keep my much-loved Daddy in your thoughts. 

Thank you. 

Christmas

And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses. 

- Taylor Caldwell

Revealed

Current Mood

Buck at the Park Down the Block

Neat!

Tarot

In the spirit of Taking Myself To Go Do Things, I went to a nearby artsy-craftsy fair at a local park. There were a lot of "mystical" booths and wares, which I always find mildly interesting. I'm not a believer in the powers of astrology or crystals, but I am willing to hear out those who are, out of scientific/people-y curiosity. 

At one booth, the gentleman hawking the wares informed me that the nearby young woman was their local Tarot reader, if I was interested in a reading. I declined politely and moved on, but thought about it later. 

On the one hand, I think the idea of Tarot is fascinating, because it requires in part a level of people-reading skills that would be extremely useful to have, not to mention a level of imagination that would be interesting as well. It would be fascinating to see that in action. Could I be "read" by a stranger? Probably. How on point would it be? And if so, how alarming would that be? 

On the other hand, I realized that my first specific thought in this specific situation was to decline a Tarot reading because I didn't want to subject the Tarot reader to any bad juju/intense aura/weird planetary alignment/karmic whatnot that I am currently experiencing. I had this sense that I'm just too much right now, it might be harmful to her or she might need to 'smudge' herself or her Tarot deck or otherwise cleanse her aura after interacting with me. I wouldn't want that for anyone. 

There's a lot going on inside my head -- some migraine-related, lots emotion-related, with various emotion-related bits having to do with various people in various amounts of intensity at varying times -- and I'm choosing to let it all percolate and sift itself through rather than to try to actively sort itself out right now. Given that I'm already a slightly odd and relatively intense individual anyway, the combination means that I am more likely than ever to be a bit much for another person to experience even tangentially. That's why I'm keeping myself pretty tightly contained right now.

Maybe that's why I've had more migraines lately. Hmmm.

On the other hand (so many hands), that's probably all silly. I'm not so special. My feelings are not likely to be qualitatively much different from those of any other human being's. Surely I'm not bad luck or a dark cloud. Right? 

I just want to protect other people in the way that I do not, at the moment, feel protected myself. And so I try -- despite where I am inside my head -- to foster light for others like lovely Buela does.  By shining enough light for others, perhaps I can find the way out of my own darkness, too. 

Fall

Today's earworm: Fall at Your Feet (James Blunt), a cover version of a Crowded House song.  I'm sure I've posted it before - I came across it while listening to the iPod, and it hits just right. 

Credit Where Credit's Due

 Beloved Husband gave me a Harry Potter-themed purse for our anniversary this year.  (It was an unspectacular anniversary otherwise, seeing as I had COVID at the time. Nevertheless, the gifts were quite thoughtful.) It's an excellent purse: backpack style (my favorite kind), just the right size, subtle, tasteful. Nice.

As I've mentioned previously, I've had a spate of routine maintenance appointments lately, plus have also run a bunch of errands -- gone to the pharmacy and the grocery store and the eyeglass place and the bookstore and whatnot. (I'm the only one wearing a mask these days, but that doesn't bother me: I have festive holiday-themed masks! What could be better?) The purse has come with me everywhere, and I've received numerous compliments on the purse. Everyone loves it. 

Each time someone comments on the purse, I give appropriate credit to Beloved Husband: thank you - I need to give credit where credit is due, it was a gift from my husband. He did a good job. And the compliment-giver invariably says, he did! 

And they're right. He did!

I think that there's a tendency, not only in the media but in society in general, to portray husbands as being poor gift-givers. People roll their eyes and scoff at men in general and husbands in particular when it comes to presents, and allow them to maintain deliberate incompetence in the gift-giving department. We're doing men a disservice. They can do better. We should let them. And we should always give credit where credit is due. If they do a good job, we should say so. 

I really like my purse. Thanks, Beloved Husband!

The Angels Who Walk Among Us

 Herself speaks.

I had a short text conversation this past week with my mother-in-law. We'll call her Buela, because that is what everyone calls her. 

Buela inquired after my parents' health, and I let her her know that things are going as well as possible. She was delighted to hear. She then she inquired after Cherished Friend, saying that she hoped he was doing well also. I answered in the affirmative and let her know I had spoken to him recently. And she replied:

Mija, that is wonderful! Please give him my regards next time you talk to him, tell him he is not forgotten. <3 

And this simple statement somehow both broke my heart and healed it. She keeps my Cherished Friend in her prayers and in her heart, always, even though she hasn't seen him for years, because she knows how important he has been, and continues to be, to me and my family. 

This is the kind of person Buela is: she loves a person, because someone she loves, loves that person. 

It is the kind of person I try to be. 

What a shining example of Love. Buela, an angel among us. 

Lovely Oceanside

Every time Cherished Friend captures and sends an image of Oceanside, I think:

What a lovely place. I am so happy for him.

I hope, every day, that the beauty and the water and the natural life all around him, bring him some genuine moments of well-deserved Peace.

Unexpected Side Effects

 It's been nearly two weeks on the new migraine meds, and.... they might actually be working. (KNOCK WOOD.) The nearly-constant headache has diminished significantly. I've only needed one rescue triptan in this timeframe. I'm not quite in the clear yet, but things do seem a bit better. It's almost too good to be true. I have another four weeks to go before I can make a decision about whether to continue, or whether to try a different option, but I'm (extremely) cautiously optimistic. We shall see.

One unexpected side effect of the lack of omnipresent headache is: there is room for Feelings. And Feelings have made themselves known, and occupied space, accordingly. 

Boy howdy. I don't know what to do with them.

There are a lot of Feelings this time of year, anyway -- Holidays always trigger dormant wants, needs, desires. Old memories, new longings. And right now, with my lovely Daddy's poor health and the Phantom of Things To Come lurking in the corners, there are even more Feelings abounding. With all these Feelings frolicking, the old faithful companions of Abandonment and Unbelonging join in the fray. And here I am, spectator to the gathering.

I don't know which Feelings need attention -- if any. Do I just acknowledge them? Observe them as they pass by? Do I need to converse with them? Or do I need to... actually Feel them? Um, no thank you. There are too many.

I want to try to explain the situation to Beloved Husband, but I think it is too much for him to understand -- or perhaps I lack adequate words. My statement to him of, I am tired, yields a response of, Me too. I don't doubt that he is tired. But there seems to be a full qualitative difference in our respective Tiredness. His Tired, borne of demanding clients and endless Hard Work, is different from my Exhausted-from-All-The-Feelings Tired. I do my best to help him with his Tired, but I am not sure how to begin to ask for help with my Tired. I am not even sure if there is something that will help.

I think that perhaps some time in Nature will help. 

Some place with pine cones. Because evergreens are my favorite.

That would be lovely. 

One day at a time. 

Insured

 The other evening, Offspring the Second and I were communicating about health insurance. He is picking a new plan. We went over premiums, co-pays, co-insurances, deductibles, how to balance all the things. 

I realized: he is a fully-fledged adult. And I am so incredibly proud of him.

-----

I don't write often about Offspring the Second, because he is an extremely private person. But he launched himself into the world on his own a little more than a year ago now. He found himself a job, and another job, and an apartment, and overcame some tricky obstacles, and purchased a vehicle, and navigated vehicle insurance, and done all the grown-up things, and has flourished. He asks for nothing (even though I would happily give him anything). He is Getting It All Done, all on his own. Which, I think, was his ultimate goal when he left home.

He's so bright, so diligent, so thoughtful. So quietly observant. Witty. Delightful. I miss having him at home. Yet I am so glad that he is achieving his goals. 

My lovely young man. Well done. I hope life continues to bring you everything your heart desires. 

Inner Peace

I found it! Of sorts. At the bookstore.

Twenty-Four

 Offspring the Third has turned twenty-four.

He is a charming, sweet, tender-hearted young man. He works hard. He loves his kitties. He notices when people are upset, or if they need a glass of water. He roots for the underdog. He tries not to let the bitterness of the world creep into his heart. 

He has taught us patience, and kindness, and how to ask for what we need. He is a magnificent soul. 

Happy birthday, Offspring the Third. We wish for good things for you, always. 

Trees in the House

Apprendre

Dreamscape

 Herself speaks.

I've got a new nightmare. It's not really a nightmare, though, because it's not necessarily frightening or anxiety-inducing. It's just an... unpleasant and unusual occurrence, might be the best way to describe it. It is intertwined with ongoing migraine, which makes everything more vivid and which narrows the band between sleeping and waking. And it is very strange.  

It's a dream. In the dream, something or someone approaches. It's a plant, or perhaps a person -- some kind of entity that has a definitive form, although the form has not quite coalesced where I am yet. I can see it, but it is shadowy, or perhaps incompletely corporeal is more accurate. It will, in due course, form entirely where I am. And the completion of its formation where I am is a harbinger of Bad Things. (The entity does not itself bring the Bad Things -- rather, its complete appearance indicates that Bad Things have arrived.) 

I know in the dream that it is important that I wake up before the entity arrives completely, and the (always-short) dream consists of my attempting to wake myself up. I do inevitably wake up, too -- only to discover that the bridge between asleep and awake was a razor-thin line in the first place, and that I have been speaking in my sleep, or have sat up and am pointing toward the entity, or otherwise bringing the dream into wakefulness even as I bring wakefulness into the dream. 

It has happened three or four times now, and is vivid enough and bridges the sleep/wake gap enough that Beloved Husband has noticed it and been disturbed by my behavior and the event. Definitely out of the ordinary. What does it mean?

I am at a loss to identify any particular feelings associated with the dream, other than a kind of danger is approaching sentiment (to be distinguished from active fear, which is a very different sensation).

 Perhaps identifying what it is not, will help me to identify what it is. 

It is not an abandonment dream. (I am very familiar with those, having previously had a very specific abandonment dream for years and years, until I recognized it for what it was and acknowledged the primordial fear of abandonment that I unwittingly carry with me. And side note, a story for another day: the abandonment dream I used to have with regularity, I no longer have -- the last time it appeared, an entity known to me made a singular, brief and reassuring appearance, and the entire dream disappeared in a puff of smoke, never to return.) 

It is not a dream of anger, or powerlessness. It is not sorrow. It is not something of which I am afraid. It is something which I know is coming, which I would like not to encounter yet, but which seems inevitable. 

As I write, I realize: I think I know. Or at least, there is a plausible explanation for what is lurking in my subconscious and emerging in the wee hours of the night. 

I don't want to give it a name yet, because I might not be quite right. I might be, though. 

We shall see. 

Art found here: https://www.funeralguide.com/blog/death-art

Reunions/Yesteryear

Herself speaks.

Beloved Husband and I are in the process of making reservations for his thirty-fifth college reunion. It seems absolutely impossible that so much time has lapsed. Wasn't his graduation just yesterday, or last week, or perhaps just a few years ago? I was there -- it was just a year before my own graduation. 

I am struggling with the whole concept, because... I miss the me of back then.

-----

I found college to be an isolating experience. I was never sure of the people around me, whether I fit in, whether I truly belonged. I didn't know how to communicate effectively, how to make and keep friends, how to ask for what I would like or what I might need. It was oftentimes quite lonely. Nevertheless, there was also so little obligation: all I needed to do was to study and do well in my classes.  What a breathless freedom from responsibility. I did not fully appreciate it back then. I long for that freedom now. And I long for who I was then, too. 

In days of yore, I could eat what I liked, when I liked; my body cooperated and functioned properly nearly all the time. It was youthful, nubile, helpful. What blissful ignorance, to give my body no thought, except to know that it was generally conventionally acceptable. And as Beloved Husband reminded me last night when we were chatting about college and reunions, apparently attractive -- my junior year, I was voted "person with whom one would want most to spend five minutes in the closet". (That might speak more to the paucity of alluring people in our social group than my particular attractiveness, I feel compelled to say.)  

I was comfortable in my own skin. Happy to be the first on the dance floor, because dancing was always a joy. Pleased to buy Play-Doh to share with my classmates. Delighted to be the Elf at the Christmas party, because what could be better than handing gifts to people? Satisfied just being me, with the only expectations being my own. Delightful. 

And now here we are, these thirty-odd years later. My body is not at all what it used to be. I am middle-aged, invisible, no longer conventionally attractive. I haven't been dancing in ages. I spend my days trying to meet expectations of clients, coworkers, other people. 

I am tired. 

-----

A few years before college, my family took a vacation to a Club Med. I was about sixteen at the time: old enough to have developed sufficiently to be mistaken for a grown woman, and also old enough to know I did not want a grown woman's attention. The best part of the vacation was blending into the crowd of young woman -- all of us in our bikinis, all of us of uncertain age, all of us enjoying the freedom that came with youth and beauty. It was probably more dangerous than I realized for the young women with so many hungry men prowling about. My aloofness and disinterest in most male attention probably protected me more than I realized. 

I befriended a nice girl with a blue bikini, who was cautiously exploring the men of the resort, while I read my book under a palm tree in my favorite red bikini with the purple stripes. We played the games of catch and volleyball on the beach with the others, tied mauve sarongs around untouched hips, giggled and drank an occasional glass of wine with dinner and blushed when men much too old for us stared a little too long. 

I found the photos recently while looking for some college-era pictures. I've covered my face and the faces of the other young women, because while it has been some forty years or so, we all deserve anonymity even in our innocent youthful exploits. 

I look at those photos, and I wish that I could momentarily slip back into those moments: to be carefree, to have health and youth and a molecule of beauty, to dance and to play, unconcerned for the future. 

It was glorious. 

I no longer have that same health or youth or beauty. Perhaps, though, I can still find a time to dance and to play. Perhaps, even, at the upcoming reunions. We shall see.

   

Home Alone

 Herself speaks.

With the exception of a couple of dorm rooms here and there, I have never actually lived by myself: I moved from my parents' home, to apartments with roommates, to my marital abode. That's the way it worked out, and it has always been fine. 

As I am more and more firmly ensconced in middle age, though, every now and then I think about what it might be like to live by myself. It's not that I don't love my People -- for I love them tremendously -- it's rather that I have reached a point in time where caregiving and maintaining communal spaces and attending too/anticipating other peoples' needs, in combination with middle-aged exhaustion, has left me completely worn out. And so I occasionally think about: what if the only laundry, was mine? What if the only dishes, were mine? What if the only grocery shopping, was for what I needed? What if the space, was mine alone?

What if I only had to look after myself? 

(I function under the assumption that my People are all tending to themselves/being tended to by Others when contemplating these things, because that relieves me of the guilt/obligation of worrying about them.) 

In all honesty, the few times I have had the opportunity to look after just myself, it's been a little weird. As accustomed as I am to tending to others, I am the tiniest bit at a loss if I am only tending to myself. It's not bad, though.

Sometimes I contemplate what RV I might like, if I had a solo space for myself. And sometimes I contemplate what kind of small house I might like. I'm particularly fond of several of the designs of the Ross Chapin architects (link here: https://rosschapin.com/plans/small-houses/):  the Edgemoor Cottage, for example, or perhaps the Egret or the Spruce House. 

I think that perhaps I need to take more time for myself -- maybe find a way to go solo camping safely. Something that gives me the time to tend to myself (something I am terrible at), without the obligation to tend to other people as well. It would be restorative, I think. 

One day at a time. 

The Edgemoor Cottage, found here:

https://rosschapin.com/plans/small-houses/edgemoor-cottage/

Outstanding. 

Routine Mainenance, Nearly Complete

 This week was positively replete with maintenance appointments. 

The kidney doctor reported that all the screens looked good, no sign of any further kidney stones -- and so, I have been released into the wild, with no further need for follow-up unless additional kidney stones appear. Yay! 

The dermatologist conducted just a routine survey. We didn't do the whole-body review (I only feel a need for that once a year), but we did take a close look at the problematic areas, especially my face with the previous MOHS surgery sites. Everything seems OK, with nothing obviously new having appeared. Free for another six months. Yay! 

The neurologist appointment was a little more important, since I am desperately seeking better help for the migraines that have increased in frequency and severity lately. We've agreed to try one more medication for the next six weeks.  It's one I've tried before but did not have success with -- but I suspect the previous failure was due to encountering a very strong migraine trigger at the time. Now that I have a better feel for the triggers, perhaps it might be helpful after all.  Here's hoping. The next step will be medicinal Botox, which I need to research. I'm a little bit in despair at this point. 

The only appointment remaining on the calendar this year is one more follow up from the recent surgery, the last week of the month. Things feel okay, and so I can be brave for that one. 

I will be glad not to think about what is happening body-wise for a bit after that. I would like to just... be.

Neurodivergent Love Languages

 Let's do a follow-up to our series on the Five Love Languages -- the Neurodivergent Love Languages. 

There's quite a bit of internet content regarding Neurodivergent Love Languages (this link is a good place to start, for example). I'll cover them all in detail in due course, but right now, my focus is on one particular language: deep pressure (otherwise known as, Please Crush My Soul Back Into My Body). 

For the past several days, I have felt a kind of thoroughly unexpected desire to be hugged tightly and at length (which is not normally how I like to be hugged).  Swaddled, perhaps? That might work. I have a small weighted blanket, perhaps I should get that out and see if it helps. 

I am assuming this yearning is due to the fair amount of stress incurred during the unexpected trip north, which, while it did go as smoothly as possible, was nevertheless A LOT. 

Let's see if this new need fades, or increases, over time. 

Tube

The kitties sure are photogenic. 

Monsters

 Today's earworm: Monsters (James Blunt).

Oh, I'll read a story to you
Only difference is this one is true
The time has gone
I folded your clothes on the chair
I hope you sleep well, don't be scared
The time has gone
So here it is

I'm not your son, you're not my father
We're just two grown men saying goodbye
No need to forgive, no need to forget
I know your mistakes and you know mine
And while you're sleeping I'll try to make you proud
So, daddy, won't you just close your eyes?
Don't be afraid, it's my turn
To chase the monsters away

Sleep a lifetime
Yes, and breathe a last word
You can feel my hand on your own
I will be the last one
So I'll leave a light on
Let there be no darkness in your heart

Ducks

A bit over a week ago, my mother had a resurgence of a medical condition that necessitated a hospital stay. My sister, who lives comparatively close by, went up right away to make sure that everything was taken care of properly. She did a beautiful job -- talking with Mom's doctors, making sure everything was in order, and most importantly, taking care of Daddy. 

As you'll recall, Daddy came down with COVID. We don't know where or how he caught it. What we do know, though, is that it drained a great deal of his little remaining time. Hospice has stepped up, but more help is clearly needed to ensure his comfort and safety. And so I flew northward, to take over for my sister and to tend to Daddy and to Mom after her release from the hospital. 

The travel was not as bad as I had feared, especially given that it was on short notice and over the week of Thanksgiving. Planes were on time, not horribly overcrowded, and people -- though a tad cranky here and here -- overall behaved just fine. The weather cooperated, more or less. It went as well as could be hoped.

The whole trip was astonishingly lonely. I have spent the past thirty-one years having Thanksgiving with Beloved Husband, one or more Offspring, and even Cherished Friend on occasion; this year, though, everyone else was dispersed elsewhere, and it was just me and my parents having a quiet meal together. I knew it was Daddy's last Thanksgiving. I did what I could to make it nice. 

Now that new medications have gotten Mom's medical condition under control, she is as vigorous as ever. I know it pains her to watch Daddy slowly slip away. It pains us all. The best we can do is to make sure that he is comfortable, and that he knows he is loved. 

It's not clear how much time Daddy has left.  Some days, he does not do well; other days, he does a bit better.  My sister has worked tirelessly over the past week to set up home health care, to ensure as much as possible that his time will be peaceful and comfortable, and that Mom is not overburdened by caregiving but can enjoy the remaining time with her husband of over 60 years. 

In the quiet hours after my parents went to bed, I had time to contemplate my own age and my own future -- what will it look like? When will I need help? How do I want things to be? Some hard questions, and so many unknowns. 

When I left to return to my corner of the desert, everything was put in order to have hospice and home health coordinate and be present regularly.  So all the ducks -- while not exactly in a straight line -- are at least no longer pecking, but swimming peacefully for now. 

We shall see how things unfold.

Rest easy, Daddy. We will take care of you as best we can.

Home Again

Winging Away

Frosty

 It's quite chilly where I am now - about 32 degrees - and there is frost on the grass in the early morning.

But the air is crisp and clear, and it is good walking weather. 

Nice. 

Seasonal Lights

Pretty. 

Time

Time is a funny thing, when it relates to other people.

Ever think about how long someone's life has intersected with yours? Knowing a person for a mere fraction of their lifetime doesn't seem like much, until you reach a milestone -- such as 50, or beyond -- and then you suddenly realize that perhaps it has been a bit, after all. And somehow the time seems both long, and incredibly short. 

You wish it were longer, and then you realize, how lucky you are that your paths ever crossed in the first place. And how much you are looking forward to seeing how ongoing life unfolds for them. You hope it is filled with satisfaction, comfort, and contentment, and that it is blessedly free of tribulations.

The frailty of humanity reminds you that there never seems to be enough time. So you hold in your heart, the gratitude for the time you have had, knowing that it is irreplaceable.

Winter Sun

Colorful Greeting

Chilly Landing

Unexpected Travel

Remember where you parked!

Miscommunication

Ever hurt your own feelings?

I feel like I do, more often than I care to admit. Let's discuss.
-----

This post might be more accurately subtitled, a follow up to Words of Appreciation, because it has very much everything to do with Words. As I mentioned there, words are extremely important to me. I prefer to communicate by written word, because it allows me time to select the best possible words to use for a given situation; and it also allows me time to determine context and meaning of other peoples' words with less of a hurry than feels necessary out loud. 

Sometimes (perhaps even oftentimes) when interpreting other peoples' words, though, I automatically assume the most negative possible interpretation -- especially if the words might have something to do with me, or what I have done (or not done) or said (or not said) myself. Even though there is a much more likely, benign explanation, I get stuck on a possible nefarious or passive-aggressive meaning until I have evidence to the contrary. And my feelings are hurt. Is that the intention of the other person? Most likely no. It is I, who have hurt my own feelings with my negative assumptions. 

For example: a person asks me to repeat information about something that is important to me? My first reaction is to feel as though it must not be sufficiently important to that person, to remember the thing that is important to me. And the flip side - forget to inform me of something? I must just not be important enough to tell. 

See? Resoundingly negative assumptions, when in all likelihood in both scenarios, the person probably forgot because their own important things are occupying their mental space, not because they don't care about me. It's not always about me. In fact, it's rarely about me. I would do well to remember that. 

Need a few more examples? Ask me, why did you do [something] like that? I assume the question is implying a built-in answer of because it is stupid and only an idiot would do it like that, even though it is far more likely that the person is trying to learn if there were special reasons to be aware of. Chuckle when there is tension during a discussion? I assume the person is laughing at me, rather than because they are uncomfortable and expressing their discomfort through laughter.

Hardest of all are silences. It has taken me years and years to try to embrace the idea that just because someone doesn't respond when I text, email, or say something out loud to them, the silence doesn't mean that they don't care, or that I am annoying or a burden.

I'm not always successful at convincing myself that I am OK in the face of silence. I still worry. 
-----

A million years ago when I was in grade school, I was playing alongside some other students at recess on the upper playground, which was surrounded by a chain link fence except for one small space that served as a passageway between the playground and the neighborhood street just beyond. A playground ball bounced through the passageway, and I pursued it. It bounced into the street, and just as I got to the sidewalk I remembered the admonition that had been drilled into our heads: don't run into the street to chase a ball. I pulled up short on the sidewalk, stopping abruptly. I didn't go into the street, but it had been a close call inside my head.

Later that afternoon, the teacher was speaking to our class, and commented that she liked what I had done at recess. She asked the class what I had done, and then paused to look at me. My brain raced. Was she about to chastise me for only stopping at the last second before in the street? Berate me for my stupidity, my failure to remember sooner? I waited, afraid to answer. She looked at me and said, you didn't go in the street. She was genuine. I had done something right. It wasn't a sarcastic question -- it was actually praise. I was confused and bewildered, having expected a mean comment, or sarcasm, or worse.

When I recall this incident, I wonder why I had expected worse, why kind words seemed surprising. Perhaps my grade school teachers were oftentimes backhandedly critical, or skimpy with praise, or bitter. I don't think so, but then again, don't remember enough of those years to figure out why. All I know is, this recollection demonstrates my default assumption of bad has been in existence for over forty years. 

-----

Sometimes I think: perhaps assumption of the worst is a safety mechanism -- after all, it is safer to hurt your own feelings by assuming the worst, than to be caught off guard and hurt by someone else. Honestly, though: it's no way to live. Perhaps a better way to move forward will be to try to assume a benign intent, until proven otherwise. 

Yet that seems unduly dangerous.  

Another idea: perhaps I can categorize people, and base assumptions accordingly.  My Important People have generally proven trustworthy over time -- so I shall assume good intent behind their words. Strangers -- well, I'll just have to listen carefully and try to remain neutral, while also not being afraid to assume malignant intent if it appears there is an issue. 

One person at a time, I can learn the meanings behind Words. 

Love Language: Physical Touch

Rounding out our contemplation of the Five Love Languages: Physical Touch.

What does "Physical Touch" look like?  

The key: it's not just sex.

It's about physical expressions of love, both intimate and non-intimate. Holding hands. Cuddling. Backrubs. A pat on the back. Tickling. A hug. Sitting close together. 

I have a complex relationship with physical touch. I generally like to be touched only by certain people. (Or more accurately, there are specific people by whom I do not like to be touched.) I may be very uncomfortable if I suspect that someone finds me physically displeasing (a common sentiment among those of us who don't meet societal beauty/weight standards), and will shy away from any sort of physical contract under those circumstances. I loathe tickling. I don't even like the word cuddling. Ew. 

I do like hand-holding, or a casual pat while walking by someone. I like a hug hello or goodbye or goodnight. I enjoy sitting physically adjacent to people I like. I am fond of having my hair brushed. And despite the stereotype of frigid middle-aged women, I also like... more intense physical intimacy. (Though because I am a middle-aged woman, that does require a certain amount of unhurried patience to ensure I am in the right mental space. I think that's all I need to say about that.)

Perhaps, like "Words" (without "Of Affirmation"),  a subsection of this love language would be what speaks to me. Purposeful, non-sexual touch: good, from certain people in certain ways at certain times. More intimate touch:  requires very specific permission. Nothing remarkable about this, all in all. 

Ultimately, while this language is important, it is not as vital as Words, or as Quality Time. When combined with either of those, however -- it becomes Very Special Indeed. 

Love Language: Words of Affirmation

Fourth in our contemplation of the Five Love Languages: Words of Affirmation. 

What does "Words of Affirmation" look like?  

Words of Affirmation centers around verbal and written communication that conveys love, affection, and appreciation to another person. Some of the common examples I found online include statements such as: "Everything is better when you're here." "I couldn't do this without you." "You are doing such a great job. I’m really proud of you." "Your support means so much to me." "You’re an inspiration!"

I'm half-and-half on this love language, the way it is described on the interwebs.

On the one hand, I do not enjoy statements such as, "I couldn't do this without you," because that makes a situation seem like an obligation. And I do not want to be an inspiration, or be the source of someone else's moment of pride -- those sentiments seem to me, to put pressure on a person to be a certain way, to do certain things. No one needs that. 

On the other hand, Words are extremely important to me. Perhaps excessively so. My career has been built around selecting words with precision and care; I try to use the same precision and care when I am writing for myself or to other people as well.  (This is why written communication is preferable for me, because it allows me time to think over and choose my words carefully. I don't think quickly on my feet when I am speaking, and that makes verbal communication much harder for me.)

Because I am not good at ascertaining underlying motivations or subtleties, I rely very heavily on the actual Words that are used. But then I have to use my knowledge of such Words to try to figure out full context and meaning, and I may improperly hyperfixate on particular Words and lose the whole picture. 

I get stuck on Words. It's problematic. I'm working on it. 

That being said, perhaps a subsection of this love language -- "Words" (without "Of Affirmation") -- would be the language that speaks most to me. Words -- plain, genuine, without imputation or sarcasm -- are everything. 

I am glad to see you.

I am here for you. 

Thank you for listening. 

Love Language: Quality Time

Third up in our contemplation of the Five Love Languages:  Quality Time.

What does "Quality Time" look like?  

My first thought is always weirdly that "Quality Time" must mean QUANTITY Time -- lots of time spent together. That is quite incorrect, though. Rather, Quality Time is centered around the undivided attention of togetherness, regardless of how long or short the togetherness may be.  Think of it this way -- it looks like active listening, being present and available, staying in the moment; hearing and making an effort to understand; asking questions to learn more about the other person's interests, likes, dislikes; paying attention to conversational details. 

In this fractured, social-media-heavy world, Quality Time may be hard to come by. The urge to seek out input, information, distraction, is quite strong. The need to be constantly available -- to remote family members, to colleagues, to clients, to everyone -- is ingrained. It must be put aside, though, in order to achieve Quality Time. 

Quality Time is one Love Language that especially speaks to me. To be heard and understood is endlessly reassuring. To feel as though what is important to me, is important to someone else especially because it is important to me, makes me feel loved. Talk, not to me, but with me. 

Undivided attention: terrifying, but wonderful.

Love Language: Receiving Gifts

Second up in our contemplation of the Five Love Languages:  Receiving Gifts. 

What does "Receiving Gifts" look like?  

Think of it this way -- a gift serves as a gesture of affection and care, because it shows that the giver was thinking about the receiver when the two were not together; a gift then can become a physical token memorializing a sentiment or a shared moment or experience. It's not so much the thing itself that is important, as is the thought behind it that is the key.  

Gifts can be big or small -- presents for special occasions, as well as seemingly mundane items. I was in the grocery store and saw this new cheese and thought you might like to try it. A leaf or a shiny rock. This is a book I enjoyed and thought you might like it too. A calendar of Dad jokes for that person who loves corny humor. It's the sentimentality, not the expense of the gift, that matters. 

Offspring the First sometimes seems to have "Receiving Gifts" as a love language. (It's a little hard to tell, because she is shy about these things.) For special occasions, she usually requests specific items, and I work hard to accommodate those desires as well as to find related items that she may similarly enjoy. I also try to include snacks she likes in all of the grocery shopping, too, because those are tiny gifts that appear in the kitchen for her to find -- little things to show I enjoy having her here in the household and care about her.

Offspring the Second does not enjoy receiving gifts at all, so for gift-related occasions, I do my best to downplay the giving part and to allow him space to open presents without fanfare, or even by himself. That works best for him. Ultimately, it is important to respect another person's desire not to experience something (public gift-receiving) over another person's desire to do something (watch them open a gift they have been given). 

I am not sure about my relationship with the Receiving Gifts love language.  I really like giving gifts, and enjoy contemplating what someone might like as a present.  I do not much like receiving gifts, though. There is no doubt some metaphorical baggage related to gift-receiving that warrants unpacking. (Such as that one Christmastime celebration in my youth, when a relative proclaimed the number of gifts that had just been opened to be "obscene" -- even though that relative was the one who purchased all those particular gifts.)  That might take some time to parse. And it's a low priority to me. 

In the meanwhile, I'll grit my teeth and tolerate gift-receiving occasions since they are mercifully rare, and focus on things that are more important to me -- like giving gifts. Because I really do enjoy that.  And hope that my Important People can tolerate my attempts to speak the language of Gifts for them. 

Love Language: Acts of Service

First up in our contemplation of the Five Love Languages: Acts of Service.  

What does "Acts of Service" look like?  

Think of it this way -- it is performing a task that will ease the burden of responsibilities on another person, or otherwise doing something that makes someone else feel loved and appreciated. 

This love language is one that I speak readily. I have always tried to do the little things that will give people the warm and fuzzy feeling of being cared for (or perhaps the feeling of relief that there is one less thing they have to do, which is sometimes even more valuable). I especially enjoy these kinds of activities because I have in the back of my head, the idea that the receiver of the Act of Services will thereby understand that I care about them, because I have done a specific task with them in mind. 

Offspring the Third's love language oftentimes revolves around Acts of Service; he seems to feel most content/loved/cared for, when small things are done for him. To his credit, too, he has learned how to ask for the little things: can you put my laundry in the dryer when yours is done? Absolutely. And I admire him, because it is so much easier to get what you need, if you ask. 

I suffer from a kind of asking paralysis when it comes to Acts of Service: I don't want to ask anyone to do anything for me, ever. It's to my detriment, though: when you ask for Nothing, that's what you get. It just pains me less to go without, than to ask. That's a Me Problem. I'm working on it. 

I saw it explained on TikTok thus: If you love language is Acts of Service and you have to ask for help, you feel like it's asking to be loved. Oh, TikTok, thanks for CALLING ME OUT yet again.  

Why is asking for things so hard? What is the worst thing that can happen -- a no? No isn't the end of the world. Sometimes people are busy. Sometimes it's not in their abilities to do something. That doesn't mean they don't care. Don't take everything so personally. 

(My guess is that there's likely a touch of rejection sensitive dysphoria hiding in the whole situation. Apparently Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria is quite common in individuals with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder as well as those on the autism spectrum, so there might be a kernel of explanation in there given my autism-spectrum-tendencies.) 

Knowing all these things in theory, though, doesn't necessarily make things any easier in practice.  What I really need to do, is to to gain some experience with asking for what I would like for particular Acts of Service. That requires, first off, figuring out what I would like. That might be quite a challenge. 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Let us see what we can do.

And in the meanwhile, if there is a particular Act of Service that you would like done for you, don't hesitate to let me know -- because it will bring us both happiness for me to cause it to come to pass. 

The Five Love Languages

 At this point, pop culture has thoroughly talked about The Five Love Languages. As the originators explain, people with different personalities give and receive love in different ways.  How do you make someone feel loved? Speak to them in their love language.  It's not just about romantic love -- it's about love between family members, friends, everyone. A kind of 'unified theory' about communicating love with other people. 

The tricky part is understanding everyone's love language. Not to mention, one's own. 

Let's enumerate them:

Acts of Service
Receiving Gifts
Quality Time
Words of Affirmation
Physical Touch

The love languages seem simple when listed, but they are more complex than they first appear. "Physical Touch," for example, doesn't just mean sex. "Quality Time" doesn't just mean number of hours spent together, but includes meaningful conversations and meaningful activities. It's not always easy to determine what someone's love language is, either -- and if two people speak different languages, they may speak at crossed purposes and not understand one another at all, resulting in frustration and so much miscommunication. 

A close-up contemplation of each love language, and what it looks like in practice, will be helpful (I think) to understand not only myself, but the people around me. I think that over time, the love language I speak  has changed. (Perhaps that is because I have better identified the love languages of the people around me?) Has the language I most want to hear changed as well? 

Let's take a closer look. 

The Pandemic Comes Home To Roost

 My Daddy has COVID.

Oh, no.

We're not entirely sure where he caught it; Mom is testing negative. It started with a small cough, as it always does these days, and quickly devolved into exhaustion and All The Coughing. A week into COVID, he has a touch of pneumonia, and has been given some additional medications to try to help with that. He is not a candidate for the antiviral meds because of his already-fragile condition. 

He is frustrated, and tired, and my heart breaks for him. This is not how he wants to spend his few remaining months. And there is not much we can do, except offer support and send messages of love. I have plane tickets to go visit in a few weeks, though if things turn southward I can go up there earlier. 

This is why I am still wearing a mask most of the time, especially when travelling by plane or public transport, and visiting medical offices: I don't know whether there are people nearby who will pass germs on to me; or (in the event that has already occurred) whether I will inadvertently pass along germs to someone else who will experience dire consequences as a result. 

And that second point, is the kicker. Someone who works with, or near, the frail elderly has passed this Pandemic Plague along, and it is my father who is suffering the consequences. 

I know that sometimes it can't be helped -- we don't always know what germs we are harboring, we have no intent to make other sick.  Yet during the past two and a half years, there have been so many people who have turned public-health issues such as wearing a mask and social distancing, into some kind of ridiculous political football. A weird sort of "freedom" with a decidedly anti-science stance. Not a "we're all in this together, let us protect our most vulnerable" attitude that would serve humankind best during a Pandemic, but rather, a kind of, "F*ck everyone else, I will do what I want regardless of the consequences of my behavior on other people." 

It has made me lose a lot of my faith in humanity. 

As COVID inevitably steals some of my father's little remaining time on this earth, the rage I have toward people who have prolonged this terrible Pandemic through deliberate and harmful behavior, grows brutal and ugly and more immense, every day.

Those people can all go straight to Hell. And I will see them there, because there is no forgiveness in my heart. And there never will be. 

The Ticket to the Bus

 Well, I figured out why I was bus bound: migraine. 

You'd think I'd learn to recognize the sound of the bus from far off by now. But I am ever so slow to learn. 

The migraine has blossomed fully, though, so I am optimistic that I can put it behind me, and in due course get off the bus and take a walk instead. 

Need to remind myself that, while on the bus, Feelings may seem especially Feeling-ish, but that they too shall pass. 

Here's to better times ahead. 

Bus Bound

I am riding the struggle bus for some unknown reason. I'm trying to analyze matters, figure out how and when I boarded this bus -- but it's a bit like an unexpected situation in a dream: all of a sudden, here I am, bumping along in my vaguely uncomfortable seat, not sure where I am riding or when I should get off. 

The frustrating part is, I'm not sure what I actually need. And I can't ask for support without knowing that. So I'll just keep trying, one foot in front of the other, one day at a time. 

I have a lot of ideas about Things To Write About, and perhaps if I do some more writing, that will help. I do enjoy writing. 

Maybe if I were better at taking care of myself, I would do better. (Not sure how to learn how to do that, though.) Need some motivation, determination, discipline.

Or Maybe, I just need a little bit more Love.

Photo Copyright 2021, 2022, Mediocria Firma.

All rights reserved. Used with gratitude.

Back to Orville

 One of the perils of allowing emotions to air, is having Feelings. 

I'd been suppressing a fair number of emotions, but knew that was not the best or healthiest solution in the long run -- so I've been allowing them out, slowly, one at a time, to take a good look at them. 

It's a lot. It's OK, though.

And it seems to me that a little Orville Peck will help.

Tonight's earworm, once more: Let Me Drown.

EXCUSE ME MA'AM

That was MY glass of water. 

Solo Adventures

Everyone else in the household had plans to do various things today, so I decided to take myself to the Zoo. I'd been wanting to go to the Zoo for a while, and it seemed like a very good day to do so: partially sunny, breezy, a chill in the air -- perfect walking weather.  

Off I went. I did feel vaguely awkward as a solitary middle-aged woman at a location so clearly geared toward families with young children; however, my goal is to become more comfortable just Doing Things and Going Places by myself, so I pretended I was unbothered while I took a lengthy stroll. There were a lot of changes since the last time I had been to the Zoo; there were not many animals, but there was an abundance of activities -- climbing structures, merry-go-round, face-painting, and more -- to make the Zoo a more interactive experience. Nice improvements to the Zoo, I think. 

I got myself a late lunch on the way home to round out the trip. All in all, it was a successful expedition, and it was motivational to plan additional excursions in the future. So far, so good. 

Please enjoy a few photos of the adventure. 

Tiger snoozing in the sun. 

Lion taking a stroll. 

I have always liked this statue.

The Mexican wolves, all lined up like dogs in the sun.

The solitary meerkat. A small sign said,

don't worry, we are arranging for new friends for him.

The red river hogs.

The one on the left was chirping in a bird-like manner. Neat.

The Eyes of the Dragon

 I read a book!

It's been an embarrassingly long time since I last read a book for pleasure. Ages. Eons. 

There are many reasons: busy, tired, Life. Committing to an entire book, especially if I wasn't absolutely certain I would like it, seemed like too much dedication of limited mental resources with unknown return. 

While I was in Oceanside, though, Cherished Friend lent me a book to read: The Eyes of the Dragon (Stephen King). He explained that it was more fairy-tale/fantasy than Stephen King's other works (I do not care much for horror). Trusting in my Friend's judgment, I began reading.

I was hooked from the very beginning.

The book was well-written, easy to read, suspenseful without being uncomfortable. It flowed. The description was captivating, the plot solid, the characters well defined. What a delightful use of language. The hardest part about reading the book was, making sure I read slowly enough to savor every word. 

I continued to read the book on the way home from Oceanside -- it was extremely helpful while trapped in Limbo in a city In Between. Eventually, I got to forty pages remaining. After I returned home, I paused before reading those last forty pages:  I didn't want the book to end, even though I wanted to know very much how the story resolved. 

Finally, though, I read the last pages. And it was an excellent resolution. The story wrapped up in just the right way (neither too-tidy nor questionably-convenient). Excellent. Well done, Stephen King.

In truth, reading the book was a lot like a visit to Oceanside: go slowly and don't rush, savor everything, take the words as they come, enjoy the moments up to and even including the very end -- even if it's sad that it comes to a close. 

I can see reading this book again. 

Routine Maintenance

So far this week:

Visit to the dentist: check.

Eye exam: check.

Mammogram: benign findings, check!

Refill mundane medications: check. 

Flu shot: check. 

Research on when to get the next COVID booster: check. (Not yet, is the answer.)

Routine maintenance is coming along. 

Next up: a three-year follow-up with the kidney doctor, because of the prior kidney stones (likely to be a "see-you-in-another-three-years" visit as long as the routine testing turns up nothing); the dermatologist (fingers crossed, nothing new for them, either); and the migraine doctor; (still need help there). I think that's it! Oh, whoops, one more follow up with the ob/gyn before the end of the year. 

I'm heartily tired of being a semi-Fragile Flower. But at this point, it's becoming pretty important for me to enlist preventative care, before anything goes (additionally) awry. Need to take care of myself. I want to Do Things, Go Places, See People. Need to have decent health to do so. 

One appointment at a time, on we go.