It Really Is A Beautiful Place

Music of Yore

Herself speaks.

We have been to the college Reunion.  And truthfully, it was lovely. 

The campus is green, and -- though quite chock full of construction, as well as of new and unrecognizable buildings, too -- seems like such a beautiful and motivational place to learn.  Squirrels. Birds. Trees. Interesting artworks incorporated into the landscape in a thoughtful and meaningful way. Old buildings with arches and brickwork, new buildings like Japanese lanterns, other buildings like futuristic laboratories. Magnificent. 

So many people. Nothing in common, except the place. And for a few days, that was enough. 

We hung out with a group of familiar people from The Olden Days, and it was Nice: I did not feel Othered. I felt, momentarily, as if I Belonged. As if, given enough time, I could build an actual community with these people.  And it was heartwarming and sad, because I do not have these People where I live now, and I only see them once every five years. I wish for Community, for more than one reunion weekend. 

The conversations were meaningful -- pleasantries were quickly disposed of, and we all moved immediately into depth of topic, with substance and weight. It was gratifying.  

One thing in particular that I noticed immediately: how much I have missed having conversations with women who are intellectual equals. 

(That sounds pretentious; it is not intended to be. I work primarily with men. My complex conversations outside of work -- which are weirdly few -- are mostly either with Beloved Husband or Cherished Friend. I don't ordinarily talk with women. And I've missed it. It's more evident than ever before that I need to find the time to make some local female friends. Not because there is a deficit in my current conversational partners, but in order to enrich my life.)

The only tricky part to the reunions, is the photos. The school colors and reunion garb are not particularly flattering, and it's clear from many of the pictures that it's quite difficult for me to dress a G/H cup in a way that doesn't make me look like Quite Chunky.  (How do I add a waist to a T shirt? Hmmm.) Add to that the the gleeful smile on my face, and I tend to look like a Big Fat Slightly Deranged Chipmunk. Oh, dear. That's hard to swallow. I do have some carefully curated photos of myself with Beloved Husband that I can tolerate (let's angle just so and crop out cleavage), but the group shots are uniquely unflattering on the whole. And I feel sad all over again that the me that was tolerably cute in college has disappeared entirely. 

Last F*ckable Day, definitely past. 

I also miss the me that was fun, whimsical, and a little bit flirty. She is buried sooooooo deep down inside. It is so hard to draw her out. And at this point, she is not sure that anyone wants to spend time with her any more. Well, maybe I still do. That might be enough reason take her by the hand. 

----

The last morning, before going to the airport, Beloved Husband and I took one last walk around campus. In a remote corner, we found a piano. I didn't have a whole piece memorized, but I could play a few bars. It sounded a bit loud, unfamiliar in the empty hall.  I think I'll practice the piano more, in case we have a chance next time to find a piano again. 

What lessons should we take from reunions?

1. Staying in the moment is vital to happiness.  Not thinking back to the hardships of college, not looking ahead to other things, but existing in the moment of togetherness, made the reunion both special and meaningful. 

2.  We are more valuable than we realize. I think about the small lurch of happiness I felt each time I recognized an old classmate with whom I had positive interactions some thirty-five years ago, and if even a portion of those people felt a little bit of that same lurch when they saw me, then my existence might make the world a tiny bit better. I'll take that. 

3. It is up to me to try to build my own community.  If I can rekindle temporary community in a weekend with people I have seen only one other time, five years ago, in the past thirty-five years, surely I can make a better effort to build some better community for myself where I live now.  I need to try harder. (Though I need to give myself some grace, too -- these past few years have been hard. One step at a time.) 

I think that is all for now. 

Onward we go.

Hip! Hip!

Fireworks

Almost Hogwarts (But Better)

Nine

Facebook Flashback reminds me: the Unmooring was nine years ago. It sneaks up on me -- I always feel as though it was later in the month of May.

It was okay, today. It's been a long time. Perhaps we are at last far enough away from that point, to look back calmly, and without flinching. 

On we go. 

Oceanside Aquarium

 Photos from an Oceanside Aquarium, courtesy of Cherished Friend (all rights reserved). 

I do love photos from Oceanside. They bridge the distance between there and this corner of the desert, and that is a marvelous thing, indeed. 

Of Course You Can

Herself speaks.

The breeze comes in, and the clouds gather, and it looks like rain. And at first I think I've avoided the migraine that comes with a change in weather. But no -- it's only delayed by a few hours. Instead, I wake up at three thirty-something, hearing the wind in the tree outside, smelling the scent of the water in the desert, and feeling the all-too-familiar pounding inside my skull. 

I'll try moving to the couch downstairs; sometimes a change of scenery and the cool of the leather (along with some ibuprofen) will help me to fall back asleep, as long as my brain isn't mired in a migraine-rumination-rut-of-despair.  It's touch and go. You never know where it will get stuck.

As I drag my headache around this morning, trying to accomplish weekend chores, it whines about the clutter of other peoples' belongings everywhere in the house, the ongoing, perpetual tasks, the things that I do, and do again and again, and it tells me, I can't do this any more. 

And my only response is: Of course you can.

This is all temporary: the Tasks, the Chores, the Clutter. It will all have an Endpoint.  I can't see it now, but there will come a day when things are more settled, when Offspring really are truly launched, when I come home and the kitchen is as clean at the end of the day as it was when I left in the morning, when no one's laundry or cardboard boxes are occupying space, when no one's papers or miscellany is stacked in little piles on the sideboard or in the front hall or the corner of the kitchen counter, when I can park my car in the garage, when I can take the garbage out without navigating half a dozen vehicles.  

And I might, perhaps, even look back a little bit with fondness or wistfulness, at the moments when everyone was here. 

It's not that I mind all the things. It's not that I begrudge others, the tasks that are expected of me. The chronic pain is the straw that is breaking the camel's back. The camel needs a long drink of water, and a week in the pasture, unbothered. 

I am so Tired. 

One foot in front of the other. On I go. Because of course I can. 

Muffins

 Over the past weekend, I made muffins for my lovely mother-in-law and sister-in-law: cream-cheese-and-raspberry giant muffins.  They turned out pretty.  (I can't eat them, so I don't know how they tasted, but at least they looked nice.) I did enjoy the baking. 

As you may recall, in Days of Yore, I used to make muffins before Friday sparring class for taekwondo.  It was a small act of love, an act of Belonging: these are my people, and I will provide them something small and tasty after the effort of sparring class. Those days are long gone now - the Belonging turned out to be a tenuous camaraderie that fell apart for a multitude of Reasons, and the last straw was the one Monday when I turned up to taekwondo class and found a basket of leftover, half-eaten and neglected stale muffins on the counter. Effort for naught. The end of the muffin era. 

I don't have much of a muffin audience now, and so I only make them as gifts for special occasions and for special people. I knew that these particular muffins would be much appreciated, so I prepared them carefully and with love. 

The secret ingredient is always love.  

The Water Under The Bridge

 Herself speaks.

I was thinking about the forthcoming college reunion, as well as the time that has passed since Beloved Husband's last college reunion five years ago. There has been a lot of metaphorical water under the bridge since then. 

There have been some very good moments:  succeeding at The Task; adopting New Old Dog; the occasional excursion for hiking and camping; climbing Guadalupe Peak with Beloved Husband; having local adventures; the few months that Cherished Friend lived here with us; two trips to Oceanside. Good Times. 

There have been some Big Changes family-wise:  Offspring the Second graduating from college (well done!), returning home, working hard, formulating his plan, and leaving home (bravo!); Offspring the First taking care of herself, deciding to make some brave changes in her life (brava!) and coming home; and Offspring the Third graduating from college (congratulations!) and returning home to find a job and work hard (good job!). While those parts of the story belong to the Offspring, I have been here on the periphery, occasionally involved, willing things to go well, and playing the role of Supportive Parent-of-Adults as best I can. 

The Pandemic. That has been Terrible. For many reasons. On and on and on it goes. 

Cherished Friend leaving for Oceanside -- that event goes in a category by itself, for how do you explain the impact of having such a Friend move so far away? (And during the Pandemic, too.) There aren't words to describe. It was a Turning Point, and a hard one. Even change that is good (see, e.g., the Big Changes for the Offspring), can be hard. 

Health has been... complex, too: the third MOHS surgery (and subsequent revision); the ongoing, only-semi-successful battle to get the chronic migraine situation under control; the minor but horrid gynecological surgery that, while successful, has left me eight months later with the distinct impression that pants are not my friend; and the very challenging and seemingly-impossible task of shedding a few pounds. Oh, and the macroaneurysms in my eyeballs. Mustn't forget the latest wrinkle in midlife body issues.  

And then - the Losses. So many losses:  

Three very fine small dogs - Tio, Chico Hank, and beloved Tiny Dog. 

My lovely father in law. 

My Daddy. 

It's a lot. 

-----

As much as I might like seeing people from Days of Yore at the Reunion, the weight of the past five years is very heavy right now. I am not sure I will be able to put it down sufficiently to enjoy myself.

Maybe I should get up in the very wee hours during Reunions, and take a walk across campus. The green, the quiet, the squirrels, the birds in the trees -- perhaps that will be enough to transport me to a different time, when my biggest worry was getting my homework done, when grief did not yet walk with me. When necessary solitude was not because my people were too busy or had left, but because I had not yet found my people, and I was full of optimism and hope. 

To recapture that, for a few moments, would be marvelous. 

Mother's Day Tortoise

Teeny Tiny. 

Mending

Ow

The Othering of May

 Every May, I remember anew: May is always terrible. 

May is always a full of change: the end of a school year. The Unmooring. Add to that the abundance of social gatherings associated with the various changes, and Otherings become more obvious than usual during this time. 

What are Otherings? They are those moments when I am acutely aware that I Do Not Belong. 

I am an Other, an Outsider. I have always been one. I am relatively comfortable being one. Every now and then, though, it makes me sad, because every now and then, I would like to Belong. 

It's hard to give examples, because they are little things. Things like -- when a group carpools, who is invited to ride with whom (when I become the afterthought-invitee as I get into my car by myself); conversations centering around things about which I have no experience or interest, such as gel manicures, or wine, or that yoga class which everyone else is attending but to which I was not invited; the omnipresent, low-grade language barrier when I am the only individual who does not have a solid grasp of conversational Spanish (that is my fault, though, I know). 

And upcoming, too, is a college reunion that Beloved Husband and I will be attending. On the one hand, I am looking forward to it a little bit, in a "returning to one's roots" sort of way. I loved school, in that school has always been one of the things I have been good at. (Math! Science! Concrete answers! The best!) On the other hand, college was also a very isolating and Othering time. I didn't really know how to make friends. (It was always hard to figure out with whom to sit in the dining hall or in class.) Socializing? Complex and nuanced beyond comprehension. So much people-ing. So many things I did not understand. So much loneliness. Reunions is a microcosm of that -- who remembers whom? Who wants to talk to whom? 

Compounding the difficulty at the moment, is my current sense of Self. I'm a middle-aged, chunky, nothing-special-to-look-at woman: nothing to see here. I've lost that one edge I had in college -- my physical form as "the person most wanted to spend five minutes in the closet with" (a silly vote among my peer group at the time, a weirdly bittersweet memory now). I don't want to be perceived.  But how can I Belong, if I am not Perceived? It's a quandary. 

I don't think my People understand. Beloved Husband, eternally cheerful, eminently sociable, ever Belonging -- I cannot explain to him. Cherished Friend is too literally and perhaps metaphorically distant right now to have the conversation to explain. My siblings are extroverts with friend lists as long as my arms. They are not Others. I am the Other. 

I need to come to term with my Other-ness. I will never be anything other than Other, I know. Right now, though, I would love, for a few minutes, to feel as though I Belong. 

Oh Deer

At the park, this week. 

Delightful.

Lessons from Daddy

These are my remarks from Daddy's memorial service/celebration of life. It was the best I could do, to try to honor him, with words. 

Daddy was a man of few words. And because he was so quiet, it was important to watch and to listen carefully, to learn his lessons. I’d like to talk about a few of his most important lessons, that I carry with me and try to use in my own life every day.

Lesson One: be kind.

Daddy never said an unkind word about other people, and he looked for the good in everyone. He always spoke kindly to our friends, and about our friends to us. One of the best examples of his kindness to others, is how Daddy was especially kind to my husband even before we got married – when he and I were still engaged and living in separate cities, Daddy would take him out to places like Woolworths to make sure he had everything he needed for graduate school. Daddy made sure that he felt welcome in the family from the very beginning, and I am so grateful for that. The lesson: be kind to others, always.

Lesson Two: be patient.

Daddy was endlessly patient, both in thought and in action. He thought everything through carefully and methodically, and then took action. He was always patient with us, and with other people too – I rarely heard him raise his voice toward anyone. Toward the end of his life, I was most struck by his patience with himself. He took his time to do what he could, to enjoy small pleasures like the Sudoku or the word puzzles in the newspaper, and to patiently accept help as needed. I am so grateful that we were able to help Daddy toward the end, the way he had helped us for so long. The lesson: take your time and be patient, with others, and with yourself.

Lesson Three: be yourself.

Daddy was always supportive and encouraging of the things we liked, even if they were a little silly or unusual. When we were little, if asked, he would always sing us a song goodnight. He would write out math problems on napkins for us to solve while we were waiting in restaurants. When I took up taekwondo in my 40s, he came to my black belt test. If something was interesting or meaningful to us, it was interesting and meaningful to him, and he would remember and ask about it. I am so grateful that the things that were important to me, were also important to Daddy. The lesson: be yourself, because that is the way to find happiness.

The most vital lesson of all: Make sure people have what they need.

Daddy was, most of all, a caretaker. In high school, if we were going out to lunch with friends, he would slip us some extra money. He would make sure the car was always full of gas. He paid endless tuition bills without blinking, and made sure we had the best educational opportunities. All kinds of things were magically taken care of in the background, without us having to worry about a single thing.

He continued to be that way when we all entered into adulthood. He made sure we knew how to get a good interest rate to buy our first houses, he changed light bulbs or bought a new toaster oven when he visited. All things large and small, he would see what was needed and would quietly help to take care of it.

And every year for the past twenty years or so, Daddy would send us an updated copy of what he called the “Death” letter – in one of our regular phone calls, he’d mention cheerfully, “I’m going to send you an updated Death letter!” “OK, thanks Daddy!” He was so practical. When the time came to finally actually dive into the Death letter, it contained everything we could possibly need for probating his estate and settling his affairs. He wanted to make absolutely sure that even after he was gone, he would still be taking care of all of us. Thanks, Daddy.

Daddy always ended every phone conversation with, “Do you need anything?” And even though I don’t really need anything, if I could ask for one thing now, it would be for one more opportunity to say, thank you, Daddy, for your lessons, and for everything.

I'm Fine

 Herself speaks.

I'm back in my corner of the southwest, after having traveled for my Daddy's memorial service/celebration of life.  It was a very nice event, but it was a Lot to process. It's slow-going, mentally.

The easy part was welcoming people to the service: my parents' old friends; Dad's colleagues and coworkers; relatives I hadn't seen for decades. So lovely to see you. Thank you all so much for being here. I'm so glad you could come. 

The hard part, apparently, was a week later when my primary care doctor -- who knew about the service because it came up while she was taking recent medical history -- asked me how I'm doing with Dad's death. 

That's a difficult question to answer. 

I'm fine, all things considered. But nothing is fine. I have new ongoing responsibilities, and there are things that happened in the last stages of Daddy's illness and around his death that I would like to forget but cannot, and Grief is constantly beside me and sits in the passenger seat of the car wherever I go and is oftentimes like Sisyphus' rock before me as I move through each day. 

The things I want: A reprieve from the sorrow. To have all weight lifted, just momentarily. To be enfolded in a way that makes me feel protected. To be cared for in a way that does not make me feel like I am a burden. Intangibles -- safety, warmth, tenderness. Peace. These are hard asks in Life. Will I find them? 

One day at a time. 

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