Catch-up

Herself speaks.

Let's play catch-up, shall we?  

The house refurbishing continues apace. Today I boxed up the last of the rooms that needs boxing -- that was quite the accomplishment.  This one was the study, and so it was quite the archeological dig:  old school pictures of the Offspring, tax forms, Important Papers, ancient defunct laptops, obsolete mobile phones, CD-ROMs of computer games from over a decade ago. I took down my diplomas, and carefully peeled off the pencil drawings made by the Offspring that I'd taped there, along with three photos: Beloved Husband holding an infant Offspring the Third; my Lovely Daddy and I during my college graduation weekend; a rare willingly-taken (toleratingly-taken) photo of Cherished Friend from a camping trip a thousand years ago.  I cleaned off all of my favorite schoolbooks from the shelf -- my Latin and Greek books from high school; organic chemistry; plant biology -- and put them in a box with the classics: The Phantom Tollbooth (Norton Juster), I Am A Bunny (Ole Risom), Anam Cara (John O'Donohue), The Prophet (Kahlil Gibran), When The Tripods Came (John Christopher), and other favorites. I added the books on lichens and mosses, and medicinal plants. A wealth of knowledge, in a single box. 

I finally threw out my review materials for The Task, though. 

I also cleaned out my closet upstairs. I finally gathered all my formal dresses that I will never wear again and donated them.  They were all beautiful in their individual ways -- velvets, sparkles, fringe or shimmer. They felt so lovely under my fingertips as I packed them up. I felt pretty when I wore them (a hundred years ago, now), and I was sad to see them go.  I hope they will each find a good home elsewhere. 

I moved the bunnies to their new room.  It's out of the regular flow of traffic of the household, but is quiet.  It's smaller, but I will get them a little rug so they can hop out and about in the rest of the house more after the refurbishment is done. 

I was concerned that they would find the move upsetting.  They did seem a bit cranky at first.  But they are adjusting. 

We parted ways with our dining room furniture.  It was old, in need of repair and polishing and tender loving care, and someone was willing to give it a good home. I feel sad and a little guilty, but I know that someone will enjoy it more. I did save the hand-embroidered seat cushion covers, though. It was a rhythmic, soothing process, to remove the hundreds of little furniture tacks. I will restore the embroidery and save the works for posterity. 

I rewarded myself for all the hard work, by speaking with Cherished Friend via Zoom this evening.  It's lovely to see him, to talk about ordinary things. I am annoyed he does not live closer -- how delightful that would be. 

When we said goodbye, the tiny grief of knowing I cannot really be a part of his everyday life and he cannot be a part of mine, flared white-hot for a moment. 

There is no point in crying, though. It won't change anything. I'll just put on my brave face and keep going.  

And that, lovely readers, is all the catch-up for now.

Grow Wings

 Herself speaks.

The house refurbishing: the straw that threatens to break the camel's back. 

Home is no longer a respite or a safe place. It is a sensory nightmare: strangers there so often; noise and dust; nothing where it should be; hours and hours and hours and hours and hours spent sorting, boxing up, moving things from one place to another, Tetris-ing a lifetime's worth of possessions of All The Family into different rooms while other rooms are being worked upon; no bed, just a solitary cot surrounded by boxes and miscellany; Offspring the Third's cats out of sorts, not able to roam comfortably, meowing and poking me in the eye in the middle of the night. (The rabbits, mercifully unbothered.) 

Won't it look nice when it is done, people say. Yes, it will indeed. It will be lovely. Meanwhile, the sensory nightmare continues, the expense climbs, and the amount of time and mental space occupied by the project grows. Relentless positivity about how it will be when it is finished, is not soothing my frayed nerves right now. 

I know this shall pass. It shall pass like a kidney stone. 

And meanwhile, outside life continues: work is busy; volunteering is an enormity; other obligations continue apace. 

Some days -- many days -- it seems as though no one communicates with me, whether by text, email, or otherwise, unless they need something from me. The needs, larger and smaller, come from all corners.  'Tis my fault, really, for being the Reliable Person. People are relying on me. No one to blame but myself. 

No one asks how I'm doing. (Once upon a time, my lovely Daddy used to ask. But as we know, he is gone and at peace. You deserve peace, Daddy. Rest easy.) 

How am I? Overwhelmed. Tired. Annoyed. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time. One hour at a time. 

What do I need? I need peace. It's in short supply right now, though. 

I need space and time to relax, to put things away where they belong, to listen to silence, to be alone. I need the comfort of company of people who don't expect me to anticipate and take care of a multitude of things at any given moment, who would like to talk about things Not Political (because whoooooooooo boooooooy that's a whole 'nother level of stress and anger), next to whom I could sit in the same way that the small dogs used to sit next to me, once upon a time. 

I keep sighing. As Offspring the Third once quoted from somewhere, "If I sigh loudly enough, all my problems will disappear."  Perhaps that will be true. 

In the meanwhile, we try to find music to carry us through. Until we can grow wings.

(Mack Loren, cover of Radiohead's Let Down.)

I Would Like To Be A Dandelion

Bumble

It's a bit... SOON for Bumble to be making an appearance, no?

Wind Phone

I was with a group of people the other night, and the topic of Wind Phones came up. (It's a long story.) And it turned out that there was a Wind Phone very near to where we were. 

We went to look, and found it that night. Sure enough, there it was. Nice. 

I will go back someday, when I am alone, and place my call. 

Honor Upon You and Your House

Sensory OVERLOAD

Alas, I cannot update the blog much at the moment - because house repairs/updates from the flood of last year are in full swing, and HOLY MOLY the amount if noise and shuffling and weeding of possessions and all sorts of furniture and containers and belongings in places where they should not be and clutter and detritus and strangers in the house disrupting the flow of my activities and HELP ME I CAN BARELY FUNCTION. 

I have never wanted more desperately than I do now, to have a safe, quiet, calm place to Just Be. But no. 

And because of Reasons I do not want to talk about, having strangers moving family possessions around in our spaces is upsetting in a very visceral way. These are very nice people, respectful of our things, efficient and hard workers. But I still want to scream, because of Old Buried-and-now-Resurfacing... Trauma (the word, perhaps overly used in pop culture these days, seems appropriate). Beloved Husband, who has not had the experiences I have had, cannot understand. So I must power through the difficulties I am experiencing solo. 

The house will be lovely when it is done, to be sure. My nerves will be frayed. But perhaps once stillness settles over the house again, I will feel better. 

I need a nest. Or a hollowed-out tree. Or the safety of larger-than-life arms to encircle me and tell me it will all be OK (and mean it).  Arms that will not be bothered when I am twitchy or tearful or bent out of shape by the goings on. Because no matter how stoic I try to be, I can only contain so much MUCHNESS at once. 

One day at a time. 

Thirty-Four

 Herself speaks.

Beloved Husband and I have been married for nearly fifty nine percent of my lifetime now.  For some reason, it feels as though it has gone by quickly. Or perhaps the memories of the earlier years become crowded and compacted, like layers of sediment, by the later years. 

Every now and then, a piece of our shared history is unearthed, especially now as we are doing some much-needed upgrades to the house. I wade through a container of grade-school papers from the Offspring, or find an occasional photo from Days of Yore. I sort the box of little T shirts that our elderly rescue dogs wore for comfort. That little hook there? My Dad gave it to us, because it matched the decor in that bathroom -- I'd forgotten until Beloved Husband reminded me. Little pieces of an entire life, slowly being weeded and organized. It's odd, after years of organic chaos of Offspring and pets and Everything, to slowly and methodically tidy all the pieces of our life together.

There's such a sense of -- Completion? Empty nest? -- without any Offspring or dogs or any pets that make noise (the sound of bunnies rummaging in hay is not loud enough to count) on weekends. I feel old? Or tired? Perhaps it is time to plan some new adventures, as we step into this next phase of life. 

We travel on. And time moves ever swifter. 

Little by Little

A little Duolingo gets done. 

White Sands/Moonrise

 Full moon, August 9. Lovely.

Fifty-eight

Well, I'm fifty-eight.
It is perilously close
To sixty years old.

On the other hand,
This means I can pick and choose
Which f*cks I will give.

Towering

The kitties sure do enjoy their new tower. 

Nice. 

Time Flies/Dragonflies

Facebook flashback reminded me that this beautiful photo was taken ten years ago. 

How I miss those times: walks in the Albuquerque Biopark, conversation and creatures and quiet. It's almost a visceral sorrow, knowing that those days will never come again. 

Sometimes, I am tired of carrying around the sadness of all the losses, small and large, in all their permutations, from the past several years. 

But what is sorrow, after all, besides love with nowhere to go? 

August Aspiration

I am working on taking better care of myself. 

Someone should take decent care of me. And it turns out that I am that someone. 

Hammock

We are kitty-sitting. This kitty looooooooves the hammock of the new kitty tree. Nice. 

Animalia

A nice treat recently: getting to stand adjacent to some excellent quality barnyard friends. 

One More Scar

Yesterday, I had one more small spot of basal cell carcinoma removed. 

(It will leave a scar, he said. I'll add it to my collection, I said.) 

All things considered, it was not a terrible procedure. It wasn't on my face, so that's pretty good, really. It's a few finger widths down from my collarbone. 

(There are smaller stitches so the scar will be less noticeable, and you will be more comfortable wearing lower cut tops, he said. Thank you, I said.)

The initial bandage is a bit bulky and obvious -- no hiding that -- but I can peel that off after 24 hours and see what I'm really dealing with. 

Scars don't necessarily bother me. The idea of going through this procedure every few years does. Though again, not my face this time, so less unpleasant, means small win. 

I picked up dinner for myself at the local tiny/posh grocery store afterwards, because Not Cooking After Unpleasant Experience. I tucked my shirt under the strap of my purse over my shoulder to try to obscure the visibility of the bandage a bit, because I hadn't figured out a short-and-snappy explanation if anyone asked. It didn't work particularly well, but the parking lot was not crowded, so I mustered my wherewithal, tried not to be self conscious, and went in. 

(I like your shoes and you look great! said a pleasant lady I didn't know as I entered. Thank you! I chirped in reply.)

The only two compliments I have gotten from strangers in the past year (including this one) -- for I remember the other one, too -- have both been at times when it's been very clear that I am at that moment, In The Midst Of Some Kind Of Medical Unpleasantness. And I am grateful to the strangers -- both women -- who took it upon themselves to try to better my clearly not-great day with some nice words. 

It's been a rough road in many ways lately, but perhaps the world is not entirely a garbage fire: because every now and then, a nice lady says something kind at the right time. 

Happy Birthday, Dalai Lama

As long as space endures,

As long as sentient being remain,

Until then, may I too remain

To dispel the miseries of the world.

Naive

It took me nearly 58 years, but I have finally (finally) learned... the Universe is not fair. 

Oh, my naive younger self. 

I grew up in an era of Girl Power! Girls can do anything! and Be whatever you want to be and If you just try a little harder, you will get the right grades/get into the right school/excel at work. Or even, the subtle and unspoken but nevertheless very clear message, if you try hard enough, if you look the right way and say the right things and don't ask for too much but give your all at the right time and in the right place and in the right ways, you will finally be understood and be loved the way you want to be loved. 

If you failed at any task/job/mission, it was simply because you didn't do enough. Do more. Try more. Use more words. Put in more effort. Achieve more accomplishments. Keep going.  Nothing but success. Don't mention not-successes. Those are a shame not to be disclosed. 

I am proud but not surprised, people would say -- because as everyone kept telling you, it was possible to do anything and be whatever you wanted to be.

But: No. No, it is not. 

I have tried my hardest. Done my best. But sometimes, things don't work out. Because Life is Not Fair.

The Universe is full of entropy, and occasional Badness, and full-on Nonsense at times. Sometimes despite careful deliberation, we make the wrong choices; or we make a seat-of-our-pants decision and then must tackle consequences we did not anticipate. We don't remember the multitude of times everything works out fine. We never forget the times things do not work out at all. 

And there is the compounding problem of People: people are endlessly complex. People live in their own worlds. They don't always understand, or do what we would like them to do, or want what we want. We love people who live at a distance (ah, my Offspring, my family of origin, my Friend), and their absence from our daily lives creates a void that cannot be filled. Sometimes, people are hurtful -- whether through negligence, or deliberately. We need people, want people, love people; cannot bear too many people, have been harmed by people, disappointed by people. People. They are exhausting. 

Perhaps I am lucky that it took me so long to lose my naivete -- for with naivete came optimism and hope, and those have carried me quite far. 

Or perhaps, because I held on to my naivete so long, the pain of the emergent realization that Life is Unfair, is exceptionally Deep and Wide and Encompassing. I am struggling right now with the knowledge that I may never accomplish certain things, may never fulfill particular wants. And that's just How It Is. 

The hope that remains, is that one day a greater Hope will come back to me again, and I will find my inner warmth once more. Life is Unfair, yes. But perhaps I can, through Grace, make it a little better where I am. That's the best I can do. 

Duck

Herself speaks.

I am cleaning out closets -- an onerous task, to be sure -- and sorting contents of all sorts of miscellaneous boxes.  Old school papers, dollies, drawings, Legos, Care Bear miniatures, costumes. All of the memorabilia of the childhoods of the Offspring.  And I came across a box with some baby things: some fuzzy onesies, the little blue winter jacket that everyone wore, a duckie blanket. 

My heart. How are the Offspring so grown up now? 

I miss seeing them. They are such lovely people, the Offspring. I hope the Universe spins in their favor, always. 

Where We Are All At

 Herself speaks.

One of my goals for myself is: to meet people where they are at. 

It's a challenge, because: where, exactly, are they at? 

I know that I want certain things. In particular, I want certain things from certain people. It's important to acknowledge reality, though:  sometimes, what I want is not within the realm of what people are able to provide to me. It's not that they are deficient, or wrong, or otherwise at fault. (Nor am I, come to that.) It's just that we want different things. I need to respect their capabilities and their limitations. (As they do mine.)

Let's take the rabbits as an example. I sure would enjoy if any one of them would let me pat them. I want that. (So much.) However, not a one likes to be patted. My desire to pat a rabbit cannot somehow magically cause them to hop over and sit on my lap for pats. I have to meet them where they are at -- which is to tolerate sitting in the same room, and for me to offer them snacks which they will accept from my hand. That's the best that they, and I, can do together. 

And I must extend this understanding to my People. I want what I want; but what I want is borne of my own needs and desires and hopes. They have their own lives; their own wants and needs; and their own abilities to do and to see and to understand. I need to recognize where they are at, and meet them there. 

The question then becomes: how loudly -- and specifically -- do I speak what I want, in case they are able to meet me at that place of want? And how prepared am I to hear, no, that is not within my capability?  

I want to be understanding of the "no" of others: to be able to say "no" without being criticized or rejected for doing so is a rare gift.  At the same time, my fear of a constant stream of "no" renders it difficult to even ask in the first place.  But if you ask for nothing, you get what you ask for. 

It's a quandary.

It has been pointed out to me more than once, that my ongoing --- inability? failure? hesitancy? --- to specifically state what I need or want, has essentially trained those around me to assume that I can take care of myself and all of the things without help. That's... not inaccurate. Yet all that knowledge does, is make me feel bad for not using the exact right words, or for not asking multiple times, or for otherwise not being *just* the right way to somehow elicit the response that I may have needed at a particular moment. That's not helpful. I don't need that pointed out again.  

The best I can do, I think, is to consider carefully all the factors; to ask for specific things; to understand the "no" that may invariably arise; and to keep going.

One step at a time. 

Front Hall Flashback

Flashback:  Mr. Uncle Tio and Tiny Dog, taking some leisure in the sunshine. 

Good puppies.

 

Neck Pillow

 She's just so... cylindrical. 

Flying Solo

Herself speaks.

There are times when it's clear to me that all of my Important People are up to their eyeballs in Things, and do not have the wherewithal to listen to, or inquire after, me. In those times, I simultaneously want to help them in any way I can (because I love them and don't want them to be overburdened), and want to run away from them (because I myself feel like a burden). 

For example: there may be things in my head that I want to talk about, or current events that are burningly annoying/terrible and warrant discussion. Or I might be having a moment or something is bothering me, or I feel invisible, and I would like nothing more than for someone to ask, "how are you?" Yet my efforts to initiate a conversation don't yield a satisfactory dialog, or there is silence, or there is just enough response to indicate that the person is so immersed in their own morass that it's clear I should not try to continue to elicit anything more. 

What can I do? I cannot will people to devote brain space to inquiring after my wellbeing if they simply don't have the bandwidth. I cannot dig them out of their own bogs. I cannot (will not) provide both sides of the conversation (I talk to myself enough already).  

Eventually, I'm embarrassed that I've tried to initiate a conversation in the first place. I feel needy, ashamed for wanting a listening ear, burdensome. And I want to run away. 

It's hard to convince myself that I am entitled to take up space in the world. 

There is nothing wrong with wanting reassurance, care, a little bit of Love. I freely and willingly give these things to other people -- why is it so difficult to acknowledge that I, too, would like these things? 

I am allowed to ask for what I need (recognizing, always, that asking may yield "no"). Why do I feel like even asking has too high a price? Am I merely avoiding vulnerability by trying to convince myself that I should be able to do All The Things by myself? 

Once upon a time, when I first joined the taekwondo gym and found myself a group of friends, I was so delighted to be freed from the isolation in which I had lived so long as a telecommuter/stay-at-home mom. It was so beautiful to have a group of nearby friends. I thought I might have unlocked the mystery of  People. 

I was mistaken, though. 

Time has passed.  Though I now work in an office, I do not talk meaningfully to (m)any people on a daily basis (though if Beloved Husband is not too busy with work, I may be able to sneak in a conversation with him when he gets back from the gym at 10 PM). The Offspring have all grown and moved out. My one true Friend from the taekwondo gym has moved Oceanside. 

The isolation of the beforetimes has been resurrected. 

I need to Try Again. 

I do not want to Try Again. 

But I know I must. 

For now, though, I shall fly primarily Solo. 

The Club No One Wants To Join

It's Father's Day. Happy Father's Day, Daddy, wherever you may be.

-----

No one wants to belong to the Dead Dads Club on a day dedicated to celebrating fatherhood. The difficulty of the day snuck up on me: I did not contemplate in advance, the multitude of extra factors that would add to the complexity of Feelings of today. 

Perhaps I had subconsciously/purposefully not thought about them. Or perhaps I had simply overestimated my ability to march through the day unscathed. 

I did manage to get a few useful tasks done around the house, but there was no accomplishing anything truly substantive. I feel Bad about that. I will try again tomorrow. 

-----

There is a kernel of childlike desire that still dwells deep within my heart, and it is never more apparent than it is on Father's Day. It is a primordial longing: take my hand, tell me that you are happy to be here with me, that I am doing a good job, and that it will all be OK. Ask nothing of me, but love me as I am, without condition. 

And I would be healed. 

Happy Pride

 It's Pride Month.  Happy Pride, lovely LGBTQIA+ peoples. Times are especially hard in the USA right now, for so many Reasons.  Whether or not you know where you may fall in the spectrum of sexuality or gender or attraction; whether you have told the World, or only a couple of people, or no one except for perhaps yourself; however your journey on your path of Self has progressed:  know that you are perfect -- and accepted here -- exactly as you are. 

Love, and people, come in as many permutations as there are stars in the sky. Find your star. 

-----

I am glad that there is so much more open information and discussion now than there ever was before. To have words to describe what one is feeling, to know that one is not alone -- what blessings for people who are struggling or are unsure about how they feel. 

For example, this website helps parse the different types of attraction. Attraction can be sexual, romantic, aesthetic, sensual, emotional, or intellectual -- each is slightly different.  Romantic attraction (the subject matter of so much of the entertainment industry) can then be broken down further -- aromantic, demiromantic, biromantic, heteroromantic, homoromantic, panromantic, and others. Sexuality can be similarly parsed: heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, more. There are other ways to describe the variety of human experience, too - nonbinary, gender/sexually fluid, queer. The permutations, as varied as people themselves.

Why do we need so many words, so many slices? People like to understand themselves and others. Sometimes, if we can find just the right word, we can understand better.  For example, if I state that I am heterosexual and demisexual/demiromantic, a clearer picture of who I am emerges. While the type of person to whom I might be attracted ultimately would matter only to people seeking to date me, the information provides context about my life. How did I grow up and what challenges do I face in expressing myself as a person? How difficult is it for me to find community? How dangerous is it for me to talk about my partner or even to make small talk about Hollywood stars I find attractive? These things are all relevant to who I am as a person. 

Some people say, people shouldn't talk about these things because they shouldn't matter. And that's true - it shouldn't matter. People should all be free to talk about who they are and who they love, without fear of rejection, condemnation, reprisal; and without danger to loved ones or to their lives. And until that point is reached, we celebrate Pride. 

Happy Pride. I am here for you, my friends. 

Capy T

 This is HILARIOUS. Thank you, FaceBook, for bringing it to my attention. 

Here We Go Again

 Herself speaks.

Had my annual dermatology visit for Pelt Review recently.  It's always both a concern an annoyance - I don't spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, and I'm always worried that I will have missed some sort of problem that should be addressed. I do look at my face and ask about any Suspect Spots there since that's where the three prior MOHS surgeries have been located. This time, almost as an afterthought, I asked about a small circular spot on my upper chest. It's been there a while, hasn't grown or done much of anything, but it has not gone away, either. 

Aaaaand, biopsy it was. Small win - at least it wasn't on my face this time. 

Results are, as expected, another basal cell carcinoma.  (No amount of hiding from the sun can save me from the UV damage of my youth, even though I'm essentially crepuscular now.) And so I go back in another month to have a wider excision, to make sure it is all gone. 

Again, small win - not on my face. It'll be a bit of an ugly scar, but not particularly noticeable unless I'm wearing a V-neck shirt.

I am so tired of this. Every few years, though, I can expect it again. The price I pay for existing, really. 

Bun and Bun

 Like the kitties, the bunnies, too, are photogenic. 

I do wish they'd let me pat them more, but I'll be satisfied with some nice pictures. It warms my heart to see them with their fur-companions - everyone should be so content. 

Duet Under A Tree

A long marriage is two people trying to dance a duet and two solos at the same time. ― Anne Taylor Fleming

Herself speaks.

While Beloved Husband and I were at our alma mater a couple of weekends ago, we took a walk out to the golf course near campus. We looked carefully, and we found we found what we are sure is the tree under which he proposed, thirty-six years ago. It has grown quite a bit in the intervening years, and is just as beautiful now as it was then.

I don't think either of us had any idea way back then what the future would hold. And now, here we are -- we have been through so many years together, so many milestones. The only thing I knew back then when he asked me to marry him, was: I wanted to be the very best wife I could be for him. I still do today. I still try, every day. 

I am fortunate in that after all this time, even beyond love, I also like Beloved Husband. He's smart. He's funny. He's curious about the world and always learning new and interesting things to share. He wants the best for his children. He is devoted to his family and to his friends. 

He's the Quintessential Congenial Person: Cheerful, Charming, Likeable, Talented. Everyone loves him. The only problem with this, is that there is not enough of him to go around. So many demands on his attention and his time. It must be hard for him to prioritize, being pulled in so many different directions at once. Sometimes (oftentimes) I feel as though I get short shrift. Not something I considered under that tree, so many years ago. But what is to be done? I cannot change What Is. 

The best I can do is work on my own solo dance, until he is available for moments of our duet. 

Basket Case

The kitties really are so photogenic.  And it is very nice to have a small furry face peeking out the window when I come home from work. 

I miss my dog-friends. I am not accepting any new responsibilities right now, though.  The rabbits (and occasional kitty-sitting) are enough. 

I do enjoy a good picture, though. 

The Dark Side of the Moon

 Today's earworm: Love the Hell Out of You (Lewis Capaldi).

You got your demons, spent seasons on the dark side of the moon 

Don't try denying ‘cause you know that I've been there too 

Right now I know how it feels like the world’s gonna end 

But I'll get you through 

If it's the last thing I do 

I’m gonna love the hell out of you 

Take all the pain that you're going through 

I'll bring you heaven if that's what you need 

‘Cause you've always loved the hell out of me.

I love the idea of this song -- that one person's love can somehow eliminate the darkness that haunts someone else. I think that many of us who are rescuers (or who would secretly like a bit of rescuing ourselves) are attracted to the idea that Love Cures All, Love Saves All. If only that were true. 

The world is so messy. Life is complex, and both beauty and pain can be found in so many places. One person cannot fix another. What we can do, though, is be a safe harbor in times of need. And that might be good enough.

Sweet Sixteen

 Sixteen years ago, I arrived. 

It's been quite the journey.  (The past year, in particular, has been... a bit much.) Posting has been slow at times, verbose at others, and there have been many, many moments of introspective ruminations. 

Thank you, gentle readers, for wandering on this journey with me. It is good to have the Company, and I am Grateful. 

One we go.

Snack

We took a short visit to our alma mater last weekend. During a walk near the golf course on a rainy afternoon, a fox trotted happily by with its mouth full of a snack.  For one shining moment, Nature was right there: the dark clouds, the big sparse raindrops, the lush green of the plants, the glossy fur of the fox, the shiny brown of the rodent it was carrying (thank you for your contribution to the Circle of Life, Rodent), and the silence except for the rustle of the leaves and the gathering breeze. 

Lovely. 

Tiki

 Sometimes, we all need a happy story. 

Like millions of other people, I've been following the progress of Tiki, a very shut down rescue pup, through the posts of his foster mom on TikTok.  The two of them were recently featured in People magazine. It's a lovely story, with one of the few happy endings in the news right now: behold, a  traumatized, sad little dog heals through the careful ministrations and gentle love of the right human being.  

We are cheering for his every success: coming out of his crate; his first pat; his first sit on the sofa; his attempts to go outside; his efforts to learn to tolerate people; his lessons in how to Dog from his foster dog brother; and more. Every little act, every little bravery, is a miracle, a healing step for him and for us. For it is proof that even when things are at the most terrible, we may still be able to find comfort and a few molecules of happiness ahead. 

Imagine the kind of love which Tiki has now found: free of anything Awful from the past, fresh and new. To be left alone when needed, to be encouraged gently, to be spoken to softly, to be cheered on for all the small successes. To feel Safe. To know that everyone is rooting for you to be Happy. To be able to enjoy all the small things in Life once more. Everything made more poignant for having experienced the Bad -- but with the Bad being no more than a far-away shadow. 

Amen, Tiki. May all your future days be bright. 

Eleven, and a Few

 Herself speaks.

It's been eleven years (plus a few days) since the Unmooring. I saw the anniversary of the day approaching, felt its presence creeping ever closer -- and yet, I did not dwell on it. It washed over me and moved past, like a comet in the night sky, silently moving in its annual orbit. I continued my work, and my Work, knowing that it will be back in another year.  Like solstice or equinox, rainstorms or blowing winds, it's just another fixture in the passing of the seasons. 

I have reached a point where the appearance of the Unmooring no longer carries with it that grief which once brought me to my knees.  I have been changed. I cannot go back. The sorrow is etched and the scars remain, but I can no longer choose to reopen the wounds. To tend to myself, I must let all the feelings of the Unmooring drift away.

One step at a time, on I go. 

Got An Eye On You

Biiiiiiig Stretch

Balance

Comfortable

Last weekend, we spent some time with my lovely Mother-in-law and various other extended family members, including a Fine Fur Friend.  I do miss having a dog. It is really nice to see a bit of canine relaxation amongst the flowers in the yard, or toasting in the sun. 

We should all be so comfortable. 

The Tough Get Going

 I've reached the when the going gets tough, the tough get going point of things.

There's a lot going on: some projects coming to a close, other projects gearing up; regular work; supporting (significantly) someone close to me through some Difficult Times; mundane Daily Activities; and my own Stuff. 

I got to the point earlier this week when I started rehearsing in my head, possible requests to my Important People, about needing more support -- a few more casual conversations that don't involve people Needing Things from me, a bit more facilitating of all the little things I do not have time for, or even just the asking, "How are you doing?"  Because no one actually asks. Ever. People assume I am Fine and Capable and Handling All The Things. 

I am indeed Capable and Handling All The Things. Fine, though, is a relative word. 

I'm moving forward. I'm doing the mental work. I'm taking care of myself as best I can (it might not be optimal care, but it really is the best I can do). 

I want to ask people for more. To care a little bit more. To take interest in my existence more. To walk my path with me a more. 

But then I viscerally reject that desire, and back further up into myself, ask even less, talk even less.  Nothing is worse than wanting more, asking for more -- for to ask for more is to show vulnerability. Asking is no guarantee, and in fact may yield less, when others see my neediness and walk away. People do not want to get involved, to commit to the burden of supporting another person.  So I will avoid rejection, avoid criticism, avoid knowing that I am not worth the effort of others, by moving forward by myself. 

The going's a bit tough at the moment. But I have packed up my feelings for now -- there will be time to feel them later -- and am getting going. 

One step at a time. 

Mossify

Oh, dear. Time flies, and I think about writing things, and then I think about the State of the World (Dumpster Fire), and the death of the Pope (who, by all accounts, seemed like a very lovely man and quite open-minded for a leader of the Catholic church), and about the deporting of toddlers who are in fact US citizens (help, my heart), and other assorted Terribleness, and I can't bring myself to write things. 

And then another dust storm comes through and I feel as though my brain is filled with the fine grit that covers my car and my front doorstep and my nasal passages, and the pressure changes of the air cause my skull to squash my dusty brain so painfully that I just lie on the couch and do Nothing except contemplate whether I should take prescription migraine meds or save them for when things are worse, and whether my kidneys are going to shrivel up and die if I take any more ibuprofen. 

Sometimes when the headache dulls, I think about my People whom I haven't seen in far too long, and I acknowledge to myself how much I miss them (because, apparently, there needs to be Conservation of Suffering, and if my brain doesn't hurt, I must make my heart hurt instead?).  I wonder if I should tell them I miss them, but what purpose would that serve? To make them feel bad somehow, for not living closer or visiting more? Oh, no. The last thing I want is for someone else to feel guilty or burdened by my personal wants.

Everyone has their own life to lead. The only story in which I am the main character is my own. 

And so I lie on the couch, watching the bunnies hop, slowly growing mental moss as I await better times and the end of the windy season. 

Know that though I am quiet, I am still here, mossy and secretly soft, waiting for the gentle mist, the glow of the evening light, and you. 

And Then Hell Froze Over

My current state of irate is due to the blathering of RFK Jr. regarding autism.  I don't want to link to his statements, because they are on a level of wrongity wrong wrong that boggles the mind. Briefly: his remarks include statements that are outdated and dehumanizing, perpetuate stigma and stereotypes, and undermine progress that has been made in diagnosis as well as in the development of support structures and progress in disability rights for those on the autism spectrum. The Autism Society's statement regarding RFK Jr's comments summarizes things nicely.

And now, a group of leading autism organizations has released a joint statement -- for the first time ever -- calling for science-based decision-making, investment in research, and services for the autism community, and the organizations that have signed include Autism Speaks, which historically I (and others) have considered to be problematic. Agree with Autism Speaks? Hell has frozen over. And we are OK with that.  

The list of endorsing organizations is growing. Good. More voices together will increase the chances that they will be heard, and that they will drown out the nonsense spouted by RFK Jr. and his ilk. 

Although it is hard to choose which current events to focus on right now, support of the autism community is a cause that is very close to my heart, and that I feel needs an additional spotlight at the moment. For your convenience, the joint statement is reproduced below. Take a moment, if you can, to take a look. I might be preaching to the choir, but still, I want to add my voice as well. 

April 17, 2025, Washington, D.C. – As national organizations dedicated to advancing the well-being of Autistic individuals, the Autistic Self Advocacy Network, Autism Society of America, Autism Speaks, The Arc of the United States, Autistic Women and Non-Binary Network, Autistic People of Color Fund, and partners across the disability and public health sectors stand united in our call for science-based decision-making and increased investment in the research, programs and services the Autism community needs to live fully.

While our organizations reflect a broad range of perspectives and experiences, we are aligned in the following principles:

• Vaccines Do Not Cause Autism. Decades of scientific research confirm there is no causal link. Public health messaging must be grounded in science and protect all communities.
• Autistic Individuals Deserve Respect and Support. Public dialogue and policy must reflect the inherent value, rights, and diverse needs of Autistic people.
• Evidence-Based Policy Is Essential. We call on policymakers to work in collaboration with Autistic individuals, families, researchers, clinicians, and disability organizations to ensure policy is grounded in science and responsive to community needs.

We are deeply concerned by growing public rhetoric and policy decisions that challenge these shared principles. Claims that Autism is “preventable” is not supported by scientific consensus and perpetuate stigma. Language framing Autism as a “chronic disease,” a “childhood disease” or “epidemic” distorts public understanding and undermines respect for Autistic people.

At the same time, federal proposals to reduce funding for programs like Medicaid, the Department of Education, and the Administration for Community Living threaten the very services that Autistic individuals and their families rely on. Research must be guided by credentialed experts and inclusive of the complexity and diversity of the lived experiences of the Autism community—not redirected by misinformation or ideology. As leaders in the fields of Autism and public health, we are committed to contributing meaningfully to the ongoing dialogue and initiatives led by HHS.

We urge public leaders, institutions, and media to uphold scientific integrity and work together to strengthen—not weaken—the infrastructure of support for the entire Autism community.

Tax Season

 Herself speaks.

It's tax season. With the assistance of the tax preparer (who is awesome), all the tax returns are completed. There are a bunch for which I'm responsible - multiple trusts, extended family members, and the nuclear family itself - and each required gathering of appropriate papers, review, and the occasional state as well as federal returns. I still need to mail a couple of checks today.  But then it will be Done.

Tax season always makes me think of my Dad. Taxes used to be his job, and he no doubt was methodical and prompt in all of his tax return preparation requirements.  

I wonder: did he feel a sense of satisfaction when he completed this tax task -- or his other myriad behind-the-scenes tasks that he took care of every day? Did he ever feel oppressed by his responsibilities? Did he feel Taken For Granted? Or was he happy to see that everything was Done, and his loved ones had what they needed, without worry?

I think: all of the above. 

I am so in awe of you, Daddy. How did you move forward every day, uncomplaining, quietly competent, thorough and methodical and caring, without fanfare or even sufficient gratitude given to you?  The soul of a saint. So much given. You must have been Tired. 

I am sorry I did not express in words, how much I appreciated your efforts, Daddy. Perhaps I did not truly understand everything you did until you were gone, and I spent more time thinking about you, and I became You in even more ways. 

Be at peace, Daddy. 

I miss you. I am glad that you can have some well-deserved rest now.  

Hold The Line, Super Girl

In the days of yore when I was a youth in the 70s and 80s, I wore my Super Girl T shirt with pride, and we young women, in our seemingly eternal optimistic youth, believed that girls could do anything that boys could do. 

We read the articles and saw the news and were told the stories of heroines like Barbara McClintock, Mary E. Clarke, Susan B. Anthony, Sandra Day O'Connor, Elizabeth Dole, Sally Ride, Geraldine Ferraro, and Joan Benoit, to name just a few.  Woman, including women of color, making strides in science, politics, athletics, the military, and more. Fields dominated by men, particularly white men, to be sure -- look at us, we can be there, too. It was beautiful to know that we, too, had a place at the table. We could do anything. 

Sure, there were always stories. The sexism, the groping, the crude language and the arrogant dismissals of our work because of our gender. Those stories persist to this day, decades later. Because these things still happen, decades later. Don't be fooled. It hasn't ever gone away. Remember the MeToo movement? The price paid to get our seat at professional tables was sometimes very high. 

And now here in 2025, the country is under Presidential executive orders to scrub federal government websites and policies of anything relating to DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion). We can discuss what the purpose is of those executive orders, another day. The end result, though, is that pages and pages of information relating to the achievements of women and people of color are being scrubbed from the internet. Don't deny it. We can see it happening before our eyes. 

The stories that little girls like myself grew up on, disappearing in the blink of an eye. Access by the most common source of information -- the internet -- is no longer available. Yes, we can still go to the library and find a book. For those little girls for whom the library is distant, or for whom the books have been removed: what recourse do they have? Where do they go, to learn that women do, still (for now) have a place at the table? Are we to resort to Word Of Mouth? An oral history of Women? 

-----

I was flying home yesterday from a meeting. On the first leg of my trip, the pilot turned on the intercom to welcome us aboard and give us some information about the flight, and LO AND BEHOLD: IT WAS A WOMAN.  I wanted to cry.  It may seem like such an inconsequential moment to some, no doubt. But when only five percent of commercial pilots for this airline are women, it's not. 

There she was, with her soothing professional voice communicating with us, performing her job beautifully (such a smooth landing), going about her business. It might not have been a big deal for her -- just an ordinary day at work. But for me, it was a shining moment of Girl Power. We are still at the table. 

Hold the line, Super Girl in the cockpit. Your presence means more to some of us than you will ever know. 

Thirty-two

 Offspring the First has turned thirty-two.  Where has the time gone? 

You are a ray of sunshine, a tender and thoughtful heart, a kind warmth to all you encounter. You are out there in the big world now, and I hope that the world is not too much for you, because the world is cold and can be cruel. But you create your own bubble of light wherever you go, and that may be enough to protect you. I wish for the best of everything for you, always. 

Go forth in joy for your next year, Offspring the First. I love you so much. Happy birthday. 

What!?

Why is she looking at me like that!?

The Things We Carry

 Herself speaks.

Offspring the First and her charming husband were in town over the weekend, and we were able to see them briefly for a bit. It was lovely, as always, to see her and her smiling face. Offspring the Third was there as well, and it was reassuring to see him too, as always, and delightful to have the two of them in the same room together. There was an Offspring the Second-shaped hole in the room; I have missed his presence so much, and am trying to walk the line of respecting his independence and freedom, while still wanting to reach out and encourage him to come home for a bit to ease the ache of his absence. 

I don't know when I will have all three of the Offspring together in the same room at the same time again. I try not to think about it. The weight of that unknown future can be a heavy grief for me if I allow it to grow in my heart, but I will not do so. It is important to be glad for the Offspring as they move forward with their unique lives, and not to try to hold them back out of any sort of obligation. 

I will not ask the Offspring to help me carry my own feelings. That would be unfair to them. They should be Free.

Fly, Offspring, fly.

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

Relaxed

We should all be as relaxed as our lovely big bun.

 

Speaking of Mad Max

 I came across this screen grab-meme whilst perusing Facebook the other day, and it both amused me highly, and had a truth to it that warrants sharing. (I do apologize for the photo being teeny-weeny; hopefully you all will be able to enlarge it and read it. I have found out that it is from a Tumblr post, which you can find here: https://www.tumblr.com/ohwaugh/158085956252/faun-songs-broliloquy-skelefolk. Full credit to them for this brilliant piece of writing. I've put the first bit down below, to tempt you into reading the whole thing). 

I love the idea of the Peacekeepers of post-apocalyptic world being all the pro-kink, community-driven, alternative Peoples. That would be magnificent Justice, and I fully support it. 

What I wanna know is why the spiky kink warriors are always the bad evil marauders. They might be into some weird shit and unafraid to show it but that doesn't mean they want to go around killing dudes. They're a tight-knit bunch. A lot of them are queer. They understand the importance of community. If the government collapses and all laws come to an end, the people rampaging around killing and looting are gonna be like, frat boys and 4chan rejects. You can mistrust the bondage raiders all you like but they're definitely the ones you're going to run to for help when the neoliberal blood cultists and Nazi meme demons lay siege to your survivor enclave. 

Dusty

 We have had SO MANY National Weather Service Emergency Alerts (Severe) this month.  Dust storms, the likes of which I have never seen in all the years of living in this corner of the desert.  It's shocking. Visibility near zero, even within city limits (not just in the outer edges where the empty desert lies). 

It does not bode well for the area, nor for the planet.  Mad Max, here we come. 

Girl Crush

 Herself speaks.

I try to avoid certain types of movies/songs/media, because they are just... a bit much for me. I don't watch rom-coms; I don't read books in which the love interests don't end up together; don't listen to lovelorn music. Especially now, when the world is a flaming dumpster fire, and Depression still sits quietly in the passenger seat of my car and stares at me from the corners of my room at night.

Once in a while, though, I accidentally come across something, and -- almost against my will -- it catches my attention.  I heard a snippet of a song on TikTok the other day, and now it is stuck in my brain. I feel compelled to listen to it, even though it brings up Feelings that I do not enjoy and would like not to experience. (Empathy: currently the worst kind of curse.)

I wish I knew what to do with Feelings that are Too Much. Feeling them by myself is acutely painful; all the same, there is no one in front of whom I would be comfortable feeling them. Yet one can only squash down feelings for so long, before they coalesce into the living, breathing Depression that is my secretive companion. I would not wish that on anyone. 

At any rate, here is the earworm that is plaguing me. Girl Crush, sung by Harry Styles. Suffer with me. Perhaps, if we suffer together, we can get through. 

I want to taste her lips
Yeah, 'cause they taste like you
I want to drown myself
In a bottle of her perfume
I want her long blond hair
I want her magic touch
Yeah, 'cause maybe then
You'd want me just as much
I've got a girl crush

All Squares are Rectangles (But Not All Rectangles Are Squares)

 Do you remember the expression: all squares are rectangles, but not all rectangles are squares? It's such a great turn of phrase. I like it for its literal correctness -- few things more satisfying than a specific mirror-image definition like this. 

It occurred to me today that it could also potentially be used metaphorically. (Yes, I'm slow sometimes.)  I contemplated this morning, how it could be applied. (I was doing so, to avoid thinking about current events. Because they are all horrible. THE HORROR. Ironically, it was through mulling over current events that I ultimately came up with a situation that is analogous.) It goes like this:

When someone hurts another person through actions, an apology made through words can help.  But when an injury is caused by words, an attempt to make reparations through actions is not always successful. Even when actions are intended to show remorse or repentance or a change of heart, there will always be those previous words lingering in the background, and the thought that they may resurface again. Words can only be negated by words, not by deeds. 

Perhaps only I place so much emphasis on the value and import of words. (And perhaps that is why I spend so much time trying to explain myself with a hundred billion words.) Am I alone here? Give me the words, peoples. 

But perhaps not. Surely I am not the only person horrified by the words being used in public arenas right now. When our current President says the VERY TERRIBLE things he says, so flippantly, so carelessly, it is shocking and appalling and I cannot watch because the words stick in my head and I immediately want to argue and yet I cannot, because what good would that serve? What kind of terrible timeline are we living in, that the leader of our nation spews forth such cruel and crass verbal garbage? And it's not just him, either.  But surely I am not alone in my horror. 

Could amends be made through actions at this point? No. Absolutely not. The words need to be denounced. Better words need to be put forth. Only with Good Words, can we truly move forward. 

Dreamscape

 Herself speaks.

Last night, I had a dream that I was on a beach. It was not sunny - I think it was early evening, perhaps? - but it was a nice ambient temperature, neither too warm nor too cold, and the breeze was just right, and the water was the same level of nice. There were good stones on the beach, and fine sand, and some people relatively nearby, but not too many and they were not too close nor too loud. I don't know what I was wearing, but I do know that my body was comfortable, nothing hurt, everything was good. 

I was there with someone I have not seen in far too long. I held their hand and looked into their face, and they had a true smile, and I thought about how it has been so long since I have seen their smile. And I was so happy that they were happy. I just looked and looked, trying to capture every millimeter of that smile, knowing that my time with them was so short and that I had no idea when I would ever see that face again. 

It was lovely to be there for that moment. 

I saw you in my dream
We were walking hand in hand
On a white sandy beach of Hawaii
We were playing in the sun
We were having so much fun
On a white sandy beach of Hawaii
The sound of the ocean
Soothes my restless soul
Sound of the ocean
Rocks me all night long

White Sandy Beach - Israel "IZ" Kamakawiwoʻole

Yikes

That's... even weirder, DuoLingo. 

I Don't Know

I came across a meme the other day, and it sparked a tiny memory from a hundred thousand years ago. 

I am not sure how old I was, but I was somewhere in my preteen years.  My weird little homely self was overwhelmed by something, to the point of tears, and my poor beleaguered mother, attempting to discern what was happening (no doubt wondering what is her problem THIS time, as I was -- once upon a time -- a tearful little creature), asked me what was wrong. I responded, "I don't know," because I genuinely did NOT know. Something was wrong, but I could not put words to it. Things were just not right, somehow. I did not have adequate means to describe. It wasn't a Thing That Had Happened, it wasn't a Crisis, it was just... I don't know. 

"That's not an answer," she told me, exasperated. "Maybe when you're a teenager, that might be an answer. But not now." This confused me, but also stopped me from crying: both because apparently I did not have a reason to cry, so I was supposed to stop; and also, because I had to think about what it meant that teenagers were allowed to have some kind of complex feeling that could not be put in to words but still afforded them the opportunity to cry openly -- but that I, a mere grade schooler, was not allowed to do so. 

Ultimately, I eventually (painstakingly) learned that people are not at all comfortable with any form of upset feelings or with crying, so it's best to keep that to oneself and out of view of other people; and that being a teenager does NOT, in fact, allow one to cry openly, regardless of whether one has an actual 'reason' or not. 

I do still have times when I do not understand why I feel the way I do; it is so hard to identify feelings right as they are happening.  I wish they came with a little sign: "this is sadness because X" or "this is anxiousness because Y" or "this is overwhelm because A and B and C all happened in short order". 

Feelings: so much work. 

No wonder I'm tired. 

Young at Heart

 Beloved Husband is fifty-[mumble] years old.  Eternally young at heart, always willing to try new foods, new activities, and new places, he will always be the cheery, born-under-a-lucky-star person that I have known him to be since the very first day we met. 

Happy Birthday, Beloved Husband. I wish for you -- with great love -- continued health, happiness, and adventures, for many, many years to come.