Waiting, Again

Today's earworm -- better waiting than yesterday's earworm. Do ignore the world's worst lip-syncing in the video, for this is a classic song, and somehow is always comforting:  The Rolling Stones, Waiting On A Friend.

I hope you enjoy.

Waiting

Today's earworm; Turn Me On (Norah Jones), because today, I am lonely, and it seems as though I am forever waiting. Sing the story, Norah.

All the Pieces

For the first weekend in I-don't-know-how-long, there is nothing on the agenda.

I shall work on learning some new music.

Music Box

Today's earworm: Frank Mills, Music Box Dancer. 

This is one of the very few 'pop' songs that I was allowed to learn as a youth (I was trained with classical music - Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin, Haydn, Hanon, Schubert, and such). It was one of my very favorite pieces. I hadn't thought of it in eons, until last weekend.

I hope you enjoy.

Servitude and Self

Herself speaks.

This is an absolutely magnificent piece of writing:
http://velamag.com/mother-writer-monster-maid/

It encapsulates so much of the quintessential struggle: the perpetual dance to balance family, work, self.

And in this era of competitive self-effacing motherhood (and by association, wifehood), it boldly proclaims the true need for more:

"I found myself, as I crammed my thighs into my shapewear, saying, “Oh, well, I love my husband, he is the perfect man for me and it was love at first sight, but I would never willingly enter into this state of servitude again.”

"I had not known that I felt that way until I said it. It frightened me that I said it. That night at the party, I kept thinking about it, and on the flight home, I kept thinking about it, and no matter how I looked at that phrase I couldn’t make it any less true."

Yes. That. We have an eternal, visceral love for husband and children; we would, without hesitation, make any and all sacrifices for them; and nevertheless, during the mundane, quotidian activities, we struggle with our personal goals and dreams. It is daily, tremendous, internal tug-of-war, in which we run the risk of disappearing from ourselves. 

There is the spectre of invisibility:

"My job when I am with my children is to have as few needs as possible so that I can meet theirs.... It is my job to be invisible to him.There are other ways too in which I am invisible. I often feel that the work I do around the house is the work of an invisible person."

We are the house elves of the world, tending to all of the little things, out of sight of those who benefit most from our silent unseen activities.

The author further mulls over the conflict between the need to care for others, and the need to pursue one's passions: 

"I will say this: it is probably easier to be an artist and an asshole. It is probably easier to get the time you need to work if you don’t care how it affects the people around you. It is easier to focus on achieving one thing than achieving two things."

It is contrary to our invisible tasks of love, to shine the spotlight on ourselves and what we want for ourselves. And yet, perhaps motherhood/family and pursuing one's creative passions are not, in the end, exclusive. We can try. The greatest challenge is keeping oneself whole, in the midst of it all. 

"There is no surer way to locate your self, if you have misplaced her for a moment, than to ask yourself what you want."

If you have the time, I recommend that you read the whole article. It is magnificent. In the meanwhile, I will be asking myself: "what do I want?"

Dory

Warning: spoilers for Finding Dory ahead. You have been warned!
Herself speaks.

I found Finding Dory to be nearly unbearable.

You surely know the overarching plot -- Dory, with her omnipresent (and enhanced-for-plot-purposes) Short Term Memory Loss, begins to remember her parents, and goes on an "epic adventure" to find them. And eventually, she does. Happy-ever-after all around, with her parents, and Nemo and Marlin, and other new-found friends, all returning to the sea and living together in harmony.

So why was it nearly unbearable?

The last straw for me was near the denouement: Dory once more finds herself alone, in a dark and grim part of the ocean, with naught but a murky, fishless kelp forest nearby. She calls and calls for someone to help her, and no one answers. And so she talks herself into helping herself, finding the safety of the kelp forest, looking at the sand and acknowledging how she likes sand because it is squishy, looking at the shells that remind her of her parents.

And the shells. Radiating paths of shells, more and more paths, so that she might see them from any direction -- paths built, in hope and love and pain, a radiating yearning for she who was lost, in the hopes she will be found again.

We could all guess at the moment: she follows the nearest path of shells, and finally is reunited with her parents, who have stayed in that one place, building the shell paths, for years and years, waiting for this moment.

I'm not sure which broke my heart more: Dory's calls for help, unanswered; or the painstakingly built shell paths, reflecting the agony of waiting, waiting, waiting, in hope and in fear, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Hopefully Offspring the Third and Cherished Friend, sitting on either side of me, were sufficiently engrossed in the film so as not to notice that single tear that escaped from each eye before I could go elsewhere in my mind and shut mental doors against the horror of unanswered calls for help and of terrible waiting. If they did notice, they were mercifully too polite to mention it.

I know these are some of the most virulent of my Dementors -- and knowledge is power, so I can arm myself accordingly. I have faith and strength. We shall see if I can prove myself to be as brave and resilient as Dory and her parents, when such times come.

I am glad they got their happy-ever-afters.

I cannot watch Finding Dory again.

Baby Dory found here: http://www.ew.com/article/2016/06/20/finding-dory-clip-baby-dory

Anticipation

Herself speaks.

My apologies, lovely readers -- I temporarily dropped off of the face of the earth. I had Weekend Plans.

Part of this weekend was finalizing Beloved Husband's accoutrements for a significant trip: did he have all the proper garments, medicaments, footwear, cash, and contingency plans? Had all Work been handled? Was he All Set? At last, all was ready, and I delivered him to the airport in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Safe travels, Beloved. May you have a lovely time, and return safely home.

The other part of the weekend was a visit from Cherished Friend. Aaah.

Knowing that he planned to arrive Friday, I spent Thursday evening attempting to remove as many dog-related allergens from the environment as possible -- mopping, vacuuming, steam cleaning the carpets downstairs, wiping down the sofas -- in order to ensure that he would be as comfortable as possible. The cleaning was helpful, because it kept my mind focused in the present instead of in the Land of Anticipation.

Anticipation is dangerous. I try not to look forward to things; for to anticipate the pleasure of an event, an activity, or a visit, is to tempt Fate. So many things can happen. So many things can go wrong, so many plans can change. I try not to think of those darker possibilities, either -- to anticipate sorrow or disappointment is to risk bringing to fruition a self-fulfilling prophecy of despair.

Knowing this, I tried not to look forward to Cherished Friend's visit. It was easier to do than usual: at the moment, he is almost a Mythic Creature -- an extraordinary unicorn, my Friend.  Since he is currently without internet, there are no Skype calls for the indeterminate future, and e-mails are kept to a minimum. Without seeing his face at all (other than in the photo I keep with other important photos in my study) and with only the rarest of occasional phone calls in which to hear his familiar voice (I am terrible at talking on the phone, and do not like to impose my terrible conversational skills upon him), our communication is primarily through text, an imperfect (yet better-than-silence) medium. Sometimes it seems as though he is nearly a figment of imagination -- that elusive unicorn, which I know I have seen before, and which I want very much to see again.

Yet to want, is to risk disappointment. And so I do not hope, nor do I anticipate: instead, I wait.

And miraculously, yet unsurprisingly (for he had said he would do so), he arrived -- apparated, as it were -- Friday evening.

He was the same as always. And everything was Just Right.

He seamlessly blended himself into the workings of the household: he interacted with Beloved Husband, Offspring the Second, and Offspring the Third, just as though it had been days, rather than months and months, since they were last together; he provided help and such pleasant company in the kitchen; he spoke kindly to Tiny Dog, who -- although she dislikes almost all human beings -- nearly turned herself inside-out with happiness and attacked his feet with joy at every opportunity.

We played Scrabble. We sat on the patio in the cool of the morning. And we talked, about this and that, about permutations and possibilities, about things and nothings.

I have missed listening to him talk. It was marvelous to do so again.

Perhaps I have learned to appreciate the time all the more, knowing that it is evanescent.

Now that he is on his way back to Points North from whence he came, I am at a loss. I cannot think about the next time he will be a temporary part of my household, for I do not know when that will be. I can reflect upon the happiness of the visit, but that reflection is bittersweet, for it simultaneously must acknowledge that this particular type of happiness, like the sighting of a unicorn, will always be brief. Alas.

Oh, to have a time turner, for just a little while.

Until I see you again -- may the Universe keep you safe and well, my Cherished Friend.

Illustration found here: 

http://moonlightreader.booklikes.com/post/1267424/illustrated-harry-potter-and-the-sorcerer-s-stone