One

Herself speaks.

It's been one year since Cherished Friend left for Oceanside. 

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In the days preceding the day that he left (and that day itself), I did not give any thought to when I would see him in person again. It was still the beginning of the Pandemic -- everything was uncertain, and to try to envision the future in the face of an unknown Plague was unimaginable. His moving to outside the radius of an afternoon's drive was hard enough, without thinking about the additional Pandemic obstacles. The heart can only take so much. 

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The things I miss the most, are doing relatively ordinary activities with Cherished Friend: hiking up the mountain or through the Caverns; visiting a sporting goods store or a used bookstore; running routine errands such as to the grocery store; playing Scrabble, watching movies. I also miss how he would encourage Beloved Husband to escape the office and plan excursions such as for camping. I miss his insightful and thoughtful conversation about all topics, large and small, over a meal or on the patio in back. And not least of all, I miss the moments spent in companionable silence. All these minutiae of friendship, formed by tiny building blocks of time spent together.

I think with fondness about how -- despite being allergic to dogs -- he would let New Old Dog sit on his lap, and how he would try to encourage New Old Dog to eat. I remember the soothing nature of his presence when I am annoyed or distraught about something, and his ability to quietly help without making me feel inept or stupid for needing assistance. Lucky am I, to have such a friend. 

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He continues to be a good friend, despite the distance: he keeps the lines of communication open, and we email and text and occasionally internet-video-chat. It's always good to see his face and to hear what he has to say. I just would prefer to do it in person. 

I worry sometimes that I am too... persistent? Demanding? Vocal? of a friend. How much contact is too much? How much is not enough? I try to take his lead as much as possible, because I know that his need for solitude is greater than my desire for communication. I worry a lot about being needy. This past year has been difficult in so many ways, and eliciting support without being exhausting has been tricky. He's been very patient, and I'm grateful. 

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Every now and then, I think about what it may be like when he settles more into Oceanside, makes local friends, gets busier with his new life there. I know a time may come when I hear from him less. It will be a loss for me, I know. At the same time, how happy I will be to know that he has put down roots and found contentment in Oceanside. He deserves that. And more.

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Late-stage Pandemic Life has regained a semblance of normalcy, though it's hard not to worry that the 'new normal' might be tenuous. Vaccines (thanks, science!) help tremendously, though there is still worry about variants and breakthrough infection and such. I'm not quite ready to travel yet, though it looks like it might be safe, and possible, in the near future. 

I would like very much to enjoy again, a few ordinary moments spent with Cherished Friend. 

Soon.

Photo Copyright 2020, 2021, Mediocria Firma.

All rights reserved. Used with gratitude.

U2

Today's earworm: Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own (U2). 

My favorite part:

Can you hear me when I sing? You're the reason I sing.

I hope you enjoy.

Freedom

Mr. Mustache has been given the all-clear to resume his regular activities now that he has recovered from his neuter. He has been quite grumpy about having his hopping-about curtailed, and is delighted to be able to antagonize Tiny Dog from the other side of the safety barrier once more. 

Keep Walking

It took just a hair over one year to reach this distance of steps. Thanks, FitBit!

T Shirt Accuracy

This appeared in my Facebook ads. Leaving aside the issue of anaconda ownership -- look, Facebook, you finally got an ad right!

Translation

 I'm up to six hundred sixty-something days in a row on Duolingo, attempting to learn a bit of Spanish. It's slow going, but I'm trying. 

One portion of the Duolingo program has little stories to read and answer questions about. A recent story had two of the recurring characters protesting the presence of a statue on their school campus. One of the characters attached herself to the statue in protest.

And that was the moment when I learned that the word for "handcuffs" is the same as the word for "wives". 

Oh, dear. 

Nearly Invisible Scars

 Herself speaks.

Last week, I made my biannual pilgrimage to the dermatologist's office for a routine skin survey. (This twice-yearly review was recommended since I have had basal cell carcinoma twice before -- want to catch any new things early.)  Everything looked mostly good, except for that One Suspicious Spot that was biopsied. It's likely another basal cell carcinoma, which means MOHS surgery number three will be on the horizon. I'm trying to be matter-of-fact about it. We'll see whether I succeed.

The nurse practitioner asked whether I'd like her to look over my scalp while she was surveying matters. Yes, please -- the desert sun is never kind to the top of one's head. There was nothing remarkable, except for her slightly surprised comment: "you have a straight scar right here."

Yes, I do. I'd forgotten. 

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Approximately fifty years ago, my parents, brother and I (and also possibly my sister, though I do not remember whether she was there - she might have been an infant at the time) went to a garage sale in the neighborhood. We, along with other neighbors, were poking around in someone's garage, when an old license plate that had been hung from the ceiling came loose, and fell and struck me on the top of my head. Bonk.

My brother mentioned later that he had seen the plate was about to fall, and moved out of the way. Apparently, I moved right into the way. That was some very unfortunate timing on my part. 

I remember my father carrying me home, as I sat on one of his arms while his other hand pressed his handkerchief to the top of my head. There was a fair amount of blood, as I recall. I also vaguely remember a doctor examining it -- they'd probably taken me to the emergency room. I remember thinking that it was kind of interesting, not particularly painful, and not at all scary for me. (It must have been rather horrifying for my parents, in retrospect.)  I must have gotten stitches. I don't recall anything else.

And now, half a century later, two thousand miles away, that ancient scar was briefly spotted. Imagine.

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I have accumulated quite a few scars over the past half century since then. Most of them are surgical, because the body has failed to cooperate in assorted ways over the years. Many are faded. Some are noteworthy only when sticky tape noting their locations must be applied prior to mammograms. And some are quite nearly completely hidden by the pale spiderweb tracts of pregnancy stretchmarks. (Are those marks also considered scars? Perhaps.) Most are protected from view by my clothes, or in the case of the license plate mark, my hair. I prefer it that way. I don't think many of us like our scars to show, either literally or metaphorically.

We don't always see people's scars, unless we look closely. What might seem like a noteworthy scar may in fact be a memento of a long-ago-forgotten moment. What may seem like a tiny mark, may hold a much bigger mental space. And then there are scars to the soul, invisible but clearly present, that we see with the heart rather than the eyes. 

Acknowledging a person's scars is both affirming and consoling. I see that the world has left its mark on you. And I see that you have persevered. Well done, you.

I see your scars, and I recognize the strength behind them. 

Photo Copyright 2020, 2021, Mediocria Firma.

All rights reserved. Used with gratitude.