It's the Little Things ...Like Broken Toes

In the last five years I have had vision problems that no one can find a reason for, but the specialists all agree are there, I have been diagnosed with a neurological disorder that requires drugs I would not test on a rock, there have been broken bones, hernias and many surgeries as well as a tumor and for good measure there have also been cuts, bruises scrapes and blisters; and as you know, my father died during this time. Most everyone I have encountered during these somewhat trying times has commented on how positive my attitude is and how well I cope with each new stumbling block with aplomb. I, in return have said many times, my problems are very small in a really big world (or words to that effect) and I meant every word.

Don and I are preparing for another running/vacation trip next week and I will admit to being nearly breathless with anticipation of our new adventure…or at least I was, until 6:46 a.m. yesterday morning; when I broke my toe. Go ahead, laugh if you must, I am near tears. Not because of the pain (which is surprising big for such a small digit) but because I know that one week is not enough time to be back on my feet, so to speak, and I can tell you from experience that I will be lucky to be walking normally in two weeks. I will also admit that I am feeling a little sorry for myself. That is alright in my view, everyone deserves to have a day here and there when they give in and boo-hoo for a few minutes, it’s good for us as long as we don’t give up and become depressed. But my word, I have so much to do to prepare for this trip! Things that should have been done by now and were put off as we enjoyed a really laid back Thanksgiving here in our home for a change. We did absolutely nothing but watch movies and TV during that long weekend. After all, we had all week to get ready for our trip. Ha, I’ll be lucky to get ordinary every day things done while I am hobbling along on a cane. Packing for a trip (at least for me) requires nearly as much walking as the trip itself. What a mess.

Yes, well…boo-hoo for me. I think it is time to call it a night (or morning according to the clock) and try to get my poor toe comfortable. It really is the little things in life that make a difference.

There is always hope.

Betty

My Bungled Life

There are times when it feels as if I have spent the entirety of my life in one long voiceless cry of “What about me? I need to matter too!” I do not at the moment have the mental faculties to evaluate what that says about me, nor do I have the expertise to analyze it. I believe if I were to seek professional counseling, the best anyone could offer me by way of explanation is that I am broken. Some integral part of my psyche has been shattered and the shards have never collated into a whole again. Taking near lethal doses of Neurontin does nothing to lesson those feelings. I am, in short, an emotional wreck at the moment.

I have what I consider to be quite a conundrum; the reclusive lifestyle I have cultivated, the way I discourage face to face relationships with everyone but Don is just the beginning of it all. I despise the telephone and unfortunately because of that I have lost more than a few friends. It never occurred to me before but I have to say I have always hated the telephone, even as a teenager. The only person I could have talked to for hours on end on the telephone was Don, and that never happened. Going further down the slippery slope, if I really must, I can hold my own in a room with more than three people but again, I must tell you it nearly drives me over the edge. (Remember, all of these are things that Neurontin has nothing to do with.) The bottom line is: anxiety attacks, embarrassment and fear have driven me to create my little corner of the world. I am reaching out and trying. The internet, specifically this Blog has had a huge impact on my self esteem and confidence. A couple of people have been nice enough to correspond with me and I have deliberately kept the correspondence to a minimum because even through this medium I cannot abide the thought of a clingy relationship, and those people have real lives of their own to live. I talked about the anxiety attacks frankly in my early posts here in May, when I met Lee Child. And those occur even if I am only going out for milk.

In an effort to open a door of communication with family members (where I can be in my safe zone) who frequent the internet I opened a new Blog using my name and I sent them all invitations to join my friends list. Only one of them has done that, and she has not e-mailed me or attempted to communicate. That brings me to the point of my conundrum, how in the world do I think I can matter if no one knows I am here? What right do I have to ask what about me?

I am trying to be out there in the open, exposed to the world. The thing is my problems have never included not caring about other people. As I have said here many times, I care deeply about people I have never met and everyone around me. It is a sad thing that in our world today people are more likely to believe I am disingenuous than they are to believe I care. I understand that the healthy thing for me to do is to get out and work on forming a few close relationships. However, I am a coward and unless I meet them here or when Don and I are out traveling or running/walking, I will forever hear that voice calling from deep inside, “I need to matter too.”

And so, it is time to say that I am thankful for the friends I have made here and I am thankful for this life I have been given, even though I have bungled it badly. As for you my friends, travel carefully over this holiday that we can all celebrate.

There is always hope.

Betty

Meditation A New Endeavor

I am researching and attempting to practice meditation. This evening was the first time I actually sat down and tried to open my mind and…well, perhaps I should practice breathing first. I have to tell you when I sat down to light the candle I was fine. It was after I had taken a few cleansing breathes that the image of Hermione (HP and The Prisoner of Azkaban) skipping down the path to Hagrid’s hut and laughing over her shoulder to Harry and Ron (in reference to Professor Trelawney’s class), “Open your inner eye!” came to mind . Needless to say, that did it. The next image that came to mind was one of a dumpy middle-aged housewife, fresh from the shower and wearing her most comfy three sizes to big pj’s, sitting as close to cross-legged as she can get on a pillow on the floor and…well, I am sure you get the picture. Ah well, there is always tomorrow. And I will, I promise, try again.



I really do not have anything profound or enlightening to say this evening. I just wanted to let you know about the meditation thing. I am serious about the subject; I think it might be helpful in managing the migraines. As always, time will tell.


There is always hope.


Betty

I Give Advice

Hope, it is part of the magical air of the season. Hopes can be small or they can be large; I hope this dress still fits or I hope my friends arrive safely. Hope is something I have always had, though it is a thing that was not tangible for me until after my father died. It happened one warm spring day a few months after his death, I was sitting outside on my swing, chain smoking and weeping like a woman who had lost everything. Don was away at a track meet and I do not believe I have ever felt more abandoned, lonely and alone than at that moment. I was wailing, I cannot say whether it was out and loud or if I was only screaming in my mind, “Daddy, I need you!” I only know that suddenly I felt the weight of his large calloused hand on my shoulder, a firm but gentle squeeze and then I heard him say, “I’m here, Punkin.”

Since that day I have lived every day knowing that no matter what, there is always hope. Sometimes we have to encourage it to grow and sometimes there is nothing left but a small grain of sand, but there is always something there from which it will grow. The glory of hope is that you don’t even have to look for it, if you are there, so is hope. I feel fortunate to say that throughout my life I have had lessons in hope; they could have been something as small as hoping I could paint my bedroom blue when I was a kid to something as big as hoping to hear the words, you won’t need chemo-therapy. It is something I cannot imagine living without.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Red Flannel Mittens

I am the type of person who needs to know what is round the next bend. I make sure to admire the scenery along the way, but I am always trying to catch a glimpse of what lay ahead. I cannot seem to help myself it has always been so. I feel cheated if I know nothing of something I could have been worrying about; preparing for all eventualities is my specialty. I believe it goes hand in hand with the annoying propensity to want to be nearly everyone’s mother. Intellectually I know adopting (metaphorically) people who are, in some cases older than I am, will never fill that emptiness that should have been filled by a child; but once again, I cannot seem to help myself. Most people are gracious and kind when I hit them with the news of their adoption, usually with a song or card attached to the announcement. I also believe it is a very big part of the reason I choose to lead a reclusive life. It feels like people can see the raw, gaping whole in my soul that is meant to be a mother; I feel exposed and vulnerable. Therefore, if I know what to expect, how exposed I will be, maybe I can be prepared and spare the world that awful view of nothingness that is me.

We all have our faults and my parents had plenty and some to spare and yet though Daddy leaving us often and for long stretches hurt, we survived and not one of us, as adults doubted his love. Mommy, during her dark and bleak hours of despair and need may have said she wished we had never been born, yet not one of us can pretend today that we do not know she said it because she could not stand to see us suffer and go without milk and bread or warm coats and shoes. Without those hardships, who can say where any of us would be today? I for one believe they made us stronger people. Some of those hardships are the brightest moments of my childhood.

My mother used to sew our clothes, in the good years when we were very young and there were not quite so many of us. One summer (I was about 4 years old) she made me a shorts outfit that I loved so much I can still picture it today. It was a cotton plaid of orange and yellow and green (I had a true infatuation with and admiration for plaid as a pre-schooler). The sleeveless top had ruffles all across the front and the shorts had pockets. Times were good then, and she sewed more because she liked to than because it was economical. She would sit down at her sewing machine and before you knew it, somebody had something pretty and new to wear.

Another sewing story that I recall happened a few years later. Mommy did not have a sewing machine at that point; I am not sure what became of it. It was the first magical snow of winter, deep and heavy, clinging to the trees and beautiful in the full sunlight the morning after the storm. We wanted desperately to go out and play in the snow but we had no gloves and Mommy would not let anyone out of the house without gloves. Rather than endure our tears and fits she somehow produced a length of heavy red flannel, a needle and heavy black thread and she set to making us each a pair of mittens. It was a great game to us as we each in turn knelt in front of the coffee table in the living room and placed our hands on the flannel to have them traced out for mittens made especially for us. In no time at all (and that is saying something for a bunch of house bound kids) we were tromping through the woods and shaking snow down onto each other. I imagine the sound of children’s laughter rang from one end of our hollow to the other that magical day as our red mittens flashed against the white backdrop and quickly became drenched. But Mommy did not know about the wet part.

There is always hope.

Betty

Music, Lights, Snow and Magic

I had originally planed to write this post a little nearer to Christmas but I just cannot wait to tell you about the things that make Christmas more than just another day for me.

Music, I have talked about it recently and I feel it is worth repeating that I believe Christmas music is the most heartfelt music ever written. If that music is performed by anyone with a true love for the subject, it is almost too beautiful for description. Two of my favorite Christmas albums are; Joy by Jewel, two standout songs are O Holy Night and Ave Maria, and Celine Dion's These Are Special Times, her duet with Andrea Bocelli singing The Prayer is quite simply beautiful. The truth is I have too many favorite Christmas albums to name them all and they range from the very commercial Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer soundtrack with Burl Ives to the deeply religious offerings of artists from around the world. In short, music is the cradle in which all the other symbolic imagery sleeps.

Lights; in just another week or two it will be nearly impossible to go anywhere and not see Christmas lights. Even the standard year in year out neon signs at the local diner manage to glow a little more brightly. As poor as we were, there were two things we never went without at Christmas, they were oranges and a Christmas tree. And while I can sincerely say the magic of Christmas would still be there in my heart even if I had neither of these things, I will admit that some small part of me would miss them. I have a vivid memory of laying on my mother's couch as a child and staring at the lights on the tree, completely mesmerized by the twinkling dancing lights that seemed to be emanating from somewhere in the mysterious depths of the pine branches. I would stare at those magical lights for hours on end, turning my head to different angles, and climbing onto the chair back, then lying on the floor, and squinting my eyes and staring at the reflection of the lights on the newly painted sub-flooring.

Snow; oh my, the first snow of winter, for as long as I can remember I spent every day after the first golden leaf fell in early autumn waiting for that magical mystical snow. Children do not see snow the way we do. They see fuzzy, fluffy flakes that are lighter than air; they stick out their tongues to taste the sweet icy goodness of mystery and the moment a flake touches their tongues they burst into delighted squeals of laughter. They see their very world change before their eyes as the snow begins to accumulate, where they once knew a flowerbed to be is now nothing but a vast white carpet. Children are I think, incapable of seeing snow as we do. They would never imagine that schools close for safety reasons or that their parents worry about the commute to work. And that, I think, is how the first snow continues to be magical.

Magic is in the air and the music and the snow and the light. It is in us, around us and for us. All we have to do is enjoy it.

Just in case you are curious, the reason I could not wait to tell you some of the reasons that this is my favorite time of year is that I got to do something today that I have wanted to do since I was knee-high to Rudolph. We put up our Christmas tree today (before Thanksgiving!), I can't believe it but we did.

There is always hope.

Betty

Nocturnal critters

There is, I believe, a chance that in a previous life I was some kind of nocturnal critter. For as long as I can remember, I have had a tendency to wake up about fifteen minuets after I go to bed. Even as a child I just could not get to sleep as early as the other kids did. I can tell you my poor mother tried to get me to sleep at a reasonable hour for years. I cannot remember how old I was when she finally gave up and said that as long as I got up for school she didn’t care how long I stayed up. That was a wise choice on her part because I really could not go to sleep. She understood what I was going through, being a nocturnal creature herself.

The fact that my mother stayed up all night drove my father crazy. He could not understand how anyone could be content staying up all night long. Regrettably, my husband doesn’t understand it either, and there is nothing I can say to help him understand. I don’t understand it myself and to tell you the truth I am so confused about the issue I have no idea where to begin because in typical Betty fashion, I also have tendency to want to get up at 5:00 in the morning if I manage to get to sleep at a reasonable hour. What a conundrum, there are no easy answers here.

The difference between my mother and I on this issue is that I do not have a house full of children that need me during the day and instead of watching TV all night long, I play with the computer or read. I do recall a few times when we did not have a television; she would read the bible or anything else she could get her hands on. There were times in the summer when we would sit outside, just she and I, listen to the night, and watch our little patch of sky waiting for a falling star to wish on. Those have always been the best hours spent with my mother, in the dark of the night, with the blue glow of the television or by the soft light of the stars.

I suppose I should call it a night so I can get up at a reasonable hour, even though I do not feel like going to bed yet. Maybe I’ll go right out.

There is always hope.

Betty

I Love To Walk In the Rain

At precisely this time of year, every year I become just a bit melancholy. I suppose it must be the jumble of memories combined with the barren expanse of the unknown we call tomorrow; maybe it is nothing more than allergies, whatever the cause I have come to expect this strangely sweet sadness. I have posted this quote here before but it is one of my favorites from Charles Kuralt and I think, worthy of repeating, “There is melancholy in the wind and sorrow in the grass”. If I were going to be buried, I would have that quote put on my headstone. Strangely, when this melancholy mood strikes, the best cure I have found is walking in the rain. It has been that way for as long as I can remember when I am troubled just the thought of walking in the rain helps to ease the stress.

I can recall the first time I (along with one of my brothers) made a conscious decision to take a walk in the rain. I do not remember exactly when it was but I suppose I must have been about seven or eight and he six or seven; it had to be some time in late October or early November because all the leaves had fallen but it was not cold enough to deter our enthusiasm for building our own wigwam with fallen sticks and old rags (if memory serves, we may have used a couple of things that were not rags). We were in kid heaven sitting in that colorful, cozy hideaway. We were happily making plans to sleep in our glorious new home when it started to rain. Shock of shocks, our wigwam started to leak! Well, what was there to do but what a real Indian would do inside his wigwam; we built a fire. (Oh, hush now; really just calm down and relax, I am here writing this, and my brother grew into a fine man.) It was only a wee fire and I am pretty sure my mother started screaming before the thought of building a fire actually translated into the act of striking a match. At this point I will only say that we were no longer cold or wet when she finished with us, in fact our behinds were smoking.

Feeling mad and sad, dejected and misunderstood as well as too sore to sit down, we decided to runaway. “But, Bobby,” said I (ever the voice of reason). “It’s raining and we will be in worse trouble if we get sick.”

“Oh no we won’t,” said Bobby (the bravest person I have ever known) “they won’t find us. If we head down the hollow and then back up the creek we can stay in that cave down by the rock, it’ll be okay.”

And off we went, down the hollow and up the creek and then down to the rock. We stopped just shy of the cave and though I cannot tell you what Bobby was thinking I would lay Jacks to Jill that I was thinking about bears and skunks, and the mountain lion Bobby had fought with his bare hands last summer. We stood there, the rain washing away the hurt and sadness, for a long time and then Bobby said, “Awe come on. She’ll be worried about us if we don’t get back by dark”. (Bobby is also one of the wisest men I have ever known.)

Walking back home I clearly remember thinking that I sure hoped it would rain the next time I got my bottom tanned.

There is always hope.

Betty

The Magic Of Music

I think this evening I will take a break from all of the woe is me stuff, because truly, I do not feel that way. I would like instead to invite you to share some of my Christmas/winter memories. There are so many that are for me, moments of light, love and warmth that it almost seems selfish to keep them to myself. Over the next few weeks I will attempt to convey to you what it was like having Christmas and snow and cold in what to some would have been desolate and dire circumstances but are instead for me memories of goodness and love. This is a magical time of year and even at nearly 49 years old that magic has not diminished in my eyes. I hope in the weeks ahead you will see and feel the magic of the season; it is there, just close your eyes and open your heart.

I have been called many things in my lifetime; beautiful was never one of them. For 10 ½ months out of the year I am as plain as the day is long and that suits me just fine; that other month and a half, mid November to January 1, I am, at least in my heart nearly too beautiful to behold. It isn’t really me that is beautiful, but the season. Or at least that is the way it has always felt to me. The air is clearer, smells are spicier and people are nicer and above all the music is more beautiful. Here is a wee secret you may not have guessed about me. I listen to Christmas music all year through because it is the most heartfelt music ever written or performed. That is, I am sure, a very big part of the magic of Christmas, the music.

And speaking of Christmas music, I just purchased two new Christmas albums that are performed by a new favorite artist, Ed Gerhard. Is the internet not the most amazing thing? I am quite positive I would never have heard of Ed Gerhard, much less be able to tell you anything about him prior to the internet. Do let me assure you (if you have never heard of him) you are in for a real treat. Oh, I do wish I knew how to put music clips to this page, no matter; I’ll just have to paint a picture you can hear.

Where to start? Shall we say I had an incontrovertible epiphany when it comes to the subject of acoustic guitar music? No? Sounds painful, doesn’t it? Well, it does sound a little high-nosed, but it was also a lot of fun to write. Perhaps the best testimonial to how beautiful I feel his music is would be to tell you that of all the Christmas music I have ever heard the song I have always liked the least was O Tannenbaum. For me it was always just a silly little piece of music that had no heart; that is until I heard it played on the Christmas album by Ed Gerhard. He pulls the notes from his guitar, each one piercingly sweet and vibrantly clear as they wash over your mind and fill your heart with love and admiration for…of all things, a Christmas tree. And wait until you hear his rendition of Carol of the Bells, the ease with which he performs that particularly complex piece of music is indeed a treat. Another favorite on that album is Variations on Pachelbel’s Canon, incase you are having a difficult time picking up on this; I am smitten with his music. I also purchased his other Christmas album; On A Cold Winter’s Night, it is even more beautiful than Christmas. Warning: DO NOT DRIVE AND LISTEN to this music, it is very relaxing. Thought you should know.

There is always hope.

Betty

Another Day, Another Bumpy Ride

Here I am again, in this place of emotional fuzz and physical depletion. Sorry about that, though I really cannot seem to help myself when I am in this state. This post may or may not make sense, it may convey my anxiety or it may read as though the author is on drugs (which, I most assuredly am) and in need of counseling (which, the rules of probability suggests I might) sooner rather than later. So my friends…to quote a shrunken head, “…it’s going to be a bumpy ride".

Some days are better than others, we have all experienced that. Some people can be happy anywhere, under any circumstance; they can turn their stress filled eyes to heaven and sincerely thank God for His light during this, their darkest of hours. I would like to believe I am one of those people, God knows I am not. Therefore, I must be one of the other people who keep trundling through life, shoulders braced and back bent as I make my way, comforted in the knowledge that my every accomplishment has been achieved from the safety of His shoulders. It is, I believe, a comfort I can not survive without.

Life is the journey, does it really matter what your religious beliefs are (or even if you have any) as long as you have that certain knowledge?

Perhaps that is why I so love to travel by train. Just thinking of being on a train makes me smile; I can feel the sway of the car and hear the chatter of the tracks, and feel the bumping and tugging of the cars as they try to beat each other to the destination. Come to think of it, trains remind me an awful lot of humans :-). We are so often in a hurry to reach our destination that we forget to take a moment and enjoy the scenery we are passing by. We instead try to peer round the next bend or over the plain beyond us straining to get a glimpse of the depot. Odd isn’t it, how once we have reached the depot the journey suddenly becomes a memory?

Once again I have taken a circuitous route. The entire post today is really about how I have not quite adjusted to the increased dosage of Neurontin and the way I am still fuzzy headed and weak because of it to the point of loosing some muscle control. I thought my cold had nearly run its course but now I am having trouble breathing again. In short, I just feel yucky and so I believe I am going to go back to bed. I say now, quite seriously, is life not glorious! I am so thankful for these very small discomforts.

There is always hope.

Betty

There Is Always Hope

It is a little hard to believe that today is November 3 and there are still leaves clinging to the trees. It is true that most of them have (at last) changed color, but they are still there, stubbornly refusing to let go even at the furious pull of the stiff November winds. It is such a beautiful thing, watching those few leaves that have given up the fight and let go, as they skip through the air proudly displaying the full glory of their brilliant colors of red and gold.

If my father were still alive we would spend a good few hours talking about the weather, speculating what the odd behavior could mean. I miss those talks. It was never really about whatever subject we were discussing; we could spend hours talking about nothing. It was about the moment, the time that we were sharing. I am so grateful to be able to wrap myself in the warm glow of those memories. With no real effort I can hear his laughter, see the twinkle in his eyes, and feel the warmth of his calloused hand on my shoulder. He has been gone 2 years and 10 months (on the 9th) now and I do not believe I will ever stop mourning him. Alcoholic or whatever label the world would place on him, he was the brightest and best part of me. If it was not for Don (and I prostrate myself in humble submission to God in thanks for him) I believe I could just crawl into some dark place and lay there to wait for death.

I apologize; I had not intended this to be a morbid post. I guess I am grieving a little more than usual today. Two true loves in my life, my father and my husband, they also happen to be the only people on this earth that I ever felt truly comfortable with. It is a challenge for me, not to be overly protective and paranoid when it comes to Don. He is all that remains of my world. I have a terrible fear of making the same mistake with Don that I made with my father. Daddy was sick for many years before he died and it is excruciatingly difficult to make this confession; I started mourning his loss long before he died. Fat lot of good that did, I missed valuable time with him because I so dreaded the thought of his death that it was easier to let him go (in my heart) and get it over with than it was to drag out the unbearable thought of his future demise. I pray I never do that with Don. Every moment counts, a lesson learned the hard way and one that taught me that there is always hope.

A dark subject indeed, for such a beautiful golden autumn afternoon, albeit one that I must have needed to broach. Ah, well, I feel better for it, at least there is that. Thank you for taking the time to share my grief. Before you go, please do not forget to take a moment and revel in the joy that is living.

There is always hope.

Betty