What is down the road?

As I was reading a review of Shelby Steele’s book on Obama I recognized that notion of Obama going along that long road to find himself; that resonated with me, it is an answer to that oldest question ‘where am I going?’; it gives answer to the existentialist anxiety over meaninglessness, lack of direction, emptiness. Where I am headed is to find myself; for some reason that I don’t understand I am not complete, my definition is unfinished, my questions unanswered:but what really is the problem here?

There is the theory that we are separated from our essential being; I take that to mean that being before words and ideas, we were the animal that ate, shat and fucked; and still are that animal. There are some quite wise people who have said that we miss being that part of who we are, that part that was put aside when we learned to talk, to think, to know that we are mortal; those people go on to say that the power of the story of Christ is that he unites, redeems, salves that estrangement; and somehow that is what is behind the allegorical power of the story of Jesus. I have to keep reminding myself that the power of any great story, such as the bible, is the allegorical truth; literal understanding of the bible is food that cannot satisfy, it is as if eating only sugar. There is something most powerful behind that story, a reason that it has been referred to for all of this time, used in all manner of way, but used. Just as I disclaim any connection with Pfizer or the medical business when I talk of my experience with Lyrica; I am not affiliated with any church, creed, cult–I think of myself as a guy who is looking around, listening for what resontes.

That is a big question, it is something that requires a person, any person, all people to look inside for an answer; providing that a person finds the question resonates within, if there is no ringing, don’t bother reading any more. It is the resonating sound that makes me listen, wishing for more.

All of this on the morning after the Bon Jovi concert at the United Center, where there must have been close to a thousand limousines and exotic vehicles waiting outside the hall, to take the, strangely homogeneous, audience back home.

Sparrows are not so active this morning, with the temperature above freezing, the snow gone, the pressure to exist is lessened; there is a scattered few in the bushes, exposed to the morning sun, resting and warming.

What’s new

The desire to write, to put words down for others to see, this act of arrogance; is that someone might want to spend time and effort in reading some more ordinary words of mine. There is no new story, there hasn’t been a new story, a different observation, a new thing for a long, long time; there are only the old themes and passions re bottled and new labels applied.

And yet I sit here with a fresh pot of coffee, I am putting down words, never a new word, never a new emotion, there hasn’t been a new story for thousands of years; and yet I sit here with a fresh pot of coffee and the need to write.

Leo Tolstoy never came up with anything that hadn’t been said previously; he wrote of family matters, love affairs, politics and war. And we love it that he did.

I am hung up on this idea of the new, a blind belief that newness is the same as life; but it isn’t, life is just life, it is being now, and making sure that there will be life after me.

The brown sparrows are at the feeder, they may be the same as were there yesterday, will be there again tomorrow, and the occasional cardinal. I don’t fill the feeder in hopes that an eagle or an ostrich will come to feed, I put seed there so that there will continue to be life outside my window.

I have written a few posts about how to cook, no detailed recipes, just how something is to be made into food the best way that I know. A good meal isn’t about new recipes, different ingredients, it is about enjoying what you are eating, what is in your mouth, the satisfaction of food well prepared, and food is the fuel for this body. Tomorrow we will all be hungry again, somebody will have to cook again. I might write a few more items all about how to make food again.

The sparrows eat, they warm themselves when there is a break in the clouds, they take advantage of eating a bit of snow for the water.

I ought to visit Bert in the home today, it has been over a week since I was there; it is not that I have signed a contract, am not receiving money, haven’t made a promise to his relatives, nor that he remembers me; visiting Bert is like putting out seed, cooking dinner, doing the laundry, taking a shower; none of it means anything in the long run, but it is necessary for today’s run.

My earlier mistake was to be buying into this notion that new is important, that there really might be something new, that the tiny novelties displayed for amusement are important; bullshit—there is being, and there is nothing, being is the important one.

That’s it for today, and tomorrow, just as it was yesterday.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

I finally bought a hat

The temperature is low this morning, -4°F, winds are expected to gust up to about 30 m.p.h. The sun is bright, the sky is a clear blue, the bulky sparrows wait their turn at the feeder.

We like this “wind chill” business, it lets us feel that we endure Siberian and Shackleton brands of cold as we sit inside centrally heated houses, watching the meteorologist detail just how badly we have it. This is sort of like buying a shirt with your favorite player’s number on it. Our wind chill right now is -24°F.

I have been outside when the thermometer reads -40°F, I was north of Cochrane, Ontario in late February. Cochrane is as far north as one can go by road in Ontario, from there I went by train north, towards James Bay, about half way up the line was a place called Coral Rapids, I don’t think that it exists anymore. That kind of cold is different, needs no wind to imprint its seriousness, it was just fucking deadly cold .

After I arrived in Coral Rapids I was told by several people that if I was out walking and began to feel sleepy, that I should knock on the first door I saw, house or office, tell the person who came to the door that I was feeling sleepy, they would take care of me. The sign of hypothermia is sleepiness, the body shutting down to preserve energy; lay down in that fat snowdrift, have a bit of a nap, it doesn’t feel so bad now, just a nice sleep, that long, long sleep.

So much for morbidity: The low sun angle makes a great picture of bronze birds, branches and feeder, shining surfaces and deep shadows contrast. I am being reminded that I sit in a sunporch that is open to the outside, underneath this thin floor. The bright sun in my eyes, the cold soles of my slippers makes for an interesting morning, but a short lived one, this will get old after a while.

I was going to write another post about how to face whatever fearful thing is available, overcome it, accept it, move on kind of piece; but maybe I have done enough of them. The idea I was trying to get across has been said for several thousand years, my recent ruminations are enough for now.

I have been playing at arranging in some sort of system how I experience and understand revelation and the spiritual life; without success. This is the most slippery chore I have ever come across, it explains why there are so few theologians who have anything important to say. I knew a woman who was working on her PhD. in theology at the U of C, the average time for someone with a M. A. to get a doctorate there, was 5 years, that is a long time to figure out the addition she could make to our knowledge of the divine. I think that she ended up doing some kind of women-in-religion kind of thing, not quite the divine; but I do remember knowing a few woman who took me to heaven and to hell.

The coffee is just right this morning, I shut my eyes and face the sun after a swallow of strong, fresh brew; I feel the effects on my body, the caffeine doing that wonderful thing it does, the heat in my belly.

I did buy a hat yesterday, went into a Western wear store in my neighborhood; there were hundreds of hats, most of them too cowboy for me, but then I found the area of felt hats from fedora to rodeo styles. Of all the hats there were only two that were my size, both the same style, one black, one mink (brown). I have a big head. (Many have said that, but used different phrases to express their estimate.) Now I own a Resistol, 4/xxxx beaver, “self-conforming“; and I love it. I have just put it on as I sit here, tilted so that the sun is blocked, the edge of the brim is at the top of my vision, it feels good, and I expect it to feel even better as the years shape it to my cranium.

I feel sad because I am coming to an end of the kind of writing that I have been doing, don’t know what I will write tomorrow; what I was saying has become redundant. I could write on food and cooking, but there are a million writers of that; what there aren’t many of is people explaining what is going on when one prepares food. I found myself that if I know the why behind anything then I do it better, am freed from the mindlessness of recipes, perhaps there are some who would read that kind of thing.

I continue to feel good about my visit with Bert yesterday, the purity of his welcome & thanks, the freedom to say to him “my old friend”; between us there is no history, no agenda, no reserve nor embarrassment. It is an experience unlike any other, I am fortunate each time, with each person that this connection occurs.

My left hand, wrist and forearm are wrapped in Ace bandage this morning, sprained from a fall on the ice; this will be the end of typing today.

It’ll force me to focus on thinking what I might put down here tomorrow.

Eat an orange for breakfast

The person who promoted the idea of eating an orange for breakfast got it just right; a couple of days ago I tried cantaloupe, good but not quite the same; an apple is a great thing to eat, but more of a mid-day edible; grapes are definitely for late afternoon before a nap; a banana is good in the morning, with cereal, a banana requires something, it makes a great partner, when I was a kid peanut-butter and banana sandwiches were my all time favorite. An orange offers that necessary jolt of sugar, a ton of flavor, and the juice satisfies a mouth that is parched in this mid-winter absence of humidity; an orange has all the elements for life in the morning.

This morning I ate a good orange while waiting for the kettle to boil, it was a big fruit, the size of a small grapefruit, could have made two snacks if I hadn’t forgotten to light fire under the kettle. One can eat a lot of almost anything while waiting for the kettle to boil on a cold burner. I did, finally, light the fire under the kettle, after that things went along pretty much as one would expect; and I got the opportunity to eat a large orange, a really good orange.

That first paragraph went on for longer than usual because I don’t have in mind what I want to say this morning; ordinarily I lay in bed, letting my mind sort and choose an idea, one that is ready to come out of incubation. Not this morning, the brain ain’t running quite right, popping and farting, not getting out of first gear; so here’ are the elements I have so far, and I’ll see if writing them down will help me make sense:

-I read a review of the recent book out on G. W. B., it resonated in me as it described how George had to make himself what he is in order to stand against his dad. Obviously that isn’t exactly what the reviewer or the book says, that is what I remember sitting here the day after, this is what the review meant to me. What George figured out he had to do to survive and become a man.

-At 2 a. m. I woke, I had fallen asleep after dinner, now I was in that part of the day that has nothing at all going for it, the doldrums, the television was on, an infomercial was pushing something or other that would make my fantasy life a reality, another channel promised similar exaltation with their product, finally I found an old, very old movie, one made just after the development of the talkie; so I fired up the computer, if nothing else I could play a couple of games of solitaire, in hope of stupefy myself. Naturally I first looked to see who had been reading my stuff, what searches had resulted in readers coming here. I saw a post by a woman who is troubled, someone who is fixed on the idea of killing herself, going through those familiar old arguments about why suicide is the only action open. I wanted to respond, know that nothing I can say will change her situation, yet I can’t turn away without something; I did write a few lines about how I had found my way out of that hole. Then I went back bed.

-None of my family talks to me since I broke with my father, and then he died without my being there. I didn’t know that he was about to die, don’t know what I would have done if I had been told earlier; as it was I received a cold call after he was dead, and just prior to the funeral, so there was no way I could have gone there either.

These three items are on my plate this morning, I see the connection, I just don’t see how to make something more from them; but the guys-in-the-backroom of my mind know, they sent out these three items with instructions to make a good thing from them, something that I will be happy to share with all of you.

Maybe it has to do with the two posts I wrote recently, the ones having to do with admitting that I felt down-in-the-dumps, the ones that received more first-day responses than anything previous. It is as if I had offered permission for others to feel bad occasionally. All of that would have been forbidden in the house was raised; my mother would suffer migraine after migraine with her attempts to contain herself, the marriage was a model of control and restraint; I won’t comment on the effects on my siblings because they are still alive.

Those of you who have read the “Lydia” thing know how close I came to shutting it down forever, about ten minutes from throwing the switch. It is neat to be able to point with accuracy to the point where the logos turned upward after its long trip down. It is the place where I had the revelation that was to lead me to the religious and theological stuff that is so relevant now and the future.

That’s about it; I could have wrote that I have nuthin’, but that isn’t the case here, I have everything–maybe that’s it, I have everything now, so make something of it.

If this all appears solipcistic I apologize, or maybe I don’t. After all it is my choice to push the “Publish” button at the bottom of the screen, and it is my choice to have my name at the top. Maybe what I am trying to say is that we all have opportunity to make what we would be; Bush had his, I had mine, you have yours.

—————————————————

There isn’t much going on outside the window right now, on a whim the flock of brown commas disappeared to the east, they’ll be back. They have been feeding heavily after the storm, I can’t remember so much being eaten in one day. I was enjoying watching one sparrow who would sit on a branch beside the feeder, he would chase away any bird that came his way, he wasn’t feeding,he was resenting; there are a number of ports from which to get access to the food, he couldn’t chase off all of the birds, and he was certainly not the biggest one out there–he just had to chase others away. Perhaps he is a neo-conservative?

As I am about to edit this piece I put Elgar’s Enigma Variations on the stereo, enigma is how I started writing this thing, and how I end it.

So we’re having a bit of weather here

That first cup of coffee tasted especially good because of something I’ve just done; as I was filling the kettle I looked out the window and saw that the damned feeder was empty, a fact that I’d ignored when I went to work yesterday afternoon. It’s not a big deal, it isn’t that cold, I have time before coffee and breakfast, do I really believe that I am saving my flock from starvation? As I recognized each of those notions I was reaching for my jeans and an old pair of shoes to put on. We are in the midst of a winter storm, there is about 4 inches of snow on the porch and steps leading out back; I sweep the steps so that I don’t fall and break something, they’ll have to be cleaned at some time, might as well do it on the first trip; the snow drifts are mid-calf deep; I was without gloves because bare fingers are needed to remove the feeder from the shackle, and that infernal split-ring on the cotter-pin, those damned split-rings are a wonderful invention that is cursed by everyone who uses them, they never fail, there is no better alternative, and they are always a bugger to use. I opened the feeder, filled it to the top with seed, hung it back on the bracket, inserted the now wet cotter-pin, hoping that it wouldn’t slip and fall into the snow where it would sink deep, the split-ring is held between my lips because both hands are trying to hang the now full feeder, insert the pin, hold the tree branch down to a level where I can do all of this, and I do it, and I come back inside, and I take off my outer pants & shoes.

This coffee tastes very good, I made it strong this morning, the mug is warming my creaky cold fingers. No, I am not preserving the existence of the common sparrow, but it wouldn’t have been such a good cup of coffee if I was staring at an empty feeder.

The highway from the Loop to O’Hare is the JFK Expressway, it is about 17 miles downtown to the airport, last night it took 2-1/4 hours to do that 17 fuckin’ miles. I was to pick up one of our better known control-freaks, drive him to his home.

———–

There is a bright red cardinal out there! The first bird at the feeder this morning, he stands out like a spurt of blood on the snow, the always moving cardinal-red. Now he has flown away.

———-

I have known this passenger for 4 years, I can’t remember an easy trip in all that time; he needs to tell me what roads would be better tonight, how I should deal with the congestion, his plan for the fastest trip. But it ain’t that complicated. It’s down the Kennedy, exit to the east, a couple of miles farther and we’re there, this is not the Normandy invasion that we’re talkin’ about here–but it is tense because he needs to exercise control……… I get him home in about an hour, it would have taken 60 minutes the other way, his way took an hour. There is a winter storm; traffic is slow, slow for each one of us, slow for every one of us.

Sam’s daughter can’t accept that her father is dying, that he isn’t the same person that he was, that parts of him have gone before the rest of his body shuts down, part of who Sam was is no longer, that’s the way it goes; he can’t walk, he can’t remember, he can’t swallow liquids he is diapered.

She wants the medications changed, she questions the diagnoses of his doctors, has complaints about the nursing care; she wants to make her father what he was, or what he was in her memory; but her father is changing, her father is becoming something other than what he was; and here is an opportunity to share an epoch, this final chapter, to be there as he discovers what it is that death is about. There is no more natural act than dying, no more common, no more predictable, it defines who we are, it is necessary. Control is not appropriate here.

Enjoy may not be the proper word to describe that final act, but it isn’t the wrong one either. Beautiful isn’t often used here either, but there is a beauty and elegance in the way things are completed. Whatever the right words might be for this experience that Sam is having, it would be a better one if his daughter was going through it with him, not trying to control it, flail at what is in an attempt to postpone, to defy, to make it something that it is not; try-out the various words that describe the experience, find your own, share the experience, consider that what this is about is a gift, it is the final loving gesture, when one person can look straight at another, with no pretense, expectations, history, just being in that moment. Share it with your father, know unqualified love.

I overheard a couple of visitors sharing their expectations of cures, of the time when their husbands wouldn’t have whatever it is they have, they are living in the future fantasy; get whatever medical help you can for him, but no one avoids dying, don’t continue down the road of avoidance, it is a blind canyon that is a miserable route every step.

—————————

Flashing red has been gone for 20 minutes now, the fluttering brown commas are attacking the seed bin; on a whim they all fly into the bushes, on another whim they fly back, the flock is flying, fighting, living.

————————–

Our storm is expected to go on until early evening, with wind that makes and shapes drifts, I have told the dispatcher that I want to book-off today, he said he’ll see what he can do. I neglected to buy oranges yesterday, some fresh squeezed juice would taste pretty good right now; to get the newspaper I have to dress again, trudge through the drifts, trudge back; I could have gone and picked up the paper when I filled the feeder, but I forgot, when I go for the paper I might as well walk the couple of blocks to the store. And that’s the way it is this morning.

—-The cardinal has returned, one cardinal at a time is just right.

It is 0° and breezy

I recently remembered that I know how to make ° £ € ¿ on this keyboard, the upside down question mark is one that I’d like to find occasion to use, but this may be the only occasion.

Our focus was on the possibility that it would get to 50°, which it did, and to ignore the next paragraph of the prediction; it decreased 50° from late afternoon to about midnight yesterday, and dropped about an inch of fresh snow. So what’s the big deal, it is the last week in January in Chicago? (I was looking for an appropriate character to end that sentence, maybe I should have used ð) I hadn’t put away my heavy Irish sweater, the big leather coat sits where it did, there is nothing of concern other than I liked the warmer weather, didn’t want winter to return. But it is here.

Yesterday I wrote a first explanation of something that has been bugging me for longer than I knew, has been at the back of my mind from the start; that first attempt is awful, I want to erase it, never bring up the subject again. And I didn’t want winter to return.

I won’t erase the question I wrote, I would not write it that way again, have felt my error for the day since I did, it was as if I had constipation, when getting anything at all out is a start. I have an idea now how to go on with my exploration, and where to do it: WordPress has a Pages area that I have used before for things that are not daily, I have some things over there, no one ever reads that stuff, I’ll be safe experimenting over there.

When I wrote that Google had only 3 hits from my query I knew I was in empty territory; all along I have been saying that inner exploration gives access to a complete library, it is true. Is there a better thing for a person to do than explore a really difficult problem, not give in to the trite that is offered? This continues to be a difficult notion to get across, people drift to magic, where pre-destination, outside spirits, the ability to see the future dwell, but that wishful thinking never brings up anything nutritious, it is cud chewing at best.

So that is what I will do about that, the special thing that makes us us is going to be examined over there.

There is sun in a clear blue sky, chimney steam is pushed to the east in the breeze that is predicted to gust to 30 mph; the sparrows are not as numerous as before, they come and go in waves, but they always come back for food. I haven’t seen my big bird in about a week, someone suggested that it might be a buzzard, they are common in the suburbs; I do remember that I saw the wingtip feathers spread in finger formation when it flew away, I think that buzzards are one of the birds who show spread finger wingtips at low speed. I’ll have to focus on the neck if it returns; but it has always been backlit, seen in contrast, never a clear, lighted sight.

I went to see Bert in the home yesterday, was surprised to see that it had been 2 weeks since my last visit, sometimes this is a tough thing to do. When I started visiting him in the autumn he was noisy, had idée fixe that was frustrating to be around; recently he is calm, has snippets of conversation that require little or no memory, his speech is clear and vocabulary seems alright. I gently probe the floor nurse about his condition, am given ‘oh, he’s doing fine, doing fine’ in the same studied way; perhaps there has been a problem with the confidentiality thing, I don’t push it beyond the gentle inquiry.

I really don’t care what his medical condition is: I am just there for that time, Bert is only in this time, what he accomplished or didn’t is irrelevant now, what is coming next week or month is irrelevant now, what is relevant is the big smile I get when I say ‘how are you doing old friend?’ That is all that any one human can do for another human being ‘how are you doing old friend?’

Bert can’t remember my first name, has never been told my last name, can’t remember if I had ever visited him, he does recall my face from somewhere; I have printed out the Auden poem The More Loving One and keep it pinned to the wall above my desk; there is a sentence that alway resonates:

If equal affection cannot be, Let the more loving one be me.

I can’t say that my friendship with Bert is stronger than his for me, it really doesn’t matter which is which now.

———————————————————————————-

The feeder has about 2 inches of seed in it, about enough for today; I want that bottom seed to be eaten, don’t want it to get wet and moldy.

Write about what?

It took a few minutes more to get out of bed this morning, not that there was anything bad or difficult waiting for me, not that it was colder than the previous days, because it certainly isn’t that; it was the absence of anything at all that caused me to lay longer. The temperature will give a nod to 30 today, there is rumor of it passing the freezing mark in a day or two as it moves up to melt the snow and the accumulated ice. The grays are all from that uninteresting section of the color chart, the browns are the same, dove, chestnut, Palmer’s aren’t words that would be used to describe colors this morning, fucking boring, would be more like it.

I could feel the need to write, threads of notions floated by, none worthy of getting out of bed and waking this machine though; and then a few fibers came together, wove something of boredom and getting out of bed and just about everything else anyone can imagine.

I made a decision earlier this week to not continue participating in a bereavement program for kids and parent(s), it just didn’t work for me, left me feeling not right about the whole thing; so I’ll continue with the hospice stuff, perhaps ask for an additional patient, or not. It had been a difficult decision to make, left me feeling like shit for a couple of days, but it was the right one for me.

There was a woman, call her Betty, Ophelia, Shirley, it doesn’t matter what her name was: She had been diagnosed as having failure to thrive, which I had heard about in newborns, and was about to learn about in elders, my weekly lessons. Betty would lay there, she’d groan about what a great marriage and husband she’d had, 70 years of marriage, great experiences of trips & cruises, business success, and now it was all over. A DNR order was taped to the refrigerator, a glowering document, in full view so that the EMS people would see it; Ophelia didn’t have cancer, her heart condition was under control, but she was losing weight and 2 doctors had signed the official document for hospice, she was expected to die within 6 months, that’s the rule for getting hospice care.

I’d listen to her play the record over and over, husband, marriage, trips taken; after each iteration I’d try to ask so what’s new? It seemed to me like a stupid question, but I had no idea what else to say, was wondering what the hell I was doing there?

There would be times when she would go through that process of accepting her life, her situation, come to terms and find peace in acceptance; now this was worth experiencing, that natural process that is wonderful to participate in, that made sense to me.

That was the way of things with Shirley for a while, nothing much going on, or was there something? She wasn’t just laying in bed and whining so much, there was some interest in the weather, occasional bitching about the housekeeper her son had engaged, that kind of thing. I had begun a new medication that had the side-effect of making me drowsy in periods through the day, one of these came on me when I was at her house, I said that I was going to go in the other room and lay on the couch for a few minutes if that was alright with her; she agreed, and then, as I was walking out of her bedroom, added you’d better watch out, you might not be on that couch alone. I turned around and looked at Betty, this 89 year old woman had a bit of a smile on her face, she was flirting with me; this was not someone who was circling the drain, ready to check out, this was someone living. In the weeks afterwards she would be up, her hair would be combed, a touch of lipstick, she’d ask if I liked her new blouse, sitting at her kitchen table. The day that I asked if she’d like to go through the mail was one when you could see her face glow; before that her son would take care of the mail when he came over. Ophelia had a bit of a chuckle about the lifetime warranty being offered by someone for something, make fun of some of the other ads and offers, look at the bills to make sure that none were in arrears.

She had been in mourning, and now was not; her mourning had been so deep that it threatened her life, but she had worked through it.

She is off the hospice service now. I had quit visiting her even before that, we had nothing whatsoever in common, her bookshelf bored me, we searched and found almost nothing at all to talk about; I moved on, she moved on, and that’s the way it is.

I don’t get up to see bright colors, to do battle with the deep cold, be excited by headlines, those real reasons; brown sparrows are at the feeder this morning, eating the same grain as they did yesterday and will tomorrow, bustling and chattering, eating and shitting, just as they will tomorrow.

Thriving is what we do, everything else is an accessory.

The air temperature is -4 F

This is the third blog I have written, the previous two disappeared into the void of etherspace, never to be read by any mortal; I don’t know what was going on with WordPress but each time I pressed ‘Save and Continue Editing’ a strange message asking me if I was sure that I wanted to Edit came on, and what I had written then disappeared.

Let me make another attempt:

The wind chill is -24 F, the snow was noisy underfoot when I went out to get this morning’s newspaper.  I have a big green, plush overcoat that I wear at work about three days a year, this will be one of them; it makes me look like my mother’s old sofa standing on end, but it is warm, and that is all that counts in weather like this.

I did go out and fill the feeder a few minutes ago, I could have done it yesterday afternoon but didn’t; all the time I was doing it I thought of the connecting pin that holds the feeder to the shackle, thinking that if it dropped into the snow I was going to have an unpleasant time, I couldn’t get my mind off the damned pin, placed it on a stair post, then imagined myself brushing it off as I stood and turned, then I set it on the step, the snowy step, then I put it in my pocket where I could dig with gloved hand to fumble it out.

All ended well, I kept one cup of coffee for my return, the sparrows are busy refueling, I tested the website to see if it would now accept my scribbling, it does.

I wrote recently about having my computer in a sunporch, I could write again about that experience; there is nothing but outside air under my floor, the electric heater keeps the top six feet of space warm, but the lowest three are really, really cold.  This message is about to end, I am about to go in where I should have put the machine in the first place.

And that is an old geezer’s morning so far.

Writing under my own name

At work yesterday Paul asked me about writing this thing using my own name; wasn’t I afraid that some psychopath would track me down and murder me? Nope.

I purposely put my name on this weblog, couldn’t come up with a reason not to say who I am as I write what I am about this morning. Isn’t the reason for publishing to say ‘here I am, and here is what I am about’?

I want you to know me.

A few people will read this, occasionally someone will respond, the point being that a person is saying hello to the world, as is.

I don’t need protection or facade, this is me.

This attitude of being out there comes from a history of repressing, be nice, you shouldn’t say things like that, nice boys don’t do that, you can’t be what you want; what Hegel would call the force of non-being. For me that force was strong enough to cause major depression, now it is merely something to be observed, commented upon, a tool that let me shape who I am, who I have become.

This notion comes back to acceptance, accepting that I am acceptable as is. I am surprised at the reactions I have had to that statement, that not one single writer has responded with an unqualified ‘yes’. I know that it had taken me a long time and work to get to the point of accepting as I am, others also find it difficult.

The sparrows are busy at the feeder this morning, the temperature is a few degrees below zero, but the sun is shining in a clear blue sky. The bird that frightened them away yesterday may have been a kestrel, that is as close as I can come in my attempt to identify it. My knowledge of kestrels was that I knew how to spell the name, knew that Rolls-Royce had used the name in their birds of prey series of aero-engines for fighter aircraft; beyond that I knew, know, nothing. But it sure got my attention while I was waiting to hear the pathologist’s report.