Blackberries

Chris and I have been talking about aging, being claustrophobic,  fearing  Parkinson’s like our Mom.  As we talked, we both cried, thinking about our Mom trapped in her body, trapped in her house.

Mom’s end was not pretty but she was always game.  She’d always show her game face.  What she endured in private we cannot know.  She never talked about it.  We never asked.

Is that the best way to go?

I guess no one wants to listen to unceasing bellyaching but can’t we at least acknowledge how hard it is to give up our autonomy?  Can’t we at least acknowledge that and then slip the mask back on?

I hope I gave my Mom some comfort but I will never know that.  I know what she gave me.   I visited her once at the end of summer.  She was in a wheelchair, and she had noticed that the blackberries were just busting out on the branches and she wanted to pick them.  We went down in the elevator and I pushed her out on the little road that went past their condo.  I pushed her as far into the bushes as I could without hurting her and we picked and ate and laughed.

When the colander was full, we retraced our steps into their apartment.  We made a blackberry cobbler and ate it warm with ice cream.

Life is dark but it is also funny and weird and wonderful.  Darkness throws the light into relief.   Or vice versa.

Here’s a few little blackberries to keep you company while we wait for the real ones to set and ripen.

Makes your mouth water doesn’t it?

For the sake of love

I believe that competent and compassionate therapy can help most people.  Not all.  Not every time, but, during times of crisis, having someone to talk to without rules or social strictures, openly with an open mind and heart can lead to healing.

What are times of crisis?  Loss, trauma, a new self awakening, an old self rearing it’s head, abuse and on and on.

Therapy isn’t just for self indulgence.  It is one of a number of paths to turning a period of turmoil and pain into a new life.

This is not easy.  This path needs to be chosen with care as our resistance to change is commensurate with our desire to change.

Behaviors that once were our coping mechanisms no longer work, or have become the source of the crisis.  So walk softly.  Be gentle and patient.  Calm the fuck down.

Our minds aren’t just machines you can jerk around.  You shouldn’t even jerk around machines as I tell Robin periodically.

Try to love yourself.  If you can’t love your life right now, love yourself a little.  Try a little maitri.  Maitri is loving-kindness.

I was raised in a family where the message was “just do it.”  My message is if you have to do it, do it with love.  Do it with kindness.

Cut yourself some slack.  You have no idea what’s coming down the pike.

Peace oh best beloved.

 

The Velvet Fog

My sister Chris gave me a velvet outfit some years ago.  I think they are called lounging pajamas.  Whenever I am feeling cold and uncomfortable I cuddle up in these puppies.

My daughters think this outfit is hilarious and call me the velvet fog.  I suppose because I come in on little cat feet when I wear them.

Mel Torme was called the velvet fog and he certainly didn’t come in on cat feet.  Here he is:

I don’t think I look like him but perhaps they are referring to my dulcet tones.

But I feel like the velvet glamourpuss in them so I don’t care.  I should be drinking champagne and smoking an impossibly long cigarette.

Maybe they (that is my children) were thinking of this image:

That’s Mel singing to a slinky lady on a motorcycle.

Children are such downers.

Whatever—-when I am in my lounging pajamas I feel fabulous.

A Bloody Shame

Okay.  This was my weekend.  Walking around, my footsteps sounding something like the zombie apocalypse—slid, limp, repeat, slide, limp repeat.  Lots of feelings of “poor me” followed by “poor me” and then “shut up Kitty—some people don’t have legs,” followed by “you ungrateful shit”  followed by sitting down and eating a muffin.

And repeat, then repeat.  Okay, so I am one of those folks who think that I am entitled to long life and easy going.  Or at least that’s my knee jerk response.  No, that’s my jerk response.

Pain is not fun.  Getting over surgery is not fun.  But at least I got to have surgery unlike a lot of these poor bastards who will get shitall because of Trumpcare.

My son-in-law thinks its all the fault of baby boomers.  Well, we certainly have a lot of rich white guys in office holding on for dear life.  But I think the problem is a bit more complicated.  Like the old song:

“It’s the same the whole world over

Ain’t it just a bloody shame

It’s the rich that get the pleasure

And the poor that get the blame.”

On a lighter note, maybe slid, limp, repeat could be a new dance step.

Scrooge MacTrump

How much is enough?