Father Rock

I used to walk in Gazzam Lake Park with Rosie. There was rarely anyone there, just me and Rose Goldston. I would let her off the leash and she would bound forward ecstatically always coming back around to make sure I was following and then veering off again. She was so joyful. We would do the whole rondelay*, three miles or so.

I went in yesterday by myself, looking for respite from my caregiving responsibilities. I went to Father Rock, an enormous bit of metamorphic, granitic, whatever stone, 15 feet high and as wide sitting in a clearing surrounded by pine trees deposited by I glacier I think. I called it Father Rock after my Dad during a tumultuous time in my life when my daughter was dying, and I was coming undone.

So here I am again. I leaned back into it’s sheer face and just took a little time. The thought popped into my head, I have a rock inside me. I am a rock. I don’t need a daddy. I am my own father.

Nature is a wonderful teacher, isn’t it? Rock hangs around forever, seedlings grow and become tall trees, ferns are ancient, 300 million years old. Patience I say, like the Beatles, all things will pass, be here, where you are, ground yourself on this beautiful old earth.

Find joy in the real and let go of “how long will Rob be disabled, when will things get better, where should I move if I need to for Rob, worry, worry worry. Not to say I don’t need to do a little thinking and planning. I can’t live like the grasshopper forever, but when I have an opportunity to rest, take it, don’t waste it. Play the fiddle and look around. People have survived worse.

I felt better gradually. I thought, own your rock, honey. Own your rock.

I was distracted as a dog raced by on the trail, followed by a hysterical owner screaming “Come to Mama, Joey”, over and over again.

Own your rock I thought and smiled. Absurd.

*rondelay—a simple song repeated over and over.

If you’ve forgotten how to kick back here’s a good example(see above).

I am the goat

I was given this goat by my friends who had returned from a trip to Italy. The goat is delightful. Made from bits of wood and beeswax this small totem captures goat energy to perfection.

What is goat energy? Full of beans, manic at times, strong but not bulky, industrious and stubborn. A real hill climber to be sure.

They didn’t know this, (or maybe they knew subliminally but who follows horoscopes any more), but I am a Capricorn.

It’s interesting that the goat is considered a negative symbol in the Bible. At the end times, the sheep will be on God’s right hand and the goat on the left. This is because the sheep is a follower (the shepherd with his flock), and the goat likes to follow his own path.

Talking about following your own path, I just went off on a tangent (don’t you love tangents) while I attempted to parse, sheep. You can’t say sheeps, but if you want sheep to be plural, then you have to say sheep are not sheep is,. Are you talking in the collective (the flock) or the individual? And, is it a flock of goats, a cotererie of goateries or whatever? I love this—it’s a herd, tribe or trip. I like trip best. Anywhoo…

The goat can be seen as a bit demonic, a bit lustful. I think the Christians didn’t like them because of their weird eyes. Come on Christians, be a little more..ah, ah, christian.

In other cultures, the goat is considered as dogged, intrepid, industrious, independent, an all around good animal. Of course the, female goats are kept around for breeding and nurturing the young. Females of all species are reduced to this.

I think female goats carry the load and keep on moving no matter what is going on. Mother Courage was a goat.

Anyway, I love my goat and aspire to her qualities. I do have a demonic side although the older I get the more the demons pale.

Should a woman who folds her sheets and pillow slips carefully be allowed to say fuck. Seems like an odd fit doesn’t it? Seems like someone who swears like a sailor shouldn’t be over persnickety about the lay of her linens.

And yet, here we are. I am a closet hausfrau, balabusta, tidy little wifey type. I remember visiting a friend in Connecticut and when I went to retrieve a tablecloth from her linen cabinet, she was revealed to be a crammer. I couldn’t believe it. She ran a whole department. She was really smart, dressed well, polished her shoes, did her makeup carefully and yet there was a dark side. There was chaos lurking underneath.

Unlike a beautifully made cake, we are not the same all the way through. Humans are more like a lasagna—layered, complex, and if well made, tasty as hell. Interesting even. I have known many people who aspire to consistency , homogeneity and I think they are a bit flat. Lost their bubbles.

So here’s to inconsistency. Here’s to me folding my pillow cases carefully, all edges meeting and smoothed and gleefully shouting out FUCK.

I thought you might enjoy this libidinous looking woman washing her tidy whiteys. She knows the joy of laundry.

Keep Calm

A while ago—one, two years (they’re all starting to feel alike), I switched my pharmacy from Safeway to Walgreen’s. I could just call my prescription in, they’d let me know when to pick it up, I’d drive down and get it through the window. Perfect. No sweat, no pain. I could sit on my fat arse with the car running stinking up the air, warming the planet. What could be bad?

Then, Walgreen’s started to give Covid tests through the window (self administered), vaccines inside the store, and pick ups for prescriptions were more easily picked up inside. The lines for the tests were outrageous with cars, engines running going around the building. Everyone wanted the test so they could travel again.

They had a helluva time recruiting staff. They were hemorrhaging staff at an alarming rate. Because I had to go inside and therefore could see behind the counter, I soon learned why service was a mess. Blue plastic boxes of drugs were stacked up outside of their working space. The space where the pharmacists and others worked was cramped, made worse by more boxes pilled four high in the aisles with finished prescriptions awaiting pick up. When a customer goes in (this happens every time), the clerk has to sift through all of the boxes to find the prescription. I don’t know how they’re organized: date, alphabetically, or family of origin, but it’s a friggin’ mess. If they can’t find the prescription, there are cupboards, and closets to dig through.

These folks behind the counter are amazing. I think my head would blow off but they have no choice. If they stay, they must endure the chaos, the short staffing, and crabby customers.

Why am I writing this? To share my frustration and to calm myself down. Everybody has a story, everybody is frustrated with the way things are right now. It’s Covid guys. It’s Covid. It’s not the President, it’s not Walgreen’s, it’s not a Jewish plot or the end times.

It’s a time of great upheaval. On a personal, collective and global level. It’s scary. We are used to things running smoothly. It’s easy to stay pleasant when there are no bumps in the road.

Quit muttering under your breath, get off your fucking high horse and deal with life as it’s given. Remember, you could be in Belarus. Or at Walgreen’s pharmacy.

Read our Histories in our Layers

I apologize for my last blog. It was too raw for general consumption. Situations like Rob’s and mine are best fictionalized. The contents need to be put at arm’s length. It’s too personal, too much.

Having said that, I believe some people prefer the personal. I do. I learn something. I observe and I learn. What have I learned?

It is not the back scrubbing, the dressing and the dressings, the intimate care that bothers me. It’s my head. The old resentments, the fear of the future, the bone tiredness. The frustration of the neverendingness of it.

I did this with Kate too. Kate used to yell at whoever—“I didn’t do this on purpose. I was mentally ill.” We might all yell—“We didn’t do this on purpose. We are human. ” So it is with all of us. We are mentally complex creatures, capable of the most remarkable higher level thinking and then reverting back to our baby selves clutching a reason which is not reason just jumbled up bits and pieces of feelings.

We have made a great brouhaha about choosing our destinies, It’s the old Ayn Rand deal. As if we are all heroes. But that’s only a fiction. Granted, there are choices to be made. But our bedrock is imprinted early and indelibly. Later accretions can bend us in one way or another, can muffle the sharpness, or accentuate the tendency. It all depends. Like rocks, we are all different in different ways.

What am I saying here? I am saying sorry—that was too raw. And I guess I’m saying this is how I learn. This is how I cope. If this is helpful to you or illuminating, that’s great. If not, turn the page.