Family

I am a curious creature, in most senses of the word.  A bit odd and always on the verge of asking a question.  This may explain why I enjoy Lewis Carroll as much as I do, but I digress.

I am also a very fortunate creature.  I know this, have known this, for pretty much my whole life.  The reasons have changed, but the feeling is consistent. I know I have an exceptional group of friends who I consider my family.  We are smart, fun, silly, caring, witty, charming, wonderful people who take care of each other.  When told by a therapist that perhaps I set the bar too high for people, my response was that perhaps hers was too low.  And in truth, the attributes I weigh most heavily are kindness and thoughtfulness (here meaning actually thinking about what you say and do).  I don’t feel this is unreasonable.

Those who feel they don’t fit in with “convention” usually talk about finding their place, a group of like-minded people.  While I know my circle doesn’t agree on everything, the basics of respect and caring are there.  And what we don’t agree on are more debate points than fundamentals.  As with any group there are sides we share more with one person than another, but I believe we all know that we are loved no matter what.  At least, that is how I feel.  And our differences make it all the more fun when we get together, because we have things to talk about and stories to share.

My curiosity takes me to some interesting places, and this weekend I joined a new group of folks, most my age or a good bit older.  They talked about the family you choose, and finding acceptance in this community where they didn’t elsewhere. As I listened I was once again reminded that I was blessed.  I come from a place where my friends mean the world to me, and the common thread among us is that we enjoy each other.  I never had to search for that place where I belonged, it found me.  And it isn’t contingent on an activity or belief, it is because I am me. 

If the world was the way I imagine it could be in my own mind everyone would get to feel this way.

Reminder

Someone sent me this the other day, and it reminded me of the things I know, but sometimes lose sight of.  I thought I'd put this out into the universe to remind the other ladies out there.

10 Facts Every Woman Should know:

1. Everyone has rolls when they bend over.
2. When someone tell you that you are beautiful, believe them.  They aren't lying.
3. Sometimes we all wake up with breath that could kill a goat.
4. For every woman unhappy with her stretch marks there is another woman who wishes she had them.
5. You should definitely have more confidence.  And if you saw yourself the way others see you, you would.
6. Don't look for a man to save you, be able to save yourself (be a self-rescuing princess!)
7. It's okay not toe love every part of your body...but you should.
8. We all have that one friend who seems to have it all together.  That woman with the seemingly perfect life.  Well, you might be that woman to someone else.
9. You should be a priority, not an option, a last resort or a backup plan.
10. You're a woman.  That alone makes you pretty damn remarkable.

The Little Dead Girl

I am an avid reader, like a squirrel I have books scattered everywhere just in case I find myself waiting and want to read.  In the car, in my bag, by the bed, in the living room, at work...oh and the e-books!  Always something to read when I want it!

That said, I am a sucker for pulp horror and ghost stories.  One of my favorites is Ron Ripley (check out his "Moving In" and "Berkeley Street" series.  So good).  But there is a problem with these kinds of series, you get to really know the characters, even the dead ones.  You find yourself worrying about them the longer the series goes.

So now I am reading the current book slower and slower, because I fear for a little dead girl.  She is not nice in most respects, in fact she's a little insane and rather sadistic.  But she is a good friend to the main character, fiercely loyal, and I worry this is the story that we say goodbye to her.  And that would make me very sad.

On the upside, it says great things for the author's storytelling!

Broken Things

There are days I feel like a collector of broken Things.  I can be a bit of a broken Thing myself, but I think of it more as having a few dents that may slow me down.  They will buff out in time.  I know they are there, I’ve encountered them before and I know they are part of living-and don’t need to be permanent.

No, these broken Things that find their way to me never seem broken at first.  They seem strong and ready to play.  But if you listen to them, then you discover the springs that have come loose, hear the rattle in their clockwork, and you see that they are struggling.  Some admit they are broken, some don’t.  Some are in the process of putting their pieces right, others don’t think there is anything wrong with them, that moving at half speed, missing a wheel is just how they were made.

It is easy to care about broken Things, to eagerly watch them rebuild and quietly provide space in your own workshop so they can borrow your tools.  You hope that someday they will be shiny again, and go on to be whole and enjoy that.

But it can be frustrating as well.  Some Things insist they are repairing themselves, but in reality they are waiting to be repaired, expecting the universe to take care of them while putting in little or no effort.  They will go on about plans and dreams, but when the moments come to realize even the smallest of these, they put it off.  They speak of desire to create, to become more than they are, then sit in front of the television, complaining once again how they wish things were different.

Those are the Things I want to thump with a hammer to jostle the parts back in place.

But I have been unintentionally collecting broken Things for a long time now.  I have learned that either I don’t have a big enough hammer, or these broken Things simply like being broken as it makes them feel tragic.  Knowing they will not respect my workshop, they aren’t invited in.  They can sit in the parlor and have tea before they go back to wishing.  I want wonderful things for them, but I also want them to expend some energy in finding them.  That I cannot do for them, and won’t try.

I like the Things that have mended, like me.  We aren’t perfect, but we are interesting.  And we know our parts very, very well.

Excuse me while I climb up here…

Welcome aboard my Train of Thought and bear with me a moment while I get to my main point, which is really about fear but has stops at safety and guns and choices.

My father always carried a pocket knife. He opened mail with it.  He opened Christmas presents very delicately with it.  I even remember him cutting up apples with it in a pinch.  It is not a big knife, just a regular Winchester pocket knife.  I carry it now.  I open mail with it and the occasional package.  And I always think of him. 

Recently I put myself in a position where I was not particularly comfortable and knew I would feel better if I had something sharp and pointy that I didn’t have to unfold.  I have swords, but that would be a bit of over-kill, don’t you think?  So now I have a nice little survival knife that I can also use when I camp. It can even be used as a fire started.  I am a practical creature.

But even as I went on this little adventure I was breaking one of my cardinal rules:  I will not have things near me I am afraid of.  No I was not afraid of the knife, that is silly.  I was afraid of the person I was meeting.  Why did I go?  Because I knew my fear was completely irrational and I needed to face it.  I also needed a security blanket, of the sharp and pointy variety apparently.  And yes, I was correct.  There was no Boogyman.

But my thoughts strayed back to this today.  I wanted a simple edge, not a gun.  And I will never want a gun.  I am not afraid of them, and I am not anti-gun.  If you want to own them be my guest.  I do feel that automatic weapons should only be used for warfare, but that is my opinion.  I absolutely love the idea of defending my ranch from interlopers with an over under shotgun.  But a shotgun is the only one I have ever wanted to handle, and in my world it belongs on a Montana range (with me, a horse and a vicious dog.  You have your retirement plan, I have mine).

That said, I have never lived in a place where I felt I needed to defend my safety from other people. My feeling is that I won’t live there.  If I have the money to afford a gun and feed it bullets (and pay the attending price for using it) then I can afford to not live there.  I realize this is not the situation for everyone.  Of course, I also don’t feel property is worth defending.  Nor is pride.

So we go back to not having things near me that make me afraid.  This would include a neighborhood. 

So if you like guns, good for you.  If you hunt, then I completely support your right to own a few.  Though not an arsenal mind you, no one really needs that many unless they are collector or specific function pieces-my opinion- and that goes for any weapon.  Because if someone has 100 of the same model sword wouldn’t we ask some questions?  And don’t tell me automatic weapons are for hunting.  Those are for killing, and I am not okay with that.  Eat what you kill, fine.  Just kill, then you are a sick SOB and I don’t care what you killed or how you did it.

So with all these thoughts I realized that for me personally, I’m not okay living in a house with a hand gun unless there is a security, military or law enforcement professional also living there.  Hand guns are for killing people.  That is their only use.  They are not purchased for hunting.  They are purchased to hurt someone, or because you are afraid.  People say they want to carry a gun “in case they need to defend themselves”.  Wow, how do you walk through life in anticipation of possibly running into a situation that would call for a shoot out?  That is a LOT of anxiety.  Or you have watched too many action movies.

So somewhere in my mind these sorts of weapons became a symbol of fear, not strength. And I will not have those things near me that reek of fear.  And to be honest, for me and the way I live, if I find myself in a situation where I am that cornered…I’d rather rely on me than a prop.

I shall now get off my soap box.  Thank you for riding the train J

On the Bright Side

So just to balance things out the universe decided to send me a few reminders to get out of my own head and smile.  I got a surprise visit from one of my favorite coworkers (he's based in an office in another state).  And when I got back from a meeting there was a yummy cookie waiting for me at my desk (he realized I wasn't going to make it down the hall and didn't want me to miss out).  How sweet is that?

There were actually a lot of nice things that happened today to put things in better perspective, but that was definitely the most random :)

Grief

Grief is such a subtle thing. Everyone deals with loss in their own way, in their own time.  It seems in my case, grief is like a slow mist rolling in off the ocean.  It comes in slowly, clings to the sand, then burns off with the morning sun.  But it keeps coming back, each time bringing some forgotten memory, some new thought, with it. 

My dad passed away over 4 years ago.  At the time there were so many other things happening I didn't have time to cry.  There was too much that needed to be done right then, someone who needed me to take charge because...well, there wasn't anyone else.  I spent the day he died bouncing between floors in the hospital because Mom was sick too.  I just tried not to cry in the elevator because I was so overwhelmed.  And me crying wouldn't solve anything.  These past years I've kept saying he passed peacefully, he didn't suffer and I got to say goodbye.  Really, it is everything I could wish for, for someone I love.

Maybe because everything happened so quickly, maybe because for so long there were other people and other things that needed to be taken care of...I just shoved everything into a corner and kept saying how it could have been so much worse, how we were lucky...maybe that is why little things filter to the surface and break my heart now.

Tonight I remembered that 4 hour long drive from Albuquerque to Durango, after flying for 6 hours, only to get to the hospital not knowing at that point that I was going to be saying goodbye.  My aunt was coming out as I was walking up.  We sat outside on a bench, on a beautiful May day, and she told me he wasn't going to be okay, how organs were failing and he chose not to have surgery.  It was unreal.  She was so full of sorrow, this was her big brother.  And I just felt cold and numb, and small and confused.  But I took a deep breath and headed into the healthcare maze to find my dad, thinking I shouldn't cry because he wouldn't want that.  If this was goodbye I didn't want to be rendered speechless by tears and I didn't want him to feel worse.  Just loved

I wasn't ready to find my mother in a wheel chair.  Before I could get to Dad I had to figure out what happened to Mom.  She'd been so focused on him that pneumonia snuck up on her, not that she was ready to admit it yet.  Dad's cardiologist filled me in on what happened.  I can't describe how hard it was to tell her I hadn't seen him in 2 years.  We talked all the time, but money was tight and so was vacation time.  I'd gotten married the year before and I was so wrapped up in my life...2000 miles is a long way away.  My husband only met my father once. All these thoughts and excuses ran through my mind as this doctor gave me this look of surprise.  I felt about 2" tall.

Dad was in good spirits.  We talked until I knew I couldn't keep the tears back anymore.  I told him I loved him and I'd see him in the morning.  We stayed at my aunt and uncle's that night, me now terrified I was going to lose my mother as well, because she was in bad shape but not giving in.  The next morning Dad was unresponsive, so we talked to hospice (such wonderful people) and the wait began.  And my mother was admitted to the ER.  And I got a lot of elevator rides.  The elevator was where I could be alone and panic.  I told the ER doc what I knew of Mom's history, then the doc put me in an empty room and a nurse brought me some juice. 

I ran between floors all day.  I would sit with Dad for a while, which was just odd.  He didn't know we were there, but I didn't want to leave him.  My aunt and uncle were with him.  They eventually brought mom up to the same floor.  My mom and I spent so much time trying to get her back to see my dad.  The doctor had to see her, the nurse needed some other okay...it took forever.  My father passed away when we were half way down the hallway to his room.  My aunt was out making a call.  He wasn't alone, my uncle was there, but we missed it.  By moments.  I tried so hard, but I couldn't get my mother to his bedside before he passed away.  We crossed the threshold and I knew...I hoped so hard that Mom didn't realize, that she would think she made it in time...it was such a small thing, it should have been so easy, but I failed.  That hallway is so long in my memory.

What followed were a lot of very nice people, making arrangement and getting mom back on her feet.  There was so much to do.  My husband offered to come out, but I said no.  Something I think I will always regret.  I needed help and I didn't know how to ask.  All I could think of was what needed to be done, and I don't know why I didn't realize I didn't have to go through it alone.

And here I am, 4 years later, finally crying over that day.  Why?  Because something this evening reminded me of that look on my aunt's face that day and my mind just started traveling down that memory.  It's like something frozen thawed, and now I just want to go back in time and be allowed to be a little girl who lost her dad.  But that is not how life works.  So now I have a heart full of "should haves" and tears that are years over due. 

But the sun will come up, the mist will burn off, and little by little I will think of the happy things more than the sad.