THEME

Most all of the blogs that I read have a theme. Or a continuous thread of sorts. I became very bogged down in the contemplation of just where I wanted to go with this blog. In fact, I have been so bogged that I became completely unproductive. Absent. No posts. UGH!

And still I have made no determination about theme or thread. I have a ton of interests. Mostly passing interests. Some hang around longer than others but I seem to be a phase/fad person. AND, this is okay, I suppose, if I can accept this about myself. I am consistent in inconsistency.

The constants in my life are my relationship, my dog, my church, my job. And not necessarily in that order. At all. Sometimes one is more demanding or high priority than another. My frustration arises when any one is in conflict. Maybe that is what is happening now. Too much upheaval in all of these is making me crazy.

Relationship just lost job, dog just had eye implant surgery, church is floundering, job is testy. Any one of these happening is enough to put me off but all of them together is taking a toll. I have become short tempered, forgetful, irrational, sensitive, to name a very few of my current tendencies.

Maybe a review of what is going on will help to establish possible ways forward. I'll talk about the dog first: Gabriel is a six and a half year old, eight and a half pound Shih Tzu. He lost the sight in one eye due to a "trauma" or horrendous glaucoma pressure. Now either one of these things might have been an obvious occurrence as I look back over time. But I would have thought that I might have been aware of that change. OR taken more seriously symptoms when I did check in with the vet. There is niggling guilt. Hindsight is guilt ridden. BUT, the good news is that he is home from the Eye Clinic today and doing just fine. He is on such a mixed schedule of meds that I had to draw up a chart in order to administer them at the proper times. Gabriel is among the good things in my life.

The loss of a job is trauma. Emotional trauma. Spouse has been happily driving a school bus for five years -- enjoys the kids, enjoys the driving, enjoys the hours, enjoys the money. Make that enjoyED. The three accident rule holds whether the accident(s) your fault or not. So, no job. This is a personal loss for him. A judgement on his character. And he has even told me that grieving is necessary. But he wondered if he knew how to do that. I hope he does. For his own sake. And he has many talents and many opportunities so it will work out. In the meantime, however, our, make that MY, routine is completely destroyed. And I do not deal with change very well. Hence the change in my behavior.

The Episcopal Church (TEC) is undergoing major problems right now. And my particular little parish is not fairing very well either -- not for the same reasons -- but both are troublesome. I can put the TEC stuff in perspective and hope that reason will prevail. The parish, however, is in serious trouble. It was financial, still is for that matter. But more, it is a "people" problem. Lack of participation, lack of interest, lack of caring, lack of being involved, lack of serving -- L A C K!! I struggle with trying not to do too much. I struggle with people being so consuming of what is offered and not doing any offering. I struggle with the people who refuse to accept change. I struggle with people who think the church is ALWAYS going to be there for them. I want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them and tell them that they had better wake up or there isn't going to be a church there for them at all in another year or so if they continue in this same mode. So, I do what I can. And worry. And pray.

At work we are being bombarded with personality conflicts. When systems are in place, and working for the good of all, someone comes along and decides that "their" way is better. In fact it could very well BE better, but if it throws the system off kilter, is isn't better in the long run. And, of course, there is the one who can't accept change; and the one who cannot accept direction. Life is too short for all of these prima donna histrionics. I want to just go in (I work part time) do my job and go home. I don't need the undercurrent of who has been slighted, who has been hurt, 'who has been ignored, who thinks they know better, who bla bla bla. Life is just too short for all this idiocy. I like the job. It is close to home. It is enjoyable work. I like the hours. I like the pay. And I like most of the people -- individually. So I go in, do my job, try to ignore the garbage and leave it on the threshold when go home.

So this explains my long absence from this blog. It does not, however, establish a theme. Unless, of course, it is the day to day of these pieces of my life. And maybe that is okay.

On a brighter note, we stopped in at an art store this week. I was looking for the right weight paper upon which to print my church business cards. While there I passed a color pencil sale. Soft color pencils. I have many color pencils but not this 'soft' variety. I bought six. Lavender hues. I am playing with how they go onto paper in density as I get involved is curving shapes. Maybe pictures down the road.

THE COLD

We moved to Chicago from New Castle, Indiana when I was eleven and a half years old. I add in the "half" because at that age it makes a difference. My sister was just past seven. You might think that we would have suffered culture shock, but we accepted the newness as part of life.

Our interim home was a hotel on the corner of North and State streets, right across from the beginning of Lincoln Park. It was March when we came into the city so we got to see spring and summer unfold in Lincoln Park that year. It was 1949 and I remember most of it scene by scene. The Lincoln statue, the Lincoln Park Lagoon, and my favorite -- Bushman -- at the Lincoln Park Zoo. We went to school, we walked the beaches. In the fall, just before Thanksgiving, we moved north to the Western and Foster area, went to school, found a church, made mistakes, got confirmed, all the normal stuff.

Accepting. That is the word that comes to me when I think of how we managed in this big city atmosphere that was probably VERY different from small town New Castle. I went to college, got married, moved east. EAST is different. It took twenty five years to adjust and even now I think of myself as a New Castle/Chicago girl.

And how often during these years did I have a cold. "Have" a cold. "Get" a cold. Pretty much the same in Indiana as in Connecticut. But in Chicago, you get THE cold. I don't know how that differs from the common cold except that you are the one who has it. "I have 'the' cold." It was as if there was ONE cold going around and it was being shared by everyone. Whoever had "a" cold, had "the" cold. But the information stopped there. Nothing about how to treat "the" cold. It was just "the" cold.

Well, folks, now I have "the" cold. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch. Itchy eyes. Runny nose. Post nasal RUN. Tickle cough. Reflex gag. Heavy chest. Can't sleep. THE cold....

CORNBREAD

The bone and leavings from the Thanksgiving spiral cut ham were going to be thrown out as we did the cleanup. NO! says I. I'll take it. And so I brought it home and put it in the vegetable drawer of the frig and almost forgot about it. Soup for Wednesday night church supper reminded me.

Bean soup and cornbread are part of my childhood. When I go to Indiana, my sister always makes it for me. When it comes to making the cornbread we peruse all of her cook books and recipes on the Internet looking for the one that comes most closely to that childhood taste memory. Mom's best friend, Mildy, made it by look and feel. Handfuls of flour, bigger handfuls of corneal, salt, baking powder, an egg milk. It was the best cornbread ever, made in a cast iron skillet, not sweet, not too raised, but not flat either. It is my standard for corn bread.

At the grocery yesterday there were little corn muffin loaves. Looked good. Bought them and took them to church with the bean soup. YUK! Too much sugar. Tasted like a cupcake. Had the texture of a cupcake. I was appalled. Ruined my already not great soup.

There was soup left over which I brought home. Got out my smallest cast iron skillet, took from the frig the bag of Aunt Jemima self-rising white cornmeal mix, which I had purchased shortly after Thanksgiving, and read the recipe. The cast iron skillet just fit into the toaster/convection oven and so I put the oil in it and set it at 425. Mixed milk and egg into the mix -- NO SUGAR. When the skillet and the oil were really hot, I swirled the oil all around to coat the bottom and the sides and then poured it into the batter. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle. Then back into the oven for 17 minutes.

When I took the skillet out, it was corn bread. Slightly rounded and golden on top and pulled away from the sides. Turned it out on a cooling rack to cool without getting bottom soggy. Perfect! It is the cornbread of my childhood. Perfectly even, dense-ish, texture, NOT sweet, golden on top, perfectly golden on the bottom. I have found the recipe! Now if I could just learn to make the bean soup of my childhood the way my sister does ......

THE GIFT OF FAMILY

It's a big one this year, you know. Seventy. And it's Thanksgiving so we can make the time.

And so they did. My Connecticut son, my Pennsylvania son and his wife, their three sons and one daughter. My sons in their forties. Children ranging from nine to nineteen. And me, turning seventy. And my spouse not yet seventy.

We all spent a joyful Thanksgiving dinner with all the step children acquainting and Reacquainting themselves to one another, and all the cousins and step cousins running amok and generally enjoying the day. It was the treat of a lifetime -- all of us together -- laughing, remembering past events, telling of new happenings, learning who did what and when. What a gift!

Back at "Mom's" house we tended to congregate around the dining room table; the generations gathered to read, compute, play board games, crosswords, Sudoku, or just chat. There was no one taking off for work, or the mall, or to pal around with friends, or whatever young people do these days. They could have, actually, gone out for a walk or found solitude in another room of the house. But they chose to gather together. What a gift!

The sibling banter was brutally honest, accepted as such and responded to in kind. It was wonderful to hear this give and take among them. There was acceptance for who/what each one was and love for one another all the way round inter and intra generational. What a gift!

Midday on Saturday we all came to table together for the celebratory and farewell meal. Cards and gifts were received. And then the question: "Grandmom, have you accomplished all that you wanted to accomplish?" Great long pause while I mulled that one over, but the reply was obviously -- NO! We can never be done. There is always more to learn and accomplish. I'm not done yet. Maybe they will ask the question again at my eightieth gathering and hopefully the answer will still be the same.

The joy of family -- What a GIFT!

THANKSGIVING PREP

Three more days of preparation for Thanksgiving guests, food, generous and gracious hospitality, and I am in a state of UNreadiness. There is no way I am going to make this happen. And I am NOT doing any of it this evening. I am going to just sit here, do my blog, get a note off to my sister, then go to bed and read.

I love holidays. I love family. I hate the cleaning up and getting ready part. So I guess they will have to love me as I am. In all of my clutter. Dust under the couch. Maybe a cob web or two. They will have a clean bathroom, fresh sheets, warm blankets, hot coffee, and a lot of love.

Planning ahead has never been a priority for me. I am big into being and doing in the now. This is a really good place to be most of the time. If you think about it, NOW is the only time you can be in touch with God. That is probably the best part about now that I know of. If I have it in me to manage to just be in the moment, it is wonderful. I am successful a lot of the time. But there are times when I might have enjoyed the moment a lot more if I had planned ahead a little better.

The now times of planning and preparation can be Godly times too.....

IT IS WHAT IT IS

Acceptance. Accept it because there is nothing I can do about it. Accept it because -- it is what it is. Well, yes, maybe. Accepting what is because we REALLY can't do anything about it is one thing; but what if we can? Do something, that is. How to decide.

There is a cancer that is going to kill the husband of my friend and co-worker. Accept. There is nothing to be done. Prayer, yes. But for healing? I don't think so. This is in the liver and probably the pancreas. Death. I can accept this "what is." I can pray for the family. I can pray with the family. I can pray for courage and strength and quality of what life there is left. It is not in me to pray for a "miracle." I have a hard time with miracles. But I digress.

Iraq. Now there is something I cannot accept. On many fronts. It is what it is, but I don't accept it. AND there is nothing that I know of that I can do about it. Prayer to end it, maybe. Prayer for courage and strength and hope. And peace. Yes, prayers for peace. And that isn't in the miracle department. It is in the possible department. Well, I know, all things are possible with God. It's just that somethings are more possible than others.

So that's the big stuff. What about the little stuff. Accepting one's self. Accepting who I am and what I can do and what I can't do. Trying to figure out the "is" of "what is." What do I accept and what do I change -- and how do I decide. I can accept white hair -- it is what it is. I could color it or just let it be as who I am. I am right handed. I could probably change that, it used to be done all the time, but I am naturally right handed. Accept. I am a natural clutterbug. Clutter has a way of gathering around me. My "stuff" is always in disarray. It is what it is but I can't accept it. This is one thing I have the ability to change -- and frequently try, it just doesn't seem to last. I keep trying.

I keep trying on a lot of fronts and frequently wonder if it is good enough. Then I wonder how much good enough is. Today I am going to give myself a B+ bordering on A- for just thinking about all this stuff. I'll keep praying. And I'll keep trying.

STUCK

I'm stuck. Stuck in a mire of inertia. Don't know how I got here. Don't know how to get out. I think I have been getting here for a while. Maybe a long while. For years I have been trying to do things the "right" way -- the way I think they should be done -- the way other people have decided that they should be done. I think it is finally time to just do things in a way that comes naturally.

Early on I trained myself to write in the upright loopy script that was the distinctive style of my mother. I learned it well. Then a few years ago I began to write "Morning Pages" in the style of Julia Cameron as suggested in her book "The Artist's Way." SO, for a few years I have been feeling guilty because I cannot just roll out of bed in the morning and write off three pages of stream of consciousness. I can do three pages but it is after reading the morning paper with my cereal and while having coffee. Here I am doing morning pages in a way that isn't sanctioned and in a loopy upright script that is not uniquely my own. I think this might be indicative of the way I have lived/am living my life.

Time to be me. And I don't really know how to go about that. Some weeks ago there may have been some unconscious bubbling up when my hands began to cramp as I wrote my pages and I decided to attempt the script that I learned in second grade. Surprise, no more cramps. AND at about that same time I decided that the three pages of stream of consciousness was getting boring, even to me. Time to write the stories of my childhood.

Why, then, am I feeling these pangs of stuckedness? Maybe I am in a place of between. A place to wait. A place to observe. A place to renew. A place of grace to comfort me and let me know that whatever is, is okay.