Category Archives: Life

The Committee Meeting

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Sunlight is sneaking through the blinds. Morning has come again.

Windowlight-1

Brain to Marilyn: Hey, get up. I’ve got stuff to do.

Marilyn to Brain: Shut up. I’m tired. Let me sleep or I swear I’ll take a pill and shut you down.

Brain (sullen): Fine. Be that way.

Marilyn drifts off to sleep for half an hour.

Brain: How about that dream I sent you eh?

Marilyn: That was horrible. Why did you do that?

Brain: I thought it was cool the way I turned butterflies into flying monsters. You didn’t like it?

Marilyn: No, I did not like it. And right now, I don’t like you.

Brain to Marilyn: Logic and Emotion are going at it again. Wow, this one’s a real knock down drag out fight. Loud, huh.

Marilyn to Logic and Emotion: If you guys don’t cut it out, I’m going to stop this car and you are both getting a time-out.

Logic and Emotion in chorus: HE STARTED IT MOM!

Marilyn to Logic and Emotion: I don’t care who started it. SHUT UP! I need sleep!

Logic and Emotion together (meekly): Sorry Mom. Don’t be mad …

Brain to Marilyn: I have a message from Spine. She says you need to take something for pain. Spine is unhappy.

Marilyn to Brain: Spine is always unhappy.

Brain to Marilyn: Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Oh, and Bladder needs a trip to the bathroom.

Marilyn: Oh fine.

Muttering all the way, Marilyn gets up, hauls self to bathroom. Comes back with Tylenol. Takes pills, crawls into bed pulling covers over head. Sighs and settles into the embrace of the most comfortable bed in the world.

Brain to Marilyn: Hey, I’ve got a great idea for a story! How about you write about our morning chats, huh? Wouldn’t that be neat? Come on, get up before you forget everything. Lazy daisy get your butt outta bed.

Marilyn to Brain: I haven’t had 6 hours of sleep yet. I’m too tired to write.

Brain to Marilyn: You are never too tired to write! Get up, get up, it’s morning.

Sounds: Dogs howling, yapping, more howling.

Marilyn: Can you make the dogs shut up?

Brain: Sorry, no direct access to doggie brains.

Marilyn to Brain: Okay. You win. I’m up, I’m up. Coffee. I hope we aren’t out of half and half. I’m never going to get a whole night’s sleep. I’m going to die of permanent, chronic sleep deprivation. I hope you are all proud of yourselves.

The mournful howl of canines is heard in the background. Day has begun. Soon there will be coffee and all will be well. Tired, but well.

Light From On High

It’s YOUR fault!

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I’m not sure how this happened. I haven’t found anyone to blame yet, but I’m looking for a scapegoat and would appreciate a volunteer.

When did my blog change from a fun hobby into a do-or-die project? It has been consuming my life. Incrementally, bit by bit, it nibbles at my days, chews up my evenings and gnaws the edges of my nights.

Dutch IrisI have computers everywhere, so I can work from any room. Any place I might relax, a computer lies waiting. The proliferation of computers was a convenience, so I wouldn’t have to haul stuff around. It wasn’t supposed to be a constant reminder of tasks and assignments. I renounced that stuff years ago … or so I thought.

I started reviewing books because I love them. Now, I have more books to read than time — and I’ve got deadlines. Deadlines? Come again? I’m retired, aren’t I?

No time to read other people’s blogs or listen to an audio book just for fun. No time to read anything that isn’t on my “to-read” list. Barely time to answer personal email. Or talk on the phone, shop, cook or do anything except write, edit and read. Sleep? No time for that, either.

We don’t change as much as we think we do. Just when we think we’ve finally gotten that piano out the door, it sneaks back in the window. Old, engrained habits lurk — then when you think you’ve got it beat, pounce. Whack. HEY! Where’d you come from? Saying “yes” until I’m drowning — it’s an old song, oh so familiar. I know the music, lyrics and all 42 verses. Old habits are like old shoes. So comfy. Slide right into those babies.

Riverside gardenWhen I started doing this, I wanted to be busier than I was, but didn’t want to be tied to a schedule. Free, unscheduled time is the singular gift of retirement. We may be short of money but our time belongs to us.

Instead of letting myself enjoy the wealth of time, I’m back on a schedule. I’m not even getting paid!

So I’ve decided it’s not my fault. It’s someone else’s fault. I just need to figure out who. What about you? Has your hobby, your blog, your avocation taken over your life? I’ll bet I’m not the only one who has a problem. Maybe bad habits are contagious and I caught it from you. In which case …

It’s your fault. I can point a finger and be off the hook. No need to ponder my complicity or change my behavior.

This must be why scapegoating is so popular. It has surpassed baseball as our national pastime. If others are to blame, I can be a total screw up. If it’s not my fault, I don’t have to fix it. Cool.

So, is it your fault? You, there, sitting in front of your computer. Yes, I mean you.  Don’t try to weasel out of this. I know guilt when I see it!

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Marilyn’s Dirty Dozen

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John Howell’s “Rule is as Rule Does” got me thinking about life and how we invent rules as we go. I make rules for myself and I follow them. But I hate rules, so the only rules I follow are mine, all born of hard lessons.

What rules? I’m glad you asked.

I’ve had a life in which the light at the end of the tunnel was always the headlight of an oncoming train. At one point, I got so stressed I could barely breathe. Something had to give if I was going to survive. I had to change. I had enough issues without stressing myself to death.

I began by getting a tattoo, a symbol of life. It was an acknowledgement of change, an acceptance of survival and the possibility I might have to do it again. The tattoo is a large phoenix in full flaming color. It’s one-of-a-kind, designed for me. I had it put toward the back of my left calf. I didn’t realize it was going to be quite so big, but I’ve come to like it. I was 57 when I got my only piece of body art. Tattoos are more permanent than most marriages, so if you’re going to get one, make it something you won’t find embarrassing later in life. Spelling and punctuation count. A typo in a tattoo is forever.

My left leg

It is difficult to shoot a picture of the lower back of ones left leg. Remember: Blue jeans leave ridges. If you want a picture of a your own body or some part of it, getting someone else to take the picture is better. Both terriers were really excited when I took off my jeans and socks. I’m pretty sure they thought it was a game. Bonnie figured she’d score a pair of socks but I outwitted her and put them up on the desk. Hah! Asking Garry to take the picture seemed weird and required too much explanation. So I snapped it myself. Awkwardly.

I never wrote my rules before, so this has been an interesting exercise. I don’t expect you to follow my rules, but they are pretty good ones. They grew out of decades of doing everything wrong, worrying myself into ulcers, simmering with anger at injustice, and getting frantic over every ecological or political crisis.

Marilyn’s Dirty Dozen

  1. Laugh often. Have friends who laugh with you.
  2. If you can’t fix it, don’t brood about it.
  3. Have pets. Cats, dogs, chickens, ferrets, bunnies, reptiles, bats or birds. Anything but spiders. I don’t like spiders.
  4. Don’t argue with stupid people.
  5. When you know you’re wrong, give up and apologize.
  6. Worrying is a waste of time. Whatever you are worried about, something else will happen.
  7. Staying angry at someone who wronged you hurts you, not them. They aren’t losing sleep over you. Forget it. Move on.
  8. Be a gracious winner. People may sympathize with a sore loser, but everyone hates a gloating winner.
  9. The path less traveled is often a dead-end. Before going down unmapped roads, make sure you can make u-turns in tight spaces.
  10. When you have a choice, do the right thing. When you have no good choices, do the best you can. If you have no choice, run for your life.
  11. Brutal honesty is inevitably more brutal than honest. Be kind.
  12. If you’re an artist, do your thing. Talking about it doesn’t count.

Live your life. You are unique. Celebrate!

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Weekly Writing Challenge: Papa Says Get Economical – Destiny in Under 500 Words

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The Path

Life happens. We plan. We’re psyched. Announce our upcoming adventure! Oops. Sickness. Financing falls through. The place we were sure was ours sells to someone else. Job offer dissolves; budget cancelled. Harvard said what? Who’s writing this script?

People (who ARE those people?) say “everything happens for a reason.” I’m not so sanguine, but I know we follow our destiny, like it or not. The longer I live, the louder I hear that drumbeat. Plans go awry. If fate decrees we aren’t doing it, discussion over. Make new plans? They fall apart too. Different reasons, same result. Another plan anyone?

Years pass. The you making plans has changed. If you get what you want, it won’t be what you expect. Could be better, might be worse. Surely different.

Take it easy, go with the flow. Bring energy, enthusiasm and a sense of wonder to everything,  planned or not. Life’s unexpected, but needn’t be dull.

From womb to tomb, it’s a journey. We are forever becoming. The only thing we can always count on is us. Wherever, whatever, we bring ourselves to the party. The unplanned things were the most important. Never entirely fun. Rarely easy, but critical. Meaningful.

From 13 years old I wanted to go to Israel to live. Not visit. I had no interest in tourism. I wanted to live there, experience culture shock, be enveloped by foreignness. My first attempt to move there — with mom’s collusion — got cancelled when I chose college, a special B.A. program I thought wouldn’t let me in. I planned to study nursing in Israel. I was 16, just out of high school.

Twelve years later, I did move to Israel — on my own with my 9-year old son. No plans to study. I’d gotten my chance 5 years earlier, accepted into an exclusive Master’s program for administrative nursing. I dreamed of running free clinics for people without insurance.

Along came life. My first husband got cancer at 34. After I got up off the floor, I figured I needed an income, not a master’s. I found work as a writer; remained a writer my entire professional life. How would the lives entwined with mine have been changed if I’d moved to Israel in 1963? My son might not exist — or my granddaughter. I’d never have met Garry. I can’t imagine such a life.

This is where I should be. I know it, though not why. If I’d chosen, I’d be richer, healthier, living with better weather and no mortgage. But I wouldn’t trade for what I’ve got. Life’s not what I planned. It’s a challenge. But it’s good. I am where I should be. Destiny.

My dogs are happy. They never plan, except for the next biscuit. I’m with the dogs.

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Happy Father's Day Dad!

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Reblogged from Hot Rod Cowgirl:

This is my tribute to my Dad, who was my hero. I wrote this a year ago in 2012 and it pretty much says it all. I will never forget you Dad...Happy Dad's Day With Much Love and Gratitude! I have a feeling that you are still horseback gathering cows up in heaven...keep my horse saddled and Wild Bill's too...and give Mom a big hug from us.

Read more… 10 more words

A beautiful tribute to a beloved dad. For all the great fathers out there ... Happy Father's Day!  

Daily Prompt: In Good Faith – Letting Go

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Watching my old wedding video left me thinking about how I wound up here. I don’t mean “here” in a geographical sense. How did that bright-eyed young-looking woman become this creaking old thing fighting to keep moving under her own power?

Who is this person?

She doesn’t look or act like me. I can vouch for this because I used to be her, but now I am not at all sure who I am or whose body this is. While I slept, someone slipped in an imposter body. I would jump right on the imposter theory except being me is not something any sane person would want. If I had a say in the matter, I would be healthier, wealthier and younger. Someone else, but keep the brain.
Life changes, sometimes in a split second, or slowly over many years.

Summer's end. September sunrise.

Remember Christopher Reeve? One minute, he was a big, handsome, strapping movie star. A dreadful split second later, he was someone else.

My down hill slide occurred at the pace at which bones and joints calcify, briskly enough to realize what was happening, but with enough time to be thoroughly frightened.

I broke my back when I was a kid. I was reconstructed when I was 19. For the next 35 years, I refused to pay any attention to my spine. I was not going to be disabled. Not me. It was mind over matter.

Turns out, mind over matter only takes you so far. Seven years ago, I began to have trouble walking. My balance became erratic. I lost sensation in my feet and miscellaneous reflexes disappeared. I went to doctors, orthopedic hot shots. All of them said I need a new spinal fusion, the old one having fallen apart over the long years. Diagnosis: Horrible spine. Solution: New fusion in which I get screwed together using metal rods. After surgery, I would be in even more pain than now, but my spine would be stable. Say what? This surgery would be the 21st century version of the surgery I had in 1967.

I said no. God can choose, because I wouldn’t.

I believe in miracles, but don’t count on them. I’ve never been clear who He is, but I’m reasonably sure there is a Higher Power who has never deserted me. I’ve survived more than once when I was supposed to be dead. As little as I believe in dogma, I believe prayers are answered, though the answer is not always what we want. I figure God is busy. In the great scheme of things, my problems are tiny, but we are all little children at heart and want Father to fix it. He knows. He forgives. Or so I hope. Meanwhile, I took my case to the top spine guy in Boston, the Supreme Court of spinal care. And got my miracle.

He said I did not need the surgery and it wouldn’t solve any of the problems I had. He was annoyed with his colleagues’ scare tactics. Laugh or cry? I did both. With a few words, tons of rocks fell from my shoulders. I’d been living on the edge of the razor. Now I heard: “Your back has got you through this far, it’ll take you the rest of the way. Pain control, gentle exercise, and recognize your limits. Don’t do anything stupid.” Like fall off a horse? Lift heavy packages?

Was that the sounds of angels singing?

We all know we will die, but it takes a personal encounter to make it real. A close friends dies; you feel the brush of the Dark Angel’s wings across your own soul. From that moment, death is no abstraction. Maybe you’ll live a long time. Maybe you’ll outlive your whole generation, but the end will come. If you have faith in something beyond yourself, time becomes your treasure. You stop focusing on the future because this is the future. You’re glad to be alive when so many peers are gone. Every dawn is a miracle for which you are grateful.

Faith in something bigger than oneself helps get you through. It doesn’t mean you don’t have to do for yourself, but it makes surviving the bad stuff easier. It doesn’t make you young again nor stop your joints from aching. It won’t make you immortal, but it gives you a larger context in which to see your problems. As for me, I said that I would let God choose. He chose. I’m good with that.

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Fame With Obscurity: A Peculiar Achievement

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I am occasionally stunned by how many hits I got on a single day. It happens intermittently, usually when this season’s premier episode of Criminal Minds is being shown as a rerun here or in some other English-speaking country. This little post about a bunch of FBI profilers shows up at the top of a specifically worded Google search. Whenever that episode plays somewhere and people go looking for combination of words, bingo. There’s my site, at the top of the search and I get a little flood of hits.

The_12-Foot_Teepee_Cover_for_Kindle

I used to wonder what caused that sudden burst of interest in my site. Now I know  immediately that somewhere, that episode is playing and once again I’ve been discovered … but only for about an hour. These one-time visitors don’t become (usually) followers. They come, they read. Then they leave and forget me.

When I look at my statistics, those individual bars of hits loom far above the other bars representing numbers of hits for a day.

This could have been my 15 minutes of fame, except that no one knows who I am unless they already know me, in which case, they probably are not looking for me via a Google search. I thus succeeded in being secretly famous.

I pondered this conundrum for a while, mulling over how I ended up an anonymous writer. I never wanted anonymity. I post my picture and I sign my name to emails from readers when they write to me. It just sort of happened.

The search that did it.

Some years ago, I began using “Teepee12″ as my Internet “handle” because it reminds me that I wrote and published a booked entitled “The 12-Foot Teepee.” Virtually no one is buying the book these days — not that it was ever a best-seller — so using this is a way of keeping in touch with an important piece of my personal history. My book is obscure. Really obscure. No one who isn’t a close friend or one of the few hundred other souls who read the book would associate Teepee12 with me. It never crossed my mind that this would ever make a difference in my life. No one gives you advice on this when you are choosing your online or website name.

So I figured I should add my name to my website. I don’t want to change the site name: I like it. Serendipity is so appropriate. I write with extreme serendipity. Not only can you not predict what I’ll write about, but I have no idea what I’m going to write about. I may not know what I’m going to say until it falls out of my fingers into the keyboard.

I’ve been “Teepee12″ for years. I felt odd naming the blog after myself. It’s wasn’t humility, more like bashfulness. Or just ignorance. It was an accident. I tried to fix the problem by putting my real name on my blog. It’s on the masthead, or whatever we call the top of our first page in the blogosphere. It doesn’t matter. I remain Teepee12 and expect always will be.

I guess I blew it. I missed my fifteen minutes. If you know me, you are laughing. I’m laughing too. It’s just how my life goes. I should have guessed it would be this way.

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Daily Prompt: Take Care – Doing the best we can with what we’ve got

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I’ve been sick a lot during the last dozen years. I’ve been in and out of the hospital too many times to count, been nearly dead, then miraculously better. I’ve had major body parts redesigned, removed and reconstructed. I have had to care for myself much of the time, even though I would often have much preferred assistance and support. Help hasn’t always available or what was available, wasn’t what I needed.

Some people aren’t good caretakers. Even with the best of intentions, not everyone has a knack for dealing with sickness or disability. For some of us, caretaking is as natural and automatic as breathing. If you are lucky enough to have one of these people in your life and he or she is able to help you when you need it, thank God for your good fortune. And don’t forget to thank the person who is helping you!  God may have put him or her in your life, but sincere gratitude and love directly from you to your caretaker should be effusive, copious, and frequent. Loud, too. Cards. Flowers. Whatever. Because many of us spend a lot of our lives helping others  … and you would be surprised at how rarely our efforts are rewarded with genuine appreciation. As often as not, the people who need us resent us even as we defer our own needs, put our careers and personal lives on hold so we can help someone who needs us.

Dana Farber lobby

Many people when confronted with a seriously ill friend or partner, are at a loss. Try not take it personally. It’s not personal. A husband faced with a wife who can’t perform basic self-care may closely resemble a deer caught in headlights. There’s more involved in that response than inexperience or ineptitude, though both play a role. There is fear, deep gut-wrenching terror. The person on whom you have always depended is suddenly looking to you for everything.  What if he/she dies? I’ve seen spouses effectively paralyzed, panicked by a diagnosis of cancer or something else life threatening. Most recover enough to be at least minimally helpful. Others remain dazed and pretty much useless.

We do the best we can. Life doesn’t offer unlimited choices. There’s no menu of options. If you have been hospitalized and will need help after release, you will probably be questioned by a hospital social worker or home care coördinator. They will ask you if you have support and assistance in your home. Since none of us wants to admit our family isn’t going to be able to care for us, we lie. Bad enough to need help, but having to admit it to a stranger?

A stiff upper lip won’t to get you through post operative recovery. You need someone to help you in and out of bed, change dressings, empty drains, help you take a shower, shop for you and prepare meals.

If you can’t stand up or walk. you aren’t going to be shopping and cooking. If you have no one who can take care of this stuff, you have to ask for help. Visiting nurses and other home care is usually available a few times a week, but if you live alone or with someone who is not likely to do what needs doing — for whatever reason — you might be better off in a rehab facility.

I find myself smiling ruefully as I read posts by people who obviously have been sicker than a case of the flu. They can’t imagine being too sick to get out of bed. Yet it happens. Eventually, it happens to everyone because we all get old, we all get sick — and ultimately, we die. Every last one of us.

There comes a time when we need help. Humility can be a good friend as you tread this unfamiliar road. Don’t worry about the imposition (although you will, of course). Eventually, you will find yourself giving to someone else what you received. It’s how we humans manage to survive the bad stuff that happens. We help each other. Which is what we are supposed to do.

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