“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.” ~ Kenji Miyazawa

“Rose Pastor Stokes,” by Clarence H. White (1909)

 

“Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.” ~ Vladimir Nabokov

I found a new blog last night called Crashingly Beautiful. It’s the kind of blog that I might create myself, filled with quotes, poems, music links, passages, Zen stories, photographs, and other artwork. Lovely, just lovely. I found several quotes there that are new to me, and I liked them so much that I am using in tonight’s post. I am also borrowing some images that were posted on the site. Many thanks to Luke Storms for offering such inspiring material.

 If you get a chance, check out the site, along with the companion blog Intense City, also by Luke Storms.

“if we could do nothing for once,
perhaps a great silence would
interrupt this sadness,
this never understanding ourselves . . . ” ~ Pablo Neruda, “Keeping Quiet”

"Autumn Trees," Egon Schiele (1912)

Aside from finding new blogs to read and achieving high levels in online Bookworm, not much new to report. Corey’s burn on his arm is healing nicely, just a little sore and no infection on the part that blistered. It’s getting ready to rain again because we so obviously need more rain. Tillie has been hanging out on the platform of the pool’s ladder, almost as if she expects to go swimming at any moment. I had to inform her that regretfully, November is not swimming weather, even for a Labrador Retriever.

I am feeling a bit better emotionally. No big changes, just a slight upswing. I’ll take anything that I can get. Perhaps I am feeling a bit better because I have printed out pages and pages of forms to have my PCP sign and then send on to various pharmaceutical companies (five total). I decided finally that being without my medication has gone on long enough, and there is no reason why I shouldn’t apply for patient assistance directly with the companies.

Happily, I found that I can get almost all of my medications through the companies, with the exception, of course, of the ones that now have generic formulas. Nexium will probably be the hardest one to obtain, mostly because they want my entire life history to prove that I am worthy of receiving assistance from Astra Zeneca. AZ recently received the right to retain their formula for the purple pill, so no generics anytime soon on that front.

If anyone else is having problems with affording his/her prescription medications, look up the name of the company that manufactures the medication, and then enter patient assistance into the site’s search. Almost all of the major pharmaceutical companies have some sort of patient assistance program. I really wish that I had thought of this three months ago.

“Whatever it is that pulls the pin, that hurls you past the boundaries of your own life into a brief and total beauty, even for a moment, it is enough.” ~ Jeannette Winterson

"Four Trees," Egon Schiele (1917)

Thanksgiving is only a week and a half away, and already the drama has begun in my family. Incredibly important issues such as who is going to cook what dish are on the forefront of family discussions. Three vegetables or two? Really?

I made a passing comment to my mother about butter, and her response, verbatim, was this: “I can’t get you to lose weight for anything.” Ummmm, alrighty then. I have real butter on my bread maybe three times a year. I’ve gotten comments like these my entire life. Now do you see why my self-esteem is so low?

Brett and I stopped by my mother’s house the other day on the way home from school. Brett had his sketch pad with him, and I thought that it would be nice to show my mom some of his recent work. Big mistake. Brett is really good at pencil sketches, and his latest was done during the nor’easter. It’s a dark self-portrait, done in sort of an anime style. For those of you who may not be familiar with this style, anime (アニメ) is short for Japanese animation. Anime, like manga (Japanese comics) is considered to be a non-traditional but pervasive art form.

The facial characteristics in anime can be exaggerated or muted (e.g., very large eyes and head, or simple lines for eyes), depending upon the artist. Coloring the cornea to indicate depth is sometimes employed. Some anime (sometimes spelled animé with final acute accent) attempts to draw characters whose nationalities cannot be discerned (e.g., Pokemon). The sketch that Brett showed my mother had very exotic, piercing eyes. The first time I saw it I was amazed by the detail that he had included, and I think that it is one of his better sketches.

After I got home, my mother called me to tell me that she’s worried about Brett. Specifically, she’s worried about what’s in his mind, “all of these dark pictures.” She asked why he doesn’t paint geese. I tried to explain to her that Brett doesn’t like to paint, that he likes charcoal and pencil. I noted that not all art is mountains and fruit, but it really didn’t matter what I said because now my mother has decided that Brett’s art is cause for concern.

I made a point of telling Brett how much I like his work, and I told him to take what his Oma says with a grain of salt as she doesn’t realize how much her words can hurt. She really doesn’t realize this, which is something that it took me many years to realize myself. My mother has good intentions, but she has no sense of self-censorship: whatever she thinks comes out of her mouth without any consideration of the hearer’s feelings or reaction.

I hate to have to say this about my mother, but it’s true. It’s also something that I have learned to live with, although not without its consequences, so I want to ensure that her remarks do not affect Brett’s already fragile self-esteem.

“Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing or walking on a bright morning and smelling the fresh air, is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies.” ~ Erich Fromm

Untitled by Maurice Tabard (1932)

Anyway, that’s about all for now. I must pause here, though, to express my incredible gratitude to all of you who took the time to send me very special comments in response to my last post. Maureen, Kelly, and Andrew sent very lovely expressions of support, and no matter how many times I say it, being on the receiving end of such generous statements always makes me feel better and helps more than I can say.

Even though I have not been as focused lately as I would like to be, this blog continues to be incredibly important to me. It allows me to vent, to bemoan, to rejoice, and to share with a wonderful community of people.

NCIS this past Tuesday night featured a major power outage in Washington, D.C. and the surrounding area as a backdrop to the crime. The investigators had to do things the old-fashioned way—by hand—and they were all complaining about how hard life is without computers, without mobile telephones, without PDA’s. I know that when we lose electricity around here because of a storm (which happens more than you might think), I always enjoy the quiet; no sounds of air conditioners or televisions permeate the neighborhood, and the streets are so dark.

Having said that, I do have to admit that as much as I like the simplicity when the lights go out, I do love the convenience of a lightning-fast search engine and the fact that the Internet and the web keep us connected all over the world. Just a decade ago I was still struggling with dial-up and having to wait to get online. Now I am so completely spoiled by our high-speed connection that I cannot imagine living without this convenience in my life, although I’m sure that I could if I had to.

I suppose that all of that was a very roundabout way of saying that yes, I am able to appreciate the small things, but especially how technology has afforded me new avenues to friendship and support.

YouTube video courtesy of Kelly. I’m including a poem by Mary Oliver, and I apologize in advance if I’ve already included this one, but it seems very fitting.

 

 

More later. Peace.

                                                                                                                                     

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.

“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.

It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver

“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is far worse than the suffering itself—and no heart has ever suffered when it’s gone in search of its dreams.” ~ Paul Coelho

Morning Mist on Lake Mapourika, New Zealand by Richard Palmer (2008)

 

“Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live . . . the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope.” ~ Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

Well, we made it through the November nor’easter all right: no tree damage, no water damage, no loss of power. We were luckier than many people, for a change, and for that, I am truly thankful. I am also truly thankful that I no longer feel as if I am existing in a wind tunnel. One day is intriguing. Two days is numbing. Three days is irritating. Moving into the fourth day is like the waking dead: I can no longer tell if I am hearing the wind or if it is a constant buzzing in my ears. Oh well.

Port of La Rochelle, France in Morning Fog

Many, many strange dreams in the past few nights: my father appeared in at least two, and that is always disconcerting. I don’t know that I’ll ever feel that I did not disappoint my father terribly before he died, but that is not the subject for tonight. Much too hard of a subject, and always leaves me depleted for a long time, and since I am beginning the post in an already depleted state, I will not even attempt to tackle something as weighty as that.

The other night I had this dream about being on a sinking boat. The dream was a complete metaphor for my life: the boat was cluttered and dirty and badly in need of a complete cleaning. And there was one other problem: there was no bottom in the boat. At some point, the boat fell (?) off the support beams on which it had been resting and flew through the air, landing atop the bottom of an old military vessel. The top of the boat and the bottom of the military vessel came together, and both pieces rushed forward into the ocean.

I thought to myself that some remedy had to be found other than the makeshift coupling of the two halves, otherwise, the ocean would be able to dislodge the two pieces, and we would surely sink. In the meantime, someone was complaining about washing the windows of the boat, which were not portholes, but panes of glass like a house, and no one could clean because there was too much clutter—boxes and storage bins and whatever else. I awoke from the dream crying because it was a fast-sinking ship, and I knew that, and just as certainly I knew that the boat in my dream was my life.

Last night I dreamed that I worked at Dillard’s again, and asked to have the home store back because that was always my favorite department. But instead of a home store, there were lawn mowers. Very strange. The weirdest part was that I had all of these great marketing ideas for different departments, and I decided that I should be the store’s roving marketing manager, going from department to department coming up with selling ideas. Also very strange as my marketing background is my least favorite part of my skill set.

So I’m still not sleeping well, even more so since the drop-off for trees and limbs that were felled by the storm is right behind the house in the parking lot of the community park that our house abuts. After Hurricane Isabel in 2003, the City set up a similar drop-off in the parking lot, but is was on the other side of the park, so the sound of the wood chipper and large trucks backing up with their beeping alarms was more removed; now, it is jarringly loud, and it seems to be right outside the bedroom window. It’s not, but that’s how it seems to my head. Lovely.

“The weight of the world is love, under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction.” ~ Allen Ginsburg

Foggy View from Oberfallenberg Towards Swiss Mountains, by Friedrich Bohringer

Anyway . . . I have had the following quote on my mind for days, but for the life of me, I cannot find out who said it originally (if anyone knows, please pass along the information): Do what you love, and the rest will follow.

Now, I know that there is a book entitled Do what you love and the money will follow, but that is not the sentiment that I am pondering.

Do what you love . . .

What do I love, exactly? I thought that I loved to write, more than anything else in the world. But lately, I have come to question that belief, especially since I am having such a hard time piecing together a coherent blog post. What kind of writer is that? I sit down at these keys everyday, but I do not write everyday. More often than not, I open a computer game and play mindlessly for hours, attempting to lull myself into fatigue. I feel more often than not that I am existing in an endless fog.

Let me pause here. I know that I am depressed, considerably so. That I am not taking my usual dose of antidepressant is not helping matters. Granted. However, I am depending upon samples from my doctor, and I am trying to stretch those as far as they go. No one needs to tell me that this is not how you take a medication that needs to be maintained at a constant level in order to fight the chemical imbalances that lead to clinical depression. I know all of this.

I also know that my particular antidepressant costs over $200 without prescription coverage, which I still don’t have because of the ongoing battle with my health insurance. Not even worth going into that old scenario.

And even though I know that not having my medication is affecting me, and November is affecting me, and being just above poverty level is affecting me, and the upcoming anniversary of my dad’s death is affecting me, and the upcoming holidays are affecting me . . . wait, I lost the subject of that sentence. In other words—everything in the world is affecting me.

“A fierce unrest seethes at the core, of all existing things: it was the eager wish to soar, that gave the gods their wings.” ~ Don Marquis

Last night I was standing at the sink doing dishes (because the dishwasher no longer works because this is the best possible time for yet another appliance to break), anyway, I was doing dishes and crying. Weeping, actually, and no, it wasn’t because I was washing dishes. Why so sad, joker asks?

Let’s see, other than the litany mentioned above, Corey burned his arm two nights ago, bad burn with scalding water, but he has no health insurance.  As I applied antibiotic ointment and dressing, all I could think of was that burns get infected so easily. Corey shrugged it off, but I’ve been watching it carefully. It seems to be healing well, but still . . .

Fog in Winter, Valley of Upa, Czech Republic

And then, the dryer isn’t working right. The dishwasher is now broken. The house as a whole is in horrible shape, cluttered, dirty, depressingly in disrepair. I used to be so anal about cleaning, every weekend, top to bottom. Now, I cannot run the vacuum for the clutter. Did I mention that I cannot write? My phone has been turned off, and basically, I hate life. To be more specific, my life. I hate my life.

Don’t misunderstand. I do not hate the people in my life. I love the people in my life. They are probably the one thing that sustains me at the moment. But my life, per se? The circumstances of my life? I hate, h-a-t-e it. I want to go back to work. I want to have a career again. I don’t want to feel like a burden for which Corey must bear the full weight. I don’t want my spouse to feel that he is a caretaker. That gets old, fast.

I want to sleep through the night, wake up in the morning, get dressed, and go to work.

That I should be happy that I awaken each morning with a roof over my head and some food in my fridge . . . yes, I know that. We’re talking emotions here. Logically, I know that I have so much for which to be grateful. Logically, I know that millions upon millions of people have it so much worse. Logically, I know that in the big scheme of things, my problems are a tiny little puddle in comparison to the monsoons that invade so may people’s lives.

Yes, I know that. Does it makes me seem ungrateful to say that knowing that, I still feel as if I am slowly losing my mind? Losing patience with everything? Losing the ability to cope? Probably, yes, I probably seem ungrateful.

But damn, it just feels as if I am existing, counting days, not living. That’s it. It took me all of these words to get to the heart of it: existing, not living. I want to enjoy life again. I want to be the woman I used to be, the woman who took pleasure in small things, who thrived on stress and pressure, who laughed more, bantered frequently, and bemoaned fate less.

“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.” ~ Sylvia Plath

Do what I love and the rest will follow . . . such a seemingly innocuous platitude. Perhaps even good advice. But how do I do what I love when I can no longer identify what I love? And what is it that will follow? What is the rest?

Fog, Baden-Weurttemberg, Germany

How did I get to this place in my life, this place at which life is a calendar filled with numbers but not with days? How does anyone get here? What scares me the most is the fear that perhaps I have lost hope.

Lost my way?  Is my path occluded? Have I forgotten to pay attention to the journey in my single-minded pursuit to survive? Yes, maybe that’s it. Maybe I have allowed myself to get so caught up in counting the days until our situation changes that I have completely forgotten that life is to be lived, not endured.

What do I love? I love to write, to read, to engage my mind, to watch the sun set, to walk along the shore, to find a shell, to smell the rain, to discourse, to converse, to contemplate, to cherish, to embrace. I love the smell of a baby’s skin and the scent on the air after I have a bath. I love a cup of tea and a good movie. I love freshly cut herbs and spring blossoms. I love the sound of water and the blue of the deep ocean. I love the wind in my face and the touch of the first snow on my lashes.  I love the company of good friends and the peace of the mountains in the fall. I love to listen to good music on a Sunday afternoon, and I love the freedom to sing at the top of my lungs in the shower.

I love to be loved, to feel love, to exude love, to share love.

“Life is too short, or too long, for me to allow myself the luxury of living it so badly.” ~ Paul Coehlo

Do what I love? That is so much harder than it seems. Life is so much harder than it should be. Please don’t think me small-minded, and yet, why do I take the time in my stream-of-consciousness to apologize, to care what other people think? Isn’t that always the way?

I have some pondering to do, some searching. Perhaps, though, my search has already brought me to this place of realization: I must get back to myself somehow, before the bottom of the boat falls out and I find myself at sea, a castaway along with the scattered debris that is my life.

I am reminded of a poem by Raymond Carver, one of my favorites:

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth

Yes. To feel beloved and to love. Perhaps that is truly all that is necessary.

More later. Peace.

Damien Rice’s “Delicate”

 

“Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.” ~ Kevin Arnold

“The Magpie,” by Monet (1869, oil on canvas), Musee d’Orsay

 

“ . . . say it loud
panebreaking heartmadness” ~ From “Nightmare Begins Responsibility,” by Michael S. Harper

Do you know what it’s like to hold someone you love in your arms as she is dying? All of the white noise of the hospital room dissipates in those last few minutes. The only sounds that you hear are your own heartbeat in your ears and the sound of someone near you crying. Time becomes suspended, and a part of you hopes that it will remain that way forever, just so that you never have to move into that next moment, the moment when all possibilities cease to exist.

I still remember the weight of my daughter’s body in my arms, still remember the smell of her dark hair, or what was left of it. I can recall vividly the bright overhead lights of the small room, and the way that I stared at the machine that monitored her heartbeat, willing it to remain steady so that all that was left of Caitlin would not end.

I remember how it felt as if my own heart stopped in that moment when hers stopped, and how I wished that it were true so that I would never have to exist in a world in which Caitlin was no longer a part. And then how we all left the room while the nurses disconnected her from all of the machines and removed the tubes that had sustained her. How when we went back into the room, she was lying there in the middle of that big hospital bed, so small, so seemingly perfect, and how I knew that at last she was no longer in pain.

I removed the hospital gown and dressed her in soft white pajamas, and I tried to train my eyes away from the incisions on her chest and arms and legs. I felt the scar on the back of her head where the surgeons had cut into her only two months’ previous, and then I kissed her, caressed her still-warm cheeks, and left.

We walked out into the bright November afternoon, and I thought to myself that it was impossibly cruel that the world outside could still be moving on as if Caitlin had never been a life force among those moving about, completely mindless of her life and her death. After that, I don’t remember much. I don’t remember the car ride home. I don’t remember walking into the house that had been mostly empty for months. I don’t remember getting into bed that night or waking the next morning.

My next memories are of minutiae: picking out a headstone and deciding what to inscribe, taking a dress and bonnet to the funeral home, renting a carpet cleaner and cleaning the carpet and living room furniture, even though they did not need it. I remember my mother-in-law bringing Pizza Tuesday night so that we would eat, and I remember that it tasted of cardboard. I remember Ann going with me to find a dress for the funeral, and how I obsessed over finding finger-tip towels for the bathroom.

I remember the day of the funeral, passing out Valium like it was sweet tarts, standing in the tiny bathroom of the chapel with Kathleen and watching the people pulling into the parking lot, walking up to the podium and looking out at all of the faces of people who had been so much a part of our lives—nurses from the hospital, our friends from the medical school, people with whom I taught at the university, and I remember not being able to distinguish faces.

I remember the ride to the cemetery in Kathleen’s car, and looking behind us at the long line of cars that followed. I remember the late morning sun and the cool breeze. I don’t remember what was said, nor do I remember actually being there during the service, only the moments after the service concluded, when friends began to come up to me and hug me, how surprised I was. I remember looking up and seeing Johnny and collapsing into his arms, sobbing openly in my dear friend’s embrace.

Afterwards, I remember sitting in the Bentwood rocker in which I had held my daughter, drinking wine, and listening to people talk to me. I don’t remember what was said or everyone who was there. I remember that Sarah wore red. And then as people left, I remember pressing food into their hands because the idea of a house full of food made me physically ill.

             “Awakening,” by Bessie Pease Gutmann (1918):            This is how Caitlin looked with her dark hair and chubby cheeks.

 

“I’ve never tried to block out the memories of the past, even though some are painful. I don’t undrestand people who hide from their past. Everything you live through helps to make you the person you are now.” ~ Sophia Loren

These are the things that I remember about those four days in November, remember still even though so much time has passed. And while I know that I have forgotten as much as I remember, it’s the memories that continue to cut so sharply, reopening wounds that have never healed completely.

I know that it is a cliché to say that a part of me died in that room that day, but that does not negate the statement’s truth. A part of my heart closed off completely the moment that Caitlin’s heart stopped beating. The part that had belonged to her grew cold and has never regained its living warmth. I can live with that. I have lived with that. I will continue to live with that.

Death is not a gentle journey for anyone, for those who die or for those who are left. Death is insidious in its ability to weave its way into the sinews of existence and memory. What those of us who remain must do is learn to take that loss and incorporate it into our daily lives. If not, it would be impossible to go on, to move through time with any kind of peace or hope.

The memories of the day that my daughter died and the hours that followed are stored away, and I dare not retrieve them too often lest they break me. But sometimes, it is necessary to open the box in which they reside, even if the doing feels like bloodletting. These memories are not the totality of my daughter, yet they are as much a part of me as the cells that give me life. I have incorporated these memories into my lifeblood, and there they will remain, along with the memories of my father and all of the other memories that make me who I am.

I have come to realize that the ability to recall such intense emotion helps to make me stronger, even if it feels like a little death each time that I do so. It may not seem to make much sense, but embracing every part of the tapestry of my life—the beauty and the pain—affords me my humanity, and given the opportunity, I would not choose to have traveled any other path.

One of my favorite songs from that time: “Cristofori’s Dream,” by David Lanz

More later. Peace.

                                                                                    

Remembrance of Monday Afternoon Past
     for Josh

How can I explain to you
what it is to hold someone you love
until she dies?
I cannot prepare you for that moment of separation—
     it is something so unspeakably personal
     that to watch it, to intrude upon it
     almost cannot be forgiven.
If I try to tell you about the silences
that enclose and isolate,
     you will not understand
     until you, too,
     have felt them.
I cannot describe for you
     the desperation
     with which you will try to pass
     life
    from your arms to hers,
    but you will come to know this as well
    as I once did.
When the moment comes,
     you will not be ready,
     but you will recognize it for what it is—
     that last instant
     in which possibilities still exist.

L. Liwag

“Carry with you maps and string, flashlights, friends who make you sing, and stars to help you find your place, music, hope, and amazing grace.” ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter

Stonehenge November Sunset

 

“Maybe what we leave
Is nothing but a tangled little mystery
Maybe what we take
Is nothing that has ever had a name”

Random thoughts about nothing at all:

Today has been one of those days that just seems to be a never-ending river of crapppola. Nothing really in particular, just a bad day, I guess.

☮ Some good news: Vane Brothers called and unofficially offered Corey a tugboat job. The catch? It won’t be until the end of the year or beginning of next year. He has mixed emotions about it, which I understand. I mean, how can you get excited about a job that will probably happen, but no guarantees?

Clent Standing Stones Winter Sunset

☮Alexis stopped by this evening. She was very chatty. Her doctor has adjusted her meds again, and she seems to be in better spirits emotionally. That makes one person in the family . . . So she’s talking about the holidays. Who is doing Thanksgiving. What she is buying for Christmas. Have I mentioned that I absolutely hate November?

☮Listening to my “Music to Work By” playlist. Jamie O’Neal’s “There Is No Arizona” is currently playing. I love that song. I love to sing that song. I love the words to that song. I miss singing. Maybe one of these days, Corey and I will be able to go to the karaoke bar that we used to go to, and I can get my singing fix.

☮I had wanted to watch the original Halloween movie in honor of, well, Halloween. But for some reason, the DVR did not record it even though I scheduled the recording. ‘Twas not meant to be. Just as well. Corey doesn’t really like it, and I didn’t want to watch it alone. I reminded him that I watch his scary movies with him and had him almost convinced he needed to watch with me, and then it wasn’t there. We watched some other scary movie instead, and it turned out to be totally predictable. I hate that.

☮Have I mentioned that I am out of reading material? Dream job: Own a bookstore that is just mine all mine. Then I can stock books that other people don’t have and read the stock. Of course, independent bookstores are going the way of the atmosphere and clean drinking water. It’s hard to compete against the Barnes & Nobles of the world.

“Maybe love will fade
Like the parchment pages of our history
Maybe life is made of flickers
From some brilliant, burnished flame”

Standing Stones of Stenness, England

☮My friend Sarah had another round with the courts today. She is going through hell with the court system over her ex-son-in-law and his mother’s request for visitation  Apparently, his mother can still see the children, but the good news is that the ex (drug addict and cop assaulter) is not allowed to be present. Exactly how does one go about ensuring such a thing? Sometimes the laws that are supposed to protect minor children really bother me. Of course, everything varies city to city, state to state.

☮Tomorrow is election day. I managed to get my mother to say that she would go vote. I told her that we need all of the Democratic votes that we can get in this particular governor’s race. I’m not holding my breath, though. Virginia is far too fickle when it comes to politics, especially in governor’s races.

☮Social Security denied my disability claim—again. Essentially their reasoning was that since I can dress myself and move my arms and legs, I’m not entitled to disability. It’s a good thing that I’m covered by my insurer. However, I know that my insurer will want to appeal, which makes sense since coverage by Social Security would mean that the insurer no longer has to pay for me.

☮Still rainy and chilly here. I’m wearing a pair of red socks that have penguins all over them. I love my Christmas socks. Wearing them is one of the better things about the weather becoming cooler. I know, small things amuse me.

☮We received a nice surprise on Saturday. My sister-in-law in Germany sent us an early holiday box filled with German chocolates, cookies, marzipan, coffee, and a beer stein for Corey. He doesn’t drink beer that often, but he has always wanted an authentic German stein. Helma said that she wanted to send us treats because we always take such good care of Phillip and Hannah when they are visiting. The whole family really enjoys their visits, so spending time with my niece and nephew is never a chore.

☮I’ve been having strange dreams again, but I’m not remembering them as well. This may actually be a good thing because I’m hoping that it means I’m getting a more restful sleep. I told Corey that I would love to sleep for eight hours uninterrupted one night. No dogs nudging me, no waking up because I’m thirsty, no waking up because I hurt somewhere—just eight solid hours of sleep. One day, maybe.

☮I’m dreading the holidays this year. Normally, I love Christmas and hate Thanksgiving, but I think that Christmas this year might be just as bad as Christmas was last year, which was last minute and stressful. I really hope that I don’t become like my mother, who does nothing but bitch about the holidays. In all of my life, I think that my mom has only liked her Christmas present from me maybe three or four times. I’m not exaggerating. I love to buy special presents for those I love. It’s not spending money that makes me happy; more, it’s finding something that I think is really suited to the person for whom I am buying the present. We’ll just have to wait and see how this Christmas turns out.

☮A word about the images, since my last post on Druids, I have had standing stones on my mind, hence, the photos of several standing stones from across the United Kingdom, courtesy of Wiki Commons.

☮I stress too much over the strangest things and find pleasure in really tiny things. I don’t think that I’ll ever understand myself.

“Everybody strains to hear the sound
Of their heart’s calling
Now you can write yours down
It’s your life story” ~ All quotes from Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “It’s Your Life”

Callanish Standing Stones

☮When I grow up, I want to be a ballerina . . . writer . . . doctor . . . lawyer . . . Broadway star . . . marine biologist . . . teacher . . . fabulously wealthy . . . writer . . . poet . . . farmer . . . Peace Corps volunteer . . . president. Now, I would settle for being debt-free, pain-free, and somewhat sane. Funny how things change. 

Check out the peace sign character that I’m using instead of a bullet or diamond. Again, small things . . .

Here is Jamie O’Neal singing “There Is No Arizona”:

 

 

More later. Peace.

 

Things that go bump in the night . . .

 

 Halloween Past Revisited from History.com

From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties . . . ~ Scottish Saying

Goblins and gremlins and ghosties and ghouls . . . oh my. Happy All Hallow’s Eve everyone. Or to be more precise, Happy Samhain.

Samhain (pronounced sow-in), is an ancient Celtic festival. The Celts lived between 2000 to 2700 years ago, predominantly in the area that is now Ireland and the United Kingdom; although at one time, their tribes were spread through Western Europe from France (Gaul) to the Danube to Rome. The Celts celebrated their new year on November 1, which marked the end of the summer and the harvest and the beginning of winter. Unlike their portrayals in movies as a primitive barbaric society, in reality, the Celts were organized into three groups: the royal clans, who led the various tribes, the warrior aristocracy, and the common people.

Ancient Celtic religion was the mainstay of every aspect of everyday life. Their religion, which worshipped nature and all things in nature, was polytheistic, recognizing many levels of supernatural beings and divinities, female as well as male. The Celts believed that the course of nature was controlled by the will of their gods.

Solstice Bonfire, Montana

Druids, who served as Celtic scholars and priests, underwent rigorous training, sometimes lasting as long as 20 years. Druids passed on their knowledge of traditional lore about nature, the seasons, astronomy, and death. Along with the Druids, Celts venerated their Bards—singers who passed on history through the oral tradition—and their Vates, who were the soothsayers.

The Celts were a superstitious people, and they believed that on the night of October 31 the ghosts of the dead returned to wander the earth. These ancient people celebrated Samhain with huge bonfires where the people gathered to burn crops and make sacrifices to the gods. The Celts wore costumes, usually representing animals; these costumes, which were made from animal skins and bones, were used to hide the faces of the living from the dead who had returned. In addition, the clan’s priests, or Druids, would make predictions about the future. The flames from the dying bonfires were used to light the hearth fires, which would burn for the duration of the long winters.

“When witches go riding, and black cats are seen/the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween.” ~ 19th century Halloween postcard

Eventually, the Celtic tradition of Samhain was blended with Roman traditions after the spread of the Roman Empire overran the once powerful Celts. The Roman day of the dead, Feralia, fell in October, and the Romans celebrated the feast of Pomona in October. Pomona was the goddess of the fruit and trees, and her symbol was the apple. By 800 AD, Christianity had overtaken most of Europe, and November 1 was designated as All Saints’ Day (Alholomesse), the day to honor saints and martyrs. This day replaced the Celtic festival of the dead. October 31 became All Hallow’s Eve.

Halloween Decorations Run Amok

The modern idea of asking for treats may originate from the Christian tradition of All Soul’s Day (November 2), on which beggars would receive pastries called Soul Cakes from the more well-to-do citizenry. In return, the poor would offer to say a blessing for the wealthy family’s departed members.

History is a bit vague as to when the idea of costumes and Trick or Treats first came to the U.S., with most historians pointing to the influx of immigrants in the second half of the 19th century as the time during which the traditions of Halloween first began to infiltrate society. But the mass-marketing bonanza known today as Halloween is a relatively new advent: Orange lights, huge inflatable pumpkins in the yard—Halloween has become big business, with estimates that Americans spend $7 billion on the holidays, making it the country’s second largest commercial holiday.

Personally, I like the idea of celebrating fall and the harvest, but then again, I am no longer a kid getting sacks full of candy.

“My candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open . . .” ~ Frankenstein, Mary Shelley

While Corey and I were out today picking up a few groceries we saw all kinds of bizarre costumes, but not that many children. Purple fishnets, pink hair. Ah, the rich pageantry that is Wal Mart on a Saturday . . .

I remember when the kids were younger, and we would carve a pumpkin for Halloween. I only did the carving myself  one year as I don’t particularly like to put my hands in squishy pumpkin guts. Besides, kids love to put their hands into squishy pumpkin guts. It’s part of the fun. What is not fun is carving the pumpkin, putting it out on the porch, and having some jerk come by and throw the creation into the street, which happened more than once. Some trick that was.

Jack-o-Lanterns in Keene, NH, by Tim Somero

I once worked with a graphic designer who would carve the most incredible Jack O Lanterns at Halloween. I know that he won a few local competitions for his carving. I love to see the really artistic pumpkins, the ones with complete scenes or recognizable faces.

As with all things, the history of Jack O Lanterns comes from a folktale about some guy named Stingy Jack who kept making deals with the devil and then breaking them. As a result, he wasn’t allowed into heaven, nor did the devil want him. Poor old Jack had to roam the earth with a burning coal to light his way. The coal was inserted into a carved out turnip.

In Ireland, people made their own versions of Jack’s lanterns by carving scary faces into turnips or potatoes. These lanterns were placed into windows and near doors to frighten away wandering evil spirits, like Jack. Americans use pumpkins for their lanterns; the pumpkin is a fruit native to America.

Anyway, it’s past 9 p.m., and all little goblins have been taken home to sort through their various treats, completely unaware that they just participated in an ancient ritual.

Music from Halloween, the original. This music still scares the hell out of me . . .

More later. Peace.

Community Jack-o-Lanterns, Boylan Heights, Raleigh, NC