After forty hours of nearly uninterrupted sleep, I lounged around the house until ten this morning then finally got ready to drive to work.  Five minutes into the drive, the Prius’s Bluetooth sounded.  The caller had read yesterday’s blog about being sick and called to check on me.

And that, folks, is one of the unexpected rewards of blogging.  Yes, the whole world (well, your whole world anyway) knows your troubles and trials; your triumphs and your tragedies.  But they also know when a word might be timely.

Here’s to the friends who call, the friends who comment, the friends who message and who mention me in Social Media. All of you: Thank you.

When I am asked how I can bring myself to bare my soul as I take this journey to joy, I always reply that if I had learned to bare my soul a few decades ago, I might have experienced a lot more joy.  As it is, if by example, my blogging can save just one soul from a lonely hour, whatever risk comes with the public debate about my efforts to change will be justified.  It’s all good; it’s all secondary benefits.

It’s the nineteenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Snow falls on Kansas City.  Life continues.

Call me, maybe. Hello?

The nurse said, Is there pressure in your ears? and I said, no.  Then it’s just a cold, or the first days of a really bad flu.  Stay home; call us tomorrow if there’s pressure in your ears.

So I stay home today, sleeping.  I file a motion for continuance in a trial set tomorrow. I drink hot tea. I eat toast.  I try to read but the pages blur.

About six o’clock, the pressure in my ears starts.

But I’m not complaining.  Except for feeling like a truck ran over me and this pressure in  my ears, I’m doing fairly well.

Back to sleep.  Perchance to dream.

It’s the eighteenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Outside the bungalow in which I live, snow covers the asphalt, the Prius, and the back porch rail with its bird droppings and broken twigs.  The dog has nipped down to the yard and hastily back, running past me at the kitchen door to curl into a warm ball on her bed.  I’m drinking leftover coffee and wondering if Jenny Rosen will still want to venture into the city for Sunday morning breakfast.

Winter has arrived, here in the flat Midwest.  Its winds howled in the night, waking me, shifting unease across the surface of my sleeping mind.  It lay strewn across my dreams, sand on a shoreline, imbedded with zigzag prints from nighttime travelers and skittering critters.

I set the house alarm and climb the stairs to my room.  Through the slats of the broken blind, I see a long stretch of the gentlest blue imaginable, tentative and teasing.  I hear nothing except the noise in my ears and the faint sound of traffic on a nearby boulevard.

My bones ache and a tightness has settled into the space between my shoulder blades. Cold grips my ankles as I move through the room.  But I do not feel grim.   My eyes still see,  through their wispy veil, the cataracts that have not deepened enough for the surgeon’s knife.  My heart dances its lopsided jig.  My creaky joints still bend.

It’s the seventeenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.

I know that I had something to say.

I woke at four this morning, my brain struggling to recall words that had risen to the surface while I dreamed.  What, what? I strained to recapture the elusive revelation.  Before long, I drifted back to sleep.

When the alarm rang at six, I found that for the second day in a row, I could not walk.  I had a long conversation yesterday with a friend who faces the progression of his MS.  I shared my lay-person’s understanding of spasticity and what impacts it.  Changes in character with age, is what my neurologist has always said.  Indeed.  I did the stretches-before-rising which I learned from an Angela Lansbury book decades ago.  I found my center.  I stood.  Shaky but ambulatory.  Oriented times three.  I headed for the stairs down which I have not fallen, not once, in twenty-three years.  I kept my record intact and made it to the first floor.

In the kitchen, I waited for the kettle to boil the water for my tea. I avoided the sight of the burnt pan in the sink.  My smoke alarms got a surprise inspection last night which they failed.  Note to self:  Buy 9 volt batteries.  Note to self:  Don’t leave burner on low.  For an hour.  While you write, cruise social media, and half-watch home improvement shows.  Mindlessly.

And the soup burns.

Still I strive to draw that great realization from my subconscious.  I know that I had something to say.  What?  What great truth came to me in the night?  I look around my house, comfortable, not fancy.  I think about the events of yesterday.  Did something happen which caused me to ponder a problem as I slept?  Did I solve it?

The radio says it’s eight o’clock.  I have a meeting at ten.  Whatever marvelous scheme I planned in my dreams will go unrealized.  I must get on with my day.  An ordinary day.  A day without the dawning miracle of solutions which came to me in sleep and ran from me in the dark of my bedroom, at four a.m., while the rest of the world continued blissfully unaware.

It’s the fifteenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  I’m no closer to understanding but life continues.

No particular reason for including this except that the sight of these objects on my window still prompted me to smile and raise my camera. The little red angel-box on the left and the white Remembrance angel on the right came to me from women whom I dearly love and whom I miss. The wooden house in the middle is a still-functioning music box which my Grandmother Corley gave me when I was five.

I walk across the kitchen and stare at the kettle with its plume of steam.  The lovely infuser which Jenny Rosen gave me for Christmas sits on the marble slab.  I fill it with Earl Grey and pour hot water.

At the white table in the breakfast nook, I straddle a wooden stool.  Some familiar voice spews from the radio and I wince.  I click the nob.  I can’t take NPR today.  I don’t care about the election.  News of deaths sends shudders through my body.

I canceled my newspaper subscription because the out-sourced customer service would not help me update my billing information when my debit card got hacked.  I don’t miss it.  My recycle box no longer overflows and my hands remain clean.  But this leaves the radio as my only news source.  On certain days, when my hips hurt and my head throbs, I go without.

My gluten-free granola shimmers in its bowl of almond milk.  The house falls still.  I raise the cup to my lips and sip the hot, bitter liquid with its tinge of bergamot.   I hear the dog barking on the back porch but I make no move to re-admit her to the house.  The cup clicks as I set it on the table and drop my hands to my lap.  I hold my body still.  I wait.

It’s the fourteenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

My mother’s grandfather made little benches.  We called them “shamleys” though searches on the Internet show no explanation for this name.  Dad Ulz came from Austria; I always supposed that “shamley” meant “bench” back home.

These little benches have a hole on the top shaped like the number eight.  We called them an “infinity” sign (∞).  Somewhere in my early childhood, my brother Mark began to call us The Infinity Corleys, since our family had eight children.

Yesterday, I had a pleasant afternoon with a friend, ostensibly meeting to discuss a project relating to Art @ Suite 100.  He shared the story of meeting his sister for the first time, after his mother passed, when he was thirty-two.  I came away with a sense of wonder — how would it feel to find a sibling so late in one’s life, to integrate her into the fabric of your days, without having shared the joys and sorrows of childhood?

I don’t always get along with my siblings.  In fact, I’m sure one of them has no use for me.  But I’m not complaining about his scorn, nor about the scramble to share one chicken among two adults and eight children, the drawer full of hand-me-downs, the tears when my dolls became missiles for my brothers’ war games, the tattle-tales, the teasing, or the sense of loneliness in a crowd of Corleys that I often felt as a young woman.

I’m still a bit miffed about my brother’s suicide, though.  Dagnabbit, Stevie Pat, I wish you had not left us!

But I love my siblings.  Here’s a poem just for them, just for you, just for my friend with his sister in Germany to whom he’s sending vegan chocolate chips because she can’t find them where she lives.

We Are Seven

BY William Wordsworth

———A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?”
“How many? Seven in all,” she said,
And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”
She answered, “Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,
“Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”
The little Maid replied,
“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,
And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

“And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you, then,” said I,
“If they two are in heaven?”
Quick was the little Maid’s reply,
“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!”
’Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

It’s the thirteenth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.  Rock on.

When I was about nine, my mother took us to the Vincent Price Studios and had a family portrait taken. Over the years, we posed again, informally, trying to recapture the photo. In the framed picture on the right, my brothers Frank and Stephen occupy each other’s place. If you look very closely at the photo on the left, you can see the original portrait on my mother’s living room wall above us.

I move forward in the grocery line and the cashier greets me.  His broad grin touches my heart. I have not seen him before this encounter but I suddenly feel pleased that I chose his aisle.

Paper or plastic, says the sacker, reminding me that for the thousandth time, I’ve forgotten to bring re-usable bags.  Paper, I tell her, double, please.

The cashier asks me if I’ve had a good day.  I think a moment and admit that I have.  It doesn’t seem possible but his grin broadens and he replies that he has, too.  My mood improves another notch.

I watch a slim lady of 35 or 40 carry a large bag of dog food like it’s a pile of feathers.  She moves her cart behind me and I think, She’s going to love this cashier, he’s got to be one of the most cheerful young  men in this store.  I give her a smile and move beyond her, to the sacker’s station.  I’m slow; I don’t want to make anyone wait.

I see that the sacker has filled one bag to the bulging point and I mention that I won’t be able to lift it.  Do you want me to lighten it? she asks, and I laugh.  Unless you’re coming home with me, you’d better.  I push my cart further towards her and look inside the bag.  Oh, see, you’ve put all the heavy things in this one, we need to redistribute them, I tell the girl, and I try to keep my voice level.  I’ve learned that if you question the sackers at my store, they take offense. Except Kevin, whom I see sacking at the next station. I greet him and he responds, calling me by name.  He’s been there a while. He knows most of the regulars.

The sacker asks if I want her to make three bags.  I tell her no, please just move some of the heavy items into the second bag, and that’s when I hear the loud “TSK”.  Both the sacker and I turn; we simultaneously realize that the dog-food lady disapproves of what I’m doing.

Her eyebrows are drawn clear to the bridge of her nose and she has scrunched her mouth into a tight wad.  A slow burn descends from my face to my stomach.  I’m sorry, I tell her.  I’m disabled, I can’t carry heavy bags.  The sacker says, It’s all right, and touches my arm as the lady shakes her head.

I know I should let it go but I say:  Do you realize your dirty looks could hurt someone?  She pulls her phone out and makes motions as though she’s sending a text, shaking her head again, pinching her whole face together.  By this time the young lady sacking my groceries has finished redistributing them and asks if I want help outside.  I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to speak.

I wheel my cart out of the store, thinking about how the woman had behaved, realizing that for sure, I’ve acted that way in the past.  I consider the exchange.   I know it’s about her; not about me.  I did what I could to get out of her way, to speak in pleasant tones, to release what could have been impatience and deal with the situation as quickly and efficiently as possible. I strove to treat the sacker with respect.  I know these things.

But  I’m tired.  I want to crawl under a rock with all the other disabled people in the world and hug them.  I want to establish a Judgment-Free Shopping Center with plenty of clerks, accessible spaces right by the door, and Mr. Rogers for the deli manager.

I drive home still ruminating on the lady with the dog food.  I realize she could have had a bad day. Maybe her husband has cancer.  Maybe her kid flunked out of pre-school. Maybe she hates living alone.

Someone recently asked me what I’ve learned in two years of blogging about not complaining.  That’s easy, I answered.  I’ve learned that “complaining” has a much broader definition than I realized, and that some of the more insidious stuff is really hard to abandon, and hurts other people the most.

Like dirty looks levied in a grocery store line, on a Monday afternoon, in January.

It’s the twelfth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Two different friends helped me walk down stairs yesterday.  Both let me set the tone.  I teased Sheldon Vogt early in the afternoon, Don’t grab my arm or we’ll both go over sideways!  He said, You just tell me what you need.  I smiled as I put my hand on his forearm.  You’re so smart to say that, I remarked.  I’ve told many people, ‘If it doesn’t help, it isn’t “help” ‘.

Later in the evening, Dan Ryan escorted me down our host’s front porch after our Rotary Board meeting.  He first tried to take my arm, then adjusted as I took his instead.  Just do whatever works, he assured me.  Then we swapped stories of people falling in the street.  I didn’t hear the end of his story about a mutual friend because it reminded me of once when I called another friend of ours to come scrape me from the driveway.

In contrast, last week someone admonished me for the amount of files that I carried for myself to and from my north office.  I shrugged, since nothing could be done except to carry them myself.  I haven’t a handmaid scampering after me.  In the same spirit, I knelt on the floor this morning to fish for something which had rolled beneath a piece of furniture.  Daring move for me but I got back on my feet, a little shaky though not much the worse for the experience.

From time to time, I’ve resented people who want to assist.  I go through months of forging forward wearing a forbidding scowl.  Suddenly my mood swings; I huddle in a rocking chair wondering how I will get through another day.  Piles of unwashed laundry, stacks of books, crooked cabinets, straggling shrubbery.  All beyond me.

In a perfect world, on a crystal golden day, the pendulum stills itself squarely in the middle ground. I reach out.  A hand meets me.  Halfway.

It is the eleventh day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  For some of us, life continues.

RIP  – DAVID BOWIE

David Robert Jones (8 January 1947 – 10 January 2016)

THE STARS LOOK VERY DIFFERENT TODAY.

In my carefree youth, I wanted to be a poet.  I had three poems published in a “little” called Eads Bridge, and thereafter considered myself established.  But that turned out to be my ten minutes of poetry fame.

Occasional phrases linger after failed attempts.  Every few years I try again, and for it have nothing to show but those snatches of words strung together.  They crowd in my head, waiting to be used.  One or the other floats to the surface, waving itself before my eyes — “use me, use me”.

Today’s teaser:  “Beginnings are like teardrops, exquisite in their formation”.

I look around my house.  Tables have been shifted to different rooms. Lights twinkle through new lampshades.  Layers of dust yield to wipe after wipe of the rag.  I face the north window again, the Lenovo open in front of me.  In years gone by I wrote at this window every night, early each morning, in sleepless hours and tormented afternoons.

Beginnings are like teardrops, exquisite in their formation. . .

The next line eludes me.  It’s in some notebook or journal, perhaps deeper in a stubborn patch of memory.  I’m feeling it though.  Not for poetry, perhaps; I proved myself to be a three-trick pony in that regard.   Maybe. . . maybe. . . on a fresh page of my life, written in bold ink.

Maybe.

It’s the ninth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love. ”    

Note:  I have seen this quoted attributed to both Rumi and Washington Irving.

 I certainly did not author it, but it speaks to me.

In the quiet of my house last evening I thought of the variety of folks in my life.  The dog looked at me at one point and turned her head slightly to the left.  Yes, yes, I know, I said, outloud, to no one, and walked through the kitchen to open the back door for her.

I spouted with a mild level of fury at a blatant due process violation yesterday, sputtering indignantly at an administrative agency’s arbitrary policies.  I guess that’s “complaining” but it’s my job.  Otherwise, I’ve managed to stay the course.

But I listened to someone belly-ache for a half an hour the other week and wore a genuine smile the whole time.  Settling in my chair, I raised my coffee cup and kept the person’s gaze.  She gestured with her own cup, brown drops splattering on the table.  Her voice rose; her forehead pinched.  I sat and let her words roll over me.

I’m not complaining about complaining.  I understand not everyone travels the same path.  I hope my friend felt better for her tirade.  As for myself, I walked away from the encounter with a deeper understanding of her unhappiness.

It’s the eighth day of the twenty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.