Category Archives: Uncategorized

In Which I Create A List of Things for Which I Am Grateful

For the last two years, when someone has inquired as to my welfare, I have answered, There are no bombs falling on my village.

For several decades prior to the commencement of the war against Ukraine by Russian, I had another ready answer, stolen from the late Leonard J. Hughes, Jr.:  I woke up this morning, which is more than a lot of people can say.

I alternated that with a glib, over the shoulder avowal:  On a scale of Nirvana to Bosnia, I’m somewhere in between.

But  let me just brag a minute, folks:

No bombs pummel my tiny village.

I haven’t had to flee southward to avoid enemy artillery.

No bridges where I live have collapsed, and given that I can think of at least seven significant draw bridges within a ten-mile radius, that’s saying a lot.

Twenty-seven years have elapsed since a team of doctors gave me six months to live.

My sister Joyce still calls me nearly every day, and I hear from my son a couple of times a month.  Various others of my siblings and cousins text and email on a regular basis just to keep our connection alive.

My eleven-year old car runs like the proverbial top.  (Note to self, Do tops run?)

Someone left three boxes of my favorite gluten-free pasta hanging in a bag on my doorknob today. ❤️

At age 68, I only have one tooth that aches and I’m sure it’s due to a lack of diligence on my part.  It hardly counts as anything other than a mild annoyance.

I make a decent living.  I have good neighbors.  I didn’t have to shovel snow this winter.  We only lost power once, for a few hours.  Trees bud; flowers bloom; robins sing.  

And it nearly goes without saying:  It’s the twenty-seventh day of the one-hundred and twenty-third month of My Year Without Complaining — and, my friends:  Life continues.

 

 

Blue skies

Milestone after milestone slips away as the year moves forward.  I let a few pass unnoticed but others bring a tear, a smile, a quiet moment.

I called my son yesterday for no other reason than I needed to hear his voice.  Someone else’s son had gone missing.  I felt the stab of a mother’s fear, a pain that has since deepened on learning of the young man’s death.  I cannot truly imagine the devastation.  Such sorrow could not be assuaged.  I ache for that other mother.

But last night, I did not yet know of her loss.  I only knew that if my son had been wandering in a city far from home, I too would have driven all of those hours to search for him.  Only the sight of his face would part the gloom.  I could not bear a sunrise, however beautiful the skies, if he had been lost.  

For me the sun still shines, the sky still spans blue above the earth.  For that other mother, no voice will answer her call on the silent phone which died along with her precious child.   

Last night,  my son asked, Did you call for anything special? I did not confess.  I shared a few bits of family news.  We talked about yoga and what we each had cooked for dinner.  Eventually, we came to the stack of paperwork that awaited me.  We said our goodnights.  I opened a news site and searched for word.  Seeing nothing, I turned to chores and later fell asleep over a book.  While I slept, that mother’s nightmare became eternal.  Hell swallowed her terrified spirit.  Her skies will never clear.  

I am one of the lucky ones.  My son has thus far navigated life’s sometimes troubled waters to safety.  To the mournful mother of another beloved Missouri son, I send a prayer for comfort.

It’s the twenty-second day of the one-hundred and twenty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Super Powers

I have given a lot of thought to my hidden talents.  Undertakings at which I excel seem few to me:  I can cobble together a decent sentence.  Though I cannot multi-task, I can hold a safety pin between my pursed lips while I walk across a room.  That has to count for something.

In my heart of hearts, though — the secret essence of my being — I do not doubt the true nature of my super powers.  They number three:  Over-thinking the obvious; romanticizing the mundane; and contorting every interaction into something for which I can be blamed.

When a pile of books falls onto the floor, I dash to rescue every volume.  Despite my distance from the calamity, I accept fault for the crash.  In fact, by the time I get done apologizing, the booktender’s scowl will have deepened and targeted my retreating back.  

I’ve accepted responsibility for all three of my divorces, a half-dozen car accidents in which I actually had no role, and the decline of an orchid that a friend brought me which I promptly re-gifted to forestall its demise.  I vividly recall a lunch with my mother during college in which I began to think I had caused the crash of the silver market by trying to find the price of what I (erroneously) believed to be a rare dime.  Whether due to my Roman Catholic upbringing or the burdens of unresolved childhood difficulties, I remain convinced that it is all my fault.

People like to have someone else accept the blame.  My brother-in-law JD will shrug and announce that he accepts full responsibility.  He invites you to advise him of how bad you want him to feel.  He assures you that he will keep you alerted as to his progress.  “I’ll let you know when I get there,” he promises.  The irony drips from his words.  But I say it with profound seriousness, and I have found that people do not hesitate to provide a standard by which to assess my remorse.

I stopped patronizing the public library years ago because I can’t be trusted to return books on time.  I uniformly paid for extra trash tags because I assumed that my garbage exceeded the allowed weight.  I replace things that I might have broken when I visit someone’s home, even though I truly have no idea whether or not I did.  Just in case.  I’m not sure, but I might have stepped on your cat’s toy.  Here’s ten dollars to replace it.  Very truly yours.

In fact I have become adept at the art of apology.  I might insult you, disappoint you, damage your best blouse, or break your heart.  Expect flowers and a note disseminated to anyone on the radar of our mutual acquaintance.  I will describe the wrong that I have visited upon your innocent head.  Your faultless state will be extolled.  My despicable character will wither under my own ruthless castigation of it.

Truth told, I have no idea how many times I have apologized for something in which I had no part.  I’m the classic case of a woman who can be abused without acknowledgment while I excuse my emotional reaction a thousand times and counting.  My actual wrongdoing probably hits an average mark but you would never know that to hear my account of my failing.

Mostly, though, I keep my self-condemnation quiet these days.  I bite my tongue unless the other person audibly expresses anger, and then I offer such contrition as I expect will smooth the path between us.  It no longer matters who’s to blame.  I understand that I’m likely over-reacting.  I strive for peace.  Wrongful accusation seems a fair price to pay.

Silence might portend inner reflection.  I look across an expanse of time to gentler days, when I accept that some things do not rightfully claim me as their cause.  Until such time as I learn that welcome lesson, I continue to flex my super powers, hoping, if not for lasting truce, then at least for a temporary cease-fire.

It’s the nineteenth day of the one-hundred and twenty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

A ship headed to the Pacific nears the confluence of the San Joaquin and Sacramento Rivers just east of the Suisun Bay.

Sea Longing

A thousand miles beyond this sun-steeped wall
Somewhere the waves creep cool along the sand,
The ebbing tide forsakes the listless land
With the old murmur, long and musical;
The windy waves mount up and curve and fall,
And round the rocks the foam blows up like snow,—
Tho’ I am inland far, I hear and know,
For I was born the sea’s eternal thrall.
I would that I were there and over me
The cold insistence of the tide would roll,
Quenching this burning thing men call the soul,—
Then with the ebbing I should drift and be
Less than the smallest shell along the shoal,
Less than the sea-gulls calling to the sea.
 
— Sara Teasdale, (1884 – 1933)

In Which I Definitely Feel Like Complaining

A beloved project of mine faces sabotage.  I definitely want to scream, shout, and protest.

Complain, even.

So here I stand, halfway through March of 2024, wondering if my quest to traverse 365 days silent of gripe faces doom.  Inevitable, I suppose;  yet I resist.

I scroll through sunset photos on my Google drive, noticing that the sync feature has failed and no automatic upload has occurred for three weeks.  I grit my teeth.  Have I used this photo, I ask myself.  Can I duplicate media posts, I wonder.  Will anyone notice?

A woman recently told me that she has been following me for a while.  She lives out here, in the California Delta, so I found her pronouncement both startling and delightful.  About six years ago now — before the pandemic, in that void we vaguely remember as idyllic — I had an email from someone in Vancouver.  I had to summon a map.  That correspondent told me that she and her book club had been reading my blog.  Not since then have I heard from a stranger. I found it immeasurably encouraging.

I needed that.  Most days I bite back tears and remind myself of the plethora of worthwhile events that arise to fill each day.  Yet an abiding aura of discontent lingers.  I filled the empty hours with the project that now strains against demise.  I struggle for salvation; I meditate on positive outcomes; I make phone calls, send emails, and explore options.  Sand drops through the hourglass.  

A thousand times each day I catalogue my shortcomings.  Lest you think to admonish me, please understand that I’ve been cautioned to employ kinder self-talk.  Yet still the inner dialogue continues.  It feels like a muscle cramp, that astonishing, intense pain that causes us to double over and gasp.  We insist that the discomfort portends growth and improvement.  In reality only exhaustion and collapse follow.  Yet we persist.  We analyze each choice and action.  We compare ourselves to others — to skinnier, taller, richer, seemingly happier folks whose true circumstances we can only suppose.  Next to such pristine facades, our ugliness glares.  

Dawn begins to shimmer its initial feeble light in my transom window, reminding me of days spent writing at my little desk in the eaves of my Kansas City bungalow.  So many miles and hours and years away, yet forefront in my mind as the life that I have constructed here stands on the brink of collapse.  I purse my lips to withhold the anger that I yearn to express.  I hear my son’s gentle voice reminding me, live in the moment; manifest positive outcomes.  I shall try.

It’s the sixteenth day of the one-hundred twenty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Hard truths

I resurfaced from a grueling week to discover that a couple of my domains had expired.  I might have lost a few years of my best writing.  I scrambled for help from my webhost and a savvy friend.  At the same time, I struggled to deal with a trifecta of challenging situations, including the daunting reality that today the  place where I live has no water due to a broken main.  Luckily, I showered last night.

Not only did I shower — I also saturated my hair with conditioner.  I’ve been avoiding this task for longer than I could unabashedly acknowledge.  My Syrian curls set their own course.  A snarl overtook the far back where I jab my copper hair pin in the last minute dash out the door.  I can’t really reach that spot.  I’ve been aware of the growing knot for weeks.  

My heart has grown restive.  Treating my curls seems like self-care, doesn’t it?  With weakening eyes, I strain to read the tiny letters on the back of the bottle.  “Gently rake your fingers through the lengths of hair,” they caution.  “Avoid breakage.”  What I wouldn’t give to honor their advice on other fragile parts of myself.  Instead I gather the splinters of my spirit into a dustpan and drop them into a bag.  I rummage through the junk drawer looking for glue strong enough to hold my reassembled heart together.

Standing by a small folding mirror last night, I reached for a  pair of stylist’s scissors.  I hesitated only a moment before clipping the matted clump from my head.  I heard the echo of my father’s voice nearly six decades ago.  A table fan had grabbed the end of my waist-length tresses and whipped around until my head jammed against the grill.  My mother screamed, “Dick, just cut it!”  Grandma Corley huddled in her chair, confused by the commotion.  My brothers anxiously hovered in the background.  For my father’s part, he pulled the plug and settled into the task with a screw driver and an infinite supply of patience.  Over a painstaking half-hour, he dismantled the fan and manually reversed the blades.

“A woman’s hair is her crowning glory,” he proclaimed, while I bit my lips and restrained my tears.

Finally free of the offending snarl last night, I coaxed my wet hair into two fat braids and snuggled myself into warm pajamas.  I studied my greying head in the mirror.  I stared into the pale blue eyes at the woman who grew from that terrified, silent child.  She had held herself impossibly rigid while a grown man strained to protect what he believed to be her most valuable asset.  I wondered, not for the first time,  what other lies my father told me.  

It’s the eighth day of the one-hundred and twenty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

My tiny house, Angel’s Haven 

My friend Rachel Warren is restoring the sun-faded mural originally created and painted by Alex Loesch to honor my baby brother, Stephen, who had his own hard truths to face.  

“How does one know if she has forgiven? You tend to feel sorrow over the circumstance instead of rage, you tend to feel sorry for the person rather than angry with him. You tend to have nothing left to say about it all.”
― Clarissa Pinkola Estés

Lost Hours

Twice today, I napped under my dead little brother’s afghan with my feet propped on my great-grandmother’s footstool.

I have a bigger footstool but something about resting my tired feet on a round bit of wood as  the woman after whom my  father named me might have done comforts me.  I’m only imagining this scene.   My great-grandmother Corinne Hahn Hayes died in 1944, two years before my parents married and eleven years before my birth.  This little stool came to me at my grandmother’s death.  I often use it when I feel poorly or sad, and crave some bit of nostalgia.

I take full responsibility for being sick today.  With all the medical issues that I strain to manage, I failed to maintain a current maintenance drug for the chronic shingles from which I suffer.  A mild fever rose on Thursday.  The familiar tingle in my left eye and along one shoulder drove me to an awkward balance of a small mirror from which I could spy my back in a bigger glass.  I stared at the angry line of pox marching in a fierce diagonal row to the base of my spine.  I couldn’t abandon my post at the shop, so I gobbled vitamin C and Tylenol for two days.  I finally succumbed at work on Monday.  I dragged myself home and slept from two p.m. until early this morning when I woke hungry and nearly  human.

My son brought my brother’s afghan to me when he visited at Christmas.  Mine lies at the bottom of my cedar chest awaiting repair.  After a hot shower this morning which substantially improved my mood, I slid into my softest cotton garments and settled in the chair that Tim Anderson gave me, planning to read.  Instead I fell into a quiet sleep until one of the park workers lumbered past my tiny house on a tractor.  The soft wool blanket had slightly fallen from my shoulders, settling around my lap.  I touched its squares, thinking about my grandmother Corley who had crocheted one for each of us so many years ago.

The second nap followed a late lunch.  I sat for a pleasant hour, dreaming of home.  I woke in the dimness of evening, glad of the warmth of Steve’s afghan.  Nothing needed my attention so I lingered until some noise outside startled me.

I count this day as a handful of lost hours, wedged between work responsibilities.  I rarely indulge myself like this.    I’ve scheduled a doctor’s appointment for next week.  She will probably order labwork to confirm that the nasty little bug still haunts me.  She’ll give me a lecture and a prescription; and remind me that I need to schedule with cardiology.  Back across the Antioch bridge I will scurry.    As I resume swallowing a fat green pill every day, the virus that I contracted in 1993 when my son gave me chickenpox will retreat back into remission.  I will gently drape my little brother’s afghan across the cozy chair and resume normal life, no worse for this quiet interlude among soothing memories of the Corley ghosts.

It’s the twenty-seventh day of the one-hundred and twenty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

 

 

Standard of Comparison

As I drove along the river road this evening, a story on the radio penetrated my tired brain.  The words reverberated through the car.  A young man’s voice told of shopping with his mother; of planning a meal; and of going to a friend’s house to spend the night.  To that point, he could have been my son.  But his next sentences stunned me.  An alarm sounded; he rushed home; and then spent hours sorting through dead bodies in a bombed building.  His mother’s cheek; his father’s finger; his sister’s tiny handbag — thus did he identify his slaughtered family.

I pulled my car into a turn-out and shut off the motor.  Other words rose in my mind.  Not words of desperation or joy, but a simple, short argument.  Someone chastised me for considering myself fortunate by comparison with others.  That’s not how life works, he insisted.  What others have or don’t have has no relevance to you.  You should have better; you should have more; you should have fewer struggles and less pain.  His voice quivered and his face grew red.  I touched his hand.  I accepted that he could not understand my point of view.  I even believed he considered me to be more worthy than the people who had less even than I.

As I sat in the quiet of my vehicle, the sun eased itself downward on the far horizon.  I raised my cell phone and idly captured the moment with its camera.   I glanced at the photos, taking a moment to post them on social media almost without thought.  Still I tarried, replaying the story of the boy whose family died.  Then I found myself shivering as the darkness around me deepened.    I started the motor and continued home, jumbled words playing over and over in my brain.  What is the purpose of living if I can’t recall my father’s voice, whispered the anguished young man.  Why should I complain when my life could be so much worse, I repeatedly demanded of myself.  You deserve everything, raged the man who claimed to love me, furious that I seemed willing to accept my mediocre lot.

Later, I opened the sunset photos on my laptop.  The bigger screen showed details that I had missed.  The turbines spun in sharp relief against the brilliance.  Clouds danced across the gentle glow high above the intensity of the vanishing orb.  My aging eyes beheld this splendor.  My crippled hands grasped the cell phone steady enough to record it.  My feet worked the pedals of a machine that allows me to travel 20 miles when my legs alone could never make the journey.  

When people ask me how I am, I cannot help but answer:  No bombs fell on my village today. I also lost my mother far too soon, but to the slow decline of disease.  I had a chance to say goodbye.   My house stands; it has not collapsed beneath the rage of war.   I do not dwell in luxury, yet beauty surrounds me.  I cannot help but consider myself beyond blessed.

It’s the twenty-third day of the one-hundred and twenty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Swans a-swimmin’

We rationalize rain around these parts.  As it drums on our metal roofs and the tarps that cover stuff on our decks, we remark that rain raises the water table and soaks the roots of grapevines that will bear fruit in the fall.  We wrap ourselves in wool and keep boots next to the door.  The rain shrugs off our opinions and continues its relentless barrage.

The creatures of our surroundings thrive on the winter weather except for the ducks and geese in the noisy, painful hunting seasons.  Full disclosure, I share the birds’ horror.  I stepped outside this morning to the repeated hammering of gun fire.  My stomach turned.  We haven’t seen a lot of migrating geese on our island this year because a corporation bought the biggest farm on the island.  They don’t seem to be flooding for the fowl as much as the old-line farmer had done each winter.  I loathe the thought of their slaughter.  

As the rain began, the hunting stopped.  By that time, I had driven halfway to Isleton to start my work day in the shop.  A couple of us stayed late to rearrange displays last night.  I hauled a small cabinet in my car today, which I struggled to drag from the car.  I tucked it into its spot and started the morning opening routine while the rain spattered the pavement outside. 

I moved through the suite, straightening price tags, pushing shelves into alignment, checking on the orchids that we’re selling for the son of one of our artists.  Since we’ve started this partnership, I’ve had to unearth an old inhaler.  I missed a pulmonology evaluation when the pandemic started and never established with an asthma doctor here.  As the months of lockdown slipped away, I decided to wean myself from maintenance drugs.  I haven’t had to use anything for at least three years.  I had an asthma attack waiting on our first orchid customer and now I’ve got an expired vial of Albuterol in my bag.  In similar fashion, I had to renew an Epi-pen prescription when we did a honey-tasting and I accidentally ingested a smear of the sticky stuff after washing dishes.  Ah, shop life.

The rain abated long enough for a half-dozen sales.  A few browsers stopped through, chatting about the cuteness of the store and the novelty of the artists’ creations.  By three or so, a gentle drizzle fell.  Quiet surrounded me.  I scrolled through my phone, idly looking for photographs to share on our Facebook page.  I stopped to study a series of shots taken on the levee road near my house of swans in the high winter water.  I felt a curl of tension ease deep in my gut.  Years ago, I shuddered at the thought of moving to the country, vigorously protesting the alien ways that I resisted adopting.  Now I tarry on the side of the road, leaning from my car window to gawk at passing birds.  Cars glide by without so much as slowing even though they have to change lanes to avoid collision.  The drivers understand the irresistible lure of swans a-swimming.

It’s the seventeenth day of the one-hundred and twenty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Where It All Began

I confess that I prefer to spend this day in the comfort of my home, isolated from the potential that I might again encounter a sun-blinded Iranian driving a VW.  I intended to write this passage at the exact temporal anniversary of my last such encounter but I forgot about the time difference.

So let me say it, here, now:  At 5:25 p.m. CST, on 09 February 1982, on Westport Road halfway between Broadway and Pennsylvania, in Kansas City, Missouri, I stepped off the curb and succumbed to that sun-blinded gentleman in his silver Scirroco.  He had not braked; he had not slowed.  The dazzling glare of the setting sun had completely hidden my form.  He plowed right into my left leg as though I did not exist.  I’ve written about this before now:  The catapult into the air over three stories; the curling into a ball to protect my head; the odd sensation of traveling beyond my body; the ethereal figure which gently pushed my spirit downward, the long rush until I smacked into the hood of the very car that had sent me flying.  The crash into his windshield.  The stunning vehemence of the launch forward eighty-two feet.  The thud as I hit the ground, still tightly rolled into a knot.  Film at eleven, oooo ahhhh ahhhh.

For quite a few years, I did not go anywhere on February 09th.  That superstition abated a decade or more ago.  But I did stay home today.  I had intended to go to the coast, and it would have been a good day for such a drive.  The sun warmed the air; the few chores that I’ve managed to finish could have waited another week.  I cancelled the trip because it seemed frivolous.  Now I wonder if it might have been cathartic instead.

From my 1982 experience, I formed an intense bond with the notion of angels.  Most of the time in the emergency room that day I huddled over my shattered right leg and cursed the divine entity that seemed to have brought me yet another spate of horrid luck.  Days later though, calmed by occasional spurts of morphine, I realized that an angel had saved me.  I told the story to anyone who would listen — the nurse, law school class mates, my worried mother.  They patted my arm and remarked that the mind plays tricks on us in moments of stress.  But I knew what I saw.  I stopped repeating the story but not believing it.  I had seen that same entity on a prior occasion when it had alerted me to a trespasser.  In 1984, it visited my mother to tell her about the cancer and how long she would live.  We walked in my mother’s garden and talked about the being’s comforting assurances.  My mother had forgotten about my own heavenly guide and I did not remind her.  I felt no need.  I let her have the moment.

When I decided to “go tiny”, I knew that I would name my house some variation of its ultimate  “Angel’s Haven”.  Some back-and-forth with various friends led to the singular possessive; most of them thought it should be plural possessive, but there’s always been only one angel.  She visited me twice and my mother once.  I wanted her to feel welcome in this small home.  My son gave me a metal angel that we bolted to the outside by the porch light.  I have an angel on my door, and angels peppered throughout my admittedly maximalist decor.  My affinity for the celestial being prompts many a Christmas gift and the collection continues to grow. 

As I sit typing, the quiet light of my eastern window illuminates the plastic angel that I brought from my childhood home.  She has gathered dust, to be honest.  She once hung from a satin ribbon which has long since been lost.  But she kneels on the sill beside my son’s toy turtle, a Rockin’ Rio Vista Rock, and a sign giving me a good piece of advice.  Above her, a heart sings out, twirling beneath a stained glass bird that my boy made for me in elementary school.  I cannot get my fill of the sight.  I gaze outward as the sun begins to set and the light grows dim.

It’s the ninth day of the one-hundred and twenty-second month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Swiftly go the days

My siblings forget that I live in another time zone.  They start their bantering texts at seven-thirty their time, before my alarm rings.  When I remark on this intrusion, people admonish me, suggesting that I should turn off my phone or tolerate the startling blast into my dark home.  But if I don’t leave my phone active, I would never know about an emergency.  One of my siblings insists that I should be grateful to be contacted by anyone at all.  She  might be right.

The rain holds off until I get out of the house and on my way to town.  When I first peek my nose outside to check on the weather, I see a glimmer of sunrise on the trees rising above my neighbor’s house.   To the south, another glow kisses the roof of the marina slips.  I stand and watch the rise of the amber light.  The sky lightens while across its delicate expanse, a flock of sandhill cranes cuts their raucous way through the wispy clouds.  

By night the wind shakes my house.  For the hundredth time, I reflect on my desperate search for someone to get my generator running.  I can only hope that my dilatory search lands me on a competent helper.  The lights shine and the heater hums.  In a few minutes, I will clean the day’s dishes and struggle through the papers on my desk.  I’ve moved them around a hundred times.  I’m hoping that today will be the lucky hundred and first attempt to harness the rubble.  

My early entry into the conscious hours haunts me.  I feel my eyelids flutter as I listen to a news program and scroll through social media.  The month draws to a close.  The rapidity with which this year slips away startles me.  So swiftly go the days.  The need to compile a list of tasks which I long to accomplish presses itself against my psyche.  But in this moment, I listen to the wind and the rain, and the rattle of the trees against my window.  With luck, I will see another dawn.  If my siblings interrupt my sleep, I pledge to hold my tongue and let them fill my sleepy moments with their cheerful nonsense.  

It’s the thirty-first day of the one-hundred and twenty-first month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.