Tangled up in blue

Dad and Ben on our last visit in June.

It's been over two months since my dad died.

Lately, my heart has been racing a bit too much. Localized anxiety. Generalized chaos. I put my head on my pillow and my mind churns and my heart runs away. I write things down on lists and then forget to do them. I remember things I need to take care of while I'm down in the pasture or in the shower, and then forget to write them on the list.

I keep wondering when the clouds will break, when I will calm down, when my head will clear. Things are easing up, but before me still lies my father's memorial service, an event that will bring us closure of one sort while opening up my heart, as well. I am coordinating the event (which we're calling "A Celebration of His Life" and which we're holding the day after what would have been his 79th birthday). I have been feeling blocked about the plan, the design, of it all. The more concrete details are taken care of. But what I will say, what we will read, what pieces of poetry or music I want to include is all up to me and still undecided.

We will gather at Kingsley Manor, in the Sky Room, a lovely spot at the top of the building he lived in. When he was alive and I was visiting we had several wonderful family and friend gatherings up on the roof, my cousin Beth bringing in large salads and pizzas and platters of bbq chicken wings. Dad would sit in his motorized scooter, enjoying the kids buzzing around and the variety of folk who came to enjoy each others' company and the view of all Los Angeles from that rooftop patio. So it is appropriate that we celebrate him there one more time.

The last time I saw him, in June of this year, we had one of those parties. He was both thrilled that we were there and exhausted by what it required of him. I noticed that time that he was a bit befuddled, a bit more distracted, and much more tired than I'd ever seen him before. It worried me.

In the past, my dad held it together at each momentous juncture in his aging process. After a serious car accident in 1985 when he temporarily lost the vision in both of his eyes, he only told me about it months later. (I'd been living in Italy at the time.) After that he suffered from some neurological issues that were finally diagnosed as Multiple Sclerosis in about 1990. He took it in stride over the many years the disease progressed, somewhat resigned to the weekly shots of interferon, enjoying the chance to flirt with the nurse. At my wedding in 1991, he proudly walked me down the aisle, dragging his bum leg along behind, tripping on the unfortunate white sheet marking the path in the grass, and almost falling down. I never heard him complain about that.

In fact, he never complained about his condition. He almost went the opposite direction. When it finally came to pass that he needed to move into an assisted living facility four years ago he argued fiercely that it wasn't necessary. After all, he was still young, in his 70's and those places are full of old fogeys. But, after a painfully difficult visit up to us it was obvious to me and Mark that there was no other option. He was living at the time in an apartment that was not wheelchair accessible, he could barely walk 10 feet, he needed a cane or two, and when he was feeling ill he had no way to care for himself.

I resorted to tough love.

I told him that if he didn't look for a place to live now when he was in relatively good shape, we would most certainly face a crisis situation when he took a fall, injured himself, was in the hospital incapacitated, and I would have to find the quickest, easiest solution, even if it wasn't the most desirable. I wasn't particularly nice about it, as I recall. But Mark was. I remember quite clearly Mark's gentleness at that moment. I'm not sure why I was so hard on Dad. Maybe because I'd been talking about it for a while with him and he'd been avoiding it, steering around it, denying how bad the situation actually was. I felt like I could see the future and I could feel him turning his face away.

I also knew I'd be left holding the bag, the one who would have to pick up the pieces, so I needed him to pay attention.

I need to say right here, I need to interject, that I never had a storybook, fairytale relationship with my dad. He was too distracted by work, his own pursuits, his needs, his second wife, his other family to really be there for me. He rarely picked up the pieces for me, and certainly never did after my parents divorced when I was 15. So when I think about that tough love speech, that was love tangled up with anger, anger about having to be a grown up for my own father. It had me in knots.

Ultimately, he heard me or maybe it was Mark, and a couple weeks later the family took a trip down to LA so that Dad and I could take care of it. We toured several retirement homes and found Kingsley. It was basically in the barrio, a section of LA near freeways, downtown and a very ethnic neighborhood full of Armenians, Salvadorans, Latinos, and Asians. The neighborhood has a fairly run down and scruffy feel, but Kingsley, formerly the Lutheran home, is a beautiful oasis in the midst of the city. The campus takes up several acres, has architecturally detailed old brick buildings, rose gardens, green lawns, and patios. The dining room was nice and bright and the people seemed happy. Dad signed up right away and moved in within a month.

I know he was feeling tentative, moving this direction is a one way ticket. (I've often said that it's like moving into the college dorms only people don't graduate, they die. And as awful as it sounds, it's the truth.) He was hesitant about giving up his independence, but as soon as he got there he was relieved. He called me within the first week to thank me, something I think he'd never done before in my whole life. He told me that he hadn't realized how lonely he was and how hard life had gotten for him. As soon as he moved in he was made to feel welcome. People greeted him every time he left his room. He called the ladies at his dining table "My Girl Scouts" and they were happy to have him there, it seemed. Soon he had a new girlfriend!

But the other side of that coin was that as soon as he moved in his condition worsened. While we'd told them he was still ambulatory, within a couple weeks he only used the motorized scooter to get around. Walking was so effortful, he endeavored to never have to.

Yet, life was good there. There was that slide, and then things evened out for quite a while.

But later that year he had a mild heart attack and again we saw a downhill turn. Less mobility, less energy. Several months later he had a bout of pneumonia which left him in the hospital for two weeks. Before he came home we arranged for a caregiver to come in the mornings to help him get up and dressed. He protested and we insisted. He agreed to it "for a few months" and we knew it was for good. A few weeks later he again thanked me, realizing after the fact how much energy and how many hours had been devoted to just the basic first steps of each day. It was a relief to have help with those tasks, to be able to conserve his energy.

Dad never complained. He never moaned about his lot in life. After the pneumonia I spent a full day trying to organize his medications, something he assured me he had a handle on. There were so many! At least 15 including vitamins! I was completely overwhelmed by his situation, I could only imagine how it affected him to have so many "conditions" (besides the MS there was also Chronic Lymphocitic Leukemia, high blood pressure, depression, prediabetes, obesity...maybe more). About his decreasing mobility he never whined. He just faced his life with a positive attitude.

When he had to give up his car he lost a lot of mobility. I was thankful he'd managed to avoid any dreadful mishaps, but he was depressed, his vehicle being not only a symbol of his independence, but the last actual vestige of it. He still managed to go out to eat, enjoying the multitude of tiny ethnic restaurants in his neighborhood, but it wasn't the same as having wheels.

However, towards the end I heard more and more a tinge of loneliness in the small print of our conversations. He told me how the space he lived in was between bed, desk and bathroom. And that the fact was he didn't have much desire to go out of his room and socialize. I worried about that, seeing his weight increase, his energy decrease, and his mobility evaporate. Soon, I felt, we were going to have to talk about the second level of care at Kingsley; Siberia, as he called it.

A few weeks before he died he took a fall while getting into bed. Ordinarily he got into bed at about 7 pm, when Mildred, his loving caregiver came in to help him with his compression boot and do his nighttime routines. But that night he wasn't ready to go to bed, so he sat at his computer watching Rachel Maddow on MSNBC.com. When he was ready he turned his chair, aimed himself, and launched to the bed. But for some reason he missed and fell on the floor. He was unable to get himself up due to his weight (he was close to 300 lbs at that point) and his limited flexibility. His cell phone was on the table far from where he was and no one was going to be coming by to check on him until Mildred returned at 7 am to get him up the next morning. For four hours he scooted himself closer and closer to where his cell phone sat in its cradle charging. Finally, after all that time he was able to knock it down to where he could grab it and he called the front desk to get someone in to help him up.

I received a call from the head nurse the next morning. I could see the writing on the wall. Dad was surprised I was concerned. He downplayed it all, and told me he was fine. He told me that, but I think he knew.

That slide, that decent, was happening. I think Dad knew it and I knew it. I turned my face away from it, I really did.

Two nights before my father passed away he dreamt that his mother had come to get him. She held him in her arms.

I spoke to him after this, but he didn't tell me. He told Mildred and he told his Girl Scouts. They told me about it. They told me he was scared, he was quiet. It affected him a great deal.

When I heard this story I felt the truth of it open up my heart. My grandmother had come to get my father. He knew it was time and so he went with her.

I miss my dad these days. I can't quite believe how much I miss him. When I look at the photos of him they are all full of his life, his laugh, his somewhat annoying banter. He has always been a part of my life and now...I just want the joke to be over, I want him back so I can give him another hug and tell him I appreciate his strength and his optimism. I know I didn't do that enough when he was here and I don't feel guilty, but I do feel regret.

I guess, though, that's alright.

Go ahead, laugh

That's right. You can laugh at my weak attempt to control my life.

So much for waking up early to write. So much for going to bed early. Once!

Over the past 12 days my life swirled chaotically around me. I can't even begin to describe the issues I'm faced with, they bother me so much. Suffice it to say, I am taking a lot of deep breaths around here.

There is no end in the foreseeable future. Maybe by the beginning of next month things will calm down. I will be past a couple big hurdles. And maybe I'll be able to talk about them then.

For now, I am taking pleasure in the little moments in my life. The donkeys' squeaky-creaky bray, the taste of fresh baked banana bread (when life gives you mushy bananas--make banana bread! isn't that the saying?), and the insights on life from my youngest child.

The weather's changing, bringing gorgeous sunsets and foggy, foggy mornings. It's cooling down (well, some days are) so I've taken out my knitting again and starting some new projects. I've also begun to organize my craft studio/office space and that feels like something extremely positive.

November: Seriously Autumn. I'm ready for a new season. Very, very ready.

making space for the words

I used to keep journals before I became a word processor. I used to process my words with a pencil or pen and a beautiful little book on my bedside table. I’d write long, self-reflective entries on my dreams or my boyfriends or my kids. And I put them on a shelf for posterity.

Now I write a blog and enjoy the way it seeps out into the world and then comes back to me. It’s not as private, true. There are topics I won’t go into here that could be written in a personal journal, tucked away in my nightstand. But, there’s a beauty in writing for an audience that motivates me. That even makes me think of myself as a writer. I mean, A Writer. Maybe it’s my exhibitionist side (you didn’t know that about me, did you?). Or maybe it’s leftover from girlhood when I hated keeping secrets. I know that at this point in my life writing is one of my true loves and a craft I intend to hone and delve into and savor.

[I heard today that every day 81,000 new blogs appear on the internet. Sheesh. I’m trying not to feel like a needle in a haystack. I’m trying not to feel like I’m in junior high again, hoping to be in the “in crowd.”]

Regardless, now I journal on my blog and you, Dear Reader, may choose to read or move on.

Finding time to write, in fact, finding time to do anything on my “me” list is a challenge. But part of the challenge these days is a general lack of schedule or the willpower to abide by such. Other than things I need to get the kids to (the JC, 4H meetings, Park Day, Science class, Hebrew school, etc.) there aren't a lot of things I need to get myself to. And few, if any, of these things are in the early hours of the day. So I awake with Mark (who has to be at work somewhere around 8 or 8:30) and mosey on over to the computer to check email or read one of the 30 trillion blogs I love to follow. And eventually, far too late in the morning, I get downstairs and down to the pasture to feed my equines. When I get back up to the house a half hour later I wake the boys up. It's usually about 9:30 but sometimes it's 10 and then we really have to hustle to do our 15 minute tidy of one room of the house, have breakfast, other chores, pack a lunch (as if), and get going for the day. Or, on the days when they have no specific plans away from the house...then we fritter the time away. We do? Oh yes. We Fritter.

Would that I had the self-discipline to arise in the wee hours of the morn to write. Would that I had the self-discipline to walk right by the door to the office and go down the stairs in the half-light to feed the animals out in the muddy (right now) or dusty (last week) pasture. Just this one bit of self-control (don’t touch the keyboard, don’t check to see what emails came in overnight, don't sit down to read other people's blogs) would give me hours to write, to contemplate, to meditate before the boys got up. So, the truth is that if I prioritized my daily chores, and reminded myself that throwing down hay in the cold morning air is a task I do for myself, not drudgery, if I convinced myself that I have a job that actually starts every morning at 6 am rather than 9, I might actually have more peace, more me for me and more words to share with you.

I like this idea immensely. But then when the alarm goes off (we haven’t used an alarm except sporadically since all three boys started homeschooling five years ago) at 6 o'clock try to motivate me to jump out of bed. Sure, the first time, ok. But daily? I just don’t know. That is a challenge. A sacrifice. With my perimenopause insomnia, my nightowlishness, my late hour time wasting, 7 am is a tough hour at which to arise let alone 6.

Excuses aside though, I’m willing to give it a go.

Tomorrow I will rise in the dark, don my muddy jeans, wool socks, thermal tee, navy blue watch cap I knitted for my dad last year (and inherited on August 26th, the day after he died), flannel barn jacket, rainboots, and nitrile gloves. I'll stumble right by the warm office and trudge downstairs to collect from the fridge the ground flax seed and iodized salt and vitamin E supplements already measured out for the critters. I will step carefully down the sodden hill to the hay barn and be greeted by the squeaks and wuffles of my donkeys and horses. And when I'm done I'll get to come back inside to a warm cup of tea, a piece of toast, and my words waiting for crafting.

it's a journey, that's all i know

first view of tomales bay
taken with my iphone's awesome hipstamatic app

Sunday was drizzly as I returned, nourished, from our synagogue's Women's Retreat. Thirty hours with just us girls, singing, talking, praying, eating, laughing, and crying together. I gave and I received. And in the end enjoyed the journey so much.

The retreat is held bi-yearly at the Marconi Conference Center in Marshall, a small town known for its oysters on Tomales Bay. It's not far from where I live and I love that: getting away is so easy, just a 45 minute drive through the countryside and *poof* I'm in another world.

Well, ok, so the world isn't actually so terribly different from where I live, but there are no children to homeschool, no chores to do, no manure to pick up. A lot more estrogen and a lot less testosterone!

My life of late has been swirling around me, approaching a level of frenzy that I hadn't forseen. With Harry attending the JC, ballroom dancing, working at the synagogue, and practicing meditation at Spirit Rock in Marin, Mark and I barely see each other as we're driving him back and forth, picking him up or waiting for him in all those locations four nights a week. (He just got his driver's permit and began behind the wheel driving lessons this morning, but really, I'm not so excited about that anyways.) Add to that our blossoming homeschool group with weekly park days and teen and tween events. And then there's our new science class at Magi's house every couple weeks. And 4H club...and...and...you get the picture.

I've been trying to plan my father's memorial as well. And there just hasn't been much time.

Time. Lack of time. It's a recurring theme for me, have you noticed? It's not that I don't want to take the time for myself, nor is it a lack on Mark's part of trying to give me some space to do the things I need and want to do. It's just that I have a lot on my plate...a lot to accomplish...a lot of "to do's" to do. And maybe I'm not the best at prioritizing.

So, this weekend I prioritized. I put me at the top of my list. I put me up front and center. And the result was wonderful.

I helped lead services with music. Jewish music is one of my passions and I've been a songleader for years. This was my second time leading the retreat services and it was the best. Singing with women's voices, sharing new beautiful and meaningful music, praying while singing, singing to pray...all of that moves me like nothing else.

The Torah portion for this week was Lech L'cha...in which God speaks to Avram (not yet Abraham) and tells him He will lead him forward on a journey to a land he does not yet know (basically, "Avram, bubbeleh, trust Me! I'm the One and Only. Enough with the idols!"). Hence the theme of the weekend was journeys.

Now that is something that really resonated with me. My father's recent death, Ben's medical trials, recent hubbub in one of my homeschool communities, being a mother, entering menopause...all of this is a journey. I am constantly looking within and trying to find the right path, the right words, what is true for me. I feel like I live authentically and my life is full of blessings, but of late it has been hard to find myself in all my life swirling around me.

So, during the workshop periods on Saturday I went off by myself. I gave myself permission to not be social and to just be with my number one priority: ME.

First, I walked the amazing labyrinth created by Margo and Marcia from our congregation. Margo spoke about the journey and the symbolism of the labyrith at the Friday night service.

 from wikipedia.org: ...a single-path (unicursal) labyrinth has only a single, non-branching path, which leads to the center. A labyrinth in this sense has an unambiguous route to the center and back and is not designed to be difficult to navigate.

I did a meditative walk through the labyrinth, breathing in and out consciously with each step, repeating to myself: Breathe in, breathe out, step, step, step. I meditated on each footfall, I meditated on my breath. And when I got to the center I realized a few powerful metaphors about the labyrinth, namely:

• as you walk the path to the center you pass by all that you have already walked and all that you have yet to walk
• you enter the same way you exit
• from the center you can see the whole journey, beginning to end
• going in my eyes were on the ground, the path, and going out my eyes went up, to the sky...I trusted that I could find my way more going out

It was a powerful experience. I loved the quiet there in the field, the simplicity of the path of pinecones, the sounds of ravens and the wind in the pines. I learned a lot and felt myself relaxing and opening up.

I also sat and sketched this scene through the trees, of the fishing boats on the quiet bay.

After lunch, I gathered several layers (it had gotten quiet cold, a real sense of winter approaching), my brand new watercolors, my watercolor paper, my pencil case, my iPhone for music, and a large and small jar of water for drinking and painting. I didn't know what I was going to do exactly, but I knew there was something that wanted to come forth. I wandered the hills of the conference center for a bit and found a quiet bench looking out over the bay, looking away from the activity buildings, so I knew I would not get distracted.

I set my materials up and bundled up myself, turned my iPhone onto a loop of Craig Taubman music and opened up my art supplies.

It didn't take long before I'd written "me" in the center and started to mind map, asking myself over and over: Who am I? Mind mapping is a great process, one I've used many times to find clarity. I have a book I love called Mapping Inner Space that has been an inspiration for this type of process. It's verbal and artistic, emotional, psychological and very creative. I used it years ago when I was struggling with the idea of bringing Toby and Ben home to homeschool them, too, and it really helped bring clarity to the situation.

So, when I began the process on that quiet, cold hillside, I knew it was just what I needed. But I kept getting caught up in the words. Mother, daughter, sister, friend, wife...all those words seemed to define me from the perspective of how I related to someone else. "Who am I at my CORE?" I kept asking myself. And then I started listing words, turned off the editor, and finally found them:

caregiver  leader  creator  sharer  partner 
do-er  teacher  giver  lover

These words started to make sense to me. For a long time I drew pictures, painted colors, and wrote more words to help the meaning surface. And then, near the end of my available time, I realized I needed to include my dark side...the side that worries and fears the worst. So I added "pessimist" under a dark cloud, and I felt that the work was more complete.

Here it is:

I have shown it to many friends, the women at the retreat, and my homeschool moms. Many people are loving it, but one thing they don't get is that it's not a work of art for me. It's a process. A piece, not a whole. Not even complete. Just like I am...a work in progress. I realized yesterday while talking to my friend Mindy at the park, that I'd left out a big piece: questioner, I might call it, but it will hold the ideas of faith, spirituality, Jew, God or no God, the universe and beyond. It amazes me that on the retreat I could have left out that part...but maybe I just didn't even have the space, the emotional space, to start looking deeper into that right then. Who knows?

It's all a journey. That's all I know.

**************

A friend of mine, G, has posted a picture of her "self-portrait". I urge you to check it out and then go make your own!

letting go

Today I, after feeding the equines, I sat on my deck in the cool of the morning and meditated.

My mind refused to be silenced. Though I repeated, "Breathe in. Breathe out," it would not quiet down. Thoughts of conflicts, of my to do list, of the rest of the day, judgments about myself and others, even what I would write about it eventually buzzed in my skull.

"Let it go," I suggested.

"BE QUIET," I ordered.

And still there was only noise.

I sent blessings of well being to my friends and my family. I blessed myself. I breathed in. I breathed out.

All through me ran a stream of unhappiness, of judgment and of inertia.

And then I decided that all of that, all that negativity was a choice I was making. (I've been reading Sylvia Bornstein's "Happiness is an Inside Job: Practicing for a Joyful Life.") And wasn't it the most self-indulgent kind of choice? So, instead I chose to let it all go, to enjoy what I have, to lighten my load.

After 20 minutes of struggle I finally felt at peace. I opened my eyes, breathed in deeply and hung some laundry on the line.