Late at night. Almost too tired to sleep after driving 6 hours in the rain, much of it in holiday traffic. (Why do we do this to ourselves!?). Know I need to sleep but have stumbled on Pandora, something I didn't even know existed, a place where they play beautiful music or at least music of your choice. I chose 'yoga music' so have, at the moment, David Evenson and the Soundings Ensemble. What joy. And for free!
Feel like I've stumbled into a like- minded community. My friends don't live nearby so there is little to no chance for long coffee or wine fueled chats. And it gets a bit lonely here sometimes. I am in transition from wife and lover and best friend to carer. It's not a role I like but it is what it is and as I'm in this marriage for love and for better or worse, I'll take it. He is my Richard, still my Richard after all. But, sometimes it's a bit lonely as I am losing my best friend. So it's a pretty good deal to find Rabelle Society and Yoga by Candace and Pandora. Everyone needs a support group even if that group is anonymous and no more aware of me than I am of the fly on the stable wall. Just reading their thoughts, that there are people out there who think like me, that are introverts and are okay with that. Well, that's just plain marmalade!
In fact, it's all fine. As I said to someone today at the Great Annual Family Get Together, if I think about the future I get frightened and depressed but right now? I'm fine. Richard's fine. Met a neighbour on the road yesterday. He asked whether I'd had a good christmas. I'm upright and ambulatory, I replied, so I'm good.
Even Peter Greste, writing from an Egyptian prison, managed to find the good in Christmas. If he can what complaint dare I make?
None at all. And for that I am truly grateful.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Friday, December 26, 2014
Three Cliches, New and Improved!
A young woman came to return some horsey items I'd lent her months ago. Without knowing the details I knew she'd split with her boyfriend of five years. Worse, they'd split three weeks after their engagement party. They'd moved away, their house was sold and except hearing through the grapevine she was still in the area I knew nothing more. So she came and we sat on the deck swishing flies and making small talk. Finally I asked if she was all right. Did she want to talk.
"I'll cry if I talk about it," she said. But it seemed she wanted to talk for without going into details, she told me. I didn't need to know the details, the result was sitting in front of me crying, hating herself for what she'd done, grieving and angry and forlorn all at the same time.
"Come on in away from these damned flies," I said. I got her a tissue and a glass of water for it was hot and muggy and she needed something to do with her hands. Got myself one too as well as a washcloth to mop sweat. Thank you Menopause for the wisdom of years and hot flushes!
Wisdom. I don't know for sure if I helped her. She has to decide to be helped but I gave it my best shot. For there is much to be thankful for in my crone age, as opposed to the maiden and mother ages, which I've left behind long ago. Experience. The Long Eye. The ability to see the Big Picture. And Gratitude that it is not me enduring what she is enduring now. It was once. Oh, the details were different but the Grief and the Drama and the Emotional Rollercoaster were the same. And from such experience cliches are born. But as ever, one tries to imbue the old and timeworn truths with newer shiny words in the, perhaps vain, hope that they won't be seen as cliches.
Cliche #1. This too shall pass. She is very young. Her grief and pain are so great, it seems as though they are all that ever was, all that ever shall be. But the worst despair is worn thin by constant use. And finally it fades to a bearable level. It is never forgotten but eventually it only bruises, not cuts in the remembering.
Cliche #2. Chalk it up to Experience. She made a big mistake, a whopper of a mistake. And she's paying big time. However, this mistake is an experience, an experiment she'll never have to try again. She'll make other mistakes, just as I do. But I usually don't make the same mistakes twice, and if it's a Biggie, never. Nor shall she. This one has made such an indelible mark on her soul and her sense of self (shame is a great teacher). One understands the lesson immediately and never ever forgets it.
Cliche #3. It isn't the End of the World. She is consumed with guilt, grief and pain and it amazes her that the world continues to continue. She has lost her soul mate (although, because they are still in almost daily contact, I suspect, given time, they will find a way to reunite). Why does the world not implode? Why does it not turn black and die? Because it is the stage in which we play out our lives. The stage is our construct, it is the infrastructure about which we play and live and love and lose. It is all of a piece. We made it. We Are It.
Cliche #4. Forgive and Love Yourself. Do that first and everything else will follow. Asked her if she thought he would find her tear swollen, snot slick face attractive. He'd always been proud of her strength, her beauty, her enthusiasm and 'Can Do' attitude. Now she was weak and needy. She thinks she is not worthy of his love and is so ashamed of herself that she cannot love and forgive herself. We spent a lot of time on that.
How well I know the insidious logic of self-loathing. How dare we love ourselves? It is vainglorious to even like ourselves. Humility and suffering is the western-christian ethic we absorb by osmosis if not by direct teaching. Especially if you are a woman. We define ourselves through the prism of others opinions. I thought perhaps her generation of women had shattered those particular spectacles but it seems not. She was worthless because he, his friends and family said she was.
She hugged me as she left. Asked if I was superstitious because she'd dreamed that I'd died. Told her, after swiftly double checking that I wasn't superstitious, was I? that dreams are all about us so that if she dreamed I'd died it was because something in me reminded her of something in her, that the funeral was the death of an aspect of her. Which makes sense. I hope.
I hope too that she heals sooner rather than later. That she will heal I have no doubt. We're made of tough stuff. We have to be to survive the things we put ourselves through. For in the end, it is our story. Every single second. And ain't it grand?
"I'll cry if I talk about it," she said. But it seemed she wanted to talk for without going into details, she told me. I didn't need to know the details, the result was sitting in front of me crying, hating herself for what she'd done, grieving and angry and forlorn all at the same time.
"Come on in away from these damned flies," I said. I got her a tissue and a glass of water for it was hot and muggy and she needed something to do with her hands. Got myself one too as well as a washcloth to mop sweat. Thank you Menopause for the wisdom of years and hot flushes!
Wisdom. I don't know for sure if I helped her. She has to decide to be helped but I gave it my best shot. For there is much to be thankful for in my crone age, as opposed to the maiden and mother ages, which I've left behind long ago. Experience. The Long Eye. The ability to see the Big Picture. And Gratitude that it is not me enduring what she is enduring now. It was once. Oh, the details were different but the Grief and the Drama and the Emotional Rollercoaster were the same. And from such experience cliches are born. But as ever, one tries to imbue the old and timeworn truths with newer shiny words in the, perhaps vain, hope that they won't be seen as cliches.
Cliche #1. This too shall pass. She is very young. Her grief and pain are so great, it seems as though they are all that ever was, all that ever shall be. But the worst despair is worn thin by constant use. And finally it fades to a bearable level. It is never forgotten but eventually it only bruises, not cuts in the remembering.
Cliche #2. Chalk it up to Experience. She made a big mistake, a whopper of a mistake. And she's paying big time. However, this mistake is an experience, an experiment she'll never have to try again. She'll make other mistakes, just as I do. But I usually don't make the same mistakes twice, and if it's a Biggie, never. Nor shall she. This one has made such an indelible mark on her soul and her sense of self (shame is a great teacher). One understands the lesson immediately and never ever forgets it.
Cliche #3. It isn't the End of the World. She is consumed with guilt, grief and pain and it amazes her that the world continues to continue. She has lost her soul mate (although, because they are still in almost daily contact, I suspect, given time, they will find a way to reunite). Why does the world not implode? Why does it not turn black and die? Because it is the stage in which we play out our lives. The stage is our construct, it is the infrastructure about which we play and live and love and lose. It is all of a piece. We made it. We Are It.
Cliche #4. Forgive and Love Yourself. Do that first and everything else will follow. Asked her if she thought he would find her tear swollen, snot slick face attractive. He'd always been proud of her strength, her beauty, her enthusiasm and 'Can Do' attitude. Now she was weak and needy. She thinks she is not worthy of his love and is so ashamed of herself that she cannot love and forgive herself. We spent a lot of time on that.
How well I know the insidious logic of self-loathing. How dare we love ourselves? It is vainglorious to even like ourselves. Humility and suffering is the western-christian ethic we absorb by osmosis if not by direct teaching. Especially if you are a woman. We define ourselves through the prism of others opinions. I thought perhaps her generation of women had shattered those particular spectacles but it seems not. She was worthless because he, his friends and family said she was.
She hugged me as she left. Asked if I was superstitious because she'd dreamed that I'd died. Told her, after swiftly double checking that I wasn't superstitious, was I? that dreams are all about us so that if she dreamed I'd died it was because something in me reminded her of something in her, that the funeral was the death of an aspect of her. Which makes sense. I hope.
I hope too that she heals sooner rather than later. That she will heal I have no doubt. We're made of tough stuff. We have to be to survive the things we put ourselves through. For in the end, it is our story. Every single second. And ain't it grand?
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Still Here
There's a tightening in my core, like I'm pulling in and concentrating my energy. We're going to get out of here. Have almost convinced Richard to drastically drop the price on the house, in total taking $76,000 off so we can sell up and move. In 7 months we've had exactly one inspection. One. Obviously we're not meeting the market. Dropped it $26,000 and still no joy - but that's by the buy (a typofreudian slip - so want someone to BUY this place).
Haven't written in ages - computer dramas of dire proportions (lost most everything). Still not 100%. Have been far more disciplined after getting sloppy, gluttonous and feeling the effects of less energy, less self esteem. Only put on a couple of kilos but always felt bloated. I have the willpower to quit smoking but have trouble controlling portion size. No problem in eating good, nay excellent food, just eat too much of it. Or did. Not too many slips now and the result is little short of amazing. No, not in suddenly being a size 6 but in how I feel. Much more energy. Think when one is bloated it's because food is lounging around in the gut taking energy for digestion that could go into living. Not advocating anorexia just common sense. My enthusiasm for everything sometimes goes awry and since I've learned to cook (still can't believe that I love to cook after a lifetime of believing it a most vile activity) I love what I create. And eat it too!
Still. Some other factors. Much more consistent with yoga. More like 7 days a week rather than 5. Went to Woodford to visit Gabi and attended a couple of yoga classes. Learned and practiced the 5 Tibetan Rites (http://www.lifeevents.org/5-tibetans-energy-rejuvenation-exercises.htm) at one of the classes and have incorporated them into my practice, more to encourage Richard who is also doing them, then because I need to add on another 10 minutes into a practice that already takes an hour. There are, however, two of the exercises, No. 2 and 4, which illustrate how weak I am in those areas.
The other thing is running. Thanks to yoga my nearly 60 year old joints can cope with the concussion without aching so much they keep me awake at night. Have attempted to take up running half a dozen (or more) times in the past 20 years and have always been defeated by the pain. There is still pain (I'm so unfit!) but it's a good pain which will lessen with time. Somewhat embarrassing however. I've got the two whippets, Jamaica and Radar, with me while I *run*. When I'm *running* up a steep hill, Jamaica keeps trotting but Radar gives a big sigh and walks. It's a fast walk but even so!
I ran for years and gave up because of a) the smoking finally taking its toll and b) the pain in my hips. So far so good and I'm so chuffed. I love the way running makes me feel and I want that fitness again. Now that I don't smoke (will be 3 years in May) I feel that I've earned the right to those running induced endorphins.
More consistent with the meditation attempts. After how many years? I should be an 'experienced meditator'. Ha. Still a flibbertygibbett but had a tiny experience which had me googling scary meditation (nothing really, a flush of energy through my body which was hard to contain).
There's another reason for this get fit regime. It's Richard. Things are good health wise. He's eating well, taking the Parkinson's medication, walking, and as mentioned, doing the Tibetan 5 Rites 4 or 5 times a week. But his mind isn't as it should be. Sometimes it's scary. We had to buy a television as the old one crapped itself. Took measurements for the cabinet so that the new tv would fit. He saw that televisions are measured diagonally so that a 32" is a diagonal measurement across the screen. He panicked, certain that our cabinet measurements, width and height, wouldn't work. He forgot how to put batteries in the remote, well not forgot but put them in wrong, something he never would have done before. I had to draw a diagram in the dirt yesterday to show him which yard gates would be open and which closed to let Balthazar out overnight but keep the other two in. He's been yarding and unyarding the horses for 20 years. He forgets names and places and it scares him. He is more loving than ever and although I know he loves me, part of it I think is needing reassurance. It must be frightening to know that things are not as they were. I can't save him from it but I can be there for him. At the same time, sometimes it is a little claustrophobic and the space allowed by yoga and walking is necessary for my peace of mind.
But it's all good. We are still blessed. Healthy and loved and loving, the animals good save for the untimely loss of Tony to an intruding brown tree snake (found the hold, bandicoot made and sealed it). So can't complain - except that we have no house buyers!
Haven't written in ages - computer dramas of dire proportions (lost most everything). Still not 100%. Have been far more disciplined after getting sloppy, gluttonous and feeling the effects of less energy, less self esteem. Only put on a couple of kilos but always felt bloated. I have the willpower to quit smoking but have trouble controlling portion size. No problem in eating good, nay excellent food, just eat too much of it. Or did. Not too many slips now and the result is little short of amazing. No, not in suddenly being a size 6 but in how I feel. Much more energy. Think when one is bloated it's because food is lounging around in the gut taking energy for digestion that could go into living. Not advocating anorexia just common sense. My enthusiasm for everything sometimes goes awry and since I've learned to cook (still can't believe that I love to cook after a lifetime of believing it a most vile activity) I love what I create. And eat it too!
Still. Some other factors. Much more consistent with yoga. More like 7 days a week rather than 5. Went to Woodford to visit Gabi and attended a couple of yoga classes. Learned and practiced the 5 Tibetan Rites (http://www.lifeevents.org/5-tibetans-energy-rejuvenation-exercises.htm) at one of the classes and have incorporated them into my practice, more to encourage Richard who is also doing them, then because I need to add on another 10 minutes into a practice that already takes an hour. There are, however, two of the exercises, No. 2 and 4, which illustrate how weak I am in those areas.
The other thing is running. Thanks to yoga my nearly 60 year old joints can cope with the concussion without aching so much they keep me awake at night. Have attempted to take up running half a dozen (or more) times in the past 20 years and have always been defeated by the pain. There is still pain (I'm so unfit!) but it's a good pain which will lessen with time. Somewhat embarrassing however. I've got the two whippets, Jamaica and Radar, with me while I *run*. When I'm *running* up a steep hill, Jamaica keeps trotting but Radar gives a big sigh and walks. It's a fast walk but even so!
I ran for years and gave up because of a) the smoking finally taking its toll and b) the pain in my hips. So far so good and I'm so chuffed. I love the way running makes me feel and I want that fitness again. Now that I don't smoke (will be 3 years in May) I feel that I've earned the right to those running induced endorphins.
More consistent with the meditation attempts. After how many years? I should be an 'experienced meditator'. Ha. Still a flibbertygibbett but had a tiny experience which had me googling scary meditation (nothing really, a flush of energy through my body which was hard to contain).
There's another reason for this get fit regime. It's Richard. Things are good health wise. He's eating well, taking the Parkinson's medication, walking, and as mentioned, doing the Tibetan 5 Rites 4 or 5 times a week. But his mind isn't as it should be. Sometimes it's scary. We had to buy a television as the old one crapped itself. Took measurements for the cabinet so that the new tv would fit. He saw that televisions are measured diagonally so that a 32" is a diagonal measurement across the screen. He panicked, certain that our cabinet measurements, width and height, wouldn't work. He forgot how to put batteries in the remote, well not forgot but put them in wrong, something he never would have done before. I had to draw a diagram in the dirt yesterday to show him which yard gates would be open and which closed to let Balthazar out overnight but keep the other two in. He's been yarding and unyarding the horses for 20 years. He forgets names and places and it scares him. He is more loving than ever and although I know he loves me, part of it I think is needing reassurance. It must be frightening to know that things are not as they were. I can't save him from it but I can be there for him. At the same time, sometimes it is a little claustrophobic and the space allowed by yoga and walking is necessary for my peace of mind.
But it's all good. We are still blessed. Healthy and loved and loving, the animals good save for the untimely loss of Tony to an intruding brown tree snake (found the hold, bandicoot made and sealed it). So can't complain - except that we have no house buyers!
Friday, October 31, 2014
What is Good and Evil
Watching storms appear and disappear on the radar. Driest October on record. Hottest too. When will we wake up and do something serious about climate change?
Don't know how people cope with stress. I'm retired, living the dream, our bills are paid, my husband loves me, I enjoy perfect health yet there is anxiety. Sometimes, when I'm walking the dogs, I feel if I could just walk fast enough, I'd outrun it. I'd run except I pay in aches and pains and sleepless nights. So I walk; faster and faster and faster, like I'm trying to break the sound barrier, or disappear into a wormhole to arrive in another place, another dimension. Fantastical yes, but it feels like that. Outstriding stress.
Then I take a series of deep breaths, get centered, accept that I can't save everything, that pain and suffering and death are as much a part of life as joy and peace and birth.
It's still the great unanswered conundrum that I've never read an acceptable answer to. Pain and suffering and death. If we have the concept of goodness and joy and happiness and it seems to be bred into us to seek it, to celebrate it when we find it, and to castigate ourselves when we are the cause of the loss of it to another being, then why is the world so monstrous?
I love praying mantis'. When I find one of the inch long brown ones in the house I carry it outside so the cats won't find it. But that mantis will catch a bug and eat it alive, starting at the head. Do we accept and celebrate the cruel as well as the kind? Is it all, in the end, one and the same? Do we make a choice, coming down on the side of the Fred Wests, ISIS jihadists and Gacys, finding our happiness, our valid happiness there? Do we not see the big picture and that's why we get mired in morals and ethics and depression?
It's not theoretical science to say we are just a collection of oscillating waves and fragments of space that disappear as soon as an attempt is made to quantify them. So if it's all a dream, do I just embrace the dream, mine and everyone else's as having equal value? Is there really no good or evil except that I have an opinion of it?
Can't accept that. Almost a physical sensation of revulsion.
So guess I must accept the stress of knowing how much pain and suffering and death there is in the world. And, selfishly, try not to think of it too much. To keep on taking those deep centering breaths and paint pretty pictures.
Don't know how people cope with stress. I'm retired, living the dream, our bills are paid, my husband loves me, I enjoy perfect health yet there is anxiety. Sometimes, when I'm walking the dogs, I feel if I could just walk fast enough, I'd outrun it. I'd run except I pay in aches and pains and sleepless nights. So I walk; faster and faster and faster, like I'm trying to break the sound barrier, or disappear into a wormhole to arrive in another place, another dimension. Fantastical yes, but it feels like that. Outstriding stress.
Then I take a series of deep breaths, get centered, accept that I can't save everything, that pain and suffering and death are as much a part of life as joy and peace and birth.
It's still the great unanswered conundrum that I've never read an acceptable answer to. Pain and suffering and death. If we have the concept of goodness and joy and happiness and it seems to be bred into us to seek it, to celebrate it when we find it, and to castigate ourselves when we are the cause of the loss of it to another being, then why is the world so monstrous?
I love praying mantis'. When I find one of the inch long brown ones in the house I carry it outside so the cats won't find it. But that mantis will catch a bug and eat it alive, starting at the head. Do we accept and celebrate the cruel as well as the kind? Is it all, in the end, one and the same? Do we make a choice, coming down on the side of the Fred Wests, ISIS jihadists and Gacys, finding our happiness, our valid happiness there? Do we not see the big picture and that's why we get mired in morals and ethics and depression?
It's not theoretical science to say we are just a collection of oscillating waves and fragments of space that disappear as soon as an attempt is made to quantify them. So if it's all a dream, do I just embrace the dream, mine and everyone else's as having equal value? Is there really no good or evil except that I have an opinion of it?
Can't accept that. Almost a physical sensation of revulsion.
So guess I must accept the stress of knowing how much pain and suffering and death there is in the world. And, selfishly, try not to think of it too much. To keep on taking those deep centering breaths and paint pretty pictures.
Friday, October 3, 2014
Non Smoking Zone
Sometimes it just hits me. How insanely fortunate I am. Food, shelter, love, companionship, satisfying pursuits, sanity, health, (just noticed I put food first. Typical). There's a dull patina of guilt associated with the above list. What did I ever do to deserve them? Must come from a past life as I've certainly not led an unselfish, unsullied life this time around. Nevertheless, there they are. Blessing beyond measure.
Since quitting smoking 2 1/2 years ago, even my breath has been the source of a healthy dose of gratitude. When I think of it, breathing, I have to take a deep chest full with unbearably gratifying breath. How good is that? I could be dead (no breath), hooked up to a respirator or suffering from asthma or emphysema or some such thing where breathing is an ongoing fight. Instead, despite over 40 years of smoking, I've been given a second chance and boy, don't I know it! When I am mindful (read - when I am here and not lost in some storytelling popcorn eating haze of daydreaming) I gulp big lungfuls of air just for sheer delight. It's so delicious. Perhaps people who have never abused themselves with cigarettes can't understand but when you smoke your lungs lose elasticity. You can't take a deep breath. Impossible. You inhale so far and it's as though you've hit a wall. Here and no further so there is no satisfying stretch, like stretching cramped too-long-sitting-muscles. It is quite awful. I used to almost get there by opening my mouth and trying to stretch using chest muscles in a poor and ultimately frustrating facsimile. Now I don't have to. Sure, there's a long way to go. Forty years of smoking damage isn't undone in two but the difference even now is profound.
And I feel so sorry for the people I know who smoke. Can't help them, can't even say anything because I know what it's like when you smoke. You're addicted and mentally turn off anything that damages the fragile reasons you've made to give yourself permission to smoke. I did it so well, so thoroughly for so long. Nothing anyone could have said would have made me change my mind. So they smoke and they cough and they smell and they have to budget for their smokes as it's unbelievably expensive now and I am sorry.
I am free and oh, isn't that breath SWEET?
Since quitting smoking 2 1/2 years ago, even my breath has been the source of a healthy dose of gratitude. When I think of it, breathing, I have to take a deep chest full with unbearably gratifying breath. How good is that? I could be dead (no breath), hooked up to a respirator or suffering from asthma or emphysema or some such thing where breathing is an ongoing fight. Instead, despite over 40 years of smoking, I've been given a second chance and boy, don't I know it! When I am mindful (read - when I am here and not lost in some storytelling popcorn eating haze of daydreaming) I gulp big lungfuls of air just for sheer delight. It's so delicious. Perhaps people who have never abused themselves with cigarettes can't understand but when you smoke your lungs lose elasticity. You can't take a deep breath. Impossible. You inhale so far and it's as though you've hit a wall. Here and no further so there is no satisfying stretch, like stretching cramped too-long-sitting-muscles. It is quite awful. I used to almost get there by opening my mouth and trying to stretch using chest muscles in a poor and ultimately frustrating facsimile. Now I don't have to. Sure, there's a long way to go. Forty years of smoking damage isn't undone in two but the difference even now is profound.
And I feel so sorry for the people I know who smoke. Can't help them, can't even say anything because I know what it's like when you smoke. You're addicted and mentally turn off anything that damages the fragile reasons you've made to give yourself permission to smoke. I did it so well, so thoroughly for so long. Nothing anyone could have said would have made me change my mind. So they smoke and they cough and they smell and they have to budget for their smokes as it's unbelievably expensive now and I am sorry.
I am free and oh, isn't that breath SWEET?
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Richard returns today after 2 days on the coast. He's catching up with Helen and his old mentor, Heather. Have asked him to 'inhale' the coast, to hold the image of the sea as a goal so that we stride ever closer to The Move. Have a picture of our house from the ad in the newspaper stuck to the fridge. Have printed across it in bold black letters SOLD as a kind of sympathetic magic or a metaphysical attempt to rearrange the vibrations to match the dream.
The burning has already begun. Neighbours on either side have burnt some of their hills. But there's so much more to burn and the season is young. I don't want to be here while they do for I can't pretend or distance myself from the destruction and death. And it gets harder each year.
Every morning around 6:30 a commercial jet flies overhead. It's trajectory is Coolangatta. Every morning I stop what I'm doing and watch it pass, the sun gilding the fuselage and wings. The sun from over the ocean. The sun which glows on Byron and Cabarita. The sun that the Tweed Valley birds sing into being. Our sun. When I see it I'm there, in that ancient green caldera, in our house with a view of Mt. Warning, with the smell of the sea on the breeze and the gurgle of water from all those rivers and streams sliding along my bones.
I do try and be patient, really I do. The right time and all that. I know it will be the right time but I devoutly wish that right time comes soon. Every time I ride or walk the dogs or even go outside I see the beauty and the magic of this place. It isn't the place that repels me but what is done to it. Our neighbours have sold their 100+ acres to the son of our neighbour. Much of it is bush. I suspect the son will follow the father and slash and burn the bush to make it suitable for cattle. I ride that country all the time. I'm not sure if I could stand to see it destroyed.
But you attract what you fear, whatever you hold in your head. The more I fear the destruction and the burning the more I make it real.
Ah, the guilt. It seems guilt is my second skin. Haven't been able to do yoga for 2 days because I've done something to my back. And it's hard work not to feel guilty about it. Really.
But one good thing. Am working on a coloured pencil drawing, of the back of Camus' head (again, he's already immortalized in a pencil drawing) as he gazes into a weird blue forest with a flying black cat high above. Sounds weird and I did despair that it would work but it's starting to come together. I really like it. Shouldn't say that about one's own work I suppose but as I make things that I like it would be foolish not to like them.
Am thinking about taking a drawing/colouring class starting this month. Need to talk it over with Richard. It's every Tuesday for 8 weeks. Will see.
The burning has already begun. Neighbours on either side have burnt some of their hills. But there's so much more to burn and the season is young. I don't want to be here while they do for I can't pretend or distance myself from the destruction and death. And it gets harder each year.
Every morning around 6:30 a commercial jet flies overhead. It's trajectory is Coolangatta. Every morning I stop what I'm doing and watch it pass, the sun gilding the fuselage and wings. The sun from over the ocean. The sun which glows on Byron and Cabarita. The sun that the Tweed Valley birds sing into being. Our sun. When I see it I'm there, in that ancient green caldera, in our house with a view of Mt. Warning, with the smell of the sea on the breeze and the gurgle of water from all those rivers and streams sliding along my bones.
I do try and be patient, really I do. The right time and all that. I know it will be the right time but I devoutly wish that right time comes soon. Every time I ride or walk the dogs or even go outside I see the beauty and the magic of this place. It isn't the place that repels me but what is done to it. Our neighbours have sold their 100+ acres to the son of our neighbour. Much of it is bush. I suspect the son will follow the father and slash and burn the bush to make it suitable for cattle. I ride that country all the time. I'm not sure if I could stand to see it destroyed.
But you attract what you fear, whatever you hold in your head. The more I fear the destruction and the burning the more I make it real.
Ah, the guilt. It seems guilt is my second skin. Haven't been able to do yoga for 2 days because I've done something to my back. And it's hard work not to feel guilty about it. Really.
But one good thing. Am working on a coloured pencil drawing, of the back of Camus' head (again, he's already immortalized in a pencil drawing) as he gazes into a weird blue forest with a flying black cat high above. Sounds weird and I did despair that it would work but it's starting to come together. I really like it. Shouldn't say that about one's own work I suppose but as I make things that I like it would be foolish not to like them.
Am thinking about taking a drawing/colouring class starting this month. Need to talk it over with Richard. It's every Tuesday for 8 weeks. Will see.
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
How very difficult it must be to be young! The world's violence and depravity constantly invades our space through modern media. I like to keep up with current affairs but even I find it hard to stomach and must turn to a funny cat video to erase the taste of decomposition.
We have two of the grandkids here; age 6 and 7. Bright innocent blue and brown eyes. I'm not a kid person but I look at these little girls and shudder at the world they've inherited from us and our forebears. And the muck they must wade through. People doing unspeakable things to one another, to animals, to children. All there for the world to see.
Even art. I get really disgusted with 'art'. So much of it NSFW. Or so mired in sex and violence and blackness I feel dirty afterwards. I've learned not to look.
Even my dreams are affected. I awoke the other night from the very real flash of a nuclear explosion x-raying through my closed eyelids. I thought it was real. Last night was a saga of survival, herding Richard and someone else to safety and trying to gather essentials like warm clothes, bedding, food and an optimism I didn't feel. It was a dreadful dream, also very real. Agonizing about the animals that I couldn't save, could no longer feed. What to do with them? How to protect my little company from the predation of others. I awoke exhausted and depressed.
I know, KNOW, this is a matter of attention. Turn my attention to other things. ISIS' beheadings don't really affect me except that I allow them to. Today I squatted on the ground looking at a leaf. It was dappled with sun and shade, bright green, dull green, one piece turning yellow where an insect had had a meal. The column of air above it leading to the ionosphere remained unaffected by humankind's 'stuff'. It existed perfect and pure and complete onto itself. It captivated my attention, reminding me of what is real and what isn't.
I don't have any answers. Evil can't be ignored, I know that but I also know it's a product of our intent. For some reason it acts as a counterweight to all the good things happening in the world (McDonalds and Subway have decided not to use cage eggs anymore). Is that it?
A Buddhist sage (I think - don't quote me!) was asked about the amount of evil in the world. He answered that the amount was about right. There's lightness and there's an absence of light. How to know the reality of light without the reality of darkness? Is that it?
Guess these dreams are a reminder and a prod to get a grip. The mind needs attention and discipline and love as much as the body. I've been lazy and have absorbed mental junk food. So back to a rigorous, or at least better, mental diet.
We have two of the grandkids here; age 6 and 7. Bright innocent blue and brown eyes. I'm not a kid person but I look at these little girls and shudder at the world they've inherited from us and our forebears. And the muck they must wade through. People doing unspeakable things to one another, to animals, to children. All there for the world to see.
Even art. I get really disgusted with 'art'. So much of it NSFW. Or so mired in sex and violence and blackness I feel dirty afterwards. I've learned not to look.
Even my dreams are affected. I awoke the other night from the very real flash of a nuclear explosion x-raying through my closed eyelids. I thought it was real. Last night was a saga of survival, herding Richard and someone else to safety and trying to gather essentials like warm clothes, bedding, food and an optimism I didn't feel. It was a dreadful dream, also very real. Agonizing about the animals that I couldn't save, could no longer feed. What to do with them? How to protect my little company from the predation of others. I awoke exhausted and depressed.
I know, KNOW, this is a matter of attention. Turn my attention to other things. ISIS' beheadings don't really affect me except that I allow them to. Today I squatted on the ground looking at a leaf. It was dappled with sun and shade, bright green, dull green, one piece turning yellow where an insect had had a meal. The column of air above it leading to the ionosphere remained unaffected by humankind's 'stuff'. It existed perfect and pure and complete onto itself. It captivated my attention, reminding me of what is real and what isn't.
I don't have any answers. Evil can't be ignored, I know that but I also know it's a product of our intent. For some reason it acts as a counterweight to all the good things happening in the world (McDonalds and Subway have decided not to use cage eggs anymore). Is that it?
A Buddhist sage (I think - don't quote me!) was asked about the amount of evil in the world. He answered that the amount was about right. There's lightness and there's an absence of light. How to know the reality of light without the reality of darkness? Is that it?
Guess these dreams are a reminder and a prod to get a grip. The mind needs attention and discipline and love as much as the body. I've been lazy and have absorbed mental junk food. So back to a rigorous, or at least better, mental diet.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Richard spent last night in hospital. We'd had a neighbour over for dinner, a neighbour who'd suddenly become a widow when her husband died in bed in the wee hours just over a month ago. She is coping but needs friends and family support hence the invite to come for dinner and an episode of Midsomer Murder. At 7:25, after dinner had finished, she was heading outside for a smoke while I entered the living room heading for the tv. As we were both turned away from Richard neither of us saw him fall. He'd stood up from the kitchen stool to start on the dishes when he felt dizzy and fainted. Richard's a big man, not fat but tall and solidly built. When he fell he made a sound like a muted explosion. The floor shook.
I turned and he was on his back, unconscious, eyes open but unfocussed, lips white and arms faintly twitching by his side. After the first moment of disbelief, I grabbed the phone, pulling the books and papers from the stand, and rang the ambulance.
Our poor neighbour was in shock. She'd just been through a similar episode, calling the ambulance while she tried to rouse her unresponsive husband. Tragically, he never responded. He had already died from a massive cardiac event. She stood in shock and had to be asked several times before she went and got a pillow to put under Richard's head.
That's how quickly it can happen. One minute you're enjoying a glass of wine and dinner, the next you're on the floor unconscious and trembling.
The ambos came, two capable and confidence inspiring young people. (One bright spot, the woman, a horse enthusiast was also enthusiastic about my paintings. It's rare that someone comes into the house and raves about them, she did. I was quite chuffed). But they knew their job and their attitude was great; friendly, professional, even humorous. Because of Richard's age and the fact that he'd fainted he was off to hospital. I followed, waiting perhaps half an hour before leaving as I'd had 2 glasses of wine and didn't want to be *done* for DWI.
All the tests were fine. Normal everything. Better than normal but they said he had to stay overnight just in case.
While we are extremely lucky to have a local hospital and good doctors (the doctor on duty looked like a nerdy high school student complete with thick framed glasses, an untidy mop of brown hair and thin pale arms) spending hours waiting to be admitted and then more hours waiting to be discharged is not fun. The friendly but overbright demeanour of the nurses, accustomed as they are to talking to the hearing impaired elderly, the ticking and buzzing of machines, the muted slap of shoes up and down the corridor, the look of patients who won't be going home again, all speak the language of illness. It is a world apart from the bright daylight world of the healthy. Last night, one curtain over, a young man gasped in pain. Have no idea what was wrong with him but every few minutes he breathed agony. He didn't groan or cry or moan, the pain was all in his breath. He was removed to another hospital.
In Richard's ward were 3 elderly gentleman. Richard had gone for xrays. The man in the bed opposite was asleep, one had zither framed himself outside to visit with friends, and the third, an extremely deaf 84 year old with the largest eyes, sat quietly by himself on a chair. I was doing a crossword to fill the time. Suddenly the biggest sheet-ripping fart split the silence. I wanted to shout Well Done! a la Noel Coward but no one there would've heard.
Richard is home now, sleeping. He had a crap night, as did I. The consensus is that Richard's episode had to do with his Parkinson's medication. It can cause a drop in blood pressure when the patient goes from a sitting to standing position (although, despite numerous tests, they couldn't get his blood pressure to deviate from normal). It can also cause dizziness. So we'll see. He goes to see the doc tomorrow.
I turned and he was on his back, unconscious, eyes open but unfocussed, lips white and arms faintly twitching by his side. After the first moment of disbelief, I grabbed the phone, pulling the books and papers from the stand, and rang the ambulance.
Our poor neighbour was in shock. She'd just been through a similar episode, calling the ambulance while she tried to rouse her unresponsive husband. Tragically, he never responded. He had already died from a massive cardiac event. She stood in shock and had to be asked several times before she went and got a pillow to put under Richard's head.
That's how quickly it can happen. One minute you're enjoying a glass of wine and dinner, the next you're on the floor unconscious and trembling.
The ambos came, two capable and confidence inspiring young people. (One bright spot, the woman, a horse enthusiast was also enthusiastic about my paintings. It's rare that someone comes into the house and raves about them, she did. I was quite chuffed). But they knew their job and their attitude was great; friendly, professional, even humorous. Because of Richard's age and the fact that he'd fainted he was off to hospital. I followed, waiting perhaps half an hour before leaving as I'd had 2 glasses of wine and didn't want to be *done* for DWI.
All the tests were fine. Normal everything. Better than normal but they said he had to stay overnight just in case.
While we are extremely lucky to have a local hospital and good doctors (the doctor on duty looked like a nerdy high school student complete with thick framed glasses, an untidy mop of brown hair and thin pale arms) spending hours waiting to be admitted and then more hours waiting to be discharged is not fun. The friendly but overbright demeanour of the nurses, accustomed as they are to talking to the hearing impaired elderly, the ticking and buzzing of machines, the muted slap of shoes up and down the corridor, the look of patients who won't be going home again, all speak the language of illness. It is a world apart from the bright daylight world of the healthy. Last night, one curtain over, a young man gasped in pain. Have no idea what was wrong with him but every few minutes he breathed agony. He didn't groan or cry or moan, the pain was all in his breath. He was removed to another hospital.
In Richard's ward were 3 elderly gentleman. Richard had gone for xrays. The man in the bed opposite was asleep, one had zither framed himself outside to visit with friends, and the third, an extremely deaf 84 year old with the largest eyes, sat quietly by himself on a chair. I was doing a crossword to fill the time. Suddenly the biggest sheet-ripping fart split the silence. I wanted to shout Well Done! a la Noel Coward but no one there would've heard.
Richard is home now, sleeping. He had a crap night, as did I. The consensus is that Richard's episode had to do with his Parkinson's medication. It can cause a drop in blood pressure when the patient goes from a sitting to standing position (although, despite numerous tests, they couldn't get his blood pressure to deviate from normal). It can also cause dizziness. So we'll see. He goes to see the doc tomorrow.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Went to Mt. Cootha yesterday, strolled the gardens for hours with friends. Pocketed many fallen seeds which I'm saving to plant at our new property, as most of them are rainforest type seeds and will fare better in a wetter climate. It is, again, as usual, very dry and dusty here. I long long for the day we move to our new home in the Tweed. I know learning patience is good for me, that it will happen when the time is right, but, that inconvenient but ... why not now? The house is ready, we are ready.
Every morning while feeding the birds, sometime around 6:30 a jet flies overhead. It's fuselage catches the morning sunlight and burns white and gold and I know it glows from the sea sun. Not our sun which rises over rocky outcrops and burnt grass, but the wet yellow sun rising from a blue green sea. An absolutely nonsensical way to look at things. Nevertheless I can feel, almost smell that sea sun reflecting from the Coolangatta bound jet. And I sigh. And take a deep breath. Another lesson in patience. Not learned.
Every morning while feeding the birds, sometime around 6:30 a jet flies overhead. It's fuselage catches the morning sunlight and burns white and gold and I know it glows from the sea sun. Not our sun which rises over rocky outcrops and burnt grass, but the wet yellow sun rising from a blue green sea. An absolutely nonsensical way to look at things. Nevertheless I can feel, almost smell that sea sun reflecting from the Coolangatta bound jet. And I sigh. And take a deep breath. Another lesson in patience. Not learned.
Monday, August 4, 2014
In the words of Madeleine Albright, 'The world's a mess,' yet just now, walking from one room to another I am overcome with an overwhelming sense of wellbeing. How can that be so when there is so much trouble, strife, war, cruelty, stupidity and downright ignorance in the world? I don't know. Because I am alive? Because in my tiny corner of the world, right now, right this minute, I can still walk, I breathe, I have all my marbles, I am without thirst or hunger, I have enough clothes to warm me, in fact my house is warm while it is cold outside? I could go on but that is the drift. Some of us are so intent on what's wrong that we try and kill one another (or the planet) to make it right.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
I took the bull by the horns and have volunteered to tutor immigrants in conversational English. Normally I would have said no without having to think about it. I met Regina at the bickies and coffee mini-wake after Roger's funeral. Regina coordinates the Lockyer Multicultural Centre (I think). She asked me.
While I was mulling it over I realized that Life puts things in your way for a reason and maybe saying Yes to Life makes more sense than saying no. I didn't know I needed to tutor immigrants or it isn't something I would have sought as necessary yet it is, of course, perfect. I'm insular, like solitude and my own business. And the older I get the more these tendencies are calcifying into rigidity. Not good. So I thought I would say yes. I can always quit. It's voluntary. It's not life or death but it might be good for me as well as helping others. And, in the end, it's not about me, it's about them. So I went.
About 22 immigrants turned up; Korean, Japanese, Bangladesh(ians?), Taiwanese, Malaysians, Sudanese and a woman from Oman. These are the nationalities I managed to catch. But I didn't listen to the stories of all 22 people so there may have been others. We separated into groups. I attached myself to Nola, a primary school teacher (the volunteers were all teachers or university lecturers - so these unselfish people work full time jobs then devote one evening a week to helping others). We had 8 people, a great mixture of nationalities. All of them young. One young man on a bridging visa so he isn't allowed to work or go to school - but he can learn English with us because we cost nothing. The Asians were backpackers with working visas doing it tough cutting lettuces on farms or packing vegetables in unheated sheds. But they were educated people; a physics teacher, a biology teacher, a computer programmer among them. Educated and with a strong desire to improve their English.
So it was good. I found it hard, not because they were difficult. They were lovely, laughter came easily to all of them. And they were shy too and afraid they wouldn't do well. Remember talking to Ellie and Louann, both Korean. Conversatonal English is just that so we had a 3 way conversation. Normally in a social situation like that when I feel a bit overwhelmed I just make some excuse and go away for a breather (why do I find interaction so hard?) but I couldn't because that's what it was all about.
We're meeting on Tuesday (the tutors) as a curriculum must be created and a plan put into place. Despite my protestations as to my ignorance (the only thing I've ever taught is beginning Tai Chi and with that I mostly just had to move, not speak), they seem to want me. But then as there are 40 Bangladeshians due next week along with the originals we'll be seriously short-staffed. Will just have to take it as it comes and not worry so damn much.
And I do find their youth and enthusiasm engaging. And their toughness. The backpackers are entirely different to the asylum seekers. The tutors were discussing how they would teach the Moslems. Because we aren't equipped to separate the men and women, or to string a curtain down the middle of the classroom, they will have to be taught together. They decided the best way would be to put the women in front and the men behind. And there I will be; bareheaded, in trousers with my arms and neck showing (and in summer, legs) with these men thinking God knows what horrible things about the shamelessness of Western women. Should be interesting.
On a squealy fist pumping note, I won first place with my graphite drawing Birth of a Dryad at the Gatton Show. Also best exhibit for 2 classes. Even got a whimsical little trophy and $20. Really made my day.
While I was mulling it over I realized that Life puts things in your way for a reason and maybe saying Yes to Life makes more sense than saying no. I didn't know I needed to tutor immigrants or it isn't something I would have sought as necessary yet it is, of course, perfect. I'm insular, like solitude and my own business. And the older I get the more these tendencies are calcifying into rigidity. Not good. So I thought I would say yes. I can always quit. It's voluntary. It's not life or death but it might be good for me as well as helping others. And, in the end, it's not about me, it's about them. So I went.
About 22 immigrants turned up; Korean, Japanese, Bangladesh(ians?), Taiwanese, Malaysians, Sudanese and a woman from Oman. These are the nationalities I managed to catch. But I didn't listen to the stories of all 22 people so there may have been others. We separated into groups. I attached myself to Nola, a primary school teacher (the volunteers were all teachers or university lecturers - so these unselfish people work full time jobs then devote one evening a week to helping others). We had 8 people, a great mixture of nationalities. All of them young. One young man on a bridging visa so he isn't allowed to work or go to school - but he can learn English with us because we cost nothing. The Asians were backpackers with working visas doing it tough cutting lettuces on farms or packing vegetables in unheated sheds. But they were educated people; a physics teacher, a biology teacher, a computer programmer among them. Educated and with a strong desire to improve their English.
So it was good. I found it hard, not because they were difficult. They were lovely, laughter came easily to all of them. And they were shy too and afraid they wouldn't do well. Remember talking to Ellie and Louann, both Korean. Conversatonal English is just that so we had a 3 way conversation. Normally in a social situation like that when I feel a bit overwhelmed I just make some excuse and go away for a breather (why do I find interaction so hard?) but I couldn't because that's what it was all about.
We're meeting on Tuesday (the tutors) as a curriculum must be created and a plan put into place. Despite my protestations as to my ignorance (the only thing I've ever taught is beginning Tai Chi and with that I mostly just had to move, not speak), they seem to want me. But then as there are 40 Bangladeshians due next week along with the originals we'll be seriously short-staffed. Will just have to take it as it comes and not worry so damn much.
And I do find their youth and enthusiasm engaging. And their toughness. The backpackers are entirely different to the asylum seekers. The tutors were discussing how they would teach the Moslems. Because we aren't equipped to separate the men and women, or to string a curtain down the middle of the classroom, they will have to be taught together. They decided the best way would be to put the women in front and the men behind. And there I will be; bareheaded, in trousers with my arms and neck showing (and in summer, legs) with these men thinking God knows what horrible things about the shamelessness of Western women. Should be interesting.
On a squealy fist pumping note, I won first place with my graphite drawing Birth of a Dryad at the Gatton Show. Also best exhibit for 2 classes. Even got a whimsical little trophy and $20. Really made my day.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Feel like I've been sitting for a month without moving a muscle as far as writing goes. Writing has been confined to emails and emails do nothing to stretch the creative muscle. Alas, the creative muscle has been wrapped and strapped and immobilized. I thought it had to do with guilt as I procrastinated about calling the RSPCA about some starving horses up the road in hopes the owner, who's quite a friendly soul, would take the hint and do something. Unfortunately every nicey nicey hint I dropped his way came to nothing. And then I didn't see him on the road for weeks. He'd bought a new rig and was working a different schedule. The dogs and I were wading through grass to try and get a couple of armfuls for this poor gelding. But whatever I picked was never going to be enough. Hence the guilt. Hence the phone call. Guilt gone! Surely I'd get some kernel of an idea for a painting/drawing? Zip.
So I rang about one horse. Yesterday I saw three more. His property is so large that I don't see the different groups for weeks or months. The property is large but is also completely overgrown with lantana. The 'good doers' still look good. Some are so fat it's as though they have been grain fed. Others are okay, a tiny bit light but still holding their own. Then there are the vulnerable ones who need that extra help. One little pinto mare has already died. I'm sure of it. I've not seen her for months. Then there was another bay. Haven't seen it either. Yesterday I saw an appaloosa, a brown and a bay in addition to the one I've been picking grass for. They are all number two on the Horse Body Condition Score (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henneke_horse_body_condition_scoring_system). And that's very bad. (Just let Dakota out to eat. He's probably a 6 or 7 and as such is shut in the yards 17 hours out of 24).
Spent a long time explaining to the RSPCA operator what the property was like, what to look for, how it would be impossible not to see the horse if he wasn't right next to the road. (Yesterday he nickered when he saw me, as he does, but I couldn't see him. He was completely hidden by lantana but was only about 20 feet away). If the horse are not near the road the RSPCA inspector will have no idea how bad things are. I fed the gelding yesterday but didn't try and feed the others. The healthy stronger horses push the weaker ones out of the way. And I can't pick enough grass anyway. The rhodes grass is too tough to pick by hand and the green panic, due to my harvesting, is getting scarcer.
But I have to let it go. I've done all I can. If I see the owner on the road I'll ask him when he intends to feed them. Other than that, unless I start buying round bales, there's little I can do. He has about 17 horses in that paddock and another 7 or 8 (miniatures along with 2 sheep, 2 cows and a horse) in another. IF he was destitute I'd offer help but money is not the problem. Apathy and laziness is.
Anyway, enough. There's so much cruelty in the world that it is easy to despair. And forget all the good, the generosity and the beauty.
So I rang about one horse. Yesterday I saw three more. His property is so large that I don't see the different groups for weeks or months. The property is large but is also completely overgrown with lantana. The 'good doers' still look good. Some are so fat it's as though they have been grain fed. Others are okay, a tiny bit light but still holding their own. Then there are the vulnerable ones who need that extra help. One little pinto mare has already died. I'm sure of it. I've not seen her for months. Then there was another bay. Haven't seen it either. Yesterday I saw an appaloosa, a brown and a bay in addition to the one I've been picking grass for. They are all number two on the Horse Body Condition Score (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henneke_horse_body_condition_scoring_system). And that's very bad. (Just let Dakota out to eat. He's probably a 6 or 7 and as such is shut in the yards 17 hours out of 24).
Spent a long time explaining to the RSPCA operator what the property was like, what to look for, how it would be impossible not to see the horse if he wasn't right next to the road. (Yesterday he nickered when he saw me, as he does, but I couldn't see him. He was completely hidden by lantana but was only about 20 feet away). If the horse are not near the road the RSPCA inspector will have no idea how bad things are. I fed the gelding yesterday but didn't try and feed the others. The healthy stronger horses push the weaker ones out of the way. And I can't pick enough grass anyway. The rhodes grass is too tough to pick by hand and the green panic, due to my harvesting, is getting scarcer.
But I have to let it go. I've done all I can. If I see the owner on the road I'll ask him when he intends to feed them. Other than that, unless I start buying round bales, there's little I can do. He has about 17 horses in that paddock and another 7 or 8 (miniatures along with 2 sheep, 2 cows and a horse) in another. IF he was destitute I'd offer help but money is not the problem. Apathy and laziness is.
Anyway, enough. There's so much cruelty in the world that it is easy to despair. And forget all the good, the generosity and the beauty.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Parkinsons Disease. That's what R has. What a relief. Of course it's not good and it would be better if he didn't have it but the alternative is dire. Because naturally, despite best intentions, I sometimes thought the worst; alzheimers, dementia, wheelchairs, aged care, death. But Parkinsons? Parkinsons we can live with. Even R is relieved.
It was all getting so depressing. R was aging before my eyes; shuffling along eyes down, stooped, his right hand convulsively opening and closing, his rich deep voice reduced to a whispery old man's voice. I broke down once in front of him, my fears for the future overwhelming my usual good sense (and I usually do have good sense about things that aren't here yet). And that breakdown, standing with the dogs in the causeway where R turns for home and I carry on with the dogs for another kilometre or so, was so unfair. He pretended nothing was happening but he was frightened too. Who wouldn't be? We'd done quite well being strong for one another and I let the side down.
But that was then. This is now. He's on medication, the weakest dose to start which has made little difference so far - but a difference nevertheless. On Saturday he gets to double it and that should make a discernible difference. He's also taking St. John's Wort. We've read that helps. So we'll see. At least the waiting, the ignorance, the fear is over.
It was all getting so depressing. R was aging before my eyes; shuffling along eyes down, stooped, his right hand convulsively opening and closing, his rich deep voice reduced to a whispery old man's voice. I broke down once in front of him, my fears for the future overwhelming my usual good sense (and I usually do have good sense about things that aren't here yet). And that breakdown, standing with the dogs in the causeway where R turns for home and I carry on with the dogs for another kilometre or so, was so unfair. He pretended nothing was happening but he was frightened too. Who wouldn't be? We'd done quite well being strong for one another and I let the side down.
But that was then. This is now. He's on medication, the weakest dose to start which has made little difference so far - but a difference nevertheless. On Saturday he gets to double it and that should make a discernible difference. He's also taking St. John's Wort. We've read that helps. So we'll see. At least the waiting, the ignorance, the fear is over.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Reading the most incredible book about the most incredible woman, Nancy Wake, the famous White Mouse and thorn in the side of the French Gestapo. It's a biography by Peter Fitzsimons (and what a delightful writer he is too; clear, cogent, with a sparkling sense of humour as well as the ability to impart the portentousness and almost tragedy of Hitler's attempt to impose Nazism on the world). But there is Nancy, armed with her Anne of Green Gables philosophy, Australian disdain for authority, courage, humour and toughness as a light within the war clouds over France.
How quickly we forget how close we were to losing. How quickly we forget how lucky we are to live in freedom. How quickly we dismiss the burgeoning threats to our freedom from fundamentalist Christian to fundamentalist Islamists. Christian, you say? Absolutely. Although they might not be throwing bombs or shooting people their aim is the same: to make everyone think and behave as they do. Creationism over science, the nuclear heterosexual family with a man at its head, all that nonsense that should've been done away with years ago. Thought police under the cover of love of Jesus. Phooey!
And then there is the far more frightening Sharia Law under which ultraconservative Moslems want the world to live. That is so much in the daily news I don't have to go into detail about the treatment of women.
Do we still make people like Nancy Wake. What would I have done under similar circumstances. I fear I am a coward and would not have acquitted myself well. I hope never to find out.
Haven't finished the book yet. Was devouring it too quickly so have made myself quit reading and do other things.
Like get another sheet of paper ready for drawing. Finally finished the naked woman with the bird on her head, framed it and hung it on the wall. Have no idea what it means but it was an interesting exercise in foreshortening and having the human figure lit from below. I am not well pleased with it but it's okay. I can live with it for awhile although as it has a nude I'll probably take it down should we ever get prospective buyers in to look at the house.
On the market a month and not one bite. Emailed the realtor asking could we have a for sale sign in front. Took them two weeks to list the property on realestate.com and no for sale sign after a month. When the contract finishes in May we will go elsewhere.
How quickly we forget how close we were to losing. How quickly we forget how lucky we are to live in freedom. How quickly we dismiss the burgeoning threats to our freedom from fundamentalist Christian to fundamentalist Islamists. Christian, you say? Absolutely. Although they might not be throwing bombs or shooting people their aim is the same: to make everyone think and behave as they do. Creationism over science, the nuclear heterosexual family with a man at its head, all that nonsense that should've been done away with years ago. Thought police under the cover of love of Jesus. Phooey!
And then there is the far more frightening Sharia Law under which ultraconservative Moslems want the world to live. That is so much in the daily news I don't have to go into detail about the treatment of women.
Do we still make people like Nancy Wake. What would I have done under similar circumstances. I fear I am a coward and would not have acquitted myself well. I hope never to find out.
Haven't finished the book yet. Was devouring it too quickly so have made myself quit reading and do other things.
Like get another sheet of paper ready for drawing. Finally finished the naked woman with the bird on her head, framed it and hung it on the wall. Have no idea what it means but it was an interesting exercise in foreshortening and having the human figure lit from below. I am not well pleased with it but it's okay. I can live with it for awhile although as it has a nude I'll probably take it down should we ever get prospective buyers in to look at the house.
On the market a month and not one bite. Emailed the realtor asking could we have a for sale sign in front. Took them two weeks to list the property on realestate.com and no for sale sign after a month. When the contract finishes in May we will go elsewhere.
Friday, March 28, 2014
rain and reality and the illusion of it all
Five inches of rain. In less than 24 hours. In our neighbourhood we had the least amount of rain. A klik and a half down the road they had 8 inches. The guy on the hill, half a klik away as the cockatoo flies, had 7. Don't understand why there is such a huge difference. Not that it matters because...we're saved. A huge weight has lifted. Don't realise how depressed you are about the drought until it breaks. Grass is already poking through the dead remains of summer past. What a miracle. The creek is running, the dust is gone. Everything shines.
Couldn't ride today. Too wet and wouldn't get very far as the creek is too deep and swift but by tomorrow it should be dry enough. Not to climb the hills, too slippery but at least go up the road.
No calls on the house yet, although, as of yesterday, 20 people looked at it online.
Reading The Curse of the Kings by Victoria Holt. Used to love her. Must have loved her during my adolescent gothic phase (not as in Goth gothic, but the heroine-in-the-creepy-gothic-house-with-the-mysterious-tall-dark-handsome-and-faintly-menacing-man phase). I'll finish it but it's work. Saw her name while trolling through the book laden tables at the Blue Nurse biannual book sale and snatched it up as a find. Now I'm not so sure. Also found an Elizabeth George. A sample of my more 'mature' taste. And she is a find!
Really need to tackle Ken Wilber's The Spectrum of Consciousness again. Made my brain hurt (and I found he wrote it at 23!) but it was revelatory. Didn't finish it and I need to. Almost must be read one sentence at a time on an hourly or daily basis. It's that difficult (for me at least) and I'd need to thoroughly digest that one sentence before adding another to the first.
Years ago I read a book while stoned. Don't remember the name of the book or the author(s) - feel it was a collaboration. And perhaps the experience which occurred after reading the penultimate conclusion reached by the authors was a result of cannabis but I suspect it was because sometimes, through logic, and extrapolation of logical thinking along one line, a tear can be made in the veil of illusion and reality bleeds through. Their premise was that the rate of knowledge was increasing along exponential lines; new discoveries lead to even more discoveries, somewhat like the branches of a tree, and based on their mathematical models the true nature of reality would be revealed to everyone on the planet on such and such a date. This of course not only includes advances in technology but the merging of science, metaphysics and the wisdom of ancient religions.
I read that sentence and something in my brain erupted into or bled into the reality behind the reality. Didn't sleep that night. Actually scared myself by glimpsing the power and the scope, nay the infinity, of What Is.
Suspect Wilber's book, if I can understand it and that's a big If, might do the same. Then again, perhaps my brain has calcified with age.
The only other time I've experienced this tear in reality was while discussing metaphysics with my mother. There was a subtle yet electrifying shift in reality which we both experienced at the same time. We were following some philosophical/metaphysical path down to some logical conclusion when it happened. Only for a second but what a powerful second.
Couldn't ride today. Too wet and wouldn't get very far as the creek is too deep and swift but by tomorrow it should be dry enough. Not to climb the hills, too slippery but at least go up the road.
No calls on the house yet, although, as of yesterday, 20 people looked at it online.
Reading The Curse of the Kings by Victoria Holt. Used to love her. Must have loved her during my adolescent gothic phase (not as in Goth gothic, but the heroine-in-the-creepy-gothic-house-with-the-mysterious-tall-dark-handsome-and-faintly-menacing-man phase). I'll finish it but it's work. Saw her name while trolling through the book laden tables at the Blue Nurse biannual book sale and snatched it up as a find. Now I'm not so sure. Also found an Elizabeth George. A sample of my more 'mature' taste. And she is a find!
Really need to tackle Ken Wilber's The Spectrum of Consciousness again. Made my brain hurt (and I found he wrote it at 23!) but it was revelatory. Didn't finish it and I need to. Almost must be read one sentence at a time on an hourly or daily basis. It's that difficult (for me at least) and I'd need to thoroughly digest that one sentence before adding another to the first.
Years ago I read a book while stoned. Don't remember the name of the book or the author(s) - feel it was a collaboration. And perhaps the experience which occurred after reading the penultimate conclusion reached by the authors was a result of cannabis but I suspect it was because sometimes, through logic, and extrapolation of logical thinking along one line, a tear can be made in the veil of illusion and reality bleeds through. Their premise was that the rate of knowledge was increasing along exponential lines; new discoveries lead to even more discoveries, somewhat like the branches of a tree, and based on their mathematical models the true nature of reality would be revealed to everyone on the planet on such and such a date. This of course not only includes advances in technology but the merging of science, metaphysics and the wisdom of ancient religions.
I read that sentence and something in my brain erupted into or bled into the reality behind the reality. Didn't sleep that night. Actually scared myself by glimpsing the power and the scope, nay the infinity, of What Is.
Suspect Wilber's book, if I can understand it and that's a big If, might do the same. Then again, perhaps my brain has calcified with age.
The only other time I've experienced this tear in reality was while discussing metaphysics with my mother. There was a subtle yet electrifying shift in reality which we both experienced at the same time. We were following some philosophical/metaphysical path down to some logical conclusion when it happened. Only for a second but what a powerful second.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
A solo day today or 'je suis seul'. Practising French, can you tell? Fail more often than I succeed but the beauty of Duo is it doesn't matter. Keep going until I feel I have some kind of handle on it and then go on to the next lesson. Sometimes I get through without a mistake, not often. Next lesson? Verbs: etre/avoir.
Just finished reading a Dean Koontz book, Dark Rivers of the Heart, published in 1994. Hard to read. Kept stopping to do something else to assuage some of the building dread. His protagonists in all the books I've read come out all right in the end. Even so, he's a master at making me fear for them. So I do dishes or a French lesson or check out the radar (storms to the south). Then when I've girded my loins for the next chapter (or next page!) I have another go. Have started keeping his books. Don't know that I'll ever reread then. His main characters are all the same man. Even the dog in this book, Rocky, is a canine version of the same man (with an overlay of timidity caused by early abuse). The men are soft-spoken, gentle, self-effacing, yet strong and talented. Their talent might be discovered as a result of their adventures during the book or they might be brought to those adventures because of their particular talent. In any case, they are likeable, normal yet incredible. The women too.
My bathroom book is My Happy Days in Hell by the Hungarian György Faludy. Started it before and then put it aside. Although he describes well those tumultuous terrifying days of the Nazi invasion of France and the attempt at escape by him and his small band of characters, I found him so unsympathetic that I didn't care much whether he made it or not. He cheats on his wife with all the emotional upheaval he would bring to eating a pickle sandwich. It never seems to occur to him that he is behaving badly. He only exerts himself to avoid getting caught so as to avoid a scene. Anyway, I've picked it up again, have reread the first part and am about to embark with them to the shores of Africa. Still don't like him much despite him being a famous poet. Suppose I should respect his brutal (to himself) honesty. He doesn't gild the lily and make out that he is a better man than he is. Even so his male arrogance is difficult to stomach.
Having a dice day too. Just told me to do yoga. Thought I'd take the day off but put it on the list along with blogging, bathroom cleaning, french lessons and leaf raking.
Just finished reading a Dean Koontz book, Dark Rivers of the Heart, published in 1994. Hard to read. Kept stopping to do something else to assuage some of the building dread. His protagonists in all the books I've read come out all right in the end. Even so, he's a master at making me fear for them. So I do dishes or a French lesson or check out the radar (storms to the south). Then when I've girded my loins for the next chapter (or next page!) I have another go. Have started keeping his books. Don't know that I'll ever reread then. His main characters are all the same man. Even the dog in this book, Rocky, is a canine version of the same man (with an overlay of timidity caused by early abuse). The men are soft-spoken, gentle, self-effacing, yet strong and talented. Their talent might be discovered as a result of their adventures during the book or they might be brought to those adventures because of their particular talent. In any case, they are likeable, normal yet incredible. The women too.
My bathroom book is My Happy Days in Hell by the Hungarian György Faludy. Started it before and then put it aside. Although he describes well those tumultuous terrifying days of the Nazi invasion of France and the attempt at escape by him and his small band of characters, I found him so unsympathetic that I didn't care much whether he made it or not. He cheats on his wife with all the emotional upheaval he would bring to eating a pickle sandwich. It never seems to occur to him that he is behaving badly. He only exerts himself to avoid getting caught so as to avoid a scene. Anyway, I've picked it up again, have reread the first part and am about to embark with them to the shores of Africa. Still don't like him much despite him being a famous poet. Suppose I should respect his brutal (to himself) honesty. He doesn't gild the lily and make out that he is a better man than he is. Even so his male arrogance is difficult to stomach.
Having a dice day too. Just told me to do yoga. Thought I'd take the day off but put it on the list along with blogging, bathroom cleaning, french lessons and leaf raking.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Signed a contract with a local realtor to put the house on the market on March 5. Today is the 21st. So far we've had a confirmation letter and an ad (with 3 photos I submitted) on their local website. They're supposed to advertise the property on realestate.com, domain, reiq, myproperty but haven't seen anything yet. Nor is there a for sale sign on the road. Am a little disappointed but try to remember that everything happens (or doesn't!) for a reason. R's appointment with the neurologist is in a month. Perhaps nothing will happen until he's been assessed, tested and hopefully medicated and that's a good thing. One of my faults has always been impatience. Want things done yesterday. Walk fast, talk fast, type fast, but don't live fast. Not anymore anyway.
The house. I feel like I'm walking out on a relationship. This house, this property, this land has been a soothing and beautiful haven. I'll miss the hills, the wildlife, the ever changing beauty. This house has loved us, as we have loved it. I felt it strongly when we moved in, how glad the house was to have us. It knew we would love it and look after it. And we have. We've restored her to her original beauty; polished floors, new paint, new gutters, tanks, garage. The list goes on. Fences, gardens. And now we plan to abandon her for another house in another state. Yet this house in her 100 plus years has known many families. Some loved her. Some did not. I hope the people who come after us will love and cherish her. In her present glowing state she invites love and tenderness.
I've discovered, thanks to listening to an interview with Maestro Simone Young, a website called Duolingo. A free website to learn French. I love it. And I'm learning. It's fun. Lots of fun. Makes it more of a game than a chore. I like that I can fail as many times as necessary and it doesn't matter. Just keep going until I learn it. Can feel how some of the learning is almost sneaky. Think I'm concentrating on remembering This Thing and actually quite unconsciously absorb That Thing.
Makes me wonder what else I can learn. I've learned to cook. Am learning French. Looked up the price of rollerblades this morning. Not to use here - but perhaps they would be useful where we move to. We did find and buy a one man kayak at a garage sale. Need to find one more so that we can explore Fingal Heads, the Tweed River, the beaches at Cabarita - the list is endless. We're going to sell the coleman canoe. We have too much trouble handling it. It's too big and unwieldy.
So it's all go. Oh, and I came off Balthazar for the first time since I've had him yesterday. Not his fault. A big spook. No slow mo dismount. One second I was in the saddle, the next I was flat on my back over the side of the hill with my heels pointing towards the valley below and my fingers twined in the reins. Got a bit of a mouse on my skull, a bruise on my arm and some sore muscles but otherwise okay. Just goes to show you attract what you fear as I'd just been thinking I wouldn't want to come off on this track (the one cut into the side of Mt. W) as I could hit my head on a boulder. So I did.
The house. I feel like I'm walking out on a relationship. This house, this property, this land has been a soothing and beautiful haven. I'll miss the hills, the wildlife, the ever changing beauty. This house has loved us, as we have loved it. I felt it strongly when we moved in, how glad the house was to have us. It knew we would love it and look after it. And we have. We've restored her to her original beauty; polished floors, new paint, new gutters, tanks, garage. The list goes on. Fences, gardens. And now we plan to abandon her for another house in another state. Yet this house in her 100 plus years has known many families. Some loved her. Some did not. I hope the people who come after us will love and cherish her. In her present glowing state she invites love and tenderness.
I've discovered, thanks to listening to an interview with Maestro Simone Young, a website called Duolingo. A free website to learn French. I love it. And I'm learning. It's fun. Lots of fun. Makes it more of a game than a chore. I like that I can fail as many times as necessary and it doesn't matter. Just keep going until I learn it. Can feel how some of the learning is almost sneaky. Think I'm concentrating on remembering This Thing and actually quite unconsciously absorb That Thing.
Makes me wonder what else I can learn. I've learned to cook. Am learning French. Looked up the price of rollerblades this morning. Not to use here - but perhaps they would be useful where we move to. We did find and buy a one man kayak at a garage sale. Need to find one more so that we can explore Fingal Heads, the Tweed River, the beaches at Cabarita - the list is endless. We're going to sell the coleman canoe. We have too much trouble handling it. It's too big and unwieldy.
So it's all go. Oh, and I came off Balthazar for the first time since I've had him yesterday. Not his fault. A big spook. No slow mo dismount. One second I was in the saddle, the next I was flat on my back over the side of the hill with my heels pointing towards the valley below and my fingers twined in the reins. Got a bit of a mouse on my skull, a bruise on my arm and some sore muscles but otherwise okay. Just goes to show you attract what you fear as I'd just been thinking I wouldn't want to come off on this track (the one cut into the side of Mt. W) as I could hit my head on a boulder. So I did.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)