I'll Carry On Until I Can't

I have to give myself permission to have a day off.  Richard is away until sometime after lunch so have the morning to do (or not do!) whatever I want.  Have stumbled through most of the chores although still have to vacuum, especially as Natalia and Nairobi both demanded to be brushed and wisps of grey or black hair floated down the hall before I could catch them.  But I'm not in a hurry to vacuum.  I'm not in a hurry at all.  My next 'must do' is the noon crow nosh up.  Until then I can bludge.

I remember after Mom died my then husband Wayne dreamed of her.  He dreamed she was in a beautiful place where she could rest from the rigours of life.  A phrase which has been running through my head is, 'I'll carry on until I can't'.  I'm afraid if I let any one of these balls juggling in the air above me fall, then a Bad Thing will happen.  A Bad Thing would be letting Parkinsons have its way with Richard without opposition.  A Bad Thing would be for something to happen to Richard (a fall, a faint) and me not know.  A Bad Thing would be loss of mental acuity or physical ability in me.  A Bad Thing would be shame because I'd stopped trying to be this and that and whatever, that I'd just stopped trying.  A Bad Thing would be to give in to fear, to depression.  A Bad Thing would be to Surrender.  Tears form in my eyes as I write this.   I'm tired and a bit sad.  I understand why after someone dies they just get to stop and catch their breath for awhile.  Life is lovely, life is adventure, but unless you're comatose, it's exhausting too.

I think a vivid dream I had this morning is leaving an aftertaste.  In the dream I met a man.  He was articulate, intelligent, compassionate and very interested in me.  I didn't have an affair, there was no sex but I did kiss him and when I kissed him I clung to him like a drowning woman clings to a lifeboat.  In the dream Richard was away overnight.  I was so tempted to sleep with this man and I did, fully clothed, get into bed with him, but nothing happened except that I was ashamed and exhilarated at the same time. 

I love Richard.  I admire him.  I will see us through all this and do whatever it takes to try and keep him well and happy for as long as I can.  But there is a personal toll.  I'm no longer a lover and a wife.  I am a carer.  I am watchful all the time.  I am on guard all the time.  On his good days, I relax a little.  On his bad days, I man the ramparts and march.  Conversations are of the garden variety.  There are areas we do not go.  There are many areas we cannot go.  I do not talk down to him but I simplify. 

It's lonely and I feel sorry for myself which brings guilt when I have so much and most people in the world have so little.  Lonely, self-pitying, guilt-ridden and ashamed.  It's a slippery slope to climb.  I am of a cheerful nature and this state of mind does not sit well yet it is difficult to change by an act of will.

I suppose that's the crux.  I have brought my will to bear on so many things and changed them.  Energy, effort and belief.  If I want to do something badly enough I can do it.  (Think that's why I'm so fierce at the gym.  Working out Really Hard is something I can control).  But I cannot will away the Parkinsons which has robbed me of my husband.  I cannot will this house to sell sooner rather than later.  I cannot will my sadness away.

So do I surrender?  I read uplifting posts from The Tattooed Buddha and Rebelle; warrior posts about fierce priestess types who grab Life by the throat and wring it dry with their Mach II creative power, divinely inspired posts about the Divine in all of us, pragmatic posts about the life we chose and the lessons learned. 

It makes me tired.  So do I surrender?  Maybe I'll just vacuum and feed the crows.

Another Christmas

Another Christmas.  How they whirl past, one after another.  We have, save for a quick gift delivery to neighbours, spent it at home.  We had planned to drive to either Picnic Point or the  Range Lookout this morning, while the roads were still quiet, to have a coffee and enjoy the view.  Rain, however, put an end to that.  The promised rain has not eventuated, this morning's drizzle not counting for much so it's been quite a pleasant day - although I would've preferred a cozy rain confined day at home.  The grass has recovered but still we are in drought.  The soil is bone dry beneath a very narrow band at the surface.

The last vestige of small talk and small writing; the weather.  I have these thoughts I want to explore when I am no where near the computer (or a notebook) and have no chance of pursuing them.  

One of them is the nature of guilt and punishment.  Again.  I'm not Catholic but repeatedly I return to this train of thought.  If I don't get what I want or something bad happens, is it punishment, is it karma?  Am I not holding my mouth just right?   This house still hasn't sold and there's a part of me that believes it's my fault, that I don't deserve to live in a place more suited to me than here which is, although beautiful, killing me slowly as I watch the .... have to say it, environmental vandals/philistines/rednecks destroy it by degrees.  For years I've watched as the bush is chipped away through burning and now, tree clearing, which seems to be the new tool of the cognoscenti farmer.

I cry when I see, almost daily, the results of the latest attack.  Or at least my eyes well up with tears.  Perhaps I now qualify as a silly old woman for crying about the loss of the bush.  And maybe it's selfish to not want to feel bad when I see the new piles of freshly bulldozed trees waiting to be burnt.  But I do.  So I feel guilty because I'm still here, the house hasn't sold and I must be doing something wrong. 

Or am I being selfish to influence Richard this way?  He'd stay if I said I'd stay.  He doesn't ride through the bush so he doesn't feel as strongly as I do about its demise.  If I talk about the creatures who die when they burn it hurts him so I don't talk about it.  So I suppose I am being selfish in pushing for this but in the end, I have to.  Being old here is out of the question (or should I say older).  Is it sinful to want more (or something different) when I already have so much and billions of people have next to nothing?  There is much guilt attached to that.

The other side of me says, I am already blessed in being well fed, clothed and housed.  I just want to change locations, spend Christmas in the Tweed Valley rather than the Lockyer Valley.  So get over it, stop feeling guilty and just get on with it!

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?

Procrastination and the Messy Perfectionist's Life

Waiting to start something while waiting for Richard to go to town just means I wait.  No reason why I can't start while he's still here but isn't that often the case?  Everything must be just right before doing something I want to do - which is just another form of procrastination.  Waiting for the right weather, atmosphere, time, environment, mood, tools, whatever the reason for procrastination just means more procrastination. 

So what is scary about diving right in?  I think it's fear of not doing something perfectly.  I've never done anything perfectly my entire life - except live.  Every day I wake up, I'm alive and breathing, even standing and moving, and that's perfection.  If I wasn't living my life perfectly I'd be dead.  But that's a rather extreme view.  My more usual viewpoint is unless I can draw the perfect picture, write the perfect blog, train the perfect horse, it's not worth doing.  Well, it is or I wouldn't keep trying but there's this underlying current of guilt because I'm never quite good enough. 

Not unusual, eh?  Where did we get this obsession for perfection?  Wish I could blame my parents, it would be so easy but while they encouraged they did not browbeat. 

At the same time as being paralyzed by perfectionism I am quite content to do things half arsed, to have the mind set that an attempt is as good as realization. 

What both these mindsets lead to is guilt which also paralyzes.  Better to do nothing at all than attempt anything that might be a little difficult. Not only is there the guilt but this mental white noise; perfectionism warring with why bother, guilt with ego (and I've plenty of that!), energy with sloth.  What a mess.  No wonder I, along with so many others, finally get ill (my current back challenge) with it.  We've got the brakes on while flooring the accelerator. 

Added to that are the many good things I feel I ought to be doing to be kind to myself; yoga, meditation, walking, painting, loving others, loving myself, being out in nature, eating well which means taking the time to cook from scratch, educating (French), reading non-fiction, the list goes on.  All this stuff under the direction of my inner tutor/mother/friend.  And where am I in all this?  Usually playing Mah Jong.

What's that thing animals (and people) do when they are torn between two different desires?  Displacement behaviour.  Grooming, licking, Mah Jong playing. 

So have I got the answer?  Of course not.  I'm a messy, lazy, conflicted, guilt-ridden, arrogant, courageous, cowardly, high energy, loving, loathing, collection of days.  Out of it comes a life.  Maybe that's all it is.  If life was a perfect sail from A to B on a calm sea with no storms I'd fall asleep (die) fairly soon.  I don't have the answers.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring or how I'll handle it so I keep getting out of bed to find out.

Wishing the Guilt Away

Was reviewing things I have wished for (with the sudden ownership of three Art Deco Club Chairs years after accepting I would never own one).  Found a notebook with a pretty cover entitled Day Dreams in which I'd started to write a short synopsis of my life, desires and wishes.  (There are many many notebooks with many many beginnings jotted down that never see a finish - a sad statement on my ability to commit).   Several times I wrote that I would like to have a published book, a strange statement because I no longer write.  Finished one novel and got halfway through another before being permanently distracted.  Another thing I keep referring to is the need for solitude.  I am my mother's daughter after all.   Went to a neighbour's 21st last night - didn't want to go, wanted to run home and play with a new drawing instead of making small talk perched on a bale of hay. 
     Yes, a new drawing.  I've felt the need to sketch.  The pastel isn't finished.  Haven't touched it for 2 days.  Feel it's safe to leave it for awhile as I've got a handle on where it might go.  Nevertheless I wanted a doodle.  Something which I could play with without so much at stake.  A pastel seems SERIOUS, while a graphite drawing is more PLAYFUL.  Which illustrates a basic fault in my perception.  There is no reason why a pastel can't be playful.  I know from past experience that seriousness, the thought of consequences (what if it doesn't turn out?) freezes my ability to do anything.
     At least something is being created. 
      Created.  Isn't that a miracle?  Making something from nothing, something which has never existed before and which will never exist again - whether it's a loaf of bread or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.   That need to get something out which was in, even if what's in is only an itch which must be scratched and hasn't got a form as yet beyond the desire to do SOMETHING! 
     I beat myself up (what an odd picture that statement creates!) because I don't do more.  Have to remember that because I sleep so poorly now (a side effect of menopause I suspect) and am often tired, I won't feeling like doing much.  Despite this, when I stand back and look at what I accomplish I actually get quite a bit done.  Guilt is just a natural part of my make-up.  Where did it come from?  I'm not Catholic.  Sure would like to get shot of it.  It's not helpful. 
     Maybe that will be my new wish.  I wish to be free of guilt (not conscience, only guilt).  After all I got a couple of club chairs.
     

You Can Trulty Trust the Doors to Open While You Rest and Wait and Hope

Flitting between working on a drawing and this computer and watching The Comedians by Graham Greene on telly.  Have rather settled here though because I started reading Leo Babuata's Zen Habits, a pastime I feast at rather than snacking now and then.  Anyway, one of his blogs led to another blog and to an artist called Jen Lemen.  She does these illustrations with vivid primary colours of comforting sayings and simple representations of people and things.  The art work isn't my cup of tea but one of her images really resonated because of what it said.  The illustration is titled You Can Rest Now.  "You Can Rest Now, She Told Me.  You Can Truly Trust The Doors to Open While You Rest and Wait and Hope." 

I've noticed a couple of times while resting in meditation that tears well up unbidden.  When they do it is because I've reached a place of rest where me, the conscious ego side becomes aware in a dim sort of way of the timeless eternal me.  This timeless part of me comforts me.  I know in its presence that I can relax, that I am safe, that it's all right, that I don't have to try so hard, that I don't have to feel guilty about being me nor do I need to be afraid that my life is not a success because I'm not perfect.  I know I do not use my time well.  I know that I waste time on trivialities.  I also know that I carry an enormous tonnage of guilt because I have everything, absolutely everything here at my disposal for a successful well-lived life and I waste it.  If I had to struggle for food, shelter, safety, peace, I would not worry about how I'm living life, I would just want to live.  Yet, in this bosom of well-fed Western existence, I doodle nonsense designs with time. 

So this deep (for me) place reached while meditating, this true-feeling place, does this mean it is the truth, that being me, with all the accompanying faults and habits clinging, limpet like, is enough?  Maybe it is me that must do the forgiving.  How to be Your Own Best Friend and all that. 

I do feel that I am edging, snail like, to a state that is less guilt-ridden.  On the exterior I am thisclose to being vegan.  I've given up cheese except for a can of commercial parmesan which is still in the fridge along with eggs bought from a neighbour's daughter who has a few chickens.  I won't replace them when they're gone.  Thought it would be hard but it hasn't been.  An unlooked for side effect is that I've lost weight.  I've lost 3.5 kg since November, the last kilo in less than a month (since foregoing cheese).  Also, I feel better in myself, physically lighter and less 'clogged' but also emotionally because I no longer am a part of some poor cow's suffering (or goat's, for the rennet).  There's a feeling of relief. 

Jen, the yoga instructor, is away until July 19.  She has given me enough to work on until her return.  Not me personally but things I take away from her class.  Asanas I find particularly challenging are always included in my session.  I've gone from doing yoga in 30 minutes when I started 2 years ago to taking an hour and a quarter.  Oddly enough the time goes quickly.  Some days are better than others.  But every day I do yoga is a good day.  Except today.  I've not done it today as we've been expecting a couple from down the road to come look at some horse gear.  It's getting on to 3 and they still haven't come.

One happy and unexpected surprise is that R has been doing 10 to 20 minutes yoga with me for the past week.  I am very proud of him.  He's finding it very difficult as he's very stiff (he is after all 65) but am confident with consistent practice he will reap the  benefits.