Has it been that long?

 I checked up here and it's been since late September that I've written anything. Time flies, I guess.

It's Christmas Season now. Once again, I wasn't going to put up much of a tree. Last year it was a 2 foot high thing with a single piece of ribbon that read "Merry Christmas". Grandpunkin was horrified this year when I said I didn't think I'd put up anything, so I was shamed into getting a 6'6" fake tree and a few strings of lights. When those were up, he expressed disappointment that there were no ornaments on it. So, the box came out and we set to work, with him asking questions about each one, as my ornaments all have stories. Some were ones purchased the first year Himself and I were married, in 1986. Others were made by his daddy and uncles as they were growing up. Those are my favorites, the awkwardly painted balls and that one lego thing...whatever it is...that one of them made when he was 8 or 9. There's a copper foil paper origami crane, and now the one who made it is extremely skilled with origami and made a polyhedral ball type thing for this year. He promised a new something origami every year now. 

Christmas is when I miss them. Himself and Capt. And when I have the cognitive dissonance of missing 2 men, without feeling a strong preference. Who do I miss more? I had Himself for 30 years., and he's been gone for 9. I had Capt for 5, and he's been gone 1. They were very different men. One was cautious and diligent. The other was adventurous and carefree. Both were extremely intelligent with mad building skills and mechanical abilities. But I miss them both. 

They say you aren't married in Heaven, and I am thankful for that because there's the age-old (and pointless) question of who would I be married to? Neither, I'm told. It's Heaven, and perfect, and we're all too busy being in Heaven to deal with things like that. 

Thanksgiving was 2-fold. Thursday was with Capt's family (they're all so lovely!), and Saturday was with mine and a couple of extras. Christmas will be on the 15th, because that's when we can all get together. The 2 living in Atlanta will be working on the 25th, and we have never needed to do it on The Day. It will also allow Grandpunkin to have the whole Family Experience with us, involving potato cannons and explosives and bonfires, and then have Christmas Day with his mother and her family. He gets 2 Christmases! Lucky kid!

I am reading an advent devotional, and it is emphasizing the point of Christmas, as a celebration of God's incarnation as a human being, with all the physical stuff like being born and such. He lived with us, as one of us, probably with mosquito bites itching, skinned knees as a kid, maybe likes and dislikes (did He ever have to endure brussels sprouts? Or was He one of those kids who appreciated everything? I mean....He created them, after all.) Living as one of us meant He actually truly understood what we go through as people. The frustrations (remember He got mad and flipped tables in the temple), the physical limitations of our bodies, fatigue, hunger, all that. He knows us, fully and completely, and can relate to our shortcomings. That hits me now and then, knowing there's a perfect God who reached down to live with us as one of us because He wanted to. I love that. It's comforting. This month we celebrate His desire to love us where we are, on Earth, as a limited creature, so He plopped himself into a food trough, with a mom and dad to look after him, and joined us on Earth. That's what Love is. That's why I put up lights and a silly tree full of memories, cook giant meals for my family and remember the 2 men who loved me most. It's how I do it. All through it I remember that God loves us enough to do join us here, where we're at, and walk with us through life and it's hardships, always pointing a way to go, to get to a place where, instead of Him joining us where we're at, we get to join Him where He's at. 

Here I am again

I think grief makes me want to write. I'm not fooling myself into thinking anyone reads this, but it feels good to get stuff out of my head and onto "paper". Maybe one day I'll be very industrious and print it all out so even after the world collapses someone can read it and feel sorry for me. Or not.

Anyway, I was reading through past posts, going on to a year or two prior to Capt's passing. How clueless I was. I always am, you know, not being able to predict the future and all. I was also very careful about what I wrote. Capt was sensitive about his image, and didn't ever want to be seen with a critical eye. He had some real character flaws, but don't we all? Now I don't have to be so careful but I am not going to expose him, or Himself, or my children, to the critical eye of the world. There's no point.

As for me, I am not afraid of the critical eye of the world. I am probably far harder on myself than anyone else could be, because I am living inside my head and know everything going on in there.

Thank God for God, and redemption. He's the only other one who knows exactly what I'm thinking, planning, and all that. He knew what I was thinking when I was so angry at Capt, frustrated with my kids, and wishing I were anywhere else but here with a mind wiped clean by amnesia. Fortunately He doesn't work that way, but sometimes I sure wish He did. 

Now here I sit, on a Saturday morning with all the plans cancelled, a third cup of coffee, wondering what to do today. I think I'm just writing words down to get them out of my head, in no particular order and for no particular reason.

I have, as seen in the most recent writings, been dealing with the recurrance of Grief. It's a heavy load and the problem is that it's mostly borne alone. Sure, friends want to help but no, mostly a singular event.

I am weary of feeling sad. Missing Himself, missing Capt, mourning the loss of long term plans, feeling sorry for myself because there's no Grandpa to my Grandma, probably going to get old alone in the bed. You don't appreciate the sold feel of another body next to you, the safe feelings of knowing you're not alone if something happens, the comfort of having another opinion on a matter...there's an awful lot people take for granted. I guess if all this has taught something, it's been to appreciate relationships. 

I try to console myself with trivialities like not having to share pillows, pick up someone else's underwear, or coordinate with someone else's plans. I don't have to ask an opinion about dinner, choose anything based on someone else's preferences. I can go to a movie, whatever movie I want, whenever I want, and get the kind of popcorn I want. I can binge watch anything I want without anyone else's input or commentary. None of that really matters. I think I'd be willing to compromise those things, but I have also learned that looking for someone merely to have a warm solid body and safety isn't the way to do it.

You see, that's why I met Capt. I wanted and thought I needed another person to feel complete. I'd been half-of-a-whole for over 30 years and when Himself died, I lost half of myself. I jumped into a relationship with both feet and half a brain, and went all-in. Don't get me wrong, I loved Capt and the life (well, most of it. The last year wasn't so loveable) we made, but it was hard to learn how to live with someone so opinionated, especially since I was equally so. 

Now I am having, AGAIN, to learn how to live with myself, and I don't like it. BUT, I have also decided that this is where God wants me and it's my responsibility to accept that, and plow ahead.

Catharsis

 Writing is cathartic. Spilling everything in my mind out, putting it in words, allows the "paper"...what would have been paper 50 years ago...to hold the thoughts so I don't have to. It helps to organize smelly mists swirling around in my head, congealing them into something that can be tangible, compared to something else tangible, like holding a rock in each hand and deciding which one is heavier. Then I can bang them together and maybe make a spark, or at least a noise. 

So last time I wrote, it was about the return of some grief. It's still there, I'm still wearing it around my shoulders like some sort of cloak, and that's ok. There was a prayer meeting at church last night, after a pot-luck supper. I do love a potluck supper. Someone brought pineapple casserole. YUM. The church provided fried chicken, everyone else brought sides and desserts. I contributed deviled eggs because there's never any left over so I don't have to deal with them. Also- cheap and easy. Anyway, at the prayer meeting, it was announced that someone had lost her husband very suddenly, funeral was at such and such on an upcoming day. I had to cover my face because here comes the tears. 

Not because I was feeling sorry for myself, but because someone else was having to experience something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. 

How do you pray for someone in such a situation? I never knew but I do now. Pray for her to have courage in the upcoming days/months/years. Pray for her to feel God's presence and comfort in her grief, and for you to be able to know what God wants you to do to help.

How do you help? Let me tell you. Bring her a bunch of those Bolthouse Farms or Naked (brand) smoothies they have in the produce section of the grocery store. She'll have plenty of casseroles and probably not be hungry. Widows lose weight. I lost 50 pounds. Another friend lost 15 that she didn't have to lose. It's really hard to swallow and you have ZERO appetite, even if you know you probably ought to eat.

Don't try to distract her from her grief, she'd probably feel guilty about that. But honor it, sit with her without talking and if she wants to talk, encourage it. Let her talk about her beloved. It helps. If you knew him well, pull out a "remember when" and "one of the things I loved about him was (this thing)" I remember being so afraid he would be completely erased, and it's incredibly comforting to talk about him.

If bringing casseroles and baked goods is how you are led to help, that's wonderful! Especially if there's kids at home, because they need to eat and she might be having trouble with that. Or not- maybe taking care of her children helps her focus and manage each day. That said, if you bring food, PLEASE bring it in a disposable container, and ready to stick in the freezer, in case she has a lot of other food. I know how wonderful it was, when I was having a horrible day even months later, to reach in and grab something I could just stick in the oven and be done with it. Or if the 15 yr old was hungry, he could do it. Consider the size of the family when you make stuff up. If there's 2 or 3, a 9x13 pan of chicken and rice is kind of intimidating. Make 2 8x8 pans, ready to freeze. Put your name on it somehow, so she will know who brought it, because she's probably not going to remember. I know I'd forget the most basic things, like my own phone number, or personal hygiene. So remembering Ms Anne brought the macaroni and cheese is kind of a lot to expect.  And please, please, don't expect a thank you note. You might get one, but there's a lot going on and social niceties really need to be set aside. 

If you're in a church, and there's other widows there, let them know, and they will come around and be a tribe. I know I have my widow's tribe. When Himself died, there was one particular woman who knew just what to say, and her help early on was invaluable. Now I'm in another town, and found the widow's tribe. We have breakfast every Thursday, sit together at the potlucks, and encourage, laugh, cry, and help each other. 

For the funeral, if there's a request for a donation to a charity instead of flowers, PLEASE do that! PLEASE! I know it meant so much more to me than a bouquet. As nice as they were, I had no idea what to do with them. Same with the plants. The peace lilies. Oh lord...Yes, they're good houseplants but just like carnations, they're funeral plants. Please make a donation. It is so much more meaningful. I got a thank you from the charities Himself and Capt loved, and that meant the world to me. I guarantee the $50 you'd spend on a bouquet that will die in a week would mean so much to a volunteer fire department, homeless shelter, or humane society.

Understand that the widow will probably never get "back to normal". She will likely never be who she was before her beloved died. She has to create a new normal, which will include spells of grief. I don't know how long that will last. It's different for every person. For me, I expect it will last the rest of my life. Himself was called Home 8-1/2 years ago. For Capt it will be a year Oct. 8, 2023. Seeing a picture of Himself, smoking a cigar on the patio, brings me both comfort and sadness. Seeing a picture of Capt on his fishing boat, wearing a broad brimmed hat and happily barefoot, does the same. I imagine Himself in a big rocking chair talking philosophy with Jesus. I see Capt standing in the sand, fly-fishing with Saint Peter. Those images are incredibly comforting but also tears-inducing. 

A widow needs to learn to be able to have the sadness and grief without being told it will pass. No it won't. She will learn to be able to talk about her beloved without crying, but probably not immediately. So let her, and keep a couple of tissues in your pocket when you go for a visit. Some women are able to wear their emotions out there, and are unafraid to show them. Others are like me, mortified at the idea of being so publicly "irrational" (there's nothing irrational about it, but it is still horrifying to let people see me acting such a way). Either way, try to be comfortable with it. If she's a hugger, give her a hug. If not, give her a tissue. If you can, offer a cup of tea. 

Does any of this make sense? Does it help? I hope so. 

Slammed again

A couple of days ago, Himself's (husband #1, who died in 2015) father passed away. It's hard on my boys, who were very close to him. I (and they) know he's gone to his Heavenly reward, and it's not "good-bye", but "see you later". What a tremendous comfort. Really it is. It has also recalled a lot of hard feelings for me- missing Himself, missing Capt. Being a double widow is not easy. In fact I'm feeling down right whiney about it. This too will pass, just like everything else. I know it's not good-bye, it's see you later for both of them. 

But (you knew that was coming), there's still stuff to deal with. I joined the choir at church, and looking out into the congregation there are many elderly couples, married for 50+ years and I wonder if they have any idea just how blessed they are. I wished for a 25th anniversary. While Himself and I were together for 30 years, on our 25th anniversary there was a massive crisis at work and all the plans I'd made had to be cancelled. He promised we'd do it on our 30th, but we only made it 28-1/2 years. Then I hoped for it with Capt. We would have been late 70's for a 25th, but that's doable, right? He passed away a week before the 5th anniversary of when we met. So, do you see why I'm feeling sorry for myself right now? 

Am I going to get the privilege of getting old with someone? It is a privilege, you know. Not a right. When people get married, whether it's young like Himself and I (I was 21, he was 22), the expectation is for 60-70 years together, grandkids and great grandkids, holding hands with each other on the front porch with family all around. That was a dream we both had. 

When Capt and I began our relationship, we were going to travel, see the world, do the things that didn't happen when we were both younger. Some of that was done, with trips to Honduras and St Croix, plans to go to Cozumel and possibly some work in Nicaragua. A couple of weeks before he died, he knew it was coming, and told me to travel when he was gone. I thought he was being morbid. I HAD PLANS.  

Apparently, so did God and they weren't the same as mine.

I tell myself getting mad at God for all this is silly. His plans aren't necessarily the same as mine but they're always good. He knows what he's doing, and has it all figured out. I am supposed to trust that, and I'm trying. 

But I have to admit that I'm still human. It still hurts, and doubly so because Capt's death brought back all the feelings of Himself's death and a huge part of me wants to scream IT'S NOT FAIR only with some choice words added in. 

I'm not special that I should not have to suffer now and then. God has done a LOT for me. He has taken care of my children even when they have tried as hard as they could to mess their lives up. He has seen to it I am well provided for, have friends, and everything I could want, except for the one thing I would really like.  However, I am sure there's a very good reason behind the (how do I say this)....noticeable lack of companionship. Perhaps He is protecting me from something. Maybe He has something planned beyond my imagining. I don't know. I'll go with the protection because I don't want to be all hopeful then disappointed. At any rate, I'm not going to push the issue. I am not going to go out and do the modern thing and get online to look for someone. I'm just...not.

I am changing my name back to what it was prior to Capt. It's my children's last name, and I kept my business in it, because paperwork and such was ridiculous for making a change. I have thought long and hard about it. I talked to a few people, worried that it would be considered disrespectful of him, then decided he's busy fishing with Peter and a few other apostles, probably telling them how to fly fish. He isn't worried about anything, especially his last name. So, there it is. 

In the mean time, while I am very busy feeling sorry for myself, I am going to have a glass or two of white wine and watch some Masterpiece Theater.  I have begun looking after myself without wondering what anyone else thinks of it. I hired a personal trainer and am paying him an exorbitant amount of money to get me fit (it's working!). I went to Spain with a friend. I watch PBS and have a glass or two of cheap white wine. I am living life as a single person now, but with many good memories. I'll be fine. It's how I do things.

I'll think about it tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.

You know you're old when doctors are all younger than you. 

I had a Procedure today, one of those mildly unpleasant ones that involve fasting for 2 days (clear liquids only), half a day of ingesting a month's worth of laxatives, and some sweet, sweet propofol. I was HONGRY afterwards but felt like I'd had a stiff martini, so rather than indulging in the Niffer's burger Dad had offered, he drove me straight home and I had some leftover stew. Of course, stew is always better as leftovers than the first day. I also ate a whole carton of ice cream (ok relax, it was a pint, not a half gallon) and had several cups of coffee. And a nap, coffee notwithstanding. 

There are more Procedures on other parts of my 58 year old body, planned for next week. Might as well get it all done at once, right? Fortunately none of them involve fasting and laxatives. After that, a sweet year of nothing much unless Something Comes Up which, at 58, can do. Whatever. We live in a fallen world where bad things happen like diseases and infirmities and calameties, (calamaties? Ca-lam-uh-tees? Bad Things.) I can point to my life and show a few, though to be fair, in spite of dead beloveds, horribly injured children, and Japanese beetles eating my roses in spite of the traps THAT DON'T WORK, life's pretty sweet right now.

I am, as I like to recount every morning, ridiculously and utterly without merit, blessed. I have had the immense privilege of being loved by 2 men. I have gotten to see my children come through very hard times with a strong faith in Christ (It does NOT get any better than that.) Most mornings I can thank God for all that but occasionally there's a big fat WHY ME? I didn't do anything to deserve any of this. It just...fell on me like manna and quails in the desert. And I am grateful. 

mmmm braised quail and figs.

Sometimes, this melancholy bent of mind kicks in and says "This is just a chance to catch your breath. Something bad is going to happen, you know" and yes. I know. I also know what can be lived through. How bad it can get and yet, survival happens. If something terrible should happen to me, I know where I'm going so really it's not that bad. My kids will be fine, they don't actually need me now. The only thing I fear is a long drawn out painful bit. I'm a wimp and The Good Stuff doesn't work on me, pain-wise. 

My much-wiser-that-me youngest son reminded me to take it a day at a time. Jesus says in Matthew 6:34, 

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of it's own."

So I try not to do that...worry about tomorrow. I mean, God said not to and who am I to argue with Him?

Time to get up!

My brain woke me up at 4am. "Get up!" it said. *whine* I thought. "NO. GET. UP." it demanded. Or maybe it was my bladder. I don't know. They're easy to confuse at Dark:00 am.

Capt. was not a morning person. Bedtime at night was a very reluctant 11:00 or midnight, and getting up was an even more reluctant 8am. Funny thing was, even though he'd complain like a child about going to bed at night ("I can't sleep if I go too early! I wake up at 2 am and can't go back to sleep! <etc>...), as soon as his head hit the pillow he was OUT. How do men do that? Himself was the same way. Lay down, go to sleep. All 4 of my sons, same way. Lay down, go to sleep.

It takes me more time than that, and a certain orderly ritual to tell my mind it's time to sleep. I MUST READ. Even if it's only 1/2 a chapter, laying there, book in hand (and yes, it must be a book, with paper pages and a pretty bookmark. None of this electronic e-book thing, even if it has non-blue night mode or whatever), reading with the bedside lamp. In years past, there was the warm presence of a softly snoring man. Now there's the warm presence of a softly snoring dachshund. Also male, also goes to sleep almost immediately. He has to arrange his blanket Just So, but then after circling 3 times he's out. 

Once my brain says GET UP, that's it. There's no laying there, possibly going back to sleep for another hour. It starts clicking and whirling and thinking too hard. If I stay in bed, it goes into dark places and worries about things over which I have zero control, and the only way to stop that is to GET UP. 

The coffee maker is set to start it's Oh-So-Vital job at 5am. Getting up at 4 means I have to *gasp* WAIT for the Elixir of Life and Productivity. I don't like that because I am a spoiled princess, but for obvious reasons, wait I must. But only a few minutes. I remind myself during those minutes that I didn't have to walk 2 miles to a muddy river to get the water. I didn't have assemble the coffee components while groggy, nor milk a barn full of cows.

I decided, a while back, that if I believed in reincarnation (which I don't), then in my last life I must have been an Amish dairy farmer, due to the regularity of waking up at 4am. Granted, the 4am wake-up call is probably due to the 8pm bedtime, but it's a self-perpetuating cycle, isn't it. I try hard to stay up until 9 or 10, but honestly, why should I? 

4am is a great time to get up! It's before the sun or birds are up, and there's something really sweet about having open windows, and hearing the first birds yell about whatever it is they're yelling about. 

HEY...I'M UP! ARE YOU UP YET? 

I AM NOW! IS BOB UP YET? 

YEAH I'M UP! WHERE'S JOE?

I'M DOWN HERE BY THE POND!  and so on.

The first ones up are always the wrens. They like the front porch, and will peer through the window, probably wondering where Capt. is. They were good friends.

A goldfinch on a sunflower, in the front yard

Isn't it wonderful how systematic and reliable God is, when it comes to the natural world, the rising and setting of the Sun, the phases of the moon? I'm always enchanted by a good full moon even though it's happened every single month of my life. The dependable regularity of the seasons...you know it's Spring when the pond peepers and whippoorwills start up every night.  Mankind can make a mess of things, but the seasons happen, the sun and moon do their things, the tides rise and fall, and the wrens yell first thing. Comforting, isn't it.  It's a testament to God's reliability even when things seem to be going sideways.

 Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago. Isaiah 25:1

And so here I am, at 6 am and already finished my second cup of coffee. The dog, who probably has more sense than I, is asleep next to me on the couch, snoring softly and twitching a bit. The sky has lightened and the birds are telling each other whatever it is birds say. #3 just butt-dialed me on his way to work "Sorry, Mom! I didn't mean to get you up!"....no worries, I'm up, have a good day!

This is a magical part of the day. No phone calls except accidental ones from my favorite people. No noise from the road yet, just Dad ripping by in his golf cart, on the way to get the newspaper. I love it. Maybe that's why I am up at 4am.

Recovering

 I still have a hold-over cough from the Flu That Knocked Me Down. Or maybe it's allergies. Who can tell? The privet is blooming and that usually does a thing to me. Benadryl at night and Zyrtec in the morning means I can function with minimal noise.

Anyway, part of my morning routine is to spend a bit of time thanking God for whatever it is I am thankful at that moment. Today that means breathing, tasting food, and the myriad gifts that allow such luxuries as travel. 

Getting to see a whole different part of the world, where things are done a bit differently from here in the Deep South USA, only actually not that differently. People in Barcelona are unfailingly polite and friendly. Very Southern. There's a quiet "oh, disculpe!" ("excuse me!") if we bump into each other in a crowd. I was warned, pre-trip, about rampant pickpocketism there, but nary a pocket was picked. People smiled, and smiled back, asked where we were from, offered opinions about foods and politics, all very Southern, from my perspective.

Children stayed up a lot later than we were accustomed to. 11 pm, and there were young ones shouting and playing on the plaza below our room. When my kids were that age, bedtime was no later than 9pm. Ever. More for my sake than theirs, to be honest. 

I have a thing about cathedrals and the ornateness of them. I was raised in austere Presbyterian churches. Minimal ornamentation, all of them. When visiting a cathedral I was hit by the sheer...overwhelming....

Little nooks for particular saints, gold leaved, statues, each one with a small bank of candles in red glass jars on a rack for people to light in honor or whatever....not real sure. A small sign and box on each rack asking for 1 euro to light

Beautiful stained glass windows, 

 seats for families indicated by painted coats of arms, 

 all really lovely and interesting and through my head was the thought "how many homes could be built with the gold on this stuff?" but that wasn't the intent, I don't think. These were built for the Glory of God, and that's not a bad thing but still. My austere Presbyterian sensibilities had to set aside their prejudices and accept the beauty for what it was and that it didn't care what I thought about it all.

The whole city had these little pockets and pieces of beauty. Why should a lightpole be plain when it could be amazing? 

Why should the hinge on a door be plain when it could be beautiful?

Why should the wall of a building be ugly block when it could be plastered with an amazing image? What a wonderful sensibility! It was fun to turn the corner in an alley and find a dragon, or a small courtyard with a beautiful fountain.

This is a city that recognizes it's special, like an old woman who's lived an interesting life and recognizes she's beautiful.

Barcelona, Spain

I did it! I traveled to Barcelona, Spain for 10 days, with a sweet friend and we had an absolutely amazing time. 

I also brought back a 10+ day flu that knocked me flat on my back and is still shaking me like a German Shepherd puppy with an old rag. 

Yes, I have a bajillion pictures. No, they aren't here because they're on the other computer and being shaken like a rag in a German Shepherd puppy's mouth means I'm too addled to put them up just yet. You'll have to trust me, it's a beautiful city. Absolutely unequivocably (dang it I've tried 4 times and still can't spell that right) gorgeous. The people are kind and friendly, the food is glorious, and the graffiti is, mostly, limited to the metal roll up doors covering the shop entrances. 

The food. Oh my word. We dined. I knew when planning the trip that I intended to eat and did we ever. Tapas are a glorious way to enjoy a meal. Small plates of delicious goodnesses meant to be shared while enjoying wine. Ham croquettes, pan de tomate (tomato bread, a food that is greater than the sum of it's parts), grilled vegetables with romesco sauce, delicious delicious olives, Iberico ham, manchego cheese marinated with herbs and olive oil, and breads. The breads. I had croissants for breakfast, snacks, and whenever. Basque cheesecake made with gorgonzola, parmesan, and marscapone cheeses...sounds weird as heck but oh my goodness. Gelato...

Ok here's a gelato story. There was a little store just down from the hotel. In the evenings we would get a cup of gelato. I saw what was labeled as "Pesca" so asked for that..."Pesca (PESS-ka), please" and the girl working there looked confused and slightly horrified. My friend, who's far better at Spanish than I, started laughing at me. "You just asked for fish!" But...I was confused. She said to the worker "she means Pesca (PESH-ah)...PEACH". oh...ok well, I didn't know but now it makes sense. The worker laughed, I laughed, and now I have my language butchering story to tell.

We walked everywhere. 5-6 miles a day, in a gentle amble, in and out of stores, museums, cathedrals. The first day we found ourselves wandering into the chapel of the nearby hospital, drawn in by the sound of this ethereal singing. We found ourselves in a tiny sanctuary, with a circle of blue-clad nuns singing beautifully in this acoustically glorious room. We stood quietly and listened, and yes, I felt like God was there with them, this worshipful angelic singing. 

We walked to the Mediterranean sea. It was like a lake, very calm. The beach was rocky with pebbles and we picked up bits of sea glass, all sorts of colored pebbles and some very coarse sand. We sat and watched young children hurl rocks into the water, and I gave a mental "Hello! I'm here!" to The Capt. That day was capped with a 60-day dry aged Galician beef steak and red wine. OH my goodness.

We took a cooking class one night, and learned how to break down a cuttlefish for seafood paella, make a strawberry-tomato gazpacho, and Catalan creme- which is like creme brulee but much lighter. There were 4 of us, my friend and I, and a mother-daughter duo from New Orleans, and our Chef teacher. The paella was amazing, as was everything else. Also, wine was involved because it's Spain.

We visited the Sagrada Familia, Barcelona's iconic Gaudi Basilica, always under construction. It. Is. Stunning. There's so much to take in with it, small details everywhere and it's simply enormous. I can't even begin to describe it other than to say it's mind bogglingly complex and beautiful inside. The windows, soaring ceilings, absolutely amazing.

I probably have events out of order, but those are bits of what we did. There were street musicians everywhere, all the time. New Orleans jazz, classical Spanish guitar, soulful saxophone, a Catalan 10-person band, some guy beat-boxing the Bee Gees (ok yes that was as strange as it sounds). Our room overlooked a big plaza with the Barcelona Cathedral on the other side. At night, the windows were left open and we could hear a woman playing guitar and singing, as we went to sleep. (5th floor, no one was going to sneak in)

The hotel breakfast was delicious. Every morning I had Iberico ham and croissants, strong coffee, fresh fruit. Yes. I love Iberico ham. acorn fed, dry aged, dense and sweet, and sliced paper thin. 

This was the first of the Capt ordered trips. I couldn't have asked for a better traveling companion. She and I shared the same easy-going, no real plans sort of philosophy. Other than the cooking class and tickets to the Sagrada Familia, we did nothing by a plan. "Where to today?" "I don't know, let's see what happens if we wander this direction..." We found tiny shops, beautiful alleys, little bits of beauty tucked away from the crowds. We found crowds, musicians, parks, and you know, I felt completely safe the whole time.

There's this thing going around on the internet about how gorgeous the Barcelona policemen are. I saw that and though "Ok so they found a couple of pretty ones but the rest are normal." Nope. The Barcelona policemen are, to a man (and the 2 women I saw in uniform), absolutely stunningly handsome. I have never seen such. In fact, most of the people I saw were attractive. I thought that was interesting. But, it's a walking city so everyone, young and old, was pretty fit. But those policemen. Holy cow. 

So I have a lot more to say, and many many pictures to post, but I am still a bit dizzy and recovering from the flu I caught while there. Fortunately I didn't start feeling weird until the evening of the very last day, which made the trip home SUPER fun. I'll talk about that another time. 

 

Philippians 4: 12-13

Well, it's been a bit since I've written. There's a combination of reasons. I haven't felt like it much, alternating between being busy and being depressed. Yes, depressed. Oh I know, God is with me and all, I get that. I know He is. I also know that currently I feel at loose ends. After Himself passed on in 2015, I spent nearly a year trying to gather my wits, help my children recover, generally try to do everything for everyone else and ignore my own needs. That certainly kept me busy. Then when I felt like they were all managed, I started school and that kept me busy for another couple of years. Capt came along, more busy, more someone else to fill my time and energy.

Now? The kids are not kids. They're all grown men living elsewhere doing their own grown-man things. I am at loose ends. Time is being (sort of) filled by (sort of) taking care of whomever I can help (sort of) but it all feels like I'm doing things that can be done by anyone else with half a brain. Loose ends is putting it mildly. More like...purposeless. Anything I am doing is either for my own household of me-and-a-dog, or doing something that really is a thing that people are handing to me in order to keep me busy. Housesitting for someone (actually kind of fun, but c'mon. Anyone could do it), "babysitting" a 12 year old who annoys his father. That starts tomorrow and I'm going to put him to work doing things I could more easily do with the tractor, but he needs to do some work.

Historically, when I have found myself in such a place, I've charged ahead and tried to solve the issue myself. In retrospect, that hasn't always worked out well. So now, I am trying to do that thing we are admonished to do in the Bible...be quiet and wait on the Lord. But how do I know if I am waiting, or ignoring an open door? 

So I pray. A lot. I read. A lot. I do the small things that need doing...pull a weed, trim a bush, point to the manure pile and wheelbarrow and instruct a 12 yr old on the finer points of composting. (He's going to love that. I just know it.) And I wait. 

How do I wait? How do I keep from getting impatient and charging full steam ahead into disaster? One day at a time. Today, I can wait. I do all things through Christ, who gives me strength. Including wait.

 I know how to live humbly, and I know how to abound. I am accustomed to any and every situation—to being filled and being hungry, to having plenty and having need. I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:12-13

I am working on the humbly part. Humility is not my default position. But through Christ, who has walked beside when I was a wife and mother, held my hand when I was filled with fear, thrown me a lifeline when I was in the bottom of a pit, I know I am not alone in this new chapter of my life. He doesn't ask me to have everything planned out for the next 40 years, He only asks me to trust Him. There are SO MANY bits in the Bible about trusting Him. Over and over and over. It's easier than you think, and we make it harder than it should be. 

But, for today, I can trust Him. I don't have to worry about tomorrow or next week. Today, I know I can trust Him, to open doors that need opening, closing the ones that He wants closed. He has closed many doors for me, and in the past I would refuse to accept that and force some open. That never turns out well. So for now, I am working on accepting the closed ones and waiting on some to open somewhere down the line. 

That doesn't mean it's easy to accept. I don't make things easy. Never have. I want what I want and sometimes, often, what I want isn't the same thing as what God wants. My job, as I have learned from trying to be the captain of the boat, is to allow GOD to captain the boat, and wait on His commands. It's not easy. But, I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. For today. 

8 years on

 On this day, February 23, 8 years ago (2015) I was alternating between my husband's (Himself) ICU bed and the waiting room filled with friends and church members. He'd had a massive heart attack, 100% blockage of one of the main arteries in his heart, and I'd been told *IF* he survives, he'd have been deprived of oxygen to his brain for so long he'd be a vegetable. Not quite fully brain dead, but no cognitive function. They were, as expected, doing what they could to keep him going, probably out of respect for me and my need to accept what had happened. It took me about 24 hours to really wrap my mind around it all, and when I was told the medicines weren't working anymore and probably should accept the inevitable, I did. After they turned off the machines keeping him alive, it took about a minute and it was over. In reality, I think it was over about 10 minutes after he'd had the heart attack the day before and his body was kept going but *HE* wasn't there anymore. I hope not, anyway. 

June 2014, 7 months before he passed away

And thus was the ignominious end of a 30 year relationship. The following few days were marked with confusion, a flurry of activity preparing a funeral, anger at everyone and everything, and a complete inability to realize just what had actually happened. Himself traveled a lot for work and honestly it just felt like he was off on an extended trip. It took a solid 6 months for my heart to catch up with my mind and accept that no, he wasn't coming back. Those months saw many attorney meetings, paperwork, consolations from friends who stepped in and kept me from feeling too sorry for myself. I learned how to do things on my own, without consulting someone else's opinion. It had been a very long time since that had happened and, while I was rusty at it, managed well enough.

I lost a lot of weight....about 50 pounds...because eating was problematic. I didn't want to. Everything, for that initial 6 months, tasted like sawdust and hunger pangs were satisfied well enough with a glass of water or a cup of coffee. One friend recognized what was happening and stocked my fridge with bottled smoothies. Easy food for someone with no motivation to cook. I certainly had 50 extra pounds worth losing, and people who didn't know what had happened complimented me and asked how I'd done it. When I said "I didn't eat for 6 months" and they asked why, their response to my answer was universally "Oh...." 

Losing their father was hard on our kids. It saw them enter into their own versions of tailspins and even now, 8 years later, they're just starting to get their equilibrium. I'm proud of them, they're finding their feet now and learning to manage the loss.

After meeting Capt, I saw my life entering yet another new chapter. It was a rather short one, just one week shy of 5 years. That loss caused the grief of losing Himself to reintroduce itself in a loud way, with once again the gasping for air and nausea and complete loss of appetite. There's no extra 50 pounds to lose this time, so I have been forcing myself to eat and only lost 5 pounds (that was plenty...pants are loose but not falling off this time, and I despise shopping for clothes so didn't want to have to do that all over again). Once again, little things set me off to crying. Just thinking about either of them will do it. Remembering a trip made, or a plan for the future that won't happen, or an evening alone and no one with whom to discuss plans, those small moments will cause waterworks and embarrassment even though I am the only one (other than the small silly dog, and he's sympathy personif...I mean...caninified) in the house. 

I have some friends here now who Get It. Several of them have also lost husbands and it is so comforting to be with someone who isn't shocked by sudden unexplained tears, or has a word of advice on whether or not to take a specific trip. 

Anyway, today is a sad anniversary, but also kind of a happy one because Himself is perfected and waiting for us to join him.  I've always said, both with Himself and Capt, that it's never good-bye for a Believer. It's see you later. That is a comfort beyond words for me.

In the mean time, I eat expensive ice cream straight from the carton. Watch ER as much as I want, and decorate the back porch the way I like. 

Dream a little dream for me

 Capt's beautiful fishing boat will be going down to Mobile this weekend. A friend down there has offered to sell it for me. Since he's in the business of boats (He modifies/fancies up/customizes them ,and did so with Capt's), he's in a good position to sell it. This boat was a lifelong dream for Capt. Since he was 12, he wanted to run a fly-fishing charter on the coast. Until we met, he really didn't think it would happen. I encouraged him, pushed him, and helped him make it happen. Then he got sick. Long-Covid, etc. The boat sat in the driveway, the fishing gear sat in the office. I kept telling him he'd get better, and the dream would happen, just right now...it's not. Now though...I imagine him fly-fishing in Heaven, bare feet dug into the sand, or maybe in a boat just like this one, standing on the platform, poling through a salt marsh, looking for redfish tailing. But this boat sat in the driveway and every time I see it I think of a dream unrealized. Now, though, maybe it will become someone else's dream boat. I hope so. It is a thing of beauty, that boat. Every bell, whistle, and accessory you could want. Comfortable, too. And it makes me sad to see it, sad to think of it leaving, but I will also be glad it's gone somewhere else. Maybe someone else's dream will be realized. 

This house I am in here in East Alabama, it is a dream Himself had, that we would have a small house on this piece of land, comfortable with everything we want and nothing we don't need. Enough land the grandkid(s....eventually, hopefully) can play around and have woods to walk through the same way he and I did when we were kids. We talked about a floor plan, way back in the day, and that is the floor plan I have now. After he died, I knew exactly the house to build, because we had discussed it for years. A dream partially realized, but without Himself's hand to hold while sitting in rocking chairs on the front porch. I'd rather have the hand to hold, but that's not an option anymore.

Capt had a dream of traveling the world with me. He told me, the week before he died, to travel. "Put stamps in your passport. Go see Europe, Greece, Israel". I'm starting to do that, making the plans. I'd rather do it with him, but that's not an option anymore. 

I know God has this all worked out. He's smart that way. He's always had it worked out. The only thing that has changed is my perception. My job is to trust that He knows what He's doing and since He's never let me down or gone back on a promise, I know I can trust that it will all work out. I can't deny that it hurts sometimes. I wish His promise included growing old with someone I was young with. Or even middle aged with. At this point I am unsure of any of that. I'm learning to trust His judgement about my life, His plan, but it's not easy.

God is not man, that he should lie, or a son of man, that he should change his mind. Has he said, and will he not do it? Or has he spoken, and will he not fulfill it? Numbers 23:19

Slammed

 One of the typical ways grief happens (and I know there's a more elegant way to say that, but I can't remember it right now), is in waves. At first, they're constant and overwhelming, over and over and over again and you can't catch your breath or think. Gradually, as time passes, the waves are less intense, further apart, and even there's calm spots between them. That's how it's been. I've breathed, gotten some things done, thought about the past without feeling like I wanted to crawl in a cave or throw  up. 

That said, there are things called "rogue waves"...if you're on a boat, a rogue wave can come along out of nowhere and upset the whole thing. Same with grief. I've been rocking along, doing "well", getting some things done and learning Spanish. But the past few days...ooh boy. Rogue Wave. 

And the heck of it is, being a Double Widow, the grief of my most recent loss has reactivated the grief from losing Himself so I get to have Grief Squared. Talk about messed up. My emotional equilibrium is all a-kilter and I've been going from feeling stunned (same as the first few days right after both Himself and Capt passed away) to wanting to crawl in a cave and throw up. Food....gross. Get it away from me. Sleep...yes please. And lots of it. Please, ANYTHING to get my mind into another direction. I know it will pass, and I'm being patient about it.

I just want to try to explain it. 

I know God knows what's going on. He knows grief far more than anyone of us can imagine. I know that, and it makes it possible to talk to Him about it. But there's still dumb little things that will set me off. Finding a bottle of cocktail sauce. Capt loved steamed shrimp and cocktail sauce. Catching a whiff of smoke from a good cigar. Himself loved a good cigar now and then and I got to approve which ones. Daffodils, Himself's favorite flowers, are blooming now. So. Many. Things. Even right now, putting it all down in words, is making me get chokey. 

I want to play a pity party...but c'mon. That's silly. Lots of people go through things. I'm not special. But I miss them both. So much. 

Stream-of-consciousness

 Yeah, it's been a couple of weeks. I've been busy. I like being busy. Dad and I got the pantry redone- new shelves, different layout. This house has 10 foot ceilings so I wanted to have the shelves go all the way up to provide storage for the rarely used stuff like the pressure canner, etc. Now it's off the porch and I can make the porch into a real place and not a storage place. Theoretically. We'll see if it stays that way.

Anyway, yesterday was Valentine's Day. Lots of love flying around. I went to the grocery store and there were men all over the place, buying flowers and choosing cards. The wine section was full of them too. I wondered if I should feel sad because I wasn't getting flowers, cards, or wine, but realized that was silly. I wasn't sad at all because

I am immensely privileged. Enormously so. In the last almost 40 years, I've had 2 men who loved me more than I ever loved myself. They made me feel like a Queen, spoiled me silly, and loved me thoroughly. Why on earth would I feel sad? It was a privilege! Of course I miss them both. I know if Himself hadn't passed on, I would never have met Capt, but that wasn't the grand plan. He did, and I did. Being loved by 2 men is more than anyone could hope for. I know I was blessed! 

So after asking myself if I was sad about all the flowers and cards and wine, and none of it for me, I realized that NO I WAS NOT. I was happy with having had such a life. Both times, the relationships had their joys, struggles, ups and downs. Both times I learned a lot from them and am a better person for them. God knew what He was doing. He still does. My job is to realize that and carry on. And so I am.

Now, I'm planting a garden, picking daffodils, and letting the dog on the couch. My life is shaping up quite differently from how it was. I'm cooking dinner for my parents 4-5 nights a week. I love to cook and doing it for 1 is awkward and silly. So being able to cook for them, and they'll eat anything I fix, is great fun. I have breakfast with friends once a week, attend things every Tuesday, dinner with my son once a week, and have something happening nearly every weekend. My life is full and as busy as I want it to be. 

What has been interesting, is how grieving for Capt has led to grieving for Himself as well. Kind of like everything has clicked back on. I'm doing a lot of reminiscing, looking at photo albums, unpacking memories. There's so much to think about. I am doing a lot of reading about saying goodbye, getting my act together, relating to God in this way and that. Learning stuff...busy times. Occasionally a bit overwhelming but mostly making for a full day. I'll admit to taking a day off now and then, and binge-watching something inconsequential, just to be able to turn off my mind for a while. 

Anyway, that's why I haven't written in a couple of weeks. I'm here and alive. 

Chuffed

 

A few days ago, the internet capabilities of my computer flaked out. After a flurry of advice from lots of people, none of which worked, I consulted my Computer Genius Son (he's working on his electrical engineering degree and has been building computers since he was 14). He made a couple of encouraging noises, and I then consulted a website that said this sort of thing happens sometimes with my particular brand (Lenovo), and here's a list of things to try. I tried things 1-5 to no avail. Thing 6 involved downloading a $40 something and I was reluctant. Thing 7 meant going into the deep depths of the internal workings and fiddling with stuff. What the heck. I did it. (not literal physical fiddling, but going places with mysterious names like WLAN). And it worked. Boom. Peggy got the computer working with the help of an Indian IT woman who understood things and put them on the internet. There are an assortment of phrases describing how I'm feeling right now, but my favorite one is "chuffed."

I feel chuffed. 

Typically my response to a mysterious thing going wrong is as described earlier. Ask advice. Panic. Give up. Sleep on it. Get frustrated and have a cup of tea. Sleep on it some more. Pretend it's 1974 and laptops don't exist. 

Except that the loss of internet capabilities also meant my beloved embroidery design program wasn't working. That thing....cost as much as a small used car and I need it to use the embroidery machines. While I would have been able to transfer it to a new computer I DON'T WANT A NEW COMPUTER.

Anyway, the whole point is moot now. I got the problem solved, with only minor inconvenience to the people to whom I turn first for such issues. 

Shortly after Himself died (Feb 2015), the washing machine failed spectacularly. Quit working. Entirely. Not a squeaky belt or peeing all over the floor, just a solid NOPE. O WHAT TO DO? I did not want to ask for help, so I turned to the internet (just like I did this time) and found a forum of people offering advice, and was able to fix the washer with a $150 motherboard that I installed myself (instead of paying someone. I'm that cheap.) That was the first time I'd ever fixed an appliance. Color me chuffed the first time. Before you get all amazed that I was able to install a motherboard, it had several connections that just plugged in, and was configured such that it was impossible to plug something in the wrong place. But still. 

So ok yeah, I'm probably bragging but I am kind of proud of myself. 

Now I need to figure out how to work the pressure washer. 

Ride that wave!

 I've been slammed lately, with those waves that are a natural part of the grief process. It's how it is. I'll be clicking along with life, doing the normal things and seeming to get things in order, then WHAM...a memory, a photograph, a small thing picked up in Key West that time we went in 2019...and suddenly I'm kind of breathless and have to sit down.

Sometimes I'll be watching TV, and a character will be dealing with a similar situation, a loved one dying in the hospital, or the confusion of loss, and WHAM...there's another hit. 

Sometimes I'm that guy, sometimes I'm the other one.

The strangest things will make me cry...a casserole I froze for those days we were busy and didn't have time to cook. A pair of socks. The smell of Safeguard soap. All the bits that made up the ordinary days that are in the past. Poof...Gone.

It's normal. Really it is. It happened after Himself died and since I didn't know what to expect, it would knock me down for hours or days. This time, I know to expect it, and it only knocks me down for hours or days. When that happens, I stop, sit down with a cup of tea, and allow it. Sometimes I'll get mad at Capt for leaving. Not that I blame him, where he's at now is infinitely better than here. I'd leave too, if given the option. Same with Himself. I'd get royally pissed at him, then get over it.

Sometimes the hardest part is remembering the normalcy of it. It's really easy to sink into a pity party and feel like I'm the only person this has ever happened to, but the plethora of books and podcasts and Scripture dealing with grief contradicts that silly notion. I remind myself that it's all apart of the Grand Plan for my life. There's something meant to come from it. Eventually. That doesn't necessarily cushion the blows when they happen, but it does help with the dizziness that comes after.  

So here's some stuff that helps:

 The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

Do yourself a favor. Go hug the person you love best. Tell them how grateful you are for them, even if you're irritated with something. You'll be glad you did.

I'm sitting here first thing in the morning, with coffee and the dog. I heard the local wren start yelling, and looked over to the front door. He (or she, I haven't asked) was staring through the door at me. Capt loved those 2 wrens. When they built a nest in the hanging basket right in front of his rocking chair, he carefully guarded it, even put the dumb chicks back in a couple of times a day, when they'd plop out onto the porch. Either they're looking for him or he's saying hi to me through them. I'll take the latter.

Sometimes I worry that the stuff I'm writing is coming across as a bid for pity or sympathy. It's not. I'm hoping that someone else who's going through this will read and realize they're not alone in the struggle. It's normal, probably even healthy. Grief is a form of love, and it's ok to feel it. It's a very lonely feeling, no doubt. But you're not alone in it. There's a nice place online called The Widow's Christian Place that I found after Himself passed on. It's comforting and encouraging. I recommend it.

How do you eat an elephant?

Capt left behind a LOT of stuff. LOTS. For the last couple of months, I've sort of shoved it all into one room and closed the door. Stacks of papers, books, boxes of ammunition, hats, you name it. All the useful-ish detritus of a life lived, but mostly no longer serves a very real purpose. I fumed over it, became overwhelmed, ignored it, made lists of what to do, then ignored the lists. What's the rush? I would ask myself. 

Well, I finally decided to take a stab at doing something about it. Like really doing something. More than hiding it behind a closed door and pretending it didn't exist. 

First, I made a list. I love lists. They're so ORGANIZED. Even when I am having a terrible day and don't (or can't) do anything really productive, I'll make a list. It may have on it things like "brush my teeth" and "get dressed", but being able to check off even the most trivial item can take a terrible day and make it feel like something real was accomplished. My lists now look like line item budgets, only with time instead of money. To keep from having my head explode when I look at the giant amount of stuff to get done, I will budget one hour to a room. One hour in Capt's office, working on one specific spot. Yesterday, it was the bookshelves, picking out the stuff I wanted to keep and boxing up the rest. Today it was the file cabinet, keeping the relevant stuff and discarding the owner's manuals for things like freezers that no longer exist, and articles explaining how to build a solar-powered thing. I have a book. I don't need articles. Another hour spent on Spanish lessons, and another on menus for next week. (per Dad's request..."I'll buy the groceries if you'll cook the meals"...seems fair to me.) Breaks here and there for tea and light reading, or an episode of ER. 

And you know what? It's working! I am getting a bit done where it desperately needs doing, without frustrating myself to the point of quitting! 

Another task I've set to is to identify 3 things a day that I don't want, but someone else might, and list them for sale online- Marketplace, or Poshmark, that sort of thing. It has been...very gratifying. A couple have things have sold on the same day, others have been listed a while but that's ok too. The funds from the sales are going into a saving account, to be used for spending money when I'm traveling. Sensible, no? I get rid of clutter and get to eat tapas and drink wine with it! And...another person gets something they have been wanting or needing for a great price and we're all happy. 

Now, I'm not going all minimalist and having nothing but a chair and a spoon. Books are my friends but I've been able to box up and give away the ones I'll never read again. I've sold (gasp!) FABRIC. Those of you who quilt and sew know how difficult that can be. Fabric Hoarder, I am. But I will likely never use that 6 yards of satin or 4 yards of lace left from a wedding dress project, and someone else might be happy to get it for a great price. (Smoke-free home! Stored on a roll thus no creases! Stored in a box so no yellowing!) I'm picky about how fabric is stored. 

Dad helped me get a long (15 feet!) shelf put up over the windows in my sewing room, and that inspired me to get the messy place cleaned up. So much easier to work in a tidy room. Well...and I have a client coming over on Sunday and didn't want to be embarrassed...motives are motives, and now the sewing room is clean and ready for business.

I'm telling you, finding new homes for a bunch of stuff is really, really gratifying. A great feeling. At first I was worried it would feel like I was getting rid of Capt, and Himself, but that's not where it's headed. There's clarity now and I can see the bits of them I want to...the beautiful oil lamp Capt and I found at an antique store. The cast iron skillets Himself and I gathered up...photo albums...

There was no sense in hanging onto a lot of this stuff. It was cluttering my mind. But some of it, the really special things with precious memories attached, those I'm keeping mY kids or grandkids can figure out what to do with them when I'm gone.

I'm working on it!

Have you ever noticed how many ads there are, everywhere? On TV... BUY THIS THING/SERVICE/PILL AND YOU'LL BE HAPPY/ORGANIZED/HEALTHY. Online, BUY THIS STUFF AND YOU'LL BE INTERESTING/IMPRESSIVE/RELEVANT.

I'm tired of all that. I fall prey to it as much as the next person. Buy these shoes and you'll be comfortable and stylish! Buy this bracelet because you know you want one! You'll be helping some lady in India if you do! DON'T YOU WANT TO HELP SOME LADY IN INDIA?! NO? WHAT THE HELL'S WRONG WITH YOU! And, who doesn't want a pretty new bracelet? Or comfortable shoes that look nice? 

There's a lot I want. A new bedspread. Different bar stools. And there's a lot I don't need. A new bedspread. Different bar stools. Linen clothing. Granny bras. Ok maybe I do need those, according to style mavens but whatever. I'm not trying to impress anyone with properly aligned boobies. 

It's a daily fight with me. The 2 little personalities on my shoulders, one saying "you don't need that" and the other saying "it might make you happier if you have that" bicker constantly. I have to ask myself "why" and if the answer is "you already have one that works" I will try to talk myself out of it. Usually I succeed. I don't see it so much as self-denial as practicality. I already have so much, more than I know what to do with most of the time. If I can't be happy with what I have now, it's a guarantee that another silver bracelet won't improve things. If someone isn't impressed (as if that matters) with my current wardrobe, then they aren't really the sort of folks I'm interested in anyway... as if I want to impress anyone with blue jeans, long sleeved t-shirts, and hiking boots. I mean...c'mon. 

And he said to them, “Take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.” Luke 12:15

Right now I have so much to go through and make decisions about. Fishing gear mainly. I don't need saltwater fly rods nor boxes and boxes of lures. I am sure someone out in the world would be delighted to have a new rod and reel, I just have to find them. And until there's room for breathing, nothing new needs to come into the household. Not a new bedspread, nor a bracelet. I am trying to make room for a life I can live well. There's a lot to clear out, physically and metaphorically. A lot of work to do. 

Halp!

But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content. 1 Timothy 6:6-8

I really need to take these words and put them in front of me constantly. Contentment with what I have is a daily struggle.

I did a thing...

 I did a thing I said I'd never do. Yes. I did it. 

I got rid of books.

Not ALL the books. I'm not crazy! But a bunch of them. As I sorted through them to put up on my fancy new bookshelves (Capt and I intended to get these things up last year but life imploded and that didn't happen), a question came to mind. "Why are you keeping these ones you'll never read again? Or that pile over there you've never read but seem to be constitutionally incapable of pitching?"

And I though to myself, "Self, why ARE you keeping those books you'll never read?" 

And I answered, "Self, because it's WRONG TO THROW AWAY BOOKS."

Why?

I dunno, it just seems....wrong. 

Well, it's not and someone else perhaps can use them. Maybe someone who can't afford to go to a bookstore will be able to spend 25 cents on them and have a good story to read. 

And so it happened. Books that were unpacked have now been repacked and will soon go into the back of the truck and carried to a thrift store.

I have a few favorite authors, and those books will be kept. 

What I have now is a satisfyingly orderly set of shelves, sprinkled with a few sentimental items, punctuated with a scattering of oil lamps (useful things in a pinch), and rows of old friends...Chaim Potok, Fanny Flagg, Jan Karon, and a single Stephen King lurking menacingly in a corner. John Irving is glowering from the top shelf, while Catherine Marshall perches next to James Herriot. There is a sort of order to them, that makes sense to me if no one else. One small section has some great Old Books...Vanity Fair, Swift's Satires, Gone With The Wind...Those will get re-read (for the umpteenth time) over the next year or two.

Going through the boxes I came across one box full of photo albums...talk about a trip down Memory Lane. It's a good thing I am not on a particular timeline. Pictures of Himself and the boys (preschool aged) washing our 1987 Dodge Caravan in the yard, droopy diapers, covered suds. Grayton Beach with #1 as a 2 year old, brown as a bean in that Summer sun.  I found my grandparent's old album! In it was a tintype of my Grandmother's parents as children. She was born in 1913, so this had to have been the late 1800's. Clothing styles say shortly after The War.

I am gradually, one room at a time, shifting the house from Ours to Mine. No, I am not getting rid of Capt, but I am also not making this place a shrine to him. I will always have memories, photographs, bits and pieces from our travels together. Same with Himself. Photo albums, Christmas ornaments from trips, bits and pieces. Those 2 men are woven into my life and always will be part of it. I am very thankful for them and our times together. 

I have a lot of work to do, to become a Me instead of a We. I'm ok with that. I might as well be, there isn't much I can do to change it. I am starting with bookshelves and painted cabinets.