In A Phrase

I considered a number of words for my "word" for this year. None felt right. The words that came to mind made me feel like I had to work at something, to change or get better or resign myself and give in. After all the thoughts I went through to let go of the past, I wanted to give myself a chance to feel where I am now. I want the feelings to keep flowing, no matter what they are.

So I settled on a phrase for this year: keep moving. Get on the treadmill, play with the grandchildren, get out of bed, make the phone calls, keep going. I remind myself that I don't have to produce something new or accomplish something big. If I move my body and keep my brain working and let my emotions move through me, then I am doing what is best for me right now. 

I didn't know three months ago how much I would need those words. In May I really missed my mom; I was sad and angry that I was still feeling such grief. I reminded myself to keep moving - let the feelings come and move through me as many times as they needed to. 

I often feel stalled and indecisive. Keep moving. Put in a load of laundry, rearrange furniture, make a simple meal, go for a drive.

I talked last month with my osteopath about the anxiety I was feeling. As she worked with my body we talked about how I was getting stuck in my head and that I can move into my body instead, deep belly breathing and grounding through my core. There are exercises I can do to stretch and balance and improve my flexibility.

Keep moving. Do what I want to do and not what I think I have to do. Find enjoyment in the simple things. 

I can't make big decisions right now, about what's next or where I want to be beyond the next few days. There are dates on the calendar to spend time with grandkids, which are times to look forward to. 

I hear from others at this same point in their lives that they are asking similar questions and feeling the same uncertainty. We can listen to each other and know that we are not alone, which helps me immensely. I commented on Jacqueline's blog that the silence and solitude has not helped me. Her most recent blog post beautifully reflects on the questions she has been asking herself.

Today I saw a quote on Instagram that spoke to me: Not every day has to "count." Some days your purpose is to make it to the next one. That counts too.

The journey continues....

Summer Wrap-Up

Last week we had our first days of fall-like weather. Tuesday started off with clear skies and cool temperatures, and by noon it was pleasantly warm. Then clouds moved in with showers by late afternoon. This summer was one of the wettest summers anyone can remember. Two-thirds of the days in June brought rain and better than a dozen days in each of July and August. 

Luckily it did not rain the last weekend in August. That was the time my family decided in May that we would get together to celebrate my mom, their Grandma Ellie. I had some ideas about how the weekend would go but knew I needed to stay flexible. With my sons and their families and my daughter with her daughter, we had four kids ages two to nine and seven adults to consider. We were all in and out on Saturday and together for dinner, where I proposed a toast to my mom and remembered how fond she was of my kids and their families. 

The weather cooperated both days. Sunday we had tickets to a Portland Sea Dogs game, the minor league farm team for the Red Sox, and an event that my mom would have enjoyed as much as we did. The seats were perfect, and there was enough action and food to keep the kids happy. We didn't realize it was a double header until the end of the first game, so we had twice the fun. The day closed out with dinner at Applebee's, where I commented that my mom would have enjoyed the day and I thought there was a good chance she had a hand in how well everything worked out. 

It was the perfect way to wrap up the summer. 

June had been a time to work through so many thoughts and feelings I'd had over the past year, putting words to my grief and frustration so I could see it all in one place. For me, writing is a way to make sense of what I don't understand or connect what appears to be unrelated.

In July I was ready to create an album of the photos my mom had collected since she was a girl. I made new pages for an album she had and cross-referenced photos so each one was labeled and dated. The process of finally getting the photos mounted had been months in the making and felt like such an accomplishment. It was a way to bring together the people and events in her life that made her happy, that she wanted to remember. 

In the process of putting all the pieces together I had time to think about how my relationship with my mom had changed over the years. Neither one of us gave up on trying to understand the other. It wasn't always easy and there were times that we knew the other was frustrated and unable to see a different perspective. I realized that we had come to forgive each other for the hurt we felt, the misunderstandings and disagreements. We didn't ignore the past, but we were able to see that it was the past and we couldn't change it. 

In my Mothers Day card to my mom just days before she fell and was hospitalized, I wrote:

We stand where we are/ Because our steps brought us here/ Thank you for walking the way with me. 

I have that card now and am grateful that I had the chance to share what I felt. In recognizing the growth in the relationship with my mom, I have had time to think about the things in my own life that I wish had been different, decisions and choices that I would make differently now. Then I applied the meaning of forgiveness to my own life, giving up the hope that the past could have been any different.

With that, in July of this summer, I forgave myself. And like I've heard so many times, when the student is ready the teacher appears. For me, in so many ways....   

On July 31 I read a quote by Alden Howlan that someone posted on Instagram:

"The day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise."

The journey continues....

Living and Dying

 A designer, an organizer, and a psychologist walk into a house....

No, this is not a joke. This is the basis for a new show on the Peacock channel [streaming for a fee which is well worth the money] called "The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning." What in the world?! It is narrated by Amy Poehler, which just added to the questions I had. I watched the preview and was intrigued. If nothing else, I wanted to know more about it so I started watching. 

I have now watched each of the eight shows at least twice. Real stories with real people, all in Kansas City in these episodes, that have in some way dealt with death. Each situation is different. There are tears and laughter and poignant moments that touch me every time.

This is not a show about death. It is a show about living, how to continue living when you lose someone close to you and/or how you make room for living in a cluttered life. 

I have to admit that I was also in a place to receive the wisdom of this show in April. It was a comfort to see people working through a really tough time with the gentle, which is a key word in their practice, help of three professionals trained for just this situation, a time of being stuck and in desperate need of someone(s) who knows what they are doing. These three Death Cleaners are all about life, and they make it clear that it is not their job to make anyone get rid of their stuff. Just the opposite. They see their mission as helping people find their own way beyond the place where they find themselves.

So many of the stories spoke to me about what I've been doing in the past year ~ cleaning out my mom's trailer and storage unit; bringing home the things that have meaning for me and integrating them into my household so they are in use; clearing out the things in my house that no longer serve a purpose for me or my husband; and organizing what I keep so I can find things when I want them. Truthfully I have been working at most of this for two years, and it was easy to get rid of things in the back of the closets or buried in boxes that haven't seen the light for years. It gets harder to pare down what you don't use or don't really like but hold onto for sentimental value. 

After my mom's death it was time to get down to the nitty gritty. The bottom line is that I will not leave a mess for my children to go through and clear out.

That is some of what "The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning" is about, thinking about what you will leave behind. It is also about what has been left to you, how you feel about that, and what to do about that after you are aware of/process those feelings. 

The three Death Cleaners are gentle and honest, good listeners while able to get to the heart of the matter with compassion and humor.

One aspect of the show that caught me off guard is the element of celebration of the person who has died. I feel emotional now just thinking about it. I realized that I had not celebrated my mom's life. 

In WV before and after my mom's death I was with one or two siblings but never with all three at the same time. We were all coming from away, and we all had commitments. My older brother made two round trips to/from eastern Virginia. My sister traveled across an ocean. My younger brother drove into a terrible storm in a car he wasn't sure would make the trip in the first place. There wasn't anything that any of us could do once our mom was is hospice. We said our good-byes when my older brother left for home and work, and I didn't expect to see him again; his plate was full with the legal and financial obligations in his role as executor.

There was no time to plan any part of what happened after my mom fell. It was all unexpected and things happened too quickly. All we could do was react.

So we didn't have the time together to celebrate our mom's life. At the time I talked about finding a way to gather in the summer of 2023, in eastern Virginia, where my mom talked about wanting to live. I had the idea of putting a bench in a park or garden and inviting family and friends to gather with us to remember Ellie. Last June there was no interest from the others in planning anything, which I understood because a year seemed a long way off. My kids liked the idea and were talking about planning some vacation time so they could make the trip to Virginia.

So in January this year I mentioned it again to my brother so family and friends could begin to make plans. He is not interested in that idea. Then I mentioned that I want to do something in Maine with my kids and grandkids in my own yard with flowers and a granite stone. He said to let him know and maybe he will make the trip north....

There is an episode about the topic of celebration, and I cry each time I watch it. The person was caught up in the immediacy of what was happening; and on top of that they were dealing with their own health crisis. It didn't occur to them that they hadn't taken time to celebrate...because really, who thinks of a celebration while you are in the midst of grief.

The Swedish Death Cleaners think about that and so many other important aspects of living and dying. I am grateful that they've found a way to share their wisdom with the world.  

The Day After

Often the day after someone dies there are things that have to be decided and arrangements that have to be made for a funeral or memorial service, visiting hours or a gathering of sorts, burial or provision for ashes, and a reception. One year ago on this date my siblings and I did not have any of those responsibilities because Mom had donated her body to the medical school; they took care of every single arrangement. In 18-24 months they will send her ashes to my brother. Then he can decide what to do.

I helped with calls where I could. My brother was executor and had access to all the accounts, so he needed to make the bulk of contacts. I did make calls to a small group of people to share the news and left a message for my younger brother. I talked to my mom's friend who offered to continue taking in the mail and watering the plants. When someone had information to share or offered to help, I said yes. My feeling was that it was important to let people help in ways they could. We didn't need to do everything ourselves.

Mid-morning my older son called. My kids had talked about how the next week might play out. I told him I was going to make my stopover somewhere in Pennsylvania like I had on my trip down to WV. He offered to fly to meet me and drive with me back to his house in the Boston area. I was touched that my kids had considered what the next days would hold and how they could help. I thanked him and said I had plans to catch up with my friend on the weekend, the one person outside of family that I had spoken with every day since the day my mom fell. We have been friends since junior high school and made our way together through everything life has thrown at us. My son understood and said to let him know if I wanted to stop in Boston on my way home. We would talk next week about Fathers' Day weekend.

My sister spent some time figuring out the best way to schedule her trip home to Scotland. It was complicated. We were both exhausted and needed to get to bed early. Anything left to do could be done on Friday.

We were all but tucked in when my phone rang at 10:00. It was my younger brother. He was at the hospital. It took me a moment to collect myself and consider my words before I told him Mom had died. He said they knew and were determined to finish the trip regardless. They ran into last night's storm and had to stop in Maryland to stay the night. They could find directions to the hospital but didn't know where we were staying, and they wanted me to come so they could follow me to the hotel.

On our way out the door, my sister and I stopped at the desk to get them a room. Then we headed out into the night and back to the place we thought we had left for good. We found their car out front, glad to see them and sad about the circumstances. There was a tearful reunion and a brief summary of what had happened in the last 2 days. We planned to meet in the morning for breakfast.

I have thought a lot about how differently each of my siblings and I dealt with my mom's hospitalization, death, and what came after. There is no right or wrong way. I think what matters is that we have been respectful of each other and what we each needed to do. That hasn't always been easy for me, but in each instance I come back to the fact that I am responsible for myself...only me. 

I am obviously still working through my grief, which doesn't move in a straight line or at the rate that I want. My back still hurts, and today my massage therapist worked out the kinks in a major way.

The journey continues....

The Journey

My mom was used to me taking care of things. Maybe it was my personality as the oldest child in a dysfunctional family, or I was someone who learned very young that anything I could do to keep my father from getting angry was worth the effort. 

Last year on May 25 my older brother, who lived three hours from my mom, went to the hospital to be there when she got out of surgery. He and I were in regular contact through texts and phone calls so I knew everything that was happening. Meanwhile, for the first three days I was making phone calls to everyone I could think of to discern what the next steps would be when she was ready to be discharged because that was what we all expected to happen. By the end of the third day I knew I had to make plans to travel to northwest West Virginia. Mom was not recovering the way she needed to as her afib and low oxygen levels and intestinal issues were complications on top of all the aspects of hip surgery. My brother needed the support. My mom wanted me to come. 

She knew I would come even though she hadn't asked me for help for 37 years. When I was 30 years old I had to choose between maintaining the relationship I had always had with my family and making the difficult changes I needed to make to take care of myself and my children. For many years my mom didn't understand ~ at one point early on she asked me if I could please just act the way I used to when I was around her and my father because that was easier for them. I explained that I couldn't do that, it wasn't something that could be turned on and off. I had chosen my life over hers and I wasn't going to change back. 

My mom and I maintained a civil, cautious connection through the years. It was in the last few years that we started talking about how life really was all those years ago and the ups and downs of our current lives. We talked openly about our complicated feelings for each other. In the last five years we called each other more often and sent each other more cards. She knew I loved her and I knew she loved me. We respected each other's boundaries. 

So when she asked me to come I knew I needed to go. My mom needed someone who would listen to what she said, understand what she meant, ask the tough questions, have the difficult conversations, and be honest every step of the way. I loved her and could still do the hard things. I could take care of her and take care of myself at the same time. She knew the work I had done, the journey I had taken. 

This poem has been top of mind this week. I found it many years ago and, like so many others, felt like it had been written for me. The journey continues~ 

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Almost May

Tomorrow is the first day of May. It's a rainy windy end to April here. There are intentional daffodils blooming in the yard for the first time ~ I planted bulbs last fall.

Fifteen years ago I started this blog. Officially I started it in March with a brief post. My idea was to connect with family and friends who live elsewhere. That worked to some extent. An unexpected benefit was the connection with other bloggers, some of whom I still keep in touch with, although not all through blogging these days. 

I am not ready to give up blogging. I just want to figure out how to write about what I am thinking about now. 

It has been a rough couple of months ~ lots of feelings around the loss of my mom and how to reframe how I think about that. I haven't yet celebrated her life. Next weekend there will be time with my children and grandchildren to remember her, a simple informal gathering to share whatever comes to mind. I have gathered a few photos. I want to keep things open and easy.

There is more to write about. There is more to come.

The journey continues.... 

  

Begin

For weeks I have been mulling over what my word of the year would be. Today a word I hadn't even considered settled in my consciousness and wouldn't leave.

My word for 2023 is begin.

So much has happened in the last three months ~ bronchitis, the holidays, covid again, work drama. 

I get caught up in the day to day. Then a week has gone by. Then it's a month later. I'm where I was and not where I want to be. 

Leave the "have-to's" and "shoulds" behind. Put aside the worry and self-doubt. 

Just begin.

Arrange photos in albums. Create memory books. Send notes. Try recipes. Knit new patterns. Design quilts. Make clothes with patterns new to me. Envision flower gardens. Write poetry.

It's all right there. It's all possible.

Begin.

Two Months Later...

 I had plans. As often happens, life had other ideas.

I was looking forward to house/pet-sitting for my daughter the weekend before Thanksgiving. I had some projects to do for her, and I was going to write and catch up on correspondence. By Saturday the annoying, hacking cough and runny nose I'd had since Tuesday morphed into fatigue and shortness of breath. I managed to keep moving, albeit slowly and with frequent resting, and got some things done with the help of my husband. By Sunday I was all-in and home in bed before noon. I saw the doctor Monday and had a chest x-ray Tuesday: the good news was my lungs were clear; the bad news was that it was a virus that had to run its course. The week was cancelled. My daughter brought groceries on Wednesday and courses from the dinner she had made for Thursday. My husband started fighting a cold, so we were quarantined for the duration. By Tuesday this week, two weeks since the start, I felt well enough to go back to work.

Yes, I have a part-time job, started the first week in October. Three afternoons a week I work at my granddaughter's after-school-care program. I love it. I get to be with 25-30 kids from kindergarten to elementary school age, and I get to talk to adults I enjoy working alongside. We are a creative group, thinking of crafts we can do and always ready to change things to improve the program.

In September I started helping my daughter organize rooms at her house. I love that sort of thing, and it has meant that I get to spend time with her. We work and talk and have lunch and work some more. She passed me her fabric for safe keeping and told me to use what I want, setting aside the solids for her future projects. I have had so much fun sorting and organizing and dreaming of all the things I can do! This set me on the path to take a hard look at my sewing room, what works and what doesn't. In August I brought my mom's wooden kitchen table home to replace the computer table I had been using, and I wanted the room to be more functional...which led to completely rearranging the furniture. I didn't even have everything put away yet, and I just had to sit down and start sewing! The biggest change, and the most necessary move to make the room work for me, is that there is no longer room for the twin-bed trundle to become a king-size bed. The room still works for little guests but no longer for adults. There is a double-size futon downstairs and various other sleeping options for individuals. I was holding a space for once-or-twice-a-year visits, which was a surprising realization...

which seems to be the theme for this fall. Ideas and feelings have bubbled to the surface, and I have accepted them all. No anxiety. No fear. No denial.

The river continues to flow. There is a lot going on underneath the surface....

Like A River

When I traveled to West Virginia in August, I took two books with me. One I never opened. The other was Mark Nepo's The Book of Awakening,  a year of meditations that I have opened countless times over the course of many years. As fate would have it, the entry for August 7 was exactly what I needed to read:

What We Bring Along

A river doesn't hold all the water that passes through it.

In our journey through time, we all struggle constantly with what to bring along and what to leave behind. It feels so hard to throw anything away, but if we don't, we will drown underneath a weight of our own making.

The river is a good model. It doesn't own the water that rushes by, yet it couldn't be in more intimate relationship to it, as the force of what moves through shapes it. It is the same with everything we love. In truth, there is no point to holding on to the deepest things that matter, for they have already shaped us.

The purpose of sentiment, then, is to release the powerful feelings that sleep in us. Sometimes books and cards and shells and dried flowers do this. But often we carry more than we need, seldom trusting that what these small treasures represent is already living within us. Often the most useful gift we can give ourselves is to lay our lives open like a river. 

My perspective has shifted. I see everything differently. I am not dragging possessions or ideas or relationships along with me just because I am used to them being in my life. It is not only a useful gift, but it is essential at this point. 

I imagine my life as a river, letting myself go with the flow, holding onto only what serves me well.

As I went to bed the night before last I realized that I was feeling happy. I don't remember the last time I felt that content and at ease. 

Flowing like a river is working for me. 

The Final Chapter

The book is almost closed on what needs to happen to settle my mom's affairs. Last week we accepted an offer on the sale of her trailer, which was not a given. My mom owned the trailer but not the property on which it sits; a neighbor wanted to buy it but the property owner refused to allow him to leave it where it sits, and the location is why he wanted to buy it for his mother-in-law. Yet after several attempts the property owner wouldn't give me a clear answer about what he wanted to do...until the day before the deadline when he texted an offer, which we accepted the same day. Next week my brother will transfer the title and the final chapter will be complete.

I made the two-day trip to West Virginia with two important pieces of advice in mind: Jacqueline's comment to accept that things had served my mother well and it was time to let them go; and Helen's advice to set up zones for keep/donate/throw and to touch things only once. I would not have been able to do the job in ten days without those things in mind.

I was not prepared for what I would find. My mother's trailer was exactly as she had left it and the large storage unit was almost full. The only thing to do was to begin, somewhere, anywhere. As I went through boxes, bins, closets, drawers and shelves, I set aside items for my brother to go through and things that I knew I wanted. I was able to sell the best pieces of furniture. I donated books, magazines, and puzzles to the nursing home and medical equipment to the Commission on Aging. I made one trip to a Goodwill store 40 miles away with a carload of electronics, dishes, utensils, pans, and blankets. My brother and sister-in-law each filled a vehicle, and I came home with a carload of items I will enjoy and use to share family history with my children and grandchildren. Everything else was discarded. As hard as it was, it was what had to happen. 

Ten days, 18 hours a day, and I was done. It was emotional and cathartic at the same time. I was able to stay present the entire time, which was essential for the tasks as hand. It was hot and humid so the afternoon thunderstorms were a welcome relief. I drank copious amounts of water. I talked to the neighbor's dog, Daisy, who made regular visits for pets and treats. I shared progress with family and my closest friend, whose encouragement and humor kept me going.

Through it all I felt my mom's energy and approval. I never doubted that we would find the help we needed or that we would finish the job at hand. I am grateful that I had the time and energy to do the work, and that my brother and I had time to work things through together. I think we did mom proud. 

Take the Long Way Home

Thank you to those of you who have commented on recent posts and those who continue to visit here.

In May I kept thinking I would start projects to work on over the summer. I dug out a quilt that I started more than two years ago by cutting out all the squares of different sizes in solid colors; I made the first block and hated the process. Then I looked at the squares from every angle and tried to configure an alternate pattern. After days of consideration, I realized my brain couldn't focus on anything that structured, so I pulled out scraps I've been putting aside for years. I cut all sizes of squares and rectangles to sew together with no pattern in mind. It is the perfect illustration of how my brain was working ~

And I love it. It's on my design board to remind me that everything doesn't need a plan, and there is not always a happy ending. Sometimes we take the long way home.

On Tuesday May 24 I got a text from my brother that changed any plans we had made or wanted to make. Our mom had fallen and broken her hip. The local hospital couldn't accommodate the surgery she needed and the closest hospital with a bed was one hundred miles away. She was transported by ambulance to Ruby Memorial Hospital at WVU in Morgantown, West Virginia. My brother drove from southeast Virginia to northwest West Virginia to be there when she went into surgery. I spoke to her briefly and figured the doctor would put in a pin, she would be in the hospital for a few days, and she would be discharged to rehab for a few weeks.

Nothing went as expected. There was a complication during surgery; she rallied from that and had a good day of eating and sitting up; then it was complication after complication. I knew I needed to be there so I started driving south on Saturday May 28, stayed overnight in Pennsylvania, and arrived Sunday May 29. My brother headed back to work in Virginia and we were in communication multiple times a day. I texted him Thursday that he might want to come back to the hospital. My sister in Scotland made plans to fly in Tuesday June 7, and we had permission to visit after hours late that night. 

It was two weeks of hoping that things would improve amidst the reality that nothing was getting better. Mom didn't leave the Surgery Intensive Care Unit until June 8, when she was finally granted her wish and moved to in-hospital hospice care.

My mom died peacefully that night just after midnight. 

So much happened and there is so much to do now, with most of the tasks falling to my brother. We are all sad and tired and trying to do things we have never had to do before. I have some thoughts about how to write about all of this; I started a notebook the first day of her fall and haven't stopped taking notes. I wish I'd had a guide and still wish there was a reference for what to expect, what to do, and how to get help when we need it. 

I may just figure out how to make sense of this somewhere down the road.

The journey continues....

2-22-22

 When I first noticed the two's in the dates this month I did not look far enough ahead to see that the best "number" day ever was today. My birthday is this month, and my middle child's birthday is tomorrow, so February is a good month in a normal year. 

As an adult my birthday was a bigger deal when the kids were younger. I made sure there was cake and Ken helped with gifts when they were too young to bake or shop on their own. When they moved out of the house they remembered, and they still do, which is what really matters to me.

I used to set goals for when I would turn a certain age. Sometimes I met them and sometimes I needed more time, which was okay because I had started working towards something I wanted. I set the goal to have my college degree by age 35; I graduated at 36 which was close enough for me. I had my first full-time teaching position two years later.

I started that job with all the optimism and enthusiasm of a first-year teacher at any age. Within weeks the joy was gone ~ I found myself in an untenable situation, co-teaching with a person who everyone knew needed to be removed from the classroom. No one would step forward to say or do what needed to be done. In January I told the principal that I would not return to work with this person the next year due to the situation, and he asked me if I would be willing to help correct the problem. I had nothing to lose, so I said yes. Another new-to-the-school teacher also agreed to speak up. At the outset, we did not know what the outcome would be...and we didn't know until the day after school was out in June that the problem person was transferred to another building to be closely supervised.

The interim months were stressful and difficult. I was in survival mode, trying to make it to the end of the schoolyear. I decided to take a personal day for my birthday, determined not to spend that day in that place with that person. I thought about what I wanted to do just for me, what I could do to take care of myself. I wanted to be at the ocean. I drove to Camden, bought a cup of coffee, and sat in the harbor on that cold February day. It was the perfect thing to do. 

I thought about that day yesterday at the ocean, this time at Popham Beach with my husband and granddaughter. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the waves rolled in as we walked along the shore. It wasn't my exact birthday but the sentiment was the same ~ time to reflect and be grateful for another year. I have mixed feelings about this aging thing and am working to find ways to be okay with the inevitable. More days like yesterday are sure to help.   

Two Twenty Twenty-Two

 More two's to celebrate. It's the small things these days. My mom and I were talking today about how much has changed and keeps changing and how little we have any control over. The days run together unless we make sure they don't. 

So when there is something that makes me smile, I take note ~ interesting number combinations, the pattern of temperatures for the blanket I'm knitting, the image of Anne teaching her granddaughter to knit with chop sticks, and a new quilt pattern that challenges my thinking about perspective and directionality. 

My year-old grandson has started taking steps, and we all clap during our video chats. This week is February break for the grandchildren so we will see all of them over the next several days. The things they are learning and the stories they tell are amazing. They light up our days.

Today is number 713, just 17 days shy of two years of  living in a pandemic. Slowly I am making up for lost time by scheduling visits with grandchildren and doctors' appointments. My fingers are crossed that I will be able to travel out of New England this summer, to be determined as the weather gets warmer and if the rates of covid continue to decline. I have a friend in Pennsylvania that I need to lay eyes on and chat with for hours. I have family in Virginia and West Virginia that I need to visit and enjoy a laugh with. As so much has fallen away and ceased to be part of my daily life, weddings and births and celebrations of lives well lived have come to pass. It is as important as it is daunting to re-enter the world outside my corner of the woods. The more I go the easier it will be. It's only through doing that it will get done. 

Time's a-wastin and the journey continues ~ 

Day 648

We are expecting measurable snow this weekend. It's not unexpected this time of year, but I was hoping to make a quick trip to Boston to put a few presents under the grandkids' trees. I will stay home because it's one thing to get caught in the snow but something entirely different to knowingly drive into the storm. I will put things in the mail instead, and we will catch up in person after the 25th.

It was encouraging to think about taking a drive because I have been totally homebound since December 6, when I tested positive for covid. We got word a few days earlier that there was an outbreak at my grandson's daycare and were advised when to test. My grandson and his parents tested positive too; Ken was negative. My biggest concern was for my grandson as he is not old enough for the vaccine. Fortunately he came through it okay, as did the rest of us. I felt like I had a sinus infection for ten days. I got back on the treadmill this week and no longer feel "fuzzy" headed.

I am grateful that we are all okay. I am glad we had the Thanksgiving weekend together. I wouldn't trade a minute of the time we had.

The news this week about the latest variant is concerning. We will continue to be as careful as we can and do our best to keep ourselves and others safe. 

I thoughtfully share my experience because it is the case that we can do everything right and still get caught. I will go forward one day at a time acting on the best information I have.

Be safe out there~

Restructuring

I saw my osteopath today. On the drive there I took inventory of how my body is doing, to consider what to say when she asked how I'm doing. The word reorganizing came to mind; tonight the word restructuring surfaced. The words are synonyms, as are rearrangement and shift and upheaval (all of which I'm feeling). I like the word restructuring because I can picture building anew the elements that support the whole system.

It feels like my physical body is finding a different way to be. From my ankle turning to my knee locking up to my wrist feeling sore to my back cramping ~ body parts are transitioning as is my thinking. Is one in response to another, or is there a coordinated effort?  

My feelings about situations and relationships are changing, too. I am gentler with myself and others. I wonder about capacity for empathy and willingness to change. I question how two people can manage perceptions and priorities when they don't share the same. 

I still have more questions than answers. Part of what is changing is being okay with that and learning to be patient while I wait. 

I am encouraged when I look around the house and see the reorganizing I have done over the last eighteen months. There is less stuff and more room, a vivid example of how restructuring can be a good thing. I remind myself to look around, take a deep breath, and believe that I am making progress in many ways.

Day 605

I no longer track how many days my household has been dealing with the pandemic, but someone I follow on instagram does a daily post. I admire her commitment and enjoy her interesting, well-written thoughts about her life during this extraordinary time. If I tack a week onto her timeline I know how many days we have not been out and about. Today is #605.

I never would have guessed we'd have to deal with COVID for 600 days. Maine's numbers were in good shape this summer but not now ~ too many still hospitalized, in the ICU, and on ventilators. Where my sons live outside of Boston the numbers are good; their county has about the same population as the state of Maine, but their numbers are less than half of Maine's. I see no end to wearing a mask in public because there are still too many unvaccinated among us.

We are doing all we can to be safe. My husband has had his booster and mine is scheduled for Monday. The best news is that three of my grandchildren are eligible and will soon get their shots. I look forward to when we can all be together again. I cancelled a family photo session we had planned for early October and hope we can reschedule early next year. 

First of August

 Three months ago things were looking up. Numbers for the coronovirus were headed down, and the summer looked promising. Everyone eligible for the vaccine in my immediate family was fully vaccinated; mid-May we spent the weekend with our children and grandchildren in the Boston area for the first time since March 2020 and it was marvelous. My older son and his family came to Maine the last week in May, and we made plans for more weekends with family here and in Boston.

Then on the morning of Monday, June 7 I walked into the family room downstairs and stepped in a puddle. Huh. Water on the floor. I looked up...it wasn't coming from the ceiling. I looked at the floor and saw water seeping between the boards of the wood laminate. Huh. Where was it coming from? Water was coming up in an area about five by three feet where there was no apparent source. After an appropriate period of panic I started making phone calls.

The first consultation was with our heating company, who ran a series of tests on the radiant heat over two weeks and found no problem. Ken took up the laminate floor in both rooms downstairs and the floor was wet only on either side of the wall the rooms shared, a total of 30 square feet or so. With a fan and the dehumidifier running nonstop the floor dried and no more water appeared. We had to find out where the problem was.

Ken cut the wall out three feet up in both rooms; the studs were completely dry and the one drainpipe in the wall was sealed tight and completely dry. I made phone calls to local construction companies, who are all booked with work for the summer. The owner of one company, who happens to be a neighbor and who builds houses like ours, came by after work one day and said he'd never seen a problem like ours. He recommended a heating/refrigeration company he had worked with, so I gave them a call; I conferred with someone who has worked in the field for 30 years, who raised all the same questions we had and offered all the suggestions for things we had already considered and eliminated as possibilities. Ken talked with a friend who renovated houses for decades who said he had no ideas beyond what we offered.  

Meanwhile we tried to duplicate the problem. I did laundry at every opportunity, and often ran the dishwasher at the same time while we both took showers and flushed toilets. Nothing. Resigned to the possibility this was a one-time event, I hired someone to get the drywall ready for paint.

Early July we decided to consider options for new flooring and settled on porcelain tile, which withstands heavy use and is waterproof. By mid-July we had selected a tile we liked and were ready to place our order. 

It took two weeks of phone calls, voicemails, and in-person visits to discover the tile we wanted was not available. We looked at other options, even contacted other companies, and finally just last week ordered tile for the floors. The earliest they can install it is September 20.

Now I need to try to match the paint so I only have to paint one wall in each room.

Boston family has come to stay, making do with the space we have upstairs and stuff everywhere in piles. We have made the best of it.

We had hoped to be out and about this summer but the resurgence of the virus has kept us masked and cautious.

Like so many I know, this is not the summer I envisioned. I have done a lot of sewing and will share what I've been working on next time.

Spring Ahead

A year ago last Sunday we had our last carefree day of being out in the world. We spent the weekend in Boston with kids and grandkids, a regular visit enjoying each others' company. I wish I had taken more photos. We heard the beginning rumblings about a virus, but we were not unduly concerned. 

Then we talked to our son who had traveled to a convention in Atlanta that was cut short amidst all kinds of restrictions on what you could touch and how you could move about. 

Upon our return to Maine Sunday evening we heard from our daughter that warnings about the virus had reached our state and advisories were being issued about how to stay safe.

And staying home was at the top of the list. So that Monday we hunkered down. I wrote on the calendar, "How long?" with not a clue of what was ahead.

That was March 9, 2020. 

Almost a year to the day on March 10, 2021, I got my first shot of the Moderna vaccine. I was a bit nervous. My stomach flip-flopped all morning, and I was glad I had the good sense to sip ginger ale on my hour-long drive to Portland for the appointment. It took persistence over three days to get a slot, one location for me and another for Ken the next day, so I was sure to get there on time and fully prepared. Start to finish it took 20 minutes. It couldn't have gone more smoothly, and I couldn't have been more grateful or relieved.

My sons and daughters-in-law have pre-registered for vaccinations in Massachusetts and await calls to set up appointments. My grandson will finish first grade remotely. My hope is that we will all have a chance to get together in June.

Not much has changed day to day over the past year, yet little is the same. Life feels different, and I wonder if I have a clue about what comes next.  

With one shot in the arm and a second scheduled for early April, I feel optimistic for the first time in a long time. Like the time change this weekend, I am ready to spring ahead.

Day 343

Last year on Valentine's Day I went to the Portland Museum of Art. There was a special exhibit of flower arrangements paired with paintings and sculptures, and live chamber music was playing. People of all ages were slowly moving from gallery to gallery, talking quietly and taking photos. The atmosphere was relaxed, and encounters were pleasant. There was not a mask in sight and social distancing was the last thing on anyone's mind.

Just three weeks later my world shut down. I am fortunate in that I have been able to stay safely at home, and I have the privilege of taking care of my granddaughter two days a week. I have plenty to keep me busy and will never run out of projects to do or things to organize and clean. 

And yet I am tired of this, of masking up and staying apart, of not feeling safe. 

I am not alone. Everyone I talk to is tired, though everyone I know is doing all they can to stay safe for themselves and their families. We think it's important to do this right.

So I keep track of the days, anxious for the notice that I can get the vaccine. My daughter the doctor has been vaccinated and still practices all the safety measures. Once vaccinated I will continue to wear a mask and socially distance in public. Once my sons and daughters-in-law receive the vaccine we hope to see each other in person, hopefully sometime this summer. I have grandchildren to play with and a grandson born in November that I have yet to hold. There is a lot of time to make up, forty-nine weeks and counting.

The journey continues.... 

Day 217

A week ago I had a chance to catch up with someone I haven't seen since February. I mentioned how many days I had been staying safely at home, and she was surprised I knew the number. I didn't start keeping count on purpose; it was after weeks went by that I was curious how many days it had been. I told her that in the beginning it didn't occur to me that it would be months, and maybe more than a year, before I could visit family and friends with nary a care.

That knowledge in the beginning would not have been helpful. It was nice to be ignorant of what was ahead.

Summer was another kind of reprieve ~ warmth and sun and more light than dark made the days easier. 

Now that autumn is in full swing with its cooler temperatures and colors and changing light, I am changing gears. I have been going full speed with busy-ness, racing against nonexistent deadlines. Other than paying bills when due and voting, I don't have to get anything accomplished by a certain time. 

I wish that realization provided more relief than it does. I like beginnings and endpoints and deadlines. The more I have to do in a certain amount of time, the more I get done in the time allotted. I like organization, routines, and schedules. I am good at getting things completed and take satisfaction in a job well done. 

I've felt at odds with all the "free" time. Without deadlines I keep assigning more chores, starting more projects, and ending the days feeling like I can't get everything done, the everything that I've put on myself to do.

Now that I've figured this out I'm changing things up a bit. I started something new this month that is helping me change the pace. I wasn't sure how it would work out and it's taken me a number of days to find a groove. A few more days and I'll be ready to share.

The journey continues....