Somewhere in the top ten worst things to have to deal with as a human being, I’m just guessing here, I imagine picking out a casket or a headstone for a loved one would rank in the horrendous category.
Headstone (Photo credit: Karen_O’D)
Also in that same range of horrific would be picking out your own casket and headstone. Worse, if you happened to be younger than fifty.
Can’t even get my head around those things.
A few years ago Mom and Dad bought their shared headstone. They had it engraved with all us kids’ names on the back. On the front they have their names with their birth dates and then the dash. The blank after the dash will get filled in eventually. Hopefully not for a couple more decades. They had it set in the ground next to my brother’s resting place. Some fifty odd years ago they had the wisdom to buy a couple of plots when they purchased his. Brian wasn’t even a year old.
Talk about horrific things in life to endure. That’s surely the absolute worst. Losing a child. How does someone survive that? I don’t ever want to know.
They made that purchase to save us kids the expense and hassle. That’s just like them, always thinking about everyone else. Not long after they did this I was visiting and they wanted to show me the headstone. I gotta’ tell ya’ I was a bit freaked out by the idea. Once I got there, I was okay with it, sort of.
A beautiful cemetery. It’s in the northern foothills of the town I grew up in. A green sloping knoll with a few small trees. The view from their plot overlooks the entire valley north to south and east to west. In my younger days we used to visit every Memorial Day, place flowers in the metal vase, pull a few weeds, try to figure out where to stand so as not to be disrespectful. That’s Memorial Day to me. Remembering my brother that I never met, since I wasn’t born yet. But we remembered him.
The last 8mm reels Dad transferred to DVD had scenes with Brian and my other older brother. It felt like Memorial Day watching that. I wanted to reach out and hug him, say hello, ask how things are going up there. Part of me pictures him as growing up, getting married, hanging out with the rest of us. Part of me pictures him staying small, sweet and cuddly. Part of me wishes I’d had a chance to know him.
Isn’t that odd? He’s family though. So it shouldn’t feel odd, I guess.
This isn’t what I thought I’d say today. Surprising what sneaks out of your heart when you open the door a little for something else you stuffed in and quickly slammed the door on.
Maybe what I really meant to write isn’t for public consumption. Maybe what I really need to say about death and dying can only be spoken in the language of tears.
Of course, there’s an exception to that. I know someone who can talk about death in the language of laughter, too. She has a braver and more urgent reason to speak about it. Sure, she cries the words, too, sometimes. But the mixture of the two languages is part of what apparently keeps her sane in the face of something very nearly unspeakable.
More ways than ever to pass on information hasn’t made communicating all that much clearer has it? Or has it? Here’s a few thoughts by other people about how humans attempt to interact.
“The most important thing in communication is hearing what isn’t said”~ Peter Drucker
*****
“It’s hard to communicate anything exactly and that’s why perfect relationships
between people are difficult to find.” ~ Gustave Flaubert
If only…
“So much of language is unspoken. So much of language is comprised of looks and gestures and sounds that are not words. People are ignorant of the vast complexity of their own communication.”~ Garth Stein
There are definitely some dangerous side-effects to certain ways of communicating.
“The single biggest problem with communication is the illusion that it has taken place.”
This involves being confused about night-time and day time. Specifically it means where the rest of the world believes it’s time to sleep my brain and body is a non-believer.
Don’t be fooled by this sweetly sleeping infant. This photo was snapped midday.
Like a newborn, this occurs at the most inconvenient times and places. Specifically at bedtime and in bed.
There’s no logical reason for a baby to think it’s time for alert and active thrashing about and for making various odd noises when almost everyone else (except those who work third shift) has drifted off into dreamland, or as I call it, “that which cannot be named or achieved.”
There’s no logical reason for my own thrashing about and the sense of my body plugged into a direct current of electricity. Wakeful and semi-alert well past bedtime reeks of the nonsensical and infuriating.
This state of unrest, literally un-rest, is particularly aggravating when not ten minutes before climbing into bed my head kept nodding off to the side, dreams kept intruding in the current episode of White Collar or Burn Notice on Netflix, and my eyelids had lost the ability to remain open.
Why, oh why, oh why, couldn’t that near comatose state in the family room translate into the bedroom, on comfy pillows, with a fluffy comforter and total silence?
Unlike a newborn, I don’t have a wet diaper, I don’t need feeding, I’m past the swaddling stage, a binky is completely optional lately and swinging or rocking would just make me nauseous.
This happens even following a completely caffeine-free day. No diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, Dr. Pepper or Mountain Dew. And no, none of that surreptitious caffeine like they sometime put in Root beer. My body craves, desires, requires, can’t go on without, will go stark raving mad without sleep. I’m not about to jeopardize that with a little fizzy fling on ice.
Why such rebellion from an otherwise cooperative and compliantly sleepy brain? I sort of understand the infant’s topsy-turvy sleep schedule. They’ve been ensconced in a perfect floating world for so long where sleeping and waking all looked and felt the same. Suddenly changing when those things happen appears illogical to that tiny brain. But a full-grown, semi-sane adult should drop off into Never Never Land with nary a thought.
It’s like getting in the car and finding the engine won’t turn over. Not even an Rrrrrr, or a click. Just Nothingness. A giant void of non sleep. I don’t even begin to approach that little ledge between consciousness and sleep. Yeah, you know, that elusive line of awareness, fuzziness and goneness. That blissful, wonderful, coveted lack of sensation.
That slippery slope dried up recently. A fence got built in its place.
Baby blankets (Photo credit: happydacks)
Grrr.
I’ve had experience with sleep meds so I’m not really anxious to go there. Poor sad potato.<<== Click there to make sense of that weird phrase and to understand my reluctance to go the chemical route.
Eventually newborns adjust their sleep patterns to conform to the family schedule. At least usually. Or so I’ve heard. Not sure I ever experienced that with my own children.
I could take a cue from the wee little ones. Maybe I need to try a pacifier, a blankie and a lullaby or two.
You know how you can never think of a clever thing to say when you really need it? It’s like the next morning midway between breakfast and lunch when you think of the perfect comeback.
Too late.
And then there’s the text, email, instant message, private message or phone message you put out there that gets NO response whatsoever. What does that mean? Did it go through? Did you say something wrong? Are they avoiding you? It’s like the written equivalent of “do I have something green and gross in my teeth?” but much much worse.
I know, I know, the logical thing to think falls in the category of they’re busy, gone, their device isn’t working, or they missed seeing it among the three thousand others they received yesterday.
But still, I worry and wonder. Okay, fine, I obsess a little, too.
Or you post some witty or smart remark on Facebook and then read it a while later. You wonder who hacked your account and wrote such an abominable sentence that doesn’t even come close to what you meant to say.
Crash!
Return. Oops! (Photo credit: nist6ss)
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve, fortunately, read what I just typed, BEFORE I pressed the return button. Snarky, mean, thoughtless, manipulative, stupid, airheaded, too much information, ridiculous. Whatever. Dodged that one!
But, I’ve also pressed return without really paying attention and then shortly after wanted to crawl under a rock and ban myself from all forms of social media forever.
Sometimes just a regular conversation can leave me wondering what in the scrap-heap went wrong. I thought the conversation was about abc and the person I’ve chatted with thought we were talking about xyz. Totally different wavelengths. Complete and utter misunderstanding. My brain throws its hands into the air and walks away disgusted with my lack of socializing skills.
Then there’s this other aspect of it all.
Pendulum (Photo credit: MrPlow5)
My communication pendulum swings rather wide. I fluctuate between two extremes.
I’m sometimes fairly quiet, uncertain about talking and keep to myself. Almost like a hermit, I mumble things under my breath, but rarely share out loud. I think way too much and have incredible inner conversations. Talking with others? Not so much.
Or the pendulum swings and I’m a little too talkative. I find myself answering a simple, basic question with Way Too Much Information. Those WTMI’s give me more anxiety than four teenagers combined ever did. (No, that’s not true, nothing could top that.) But anxiety levels rocket to stupid heights because of my over sharing, and again, I want to crawl under a rock and disappear for a month or three.
Grizzly bear mind meld with boy (Photo credit: woodleywonderworks)
Why weren’t we made with, I don’t know, brain to brain communication? Spock’s mind meld technique could come in handy more often than you’d think. I really need a verbal delete button. More than a shoulder angel or a shoulder devil, I need a shoulder editor.
“Hey, Kami, don’t say that. ” Or better yet, “Shh… Just keep quiet for a minute. Listen…listen…wait… okay, now you can talk, but don’t empty your entire thought process here.”
Maybe that’s more like a quarterback coach with a headset on running the game mouth to helmet. Fine, then, that’s what I need.
Or do I just need to stay BRAVE and say what I think and what I mean as best I can and roll with it.
Gaaaaaa!!!!!!!! Whole wars are fought over words that are misunderstood, misinterpreted, misused, missing or mistakes. No pressure!!!!
Do you sense the pendulum swinging here? It’s swinging so wide it may crash through a wall this time.
Why such angst? This is silly! These brave souls in this music video that accompanies these wonderful lyrics make me feel braver, make me smile, make me think I can just say what I think and the worlds walls won’t come crashing down around me.
It’s possible to just be there, move with the music, throw myself into living with abandon and silliness and guts and let things happen. It’s more likely that JOY will happen if I’m dancing. It’s more likely that JOY will happen if I’m at least TRYING to let my voice be heard.
Sure I’m gonna trip over myself. Probably way more than I think I will. (I already do, actually.) But maybe, just maybe I’ll make someone smile as I dance my words across the page or across the room. Maybe because I say what I think, I dance to the music that I’m hearing, someone else will get on their brave and dance with their words, too. It could happen.
Being brave with my words.
It’s surely worth the risk.
At least, I hope so.
I think I’ve found my new personal anthem.
_________________________
“Brave”
You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebodys lack of love
Or you can start speaking up
Nothings gonna hurt you the way that words do
And they settle neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
Everybodys been there, everybodys been stared down
By the enemy
Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing
Bow down to the mighty
Dont run, stop holding your tongue
Maybe theres a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
Innocence, your history of silence
Wont do you any good
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why dont you tell them the truth?
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
*****
The title of today’s post is thanks to Sara Berreilles. You can also thank my young with-it daughter. When she heard what I was thinking about writing for today’s post she aimed me Sara’s direction.
Heart shaped waffles. yeah, right. Not tonight, not at this house.
Yup, waffles for dinner twice in one week.
The first time felt like a treat. This time felt a little bit more like desperation.
Why the difference? Overscheduling, multiple stress levels, small children in the mix, missing naps, moon phases, hormone levels, the barometric pressure. Who knows?
And honestly, it seemed like something I could pull off one handed while holding a very fussy five week-old baby in the other arm.
The mother of said infant was busy entertaining an over-technologized, overly tired two year-old in the sand and on the swings. Everyone involved needed some comforting. The only way the adults might get much comfort would be disguised in the form of food. Hence, waffles.
Oh yeah, and bacon. Gotta throw that in there. The smell of bacon cooking is enough to take the stress level down a notch or two. I think the two year-old ate most of it.
But there was no idyllic strawberry freezer jam, or lovely semi-staged photos. The adults took turns eating so the infant could be swaddled, rocked, shushed, pacified, walked, jostled and held just so.
Sleep might descend blissfully for all involved soon.
I call my bulletin board “Irony” for good reason. Notice the word top center? I think I might have some changes to make.
My bulletin board as is, untouched, unedited, unreal.
Situational Irony: A difference between what you expect to happen and what actually happens.
I would expect my bulletin board to help me simplify and organize my life. When it actually just serves as another place for chaos to happen and apparently propagate then it becomes irony.
I’m afraid I overflow all the edges and boundaries in my life, just like all the papers, photos, notes and other crappage expands way past the edges of the cork board.
Am I going to do something about this?
Eventually.
Luckily no one sees this, but me. Oh, and MSH. And occasionally one of my children.
It’s Gratituesday! Today I’m grateful to have stepped outside two nights ago and felt actual cool air. I know in most parts of the world that’s a normal occurrence. In the Phoenix area it only happens for about five months of the year. After the summer’s onslaught of daily blast-furnace heat followed by evenings of sweltering baking, a cool breeze in the evening amazes and soothes.
(Photo credit: @Doug88888)
When the cooler weather arrives, a morning walk could happen without a bottle of water as a basic survival tool. The cobwebs get cleared off the front porch swing and long evening chats can happen again.
There’s a lighter quality to the oxygen in the air, a weight of oppression lifting. Hope returns that once again the park will fill up with people playing games of capture the flag, soccer practices, tag, frisbee and lacrosse.
In a few days the air will begin to fill with the October smells of overseeding for winter lawns. Steer manure is the seed cover of choice around the valley. Things smell like a million head cattle drive moving through for a few weeks. But after a brief spell of that malodorous scent on the breeze, grasses will green up in a riot of brilliant color. Flowers will burst out in a song of relief. Kids break out of their air-conditioned confines and populate the neighborhoods once more.
The idea of a walk in the moonlight no longer oppresses but instead sounds delightful and romantic.
With cooler air that blue hue in the sky just feels lovely instead of boring and repetitive.
To be honest with you, a few weeks ago I thought about moving. The idea of leaving this wretched heat played with my heartstrings in spite of the people attached to them. Now that the coolness, at least evening coolness, has arrived, I think I can stay.
I’m pretty sure, in spite of the portent of milder weather and loveliness ahead, that deserts weren’t intended for human habitation. And yet, we as a species continue to insist on living in them. Why do you think that is?
Is it like the mountain thing? We climb it because it’s there? We live here because we can? Do we always have to pick up the gauntlet when it’s thrown down at our feet? Could we just pick something in-between-ish for a change?
Or is that giving in to something, fence-sitting somehow?
I haven’t figured it out yet. I’m still not sure why I’m here after all these years later. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad I’ve been here. Mostly. What an incredible sixteen year ride it’s been.
Still I wonder how I’ve managed to get through that many summers. And why I continue to stay.
If I had the choice would I go?
Maybe.
Depends on if the breeze blowing through my cropped hair was a warm one or a cool one.
When we first moved here to the Arizona desert eons ago I had a learning curve to scale. It took a bit of time, but I got used to the oddities. Lizards, crickets, scorpions, white flies, warm water coming out of the cold tap, the juxtaposition of police helicopters at night and roosters crowing in the morning, running errands after the sun went down or before it rose in the morning, the pungent odor of dairy farms, pine trees in the same yard as palm trees, and monsoons that involved no rain whatsoever.
Portrait of a Wall lizard (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Assorted other desert adaptations for survival became necessary, but I think I’ve blocked those from my memory.
One of the first things I said to myself when I made the mistake of running to the grocery store at noon was, “who in their right mind would start a settlement here and then stay in this inferno?”
No one answered me.
I figured whoever decided that this was a good place for a town, and then another town and then a dozen or two more, most likely was suffering from some heat exhaustion or heat stroke. That was the only explanation.
I imagine the land was a great deal too. Kind of like those real estate plots in the Everglades.
But I digress. Sorry, it’s been a long, long, long, long, long, long summer. I think someone mentioned breaking records, but I’m sure they meant CD’s or DVD’s.
Anyway.
The point I was trying to make was there’s this oddity I don’t recall seeing in other parts of the country where I’ve lived.
Most everyone in the country appears to believe Robert Frost’s adage that “good fences makes good neighbors.”
Howdy neighbor!
Oklahoma had chain link fences, but then, they’re a really friendly bunch. They pretty much adopt you into their family right after you’ve made introductions. So the fence is really more of a dog deterrent than anything.
There were long expanses of six-foot tall wooden fences in North Carolina. Mine, mine, mine seemed the word each nail punctuated in those fences. Don’t get me wrong, I liked the people alright, but boundaries seemed very important and well-defined. But then I lived there less than a year. I’m open for discussion on this one if you’re from Charlotte, or parts thereabouts.
The Seattle area employed a combination of wood and chain link depending on the neighborhood. Those fences seemed more of a suggestion than a real threat or barrier.
Cement block wall. More than just a fence between neighbors. (Photo credit: lukeroberts)
By contrast, here in the desert, the fences are really walls. Six foot high cement block walls. I still haven’t figured out what that means. Go away and leave me alone? I’ll stay on my side and you stay on yours and we’ll get along just fine? I have a room full of guns and I’m not afraid to use them?
What I noticed, early on after moving here were the cats on top of these lovely interconnected walls. The cats made really good time from one section of the neighborhood to the other and stayed well out of reach of any dogs. In fact, I believe they stopped and taunted dogs as often as time and speed allowed. I took to calling the walls “cat highways.”
Just last year I realized that teenagers had adapted and learned by watching the cats. They frequently scale the walls and run along the tops to get to where ever they want to go. Not sure if they taunt the dogs, though.
It’s important to know that the top edge of the wall is only six inches wide. The kids I know who do this seem oblivious to the possibility of falling, trespassing, irritating a rabid neighbor or injuring their often bare toes and feet. But then, most teenagers are oblivious to most things not orbiting their own personal universe. (No disrespect intended, just stating a fact.)
I guess if you live in the desert you adapt, change, melt a little, and do whatever it takes to survive.
You use what nature and construction offer and you run with it. Or, in this case, you run on it.
My take on it all? Extra good fences make good neighbors and in some cases, really good shortcuts.
_________________
Just in case you were wondering, here’s the actual poem by Frost that I was referring to. I consider it an astounding work of art. Enjoy. Read it out loud! It rolls in a warm wave and fills the room with the scent of an open meadow, pines and apple blossoms. At least in my mind it does.
Mending Wall
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
Yes, that’s how I meant to spell it. It’s what home life with children can evolve into. A Big Happymess.
Life with kids is messy. And it’s often happy. Sometimes both things at the same time. Sometimes it’s just messy. Rarely does blissful, unadulterated happiness occur. But it does happen. Often when the children are asleep. But awake time happiness happens, too. Admit it.
Read the following quotations, then you tell me. Does the word Happymess fit when describing family life?
“We spend the first twelve months of our children’s lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve telling them to sit down and shut up.” ~ Phyllis Diller
“The quickest way for a parent to get a child’s attention is to sit down and look comfortable.” – Lane Olinhouse
“What it’s like to be a parent: It’s one of the hardest things you’ll ever do but in exchange it teaches you the meaning of unconditional love.” – Nicolas Sparks
“The best way to keep children at home is to make the home atmosphere pleasant, and let the air out of the tires.” – Dorothy Parker
“Few things are more satisfying than seeing your own children have teenagers of their own.” ~ Doug Larson
“I don’t remember who said this, but there really are places in the heart you don’t even know exist until you love a child.”– Anne Lamott
“Parents are not interested in justice, they’re interested in peace and quiet.” – Bill Cosby
So what do you think? Am I right? Life’s a happymess, if you take the chaos with a grain of salt. A dose of laughter every day helps, as well.
Remember, If you don’t laugh a bit, you’re gonna cry a lot.
So is it just me, or is breakfast for dinner one of your favorite go-to meal plans?
Breakfast at dinnertime satisfies like nothing else I know. Add in that it’s fast and easy to prepare and smells divine. It’s the perfect comfort food.
Obviously, I’m not talking cold cereal or oatmeal here. Bacon, eggs, hash browns. Or biscuits and sausage gravy, with an extra biscuit slathered in butter and dripping with honey on the side. Now we’re getting somewhere. Or some pancakes or French toast, now there’s easy and delish. Or my fav, waffles! Some homemade strawberry freezer jam on one half and syrup on the other half. Followed by a cold glass of milk.
Ah, perfection.
Imagine what I’m planning for my dinner tonight! Are you jealous?
Mmm. Decisions, decisions.
Now I’m waffling. And that does not mean eating waffles. Which I find weird.
The waffle we eat and the waffle that we do are both spelled the same way. The “crisp batter cake baked in a waffle iron” (thank you Merriam-Webster) had its humble beginnings in the early 1700’s as a Dutch word meaning to weave. Whoever was brilliant enough to create a pan that makes tiny square bowls for syrup to seep into deserves a medal and knighthood. And in case you were wondering, something can have a waffle pattern, which would be a grid like, indented design.
The verb waffle didn’t show up in Britain until the mid-1800’s. It means “to sit on the fence” or to be indecisive, or failing to make up one’s mind. Members of the US House and Senate will appreciate this word as well, as its secondary meaning is to speak or write at great length without saying anything important or useful. We all know someone personally with this “skill” don’t we?
Why do I bring this up in the middle of breakfast for dinner?
Because I was wondering about it. Why one word for two different meanings? English runs skiwampus that way.
I suppose eating breakfast at dinnertime would be considered skiwampus, too. But then who decided what foods are proper for morning meals, which are appropriate for evening meals and what constitutes an afternoon meal? Custom, culture, habit. I blame habit more than anything.
Don’t even get me started on what to call those meals: supper, lunch, dinner, brekkies, brunch, tea, high tea, late dinner, second breakfast, elevensies, snack, late supper.
Kami's Beautiful Morning 