a tiny ripple of hope

 I have 15 pages remaining in the book I'm reading,  "As We Are Now" by May Sarton. I've been here - nearly finished-  since last evening.  

I don't want to continue.

I had placed this book in a pile of perhaps 30 others that I'm going to bring to The Church Mouse at St. Mary's Church on Saturday. 

Their weekly sales benefit 3 of the charities I support,  so it's a joy bringing books to them.

(The Food Bank at St. John the Divine, Threshold Housing Society and Hospice)

The book's inside cover says KERRISDALE BRANCH and there is evidence that the pocket to hold a library card has been torn away.

I have lived in Victoria for about 12 years, before that in the Cowichan Valley for another 12,  so I haven't lived in Vancouver, in Kerrisdale, for about a 1/4 century! 

So I read this book quite some time ago.

When I added it to my books-to-go-pile I thought I would read it again. I seemed to remember that it had been in some way, special. 

It is about Caro, an older woman, who was placed in a remote nursing home which was run by two horrid "keepers".

And, I can't finish the book.  

Rather, I won't finish the book.

I remember when I turned 50 I gave myself permission to not read every book to its conclusion. Before that I had felt compelled to read to the end...it was only fair to the author, after all!

I have become aware over the last decade that the grief, trauma and horror depicted in some books is too painful for me.

About 10 years ago I gave away all the novels I had that were Holocaust-related. Many I had never read. The responsibility I felt to really get a more personal understanding of the horrors had lead me to buy them. 

I had felt that, as a Jew, I needed to feel the depths of despair.

And then, the hopeless despair was too great.

And served no purpose.

I have on my shelf "Five Little Indians" by Michelle Good, winner of the First Novel Award, Longlisted for the Giller Prize,  ggbooks Winner, and finally, the Writers Trust Fiction Prize.

Comments on the back cover include,  "tracing the lives of residential school survivors..."  "wounding and powerful..."  "...compassionate and devastating..."

After starting to read the book several times, I decided instead to borrow the audio.  However, I quickly realized that this was more painful for me as I couldn't skim ahead to avoid the most painful parts as I could when reading.

It's back on the shelf. 

Someone said they wanted to borrow it.

I've just spoken to a friend about my avoidance of reading and listening to subjects that are trauma-laden. 

She understands, which somehow makes me feel better!

I haven't listened to the news on the radio for 3 weeks. 

The unopened world news headlines appear on my computer and I speak to my daughter in Israel nearly every day.

That is enough.

Caro, in the depths of her pain, laments "My jaw aches from holding a grief back,"

I can't change the Big Issues so let me do what I can do here, in Victoria.

                                                    Let's all do what we can.

 (Does anyone want to borrow "As We Are Now" and tell me how it ends?)

 

in my heart

I'm writing this late in the afternoon, late enough that I have asparagus spears, red and orange small peppers and onion roasting in the oven. They will be tossed with pasta for dinner.
 

I even have some pesto that I might add.

It's about compromised health and coping, that's burning a hole in my brain right now.

Brian's health. 

The health of Brian, my husband of 42 years. 

The health of the man who built about 50 raised beds in Duncan so I could have a herb business and grow vegetables and have a whole large bed of magnificent scented peonies.

The Brian who always fills my car with gas.

The Brian with whom I share a studio.

The Brian I love.

                                            That Brian.

I'm not writing to talk about health issues, but rather to attempt to see, through writing, how I can better manage.

How I can be strong and still honour the weight of pain that I feel.

How I can be strong and accept that it's hard and it's okay to slip up.

And to slip up again.

And to apologize if my slip up hurts.

I remember an expression I heard a great number of years ago, when someone had a partner or a child who had recently died. "God gives you only what you have the strength to bear." 

It seemed to imply that the weaker person wouldn't have had the trauma. That in fact the person was suffering because she was strong and able to manage!

Being strong was not an asset.

I have recently turned 80 and although someone this morning called me a fireball,  I certainly don't have the energy I once had, even 5 years ago.

Even a fireball can't keep burning!

I am tired a lot these days, often stumbling towards exhaustion.

Recently I took the wrong route to a place I have always known well, feeling panicked and not knowing how to right myself. 

So, the signals of stress are clear. The question is will I heed them?

Jackie's New Rules:

#1 Get some ready-made food to augment the food I've prepared.

#2 Set aside some time each day to read and additional time to write.

#3 Return to my morning walks, at least 4 times a week, and not rely on friends to partner with me.

#5 Drink less and laugh more.

That seems pretty easy (ha!) but who will I be accountable to?  

I'll think about it after I pour myself a rum and eggnog.

I'll laugh later.

tears of love

and of sadness

a future obscured by mist

and a past already decided

joy

Remember when the mantra was "a place for everything and everything in its place"?

And, in the KonMari Method, holding a single object at a time and asking yourself if it sparks joy.  

And doing this repeatedly.  

Individually.

Marie describes these sparks as "a little thrill, as if the cells in your body are slowly rising."

First let me say that our house is so filled with objects that my hands, arms, shoulders and back would suffer great harm if I were to lift each object, one by one. 

And I really don't want to spend this 80th year of my life hoisting and wondering if that was a thrill or the start of a migraine.

My good friend and walking partner told me this morning that she was describing our walks to a friend. She said that I don't really notice the dogs we pass or people, but rather I am so enthralled with the seed pods and leaves and spider webs I see.

Well.... I do notice some people and dogs and houses but, really, I'm more apt to put a twin joined baby hazelnut into my pocket than to comment on the utterly huge and ugly house that's under construction.

I'm actually quite skilled at gathering and talking simultaneously.

And so I move into the reason for writing today's blog.

Our house is messy and cluttered and filled with things.

I have a small bamboo box with dried seed heads that rests on a table in our dining room. Beside it is a plate rimed with gold stars where smooth black stones and a pearlized oyster shell reside.

A friend who used to teach very young children (as I did) commented that it reminded her of collections she had in her classroom for the children to look at and touch.     

                                                                    But those were conscious, on-purpose- learning- school- collections.

But these gatherings of mine have a sense of order to them. They are arranged in a pleasing way and arranged just so between plants. 

Eccentric but tidy.

Tidy but taking space.

Things.

When I move from the dining room to write, I am overwhelmed by clutter.

The clutter on my computer table.

Right now there are five pens, a magnifying glass, a Tim Hortons gift card ready to give away, and a small yellow post-it pad. 

To the right of the computer there are 3 books to look at, a printed image of the Israeli flag, a note with the address of my niece in Montreal, and These Precious Days by Ann Patchett to read for book club.  Underneath this book from 2021, I  have a very old copy of The Physical Life of Woman by Dr George H. Napheys A.M., M.D. Advice to the Maiden, Wife and Mother.

And this is only what I see, seated at the computer

But why is all this stuff on the computer table? 

The room has three large bookshelves, a small basket for pens and the magnifying glass, and I have already copied Miriam's contact information into my address book. The gift card belongs in my purse.

It's kind of okay to have a messy office/den but sadly it's not confined to this room.

A mirror from a car I found on the road

Other People don't seem to have cluttered kitchen counters.

It seems They have a "a place for everything and everything in its place."

Friends tell me that our home is so interesting, filled with art and fascinating things.

However when I have my reading group or mah jongg friends over, I get in a panic.

Several years ago, when I was expecting company, I took a medium-sized plastic bin and filled it with things that were on counters and table surfaces. 

Everything looked great then, but within days I needed my purloined stuff and emptied the bin, returning the things to their familiar places.

I read somewhere that a cluttered space indicates a cluttered mind, and that new research suggests that clutter can be a contributing factor to stress.

And then I found this reassuring quote:

When asked about his messy desk, Einstein remarked "If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what are we to think of an empty desk?"

risking being me

I haven't written a blog entry for three months.

It's been a challenging time, and living the challenges has been enough, writing about them would have been too much.

Challenges can appear in many forms.  

For someone, it might be running faster than previously, losing weight, being promoted at work or losing your job. 

It might be trying to remember your own name.

 Or the challenge to keep from losing your temper.    (read: to keep from losing MY temper!)

Brian has been having health problems- primarily problems with his kidneys, just like his brother in Britain. And there are other medical issues that we are mainly supporting with pills.

I am the reminder. 

The reminder, squared.

The nag.

"Drink water, take your pills."

And sliding easily into "You haven't been drinking enough water. You haven't yet taken your morning pills and it's mid-afternoon now."

Blame blame.

At these times I have become a person I don't like very much.  A few days ago I wrote in my notebook: "If I met myself today would I like me?"

How can I be gentle with this person I love? 

Parkinson's Disease and kidney problems aren't his fault. There is no one to blame.

"Just get over it, Jackie!"

BUT........I need to forgive myself for the pain and frustration I feel. This wasn't how I had expected my life to turn.  

But, quite honestly,  I had no concrete assumptions  at all.

When Brian and I married 42 years ago we were both healthy and strong. Working in our gardens for hours each day and spending additional hours in our art studio. Cooking fabulous meals from the produce we grew and eating chickens raised by friends.

We were young!!

I will be 80 years old next week.  I thought getting old would take longer!

But I'm still engaged and full of energy. The expression "full of piss and vinegar" comes to mind.

To say that people are “full of piss and vinegar” is to say that they are brimming with energy... “vinegar” being an old slang term for enthusiastic energy.

But I'm more impatient now. 

Less tolerant of stupid people. 

Probably wanting my own way even more often.

But the biggest, most important change is that I'm way more likely to risk being me!

Here I am, receiving birthday presents from my friends, as they describe me in a single word: *mom *artist *friend *youthful *strong *dynamo *creative*resolute *supportive *compassionate *honest *unstoppable *onward  *caring  *loyal *frank *straightforward *engaged *creative *artistic *curious *generous *open-hearted *authentic *trustworthy *dedicated *gracious *passionate *exuberant *resilient *honest *loyal *electric *visionary *inspiring *sensitive*vulnerable *אוֹתֶנְטִי  *INDOMITABLE!

And, tomorrow, I'm going mushroom hunting with a friend.

these are amazing birthday present words given to me:

"You have an eye for finding not only the beautiful in everyday life, but also
the needs of others in every day life."

  I know that this is 3 words but I love it! 

       *boundless without boundaries 

a lesson from Zara

 Our dear cat, Zara, had a long bout at the vet Friday.

 I had noticed a bit of blood on the rim of her litter box and phoned our vet to get an appointment.

When the phone was finally answered after an hour of busy signals, I was told that there were no appointments available.

When I contacted a second clinic, they said they would squeeze her in.

Brian aways does the "vet run" and I became worried when they were gone for over an hour.

As well as UTI, the doctors found evidence of kidney trouble.

For the infection, Brian was given 20 pills with instructions to give Zara 2 a day.

Remembering our cats in Duncan, we were prepared for a struggle.

.

The bath towel was ready to wrap Zara, the mouth to be held open, the throat rubbed to make her swallow the pill.

The battle was on!

4 times we tried, 4 times we failed.

I texted a friend, asking if she'd help me the following morning.

And then Brian added a Greenies treat with the pill, next to her on her favourite chair.

She simply ate the treat and then the pill!

WHAT@*!

I saw how I had anticipated and then prepared for combat when peace was a viable option. It was my first response.

I saw too how old stories can influence actions today.

From this pill episode, I've had an "aha" moment, noticing that when Brian does (or doesn't do) something to upset me, I too often put om my boxing gloves.

There is always another option.

An option that promotes connection rather than one that requires an apology.

It pains me to see much of the world in crisis mode that involves little or no respect.

War, discrimination, thwarted attempts to find safety, greed and incarceration.

And great harm to our plant.

An apology is not enough.

a lesson from Zara

living with uncertainty

 The world feels fragile, with fault-lines widening.

Cracks to step over

reminding me of the childhood sidewalk chant we sang as we walked.

 "Step on a crack, break your mother's back."

We didn't quite believe it, but we were still careful to avoid the lines.

646 killed in mass shootings this year in the United States

Ukrainian cities reduced to rubble

10s of millions displaced

floods and drought 

starvation

and Alabama trying a new method to kill people on death row by cutting off oxygen until they die.

I turn off the radio when news-time draws near

I don't want to listen 

I feel impotent. 

A kind someone gave me $50 to donate wherever I wish. 

I can't decide so it sits in an envelope 

on the dresser

in my bedroom.

I want $50,000

$500,00

50 million dollars to give

and still there will be suffering.

I can't post this blog entry as I haven't yet discovered the hopeful bit 

to hold gently to my chest

and sing to. 

So I think of the sunshine dancing among the trees

and remember the gifts of laughter 

wrapped and satin-bowed.

I hear the words "I love you Nana" 

while walking on the beach 

and gather rocks to ground me on this earth.

I so appreciate your comments and please add your name in the text 

still and yet

Last evening, as I was rubbing cream on my legs, I was once again horrified by their appearance. Every colour and variety of veins were plentiful, shrouding the area from  my thigh to ankle.

This coming summer,  even capris might not cover this vein rainbow.

"Remember," I muttered to myself, "these are just veins."

I thought back to when I first began my blog. 

While walking with a much younger friend,  I mentioned my upcoming birthday and my age. 

She was aghast. 70!  

She went on to say that in medieval times this age was the beginning of what they called "decrepitude."

Sure enough, when I googled it, it was indeed the final stage before death!

Surprised that they were still available,  I quickly seized the domain names "decrepitude.com" and "decrepitude.ca" 

Still trying to imagine what the focus of my blog would be, I decided that my site was not going to be focused on aging, but rather would be:

"Observations from an up-front woman on the other side of seventy. Collector of random thoughts and interesting stones. Maker of art in the studio and garden. Purveyor of the ordinary and the magical."

This allows for a great deal of space and room to wander.

I've been lucky to have two walking partners, two women to be wide-open-honest with and who also walk as fast as I do.

However, with health and family issues, neither is available right now,  so I've been pushing myself to walk alone.

Not every day and not usually fun.

So I set out early this morning and surprised myself by enjoying the gentle shower and the occasional gust of wind. 

Everything seemed fresh and as if seen for the first time.

                                             these photographs were taken last week      

                                           

There were several houses for sale along Landsdowne Road and in front of one sat a walker and two bright yellow paddles.

 I walked on for a few minutes then turned back and knocked on the front door.  It was early, but I had seen the light of a television through the front window.  

The woman who answered the door said the walker was available so I placed it in her closed-in porch and said that I'd be back in less than an hour to retrieve it. 

Somehow this sighting seemed important.

She said that this was the last of four walkers that had belonged to her mother and father. She had been clearing the house, readying it to sell.

Returning to Landsdowne, I twigged my back while fitting this treasure into my Fiat. 

I'll be out walking again tomorrow; my veins and sore back merely an inconvenience.

*Tomorrow, Brian will take the walker to SOLID Outreach Society

stress

 I can tell I'm stressed when in two successive loads of laundry there is a rogue Kleenex.

I seem to be going going going and push myself even when exhausted.

I remember about 30 years ago, when we still lived in the Cowichan Valley, I took part in a three-day workshop in Arizona called The Possibility of Women.  

Along with a great many curves and ah ahas,  the issue of procrastination came up and many of the women in the group lit up in recognition.

Not me.  

I didn't put off doing, but rather I simply did things, never believing that it was a big deal. 

our property in Duncan

 When we bought two 25-pound boxes of beautiful organic peaches, of course I canned them. 

Likewise apricots, that I cooked to make amazing jam.

No big deal.

We had a 1,000 square-foot greenhouse where I started my 25 tomato plants and a half-dozen peppers from seed. 

I grew them on and planted them  out, then picked them to eat and to make salsas, sauce and quart jars of whole tomatoes.

No big deal.

The 20 or so basil plants that I grew, I converted into pesto or added to sauces.

No big deal. 

 

          on the lower left of the herb garden are two beds of basil

And all of this done while also having a herb business called Harvest Herbs, selling plants and several kinds of tinctures. 

During the women's workshop with some individual attention focused on me, I saw, for the first time, that I accomplished a huge amount but never considered its value.

 I was assigned to a coach and instructed to phone her every weekday morning for a month. During this five minute call,  I was tasked with telling her everything I had done the day before. All she said was "thank you" when my list was complete and the call was over.

During this month I became aware of what I did every day; the numerous things I had previously scuffed away. 

The "no big deal" surfaced less often.

Back in the "now" I see that I have slipped once again into disregarding my activities.

Working in the garden yesterday with a man similarly aged to my daughters, at the 2 1/2 -hour mark I thought "what the hell am I doing?" Still I continued for another 10 minutes.

This was after doing 2 loads of wash before 7:30 a.m. working on the series of collages I've been creating, taking the compost and garbage out, finding and printing out all of the emails relating to our upcoming heat pump installation and the information relating to the federal and provincial grants we applied for. And finally I phoned a plumber to set up an appointment. *

This was before gardening at noon! 

I am more than twice the age I was in Duncan when I took part in the women's workshop, and now I wonder why I am tired!

I'm going to attempt to reproduce those five-minute phone calls with a small notebook.  Five minutes at the end of the day listing what I have done. 

A notebook that may help me make some changes.

And that would be a Big Deal!

these are some of my new collages

*I forgot to add that I walked with a friend from 9:30 until 10:30 a.m.