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