Day 12

 

All is well, though I am incredibly cranky. There's a huge storm forecast for Thursday so I have to plough outwards tomorrow and stock up on the essentials to get me through. I placed the grocery order for curbside pickup and was thrilled to see more books ready at the library for me to pickup. I have loads of books now which always makes me feel secure, more than food does.

It takes 21 days to change a habit. I remember learning this when I quite smoking. 21 days, they said, and physical cravings diminish, that's a promise. And they were right. Psychological takes a bit longer. I remember still looking for a cigarette when phones rang a year later. And I couldn't sit down and chat after dinner for a while but had to go out for a walk. So 9 more days and cravings for sugary sweeties and little pastries and choccie bickies and ice cream won't be as intense and I won't be so restless.

I was pondering on self-service which technically is no service. Like how we clean up after ourselves in cafes, and pump our own gas, and use the bank machines, and are encouraged to perform our own checkouts at supermarkets. Social interaction pared back to zero in such cases. Corporations yielding higher and higher profits. Unpaid labour for the rest of us. And I wonder where it all ends. Does it end? I am lucky that all my medications get delivered and my groceries are selected and loaded into my car. I never take such things for granted.

But as I say, all is well, and I feel even "weller" having written this and realizing how truly lucky I am. And I only blasted off one politician today. 

Day 11

 I hope I'm not a crashing bore with these posts. But I have to say they are keeping me honest in my "clean" eating. 

And with the hot tea bolstering me and some smashing old series on BritBox and a brilliant new book and the spot of knitting I'm doing okay today. And you know why? Well,  partially anyway. I reached out to a dear friend who's not doing so hot and he can't get further treatment because of Covid being rampant in his area. And he's normally a cheerful man, positive and balanced and now he's wretched with bowel and breathing issues. And what can one do? I'm not a thoughts and prayers person, just assured him I was holding him in light and love and I've had a candle going all day to remind me.

And others are not doing so well either. Maybe it's in the moon or something. We've all had it up to here.

End of day was some refreshing news in that a niece had a baby boy a few hours ago. Why do we say baby girl and baby boy anyway? It's not like we can give birth to an adult or a teenager. 

And this was sent by Grandgirl in this new craze of sea shanties on TikTok.

But it's brilliant and I've played it, oh, maybe 10 times today.

Day 10

 Not much happening here. I didn't get out of my pjs today. And it took every bit of willpower to wash the dishes.

However I was in contact with both family and some friends which passed the day well, and also Daughter who had her studio going, she's gone mad into art which is wonderful.

Our Zoom Fam Jam went well. Because of Covid much exploration has been done into ancestors by a few members so that always has us enthralled as we tie in Irish history dates with the family events happening in those times. 

I knitted away part of the day on a new project. And enjoyed my new mug which has both my spirit animal along with knitting on it. I use it just for tea. Change has seen me embrace tea to keep the munchies monkey off my back.

There was a heavy fog clinging to the hills and lake outside this morning. My crocuses winced.

I wish I could say that mentally I'm doing well but I'm not. A kind of lethargy spiced with a sense of will-this-shyte ever end. I'm talking the pandemic of course. this combined with winter here and the realization I'll soon be celebrating the first annual anniversary of my self-imposed lockdown.

Day 9

So far so good.

I'm truly feeling it in my readings, BP and sugars super normal.

I was pondering today on groceries, how there seemed to be very little to actually "shop" for when I was growing up.

Below is an old photo of where the pub was at the end of the road I lived on. Around the corner to the left was the butcher shop, and across from it on the right was the local shop. 

 

It has changed greatly.

Everything was delivered.

Milk first thing in the morning.

Along with the newspaper

Bread some time in the afternoon. 

Mum usually walked down to the butchers (pushing a stroller) for the meat of the day which was always wrapped in newspaper and twine.

Dad grew a lot of our veggies but the small grocery store carried the basics of potatoes and onions.

Granny often brought in a "fowl" (turkey or chicken) and fresh eggs and "country butter" from her small holding. Carrying it on the bus where one of us children would meet her at the bus terminal.

All this information about meetings and Granny coming would be put on a plain postcard by Granny posted on the previous evening and arriving in our post the following morning. Two posts a day then. I wish we had saved all those postcards now, as Daughter is a postcardist. I was in my late teens before we got a phone.

There was none of this "stocking up". Our larder was  very slender. Mum baked a few times a week, Irish soda bread, the odd fancy pastry or cake (anyone remember the infamous "Victoria Sponge Cake"?)

If we were feeling particularly festive Mum would send one of us down to the grocery shop to pick up a shilling brick of ice cream along with the free wafers which would be carved up between all 8 of us.

We had two "accounts" in Cork City. One at Cash's for clothing where a discount was offered on all purchases "on account" and the bill was mailed to the house once a month. And the other at a place called Macroom Dairies where Christmas toys would be put away and paid for weekly. No interest ever charged in these two places.

What do you remember about your childhood shopping experiences, if any?

Day 8

All is kinda well.

Lots of snow overnight, I'm glad I cancelled my appointments. Snow never bothered me until I had that bad ice fall in 2015 and that changed everything. 

Here is a picture of the girls with the snow as a backdrop.

Slept a lot today but ate well and exercised nil. No energy.

Sometimes life is a bit of a trudge. But motto is "do the next right thing".  And that helped my day along.

A good book helps. John Boyne's latest.

And a riveting new documentary on the Night Stalker in LA.

Day 7

 A bit of a rough day today as a massive snowstorm is predicted for tomorrow and I had planned to grocery shop along with two medical appointments and library drop off and pick up after a day of rest.

I was reminded of Robbie Burns' famous poem: "The best laid plans of mice and men......."

So I staggered out to do the curbside pickup, really tired to begin with, thinking I didn't have that much but it turned out to be a lot when I added it all up as I include so much fruit and veggies in it now and they are awkward and well LARGE.

I called both clinics to say I wasn't risking my life on unpredictable roads and their snowplows so cancelled the tomorrow stuff. Another day.

Huge attack of the munchies as I drove home, realizing that I loved to stop at cafes and pick up a snack along with the Americano and just sit at a masked distance from others and well people watch. I knew it was a no-go as the flesh is almighty weak and I would fall on a pastry or scone. So I didn't. A masked wonder was right into my bread she saw poking out of my cart when I got to the entrance of my building. I was grouchy but my mask covered up my snarl. I may wear one both permanently. I would never invade another's groceries and comment, but that's me, pandemic or no pandemic. Boundaries all the way. Yeah, I get sprouted bread, and had to give her tips on how to separate the slices, exhausted as I was. Now she thinks we're bonded over bread. Shyte.

What a lovely surprise with the mail though. Plural. A gift of a book just published by a friend, I've already read two of the stories and they are brilliant. And another book by Irene Kelly about her life in one of those infamous Mother and Baby Homes that are all over the papers these days. And a gorgeous handmade postcard from Daughter who extolled on the back of it how we have nearly 54 years travelling together, across oceans and continents. Very moving.

Day 6

So far so good - ain't hot tea the best tho? Kills the cravings. Already my BP is down a bit and so's my blood sugar. And my outlook is so much better.

The girls are cheerful today smiling out at the semi-sunny day. Yet no snow. We threw it elsewhere around the planet.

If anyone can tell me what this baby is I'd be delighted. Daughter bought it for me. I've never seen anything like it.

Elsewhere, Bell Aliant kept me on the phone a whole hour today as I tried to sort out what they've done to my internet service which has deteriorated in the last few weeks not allowing much of an upload which prevents me from participating in Zoom meetings. Nothing was resolved. Every time I get on the phone with them I feel they are BSing me. And they get quite confrontational insisting it is somehow my fault, and referring to a non-existent contract specifying low upload speed. Yeah, sure, I signed up for dismal service. So finally they agreed to a technician - physically - coming here this afternoon to "fix" it. I know what they've done, the baron thieves, they are completely over-subscribed and the pandemic and working at home has throttled the system. And I do track where my service is coming from which varies across townships around the province. Highly unstable.

And why on earth doesn't blogger have spellcheck anymore? Another "improvement"?

You'd think I was a long stream of misery after this post, but no, I'm quite happy. Another day in the life of......

Day 5

All is well....

The girls are doing well. All 5 of them. Miraculous little creatures.

I read an inspiring essay this morning about writing down every little bit of our days - had coffee, phoned friend, cut toenails type of thing - just to marvel at how much is in our days. For in the small we see the beauty. There shouldn't be a word like mundane in our vocabularies. Nothing is mundane.

I'm enjoying the discipline of blogging once a day, much to my surprise. It keeps me honest. I climbed the Everest of laundry today (massive hike to laundry room) and felt good, though exhausted, afterwards.

My internet speed is so bad I was having massive trouble with Zoom meetings. Bell boosted the service but now it's worse. I find stuff like this exhausting. A rinse repeat cycle calling Bell. I believe they are completely oversubscribed here and the system is stretched to capacity. Reports I hear about competing providers don't impress me and Fibre Optic is not available for my building (seniors? dimwits, what would they want with fibre optic?)

I bring you a picture I acquired in a small artisan gallery in Nova Scotia a couple of years ago. It reminds me so much of the colourful houses here in St.John's and the houses in one of my favourite places, Kinsale, Co. Cork. I love the whimsical cow. In case your're curious, underneath is a hanging bowl for plant cuttings.

Houses in St. John's

Houses in Kinsale

Day 4

....And all going well.


Thoughts:

I find this fascinating in a family:

Brothers talk to brothers differently than they do to their sisters, (less emotionally).

Sisters talk to sisters differently than they do to brothers (more emotionally).

And brothers when engaging with sisters and vice versa talk differently (tap into their own emotions).

Why is that I wonder? I do think men miss out on so much of their inner lives.

I'm not talking all men as I have both men friends and male cousins who are very open with their emotions and our conversations are rich as a result of this.

Old Chestnuts:
(1)If one grows one's hair long it saps all the strength from one's body. Is there any truth to this?

(2)My father would say "Cop yourself on" if you were heading in a downward direction. I like it. I put it on my mini-blackboard as a monthly message but I added FFS for good measure. It keeps me mindful of staying on track.

So my iris turned out to be crocus and she had another two sisters this morning.

I just love these cheeky tiny things. I'm like a mother hen.

Day 3

So far so good.

Hot herbal tea can avert any snack desire or inappropriate ingestion of between meals sneaking of food, no matter how "healthy".

I've added some steps to my daily mild stretching. Nothing excessive.

I've added another support zoom meeting to my schedule, one a cousin attends - and it's in France.

I'm tracking my glorious wee irises, aka, "the girls". They cheer me immeasurably. Who needs a vast garden when the small can be made so important?

I've taken at least 1/3 off my usual plate load. A smaller plate helps.

I've gone back to a long abandoned routine I had for the late night cravings: a piece of fruit and a small bit of protein. No carbs.

I watched the Fran Lebowitz doc on Netflix. I've read her over the years but she is still fresh and interesting and observant in her 70s. Sharp and incisive. I recommend.

Enough from me.

Change

This has to be one of the more serious challenges in life, right?

I believe we have to run slamming into the wall of ourselves before we shake our heads, metaphorically concussed,and have one blinding flash of a moment when we realize: I have to change.

And how painful is changing?

I can only speak for myself of course. Even though I hear about others' moments of enlightenment. I'm not a believer in self help tomes whatsoever. We are all on our own unique journeys but I do believe that listening to others can light a little spark in ourselves.

I am self-destructive by nature. I've had the therapy, I've crossed the Rubicon a few times, I've been part of support teams for yonks.I can't say it's a constant battle not to fall into the pit of multiple addictions again, but ageing (bless it!) is quite a benefit to people like me. I also hang (now virtually) with some long time recovered addicts.

But other habits creep back in. Poor daily living management. Especially during the pandemic where normal checks and measures are not in place. Add winter to this, a solitary life, and I had unconsciously sunk pretty low.

My "wall" was Daughter calling me yesterday with a list of phone numbers. She had been concerned about me on Saturday when we were together. I had no energy, was close to fainting a few times and was basically shrugging all this off as "normal" for me. My new normal. Slithering in under the door. I remembered a friend who was so sick and couldn't move anywhere, calmly sliding an office chair under her butt and navigating through her home on the chair, stopping every few spins for breath. For a couple of weeks. The new normal until a friend dropped in and called an ambulance and she nearly died in ICU. Mini-strokes and pneumonia.

The numbers Daughter gave me (after an intensive government search and communications) were for an occupational health assessment and a social worker.

It takes me a while to process change. I know I have to. But after her call, I had one of those blinding moments. This sedentary life, Covid or not, is killing me. And incidentally stressing Daughter out who sees me far more clearly than I see myself.

How will I turn it around, if ever? (Rhetorical question).

Nollaig na mBan (Women's Christmas)

Nollaig na mBan (Women's Christmas) (Posted originally on January 6th, 2009)
The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and surely it deserves an annual audience. I have also performed it as a spoken piece. And hosted my own Nollaig na mBans and so has my sister and daughter.
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"Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)

I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.

The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.

However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.

Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!

The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.

I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.

I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.

I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.

They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.

Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.

A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.

And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.

Slowing Down

The biggest overall challenge I've had in old age is slowing down. I adhere to the Spoons Theory for a while and then fall off by tackling too much in one day. What I mean by "too much" is one over the one alloted social engagement or two very short walks into stores or restaurants, say with Daughter.

I know this wandering about sounds outrageous in Covid Times but we're had no cases for the last 5 days and everyone is masked and tables are distanced and stores all look different with arrows and wide aisles and everyone following protocols. I know. Extraordinary. Hats off to everyone and particularly our Minister of Health, our Chief Medical Officer and our premier who all happen to be doctors. And whose modus operandi is "An Abundance of Caution," and the nautical term "Hold Fast, Newfoundland." with multiple media appearances and special little chats with children ("Yes, Santa Claus has been vaccinated.")

I tackled too much when Daughter was in here on Saturday. It would sound measly to my 60 year old ears but nowadays, I feel quite pathetically elderly when I have to be mobilised. I recognize my Covid weight isn't helping. But many of us resort to soothing "treats" during this stressful times. And I hold my hand up. And tips to avoid such indulgences would be welcome.

Today is Monday and I am going out later on with George in hand and a grocery order pickup. I had arranged this for Saturday when Daughter was here but the brain has also slowed down and I had forgotten to complete my order by pushing "confirm", another hiccup of old age. There are a few. And I feel inordinately ashamed when my glitches confuse and bother me.

I throw all this stuff out here as I am quite nervous about sharing all these wee failings of mine with anyone close to me. As is the case with most elders. These dangerous and lethal old age homes may await us if we display any kind of incompetence at all. So I am cautious of concentrating on tasks at hand. As I have left burners on and walked away from lit candles. My busy brain needs to offload more files.

Meanwhile I go back to the Spoon Theory and plan my week out more carefully. Life shouldn't be a trudge and a chore even if one's physical energy is severely limited as mine is.

A Tough Ol' Year

For all of us.

Not that we hadn't been warned way ahead of time. For years. A virus would get us in the end, they said, something invisible. With a breathtaking virulence and multiple mutations. That's something out of sci-fi, we thought, sneering. With all our medical knowledge we would slay it within weeks, look what we did to all the old diseases, diptheria, whooping cough, measles, polio. We are smarter than any virus. Yet here we go stumbling into 2021 and the virus is mutating and outsmarting us all right behind us.

And look what's happened. Millions dead. And still more will be dead from the after-effects. Not to mention the suicides and debilitating depressions and the undiagnosed non-Covid illnesses like cancer, heart disease, with people too afraid of hospitals to go for tests and diagnostics.

So yeah, it was tough, as we limp into 2021, still uncertain of what the future holds.

As to me? I read a lot. I wrote a lot. I streamed a lot. Didn't knit as much as I wanted to.

The gifts of Covid, not in any particular order:

(1) Zoom meetings every Sunday afternoon with my five siblings, we are scattered througout the world but we all show up faithfully week after week.

(2) Seeing clearly what's important and what isn't in life.

(3) Missing really ordinary bits and pieces I took for granted like sitting in cafes with friends mulling over the state of the world. Never realizing that that was a something I took for grantd pre-Plague. Live theatre, live music.

(4) Zoom Meetings with long time friends in Ontario whom I miss so much.

(5) Seeing how local friends misbehaved in not following the protocols, never realizing how truly selfish they were in not protecting others by wearing a mask.

(6) Forcing myself to fix computer and tablet issues when challenged. It hurt the ancient brain but I managed. And felt inordinately proud when successful (hello new bluetooth connection which took an inordinate amount of time.)

(7) Precious travelling trip to the Great Northern Peninsula with Grandgirl and Daughter. Grandgirl had to self-isolate for 2 weeks when she got here before we all set off and I am so grateful for her concern and caring of her old grandma.

(8) Enjoying cheap flowers like never before, here's a picture of the irises I bought yesterday:

Here's a pic of Grandgirl and me at the Viking Settlement, I wish I had the picture handy of me pushing her in her jogging stroller 25 years before as we I ran in a Toronto road race! It would have been one of those perfect circle of life treasures. I'll never forget her lisping over and over "Go, grandma, go!" Now it was my turn to urge her on through the trails!

And here's a bunch of Irish wishes for all of you out there as we bravely face this brand new year.

A Girl In Ireland

There are all kinds of forces in our childhoods that form us as adults. I was forged in an Ireland that today sounds like the Taliban. Men and women were separated in all kinds of ways starting with church.

A mantilla

In my time - late forties early fifties in the last century - men and women sat on opposite aisles of the church. As soon as a girl hit puberty her head had to be covered in a mantilla in church. I was one who always asked why and the answer was that a women's hair could tempt a man. We had to be vigilant about throwing any temptation in a man's way as they quickly "went out of control."

Education was an awful waste for a woman as she would throw it all away when she got married, which was the end goal.

And speaking of end goals: There were 3 options for a girl's life:

(1) Become a nun (highest calling, a girl would be the bride of Christ. Chirst was obviously a polygamist but saying that was blasphemy of the highest order - hell fire and damnation were yours.

(2) Married, giving god all the children she possibly could and even more, if one of her sons was a priest she could go sit on the right hand side of god once she died (usually early being worn out from constant pregnancies.)

(3) Staying single but dedicating one's life to (free) community work in the church and supporting the clergy's housekeeping, etc.

Careers for women were frowned upon severely as
(1)If it was outside the norm (teacher, nurse) it could be offputting for a man who might be interested in you.
(2)You refrained from buying a car as you might as well say goodbye to any good man finding and marrying you.
(3)Keeping your intelligence to yourself, men find "smart" women saucy and forward. "Intelligence," said my father, the youngest of the family of six - all girls until his precious self, "Is always wasted on a girl."

Sex education was strict.

(1) Tampons would "destrioy" you. Why? No man would want you. Why? Tampons destroyed his pleasure.
(2) Never let a man touch you below the neck or above the knee - see "out of control" section from church rules.

From the beginning I saw that I was more of a worry than my four brothers. For I could "fall" pregnant. By any stray man. I remember living in fear of toilet seats if a man had used it prior to me. I could "catch" a stray pregnancy. And I was told about these dark and smelly places where girls who fell were incarcerated scrubbing sheets for the rest of their lives with their hands covered in chilblains and carbolic soap, dawn to dusk, living on bread and water and beaten by the nuns if they complained.

I remember looking at my brothers and thinking they have absolutely no idea how much freedom they have. None. The most they were told was not to climb into cars with strange men offering them sweeties. They didn't have to fear endless laundry work and were free to spray any female with an "unwanted" pregnancy and walk away.

the most imporant rule of all: I had to avoid these lurking pregnancies as I could wind up with carbolic hands in a dark damp dungeon for the rest of my born days.
To be continued.

The Art of Empathy

I try not to speak in platitudes or cliches or tropes. That's not empathy. Examples: Every cloud has a silver lining, into each life a little rain must fall, God closes a door so you can open a window, ad nauseum.

If someone is suffering or complaining or sharing, I try not to rain on the parade of it, the pain or regret of it.

For instance, the other night, a long standing friend shared her pain over her son getting upset and estranging himself from her because she criticised his new wife. Her son is in his fifties.

I am wise to such stuff. For instance when Daughter split up with husband when Grandgirl was only a few months old, I decided I never would criticise her husband (and he was a jerk of the highest order) which would spill over into any relationship I had with him. Why? Well, if anything happened to Daughter I needed access to Grandgirl, the light of my life, and he was not going to concede that access to a raging and seething granny, now was he? I had to see her ex periodically as we would have to pick Grandgirl up or drop her off with each other while Daughter studied or taught. It was always civil and kind.

I've passed this on to other grandparent friends as to how to conduct a relationship with their children's exes even though homicide/femicide might be on their minds. Suck it up, you will reap the benefits.

A sibling and the rest of her family spouted off at her son when he broke up with his wife. They tore his wife up six ways to Sunday. And guess what? The son reconciled with the wife and and told her what his family really thought of her and things have been frosty as ice since.

Keeping the old lips zipped is extraordinarly difficult, especially when you are asked by an adult child, "What do you really think of (insert name of hated in-law here)?". Recommended answer: "As long as you're happy, darling." And excuse yourself for a minute so you can staunch the flow of blood from your tongue. Or "the bastard's gone and left me, mum!" Recommended answer: "What can I do to help you, sweetheart?"
I only share my own experience. I never presume to offer advice for circumstances that have not affected me. And only when asked.

And to go back to the recent pain of my friend and her son and his wife.

My friend P went on a diatribe to her son calling his wife a "skank" - she was only after his money and pension and holdings. To say I was flabbergasted is to understate my reaction to her words. I desperately wanted to criticise her beaviour towards him but I wasn't going to add to her pain. I wasn't going to join in on the downtake of her DIL. I asked her was she ready to apologise and she just about screamed at me: "I wouldn't take back a word of it. She's an effin skank!" But at some level she's ashamed of this because it happened a year ago. A whole year and he refuses to speak or engage with his mother. And it was the first time she shared it with anyone.

Now P has had a turbulent unsettled life. Married 5 times, I met them all and yeah, some of them were also "skanks". Many times her son lived with her parents as she pursued the latest hubby across continents. So definitely pot and kettle come to mind. But I only feel a huge compassion for her. I've had some wonderful fun times with her over the years, we fought for acceptance as female executives in hostile male working environments and always supported each other in all our endeavours. I care for her deeply. And do hope she sees the way of healing with her only child.

So few ask for advice. But empathy is always needed.

Once Upon a Time

My estranged daughter's birthday was on December 9th. I did something a little different this year. I wrote a little poem about how I felt and sent it to a sibling who had lost his son on December 10th (a crib death). And in that act, which was spontaneous, there was the recognition that reaching out and sharing pain can be so healing.

I didn't feel as broken as I normally do on her birthday. And I know her birthday is long forgotten many birthdays in my family. Obliterated. I feel she is erased. Which doesn't help my solitary pain. Apart from her sister - we remember and commiserate and share and overanalyze her distance and cautiously explore the one media outlet we are not blocked from. We have become professional lurkers as one false click or move will set her off again and we will have no updates. By updates I mean that we know she's alive and hasn't killed herself or been killed. And I don't say that in high drama mode. She has attempted it before. So we tread lightly, as we always have with her. The eggshell dance.

And another thing, a friend reached out to me and shared that her son had estranged himself and she was in such pain. She is one of quite a few who have done this now, mainly because I am open with my sharing of it. There is no shame or blame as some people think. It just is.

So here's a pic of my glorious girlie in absentia and the poem I wrote.

For JJ December 9, 2020.
Another trip around the sun is completed.
And I reflect on the day of your birth
Again. And again. And again.
And how my reality
Didn't match your reality.
I thought there was
Unconditional love
I thought there was joy
And recognition
And humour
And connection.
I was alone.
My memories are
Crystal clear.
For now.

Baggage

We all have it. Some have trunks, some suitcases, some carryons, some as light as a fancy knapsack. But there is no escaping it. I've always loved the analogy of someone running far from home, even to escaping on a boat and when she finally pulls into harbour, there's all her left behind baggage waiting for her on the pier.

I'm talking emotional baggage of course.

So I was inspecting my baggage this morning. It does change from day to day, week to week. I no longer have trunk loads of the stuff.

But I do have some. A mixed bag (ha!) now. Some of it is light and fluffy, some dark.

(1)In the bigger suitcase is a long time friend whose cancer has spread. To say I am devastated is to understate it. I can't imagine life without R in it. And this opens up all the other losses of dear friends, nearly uncountable now. This is the price tag of aging but it still doesn't alleviate the weight of the pain. It also opens up in a different way how R has been so supportive over the years in all kinds of ways. Each memory pops up in light and fizzles in darkness.
(2) My PC is not performing well after the recent long 6 hour update (seriously). Everything has slowed, and in the way of my head and living alone, this takes up enormous worry space in the luggage.

In the lighter train case today, is gratitude for friendships and dear ones who check up on me. Also grateful for the advice of an expert at my local CBD store who recommended a brilliant new tincture. It alleviates the worst of my pain. Three new books from the library are there along with the groceries Daughter picked up for me on the weekend and the countless acts of kindness she so freely offers so many times. The fog is coming and going today, I absolutely love the fog, smothering sound and landscaping with abandon. Hiding the numerous birds and blurring the trees. My larder is full and a new shelving unit was delivered for the (large) locker room in my apartment which I will photograph a la Andrew when I am completely organized (dream on, I say, dream on). But I always stack my goals in the traincase. We all need some kind of target.....

A Sliver of Life

I wrote this snippet this morning as I picked up the knitting after quite a dry spell and noted immediately how my mood lifted. Note to self: creativity restores your humanity. And our lives are just moments, if we think about life. This was just a moment in my day.

Herewith the sliver:

Knit Me A Scene
-------------------------------
Needles clicking
Clock ticking
Silent birds
In circling herds
Cloud the pond
In the beyond.

Blog Buddies

I am gratified in being alive when the interwebz came into being. This amazing technology introduced me to others around the world I'd never have met in real life.

Subsequently, I met some and the F2F friendships always confirmed the virtual connection. When I had my small B&B around the bay, several came to visit me and it was joyful meeting them.

When I brought my play to Ireland, others showed up from great distances with overnight stays in the town.

When I mentioned I'd like some simple yoga practise for my continuing mobility/physical issues, an email fell into my box with great diagrams.

I've received cards and bookmarks and tea towels and scarves and knitting patterns and letters and books and even old fashioned hairpins which touch my heart.

I've sent out wee bits and pieces as well.

I grieve when bloggers die. And miss their writing. The loss is real.

I feel validated in all the complexities of my life when I post from the heart here. It is a rarity to be condemned and belittled (though it does happen). Those who attack, I suspect, haven't looked inside their own hearts and thrown the windows open to alleviate the darkness within.

So a big thank you to you all out there.

Today and every day.