Reset

Working in a field like tech support, where you never know what's going to come at you on any given day, I've found I need to balance the chaos of work with order at home, particularly in my home office and bedroom. Understanding what drives my need for order was, in a sense the First Step for me.

Since Mom died, there hasn't been a lot of order at home. Running in the house after a day at the hospital, eating anything, dropping into bed, clothes left where they fell, repeat. Then the distraction of arrangements, things needing to be done, the house the last thing there was any energy left for.  I tried not to look too hard at what was going on around me. 

The dining room was first given over to creating photo memory boards, my desk to any number of piles of folders and envelopes with wills, cemetery deeds, birth and marriage certificates. Then the condolence cards started to come, and I found spots for them on top of and along the bookshelves. Floral arrangements after the services needed space, dish gardens and plants also.  As my brother and I moved through the process, added to the chaos were a large shopping bag of statements to shred that came from her file cabinet, and photo calendars of the Boy she had kept; family documents, fragile and precious. Add to that the normal day-to-day desk debris from paying bills, post-it reminders and my office has not been a sanctuary for some time.

It's been a little more than a month, and I have been making gradual progress in restoring the order I need. I've ordered clear archival sleeves for the letters and documents that should be preserved but viewable; an archival quality box for the wedding booklet and diary and miscellany.  While I need to put documents in sleeves and complete that project, for now it is all together and on a shelf (and off my desk).  Condolence cards, the guest book, extra prayer cards...all have a home, even if temporary.

The dining room has morphed from craft center to floral center, with trays of blooms taken from funeral arrangements drying in there. I've yet to think hard on what I will do with them, but I felt compelled  to preserve them, and I've learned to follow my heart in those moments and re-evaluate later. 

I still have tons of shredding and filing to do. For now, I've put the shredding bag around the side of the desk where it's out of sight, if not out of mind.  I've cleaned out little areas of the desk that accumulate junk, and the pile of "things to deal with" is smaller and less impactful to my sense of peace in the office.  Someday, it will all be taken care of, but in the meantime my goal is progress while being kind to myself.

Savage

I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.
I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice. 
My Mother's child is a savage, 
She looks for her omens in the colors of stones,
In the faces of cats, in the fall of feathers, 
In the dancing of fire, in the cracks of old bones. 

I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. 
My Mother’s child dances in darkness, 
And sings heathen songs by the light of the moon,  
And watches the stars and renames the planets, 
And dreams she can reach them with a song and a broom. 

I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. 
I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice. 
Now my Mother's child curses too loud and too often, 
My Mother's child laughs too hard and too long, 
And howls at the moon and sleeps in ditches, 
And constantly raises her voice in this song. 

I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones. 
I am my Mother's savage daughter, 
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice. 
Now we all are brought forth out of darkness and water, 
Brought into this world through blood and through pain, 
And deep in our bones, the old songs are wakened, 
So sing them with voices of fervor and pain. 

We are our Mother's savage daughters, 
The ones who run barefoot cursing sharp stones. 
We are our Mother's savage daughters, 
We will not cut our hair, We will not lower our voice. 

- Karen Kahan (Wyndreth Berginsdottir)

Trumped

Yesterday, for the first time in my adult life, the outcome of a federal election brought me to tears. Not tears of joy, but rather tears of disbelief.  How could this happen? This is not the country I thought I lived in. When I woke the Boy up for school, I could not utter any words other than "he won." before my voice left me.

I spent the day in a fog, trying to wrap my head around the outcome, trying to understand where the road leads next. In the midst of that, I saw the first reports of hate crimes against those that the president-elect vilified in his campaign:  Muslims, non-whites, women...  and trying to decide how to explain my emotional reaction to my child.

Last night, alone with him in the kitchen preparing dinner, I told him that I needed for him to understand why I've reacted in such a way. I told him the stories that I've kept buried away - the stories I hadn't ever found reason to tell his father, or even my friends.

I told my son that as a woman who has worked in male-dominated fields her entire life, I have lived the groping, the leering, the violation of personal space and the fear.  How at my first summer job, I was taken from the assembly tables where I worked near my mother and moved to an office because they found out I was studying mechanical drafting. In that office, I was alone with an adult male in his late thirties or early forties.  An adult male that I frequently caught leering at me, and who found every excuse to lean across me, brush against me, accidentally touch my breasts.  I told my son that in that era, society had taught me that I was somehow to blame for this man's behavior. That I must have done something to make him think I was okay with it or that I deserved it. That my voice, raised against him, would have no weight. So I did what society taught me to do:  I avoided him. I became wary.  I made sure I faced him at all times so he could not sneak up behind me. I learned how the rabbit feels with the hawk circling overhead.  I was 16 years old.

I told my son how in my second full-time job, as a young woman in the spring of her career, I worked with a number of young male engineers. For the most part, they were wonderful supportive people - we grew up together in many ways, and we treated each other like siblings.  For the most part. Until one day, one of them came up behind me in my work space, where no one else could see, and slid his hands over my shoulders and down my shirt. And again I did what society taught me to do: I wondered what I did to make him think that was okay, and I studied to avoid him. I stopped choosing work packets that would cause me to interact with him. I made sure I wasn't alone with him as much as possible, and I understood that as a woman who had chosen to work with men, my voice had no weight.

I developed a thick skin and a self-deprecating sense of humor. I learned to let off-color jokes and comments roll off me and to return them in kind, because anything less made me appear weak. I was striving to no longer be seen as prey.

In 1991, Anita Hill stood up for all of us at great personal cost to herself and started us all saying "Enough." As the years passed, society improved. Sexual harassment training became more prevalent, and companies learned the risk of ignoring bad behavior.

I shared all this with my son, so that he would understand what the world used to be like, and what I was afraid it would become again.Through tears of frustration and grief, I told him I never wanted his cousin to be treated that way as she pursued her career. That I never wanted anyone else's daughter to wonder what she did to deserve being violated, groped or raped. How I believe that all women have the right to occupy space without fearing for their safety.

I told him that we have made so much progress as society - or that I thought we had - and that I feared for those that had been singled out as villians in the candidate's rhetoric.  I feared for my gay friends, my non-white friends, for young women everywhere. I feared for the loss of civility and the empowerment of bullies.

We talked for a long time, I cried a lot and he did too, at seeing me upset. I explained to him that he was the beneficiary of white privilege - with his sandy hair, his blue eyes and his ability to pass as a Christian; that it was his duty to use that privilege to defend and stand up for those who did not have it. That he had the power to be an agent of change and to refuse to accept the negativity and vilification of anyone who didn't look like him. 

And ultimately I apologized to my son because we couldn't do better than a xenophobic, misogynistic, racist narcissist as our next president.

Seasoning

Everyone has a favorite season, sometimes two.  I find that when I ask people them what their favorite season is, the answer is often "Summer" or "Autumn" and sometimes "Winter".  Rarely it seems do people think of Spring as a favorite season, although it's almost universally welcomed once we've reached that part of winter where the charm is gone; that part after all the holiday decor has been packed back away, when the snow and ice piles are no longer pristine but rather obstacles or eyesores.

When I reflect on the seasons, I can't help but find something to recommend each of them.  It is, after all, the Wheel of the Year, and as a Wiccan that has a particular resonance with me.  But if pressed on a favorite, I would have to say that my heart belongs equally to Spring and Autumn.

I love the silence that engulfs the world with a snowfall, and I find the first substantial snow of each year to be a time to truly listen to the quiet of the world. I like that the snow cover in the woods allows me to more easily see the deer before they come out to the yard. I enjoy watching the birds at the feeders, particularly just before or as it begins to snow. However, the magic pales after a time. Perhaps it's just that I weary of being cold, and of the long dark.

I probably like summer least of all, which surprises even me when I put it down in black and white. I enjoy a reasonable amount of warmth, but I despise humidity and oppressive heat. I dislike walking from a cold, air conditioned building into air that is so wet it stops your breath. Having grown up in a shore town, with the beach always accessible, usually the road there clogged with tourists, I have no desire to sit in the sun every weekend. Perhaps my dislike of crowds influences my opinion about the season.

The boundary seasons have my heart instead; spring and autumn.  As cliched as it might sound, the advent of spring truly is like being reborn.  The sun warms the earth, the first buds deliver the promise of life renewed, and the world is fresh and clean again. Even spring mud is more reminiscent to me of a new start than a sad ending.  I cherish each day that is warm enough to begin working in the gardens. I love to see the birds gathering their nest materials, and hear the insistent chirps of their young. I delight in the first sighting of baby skunks, the year's fawns, and even the baby woodchucks.  

New plants go in, pots and planters for the porch are filled with a riot of color, the hoses brought back out for watering, the faucets turned back on. The porch is made comfortable and inviting again, hanging plants inviting bees and hummingbirds to stop in for a time.  The chipmunks reappear, begging for sunflower seeds and raiding the thistle feeders. I end my days with soil under my nails and on the knees of my jeans, and I couldn't be happier for it.

When the heat of summer diminishes, the first chilly nights and mornings begin, I once again find myself spending more time outdoors than in.  Watching the trees wrap themselves in yellow, orange and red tell me those leaves will soon be on the ground.  But before that, we will be treated to an extravaganza of color, a fashion show put on by the goddess herself.  For me, it means time to prepare. As the squirrels hide acorns and stolen seeds, as the chipmunks fill their cheeks and then their dens with food for the winter, I clean the bird feeders and lay in a supply of suet and sunflowers, thistle and mixed seed.  I cut back iris and peony, bee balm and salvia, preparing the garden for winter's rest.

The deer return, this year's fawn nearly grown, but still acting silly.  I check the supply of sweet feed in the sun room, and add bags of apples to my grocery list. It's time to remind them of where they can be assured of, if not a complete meal, at least a tasty snack. As the autumn progresses, I dream more of a sun-shed for potting plants and breathing in the earthy smell of plant starts at the other side of winter. The porch cushions come inside to be washed and stored until spring comes around in her time.

This is the season of completion, the season of harvest, the season where we see what we have accomplished as we prepare to rest through the winter and start again in the spring, gods willing. This year, the autumn has taken a larger toll than usual - the loss of my mother, my friend and my cousin. I try to keep it in perspective, try not to let it diminish my love for this time of year. Pete Seeger took words from the Christian book of Ecclesiastes and put them in the form of a song - these are the words that come to mind as I contemplate the turning of the Wheel of the Year:

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance"

Visit

For a long time now, with a few exceptions, Sundays are the day we visit the immediate family for breakfast and catching up. More recently, it's been the day we go to Mom & Dad's and do what needs to be done.  But now, with Mom gone, there is much less to do; it's more a true visit than a chore detail. Dad's pills are easy, and there is a lot less trash and recycling without the dialysis process. There are still some household things that we can do to help, but overall less time is spent on tasks and more can be spent on visiting.

Today was such a day. Once I had sorted through the mail, The Boy and I had loaded up the dialysis supplies we can donate for training purposes, and I looked over the grocery list, our work was done.

While we were in Mom's room, boxing up supplies to be donated, Dad came in and saw me looking in the closet, where of course her clothes still hang.  

"What are you doing with the clothes?"  he asks.

We have agreed to let him be our guide on how fast we move on making changes around the house.  It's all about him now, for a change. "Well, I guess we'll gather them up and donate them, if that's okay with you."  He nods.  "Is there anything you'd want us not to donate?" 

"No. I can't think of anything," he says.

"It won't be today, there's time to decide," I tell him. After a moment I ask "Dad, do you think you would want to move into this room? You'd have the little bathroom so handy that way."

"No. No, I'm fine where I am, stumbling down the hall at night," he laughs.

We continue moving stuff out, but I find myself wondering that he seems so ready to have us clean out her clothes, her room. Does he see things more like we do, practical tasks that need to be addressed, emotions safely tucked away?  Or is it that these things are painful reminders to him that she's gone?  He might not know himself, and I don't need to know so badly as to make him analyze it to satisfy my curiosity.

In the dining room, more supplies...and the inevitable trail of clutter Mom left in her wake.  Dad points at a dialysate box full of plastic containers and lids. "You need those?" he asks me.

"No, I have plenty. Don't you need those?"  

He shakes his head.  "I don't think so, toss 'em out."

I look through the box, think about it.  His regular caregiver is away for the weekend and she might know why they are in a box in the dining room.  "Dad, let's wait until Bev comes back and ask her, okay?"  He's agreeable. He likes Beverley, relies on her and more importantly trusts her. If she tells him those containers are needed, they'll be kept.  He spots something else.  "Do you need that foil pan?"  I look where he's pointing. A foil pan with a sheet of aluminum foil in it, sitting on a side table for reasons we will likely never know.  

"No, I don't need it. Should I toss it?"

"Yup! Toss anything we don't need!"  He looks around, pointing now at the window air conditioners on their dollies where the boys put them after taking them out.  "Do those need to be in here?"

"For now, I think so, Dad.  There isn't any room in the closets and they are too hard to take up and down to the basement.  Maybe when we get things cleaned up a little we can put them somewhere else.  Would you want us to put the dining room back the way it should be?"

He considers.  "I don't care. Either way is fine with me."

I decide to ask him again about the master bedroom.  "Are you sure you don't want to move into the back bedroom with the bathroom?"  He doesn't hesitate, shakes his head no.

"Would you be okay if we offered to let Bev use it? If you don't want us to offer, we won't it's...."  and before I can finish with "up to you." he pounces on the idea.

"That's a great idea! Then she could have her own little bathroom!"

"Okay, then, if you're sure we'll see if she wants to do that."

He notices something else, the double bed we took out of the master bedroom when we thought Mom would come home and need the hospital bed.  "What about that?"

"We'll put that in the back bedroom once we take the hospital bed out."  He nods.

"What are you going to do with those wooden blinds?"

"What wooden...Oh!  No, those are the slats for that bed. Those will go when we set that up."

I have a feeling he could stand there all day, finding things that don't belong and asking about them, so I tell him "We'll get things all sorted out Dad, it just won't all be at once. A little at a time, there's no hurry."  He nods, satisfied, and we go sit in the living room to visit.

We brought the pup and so my cousin came over with her new puppy for a play date. Dad was delighted to see the dogs, and we all sat and chatted while the puppies got to know each other.  Eventually, we all get up to leave. There are still many things to be done, but not at Dad's house.  He asks several times what day they will go to the senior center the coming week, and I tell him. I add another visit the following week to their calendar, show him where I wrote when the bus comes and we talk about the band that will be playing there next week, and how I'm sending him the following week for Wii bowling. He smiles, remembering playing that with The Boy and he enjoyed it.  He asks again when Bev is coming "home"...he isn't fond of the substitute.  Finally he says, "What else do you have to do today?"

"Rhea has her first obedience class at 2 today, and before that I need to cut back some stuff in the garden before the rain."

"Can I help," he asks and my heart breaks a little.

"It's at my house Dad, or I'd put you right to work."  His face falls a little. I make a note that I need to have him and Bev come up for a visit before the weather turns. He'd like that.

We make sure he has one dollar bills for the bus fare, and that we have all the mail and the grocery list and all is as well as we can make it.  Kisses good bye and we're off.  I think I need to stop in more often...he loves a good visit.