Friday, June 7, 2019

    I am missing Mike more.  My throat is tightening unbidden, and my heart feels heavy.  I’ve told him, “Enough is enough. Come home already.”  I think I’ve demonstrated my self-sufficiency enough.  I’m good. Time to come home.”  

    Mike and I had a running joke.  When something bad happened to one of us, we would say, “Who gave you permission to get sick?”  for example.  In this case, I say to him,” Who gave you permission to die?” But, of course, I did, not just once, but twice.  It was me that told the doctors to take him off life support.  I was the only one who had the legal authorization to do so.  And then when they removed the life support, and his dying process started, I lay by his side and said, “I, Elizabeth Susan David-Ross, release you from the bonds of marriage.” I wanted him to feel free to die. I was happy that his suffering would stop.  The palliative team and the ICU doctors had both made it clear that he could not survive.  All we could give him is a longer period of suffering.  

    I called the Deceased department of the credit card company.  They told me that I needed a court-ordered document to claim the bonus point. That means I would need to go to probate.  It sounds like poor people who would need that money desperately can never claim their bonus points.

    At Bikram, Heather, the instructor, expressed concern about the way I was positioning my left knee, concerned that I was overextending it, which can lead to a blowout.  I knew that I was leaning too far to the left, but felt that I was getting a good stretch on the outside of my leg that I couldn’t get otherwise and I was supporting my body with the walker, preventing from full weight landing on my left knee.  

    After Bikram, I stopped at the post office to mail Damon the shirt that he left when he was out for the funeral and the composting bags to Shivani. Then off to Safeway to buy some salad. They had Hersey’s Milk Chocolate bars with whole almonds on sale.  Ten, I bought 10.

    When I came home, I heard a sound in the house and thought, “Mike’s home.” Of course, Elsa got some object in place for me to throw or kick for her to chase. It’s good that she’s here, but she’s no substitute for Mike.  I knew this stage was bound to come.  I think I’ve done pretty well up to now.  I can feel my body shifting as I sit with this sadness.  I have to let go of the old me, which was entwined with Mike.  Forty-five years is a long, long time to be together. As I type, I can feel one of my silent migraines coming on. 

    I worked on the blog and drank my morning cup of soup. I planned to work in the garden, cutting the bougainvillea growing down from our lanai to Yvette’s laundry area but got a phone call from Jean. She damaged her foot again while Damon was visiting.  No, it wasn’t Damon’s fault. She twisted her foot on some uneven ground.  While I was speaking to her, I remember that I want to have some chicken for dinner and went to take some out of the freezer while I was still on the phone. I put a Ziploc bag with two chicken breasts in the sink. 

    Rick, of Raymond James, had told me to list the beneficiaries for the IRA. I had to get everyone’s date of birth and social security number.  I know everyone’s month and day of birth, but I needed to check the years. Three of these kids asked me why I wanted their social security number.  I told them so I could assume their identity.  Joke!  In the process of doing this, I wound up informing everyone that they were in my will.  Interestingly enough, most of them had no idea that they would be included.  Dorothy was shocked that I included her kids.  I wasn’t very involved with them when they were growing up even though they lived 1.1 miles away.  Family problems. What can I say? But here’s the thing: Mike and I have the money because of the money we got from my mom. There was money we got directly, and there was money we were able to save because she bought our house for us.  She made our lives much easier. Karin and David are her grandchildren. She would want them to benefit from our good fortune. 

    The student came for her tutoring lesson. I’ve been focusing on math rather than reading.  I can only hope that she continues practicing, preferably reading for pleasure. 

    After she left, I tried to nap but wasn’t able to sleep. I did get some rest.  My mind kept going to the task of trimming the bougainvillea hanging over our wall down to Yvette’s clothesline.  As usual, I lay there thinking, “This is going to be too hard.”  I forced myself to get up and deal with the task. I started by getting the blue plastic barrel into the bedroom from the back lanai, so I could get it out the side door into the driveway.  I grabbed some cutting tools from the orange bucket I keep in the front of the house and a pair of gardening gloves and headed down the driveway to the lower yard.  It took me all of 10 minutes.  Only two large branches were hanging low and then a bunch of shorter ones that were tangled together.  Of more pressing concern is the bowing of the story high rock wall, which holds my back lanai out of their garden area.  Oh, boy!  It’s not too bad at this point, but I think I should have it checked and see if there is anything we can do about it prophylactically.  How do I know about bowing retaining walls?  When we sold our house in Princeton, the inspector identified such a wall in our basement.  I know the look. 

    When I came back to my house, I went out into our back lanai and did a little more weeding.  I have all the weeds laid out on the ground to dry, so there will be no live roots when I throw them into our composter. When I came back inside, I did some more blog work.

    After walking Elsa, I started on dinner.  I buttered and seasoned both of the defrosted chicken breasts with salt and Italian seasoning and put them in the toaster oven. While they were cooking, I ate my salad. The chicken was a little overdone, but definitely eatable. I left the second one in the toaster oven, planning to put it away for tomorrow. When I got up from the table, I saw smoke coming out of the appliance. I pulled the plug but too late for that chicken breast.  I don’t know how to operate this thing.

       I watched, listened to,  my TV show on my computer as I cataloged the books. I’m still watching Silent Witness. The tone of this show had changed dramatically over the sessions.  The first 7 seasons of the show were placid and less varied than Murder she Wrote, and it has become progressively edgier.  

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Musings:  I’m putting this separately so those who are not interested can choose not to read it.

    The image of a small Persian rug I once had came to mind. I lost it when the commune moved from one house to another.  Some furniture was left in the driveway.  Someone put my rug on top of the furniture to protect it from the rain. The next morning it was gone. Someone saw it and thought it would look nice in their home. I still feel sad about that loss. How can I feel that sadness after over forty years and not feel sadder about my loss of Mike?  

    It made me think of the difference.  The rug is a noun; my relationship with Mike was all verbs.  I haven’t lost my identity. I haven’t lost my home.  I haven’t lost much of my daily activity. I haven’t lost friends; if anything, I am relating to more people. Members of the family are calling me regularly, not just to check on me, but they have a commitment to call regularly. While I have lost something, there are also things I have gained.

    What I have lost is daily doses of love and laughter. Ah, those are nouns, but they can also be verbs: loving and laughing.  I don’t know which of those two losses is worst. The love part was me being reminded daily that I was a loving person, and that I was loved, not to mention the sheer joy of expressing love.  The laughing part was me being reminded me daily that I was a funny person.  Being funny is not just important for the value of the audience response, it is also important because it reminds me not to take life seriously.  My humor leans heavily toward absurdity.  When I think of it, the human condition is a hoot.  We are so filled with self-importance and such minor characters on the stage of the planet. – except for our outstanding capacity for destroying life for every living thing.      

   

Thursday, June 6, 2019

    The alarm went off at 6:30am, but I did not. I didn't budge. I fell asleep again before the alarm automatically shut off.  I woke up again shortly before 7, went to the bathroom, and headed back to bed.  I finally got up around 7:30.  First things first, I walked Elsa.  I still felt tired. I worked on walking in a relaxed way, using the minimal amount of energy I needed to walk instead of thinking of pushing myself. The physical execution wasn't difficult, just the way I felt about it. Because I wasn't doing Bikram, I walked all the way around the block instead of only to the end and back. I took a brown paper bag with me to pick up trash. There wasn't much of that, but I found two unidentified piles of poop to pick up.  Elsa and I came across a dog on the loose.  She and Elsa had no trouble with each other.

    I do want to sleep more than usual.  I can think of several reasons this might be true. Someone suggested depression. I am definitely not clinically depressed.  I am adjusting to a new reality. That alone takes tons of energy. I am making some radical changes to my body.  While changing my left foot's alignment doesn't sound like much, it affects every bone and muscle in my body. It's another huge change. The last possibility is something I can do something about.  I wonder if I'm getting enough protein in my diet.  I get protein in the Juice Plus smoothie.  I put a large number of pumpkin seeds in my salad; that's a protein source.  There is some protein in everything I eat, but I haven't been getting meat.  I am going to have to eat the other kale and mozzarella patty I defrosted, but tomorrow night I am determined to defrost and cook some meat.  I have a toaster oven on the counter, but I haven't turned it on yet.   In my conversations with Mike, he gives me hell about the way I eat.  I assure him I'm fine. He's not convinced. (For those who wonder: Do I really believe Mike is talking to me?  Yes and no. More importantly, as far as I'm concerned, the reality of his presence is irrelevant. If it helps and does no harm, I'm good with it.) 

    When I came home, I dumped the brown paper bag with the poop in the trash can. I thought of the paint cans I had set out about  6 months ago to dry out so I could toss them.  I keep forgetting about them. I want to drop one can in the trash each week for pick up. I got one of the cans and dropped it at the bottom of the trash container.

    I did my oil rinse, washed the dishes, made my two-days’ worth of Juice Plus smoothies, and drank my two cups of water and pretzels while I worked on the blog. My cell phone rang, and my first thought was, "It must be Mike." I wonder how long that will be going on.  When I forced myself to think that he is really permanently gone from my physical life, my heart feels heavy. Fortunately, I don't focus on that too much.  I have a life to live. Throwing myself on the funeral pyre is not for me.  I also know that I will have to deal with this sadness. There's nothing wrong with doing it slowly and piecemeal.  When it hits, I don't run away from it.  I sit with it. It's weird, but when I do focus on the feeling of my sadness for his absence, rather than feeling sadder, I feel Mike's presence in every cell of my body.  

    After I had my breakfast soup, I went down to the bottom of the property to pick limes. When I stepped outside, it was clear there had been a downpour. I missed this one. Knowing that I would get dripped on as I ducked under the lime tree to pick the limes up off the ground, I went anyway.  I came back up with 9 (nine) limes. When I went down last week with Sidney, I picked up 32.  Some change. It looks like it's the end of the growing season. When I looked in the tree, I could see several baby limes coming up. They're so green they're hard to see against the leaves, but they're there. It's not a lot, and it will be a while before they are ripe enough to pick for juice.  Also, there are no flowers on the tree.  It may not be the dead-end of the season, but close.  I will have to buy lemons at Costco on my next trip to fill in the gap between the growing seasons. They carry limes, but they are all green. The green ones look great and are suitable for slicing but not for juicing.  You have to wait till they turn yellow for that.

    I got a phone call from Pat, who's the CEO of Habitat, asking to meet me for lunch with Isobel.  I know this is a courtesy to Mike, but I'll take it.  Who knows, I may make new friends out of this.  Of course, maybe they will ask me to take a role with Habitat to do something to make up for Mike's loss.  I doubt that. I'm nowhere near being able to offer what Mike provided in his role for Habitat. 

    When I called my lawyer yesterday to help find the estate distribution among our inheritors so I could apply it to the IRA, she told me that it was listed in the Trust document.  I couldn't find it in the Portfolio, but I remembered the distribution. I made a slight adjustment dropping one of the inheritors from the IRA while leaving her in to inherit money from the Trust.   Another piece in place. I wonder how long all these adjustments will go on. I know it will be at least another 4 months before we can close out the old accounts outside the Trust.

    My computer had been acting weird.  I called my Microsoft support service. They took over my computer and made it all good. I'm sure my grandson, August, can do the job too. 

    On an NPR show, there was a discussion on Orwell. I was particularly interested in his thinking about language. He believed that thought can be controlled through language.  This is tricky. I'm sitting here thinking about it. I believe language can control thought if the thinker is already inclined to think that way.  The correlation between language and what people experience has to be functional and have some bearing on reality.  If you're dealing with a highly structured collective culture, a common language supporting common beliefs is functional or at least can be. Then some individuals adopting the 'fake' language a good option because it helps them in some way.  My mom, for her own neurotic reasons, tried to control perception through language. How's that different? It really didn't work. I recently heard a survey of North Koreans reveal they don't believe the BS that is being shoved down their throats. Does that mean that no one does? Probably not.

    I sat down and went through all the credit cards.  I got distracted by the funeral and was dreading going back to this chore.  It winds up I had it fairly well organized to start out with and had no problem figuring out what I had left to do. There is a special department to deal with the accounts of the deceased, and no, it's not open 24/7.  I got the contact numbers for these departments and the times of operation.

    Dorothy called.  She is committed to calling every Thursday.  I deeply appreciate it. I'm trying to get family members to commit to a day to call. Damon has Sundays.  I spoke to Karin about it. She said she would try; I'm not optimistic. She's not used to thinking of talking to me regularly.

    I was going to wash the floor, but there was a kettle full of water I had heated earlier.  I reheated it and went outside and did some of the weedings. I was planning to do some on the back lanai. Then, I sat down and did some more work on the blog.   I finally washed the kitchen floor.  The vacuum cleaner has been sitting there for most of the week, reminding me what I had to do.  Washing the floor using the Rainbow vacuum cleaner to suck up the water takes all of 15 minutes, and it looks so much better. Why would I see it as a giant task and resist doing it?

    I have made a new discovery; I have discovered that I love sweeping with a broom. Now, this broom doesn't have those stiff bristles I remember as a child.  The bristles are flexible and a delight to use. I sweep the dirt out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out the side door. I sweep the pebbles off the tiles on the black lanai. I sweep my bedroom and bathroom, and the dirt gets whisked out the shower door, which goes right out to the back lanai.    Mike would have loved this development.

    Mike and I designed our bathroom.  The original one was much smaller. We knocked out a large closet to enlarge the bathroom.  We designed the room with our old age in mind.  The shower has universal access.  That means there is no lip at the edge of the shower pan, so you can slide a wheelchair right into the shower. There's no door between the bathroom and the bedroom. Mike and I were good with that.  The doorway is wide, also taking a wheelchair into consideration. Best of all, the outside wall was knocked out and replaced with an all glass, clear glass,  door leading right out to the back lanai. Most of our guests just love using our shower, but some are concerned about being seen.  No one can see.  I will go out to hang up my laundry on the line in my altogether, and no one can see me.  All sightlines are blocked one way or another. 

    I loaded about 80 CDs in the car for drop off on Saturday at the half-price bookstore. Then I walked Elsa before it started to pour.

    When I got back, I took a late afternoon shower, did MELT for my feet and hands, had dinner of a large salad, 3 small buttered slices of multi-grain baguette, limeade, and my pills. I'm sticking to my habit of eating on the screened-in lanai and reading while eating.

    I did some more work on the blog before watching TV in the library and cataloging more books.  Cataloging them feels pretty good. I am not looking forward to emptying out that room.  The books are so Mike.  When we moved from Ohio, I tried to talk him out of talking his three thousand books, but he insisted. He said the two things that had to go with him: me and his books.  

    I walked Elsa at the end of the evening. She turned around early again.  Huh? When we got home, I  washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Good night, Elsa, Goodnight, Mike.

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Musings:  I’m putting this separately so those who are not interested can choose not to read it.

    Heather, the Monday through Friday mornings Bikram instructor, said. "No matter who you are, no matter how broken, this process will help you." 

    The idea is that everyone can change and improve. But is that true?  I am sure that some are too afraid to go through the process of change.  I think all change involves learning more about ourselves, challenging ourselves.  When I encouraged Mike to change his posture, he would make an effort and make some sarcastic comments about how comfortable he felt.  No, change doesn't feel comfortable. Why are some willing to experience that discomfort and others not?  

    I know that the dance training I had in my twenties taught me there was a difference between 'good' pain and 'bad' pain. 'Good' pain signals a possible change, bringing me closer to achieving a goal. The body feels something unfamiliar but associates it with something good. 'Bad' pain signals some damage to the body, which will not lead to healing.  Does having this knowledge help? I don't know, but I have always been curious about the human psyche.  My curiosity about my own was because I was a readily available lab animal to examine. I had me to look at 24/7.  How neat is that? 

    I think healing always means accepting responsibility for our personal condition. That's the premise in all healing. Somehow we have to make changes in ourselves. We can have someone else make those changes through medical procedures, but that doesn't apply to psychological and spiritual changes.  For me, achieving physical change through chemistry or surgery is always a last resort.  I see many people use that as the first choice.  

    More confusing for me is people who want the world to change around them to make them happy.  Not that a change in the outside world is irrelevant.  Living in a Nazi concentration camp was an external circumstance that most people could not find a healing way to cope with.  I have no idea how I would have done, or possibility, giving the current political climate, I may have to do before the end of my life.  Victor Frankel demonstrated that inner healing can have a significant bearing on the outcome of even dire circumstances like that.  Do I think that change should all be internal and never external? No. It's just I have developed that pathway for myself and can guide others effectively using this approach.  

     I think it is equally vital that some work to change external conditions. Mike's first wife, my hanai sister, has spent 15 years working on prison reform. Do I think that should be done? Absolutely. But that's not what I'm called to do. That's not what I see as my channel for making a contribution to making this world a better place. 

Wednesday, June 5, 2019

  

    Today was my half birthday; I was 78 ½ years old.  I followed my usual morning routine without change and went off to Bikram.  I continued working on the outer edge of my left foot.  I can feel that the area right before the heel on the outside of my left foot does not make contact with the ground consistently the way the same area on the right foot does.  Also, the alignment of my left foot is off.  I believe these two facts are related. I have been working on getting better contact with my left foot. This triggers action in my left calf. We'll see. It's all one big experiment.

    It was trash pickup day. When I come home from Bikram on Wednesdays, I make sure to take the last of the trash out of the house and place the poop bags, which I have thrown next to the trash container during the week, in the trash bag in my hand. I went to my kitchen trash, and it was - empty. Then I checked the bathroom trash; the same thing.  Freaky.  Yvette had taken care of it. Very sweet, but very disorienting. 

    We don't have municipal pick up here; we have to hire and pay a company.  Those who don't do that have to take their rubbish to the transfer station on their own.  As far as Mike and I were/are concerned, the transfer station is a tourist site. We take our visitors to it. It's just fascinating.  We still take our recyclables down ourselves.  

     Rick from Raymond James had contacted me by email and asked me to call. I called him as I drove home from Bikram. I wound up being a good time for him. The issue is how to handle the combined IRA from Mike and me. They originally asked me to designate beneficiaries.  

Without thinking about it, I listed August (Mike's grandson), Sidney (Mike's grandnephew) and Sam (my grandnephew).  When I thought about it, that didn't seem too wise.   It would cut the previous generation, their parents, out of the loop, and, as Shivani pointed out, it would not account for other children that may come on the scene. I asked Rick if we just could put it into the trust and have that money distributed along with all the other money.  He said that I should find some other way to deal with the IRA.  

    Here's the problem: if it is distributed as part of the trust, it will have to be distributed at my death and taxed at a substantial rate.  If, however, I list beneficiaries, they can roll over the money into their retirement funds, and the rate of withdrawal will depend on their life expectancy, not mine.  At 70 ½ there is a minimal annual withdrawal amount.   Mike and I were required to do this, and I will be required to do this for the rest of my life. I pay taxes on that withdrawn amount. However, if I keep the IRA separate from the trust and list the beneficiaries, they will not be required to withdraw the whole amount at once and pay the attendant taxes. If they are younger than 70 ½, they will not be required to take that minimum annual withdrawal.    

    In the process of organizing for my tutoring student, I emptied one of Mike's folders on his desk.  I think it was one for the distance learning program.  I have been resisting this because it means he's really gone, and all his projects are over.  I think I'm slowly letting it in the reality of his absence. I'm in no hurry.  As I moved items around on his desk, I found the car registration which I have been searching of for days. Knew I had put it someplace absolutely sensible.

    My tutoring student arrived at 11:15. We worked on math. She is still having problems with procedure for double-digit multiplication.  She confuses the procedure with the one for addition.   She wrote another story.  It was a little easier to pull details out of her today, but she doesn't use standard English. I'm not sure how much of this is because she was raised speaking Pidgin or because she has problems with language processing.  Her aunt seems to speak Standard English. I'll have to ask her. 

    Pidgin, by the way, is the creole that came out of the mix of Hawaiian, English, Japanese, Filipino, Portuguese, Chinese, Korean, and English. Someone I know who went through the Hawaiian school system in the 80s said that his high school teachers conducted their classes in pidgin. Although it is called pidgin, it is not. It's a creole.  In linguistic terms, a pidgin is a language improvised and developed for purposes of commerce;  such a blended language becomes a creole when children start learning it at their mother's knee.  Hawaiian pidgin falls into the latter category.

    I had another long nap.  I got up for my before-dinner walk with Elsa.  The evening was clear, unlike the previous days, so I headed down to talk to Alexandra, a neighborhood high school girl,  about entering the books that weren't already in the site's collection.  As I walked down the street, I saw someone come out to pick up their mail.  I thought it was her mom, Olga, but as I got closer, I saw it was Alexandra.  Perfect!  She said she would be willing to do it, but wouldn't be available until next week because she was a counselor at a STEM camp for this week.  She was recently flown to the mainland for a STEM contest.  Her group developed some sort of rocket. They came in 20th for the nation. Now, that's not chopped liver.  

    I came home and started packing up the CDs.  Mike must have about 1,000 and he may have listened to one of two but no more than that.  He certainly didn't listen to all 1,000.  Again, I realize he was a neat hoarder. Our living expenses will probably drop just for that reason alone.

    I'm up to 2200 in the count of categorized book. That's probably not quite accurate. Some books have been counted more than once because I am an imperfect user of technology.

    For dinner, I had salad, buttered bread (I think I'm addicted), limeade and the last of a Thai tofu dish that Shivani bought. I have been eating dinner on the lanai with a view of the Pacific and the sunset more frequently than I have been eating dinner in front of the TV. I see the sunset when I look up from the book I'm reading at the time.  I think this is a much better solution to eating alone.

    I moved to the library/Mike's study to do the book cataloging.  The tv didn't work.  I couldn't get the remote to start it up.  I put a new set of batteries in the remote.  That didn't work.  I unplugged the TV. Sometimes, shutting an electronic appliance down gives it a chance to rethink its objective in life, and it comes back on when the electrical supply is renewed. No soap.  I was able to play the show I had been watching, Silent Witness season 8, on my TV.  But I had the problem of having to use the computer to enter books into the CollectorZ program and watch the show.  I did perfectly well just listening to it as a radio broadcast. If I got stuck figuring out who was who, I could switch it over from the CollectorZ site to Amazon.  Rather enjoyed listening rather than watching. 

    As I walked Elsa, she turned around early again.  Huh. When we got home, I  washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Good night, Elsa, Goodnight, Mike.

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

    I was up at the usual time and went through the usual routine, plus 2 kettles of boiling water for the weeds. I received my car registration renewal the other day. I must have put it somewhere sensible, but now I can’t find it.   Off to Bikram. 

    When we were on the floor in the long savasana, I followed my neck into that peculiar position where it frequently goes.  I believe it is the position I was in in the uterus the day I was born.  I had a ventral presentation. A regular presentation is with the baby facing the mother’s back and not their stomach.  I had to turn or be turned. Either way, I was banged into my mother’s hip for three hours. I came out with my nose smooshed against my face.  In those days,  dads were not in the delivery room.  They were out in the waiting room. When my dad did get to see me, he said my nose was still bright red and smashed into my face. It was assumed that my body wouldn’t be permanently damaged.  Somewhere in my twenties, some boyfriend was playing with my nose and pointed out that it wasn’t normal.  My nose bone was permanently rearranged.  As a result, I have a nose unique to my family.  My face is somewhat more asymmetrical, without being wildly so; I am at the far end of the normal range. No one birthed vaginally has an entirely symmetrical face.   I assume a neck problem is one of the outcomes of the event. After my neck released from the spasm, I stayed in savasana to allow my body to adjust.  I had worked hard up to that point with the regular asanas; now, I focused on unwinding.

    When I got home, I prepared for delivering some items to Habitat for Humanity the next day.  I took pictures of Christmas items in my car trunk so I could make a record of them, and also recorded items on the coffee table that had to go and put them in the car.

    I showered and did MELT for my feet and my hands.  I noticed I could get complete contact between the outside edge of the left foot with the ground.

    I left at 11 for my haircut appointment at 11:30.  Randee agreed my hair seems shorter than usual.  We had made the appointment for only 5 weeks.  A good schedule if I was dependent on my image for work or wellbeing. But that not being the case; we need to make it at least 6 weeks. We did.

    Then I headed off to Habitat to drop off items for donation.  I got a receipt, but it only says Christmas items. One of the employees helped me unload those items but hadn’t been aware of the other items I brought in.

    When I got home, I was tired and went down for a nap. I awoke several times as it rained and then poured, aware that I had my Bikram items on the outside line. I woke again at 4. I went to the bathroom. I was still tired and went back to sleep.  

    A healing client had asked to postpone his telephone appointment for a week. I texted him concerned.  In fact, he was postponing because of depression.  I talked/texted with him and convinced him this would be a perfect time to do a session.  It was fairly easy to get him back into balance.  He said he noticed that he was getting hyper the night before, but had no idea what triggered it.  I suggested that he used hyperness as an antidote for depression and depression as an antidote to his hyperness.  All I had him do is describe the feeling in his head. The swirling.  He said it felt like water was sloshing back and forth from one side of his head to the other, but in an unbalanced way, sloshing more to the right than the left.  Just observing it calmed him. Thank you, Buddha (Using mindfulness with equanimity to heal body and mind was his idea.).  He said the motion didn’t stop, but his reaction to it stopped. Then he told me that the wave action had calmed down.

    After the healing session, I sat down to play FreeCell and then work on the blog. Elsa and I did our walk. She’s doing something new. For the past few nights, she turns around halfway through our walk and heads home.  She’s not injured or tired. She’s perfectly good at chasing balls in the house. 

    Coming into the driveway, I noticed flowers that I asked to have planted. Of course, they are doing poorly.  They either died, or there is one scrawny plant hanging on for dear life.  The gardeners had originally planted this type of flowers as part of their own design. Those are doing just fine. This particular plant is hard to get because they grow like weeds, and many people don’t want them.  I love them. They are increasing between the other plantings at the edge of the driveway, their red flowers peeking out between and among the other plantings, except for the ones that I asked to have planted. There’s something weird between me and the plant world.  I’m an excellent weeder, though. Need something killed, ask me.

     I ate dinner on the lanai and read more, and then I went into the library to continue the cataloging of Mike’s books. I walked Elsa before going to bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Good night, Elsa, Goodnight, Mike.

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Musings:  I’m putting this separately so those who are not interested can choose not to read it.

    More on Brooks:  His examples of second mountain people are confirmed saints. They are people who surrender their whole beings to the service of others. These are all extreme examples of people who focus on the needs of others.  Most of us are not prepared to take such drastic steps.  While the world needs saints that stand out as unusual, most of us want to be seen as somewhere in the range of normal.  We want little lives, and we want to be good people within that context.  So far, I have seen very little in his book tells me how to live within the parameter of normal and be a good person.  Really?  

    Presenting second mountain people as extreme personality types convinces us that being good people is simply out of our reach. It sounds utterly counterproductive if you are hoping your book will convince people to become better people.  (I assume that’s at least one of Brooks’s goals in writing this book.)

    It reminds me of similar arguments I have heard about the nature of creativity. Shankar Vedantam had a discussion on the subject of creativity on the NPR program Hidden Brain. There was one expert who defined creativity as a product that had a profound impact on society.  That would mean that if van Gogh’s work had never been seen by the public, he could not be considered creative. It sounds like an utterly dysfunctional definition.  

    I define creative thinking as any thought that is not a mere reflection of something you have seen someone else do or heard then say, even if everyone else in the world has seen it and knows it.  That means that anytime we do or say anything that we have never seen someone do or heard someone say that we are exhibiting some degree of creativity.

    I formulated a theory that we can see personalities as on a continuum moving in two directions from a center point: one side represents the creative act, and the other side represents the imitative act.  Retardation, or whatever it is called today, manifests as one extreme or the other.  Someone who is entirely imitative can only perform actions that have been modeled explicitly for them. Someone who is altogether creative can never merely copy what they have seen someone else do; they have to develop a ‘new’ procedure for every occasion in their lives.  They can’t even repeat something they did previously.

    I envisioned an X-axis on a graph.  One side of the graph represents a person’s creativity; the other side represents a person’s imitativity (have I just coined a new word?). The +/- numbers have no more significance than they would have on any other X-axis.

                      -4 -3  -2  -1  0  +1  +2  +3  +4

                        Imitative         creative

Let’s say someone is more creative than they are imitative; they are a +4 on the creative side and a -1 on the imitative side.  That’s quite an imbalance.  If they intentionally expand their imitative side, let’s say, to a -2, they can expand their creative side without losing balance. As I teach students to follow this model, their output improves.  If they are very creative, they complete more tasks, finish the job down to the final details.  If they are imitative, they can learn to recognize their own capacity to be creative and expand their horizons.

    I would say that someone who is more imitative than creative has a better chance of survival.  I believe that our hunter-gatherer ancestors required conformity, which demands an imitative intelligence.  They may have provided outlets for creativity: weaving projects, face painting, but all these activities would have had clear limits.  In today’s world, the conceptual leaps between two people can be enormous, even within single families. We’re all faced with our own uniqueness and not given instruction on how to cope with it. 

Monday, June 3, 2019, 3 months, and counting.

    I woke up early but waited until 6 before I got up.  I worked on my breathing.  I had been making a change, sucking my abdomen up to inhale.  It had been awkward, but I kept trying. This morning, I felt my ribs close to my armpits expand. Ah, if I focus on expanding my ribs when I breathe rather than my abdomen, the contraction of the abdominal muscles when I inhale follows as day the night.  I followed my morning routine and went to Bikram.

    The classes are a good size, even now, in the summer, when they usually shrink.  When it's hot enough outside, people tend to avoid greater heat and higher humidity.  Well, except me, maybe.  I keep doing my 6 days a week, and I have good company.

    I drove home immediately after class. The gardener was here already trimming a large hedge.  I told him my primary concern was the weeds, on yes, the weeds. This is what Mike was getting worked up about. 

    I walked down to the bottom of the property to check on the limes. There are some left, but it looks like the end of the season.  I will have to buy lemons from Costco soon.

    I didn't shower first thing because I wanted to do some gardening first.  I sat down to have my breakfast soup, called Social Security with some questions, did some work on the blog, and played FreeCell.   I had to wait for 40 minutes before I got someone to talk to.  My question was why my widow's benefit was so much smaller, only a little more than ½ of the total amount I was entitled to. The Ohio public school system didn't pay into the SS system.  The argument was that their retirement benefits were so good, we didn't need SS also.  Not! On both counts. Also, it said something about me not getting benefits for March.  I told the guy that Mike was alive in March. Ah, the March check was for February.  To get the full March benefits, he had to live till the end of the month. If he had died, three days earlier, he may not have been entitled to the February check.  What a system!  

    The funeral benefits – get this- are $250. That's it.  Fortunately, the only expenses I had for the whole funeral was the single flower display and the booklets we had printed up. Everything else, including food for 300 people, was provided by the church. The box that served as his urn was made by the father of one of the deacon candidates' wives.  It is an absolutely gorgeous koa wood box in the tradition of Hawaiian burial rituals.  The funeral was wonderful!  Too bad Mike wasn't there to enjoy it.  Well, I prefer to think that he was.

    I am as full of energy today as I was tired the other day.  It seems that I need a few days of complete rest and then can have one great vigor. My tutoring student arrived at 2. We worked exclusively on math. She catches on quickly; it is surprising what she doesn't know for being in 5th grade. For example, she had no idea how to do two-digit multiplication, rounding to any place, subtraction with regrouping. These are the things we are starting with.  I have copies of the standards and am going through them one at a time.  I will review what we have covered so far on Wednesday and cover expanded notation. 

    Judy called, and we yakked and yakked.  I told her about my response to David Brook's "The Second Mountain." How disappointed I was.  Her response was the same as mine: why can't you be committed to both self and others? Why does it have to be an absolute choice? 

    I walked Elsa.  I was going to stop over at Alexandra's, a high school student, and a neighbor to see if she would enter the books into the CollectionZ program that weren't in already. I would do it, but it will be such a strain on my eyes, combing the page for the information. 

    I ate dinner tonight at 6:30pm. This is early for me.  I had my usual large salad, two slices of buttered multi-grain baguette, and limeade.  Then I finished off the pasta alfredo light with broccoli that Shivani had made.  For the third night, I ate on the lanai instead of watching TV.  That way, I can read as I eat.  Reading this book is tough.  I want to react to things he says but don't have my computer in front of me to let loose. So I put the book down, afraid I will lose the page.

    I walked Elsa before going to bed.  When we got home, I  washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Good night, Elsa, Goodnight, Mike.

Sunday, June 2, 2019

    I set the alarm for 8 because I didn't have to be ready for Paulette to pick me up for church until 9:30.  Nonetheless, I woke up at 6.  I was able to go back to sleep until 7. Since I had gone to bed shortly before 11 and had a five-hour nap the previous afternoon, I would say that I need a lot of sleep.  Both Mike and I enjoyed napping and sleeping and did it well.  I referred to napping as one of my retirement hobbies.  

    Elsa and I went around the block this morning with a brown paper bag in hand since I wasn't doing Bikram.  There wasn't a lot of trash, only cigarette butts which people must have thrown out their car windows.  I do hope they put them out before they toss them.  There is a lot of dried grass around; we're vulnerable to fire.  When I came back to our street, there was that thing that holds the wheel.  I tried to pick it up; it was way over 25 lbs. That's how much Sidney weighs.  I had no problem picking him up.

    When I came back, I gave Elsa her pill, but no food, she still had some in her bowl.  I made my two days of Juice Plus, washed the dishes, drank my two cups of water, did one kettle of boiling water for my weeds, and did some work on the blog. I was planning to go out and kill off that weed that is growing in one of my plants but ran out of time.  I jumped into the shower, did MELT on both my feet and hands, but I didn't do and haven't done the Tiger Tail for a while.  It is incredible how quickly my hands feel better with MELT treatment. 

    After I got dressed, I tried to do some more work on the blog. I hadn't done much when I heard Paulette honking her horn in my driveway. We were one of the first at church. Paulette made sure I had a bulletin. I looked through it and noticed that Mike's name wasn't listed, and his Deacon's Corner article wasn't there.  When I am aware of his absence, it knocks me out. I just wanted to go to sleep,  His absence in the physical world has a profound effect. His towel is still sitting on the rack, waiting for him to use it. I still haven't changed the linens. I haven't touched the files on his desk filled with things he was currently working on. Those things are too much for me.  When I think of him spiritually, I can feel his presence and his love, and I smile.  His spiritual presence and love were always available, whether he was physically close or not.  

    My experience of feeling my heart/chest with his love must be what many people associate with experiencing the love of God, a loving God.  I wasn't raised with that expectation and feeling as associated with God does not come naturally to me. I was dependent on human love.  The problem with human love is that it is mood dependent, even with the best intentions. 

    As I am typing this, I am experiencing the visual images associated with migraines.  Maybe that's why I'm tired. While I felt pressure in my head, I've always assumed I had a sinus headache.  These images that announce a migraine are new to me. Clear signs that I'm responding to the stress of Mike's loss.  But I don't think I'm depressed.  I can enjoy the flowers, the sunset, Elsa, the outreach of a friend, a conversation with a family member, and so much more. 

    I finally went out and worked on that weed that I was determined to do before the gardeners came on Monday.  It took an hour to finish the work, and I had a blast.  Here I was procrastinating, fearing that I wouldn't be able to do it.  Some of that is due to my physical limitations.  There was one point where I was down on my knees on a pad and had trouble getting up. But,, I kept on pushing through.  I pulled up weeds that would come up, cut those that had thicker stems that didn't give in to a good yank, and painted them with Clorox. Of course, I wound up getting some Clorox on the plant I was trying to free. Let's see what the effect is. Also, I noticed that the gardeners had cut back that plant before.  As is the case here in Hawaii, we grow indestructible weeds.  

    B came up to put some plant hooks up in the roof overhang, so I could put up wind chimes.  Boy, did I mess up my Woodstock windchimes when I moved!  I left them wrapped in plastic on an outdoor table. The wood on my Woodstock windchimes just rotted out. There was a pewter set a student gave me that is not in A one condition but good enough. Now, I have to restring the silver dollar wind chimes from my mom. That will be nice to hear outside my bedroom. 

    There was a moment between my mom and me one day when I was driving her somewhere. She spontaneously said, "I'll take care of you when you get old." We both laughed when we realized what she had said.  I said, "Mom, I'm going hold you to that promise." If there is any way for her to do so, I'm sure she is.  The picture of my mom and Mike looking after me together now earns a big smile from me. 

    Which reminds me of another story.  I finally got my Master's in Education because Mike insisted; he valued certification and thought I would have more authority with a Master's degree.. When it came to graduation, I said, "I'm not walking. I couldn't care less." Well, Mike set me straight.  My mom came too. 

    On the day of graduation, once I found my seat among the other graduates, I looked around for them. I saw the two of them in the stands of the gymnasium; they were radiating pride.  They were so happy and proud, and they shared that with each other.  Mike was great with my mom.  Again, I was so lucky. She wasn't an easy person. I recently asked him if he regretted having my mom live with us for the last 18 years of her life. Mike's response was, "No, it made our hearts bigger." I loved, love, and will always love that incredible man. 

    I finally called the gardener this weekend.  He said he would come over on Monday. I can hear Mike giving a sigh of relief.  Now to solve the food problem, so I get more protein in me.

    I walked Elsa, came home had my large salad, and two slices of multi-grain baguette, yum, and my limeade.  I defrosted two kale and cheese patties planning to cook them, but I wasn't hungry after finishing my salad and bread. But, of course, I had two Hersey milk chocolate bars with whole almonds. I resisted having a third.  I wasn't hungry for nutrition just for the taste of the chocolate with almonds. 

    I walked Elsa before going to bed.  She is no longer willing to do the full walk. She turns around and heads back home. I don’t argue with her. When we got home, I  washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Good night, Elsa, Goodnight, Mike.

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Musings:

p. xxv "Flow is especially wonderful when it is collective Flow. Something you experience with your team or unit." He gives the example of someone who experienced it in boot camp when he marched with his unit.

p. Xxvi In this kind of joy, like all joy, the cage of self-consciousness falls away, and people are fused with those around them.  This kind of joy is all present tense; people are captured by and fully alive in the moment.

    Scary quotes from Brooks's "The Second Mountain.".  My parents were refugees from Nazi Germany.  My father was Jewish, but my mother was Christian. He left a year and a half before she did, and they were married in the US when she arrived.  She witnessed the Nazi rallies.  Yes, they create Flow, but at what cost to our humanity. 

    My parents, born in 1903,  were so disturbed by the tribalism they witnessed in the 20th century. While my father was not old enough to be drafted for the war in 1914, he was aware of how crazy the war's provocation was.  He concluded that all group activities were dangerous.  My sister and I weren't even allowed to join the Girl Scouts. I could never go to a rock concert where everyone claps or yells together.  Converting to Catholicism was a challenge.  

    No, I didn't do it for Mike's sake; I had my own conversion story, which started when I was 12, but conversion was just a bizarre thought until Mike led the way. Then it wasn't so farfetched. But I had to come to terms with joining a group with a common doctrine. Before Vatican II, I would pass Catholic churches that announced that anyone who was not a Catholic would go to hell. Boy, if anything was going to turn me away from joining, that was it. 

    I had to come to terms with the reality that social groups are part of what it means to be human. It's neither good nor bad. It can be either. When I was a child, there was a game we played at pajama parties.  We would say "Under the sheets," after someone said something, like: I do my homework – under the sheets.  For a preteen in the 50s, this had some sexual implication. We would laugh and laugh. You had to be there. It doesn't sound very funny to me anymore, either.  But my point is that everything can be evaluated in a context. Group togetherness, with loss of self-consciousness, even loss of some individuality can be either good or bad depending on the context.  

    Unfortunately, context and true intent aren't that easy to discern. A person can say they mean to do good but wind up doing harm. All too often, we are tricked by our own hidden needs to be or do something.  We may not want to, but we use others to satisfy these hidden needs of our own.  Tricky.  I had two caring parents who were unaware of their hidden motivation.  My sister said camp was wonderful, "Because we had all their love and attention at the safe distance of 200 miles." Talk about out of the mouth of babes.

    I say keep your eye on the outcome. But for some, the issue is really the elevation of self through the destruction of the other.  At least we can see them coming at us. It's the others who swear they only mean and do good who scare the hell out of me. 

    Brooks describes all people who think of others as Second Mountain people.   I challenge that assumption. Naming the mountains first and second mountain, at least when we are talking about adults, is inappropriate. Yes, children, appropriately, are entirely focused on self. Their first job is to survive, but adults have the luxury of thinking beyond their own immediate survival, at least many adults, certainly not all.   I don't know a better term, but either mountain, as he describes them, can represent people who suck the life out of others. 

    I think there is a third mountain, where the dialectic of two opposing ideas, thinking of others first and thinking of self first, are resolved, the synthesis.  While we do everything inevitably for ourselves for one reason or another, including sacrificing our very lives,  when we achieve the third mountain, we seek out the 'narrow path' between self and others, which our modern lives call for.  

Saturday, June 1, 2019

 I woke up with dark feelings, feelings of not being loveable or likable, thoughts of Mike's body breaking down in the hospital, and rot setting in.  Mike would always be there to comfort me when dark thoughts pursued me.

    I went to Bikram and had another insight.  If I push the inner side of my toes into the floor while lying on my stomach, it activates my legs' rigid muscles. This is great. Another way of reaching these damaged muscles. So exciting. So much to discover about how the body works. 

    Karin talked to me about her concern that I'm keeping busy to avoid thinking/ realizing that Mike is gone.  I only look busy. Today, I came home from Bikram, washed my clothes, made my morning soup drink, and went to sleep.  I slept for 5 hours. I think I look busy because I write everything I've done short of how many times I've gone to the bathroom. There's an upside to this.  One of my readers realizes that there is always a lot to do and that she has a routine too. It's helping people become more aware of their own daily routine and how much they do. I'm big on mindfulness. This is one reason the blog helps me.  When I find myself observing what I do every minute of the day, it keeps me focused on the moment.

    Am I grieving Mike? Well, as I've written before, I'm clearly in withdrawal from a 45-year habit of mind, body, and spirit.  That would be true even if I didn't love him to bits and pieces. I have moments of sadness.  Yvette said she is sad about the moments she won't share with Mike in the future.  I think that is what I miss the most too. I dread reading a journal of his and finding some thoughts I cannot ask him about to understand him better. 

    I have no deep regrets about what I did when he as alive.  There are no unexpressed thoughts or feelings.  I regret that I will become someone who would have been more of what he would have liked me to be.  That would always be true.  There would never be a point in our lives when we were not works in progress.  

    I miss Mike when I think of him smiling in general when something delighted him and specifically when he smiled in delight at me. But some of that I still have with me.  When I find I miss his living presence in my life, I imagine that wonderful hug and kiss, which was worth everything to me, and it fills my chest with love.  I know that if he can be with me as I adjust, he is. I talk to him. It's weird. I don't know what we did with each other, but I do know that I loved his presence.  Since I feel that presence still, there's not much to miss. 

    I am working on projects he didn't' finish, and he wanted to be done after he died, i.e., getting his 3,000 books to a seminary and getting his book published.  

    Damon called with August's SS #, which I need to make him a beneficiary of Mike's retirement fund. Seems weird to me. Does this retirement benefit go on in perpetuity?  Will his great-grandchildren be entitled to the benefits? I'm just grateful that I am. I'm not going to worry about what the state of New Jersey is doing too.

    I had a wonderful conversation with Damon.  I suspected that he might be reluctant to call because he's so busy and doesn't want to get involved in an hour-long conversation. I don't blame him.  I suggested that we set a time limit for each conversation. I would prefer short ones to none. I am perfectly happy to set the timer on my phone to 15 minutes and hang up when the bell goes off. He told me that he sometimes thinks of calling when he's driving but figured it would be only a short one.  He said he should work on taking advantage of those moments more.

    In the middle of the conversation, he was yelling at August to get to work memorizing a poem for school.  Apparently, the kid had already written the required paper on it but hadn't memorized it.  He as sitting there playing on his computer instead.  I got involved.  He had to learn it to show me.  I had the poem in front of me and could cue him by giving him the first sound in a word or the word.  I also shared some memorization tricks I knew.  I can now remember the meaning of the poem, but not the words.  Too old to learn new poems.  But I did enjoy working with it. 

    I had never heard of the poet, but the title is "Idea 61" sounded like a contemporary title if there ever was one, but the language was from another century altogether. As it winds up, Michael Drayton was a year before Shakespeare.  What do you know?  I studied English Literature in grad school and never heard of the guy. I enjoyed the poem and working with August and Damon.  

    Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part.

    Nay, I have done, you get no  more of me;

    And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,

    That thus so cleanly I myself can free.

    Shake hands forever, cancel all our vows

    And when we meet at any time again,

    Be it not seen on either of our brows

    That we one jot of former love retain.

    Now at the last gasp of love's latest breath,

    When, his pulse failing, passion speechless lies;

    When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

    And Innocence is closing up his eyes- -

    Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over

    From death to life thou might' st him yet recover.

    I love the humor from this period.  I remember reading one of Marvel's in grad school and similarly enjoying it.  August didn't pick this poem. I doubt he ever heard of it before it was assigned in school. I suffer from the end of a relationship, but there is no end of passion here.  And if I could "him yet recover," I would in a flash.

    Damon talked about how he felt that Mike was watching over him.  I told him that I felt the same way and assured him that if it was possible, he was.  I shared some of the conversations I've had with Mike. Some of them are pretty funny.

    I talked somewhat about my grieving process.  Damon said I always was an independent person. I have to agree. My ego was never entwined with Mike's. If people complimented him, I didn't say thank you, I agreed.  His excellence wasn't a reflection on me.  It may have been a reflection of my good taste, I may have had some influence in making him a better person, but he was what he was, a wonderful man on his own.  Perfect no, absolutely not. A work in progress with the best possible intentions. A willingness to make changes.  And a capacity for joy and delight and free expression of his love, which I will cherish for the rest of my life.  I feel that joy and delight with his son and me still. "Damon and I are both grateful for your presence, Mike. Stick around as long as you can.  But leave when you must."

    I walked Elsa and talked to Judy as we went. She is feeling lousy. She can't eat; everything tastes terrible. She's tired all the time.  She had to get off the phone because Howard had prepared something for her to eat.  I am so glad she has people around her who can take care of her.

    Since I only finished my breakfast at around 6 pm, I wasn't very hungry for dinner.  I still made myself a salad, three small slices of buttered multigrain baguette, and a limeade. I took all my pills.  I started retaking two blood pressure pills.  My blood pressure can be under 120/80, but then again, it can be 154/ 85. There's nothing consistent. It's time I go see my doctor.

    Instead of watching TV tonight during dinner, I sat on the lanai as I ate and started the David Brooks book, The Second Mountain.. I walked Elsa before going to bed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Good night, Elsa, Goodnight, Mike.

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Musings:  I’m putting this separately so those who are not interested can choose not to read it.

    I found Brook's book disappointing!  I find his reasoning so simplistic. It's not that thinking of others is a bad thing.  But again, it's one extreme versus another with no subtly of thought.  There are those for who thinking of others is a self-center ego trip and the first mountain. These folks are perfectly capable of sacrificing others to look like they are sacrificing or heroic themselves. There is no simple formula. 'By their fruits shall you know them' is still the best measure.

Friday, May 31, 2019

    As I was waking up, Elsa moved; I thought Mike!   Oh, boy.  On our walk his morning, Elsa ate poop.  This was a first, at least the first I've seen her do it.  She passes up dog, turkey, and pheasant poop regularly.  This must have been cat poop.  

    I was such a good girl today.  I called Rodney, the gardener, and Karin to get Sam's social security number.  I also called the electrician, who was supposed to come yesterday afternoon but didn't show. He never called. I called him to ask him what's up.   I did three kettles of water for the weeds and trimmed the bougainvillea on the back lanai.  I took a shower and did MELT for my feet and my hands. I continue to pass on the Tiger Tail.     

    I contacted the teachers at the school and asked if there was any point coming to school today, the last day.  One of the teachers said 11:30 to 12:45 would be a doable window.  The student I had been working with the most was there.  The student, overwhelmed by fear, was not. That wasn't a big surprise.  Today was filled with unusual activities: the songfest and something with water.  He would have been terrified by both events.  I had two minutes to work on reading with the student I had worked with the most for the last week.  Then the teachers came out and said they were told the students were to go to the water event early. I went off to Safeway to get my multi-grained baguette (I think I'm addicted), a package of California rolls, and sour cream in anticipation of eating the burritos in my freezer. 

    I napped, and then I called the electrician again.  He forgot me because he had an emergency. Karin called back.  We talked about the baby and life with the baby. She said she was concerned about reading the blog because I didn't seem to be sad.  I don't know that I am very sad. There are moments when I miss him. For me, the energetic connection was the most valuable. I open my heart and let his love in and smile.  

    I'm slowing down. I don't want to do daily entries to the blog anymore. However, I'm concerned for my welfare.  Is this depression setting in? Am I getting to the point where all movement hurts? It doesn't feel that way. This is an old pattern that predates Mike, B(efore) M(ike), avoiding doing something because I'm afraid I won't be able to do it right, or it's too hard.  I hear others offer that excuse for dealing with change. It's too hard. What does that mean? I don't think it is really too hard.  I know I can do it; I've proved that over and over and over.  It means I'm not sure how it will turn out beforehand. It means having to deal with uncertainty.  Maybe I won't do it correctly. I certainly won't do it perfectly on the first try. I may never be able to do it perfectly. Why should that be a problem?  

    For me, my mother's constant criticism is certainly a possible cause for this fear.  My father didn't yell; he sighed in disappointment.  He was good with small errors.  His frustration with me is that I couldn't solve the world's problems and come up with a 'new' solution to man's cruelty to man.  I came up with some old ones, ones Christ or Buddha had offered up.  Obviously, those weren't effective. We needed something new.  He thought my child's mind, unpolluted by social values, could come up with something. That's right up there with the experiment the King of Scotland tried in the 12th century.  He believed that children raised unexposed to language would automatically speak Hebrew. Surprise! They remained mute, spoke nothing, nada.  Like the King of Scotland, my dad would sigh in disappointment when I came up with an idea and say, "Ah, Buddha thought of that, or Christ or whoever." Not too heavy a set of expectations to place on a child. 

    My friend Carolyn sent the following quote from the Poetry Foundation Site:

Mary Oliver quoted in Brain Pickings.

"I don't mean it's easy or assured; there are the stubborn stumps of shame, grief that remains unsolvable after all the years, a bag of stones that goes with one wherever one goes and however the hour may call for dancing and for light feet. But there is, also, the summoning world, the admirable energies of the world, better than anger, better than bitterness and, because more interesting, more alleviating. And there is the thing that one does, the needle one plies, the work, and within that work a chance to take thoughts that are hot and formless and to place them slowly and with meticulous effort into some shapely heat-retaining form, even as the gods, or nature, or the soundless wheels of time have made forms all across the soft, curved universe — that is to say, having chosen to claim my life, I have made for myself, out of work and love, a handsome life." 

I do feel that I have work left to do, work I can do.  I also have my book I would like to finish writing. It is much easier to focus on projects for Mike: getting his book published and making sure his books get distributed to any seminary that would like them. 

    He really wanted the whole Collection, all 3000, sent to the Josephinum where he taught. They would have to add on another room to accommodate his books, the Ross wing. I knew the answer before he died. "No! Please, no! Don't send  your books here." But I told Mike that I was in touch with the rector about the books, which was true, so he wouldn't worry about it.  Now that I'm working on cataloging them every night and looking forward to finding the books seminaries select, packing them up and hauling them off to the Post Office and paying to have them shipped to the recipient.  I hear him feel bad about how hard I'm working on his behalf.  It is more than all right.  It provides me with a goal. I'm more concerned about what will happen when the work is done and the library is empty of all the books. Ow!

    Yvette stopped by with a stash of chocolate bars and replaced one shelf of books and took down another set. There are 8 sets of shelves that go up to the ceiling. I can't safely reach the books on the top two shelves. Yvette stops by, gets up on the stepstool, and passes the books down to me. I catalog them, and the next time she stops by, we replace those books and take down another shelf. 

    I walked Elsa. At the far corner of the block, I saw a  large metal object. It's a wheel frame and axel on something smaller than a car. I have no idea. But I know it's too heavy for my brown paper bag.  

    I ate the California rolls, my limeade, and 2 chocolate bars for dinner. I cataloged more books. At some point, I saw that I had posted 33 books on the Wish List rather than the Collection.  No, no. I don't wish to get these books, I have them. I want them posted under Collection.  I will have to check if they have been placed under Collection or only under Wishlist. Damn! Thirty-three books to check. That's double the work.  I was over 1800 before I started cataloging tonight.  Is it all the work I've done to waste?

    I walked Elsa, washed my face, brushed my teeth, got in bed, and said, “Goodnight, Elsa. Goodnight, Mike. 

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Musings:  I’m putting this separately so those who are not interested can choose not to read it.

   

    CS Lewis's phases of grief started with his personal devastation over his loss. Next was his sorrow over all his wife would miss by not being alive, all the opportunities that will no longer be available.  His third phase interests me. He writes;

    ". . . bereavement is not the truncation of married love but one of its regular phases- like the honeymoon. What we want is to live our marriage well and faithfully through that phase too. If it hurts (and it certainly will) we accept the pain as the necessary part of this phase. We don't want to escape them at the price of desertion or divorce. Killing the dead a second time. We were one flesh. Now that it has been cut in two, we don't want to pretend it is whole and complete. We will still be married, still in love. Therefore, we shall still ache. But we are not at all -  if we understand ourselves- seeking aches for their own sake. The less of them, the better, so long as the marriage is preserved. And the more joy there can be between the dead and the living, the better." P.64

    He wrote of feeling a great relief from despair when he adopted this point of view. He was afraid that others would think he no longer cared about his beloved, or worse than that he had retreated into his unfeeling shell again.  

    I can relate to his idea of the grief being a phase of the marriage.  When Mike decided to get his second Ph.D., he was concerned about the impact on me and our marriage.  My first response was, "It will make my heart bigger." But once he had everything lined up, he had been accepted, signed up for classes, and found a place to live in Washington D.C., his guilt overwhelmed him again.  I said, "If you do each moment for God, for yourself, for me and for our marriage, we will be fine." He thought that was a ridiculous idea. Fortunately, we were with a friend when this discussion came up. As Mike dismissed what I had to say, she said, "No,, no. She's right." I had full confidence that I would feel like part of this process if he so included me.

    Likewise, I have been asking him to do this with his death, his absence, for God, himself, me, and our marriage.  It gives me a greater sense of purpose when I think of it that way.  

    But I have given myself a surprise. I have been sitting here thinking, "I will do my bereavement for God, myself, you (meaning Mike) and our marriage." Only I am having a terrible time listing myself after God. Now, why am I having this problem? Is it because I'm so used to hearing it from Mike's point of view, or is it that I can't think of putting myself before Mike.  When I mention experiences like this to Jean, she says, "You're a woman. He was a man." Is that the reason?  I have no idea.  But, you can be sure I will explore it with my therapist in my next session. Sounds fascinating.  In the meantime, I will focus on doing everything for God, myself, Mike, our marriage, and all those who are currently present in my life.