January Blues

Between Thanksgiving and Christmas we celebrate four family birthdays, and travel to celebrate two separate Christmases.   By the time December is over, I’m spent.  January usually provides some quiet relief for this over-stimulated introvert.  

Meanwhile, January is an extremely busy time for Martha who subs daytime in an elementary school and coaches practices and games with her basketball team most evenings.  She is rarely home except to change and grab something to eat. And I normally love this month of peace and quiet.

But this year, January felt different.

The northeast was gripped by an unusually frigid stretch, with temps barely coming out of minus territory.  We sealed ourselves in, closing all our insulated blackout curtains to ward off drafts. The house became   like a dark cave.  We had multiple snowfalls with one piling on an additional 24 inches on top of the existing, never melting snow.  It wasn’t even the magical kind - too dry to make snowmen or snowangels.  Just huge drifts making my world feel smaller and more shut in..  

 

Homebound, with no sunlight, and too cold to even take a walk, I began to feel something heavier than cabin fever. A familiar but long-absent sadness crept in.  It was a scary feeling for me as anxiety is now more my dysfunction than this claustrophobic heaviness I used to suffer from. It caught me off guard.

I was feeling particularly fragile with a melancholy I could not shake.  

I often felt that I needed a good cry, but couldn’t even muster that.   Feeling sorry for myself, I couldn’t even start a gratitude list which is my usual go-to mood lifter. I admit I was a little scared that I wouldn’t be able to dig myself out of the hole. 

Come February I had to force myself to go on my annual New York City weekend with my daughters.  Travel was stressful, with trains being cancelled due to weather, but we all managed to meet up in time for an indulgent French lunch, a matinee of the update musical ‘Chicago’ (a show I had promised them years ago, but Covid cancelled) and lingered and laughed over a warm Italian dinner.  Sharing a hotel room (and bed) with my daughters, one who is very pregnant, was a “fun” experience.  And being in my home city with my girls started to lift the veil of darkness that had been weighing on me. 

BTW - I was pleasantly surprised at how crowded the restaurants, theater and stores were, hearing multiple languages and seeing a full spectrum of skin tones wherever we went.  I had feared that tourists and immigrants had totally disappeared with the current federal policies.

Back home I planted flower seedlings under lights in my basement.   This simple, annual ritual has helped break me out of my winter doldrums. Watching those tiny green leaves pushing bravely out of the soil never fails to be miraculous to me. 

It is now mid February. The sun has finally come out, the days are longer and the temps have risen to bearable.  I can take daily walks and I delight watching the birds in my yard venture out to peck at the seed I’ve been throwing on top of the snow.  We are definitely headed in the right direction.

And yesterday, as if to chase the last vestiges of depression,  my 4 year old grandson burst into the house, all smiles, and slammed into me with an arm full of flowers shouting “Happy Valentine’s Day”.  

Sometimes joy seeps in quietly.

And sometimes it runs straight into you. 

September's Soup

 Many, many years ago, I heard a pastor give a sermon about infidelity in marriage.   He likened marriage to making soup but if one spouse strays, it's like spilling a huge amount of salt into the pot.  There is no way to remove the salt - what’s done is done - and there are only two solutions.  One is to throw the soup away and the other is to continually add more and more good things to the pot until the salt is no longer overwhelming.

September has always been a difficult month for me, mostly because of the traumatic anniversary.  Memories wheedle their way into my head and heart and, if I'm not careful, guilt and shame and terror can drag me down dreaded rabbit holes.  It’s like far too much salt dumps into my life and it darkens the entire month.  But in recent years, so many good things have been added that the salt no longer ruins everything else.

Four years ago, my first grandchild was born at the beginning of September, and each year since, I’ve been able to celebrate him with my entire family gathered together.  There’s nothing more joyful than watching the little guy tear into presents and devour birthday cake.  And now I’ve just found out I will become a grandma for the 5th time come April - five grandchildren aged 4 and under, oh my! -a blessing that makes my heart swell.

It is also the month when I begin to shutter my veggie garden.  This year’s harvest was abundant with much pasta sauce canned, zucchini bread and pesto made, green beans frozen and boxes of food given away to friends and family.  An amazing bounty.  But as much as I love tending the garden, come September, I am happy to see the work come to an end.  To everything there is a season, and this is now the season to rest, to savor cider donuts, and to reflect with gratitude.

Though many of my Jewish friends and family have passed, I still practice many of the rituals that they shared with me.  September is the month of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur - a time of atonement.   I have spent much humbling time seeking forgiveness from people I feel I have slighted, and except for one person, all have given me the gift of grace.  And what a profound gift it is to start with a clean slate. 

So as this season turns, I am reminded that while the salt in my life will never fully disappear, it can be balanced by joy, kindness and grace.  Life, like soup, is never perfect - but with enough love and forgiveness, it can be deeply nourishing.

I hope you and your loved ones enjoy a season filled with good health, peace, and happiness.

And always, plenty of good, hearty soup.

Schadenaude

Martha is a retired police officer.  In the beginning of our relationship, when I was still suffering from PTSD and fear of the world, it was very comforting to me to have her protection.  I was proud of the awards she won for her work with crime victims and the work she did to protect kids from molesters.  She was the epitome of the ‘good cop’.  Except for one thing - when off duty she was always being stopped for speeding.  But then she would show her badge and get off scot free.  Even after she retired, that retired badge would save her from the tickets and fines.  It drove me nuts and I was always harping on her that she should be setting a good example, yada, yada, yada.  It fell on deaf ears.

Then my daughter married an Air Force veteran and it's the same thing!   He told me that he has never gotten a speeding ticket.  Then I asked how many times he had been pulled over and he said many, many times but his military ID always got him out of it.  Arghh!

I can’t count the times I reminded them that they both had careers where they swore to serve and protect.  Protect!  Yet, they felt entitled to ignore speed limits and put everyone else at risk - just because they would never suffer the consequences like everyone else.  

Well, my day has come.  The adjacent city is now using cameras to record speeders and they both got tickets -  in the mail.  Ha!  I guess those cameras don’t care if you have a badge in your wallet.  Should I be taking pleasure in their having to pay substantial fines?  Probably not.  But am I?  Absolutely. 

Full of Grace

 So many things to be grateful for this month:

-The first trip to the new dentist was unfortunately unsuccessful, so I resorted to some anxiety drugs which got me through the return visit.  I really hate to rely on drugs and feel I should be past needing them, but the tooth is fixed and I have decided to be gentle with myself on the decision.

-My garden harvest.  There’s always at least one failure - this year - lettuce.  But green beans, tomatoes, raspberries, cukes and zucchini are all doing well.

-I took two of my grandchildren to a butterfly conservatory.  There was no better feeling than seeing the wonder in a 2-year old’s face when a butterfly landed on her arm for a few minutes. Sheer joy. 

-A successful family vacation to the beach. My sons-in-law understood the assignment and gave my daughters plenty of ‘sister’ time and we ate amazing seafood and homemade ice cream daily.  It’s always good to get salty air back in my lungs and watching my 2 grandsons (not quite 4 years old) playing with boogie boards in the surf made this aging surfer girl get a little teary.

-Really enjoying my new little bistro table, nestled into our fountain garden.  This is now where I have my morning coffee and have tea parties with my granddaughter. A wonderful spot to be grateful for all the blessings in my life.

On Therapy

 July 1st was the anniversary of the death of the therapist, Lauren, who quite literally saved my life.  

Every July her daughter and family visits from France, where they now live, for a family remembrance.  This year she came alone because her husband is Muslim and they were afraid to enter this country. ( I truly have no words for the anger I feel toward this administration and the climate of fear it has created)

Still, her visit always reminds me to be grateful for a therapist who got me from point A (a barely functioning shell, lost in trauma and grief) to point B (a person  who can love, and laugh and find joy in life again).  It was exhausting work, took years, and the progress was anything but linear.  She died before I got to the finish line, but she left me with enough tools to get there. And to stay grounded with only occasional setbacks.  

I was thinking of her when I spoke to my nephew who is now in couple counseling, trying to save his marriage.  He was telling me that the therapist (whom his wife chose) sits and listens to the complaints, often rolls her eyes, and has not given them any realistic suggestions - no insights, no suggestions, no strategies to practice.  It has basically become a bitch session for his wife.  No growth. No challenge.  Really, no help in getting to the root of their problems.  I gently suggested that perhaps he should find his own therapist, to support his own growth.  

The more I chat with folks who have gone through trauma, the more I realize how lucky I was to have Lauren.  So many times I hear stories of women who have basically become dependent on their therapist for support with no growth or healing happening - emotional crutches where dependency replaces growth, and little actually changes.  Therapy, I think, should be a place to transform and build strength, even if the changes are small and incremental. 

Lauren helped me do the hard work of becoming myself again. And though she’s gone, I carry her wisdom every day. Her legacy, for me and many others like me, reminds me that healing is possible—and that a truly good therapist can change, and even save, a life.

I feel so blessed. 

Shifting Ground

 A few things have happened recently that have altered my equilibrium, both externally and internally, and I am angry and anxious and feeling like my very carefully regulated peace of mind has shifted into unknown territory.

1.  ICE has entered my calm, diverse neighborhood in the most horrifying way - at a middle school bus stop.  Two unmarked, white vans were sitting at a bus stop with kids, ages 12-14.  A mother stopped them and began filming.  Fortunately, whoever they were targeting never showed up, but I can’t imagine the trauma those kids would have witnessed had they had to see one of their peers dragged away and shoved into a van.  Our community was in an uproar. WTF is happening to our country? 

2. My long-time dentist recently retired.  I carry deep trauma surrounding choking on teeth that were kicked out.  I never told my dentist the details, beyond having dental trauma, but somehow he always just seemed to get it.  He always asked how I was doing, always gave me breaks during any procedure, always sensed when I was overwhelmed and let me walk around.  Maybe because he donated a lot of his time to working with veterans.  I don’t know.  But he always managed to get me through dental work.  And now I have a cracked tooth and will be seeing a new dentist.  I know-or at least hope- that my anxiety is worse than anything I am actually going to experience.  Still, I am bracing for a breakdown.

3. My nephew is separating from his wife.  There has never been a divorce in my family and no one seems to know how to react to this news or how family relationships will change.  Their issues mostly stem from disagreements on parenting and child discipline, and so I think, could be worked out with the help of a family therapist.  I am hopeful but still very unsettled in this shift in family dynamics that once seemed so solid.  

All together, these events have left me feeling unmoored. The stability I’ve fought for—in my mental peace, in relationships, and the sense of safety for my community—suddenly feels very fragile. I know life is unpredictable, and change is inevitable, but right now, I feel like the ground is shifting beneath me, unsure if there is any safe place to land.

I’m trying to find ways to hold myself steady, relying on all the old therapeutic tricks and building resilience amongst all the chaos.  But honestly? More often than not, I just keep thinking about that musical:  “Stop the World, I Want to Get Off”.

Not Okay

 

Stop Doing List

 Recently, I went down a bit of a rabbit hole.

It started with a visit to Middle Girl’s blog. Her artwork was beautiful, but it was the quote she featured—“Love is an action, never simply a feeling”—that really stuck with me. It reminded me of something I’d read years ago. I even commented, saying “Love is a verb,” though I couldn’t quite remember where I’d heard that phrase.

Turns out, I misattributed it—or at least half-remembered it. After some head-scratching and digging, I finally traced it back to Patty Digh and her book “Life is a Verb”—a book I actually own. Go figure.

As I reread some of her work, another quote of hers jumped out at me:

“Sometimes our stop-doing list needs to be bigger than our to-do list.”

And just like that, down another rabbit hole I went.

This time of year, my to-do list is packed with gardening tasks and outdoor chores. But the idea of a “stop-doing” list hit differently. It made me pause and consider what habits, thought patterns, and distractions I might need to let go of in order to create more space for presence, purpose, and connection.

Here’s what’s presently making it onto my stop-doing list:

Stop doom scrolling first thing in the morning. A quick check for new grandkid pics on my daughters’ socials is fine—then it’s time to get up and get moving.

Stop mindlessly eating. Food deserves intention, not distraction.

Stop avoiding triggers. After years and years of therapy, I estimate I have mastered about 95% of my former triggers. But I still find myself avoiding certain situations/people/conversations. Leaning into discomfort is often where the healing begins.

Stop dodging difficult conversations. Sometimes facing them can mend old wounds and strengthen bridges.

Stop taking relationships for granted. They require time, care, and attention. It’s too easy to coast on routine and shared history.

Stop tolerating the erosion of my boundaries. I once let a friend ridicule my critical boundaries and it caused so much damage that I’m still trying to untangle it.  But I have learned. Respect begins with me.

I am learning that love, connection, and purpose aren’t built through my busyness—they take root in the quiet moments I am making by releasing what no longer serves me.

Inquiring Minds

I have been home sick for the last 10 days.  First was the norovirus that came on suddenly and painfully. Vomiting and diarrhea added to the misery.  Finally  after four days of that and one day of feeling recovered, I have been felled by a nasty cough and cold.  

I always thank Martha for these contagions since she often subs in an elementary school - the petri dish of germs.  Thanks!

I have been using my down time reading historical novels which I prefer.  But as I lay in bed with tissues wadded up my nose, I thought of this question -

All these old century stories deal with horrible diseases - typhoid, Bubonic plaque, small pox.  But I have never read of a protagonist in earlier centuries having a common cold.  Did it not exist back then?  Did Michelangelo never sneeze on David?  Did Cleopatra never cough on Anthony?

And my burning question is - what did they use for tissues? This baby needs her Puffs Plus with Lotion and Vicks.  I can’t imagine rubbing rough papyrus on my already raw nose.

If you have any insight, please leave all scholarly research, or fantasy guesses in the comments.  Inquiring minds need to know.

Manifesting Kindness

I had meant to start January with a post about positivity and healthy resolutions.  But I got blindsided by a call saying that a friend’s granddaughter had committed suicide.  Seventeen years old.  Brillant.  Had just received early admission to the ivy league school of her choice.  It seemed that she was about to have everything she had worked so hard for.  But she also suffered from depression.  At first it was thought that she broke under the weight of academic pressure and expectation.  But her diary revealed that she was also being bullied at school.  Bullied to death.  It is unimaginably horrendous how some people treat others. 

She is the third person I know who lost their lives to depression.  I also have many friends and relatives who battle with this illness daily, to varying degrees.  I am far from an expert, but it seems like this illness is often triggered by, or reinforced by, a feeling of isolation, loneliness, or lack of support.   

Compounding the problem today, we are in the midst of very troubling times.  Politics, climate emergencies, broken health care, war.  So much pain and loss.  The causes for depression are multiplying. All, it seems, caused by greed and the insatiable desire for power and the need to feel better than someone else.  I read a lot about history, and my biggest take-away is that humanity has always had people with a mean streak, with the most powerful people putting down those without power. Always wanting more.  Always wanting to feel superior.  Always at someone else’s expense.  It’s a story as old as time. 

In the face of all the sadness and isolation, I want to do better for folks who are suffering.  I know they often mask their pain, and I wonder how many times I have completely missed the signs of a friend in need.  Last year I lost a former colleague who I thought to be one of the happiest people - always smiling, always volunteering for everything, always extra social.  She also suffered from depression.  But no one knew.  I just keep thinking about that - no one knew.

So one of my resolutions this year is to better educate myself on how to recognize and support folks who experience depression.  But I also have to acknowledge that in most cases, unfortunately, I won’t even recognize it.  So, what to do?   Researching about it, I came across this:

“Kindness serves as a powerful antidote to depression”

So my resolution for this year is to be more aware of all folks I encounter. Those close to me and those anywhere in my orbit. Even the mean and ornery ones. Even the red ones and the rude ones and the ones who wouldn't give me the time of day. Just be kind to everyone.  At every opportunity.  All the time.  It costs nothing.   

n keep our balance we

God Jul (Merry Christmas)

My family didn’t have much when I was growing up.  We didn’t get a lot in the way of presents but my mom always somehow made the Christmas season magical.  She was a stay-at-home mom, but worked some odd jobs all year - making calls, or stuffing envelopes - to make enough money to give us one special holiday experience.  The Radio City Spectacular, the Vienna Choir Boys at Lincoln Center, the Rockefeller tree lighting, or a Broadway show are some of my favorite childhood memories.  And although we didn’t get much under the tree, our home was always filled with festive handmade decorations and the smell of baking almond cookies.

I think Martha and I did a pretty good job of also giving our daughters a magical Christmas. But to be honest, it was all so hectic - we both worked full time, splitting shifts because we didn’t have any daycare help (and no Amazon delivery) -  I missed a lot of the magic in all of the frenetic chaos of putting it all together.

But now I have grandchildren - 2 granddaughters, too young yet to get excited, and 2 grandsons, both three years old and at an age of wonderment.   And I get to experience the magic again, without all the work.  We have made snowmen, baked cookies, made tree ornaments and seen Santa.  

We went on a special trip on the Polar Express and had hot chocolate, got our tickets punched and received Christmas bells from Santa. 

I’d like to say that the best part was watching the joy in the kid’s eyes, but I think I might have been even more bedazzled than they were.  There is just something so magical about this time of year.

We do not celebrate a religious Christmas, although Martha usually attends some mass with old friends.  I tend to focus on the simple Scandinavian traditions of my youth - candles, reading books while sipping hot chocolate, and almond cookies.   

However you choose to celebrate this season (or not) I wish you all the childlike joys of magic and warmth and laughter.   And cookies.  Lots and lots of cookies.

Full of Grace

Well, this has certainly been a tough, gut wrenching week.  And apparently getting worse with each new appointment. 

Knowing that this nightmare is going to continue ad nauseam, I am taking measures to protect my inner peace by turning off all national news for a while and quickly clicking out of anything where I see he who must not be named.   I’ve been taking a lot of walks. And naps.

I also recognize that I have much be be grateful for:

• Although I am a queer woman (two strikes)  I am white which gives me a wealth of unearned privilege. 

• I, and my immediate family, all live in blue states. 

• Anticipating the republican win, my state just overwhelmingly enshrined existing civil rights protections, including abortion and trans rights, into our Constitution, to add an extra layer of protection against attacks.

• Although Martha and I collect Social Security, thanks to our pensions, we do not need it to live comfortably.

• Our grandchildren appear to be healthy and will most likely not need any special programs from our schools.  

When the shock and sadness of this national nightmare wears off, I’ll be fine. And I am grateful. But I don’t know how to help all those who will suffer, now and for generations to come. 

But love is not going to be enough. The trail just got steeper, but the climb continues. 

The Ring

Long ago I lost everything I owned and learned a valuable lesson about attachment to things.  Unfortunately I live with a packrat so our home is still filled with so much ‘stuff’ it makes my teeth rattle, but I continually sift through my belongings and pare down to the essential.  To this end, while Martha was out of town for a while, I decided to tackle my dresser which always seems to collect all the detritus of my life.  Out went holey socks, worn out underwear,  empty chapstick tubes, old grocery receipts, used up gift cards, etc.   

And then I opened an old jewelry box.  These days I only wear my wedding ring and occasionally some gold hoop earrings I keep in a dish, so I can’t even remember the last time I opened this box.  It felt like an archeological dig - a newspaper article from when I left my last job 35 years ago, NYC subway tokens (discontinued in 2003), miscellaneous foreign coins and euros, assorted safety pins, an obituary of a dear friend who died decades ago, many buttons in little packets that are attached to clothes in case you lose one - clothing I have long since gotten rid of.  Five ‘evil eye’ Mati stones brought back from a trip to Greece. Five?  I wonder what I was afraid of . . .

Then something that stopped me in my tracks. In the very bottom corner, wrapped in tissue paper, was the silver commitment ring I wore during my years with Daphne, long before legal marriage was a possibility.  I was already feeling the vulnerability and vague ache of the September trauma anniversary and I curled into bed along with a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings and memories too long forgotten and/or buried.  

The foremost of these was guilt.  Not survivor’s guilt.  No, years and years of therapy had gotten me through most of the constant rumination and re-play of fault.  Well, mostly.  But guilt that I have successfully moved on with my life.   I can’t even remember the last time I went to visit Daphne’s grave.  I have no doubt that she would have wanted me to be happy and to share my life with others.  But somehow, in the midst of my current life, I have spent very few moments honoring her and her impact on my life.  It was the guilty recognition that her memory is waning as I spend my life with others..  

Anger. This has been a recurring feeling every time I listen to politicians working to remove women’s reproductive rights.  The ring reminded me that Daphne took her own life when she found she was pregnant by her rapist(s).  Of course I didn’t learn this until much later given that her family had nothing to do with me. Times were different then, but how it pisses me off that we are returning to them.  

And finally, joy.  Twirling the ring around my fingers (I can no longer get it on since I’m long past my skinny days).  Smiling, I began to think about all the lessons Daphne taught me that have brought me to where I am today.  Peace with my sexuality, the comfort of intimacy, the trust of true relationships, kindness, laughter, and the “fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke” mentality.  I know I would not be experiencing the joy I have today without her influence on my yesterday. 

Now found, I’m not sure what to do with the ring.  Strangely I can’t even remember when I took it off.  Still, it feels odd to have it so tucked away that it has gone unremembered for decades.  My therapist used to always tell me that the river of time only flows in one direction.  There’s no going back to change things.   But, like the Sept. 11th “Never Forget” signs that are so prevalent here in New York this month, I feel like I want to do something.  I just don’t know what, but I want it to reflect my incalculable gratitude. 

4 under 3

 

We took our annual family  trip this year to a seaside town in Maine.  I say it was a trip, rather than a vacation, because we shared a house with 4 children.  Two 2+ year boys affectionately known as Category 5 and the Tornado.  A one year old girl who crawls faster than I can walk and got into everything in our non-child proofed rental, and one 6 week old girl who was velcroed to her mom, constantly cluster feeding.  Chaos. 

We chose Maine as it is driveable for all of us and we needed every available inch of car space for car seats, strollers, beach wagons, blow-up toddler beds, bassinets, a high chair and boxes of diapers, wipes, snacks and other assorted baby and beach paraphernalia.  That we willingly put ourselves through this is a testament to the human spirit.

Still, we managed to do some fun things - an antique trolley car ride and a seaside open air train ride.  Lots of quaint shops that always sold salt water taffy and fudge.  Picturesque lighthouses and amazing oceanside seafood.  And hours and hours of late afternoon hours at the beach.  

Maine water is a little chilly for me to do more than splash my feet but to see Category 5 and the Tornado form the perfect storm - throwing themselves into the water, building and smashing sand castles with such exuberance while my 1 year old granddaughter simply crawled in the sand, laughing every time a wave came and knocked her over - it all just filled me with such joy and nostalgia for my beach bum childhood. 

We ended our trip with a few more pounds around our waists, even more pounds of sand in everything we owned, and some great memories.  Then after the chaos of trying to shove all the gear back into the cars, babies into car seats, and get back on the road, I got a text “where shall we go next year?”  I’m going to need a few days to recuperate before I even think about that.

Thoughts During a Catholic Funeral

I recently attended the funeral service of a woman Martha was very close to.  I am never very comfortable with these events but the woman was elderly and had been ill for some time, so not a surprise but still much sadness.  I went to support Martha.  The service took place in a Catholic church and I think I may have been the only non-Catholic person there.  I surmise this because everyone else knew the routines - sign of the cross, genuflect, how to receive communion, etc.

I sat there, clueless, holding Martha’s hand and quietly taking in the sights and sounds.  Pretty hymns, headache producing incense, and Jesus’ dead body hanging on a cross - which sent me down the rabbit hole.

I am heartbroken for folks today whose worst moments are caught publicly and then repeatedly shown to the world on social media.  How often I read about some woman’s rape that was live streamed and can’t imagine how absolutely soul destroying that must be.  I literally tremble just thinking about it. How grateful I am that phones were not an option on the worst day of my life.  

My daughter is a Middle School social worker and deals with similar issues daily.  The kid whose bullying is filmed so others can laugh, the girl that sends nude pictures to her boyfriend only to find they are being passed around the school, the kid who suffers some embarrassment now immortalized on social media.  The psychological impact must be devastating.  It’s no wonder that kids who experience this repeated victimization have such high rates of depression and suicide.  And I wonder about the emotional deadening impact to the folks who view these atrocious videos.  

I sat in a Catholic church, looking at a near naked man, on what had to be the worst day of his life.  Stripped, beaten and nailed to a cross.  A man’s murdered body put on display.  I am told this is to remind Catholics that Jesus suffered and died for them.  But it just made me very, very sad for anyone whose suffering is made public, open for all to see, which is all too common these days   

The Lovely Month of May

 It’s May, it’s May.  The lovely month of May.  Well, it’s almost over and we have been busy.

First was the pool opening.  Unfortunately, when they took the winter cover off, there was next to no water in it, indicating a leak.   Fine, we were overdue for a new liner so we ordered one - but it was definitely not in the budget for this year.

I finally got all the fencing and layout complete for my newly relocated veggie garden.  The old location was not getting enough sun due to my neighbor’s trees, but I had spent years amending the soil there so I’m not sure how well these plants will do in the mostly sandy soil.

Then my lawn tractor died.  After troubleshooting the easily fixable, I went and bought a new one.  Yet another unbudgeted expense.  Arggghhh.

We had a lovely Mother’s Day brunch with the oldest daughter, and opened an unexpected gift from both girls- tickets for a John Legend concert - and they will be going with us.  Girls' night out - like old times. 

Then the folks came to install the new pool liner and found this gaping hole.  Uh oh.  Another unexpected expense.  To do the repair they had to pump water from the under drain (we have a very high water table) But the drain pipe was buried under my new raised veggie bed, which was mostly destroyed when they built a connection to it.  Some onions might still make it but the beets and carrots are goners.  

Meanwhile our oldest daughter had an out-of-town wedding and we offered to babysit her two kids.  The 2 1/2 year old has the nickname “The Tornado” and his 10 month sister is now crawling and putting everything into her mouth.  We couldn’t blink without something happening that required attention.  Fortunately nothing that required a 911 call, but still, we were exhausted.

And now we are waiting for the call to rush to Boston for the birth of our youngest daughter’s second child.  Our bags are packed and we have cancelled or postponed any obligations.  We plan on going for a week to help with her almost 3 year old, and then our newest grandchild - a baby girl.  

May.  Our weather has been beautiful, our wallets emptied, and our energy depleted.  It’s all good.

Lastly, has anyone ever seen this?  All of a sudden, I have mushrooms growing in my flower boxes.  And not just a few.  Every morning there are at least 8 new shrooms in each box.  I pull them out and they magically reappear the next morning.  Any suggestions?

One step forward, two steps back

This year has not been particularly productive so far.

I had challenged myself to write at least one blog post every month.  Not that I have many interesting things to say, but more to document my personal journey through this strange thing we call life.  But here we are, past mid-March and I already failed.   This is February's entree.  Now I have to play catch-up.

I had gained a few too many pounds over the holidays and so promised myself to lose 1 pound a month.  One!  How hard could that be?  Instead, I gained 2 pounds in January and didn’t lose an ounce in February.   Yep, I wanted to lose 6 pounds, only 8 to go!

Every year I save seeds from my deck flower boxes to save hundreds of dollars for the next year's planting.  Mid-February I went to the basement to start the petunia seeds only to discover that mice had found them first.  

Last year I decided to move my veggie garden to an area that received more sun.  I reinstalled all the chain-link fencing and ran chicken wire along the bottom since critters decimated my garden last year.  Then this February, we had unseasonably warm weather so I decided to go rototill the garden to get a head start on this season’s prep.  But I ran the tiller into the chicken wire, thereby ripping it all off the fence and so badly wrapping it around the tiller tines that it took days (and many bloody knuckles) to get it all unwound. And now I have to reinstall it all.  Yay me!

Yet still excited about the warm weather to get a head start on yard work, I bought a replacement blade for my edger.  Then, installing it, I turned the bolt so hard that I broke the whole shaft. Now I need to buy a whole new edger.  

 

For all the anticipation that 60-degree weather in February brought, I think I’d have been better off hibernating until April. 

2024 Resolution

Last year I made a resolution to pay more attention to my relationship with Martha.  We have now been together for well over 30 years (!) and like most long term relationships, things had gotten into predictable patterns, both good and bad.  So I made a concerted effort to outwardly appreciate all she does to keep our household running and I bit the inside on my cheeks when she loaded the dishwasher in ways a drunk toddler could have done better, or once again left tissues in her pockets that shredded in a million pieces when I did the laundry.  I started each day with a cheerful smile and an encouraging word and ended each night with a show of appreciation and affection.

Did it make a difference?  To our relationship? Honestly, not really.  But it did have a profound effect on me.  Being more patient,  more grateful, and more aware definitely changed my overall demeanor.  Instead of letting little things nag at me, I let them go.  And I went to sleep thankful and content and woke up happy.   It is a practice I hope to continue, not for us, but for me.

Around xmas I began to think of what my 2024 resolution should be.  My daughters and I went to a performance of The Nutcracker by the Boston Ballet at the stunningly beautiful Boston Opera House.  While waiting for the performance to begin, I read the program about the company and cast.  In it, the Executive Director said this”

“The Nutcracker is not just what you see on stage - it’s about cherishing time with those you love”

And I thought “of course”, my resolution should be to extend this practice to everyone. Try to  Be Present.  Be Patient.  Be Quiet. Choose love, always.  To everyone.  For me.

So, that’s it.  Happy 2024*

*And exercise more, eat better and lose a few pounds : )