To Create

It's said to be the first verb in the bible.  Opened bins in storage not touched for ten years.  Contents not used nearly ten more.  Five figures of investment, sitting for nearly twenty years, not appreciating, nearly lost on several occasions. 

Survivor's guilt in knowing the hurricane took everything for some not long ago, yet grateful for what we still have.  Some was forgotten or unknown if it survived, as much was lost in other upheavals that compound the impact.  There is still mourning for what can't be replaced, and will be for some time to come.  An evolution began in the process of passing on what others would appreciate more, and what could be moved forward with.

It was therapeutic before.  No different now.  Only a different time, a different series of events in a similar chain.  There are more ideas, though mostly the expression of moving on to something better. 

Compelled to continue.  With many demands on time.  There is no down time.  Only 'what's next', hour by hour. 

There remains life with God's creatures that require attention and care: another form of therapy.  Both the creative and maintenance tasks involving life sustain themselves, which one could not do unless passionately invested in a purpose.

Objectives are not out of sight, though the way is not shown as yet as to how one thing will lead to another.  Having objectives pays the way for the means, though how the means will be utilized has not yet been revealed.

The tasks help in keeping concern at a distance, yet the urgency to complete what must be done does not stop looming.  One day's accomplishments lead to the next hour's task, no moment is ever really guaranteed to be granted, though rewards can come more easily with preparation.

There is joy in solitude, and also pain in uncovering memories of times that will not return.  The opportunity to reflect is a luxury not available to many.  It often feels more like time taken than given, the difference being a choice of action.  Being given the time was not a decision, what was done with it was, and is.

Emotional Material Explosion

Saving $200 a month by emptying a storage unit maintained at significant cost since Hurricane Sandy.  Before digital archiving, before smartphone, before tablets: an emotional minefield.

Each box with contents forgotten or unknown until the aged tape is wrestled off, each one a time capsule able to steal hours of reflection or paralysis in processing or deciding what to do next.

Imagine having a garage full of boxes from the toddlerhood of a now adult-sized child.  They take up most of the space of themselves.  Now unpack each one and decide what to do with what's inside.  In order to sort through the contents of each take up three times the space: why it's called 'unpacking'.  So it looks and feels much worse before it gets better.

When will we be on the other side of the curve is unknown: when there's less to clear and finish from having started, no point of reference for a midpoint - where or when.  It's disorienting, and exhausting, and critical for moving on.

Cherished items attached to concrete memories still kept.  Compounded loss trauma from what could not be salvaged before now.  What we know he won't remember or care about goes to other children.  The rest will await his decision and approval.  Meanwhile the process of purging remains painful, in the energy required and what it stirs up.

Time stands still, though not really.  The day feels over as soon as it started, with the exhaustion of having harvested a cornfield, only it isn't just physical.  It's mourning for time gone that can't be recovered, and what might have been that wasn't.

Technology

It was inevitable.  Sooner or later, it would only be a matter of time before the dogged late adopter that I am would be the recipient of the update that replaces what the system will no longer support.

It could no longer be avoided.  I am now tethered to email via phone.  I look differently now at others who once were annoying by constantly looking at their devices.

It's no longer necessary to take the tablet everywhere when the phone will do the job most of the time now.  Anyone else with a computer in Starbucks now looks as though they are working on important projects.

It can save money with apps, where I used to download coupons and schlep the computer into the store and up to the cash register.  Now the barcode is on the phone.

This is probably amusing to read for anyone on a smartphone for years now.  I still am painfully aware how many on the planet struggle to get to school, and, as it was when I was growing up, no access to a phone until returning home, if then.  Landlines in impoverished areas are not likely in every home.   We don't think about how they communicate where they are.  Television in public places provide news.  Parents have no communication until they are home again from school, provided there's a real home.

We still take too much for granted, when all we have for sure is the present.  What we do today paves the way for tomorrow, almost always.  Our minds go from thought to material manifestation in minutes, or years, if we have the inspiration and tenacity to follow through.  Technology, when used wisely, can also help us help others to get to their next 'upgrade', as well.  One way or another, that might just be the purpose behind the purpose.

This post is being written on a phone for the first time.  The computer has timed out, and has to be restarted, again...

Leap Day

How many blog titles today that are the same?  Did I have the same title four years ago?  I've been here that long...  Google's meme today had bunnies; so do we.  The bigger lop eared girl puts her chin on the upper platform so that her 'husbun', who's been 'fixed', can groom her, which is licking like cats do to each other as well.  And cats do to rabbits when they share the same home.

Once in four years; where will be be this time in the next four years?  He will be out of school, maybe in college.  We'll be in another home, a real, permanent house.  Mom's house, eventually grandma's house, with the animals, and a dog, too.

The car isn't as important.  It needs to be comfortable, reliable, and roomy, for the critters when we travel.  We'll have more help, so the animals won't have to go with us every time we take trips, only the ones that enjoy traveling or will do better by going with some new scenery or more playtime.

He'll likely have his own car, too.  Reliable and safe, maybe not the one he wanted, though he'll be content by the time it's done.

Building and repairing relationships will be underway.  Connecting with family more and spending significant events together, for as long as we can, as much as we can.  There's really no making up for lost time.  We'll do the best we can.

No Resolutions

Once a year is too infrequent; and overkill it being a birthday month, on a holiday.  In a continuous state of resolving, to get past barriers.  I don't envy those who make resolutions, even the ones who successfully stick to them and permanently change habits (the rare few).  I just can't relate to that kind of life, where a resolution is an annual thing.  There's no right or wrong.  For some of us, the opportunities come more loudly and something must be done, or it could be gone. 

Maybe it's enviable to be in a place where changing something once a year is all that's needed.  In hindsight, it seems a bit unusual.  Perhaps one resolution begets another we just never hear about.  To know someone well who actually makes one and moves forward is probably to have heard a story of how one conscious change leads to others that add up more over the year.  That sounds more realistic.

Of themselves, they're just campy, and sound weak on the surface, more than marriage as likely as not ending in divorce.  Resolve, once a year.  The more it's said, the less realistic it seems. 

However, actually keeping one, having made one, and what happens after is something we rarely hear about, unless we seek it out, or listen.  Another blip on the screen, that must have many others to follow in order to stay alive...like a heart monitor.  It's real when it creates a momentum all its own.

Age

Was sincerely attempting to write last night and the internet didn't want to work.  Two major storms followed (only a couple of yard ornaments knocked over that were easily put back with nothing broken).  In the past I've gone out for the specific reason to write 'on time'.  Last night, 'the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak'; couldn't fathom going out 'just' to write.  It's age, or aging, or a combination of things too personal to go into now. 

This entry was going to be Books, Part II.  It's a month later and still not everything is in its place.  Many of the shelves that had seen their last days were left behind, not worth bringing along due to wear and tear, and there was no space for them.  I kept one, in my son's room.  He was just about a year old when I brought them into our first home together, one at a time, walking fifteen blocks from the closeout store where they were.  A long box in one hand, my bag on the other shoulder, and my son in a front pack, facing forward, for a total of six times.  He was between walking and crawling; the babysitter saw his first steps. 

I'll never forget when I unpacked the shelves he helped me put them in place by patting them with his little hands the flat part of the shelf so the ends would go all the way into the end grooves or spaces.  Every time the shelves were transported and set up again, the memory returned.  He had watched me from the higher shelves how it was done, so by the time we were down to his level he made sure the bottom shelves were in place as they should be himself. 

He was to be here almost two weeks ago.  We're still waiting.  It's been four months.  The massive library for an apartment that took up all of the six shelf units is now essentially 'shelfless'.  I'm on my way to the first donation dropoff with ones I know will be of use to someone else well before I'll ever get to the utilization of their content. 

My son noticed my lifestyle didn't match the titles awhile ago.  When I was much younger, maybe.  Now there is too much to do that tiny crafting tasks do not seem remotely part of the picture, even while recovering from an illness, in the remaining years of my life, which could only be half over.  With what I've experienced the first half century the world needs more than making jewelry with seed beads, however beautiful.  It's for someone, just not me. 

Beauty has been redefined of late: from the calming effect of feeling the weight of beads in the process of creating adornment, to watching small hands help finish setting up a new bookshelf.  There is no comparison.  Nothing compares.

April Fool: Unoriginal Title, Original Content

It's always an indicator if I don't make 'blog day' it's because there's so much going on I'm literally incapable of remembering what day it is, even if I thought of it earlier in the day. This time, I got in early evening after staying up almost all night without food in order to upgrade to a better dwelling on schedule. There is some peace of mind now that having been in a flood zone in the wake of Hurricane Sandy with another evacuation warning during hurricane season just the year before is really no longer an issue now.

I'm thankful and grateful having survived another displacement; there have been benefits, though not without stress. There are others who had it so much worse; we were still among the fortunate. And there were lessons learned, about the generosity of others not previously experienced in an area not well known for its compassion or hospitality. I wanted to leave New York, and ended up on Staten Island. Despite all that's happened, it's been a mixed blessing to have been here during and after the "superstorm". Even though the trauma of having lost everything more than once before was temporarily reactivated, the coping and recovery were more bearable because of so many dedicated as volunteers who traveled from across the country and staying for months on end until their assignments were finished. Most are scheduled to return home at the end of the month: the six month mark from the day after the storm.

It was not only those from elsewhere who gave generously of their irreplaceable time and other resources; it was also the nicest of New Yorkers: the true New York's Finest, as well as a few NYPD officers who actually fit the description that has referred to them in the past. There are nice native New Yorkers, they're just much fewer and further between than say, West Virginia, where typical New Yorkers who go there experience a reverse culture shock. The first state under the Mason Dixon that marks the beginning of 'the south' is known for its hospitality. To a New Yorker, people who say 'hello' to strangers and are 'nice for no reason' are almost impossible to tolerate.

In the northeast, and especially in 'the city', unless one is of the few generous-hearted who surfaced and stepped up in the wake of a 'superstorm', such behavior in their experience only happens when something is sought in exchange. Not so for West Virginians, and volunteers who displaced themselves for the better part of a year to be available and assist others who lost everything. I can only hope to be in a position in the future to do the same, or something similar. Meanwhile, the family secret saga resumes next month, about some native West Virginians two generations ago of the same blood as this author, authored by my grandfather's sister.

It is being copied from less than a hundred pages of hand written notes; and now more than half complete here. More will unfold as the story continues, woven into what has become our lives today. I don't remember ever having met my grandfather's sister, though I did know her offspring. One I didn't know was such until after their death, and it was just as well. Had I known then it may not have made a difference, though the effects of those contacts have affected more than one life forever.

I don't know how many others were also hurt; I only know when I heard grandpa's nephew had passed I was not sad. Only until I read what his mother had written did I know we were related, many years later, relatively recently.

Here We Go Again

Thought of entry first part of the day, then remembered after it was too late. Too much going on for one person responsible for more than one child or family. Aftereffects of situation continue for years, like those in the wrong place at the wrong time after a hurrican or tsunami. In those circumstances, those who lose the most are not held responsible for their location when disaster struck. By the same token, an individual taken advantage of or exploited, be they child, woman, or grandparent, should not ever be blamed for what happens to them at the hands of someone else or other people.

Sometimes an entire team is involved in the siege, for money, status, or power, at others' expense including sometimes their very lives. It has gone on for decades, and almost a single decade for one family in its entirety, both sides, begun by the continuing acts of a single person putting themselves before others from an instilled sense of entitlement, among other things.

It happens to lots of people, who are worth much more than a so-called net worth. They are grandparents, aunts, uncles, and extended family who are rarely if ever named as parties directly, yet they are directly affected in as many profound ways, to the extent of losing their lives early, with no one implicated or held accountable as the cause.

This is to give perspective, if not inspire, yet the latter is difficult to understand now. When one is removed from a situation after some time the perspective changes, in the best of possible outcomes.

Who reads books anymore? Will it be found on a tablet device, in hardcover, or both? It's not a story; it's a reality for so many. Those not affected think it could 'never' happen to them, just like a natural disaster would not strike them either...

Without the 'bad', the 'good' cannot be appreciated, so they say, though losing years of a childhood or a lifetime takes its toll. In the broad perspective of humanity, it's a part of the social evolution from the framing of the Constitution until now. No one is really immune to the effects in 'the big picture'; it's an illusion to think otherwise.

Maybe not entering on time today as opposed to yesterday is a reflection of dwelling on things that are unpleasant and overshadowing being something not easily addressed or articulated. To focus on putting what's necessary into words takes emotion and energy. The difference between those who survive and those who have more difficulty is a willingness or ability to do the unpleasant, the same as those who succeed.

‘Older’

“Life begins at 40.” Not anymore. According to recent media proliferation, “50 is the new 30”. A life began at 40, for the first time: a child. No previous pregnancies (that I’m aware of); had ‘given up’ on the prospect of becoming a mother and was beginning to look into ‘alternative parenting options’.

Then it happened, or something started that would forever change identity and perspective. In many ways profound and significant, in others, disillusioning regarding relationships and the scope of ‘human nature’.

Purpose took shape, in a way that will define the other perhaps half century to follow. The legacy at work is merely a continuation of the examples of role models that inspired and created the most positive experiences that existed in childhood.

It remains difficult to grasp, now that taking care of one’s health has moved to the forefront after not shadowing the threshold of a doctor’s domain for nearly ten years. Most of the people administering medical maintenance are younger, doctors included. Some look older; others are obviously not. This is where not feeling my age begins to all but scream.

I feel just over 30; my body speaks otherwise. I’ve the energy to keep up with my child when fully ambulatory. By the same token the energy also comes from a young life that looks to me for inspiration, validation, and explanations of things he can’t understand. Most of the time, the answers are to his satisfaction. Most of the time, our relationship is deepened on what matters most.

The most frustrating part about personal ‘health care’ is the time consumption. In offices where you don’t want to be takes up days of valuable time that would otherwise be spent on further advancing one’s life, and the lives of all others affected, especially my child, for whom the quest was entirely created.

Those in ‘retirement’ don’t have this concern. I’m close to the age where going to a doctor has become part of a monthly routine for some, as if it were some lifestyle activity. I look forward so much to when it tapers down to what might be ‘normal’ for who I consider myself to be at this point in life: very active and someone who doesn’t look or feel their age.

When I was as vibrant as a few of the women I’ve observed sticking needles in, taking them out, or some other related function, it wasn’t on my radar that those I serviced would one day be someone like me: someone who was once like them at an earlier point in life. We don’t typically think that way. What we become when we’re ‘older’ is a transformation that is either an extension of an earlier life, someone completely unrecognizable from their ‘youth’, or something in between.

The unsettling thing is how quickly it happens. I can remember when my child was an infant as if it were yesterday. The joy was so overwhelming, and so fleeting, as what would not be wished on even an ‘enemy’ began to transpire, and it was all I could do in simply remaining active in protecting the precious and special life that had been brought into the world for a reason.

It became the protection of a life and a purpose: his. It is ongoing. He is not the same child before the negative forces of human nature ‘out there’ left an indelible mark. To dwell on it would be too devastating. Moving on daily is all that can be done, until the lights are brighter and the road ahead is clearer.

It’s easier to accept that those administering my ‘health care’ or ‘maintenance’ are years my junior than my child losing sight of his purpose from influences that have their own interests as ‘priorities’. He has responsibility imposed upon him that is not his, thus taking responsibility for things that are not about him, affecting his emotions, actions, and choices. It has become ingrained to the point of being reflexive: everything I took action to prevent what he could be exposed to, a broken system only exposed him more. He has become a commodity, an acquisition, a showpiece, motivated by pleasing those he must to survive on many levels when away from what was created during his earlier years.

He has not lost sight of that, though the longer or more he is elsewhere, the impressions fade. Who he is fades under the glare of ‘surviving’ at an age when he is most vulnerable. He is alone with unanswered questions and thoughts no one can explain to his satisfaction, so he doesn’t bother asking most of the time. His responses are signature, though no one sees or listens when it’s actually happening.

Exceptional children are reinforced consistently of both their abilities, what they can do in the world and when. In the absence of the former, confusion and internal conflicts arise; long term implications are not realized. All kinds of signature symptoms appear, that seem to be only obvious to competent professionals: those obscured from true protection of those they’re trained to represent.

The spinning is all for profit and status, and a young innocent life is the means. He’s not the only one. He didn’t come into the world for this. What’s done cannot be undone, though there is still hope. “What goes around comes around” has meaning for a reason. It can’t go on forever.

Those my age are established, having created empires that will long support their heirs. Most had lots of help in some form or another. Being everything to one person is not profitable unless a team is also in place. An example of healthy relationships exists, though they’re so rare. A glimpse and reference point is to remain constant, or another life could be sacrificed from others’ needs, that either come with a price, or can be bought.

The cause of true aging? Negativity is one, which isn’t me. Wasted time is another, also not me. Stereotyping on a systemic level doesn’t help. Apathy clouded by profit incentives doesn’t either. Being too affected by others contributes (not me again).

Which leaves what? The ‘forties’ in some ways were an oblivious blur, mixed with joy and unmatched anguish, all because of a child coming into the world, defining a purpose of his own and shaping yet another: keeping the former, among other things inextricably connected.

I’m not envious of those who had the kind of support where they could move ahead much earlier, like those who now stick needles and other things into me on occasion. I embraced the term ‘late bloomer’ long ago, yet didn’t imagine that it could only be beginning now. I’m now and forever a mom first, and all that follows is merely an extension of that identity, for a reason.

You may be reading this at an age a couple of decades prior to midlife. Know this: it will be here sooner than you expected. Procrastination is a luxury no one can afford because time is the ultimate commodity. A child to a certain kind of parent puts into razor focus the value of time. To others, it creates resentment imposed upon children for which they can neither escape nor take away the permanent effects. No ‘damages’ can compensate for what has been taken away, if or when identified.

Single or without children doesn’t mean actions do not affect. Everyone you come into contact with is either a parent or someone whose life influences the next generation, thus your legacy as well. That ‘wings of a butterfly’ ripple effect concept? Believe it. And that’s just on a ‘regular’ day, as if there really was such a thing.

Uncertainty...

... is a reality, daily. We only really only have one day at a time, and making the most of every day is a duty for some, and unrealized by others. It can become taxing, however, when knowing this becomes the routine, and packing in as much as possible so as not to procrastinate and get as much done as possible takes its own toll.

I don't know when it happened, but it did; there are hundreds of times that triggers were set off, when having too much adrenalin in the system at an elevated level for too long had its effect. Statistics already in one way, there is no intention to become one in yet another way.

So the willingness to really live continues, and has taken on yet another meaning. It's all for my child and the next generation. I do deserve to live, and to have a good life as well, to be able to enjoy my child while they still wish for my presence, and perhaps enjoy grandchildren, too. If not my own, then others'.

I can take this, it's almost easy compared to the slings and arrows of years and months past. I don't understand those who thrive on news of others' misfortunes; there's enough to go around for everyone, and everyone can do something that others cannot. The world is still in a very primitive mode, where it could otherwise prosper in many ways.

The only dream now is real quality time with my child and family, as much as possible for as long as possible. For that to happen, things must change.

There's no reason not to think this won't happen; it's just taken so long, and so much. Mistakes have been made that have harmed others sometimes with no knowledge on the part of who was responsible for the domino effect. Others knew exactly what they were doing and didn't care. What goes around comes around? I'm not sure it's true or if it happens in time. The casualties cannot be brought back to life; the time cannot be replaced.

If it's all happening for a reason, I hope to find out before long. My child's laugh and smile are renewing, and make work so much easier and rewarding. Focus and concentration are of so much better quality when it's certain he's safe, whenever those moments happen. Those in between can seem like an eternity. He was put here for a reason, as was I, there is still much we have to do, together.

Manicure

He wanted to do my nails. He had picked out an electric blue at the store we were in together and asked for the polish. He knew from our already expansive collection the benefits of nail enamel as paint. I asked if he wanted me to put it on myself. He said yes. When I had arrived he said he liked a similar color I had on; had taken a chance he might not like it.

He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.

He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.

He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.

I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.

It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.

I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.

Oh Crap

Thought of getting here three days ago, still much too late to make the usual time: a sign that a state of complete overwhelm has been in process.

There's a double meaning in the title. My son looks at me as if I'm cursing when I slip once in a blue moon using only the above. Makes sense, as in schools any semblance to unacceptable language is treated as if the most severe is uttered as well. He rarely hears me using 'inappropriate language' according to school standards, which is even a tame remote substitute to a real 'bad word'.

Being overheard with similar 'substitutes' when I was growing up was cause for nearly the most extreme reprimands and consequences, and corporal punishment was also not prohibited back then, either.

Now, from where he's been, he's developed his own 'vocabulary' that gets 'slipped' on me considerably more often than any he may overhear from me, fully aware that it doesn't fly in school either, yet he can't help himself. The exposure has taken over.

It's a direct response to the times, though moreso where he's been that I haven't, and have no wish or desire to ever go, behind closed doors.

It's not discouraged, and he has no shield of any kind. I can see the pain in his face when it happens with others when we're together, yet he still tries to stop me from any expression of rightful dissatisfaction if a public tirade from an extremely unenlightened member of the 'public' becomes disrespectful of both themselves and every one else around them by spewing obscenities unceasingly, oblivious to all children, women, and elders around them.

When PG movies came out, the same was the marker; now it takes much more, and current ratings of the former are full of what was intolerable or not rated as such only a decade ago.

Business proposal...

Was due the only time that was 'available'. Had I not completely forgotten, time would have been made. Again, it's an indicator of a major shift and overwhelming moments during the transition. The lesson is learning to manage at all times, within reason...

Everything comes back to it's all about the next generation, and one child in particular in the forefront. Lifechanging events lead to more lifechanging events over time when there are common threads, spun into rope, that can become like steel.

Now

No more time; not getting any younger. Life is too short; the time is now. Age means nothing. Jerry Lewis was right about one thing: underneath it all, everyone is nine years old. No one looks different from anyone else any more, all that shows is how evolved each one is, by what they say or do. My child is an old soul, torn between two worlds. Still working out the complexities of our intertwined relationship and how it melds with our respective purposes. He doesn't know his yet, nor would I. My purpose is to allow others to see they can choose much 'earlier' than I did. When my son is ready, he will either decide for himself or ask for guidance. I must continue either way; part of the reason for going on is my child, the rest are important as well, and will be included as they wish. I'm to simply be out and accessible, doing more than talking, accomplishing more than influencing. The latter will come with the former.

Better at picking battles, wishing there were none to decide between. Though that wouldn't be life on earth as we know it otherwise. The contrast creates the distinction between why there's so much effort and the potential rewards. Every single moment involves a choice. Like the wings of a butterfly against a breeze or flowing with the air currents. Sometimes it's all just timing, or so it would seem. Action, keep going, persist, don't stop. Keep breathing; 'the ability to take a deep breath' is checking into the moment of place, in touch with what is to be done, in the right place at the right time. Live well, choose, go, and be. In honor of one legacy, the one being created is only visible through what comes later, through actions and choices as small as the beating of butterfly wings from one moment to the next, until they all add up, and the mark in time is what remains.

Between...

Two worlds, two homes, two existences. Apologies for being late; not enough of me for all that needed to be done, again. It will get easier; must stay in the moment and focus on the priority, therefore, 'blog entry' came in second once more. There are other factors, of course: different time and place to name just two.

When it's easier, there's to be no tardiness, only more exposure and volume. Fatigued to the point of mind exhaustion, for the first time I can remember, here. The physical can only take so much at any given time, ignoring my age or otherwise.

Missing my best friend, the one that's 'forever'. Filling the days and going home late, as it's not truly alive yet, or isn't when there isn't other life there, the exceptional kind. All is preparation, work is not so much a chore as part of a process with a goal.

Missed a deadline, because there's only one of me; it was for all basic purposes self-imposed, with witnesses. I would have been happy for anyone that made it, even if I didn't, unless perhaps everyone made it other than me, though that isn't what happened. We're all on the same team, so there's only the marker for what's next: re-defining where we are and beginning another day differently.

Always watching or sensitive to children, remembering mine when he was all of the ages that seem like only yesterday. He remembers as well, with reminders of pictures or toys kept that survived the 'favorites' and were not let go.

So close; so far away

Was in front of the screen to write on the usual day, and priorities that could not wait came before time ran out; the same for the next day. It's the first time every effort was made to be in the right place was made when just being there wasn't enough. One person having to do what no one else can do; things having to be done before anything else. Overwhelming. It may be the last time such constraints exist; I certainly hope so.

The last illness took a tremendous toll: unprepared, frustrated, not comprehending why so much time passed with little or no improvement. No chance for proper rest, no back-up. No nurse. No family nearby. Fortunately I'm ill so infrequently. Dragged myself here another day as another day still was not an option.

A bike tour detoured all traffic; the last two years and this one the route went right past our front door, where my son 'refreshed' everyone with his rotary-powered Superman watergun as they rode by. He's not here this weekend. He's far away, to a place I would not have taken him. He'll be back. He would be happy the race didn't have railings this year so that he could get closer to his targets with the water gun.

One year he had enough water guns for all of the children two doors down, so the bikers encountered a wet ambush. Only one other year was it cool enough for the water to be unwelcome. Today it was missed and would have been met with open arms off the handle bars. Saw a bike with three seats and helmet covers that looked like jesters and fish; lots of bright colors. I could only see them go by from the window, staying horizontal as long as possible until coming out for what cannot wait.

Every day it's something that can't be put off another day; feeling better would make a big difference. Where's my sense of humor? Congested in my chest, the kind that hasn't gone away for too many days now. Got material, and no energy to even sit up at home to get it all down. Where's the limo when you need it most? Where's the personal assistant? Where's the support? The results of years of effort? Any day now. Any day.

Turning the corner

This time tomorrow, it will be another decade, another birthday, another turning point. This year is no exception in that having a birthday at a time when others are celebrating makes for leaving out the details of one's personal reality, for better or otherwise. It's not about age, as this has been happening since adolescence or as long as can be remembered. It's just too much at once: a birthday and major holiday at the same time, not unique to anyone who is familiar with the same.

So the celebration is deliberately a quiet one, known only by those close. Forgotten almost as soon as it's mentioned to anyone who might overhear, unless one is a celebrity. Still no regrets there. There might have been another child, though not the same one, who has been a gift and a miracle. As fragile as ever, who brought on the reckoning of another childhood lost, though not so much as others. Knowing the latter neither compensates for or lessens the impact when it's your only family, one's only child, grandchild, nephew, cousin, with their own precious life that passes in minutes, hours, days, and weeks that will not be replaced.

To some, we are not unique, depersonalized and labelled from the moment help and protection is sought. Categorized, stigmatized, triaged, stereotyped, profiled: our social conditioning, the biases of our respective environments, or simply social pressure, sometimes called 'politics', for lack of a better term. No wonder so many times 'no good deed goes unpunished'. In a different environment it's nearly impossible to imagine what happens to others, much less the long-term impact, especially early in life. For those who survive the connections and progression becomes very clear over time, yet those considered elders without awareness or knowledge continue to repeat history.

There is always something to be grateful for, yet for those whose loved ones are unaccounted for or whose whereabouts or state of health is unknown there is no peace. Not everyone loves children, not even their own; for those who do life is never the same once the completely unexpected changes everything forever in the blink of an eye, the stroke of a pen, an uninformed statement, all at once. Over time, there are many tears unknown or ignored, the source unrecognized. There are premature deaths, literal and of the spirit; personalities become completely different from abrupt changes in environment and exposure. And we wonder what is wrong with the current generation or the one before, as if it had nothing to do with the decisions of those who never touched them 'in any direct way'.

Perception is not what we see, any more than what we're told. The evolution of a spirit is only as good as its environment and support system in many regards, though not all. No child deserves to have their childhood taken. Looking at others through different eyes and listening to the words of souls without knowing where they came from one cannot distinguish between who is actually the child, as the most wisdom often comes from who is thought to be the latter.

So as the fireworks go off and confetti descends, the choice is to remain silent, for now.