Thursday Thirteen

 What a bear it is to prepare and pack to move. Even though I've done it before, I had no idea. I am dreaming about boxes and missed deadlines. Exhaustion reigns throughout #9.

So I'm posting from older photos to tease myself into believing that, like before, better times are coming. Maybe you could use a hopeful reminder too.

Meanwhile, please pray for me. Even if you don't believe….

Love
kj

first grand

first time my book appeared in a window (swoon)

first time I worked with children

no comment needed

first book on careers, which has not been finished.

first best yard

first early evening in Northampton

first roses

i just like it 

first wonderful Mother ever

first favorite book (after Anne of Green Gables)

first reason to appreciate a beautiful world 

first reason to appreciate the light where I'm moving to

Moving Memories

They look like just things and boxes, but it's a trick. Every book I pack for Saturday's yard sale, every china cup I let go of, even as I discard the yearly calendars that span back twenty years: they are all alive. Not things at all. 

I knew it was serious when I came across my daughter's tiny love letters and scribbles, written to me from her long ago kindergarten classroom that is no doubt much like the one her children now occupy; those same children who write me new love letters and scribbles. It's killing me to discard the old for the new, but I will not have room. I am moving and even if I managed to find extra space, it's time for me to rely on my memories as pure stardust and no longer on their physical substance.

My son-in-law's Father died two days ago. A freak terrible accident in his yard in Northern Maine, and  his children and the wife he left but always loved must face a sudden loss with no good-bye. Anything can happen: I know that. This kind of instant grief insists that I remember the high cost of regret. It's important that I love now and that I make that love clear and unmistakable. It's important to do the right things.

I am moving from a wonderful house. Box by box it is being unraveled and yet even as it empties it is still proud and whole. The hot tub has been sold. Furniture is on Craig's List. Saturday we will have a giant yard sale with relief that we will be lighter at the end of the day (hopefully.) I am moving to a place I know by the sea and it is well familiar to me and yet, I have no real idea what my life will be like there. The last months and the next months ahead are filled with so much exhaustion that I can barely imagine unwinding into a true pace of leisure. I will still work and I will indeed finish my story of the Macabees and I only hope my bum knee and hip will let me walk more and take in the healing ocean air. I hope I will have new friends and be visited by my old friends and I know I will travel every other week across a long bridge and on a long highway to see my daughter and son-in-law and four small children who still squeal and run to me every time I arrive. 

All of this and I have pneumonia! It's come from depletion and it is thankfully mild. In between packing and sorting and planning I rest on the couch and think about my luck of the draw. I now know I had very good parents. They are responsible for my core strength and integrity. I am no angel but I am honest and decent. Because I had very good parents. 

I am glad to be here at my blog tonight. I have a home here. It too has changed but the stardust of my memories is forever. Good that I know that. I hope you know that too about your own stardust memories. Memories are gold. You can't go wrong sharing them.

love

kj 

Selling A House (Not Just Any House) Part I

With his own hands and help from his stepbrother and father, my Father built this house in the early 1940's. I  just learned the foundation was dug out by hand, no machines, by a number of men who came from afar to help over a weekend.

What you are looking at is a solid house neglected over the past five or six years and also my Father's treasures and their display in his room in the cellar. 

We were advised to upgrade the electrical, fix the brick steps, things like that, but to pretty much sell the house as a fixer upper, After the tenant moved out, it was an unclean mess. Call it intuition or conviction or whatever, but I never wavered: there was no way in holy hell I would let my Father's house be sold looking like that. 

I was right. After a mason, electrician, two handymen-carpenters, landscaper, cleaner, and exhausted JB and myself: here is the house that made it's debut barely a week ago "for sale." The photos are fantastic: it doesn't look quite this charming, but honestly, we did a hell of a job. And my father's solid solid work--not one crack in the smooth walls when the wallpaper came down, and his perfect hardwood floors even after all these years--his quality just shines. 

Look here:

http://revirtualtour.com/tours/11Naviens_b/

It was clean as a whistle. It sold in three days. I'm so glad for my parents. Before it's too late, my brother and I and our families will sit in the kitchen again, and eat pizza. 

love

kj

P.S. I know I'm absent here. I expect to be back, to be writing more. For now, it be true that I is in a whirlwind. A bit of a tornado, even.

xoxo

Title Unknown :^)

Well here I am. I wish I had words to describe the last month or so. Maybe Whirlwind. Memories. Possessions. Houses. Photos. Exhaustion. Emotion. Love. Plenty of love.

JB and I put our house of 11 years on the market today. It made its debut today: an Open House with a good realtor who it turns out gathers an attentive audience with good food and good sangria. JB and I worked for days to clean and declutter and shine the house up and other people helped us and honest to god it looks fabulous.

And two hours away, my Mother and Father's house, on a dead end lane. It will go on the market next week, after the painters and electricians and handy people finish the repairs and upgrades. I keep thinking I will not let this house look one iota less than my Father, a mason, who built it himself, with his step-brother, would allow. There is pride in this house and it is a solid thing: you can see it in the walls. It's become old and tattered and I don't know how it will show itself in the end, but I hope I feel a certain way as soon as I set foot in it again. Tomorrow. 

Memories: I can't carry or keep them all. Especially the material kind: cards, bankbooks, presents, holidays, gifts, dishes, photos that cover four generations of my family. My Mother and her 15 sisters and brothers (4 were steps-.) My daughter and her wonderful wild wise kids. JB and the places we've been.

I'm feeling all of it. It's inside a list that's averaged twenty or more things that must be done, every day. For now.Things to be Scheduled. Arranged. Reciprocated. Inspected. Appreciated.

There's the word! Appreciated. I'm looking back on my childhood and I know I had good parents, a good family.

I'm looking at my Jessica and her Mike and those kids and I just about weep joy for her.

And JB. And myself. We are headed to a strange new land we ironically, intimately know. In time we'll pack up and move here and the commotion and bustle will settle down and then I will take a deep breath, drink that delicious cup of coffee a little slower, and then I  will wonder what will be next.

p.s. No complaints--who could really complain about a ride on a roller coaster?

Love

kj 

Here & There

It's been so long since I've posted. Life is changing.  Before the Fall, I'll be leaving the farms of Western Massachusetts, and this little house. I'll be leaving the best yard with the most sun I've ever had. And friends--I'll be leaving friends. 

I'm heading to the ocean. Provincetown on Cape Cod, to be exact. Population up to 20,000 in the summer and as low as 700 in the winter. JB and I are moving into our little cape house and we're determined not to clutter it. That means decisions about what to keep and what to leave. The place has an ocean simplicity to it: it's white and airy and relaxing and easy. But first, we have a house to sell. Wait, did I say one? Because it's TWO--my parent's house is going on the market at the same time. It is two hours away from me and in need of a cosmetic we won't do to my satisfaction. I hope some one, a family, walks into it and calls it home. It's been home to me for many years. My father and grandfather, and my uncle Sammy, built it themselves. That house too needs packing and cleaning and sprucing up.

It's all a bit overwhelming. I have a to-do list with at least 30 calls or arrangements to make a day. Masons and carpenters and emptying closets and file cabinets and Home Depot screw-ups and my work and the story of Christine Macabee and her family. And of course my own precious family including four littles, ages 8, 6, 3, and 1. And traveling to and from. 

Whew. 

This is the house where I'm heading. We'll be one block from the public beach and feeling the late afternoon sun on the back deck. I'll be writing and working and gardening here. I'll socialize. We'll adopt a shelter dog and I'll search for a publisher. If I'm smart, I'll also get myself in way better shape and not fail to regularly count my blessings. 

I'm also involved in the larger world. I've been following the events in Ferguson Missouri and now Baltimore closely- the black communities and poverty and the police. I think I know a lot about all this. I worked in a very poor inner city for five years as a therapist and I saw my clients in their homes and with their families. Plus I'm a counselor and I understand some things. 

The opportunities that used to exist don't. You can't make a real living on minimum wage. Not even on $ 12.00/hour. And even if you might come close, there are no jobs in the poorest communities. And no transportation. You get hired in a neighboring town and take three buses to get there and you get fired because you're too often late or you quit because three buses and four hours of traveling and eight hours working for $ 8/hour is  too much. Honestly, I don't think most of us would or could sustain that. But it's not just that. The effort puts you behind, not ahead.  

This is a reason why dealing drugs is high in poor communities. It's a way to make money. And a good deal of police activity is controlling drugs. It's a victimless crime but with great risk if you're a black male and you happen to encounter the police over it. That is just the way it is. Sad to say the facts bear this out. 

Petty drug dealing and use is a root of poverty, not to omit that there are also plenty of families in very poor communities that have nothing to do what-so-ever to do with drugs or crime but are also part of the cycle of poverty. It might look like a lack of motivation among those folks who could but don't work, but it's just the tip of it. I assure you that 2/3rd of my clients on welfare would work or agree to work if it wasn't so difficult and there wasn't so much to lose:  Public housing. Day Care. Food Stamps. Fuel Assistance. Health Insurance. Add those benefits up and you'd best be making $ 20 an hour or you won't even come close.

What's needed? Real Jobs. Unskilled and skilled both. And transitional or permanent supplements for paychecks that hover at the poverty level.

I wish I had the time and energy to contribute to solutions. But I don't and won't. Not to say that I don't look for ways to do my share, because I do. The thing is, I'm not as optimistic as I used to be, but I see more good than bad in most people and in the world. For me, that's my ace in the whole.

Best wishes and love,

kj

Another Snippet

I can't say exactly why I'm chuckling writing a lot of this book, but here's an example that cracks me up between my main character Christine Macabee and her sister Louise  

 :^)

1997

The scream was so loud both cats dived under the bed. From his bedroom John made it to the kitchen to see my mother holding the phone above her head and shouting into it. The call was so animated he could hear Aunt Louise on the other end.

“He’s dead!” my mother shrieked. “He died!”

“Who? Who?” Aunt Louise shouted back.

“John! He died today.”

“John? Oh my god. Oh my god.” John knew that tone. Aunt Louise is about to faint.

My mother will have none of it. “Louise, don’t toy with me. I know you’ve never liked him.”

“Never liked him? John? Christine, are you crazy?”

The light bulb goes off. There is recognition on my mother’s face.

“John DENVER, Louise.”

“John Denver? Not John?”

“Yes John, but John Denver, not our John. Do you think I’d be blubbering if it was my John? I’d be comatose.”

“Son of a holy bitch, Christine. You scared the holy hell out of me.” Then, as an afterthought, Aunt Louise added, “In this case I have no sympathy.” Then, curiosity like cream rose to the surface., “So what happened?”

I acknowledge in advance that it's possible that this may not be as funny to you as it is to me this moment. :^) but either way, it's a good ride so far :^)

love
kj

Metaphorical Backpacks

Places I like

Things to do

Books

Songs

Movies

Food

Family

Subjects

Favorites

Yup. That about does it. (okay, of course add Sex too)

If a fourth grade class can pack a metaphorical backpack with simple pleasures, surely you and I can too.

Mine:

Places I like: Paris, New York City, Provincetown, Swimming pools on hot days

Things to do: Writing Books, Restaurants, Ocean walks, the Morning Paper

Books: Currently, my Own. About Family & Devotion

Songs: The Best Day of My Life, You Raise Me Up, Down at the Twist & Shout

Movies: Paddington Bear (I was with little kids but I loved it on my own)

Food: Artichokes, Mexican anything, Milk Chocolate anything, & Pizza

Family: No Price Too High for their Safety & Joy

Subjects: Relationships & Gardens

Favorites: Quiet Time & Wild Time

Sex: Wasn't That A Time

Things are hopping here. I'm back in Provincetown this time for a month, and I'm just starting to settle into a new all around rhythm. I still work, I still write, I still count money, I still love and gallivant with JB, I still relish time with Jess and Mike and the kids, I still scratch my head and I still give thanks.

It is almost Spring here. Almost.

And what's in your metaphorical backpack?

Love

kj

An Rambling Update on the Turtle

This is a little boy, Mr. Ryan, age 8, who put words and pictures to his life and is excited about all of it. His family, Cape Cod, sports, tacos. Travel. Video games. 

My list is half different than his. In fact, in the past few months I've become well acquainted with lists. There's been compelling reasons to be overwhelmed.

BUT

I haven't. 

Just so you have some context, my Mother's died, we had Christmas, I'm back to consulting work (happily so far), we renovated and rented our disaster of a condo in Rhode Island (another story), I finished 100 hours of professional online courses (had to), and we are beginning the beginning of readying to sell our house here in Western Massachusetts and move to Provincetown (big move). It hasn't stopped snowing. And I'm deep into writing my book (I love.)

I'd say that is a busy life. But funny thing is what's going on for me is inward and not centered on chores. I'm looking back and looking ahead, able to acknowledge how much right my parents did in raising me, and beginning to imagine how I want things to be for me ( and JB) (and Jess and the kids) in the months and years to come. 

I am nostalgic and wistful and grateful and hopeful. Most of the time I'm present and most of the time I don't stress or worry like I used to. I've discovered that my best style is truly turtle-like, not just a metaphor. I don't mean I'm slow, because I'm not. I mean that I don't do well when I have piles of things to do and I do do well when I look at that pile and just do what will work for me at the time, hoping that little by little that will be enough. And so far it's worked. I've gotten a lot done without being buried.

I actively follow the horrible events in the Mid-East and Israel and Ferguson MO and in the lives of elephants and dolphins and lab dogs and chimps. I know that Provincetown has a huge problem with affordable housing. 

And I have a garden to build. Travels to take. I have grandchildren who will go to the movies with me.  

So much is pretty close to perfection, huh? Yes. 

BUT

Life doesn't work that way. Just knowing that fact has prepared me to expect the best and the worse, depending, to be ready for either. If it's joy, may I put my hand out and grab it while it's flying by; and if it's despair may I know I have accumulated enough strength. 

That's how I seem to be living these days. Just saying…..

Love

kj

A snippet from the new novel….

Christine Macabee, mother of four and lover of all poems good and bad, is a bona fide John Denver. groupie.  I'll let her tell you something about that herself….

John Denver died in a holy mess of splat when the plane he was flying crashed to smithereens into Monteray Bay. He had just bought the two-seated fiberglass plane that the orignal owner built from a kit and it was his for just one day.  It was a Sunday afternoon and he wanted to take it on a test spin down the coast. I read all about it: he had practiced three touch and go landings -he’d head up, swoop down to the runway and then pull back up. I’ve never been to California but I imagine at 5:28 in the afternoon the sun must have still been a ball of yellow gold and he must have loved seeing the white glitter balls bouncing off the ocean and onto the windows of the houses that dotted the Bay. In the days that followed I read everything I could get my hands on: he was about a hundred and fifty feet from shore, and five hundred feet above the ocean--that’s not very high, five hundred feet.  Witnesses said his plane just plunged straight down into the water and broke apart on impact. He was so badly mutilated that all they could tell was that he was a male. His brain, teeth, eyes, one arm, and seventy-five percent of his head was missing, You can imagine how I reccoiled reading that--my wholesome sunshine man picked up like rubbish.

I don’t know if his wicked second wife Cansandra arranged to cremate what was left of him, but thank God a representative of Parker Funeral Home took his ashes personally to Colorado. The funeral service was held on Friday, October 17^th, 1997 at the Faith Presbyterian Church in Aspen, Colorado. Over two thousand people attended and of course, I was there too, sitting in my kitchen, holding my rosary beads.  I read that John’s horse Tonto was brought the church and six airplanes flew overhead, rocking their wings in a salute. I tried to send prayers and energy to Aspen but it didn’t seem like enough: I was obliged to arrange my own tribute. So a week later, on a rainy Sunday at 5:30 pm, just before our take out pizza arrived, I replaced the red and white checkered kitchen vinyl tablecloth with my grandmother’s white linen runner, I placed two tapered white candles on each end of the dining room table and put John Denver’s eight by ten inch gold framed photo in between them, and In front of his photo, in my best cursive handwriting, I placed the  ten dollar mass card I ordered from the Sacred Heart Church. I set the table and on each dinner plate I left a typed copy of “Perhaps Love,” my favorite John Denver song. 

There would be ten of us that evening: the kids, Louise, Jimmy’s brother Milton, and Jack and Ruby Nelson, our neighbor’s to the left. 

There is not much else that equals the fun I'm having getting to know Christine Macabee...

love kj

Two Parts

Part 1: Reflection

 Do you think this statement is true? I do. For various reasons I've been thinking about my life past and future. Probably because my Mother has died, probably because of the reality and likelihood that JB and I will soon move, probably because the world and politics and climate change and human affairs seem more discouraging by the day: I find myself leaning into the values I was taught in childhood. Honesty. Responsibility. Love. Compassion. Generosity. Simplicity.

My parents brought me up in this six room Cape, built by my Father and Grandfather. We lived modestly but never without food and clothes and Christmas presents. My Father was as simple as a man could be: he was a proud bricklayer, came home every night covered with dust, made jokes at the supper table, fell asleep watching television. Except for one incident when my Mother insulted his Father and he lashed out at her, I don't recall him ever worrying. Not ever. He accepted things as they were and he lived without questions. During the four months that cancer slowly killed him, even then he was at peace, trusting my Mother to decide what was best and never once questioning why or what was happening. 

My Mother died the same way. Both my parents had difficult childhoods. Neither made it past sixth grade. Both were poor. My Father's stepmother disliked him and my Mother was the youngest of sixteen. No pun intended, it seems to me that they built their lives and their family brick by brick.

They someone managed to give my brother and I grit. Confidence even. And values that even now push through.

Some who know me think I've had an easy peasy life. But really, is that true of anyone? Sooner or later we face loss, disappointment, worry, ambivalence. "But who in their right mind wouldn't want to live?" my Mother would ask off-handedly and she meant it every time. She was glad to be alive and that was plenty for her.

Why am I thinking and writing about this today? The weather's at fault. It's been an inside winter of thinking, remembering, reflecting. What now? If you're lucky or unlucky, depending, every so often life gives you a blank canvas. New decisions. New directions. But no guarantees, and that's a potential for sure problem because our minds crave guarantees and do their best to make us nervous when we don't deliver. Blank canvasses happen when people lose their jobs, lose their health, lose their bearings. And sometimes they happen just because the universe informs that it's time. For me, it's time: a new chapter's ahead. It's exciting, unknown, uncertain.  I have hopes and plans. I'm open to the unpredictable. I don't welcome change, but I know better than to resist. 

There is melancholy as I write this and I know it's obvious. All I can say is yup. That and hope too. 

How about you? What are you up to these days? How do you feel? Where are you headed? Surely I'm not alone.

Part 2: Weather Report  

 Here's a glimpse: Boston and Massachusetts in the midst of snow and more snow. Those are cars buried in those mounds. It's been kind of unbelievable. Not as horrible as the national news makes it sound, but the weather has definitely made havoc of transportation and plans and work and worries about ice dams and weak roofs and frozen pipes. 

I speak for most of the East Coast. We're done. Can't wait to see a crocus.

Meanwhile, I pick up my colors and words and begin again…..

love
kj

Mish Mash Snippets

1. Here it is: my house in the ever snowing winter of all winters in Massachusetts. For three weeks we have had one storm after another. The snow is as high as it looks. In Boston there is another 18 inches or so more than this. We're all sick of it but Bostonians are a gutsy lot. I'm proud to be from here. 

2. The realtor called today with news. "A woman wants to rent your apartment. She gave me a deposit."

"What is she like?"

Hesitation: "She's from India."

"And…"

"I don't think it's a problem because she says she doesn't use curry when she cooks so it won't permeate the rugs and walls."

"I don't care about that. Is she nice?"

"Yes, very."

"Did you check her employment and finances?"

"Yes, she's employed and pays her bills on time every month."

"Okay then. That's great."

"Some people don't want to rent to people from India because of the curry."

"Not a problem."

"Great."

Me: Yay.

3. The hospice center called today with a message. "We want you to know we're here if you need help in grieving." I don't need help. The thought I keep having is that I was loyal and present for my Mother for all the years she needed me. So this is what the absence of regret feels like, and it is a feeling as valuable as love. 

4. This book I am writing: here is mother-of-four Christine talking about her sister Louise and their childhood. 

Anyway, when Louise returned from the convent, things got easier for me again although my freewheeling privacy came to a halt.  She kept track of my homework and curfews and had the audacity to read my diary about Anthony and my breasts.

“Absolutely NOT!” she hollered downstairs, ordering me to leave the breakfast table and appear before her in my no longer private bedroom.

“Listen to me, Pip. Not now at thirteen, not later at sixteen. Your body is a vessel of God. You have to keep it chaste until you get married.”

“What does ‘chaste’ mean, Louise?”

“It means nobody touches your privates.”

“What about kissing? Because Anthony kissed me with his tongue and I liked it. Are you sure you know about this, Louise? Anthony told me if I let him touch my boobs I will feel it down here and it will be great.” I pointed. 

“NO, NO, NO” Louise screamed. “You’ll go to hell.”

The hell part was enough for me. I admit I kissed and humped my way through my teenage years but no boy got under my clothes until my first husband Norman and he must have been no Anthony, because even when I managed to stay awake, it was all pretty iffy.

5. So what else is new? Nothing but more snow. :^)

love

kj

The Turtle and the Duck

Not that I don't have reason to worry. 

It's a fierce winter and pipes can freeze, roofs can leak, power can fail. 

And I'm swamped by real estate matters: caring for our dream house in Provincetown in a blizzard, caring for our house here in Western Mass when we're there not here, my mother's house, should we sell it?, a little condo I bought as an investment years ago that now needs a new kitchen and new windows and a full makeover--$$$ I hadn't expected.

And the Income tax return for last year.

Re-applying and testing to renew counseling license.

I could continue.

It's a time of transition all right. Big and small and many decisions ahead. I am working and and I am yearning and trying to see my Jessica and the kids at least twice a month and I am writing a book. 

And I should say I am going to the gym a few times a week, because I should be doing that, but I can only say that's barely half way true.

Still, last year I made some fine decisions for myself. 

The biggest and best was to start living like a turtle. Turtle Living. This means I still get things done but I no longer let them overwhelm me to the finish, because I do a little here and a little there, sometimes more, trusting that in time I will finish. And I usually do finish. But I don't angst over the weight of the finish line. 

I took care of the garden and the yard and the bills and my work assignments and my chores and my travels this way all last year and I've done fine. So I'm turtling my way through life, officially.

This morning I to my surprise have added another approach: living like a duck. Duck Living. 

This means I do what I can, or not, when I encounter people or situations that upset me, but then I let the upset roll off my back, like a water off a duck. I am not (as often) holding on to stressful people or events, officially, as of now. I will be polite and forgiving to even difficult people, normally, but I'm moving on from stress or confusion if that's what's best.

I should probably include one other thing that seems to help me humongeously. Each morning, first thing, I spend at least 30 minutes sipping my coffee and reading the newspaper and sometimes just sitting, staring out the window. This sets the tone for my day. Unlike my old way of jumping right in to whatever greets me.

Finally, I am cooking and baking uncharacteristically. And I still feel good about my book. I'm writing and researching and organizing and forcing JB to listen to me read chapters out loud. I have a plot :^)

In a couple of months, I will know more about where I will live and when and why. I will know more about the role of $$$ in my life ahead, and whether or not I will lose the weight I shouldn't be carrying.

In a couple of months, I will still be living like a turtle and living like a duck. It works for me.

And I may add another animal or two.

love

kj

A Partial Rant

Hello, it's been a while. It's a new year. I hope you are well xo. I've been busy settling into the person I've become and am becoming, Note the present and future tenses--a bit of a magic trick involving parallel time. 

My Mother died a month ago and I have been given incredible comfort by how gracious and loving her passing and everyone around us was to her and to us her family. My days are now very different, mostly because of what I no longer do. I am now free to travel distancesl, to stay in Provincetown, to be out and about however I want without trips and visits to the nursing home. I had a silver thread connected to my daughter Jessica until I knew she was happy and protected by her husband, a good man; and that same sliver thread was then extended to my Mother, who needed me. Now it's different. I am still willingly tethered to the people I love, but there's a freedom too.

I've been grouchy. Here at my blog I have always welcomed diversity and differing perspectives. Heck, for several years I loved someone who loved Dick Cheney. But I've had it. My tolerance is gone. If you are reading this and you truly believe that the likes of George Zimmerman and the Ferguson police officer and the choke hold in New York and several other incidents involving black people were not and are not directly or indirectly connected to  racist behavior, and that these kinds of acts are not harmful--dangerous even--to our society, I'm not the girl for you. I'm disappointed, bewildered, and often infuriated by the racial prejudice in all kinds of communities and I can't help it. Of course you can comment if you disagree but I may not respond. I don't seem to have the will for persuasive discussion. The reality is pretty clear to me. And I'm glad I'm not alone in seeing that. 

This is not the only area that has used up my tolerance, but I'll save my feelings about the US Republican Congress and its  positions on just about everything for another day. 

Meanwhile, I am writing my novel and getting close to the polishing part.  Putting some of the chapters in the order of a readable story, reading it out loud to JB and myself, and making the effort to let these characters be themselves.   

What else is new with me? JB and I and Jess and Mike and their four kids and Jess' mother-in-law and sister-in-law and her husband and their three children and another sister-in-law and her husband have booked a week at Disneyworld  for next Christmas. We've rented a big house. With a pool. Everyone's excited.

And I'm working. From home and with great flexibility. I have clients again and I like that. Unlike my work in the poorest inner city of Springfield MA, my present clients are doctors and executives and folks with high earnings.  But the human issues and needs are the same. Involving Love. Purpose. Independence. Forgiveness.

I'll end this by saying I may come back and delete the paragraph above about race. It's not my way not to listen to all sides and it's not right to be rude to my friends and visitors who have taken the time to come here. But on the likelihood that I will leave this post as it is, all I can offer is my belief that we are all created equal and come on--George Zimmerman stalked that boy. Can we just start with that fact?

Love

kj

Sweet Too

My days are different. I still notice when it's 4:00 and I still have waves of emotion when I think about my Mother, but there is relief and freedom too. My daughter is content, we currently have no pets, my work schedule is as flexible as I want it, and I can almost see my way past paperwork. I'm free to zig and zag.

We had a pretty nice Christmas. In the midst of it arrived this remembrance lamp from Jessica's friend, Janna, and boy do I like the warmth of it.

 JB sewed and I painted this rocking chair for our little grand daughter.

And Christmas day was filled with very fun children--many boys and one little Reese. 

JB and I headed to Provincetown the next day, opened our Christmas stockings to one another, and took in the sunsets at the land's end. 

In 2014 I operated with a mantra that helped me enormously: WAIT TO WORRY. I also adopted a different approach to accomplishment: I called it TURTLE living.  Instead of becoming overwhelmed I just did a little bit most days and trusted that would be enough, that the whole would end up complete or complete enough. Both these approaches have cut down my worrying by 95%. My overwhelming yard work got done this way, and so did my normal chores. 

Last weekend Mr. Logan age 3 had an overnight with us, by himself--no grabby brothers to compete with. The whole event was just charming.  He slept in a big-boy bed for the first time.

You can tell by his expression how proud he was of himself. 

Last post I mentioned how many cards of condolence I've received. Dozens.  I keep staring at them. Inside is the love and caring of my friends and family. Lucky duck, I am. I won't forget.

I made ravioli for New Year's Eve. By myself. From scratch. My Mother's recipe. For JB and our friend Liz. I was proud and they were good.

What does it mean to lose your Mother? In my case I feel a softening taking place, as if her kindness and grit and joy of life has taken residence inside me. They'll be no resistance from me. 

 And finally: yesterday was my Mother's birthday. She would be 99. JB wisely suggested we celebrate by going to my beloved casino. It was a joyful day.

I hope in 2015 to see my second book published. It is an honor to be writing it. That must be a good sign.

Happy New Year. WAIT TO WORRY! And don't be afraid to TURTLE your way along. 

love

kj

The Pocket Books

from ryan

Her black fabric pocketbook. With two handles and three compartments. I made sure there was always a few dollar bills and a small container of change in the middle fold, besides my Mother's wallet with her driver's license and social security card and charge cards from the 1990's, several small color photos of her two grandchildren, and a stunning black and white one by one inch photo of herself when she was barely in her 20's. 

That pocketbook was my Mother's true North. No matter what was happening in her life, even through the last few years when she had no need for anything in it, when she was the slightest bit lost or confused or on the imaginary move, that pocketbook grounded her. She sought it, searched for it, asked for help in finding it, took comfort in it, and then forgot about it until the next time.

The pocketbook has stayed on my couch until yesterday, when I moved it five feet where it now sits on top of the box of my grandchildren's lego-type all colors plastic wheels, tucked into the side of the bookcase.  I'm searching for some use for it so I can keep it. I'm desperate enough to think about planting my jade cuttings in one of the compartments. (joke). 

I have been embraced by sympathy and condolence cards. I started hanging them up on one of the hall closet doors--across from our holiday cards spread across the inside of the front door, but there are so many. Maybe 30. Or 50. They say wonderful things: 

"We give comfort

and receive comfort

sometimes at the same time"

and from the little prince:

"In one of the stars

I shall be living

In one of them

I shall be laughing 

And so it will be 

as if all the stars 

were laughing

when you look

at the sky at night."

JB says the number of cards and calls and connections and offers of help is a bit amazing. It feels amazing. I figure there are probably 1, 2, or 3 reasons for so much caring and kindness:

1. It's so easy to feel and understand the loss of a Mother so it's easy and comforting to offer solace.

2. I'm actually blessed by the quality of the people in my life and by my efforts to connect and be kind to others. I'm not perfect by any means but I am sincere and when I care I care. Like my Mother did. 

3. The song, "You Raise Me Up," played at the chapel as my Mother's casket was carried in and I and JB and Jessica and my brother and sister-in-law walked behind her--that's my Mother's doing--raising me up so I can stand on a mountain and  catch kindnesses in the sky.

My family gave a card of thanks to every aide and nurse on the floor at the nursing home, with a surprise holiday $ inside. Today we received a card from one of my Mother's aides; one of the women who was the last to touch her and prepare her after her breathing stopped. She wrote us a note:

"It was easy to care for you and your Mother, and I'm in awe of your show of appreciation and love you gave us on a daily basis. It will forever stay in a small corner of my heart. My w(h)ish is to clone that mold in humanity."

Whatever we did to have even one person feel that way, to feel our appreciation, it "gives and receives comfort sometimes at the same time….."

Aha! It just hit me. I can gather all these cards and store them in that pocketbook; maybe in the compartment with the zipper. Maybe in all 3 compartments. And then, as I wonder where the heck to put that pocketbook, I can remember that I have somehow managed to be found and be loved; that I have inherited even more love; and that I have a duty to pass all that love around.

happy new year, my friends. Thank you most sincerely.

love

kj

the love story

We said goodbye this week. I'll let these photos speak for themselves. I'll only add that my Mom died comfortably and in peace. She left us with no regrets and with family and friends we celebrated her life through service and song. I will miss her forever, and my memories are wonderful. love kj

What Love Is

The last few days have been unreal. My Mother is dying. We have been given a private room at the Nursing Home and I have slept on a roll up bed near her for the last two nights. I woke from a fitful and interrupted sleep the first night telling myself I couldn't continue to sleep here. But at 5 am she cried out and my presence made a difference. Then today, although her communication with us and ours to her has been a hundred times 'I love you', she said, "please don't leave me alone." So I'm staying. I am surprised to acknowledge that I consider comforting her a high privilege. 

Despite her four children a her good husband traveling on business, my daughter Jessica arrived yesterday and stayed until mid-afternoon today. That's her hand entwined with her grandmother's. We cried so deeply. My Mother is almost 99 but it still feels too soon. We will miss her so much it hurts so much already. I watched Jess caress her and calm her and kiss her and I know yet again that I have raised a wonderful wonderful daughter.

And I'm feeling that my Mother has also raised a wonderful wonderful daughter. I am proud of myself.  

The staff here feels that the process of dying will not take a week now. They assure me my Mother  will remain peaceful and without pain. This morning, around six am, I put my iPhone to her ear and played Perry Como singing "Till the End of Time" and the soundtrack of "Some Enchanted Evening." And then Bing Crosby's "White Christmas." Her eyes were closed and she didn't move. We held hands and my tears fell. These tears are so much about love I almost welcome them.

My Mother has every reason to be proud of her life and her passage. She spoke my daughter's name. She kissed JB, she told my sister-in-law "I love you four times." She told us she is comfortable.

And me: she struggled but she got it out: "Karen, I've always loved you. I worried about you because I love you so much. I love you. I love you."

There will be heartbreak in this family. But there will be no regrets.

What a blessing.

love

kj