Already broken

It’s January 2^nd and I’ve already broken my No Resolution, resolution.  Remember?  Yep, that’s right, the one I made yesterday.

Dammit!  I said no resolutions for 2012, but I forgot that back in December I joined a great group of women on a 30-day cleanse starting January 2, 2012.  Dammit!  What a twit, right? 

I could blame it on the medicine they gave me for my headaches two weeks ago, which reeked havoc with my body, but I’ve stopped taking them and all the side-effects are now at last gone.  No one held a gun to my head nor twisted my arm.  I wasn’t on drugs and I haven’t had a drink since May 2007, so I guess I signed up of my own free will.

This 30-day cleanse has nothing to do with furniture polish, dust bunnies or bleach nor does it have anything to do with swearing less (I’ve been trying that one for years!).   It neither involves decluttering cupboards and garages nor bathing four times a day. 

It’s a TRICK!  It’s a fancy word for my old problem.  It’s a clever way to disguise what I don’t want to face.  You see, I have an arm to face problem coupled with splendid hand-eye coordination.  If this were a bank account, I would be super-rich, because I have the everlasting ability to put in more than I take out.

But no.  It’s about severing relationships with some of my best friends, like my BFF Vanilla Ice Cream, my soul mate White Chocolate, and my new confidante Pita Bread.

 When I immediately wrote on the group forum that I’d lost my Mojo, the women flocked to my rescue with wisdom and experience.   But I didn’t want to be rescued!  I wanted an excuse, a note from my mother, or something.  Just because I wrote HELP! At the end of the post has nothing to do with needing help.

They had all sorts of helpful hints for me starting with:

Focus on today

Work in a group

Make small goals

Do what you love (that was about exercise, OK?)

Make good choices

Allow yourself 21 days to change

… and last, but not least, stay accountable.

            So what do I do?  I agree to everything, I thank them profusely, I’ve had fruit and lots of water every two hours as agreed, but now it’s 6pm and there’s a hard-freeze announced for tonight and I don’t think a bowl of fruit is going to quite cut it for supper …

No Resolutions

     I'm not making any resolutions today.  No New Year's resolutions for me this year, I'm just going to let 2012 take me by surprise.

     All these years, since about 1966 (or as long as I can remember) I've been making some sort of New Year's resolution, a vow to myself, a promise to the world to: 

    Eat more

    Eat less

    Drink less

    Drink more

    Run faster

    Work harder

    Work less

    Sleep in

    Get up early

    Workout more

    Learn a new trick

    Dump an old habit

      Blah

          Blah 

                and blah

    The list goes on and on.

     All these New Year's resolutions collapsed one by one and somehow sputtered, fizzled out and died, so I would revisit them the following year with renewed enthusiasm and spirit (or was that guilt and embarrassment?  Maybe peer pressure?)

     When I finally quit drinking, it was on May 28th, 2007.  Nothing special about that day, although I'm sure it's someone's birthday, someone's anniversary, or someone's surgery date.  However, the day just came and the time was right to stop.  I stopped and it's worked every day since then.  I like that resolution.  

     November the 8th 2009 was the day I realized I needed to stop driving myself stupid with goals, work and pressure.  Perhaps it had something to do with my stress meltdown, but I took it onboard and so far it seems to be sticking.

     This morning I woke to the clean slate of 2012.  It was a glorious Florida morning: brilliant blue sky, a puff of mist over the lake, and a cool breeze coming in the open window which promised a gorgeous day.

     Yep, I thought, this year I'm not making any resolutions at all.  I'm going to let 2012 take me by surprise.  Whatever comes my way I will embrace or reject.  Maybe some day in February I'll decide to get back to the gym, but not today.  Maybe in July I'll think about training for a marathon in December, but not today.  That idea that I had about taking up kayaking ... who knows, maybe in May?

     2012 has the ring of a year of adventure, surprises and delights.  2012 strikes me as a time for new beginnings, end of old habits, and fresh ideas.  But I'm not going to plan a single one today.

     No resolutions for me this year.  I'm just going to let 2012 take me by surprise.

     Hmmm.  Somehow I think I just made a resolution ... 

Joy ... in Uruguay

Summer evenings and fireflies,

Bare feet and sun burnt faces

Cicadas winding-down

High up in towering           

Eucalyptus trees.

Sudden summer showers

Running barefoot together

Under a huge

Oversized red umbrella.

Chasing, racing, screaming,

Ice cream.

We all scream for ice cream.

And then

Warm egg sandwiches

Made by my Mummy

In fresh white bread

With-the-crust-cut-off.

Bread that smells like only

Fresh bread can smell

In Uruguay.

Because it’s feather-white bread.

She knows best

About bread, and

Sandwiches, and

Everything.

Sandwiches in warm breads

Like driving past a bakery

With bread growing in the oven

Bury your nose in the bread

And smell the warm taste.

Egg sandwiches that always

Come together with

Paper-thin cucumber

Sandwiches.

They smell like only summer

Can smell in Uruguay;

Summers of cucumbers.

Cucumbers as thin as

Bible pages,

Pick-one-out,

See-throughable cucumbers

Like frosty bathroom windows

Or bubbly kitchen doors

What can you see

Through your cucumber?

Shadows and shapes

Made by looking through

Vegetables like frosted glass.

Frosted like ice.

Holiday on Ice!

Front-row seats.

Always front-row seats

With

Tickets bought by Daddy

For the front row.

It’s in the front row

Where the candy-floss

Floats by your hair

Followed by the cry

Of “Coooo-ca Coooo-la!”

And hot dogs.

But the cold of the ice

In the rink

In your face

Is the best.

Because Daddy knows this

Is a place at the front

Where the clowns tumble

Out of the rink.

And sit on my knee.

And make me dream

Of being part of the show.

Holiday on Ice.

Holidays by the sea.

And hot pine needles

On sand near the sea.

Long hot days of sun and sand.

Sand in your hair

And

Sand in your shoes,

Castles and moats

Gobbled up by the sea.

Frothy white waves

Salty blue waves

Crashing down on your head

Again and again;

They don’t care,

They don’t wait,

And it’s salty cold water

Right-up-in-your-nose.

Till you sneeze and you cough

And jump right back in again

For more.

Long hot days by the sea,

Sticky hot nights when you toss

And you sweat in your bed.

No fans no breeze

So you sweat and you wriggle

Till you lie on the floor.

To be cool in Uruguay.

Be cool, then be cold when

Cool turns cold in winter.

Dark mornings, cold clothes,

Hot porridge and soup,

Soup bowls filled with letters

A whole steaming alphabet

Swimming and billowing,

The hot that turns cold, all

Cold round the sides while

You played making

Names-on-the side-of-your

Plate.

And you’re scolded a little

So you pick up your things

And trudge glumly to bed

And then trip on the

Red rubber boots

Full of mud.

So you’re sad but

You think of a

Furry warm coat and

Two Grandmothers.

The furry warm coat that’s

Lita’s “pussycat” coat

So silky and warm.  Brown,

Warm, and snuggly.

Snuggly to rub a cold cheek in

And feel better.

“You like my ‘pussycat’ coat,

Don’t you?”  Lita asks

With a twinkle in the

Cornflower blue of her eyes.

You do.

Then there’s

Mizzy’s “pussycat” corner too.

Where no one can sit but she.

“Who’s sitting in my

‘pussycat’ corner?” Not me

Cos I’ve already jumped

To the floor to look at

The moon in the sky

Through the window at night

And the flames in the

Grate by the clock.

Crack and tock.

Flames and huge

Bonfires.

With great tongues of

Fire rushing up

To the sky.

In Uruguay.

Snaky plumes of smoke

Sucking air dreedily

Puffing up and getting

Snatched.

Snatched by wind.

Swishing into your

Eyes and your nose

Till you tear

With the sting of

The smoke in the walls

Of your nose;

So you turn to the wind

And it blows in

Your face.

It’s a whipping wind

Whipping twisters of leaves,

Red, yellow, and brown

Leaves in a wild dance

Whooshing up and

Tumbling down.

Blowing and blowing

As you scream and you

Run.  Run away from the

Wind ‘cause it’s

Clutching your hair

Hair filling with knots

Those “birds’ nests”

Impossible to deal with

Without tears.

Silly tears that mean nothing –

Just tired contentment

And suddenly

I’m really quite

Ready for bed and

And headful of

Plaits

And kisses,

Hugs and laughter,

Warmth and care.

A lifetime of

Memories.

A lifetime of

Treasures.

A childhood of

Sharing

And love

In Uruguay.

Pure Joy.

Choices made

Choices made

Sitting here in the semi darkness

I wonder if I’ve made the right choice. 

There are times in life when things

Should somehow remain

The same.

Is it because I always want so much more?

Is it because I always want instant gratification? 

The final question demands brutally

What is it that you

Want?

I press my cheek to the cool metal 

Then feel myself slip into a senseless void

An empty place which only contains

Me

I can’t feel if my belly is touching it or not

Numb remnants of a recent surgery

That left another place

Empty

And silence can only crush against my ears

When I chose to pay attention

But I’m busy focusing on

Nothing

On death and daffodils

Newspapers litter the table.  Breakfast is over but the crumbs remain, the chairs pulled out, the kitchen counter unwiped.  It’s a sign of a slow morning.  There’s a little rain wafting down from the battleship grey sky and yet, it’s beautiful.

I can totally understand this idea of “Oh to be in England now that spring is here...”  There’s an absolute majesty about spring busting out on this island.  I’ve never been here in March and the colors are a painter’s paradise.

Everywhere I look, not only are the trees and bushes filled will pregnant buds, but roundabouts and swales explode with bobbing yellow daffodils.  On and on they come, after the snowdrops which were like a gentle prelude of things to come.

Yes, the snowdrops, pushing out of the hard ground, almost tender, frightened ... White as the snow they sometimes have to work through, with little tender green dots on their upper side, shy and delicate, holding their precious treasure under a bowed head.  They’re amazing.

And like any great prelude or overture, they gracefully give way to the major movement, the star of the show, the daffodil.  My goodness and what a show they put on.  Daffodils like I’ve never seen them.  In groups.  In clusters.  In herds.  Tall and short.  Mostly dazzling yellows.  They pop up in the most unexpected places and can’t help but bring a smile to my face.  It’s such a tonic for this tough time.

Under benches, in front of swings, between gnarled old tree roots and stumps, in the middle of pristine lawns - these precursors of spring push out without regard for borders, places or constraints.  It’s funny sometimes, especially when they’re on a roundabout, I’m approaching at 50 mph and suddenly there’s a pool of yellow - swaying, bobbing, hypnotically in front of me - calling me.  And I gaze over my right shoulder .... I watch them, mesmerized as I go round and then I realize I’m going round the roundabout again.  Just looking at them and I’ve missed my exit, again.  Who cares?

What’s so hypnotic about puddles of yellow daffodils?  I think it has something to do with the vibrancy of the color itself.  Also I remember being told that in a child’s drawing, the sun represents the child's father.  The sun is yellow.  Bright yellow and it calls me.

My Dad is dying, the daffodils are like pools of sunlight fallen down to earth.  My Dad is dying and everywhere there is life in the color of vivid sunshine and all I want to do is throw myself into the arms of yellow.

My Dad is dying and there is nothing I can do to help him, nothing I can do to stop it happening, and nothing I can do about these daffodils that hypnotize me in spring in England.

It's a slow morning and all I want to do is press the pause button, for Dad, for us, for me ... for daffodils.

The Witness

Walking down the lawns of the cemetery on that scorching hot Labor-day afternoon felt all wrong and it was because of that, that I knew it was the right thing to do.

I was just a witness, an onlooker wondering inside just what I was going to observe. I had so many reservations but kept them to myself, he was keen to be there, to get it done – jockeying in the car making light conversation, playing hard to get, but under the shallow shield there was a layer of fear and determination in his eyes, a thin veil of perspiration on his upper lip.  Nevertheless, he didn’t smoke.

“I feel like this is a new beginning” he’d said. 

He carried the plant with pride and when we arrived at the tombstone I sat to one side and watched for a moment as he dug a shallow hole with his bare hands.  Those hands that from the first had meant so much, those same hands which had so timidly started this love affair without words in June of 2007, had ended it with crushing force barely a year later.  

Those big hands with tobacco stained fingers: strong working hands, rough hands that had handled life and daily matters of living but which in conversation were articulate and soft.  Those hands dug the hole with proud determination and then, in that oxymoronic way, tenderly placed the pretty pink plant in it, tamping down the soil with care, with love.  Then he stroked the headstone as he kneeled and silently mouthing the name as he traced the familiar letters “John Christopher … Non Noubis Solum”

I had been there before.  Same place, same heat, different day; Memorial Day 2008 when the place had been overrun with buses and cars, families and soldiers, laughter and tears, flowers, pomp and ceremony.  Today the place was empty and the wind chased through the grey sea of headstones, tickling the green grass and shaking tree fronds.  It felt refreshing there today – like we had stumbled into it without a warning and caught the Cemetery off guard: rejoicing, not mourning; laughing, not weeping; living, not dying.  It felt good. Maybe there was a beginning in the making.

 In the wild wooded area at the bottom of the hill everything was ripe in late summer bloom – small willows, dogwoods, peppers, bushes and tall grasses bending and swaying to the tune of the capricious wind.  Yet in the center of all that life and abundance stood death, stark, naked and blackened the dead tree’s angular limbs jutted outwards and upwards, cutting sharp lines through the softness of the neighboring fronds.  The topmost branch stood higher than any other and on it sat the crow.   A single black crow.

The silence was broken as he started to pray, his voice catching on the simple but heartfelt words.  I closed my eyes and allowed the sensations to waft over me, joining his words with my own internal prayer.  The wind blew gently, caressing and playing, darting and stopping adding a dimension of God’s presence all round.

He prayed for forgiveness, he prayed for restoration, he prayed for love and for growth.  He poured out resentments and gave them to God and as he turned over his life to Him thus ending 50 years of discord.  As he paused and breathed deeply the peaceful silence was broken by the harsh staccato “Caw! Caw! Caw!” of that single black crow.

He prayed now for life, for endurance and faith.  He prayed for his family, his father, his mother and sisters.  He prayed for his children, their children and friends.  He prayed and acknowledged that the family curse was done.  Done. Finished.  He prayed for a new beginning and paused once more.  Again the silence was broken by a chilling “Caw! Caw! Caw!” of that single black crow.

He cried and continued to pray with a new rhythm in his voice, no longer broken but tear-filled and proud.  Now he welcomed his new life and voiced his new resolve.  As he finished the last words of that last prayer, overhead that single black crow fled, flapping, frantic, then vanishing into the distance with a mournful final wail.

I looked up and followed the last of its flight – I knew now why I was there.  I was the witness to God’s presence, I was the testimony that it was done. 

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what? I was waiting for the canon boom,” he said looking around, his soft brown eyes damp with tears, expecting what had confirmed his first prayers on that Memorial Day afternoon.

I was able to testify. A new beginning had been forged. Yeah – I knew why I was there, it was done. 

God’s will was done. 

First day of "school"

He's ready for school.


I've run out of words.