Friends

Moments: On Christmas, Mourning, and Family

Hark! My angel 🙂

Yesterday I went Christmas shopping and had Man Child, Nerd Child, and Flower Child decorate the tree. It all had to be done, and I just didn’t feel like it. I am rarely “on top of” the Christmas shopping. I always swear I will budget for it throughout the year, shop early, but usually, I’m scrambling, same as I’m doing now. I wondered why I do this at all, do Christmas presents even make any sense? This is the first year where I only have one child in school this week before Christmas, both boys are on break already. Great! Except it feels like the school knows this, and therefore ramped up the extras so I can still spend my week running on empty from obligation to obligation.

I’m feeling umm, off balance since the shooting in Newtown CT on Friday. I stand by my statement from my last post, it didn’t make any sense and it still doesn’t. If anything, I’m more confused than I was 4 days ago. What does this level of grief mean for our nation? How much is personal, for the families and immediate community, and how much is ours, as a society, to take on? Where’s the line between sharing the burden of grief and glamorizing a heinous act? People are talking, and I hope they continue to do so. Much of the talk is bluster and rhetoric, I can toe that crap to the side without a problem. But I’ve also seen the beginnings of thoughtful discourse, with points and possibilities that should be explored. I am not a historian, and don’t know what was intended by the 2nd Amendment, or the correct way to apply it, if at all, in today’s society.

We are a nation of freedoms. With freedom comes responsibility. Or in the plain English of Fringeland, the freedom to fuck up. This is what, in my opinion, we should be talking about. Personal responsibilities and how they apply to our families, our communities, our society. I think, long ago, this used to be called ethics. But no, I don’t have a romanticized vision of the way things “used to be.” The reality is there are other atrocities that no longer occur here, are no longer legal or acceptable, that once were.

I ran around yesterday, my very best chicken without a head routine. At the end of the day, I went to walk a dog. This dog’s owners have become friends, and are two people I respect and admire tremendously. Man Child came with me, and though I’ve known them a few years now, this was the first time they were meeting. A moment. In the midst of these days heavy with both bullshit and mourning, a moment of beauty. I like these friends very much, they live their lives with integrity, and embody lives well lived. Another, newer friend recently met Nerd Child. Another beautiful moment. I like my children, they are thoughtful human beings and define possibilities. One has a strong sense of duty, immediate responsibilities. One has a keen instinctive eye for looking at the greater good, seems to have been born with the scales of justice connecting the chambers of his heart. One has an exquisite sense of social justice, crying at the thought of anyone being hungry. They have their own thoughts and opinions, separate from mine, Husband’s, and each other.

I don’t think I’ve hit on the purpose or meaning of life, as a parent or otherwise. I hold no answers, and as I get older, find more questions. As a parent, I want my children to believe in themselves and strive for their dreams, achieving some. I want them to be responsible, contributing members of society. I want their dreams to include being responsible, contributing members of society. I want them to have their moments, hopefully more than I do, but still, moments when they can take a breath and say, “this is ok. I am ok.”

Personal moments aren’t enough to put aside the greater questions we need to examine and try to answer. They do not, can not, and should not negate loss, personal or public. Personal loss does not negate community or societal obligations. But if we value these moments, and recognize them because of their potential impact on others, they can matter.

lint (Photo credit: freebeets)

Once Upon A Time

fairy tale pic (Photo credit: Kjirstin)

In a land in which no one ever expects to reside, there were two little girls, born just days apart. One called The Empress, and one called La Princesa. The two girls didn’t live close to each other, and each was busy with the business of their kingdoms, learning to talk, and eat, pester their respective older brothers, and throw royal panties out the tower window.

One day, the beat in The Empress’s brain began to count out a new and unusual rhythm. Not long after, La Princesa’s brain also began keeping a new rhythm. Suddenly, each kingdom was regularly experiencing strange and terrible lightning storms. Healers were called and many potions were tried, but still, the storms persisted. La Princesa’s mother and The Empress’s mother each sent carrier pigeons with messages for the new world, called The Internet, hoping to find others who had battled these storms and defeated them; or at least knew how to protect their families while the storms raged.

Many Queens formed a Great Alliance, loaning each other shields of understanding and swords of knowledge. Many only stayed for a time, but the most weather beaten grew powerful and remained, through storms and strange beats, through potions that offered relief and those that were poison, helping each other to laugh and dance, when they were rooted, shin deep in muck.

Image of a letter sent by carrier pigeon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The Empress’s Queen and La Princesa’s Queen began noticing they were sending out very similar messages. Soon, they began sending messages directly to each other, in addition to the ones they were sending and reading from the other Queens of The Great Internet. La Princesa and The Empress had both begun their lives small but mighty. Years passed, they remained small, but each began having periods of weakness, succumbing to the vapors as if the castle mice were stealing their feasts. Queen Empress and Queen Princesa realized not all of the other Queens with stormy kingdoms had such enchanted mice. They compared tales of storms and threats and events and spells, and the crumbling walls and general disrepair of their castles, moats leaking sewage into their grand halls. Potions and Healers and Seers were exhausting their riches. They whispered prayers carried by the wind. Still, their golden girls’ spirits were powerful.

Each Queen traveled to new seers, seeking answers and resolution. The Empress met a powerful seer, who offered answers, though no resolution. La Princesa’s Queen continues the quest. As the two Queens formed a stronger bond, and their pigeons knew the way to each kingdom without thought, La Princesa and Empress began to recognize the birds from each other’s lands. With their Queens’ help, they began sending messages to each other.

Each girl learned she had much in common with the other. Neither girl was bothered by asking or answering the same questions several times. Neither girl used unkind words about the other. All the kingdoms around were struck by a terrible storm, and the carrier pigeons couldn’t fly. La Princesa worried about The Empress, and The Empress worried about La Princesa.

One day, a special dove brought a great gift for La Princesa. It was a colorful drawing– rendered by The Empress– of the two friends and told the tale of their friendship. This treasure was so special La Princesa couldn’t speak, but her smile…her smile brightened her sleepy eyes and the gloomy day, casting a glow over the Queen’s eyes, making them leak in that way she hated! but she couldn’t see the cracks of the castle walls or the dusty cornices. She saw the pink streaks behind the gray clouds, and the miracle of the bird’s wings against the sky as he soared back towards the land of The Empress.

Fairy Tale … (Photo credit: lapidim)

She Said What?!

Angry-man-rights illustration (Photo credit: HikingArtist.com)

Can we talk about the human side of this election? Yanno, the post-voting fallout?

I’m stunned by the numbers of people posting complete vitriol–from both sides. On my personal Facebook page it’s been limited, but frankly I think that has more to do with having a small circle of friends than anything else. Even within that small circle, I’ve seen plenty of people unFriending each other. Is the shrinking middle class being reflected in shrinking moderation in all areas?

If you’re new to Fringeland, let me tell you now, I’m broke and lean left. If you’re already offended, this blog isn’t for you.

I have friends on both sides, listen to opinions on both sides, see the same facts and figures get skewed by both sides. To me the choice, if not all of the issues, was clear. For all of my reading and listening, I don’t really understand how some of my friends have the beliefs they do. Some, I think I get it even if I disagree, based on clues and things I know are true in their lives.

My Foot is Slipping (Photo credit: Old Shoe Woman)

Others, I don’t get it at all. It seems to me they’re fighting against their own interests, one foot in the same muck mine is in and the other heel grinding into the dirt to be buried alongside the first one.

But here’s the thing. I know they’re looking, listening/reading, and thinking the same about me. They believe our country, our values, and our basic rights are slipping away under Obama. And no, I’m not talking about any of the hateful, ignorant worms we’ve all seen photos of and quotes from online– you know the ones, those who proudly held up signs saying “Bring the White Back into the White House,” or any of their despicable cohorts.

I’m talking about people who aren’t in the 1%, people who are intelligent, reasonably well read, often highly educated. Maybe they have children they’d like to send to college, maybe they have children with significant chronic medical needs, maybe they work union jobs, maybe they’re on disability, or collecting unemployment benefits, maybe they’re women, maybe they’re people of color, maybe they consider themselves caring and moral people (with or without religion), maybe they’re gay, maybe they’re counting on help from FEMA, or the Federal government to rebuild the infrastructure of their community in the wake of Hurricane Sandy.

In my opinion, these are all people who have the potential to benefit more from Obama than they would have under Romney. Some of them disagree. Fine. I accept that, I was raised with and am quite comfortable with our two party system. Frankly, I’d like to see some teeth from one or two of the smaller alternative parties in addition, to keep people thinking and evolving along with the world. I don’t have enough hubris to write all of these people off, blanketing myself in the assumption that they’re all either dim, heartless, or evil.

Some people ranting, roaring, and picketing is good. We need people with that level of passion to get everyone else paying attention. I admire those who fully devote themselves to the causes they believe in, and I thank them for putting their time and energy into these causes, caring enough to keep up the work and attention when elections end, and others might think there’s no more work to be done.

I rarely, rarely see honest, potentially helpful political discourse. The closest is Real Time with Bill Maher, which I’m sure will have 2 of my 3 readers screaming at the computer screen when they read this. The third will wail that I’m rolling over and giving in, not passionate enough.

But. When did it turn into everyone screaming? If everyone is screaming, no one is listening. I see rants, misleading partial quotes, and a whole lotta lalalala.

Franz von Stuck: Dissonanz Heliogravur von Hanfstaengl. Plattengröße 53 x 46,5 cm, (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I grew up in a home where there was a lot of political arguing. My father would rant, calling my brother a fascist and my brother would bellow back, calling my father a communist. I would go hide in my room, wishing they would both shut the fuck up. The past year has felt like old home week. Except I’m not hiding in my room and don’t want everyone to shut up. I care very deeply about my life, your life, and the world my children are going to live in. Just lower your voices so I can hear your words, and the intention behind them.

A Sign

French Press Frieling Ultimo (Photo credit: doubleshot_cz)

This morning, I made coffee using a new French press and an incredible private blend of coffee; both gifted to me yesterday by a friend. I don’t own an American coffee maker. The first time in many years I’ve made coffee using anything other than my old and trusted stovetop espresso maker. Like so many others, coffee is the start to my day. Don’t even say good morning to me until I’ve got the first cup in hand. God forbid the beasts are off schedule and need to be walked before the second. I like the ritual of making that morning pot. I’m not a coffee connoisseur, but I have specific likes and dislikes; the brown dishwater served in most diners is unpalatable.

Sitting here with my second cup, realizing just how long it’s been since I used a French press, and why it feels like the second part of a sign.

English: Divided Road sign used in Australia. Used when road divides to two. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The first part of the sign came last night, in a conversation with another friend. She’s having some health issues, female troubles for polite company. Brought me back almost 20 years, when I hemorrhaged two weeks after the birth of my first son. For anyone who’s never had or witnessed this special experience, there’s no mistaking it. A good thing, because there’s a very, very short window of opportunity to call 911 before you lose consciousness.

I was making an evening pot of coffee with my then loved French Press when I began to hemorrhage. Certainly, depressing the plunger didn’t cause it, but in my overactive mind, there’s such ritual in using a press, the events became connected.

Pretty deep in my universe, to have two moments in one day directly connected to one significant event that took place so long ago. Not a repressed memory, not a hidden memory, but surely not something I think about during morning coffee. Blog? Check. Shower? Check. Walk Dogs? Check. Meds for Flower Child? Check. Hemorrhage? Umm, no.

So, what’s the sign I’m blathering about? In my last post, I wrote about feeling torn as to which WIP (work in progress) I should be tackling. Well, boys and girls, in the first chapter of the hybrid, I used my experience of hemorrhaging. I’m not running out to get my tarot cards read, but I have relatives who “read” coffee grinds. I think I can read the bottom of this cup myself.

Tell My Fortune (Photo credit: Caro’s Lines)

Where’s My Union Rep?

Women corset workers on strike walk down the street wearing undergarments (Photo credit: Kheel Center, Cornell University)

I’m going to join the ladies in the photo above and go on strike. Mrs Fringe needs a day off! I’m also going to digress for a moment.

In looking for an old photo of women on strike, I noticed something interesting. The women are smiling in these photos. Not so in photos of men on strike. Why? Is it so ingrained in women to smile and be polite, even when making a political statement and fighting for a living wage? Or did the photographers give women an alert and admonission, “Smile pretty for the camera!” that wasn’t offered to men? I can see it now, “Oh yeah, this is important, we’re gonna to a big story on you, front page. What’s that you say, your sister lost three fingers in the industrial sewing machine cause she worked 27 days in a row? C’mon girls, you have to smile, nobody’s gonna look at a photo of a bunch of sourpusses.” Then again, I have a vivid imagination, and my observation could mean nothing more than smiling women are the photos that caught my eye.

I like my coffee analogue, like my photography (Photo credit: futurowoman)

But mostly, my imagination has been taking me back to my youth, when a day off meant a day of nothing. Not a day of less, but a day where I could stay in my pjs, lie in bed and read all day, my biggest energy expenditure when I got up to make coffee. It isn’t a mystery why I can’t do this anymore. I live in the city with two dogs, they need to be walked three times a day. I have people, little and big, brought to life and brought into my life by choice, who depend on me for household supplies, clean laundry, meds, food, chaperoning, homework help, and a clean toilet.

Fatigue and I went out for Friday Night Madness this week. Due to life, we had missed the past few Fridays. He has arranged his finances so he’ll be able to take a few months off from his day job, beginning next month. This will mean tightening his already tight budget to a stranglehold. But I get it; he’s going to rest, regroup, and use the time to work on his art. I’m almost envious. Almost, because even my vivid imagination can’t quite imagine being in a position to do this.

One of the “tells” in writing as to whether or not a piece was written by a man or woman has to do with qualifiers. Women tend to write the way they speak; lots of almosts, quites, somewhats, sort-ofs, tend-tos,in-my-opinions. Many of us live that way, too. Almost a day off, not quite a day off, somewhat of a day off, sort of keeping it a light day.

Sunday, not a day off, not a day of rest, but I’m going to try to keep this to a day of less. How about you? Do you get days that are truly off?

The Blues Had a Baby

and they named it rock-n-roll.

Muddy Waters, described as “the guiding light of the modern blues school” Dicaire (1999), p. 79 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Muddy Waters, always perfect.

But, I have a long playlist of “perfect” songs and artists. For someone without a hint of musical talent, I can’t imagine life without music.

The last concert Husband and I went to was Robert Cray in 2002. And that one was a last minute surprise; Husband asked Sister-In-Law to watch the kiddos. At the end of the evening I don’t think I was all the way through the door frame before Flower Child was back in my arms and Sister-In-Law was headed toward the elevator. Not easy to babysit a nursing baby without functional boobs.

When we were young, though…. Lots of live shows; blues, rock, jazz, fusion; not even sure how many times we saw Pat Metheny–though I surely remember one particular show in Radio City with seats right next to a speaker. Not even “American Garage” sounds good when your ear drum is splintering. I dragged Husband to a Grateful Dead concert way back when. He’s still grumbling, and I still smile when I hear Sugar Magnolia. Makes me think of an old friend, we would scrape two or three dollars together to put just enough gas in the tank of her VW Rabbit to get us to the beach, where her fingers would stumble on her guitar strings and my voice would crack under the background of the surf.

Forget Farmville and Words With Friends, my favorite game is through emails, exchanging links with friends to whatever song or artist we’re feeling in the moment.

When I was a kid I loved my little AM radio, would fall asleep on summer nights with it crackling the T0p 40, set up on a folding chair next to my bed, the thwak-swish-“fuck!” of the handball court across the street providing background. And albums, how could you not love the ceremony of carefully removing the vinyl from the sleeve, blowing off any residual dust, and setting that needle down to pop and spin. My very first records were old folk 45’s from my father, 33’s of musicals and big band jazz.

Handball (Photo credit: Brian Auer)

The morning routine was punctuated by Disco Freddy, a man who would roller skate past my house every day, boom box balanced on his bony shoulder, on his way to skate up and down the boardwalk all day, to be heard again as the sun was setting.

fixing the boom box (Photo credit: John Chevier™)

The soundtrack continues like most others of my generation; The Beatles, Rolling Stones, CCR, BTO, CSN&Y, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Supertramp, and on and on. For someone who proclaimed “disco sucks” along with the rest of the cool kids, I knew (and know) every word to every song played at the discos. Then came punk, so daring! And Frank Zappa, who will always have a place in my dysfunctional heart.

I loved those albums, loved the heft of them, the cover art, the scratches that became part of the rhythm, walking into the used record store with $20 and walking out with a stack I could barely balance. The excitement of eight-tracks (Paul McCartney and The Wings!), and then cassettes. Walkmans were liberation, forget burning bras. Now the iPod. Much as I feel nostalgia for the old vinyl, and splicing my tapes when they wore out, that iPod is a miracle, my joy and my peace. Even laundry is palatable with those earbuds in place and the volume cranked up.

My musical tastes haven’t matured, just expanded. More blues, some classical– even some opera.

What about you? Is your life catalogued by when you first listened to a particular song?

Old Vinyl (Photo credit: fensterbme)

Prosopon

Comedy and tragedy masks (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

According to Wikipedia, prosopon is the ancient Greek word for mask, and ancient Greece is where you’ll find the origins of this ubiquitous symbol of theater. A lead-in for a rambling post about how we all wear masks. Except that isn’t where I’m headed. A friend sent me this quote yesterday morning–perfect.

“For those who feel, life is a tragedy
For those who think, life is a comedy”
(Horace Walpole, 1717)

I spend a lot of time feeling, but I prefer to think. So much is out of our control, from minor annoyances to full scale tragedies, but how we respond is our choice. What we take away from these experiences is who we are.

Sometimes when you’re in the muck laughter is out of the equation, as its been the last few days, but I’m not wailing and crying out to the heavens, either. Besides, crying is so unpleasant. I never identify when people say they feel better after a “good” cry. Really? I guess I’ve only had bad cries, because all I feel afterwards is a snotty nose, swollen eyes, a headache, and usually a heaping dose of embarrassment. Very attractive in a middle aged broad, oh yes, I see the appeal.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I can be moved to tears, for lack of a better cliche, by a beautiful piece of music, poetry, lyrics, stellar prose, or an especially spiritual church. That’s different. Actually, I’m tempted to cry right now–I got up to pour a cup of coffee, and suddenly my font keeps changing, for no reason I can identify.

Laughter is better. No magical thinking, it doesn’t spray fairy dust along with spittle. It feels good, clears my mind and gives me perspective–even with my bad teeth, I look better with a residual smile than a residual sniffle. Tears feel isolating, but a joke, a smile, a chuckle; they connect me with others. The people in my life who become friends, who are there long enough and deep enough to become part of the weave of my fringe, are those who I can laugh with. People with their own dramas and traumas who recognize the need to find the humor, black though it sometimes is; at the same time recognizing the need to grieve what is, what was, what could have been.

I want to laugh. I like to have people in my life who make me laugh, who appreciate my oddball sense of humor–would ya believe not everyone does?

Life is a tragicomedy. It takes unexpected and sometimes unwanted turns. Now which way do we go?

Funny Signs (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

Portable Neighborhood

Macbook keys (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Friends have heard me talk about this before, but I like this subject, so I’ll talk about it again.

New Yorkers are kind of, um New Yorkcentric. Not only does the world revolve around us, but we tend to believe we are the most well rounded, evolved folks in the world. No provincial thinking here. Hah!

It’s easy as morning coffee to be provincial here. Spend an evening in a local bar and hear 8 languages being spoken at any given time, have a drink with straight people, gay people, every ethnicity, young people, old people, rich or poor. I can go months without leaving my immediate neighborhood, and still eat at any ethnicity restaurant, shop for any type of clothing, roam the parks and enjoy a variety of live music, see a play, attend a poetry reading, attend services at a church/temple/meeting house for every religion you can think of, or even never leave my apartment and still have any and everything delivered to my door.

It wasn’t until I had reason to join an online forum that I realized how very narrow my world and my focus was. At first it was plain old weird. I prefaced every sentence to Husband with, “this woman I know online,” etc. It felt squishy to define someone I’d never met face to face as a friend. I’ve gotten over it, and have made many online friends over the years. There’s an intimacy created in these forums, safety in getting to know someone through a computer screen. At this point I’ve been lucky enough to meet several face to face–the good part of living in NY, lots of people have reason to come or just a desire to visit. I meet them after they do their touristy thing. Really, it’s ok, you can climb the Statue of Liberty without me.

Statue Of Liberty (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ll meet you in the park later, by the chick who’s dressed as her, green sheet, face paint, silent, with a bucket for donations at her feet.

Now, I’m a left leaning gal, most of my face to face (trying to think of a better term than “In Real Life”, my online friends are quite real, thank you) friends are also left leaning. Even the ones who vote right lean left to some degree or another. I’ve had plenty of friends who attended church/temple/fill in your house of worship here, but for most, there’s a wide distance btw church and state, friends, and politics.

In the past seven years or so, I’ve moved into a new neighborhood, a whole new world, and truly been exposed to different frames of reference. Some of my online friends are people I “know” I’d become friends with no matter how I met them. But that isn’t true for everyone. The interesting thing about forums is how they are a window, and the curtains that drape them one subject or area of interest, one commonality. A sneaky thing happens when you’re surrounded by those window treatments, you get to know people as individuals before learning their politics, socio-economic status, religious beliefs, or ethnicity.

I got to know their beverage of choice, their marital status, marital problems, their musical preferences, their medical bills, their children, their humor, their snark, their warmth, their intelligence, their knowledge, their support. Only after all of this, did I learn who went to church 3 times a week, read their devotionals twice daily, doesn’t believe at all, is a lapsed Mormon, pro-life/pro-choice, support gun restriction/own 10 guns, etc. I. love. this. Every day, I love it. We don’t always agree, and sometimes discussions can get pretty heated, but there is a respect for each other as human beings, individuals with complete lives, brains and hearts, opinions formed from our individual and varied life experiences. I get upset when my online friends cross from questioning and debating into arguments and blind rhetoric.

Through my online community, built from friends drawn from several different forums with vastly different focal areas, I don’t feel so provincial anymore. I feel better informed and better equipped to form opinions. I “live” in a new neighborhood, all of my neighbors chosen for commonalities but not sameness, mutual love, support, respect, and compassion. Yanno, all that squishy stuff.

Flickr friends (Photo credit: Meer)

Squeee!!!

I’m excited. This Friday night there will be a midnight sale/event at a (somewhat) local fish store. This is a big, annual event that I’ve been trying to get to for several years, but haven’t yet gone. So far, so good for this year.

I have a little cash put aside for this, hoping to buy a fish (if the one I want is still there when I get there), and a frag or two. For the uninitiated, frags are small branches, heads, or polyps of living coral colonies that can be purchased, traded, or gifted to grow in a new tank. Like, my tank

Bird’s Nest frag, Small Polyp Stony coral

Green Polyps, “softie”

Equally exciting is the prospect of meeting up with a reefing friend (or 2 or 3) who I’ve known online for several years, but because the stars haven’t aligned, we’ve yet to meet in person.

I need to write a wish list of corals/critters, so I don’t get overexcited and spend all my dollars within the first 10 feet of the store. Cash only, that’s my rule in order to stick to the budget. I’d love to push the boundaries, blow the budget, and go crazy coral shopping. But I won’t. Yes, yes, I’ve embraced my not-so-inner nerd. It’s also important to keep in mind which corals will live peacefully next to each other, particularly so in a nano tank, otherwise it’s a set up for yet another tank crash.

Before anything else, I’ve got to do a big water change and some general maintenance beforehand, and have fresh, clean saltwater on hand in case of excessive sliming from new corals. Many corals, particularly SPS, slime after being rehomed, fragged, or just generally pissed off at being in different water with slightly different parameters.

Time to drag myself out of my underwater fantasy. Flower Child is awake and hungry, the dogs are waiting to be walked, and if I don’t start my workout, it isn’t going to happen.

English: A variety of corals form an outcrop on Flynn Reef, part of the Great Barrier Reef near Cairns, Queensland, Australia. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Life Happens, and Death, Too

When I began this blog last week, I had every intention of posting every day for at least the first month. I didn’t even make it a week.

You know how you look forward to summer, and have grand ideas for seeing and catching up with all your friends, even if you can’t have a fabulous vacation? I make these plans in my head every year, and then usually, about a week before Labor Day, realize I haven’t seen a quarter of the people I wanted to, and the precious last days of summer must sadly be filled with obligations and getting the kids ready to go back to school.

This summer has been different, and I’ve already seen more than half of the friends I’d hoped to. Stellar planning? No. Funerals. In the past month, the mothers of two of my closest friends have passed away, as did the child of another long time, childhood friend (the very fact of which is a pain more exquisite than any other imaginable). Not exactly the way we’d all hoped to get together.

And, three days ago, my mother died. Tomorrow is her funeral.

Deutsch: Trauerkranz an einem Grab in Baden-Württemberg, Deutschland; bestehend unter anderem aus roten und gelben Rosen sowie Lilien (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am grateful to have friends to offer comfort and support to me, Husband, Man Child, and Nerd Child, and Flower Child. The understanding offered, born of many years of long standing relationships, of how complex mourning is. Even now (especially now?), forty thousand years old and finding we need to have funeral attire at the ready in our closets for all seasons.

So, for anyone who might have been becoming interested in my ramblings, I haven’t disappeared, and will continue to post, but the beginning is and will be a bit more sporadic than I had hoped.

Thanks for reading.