George Leopold Steiner
May 20, 1929 – May 10, 1913
I put off writing this post hoping I could find a few words. Alas my words remain muddled; these are words I used elsewhere.
George passed away peacefully Friday morning. I was holding his hand and singing Amazing Grace, his favorite hymn. He was my rock. Although I know he is with me in my heart I miss him terribly.
These photos are actually from a few weeks ago, back when I was thinking about photos and carrying my camera around all the time. Somehow all of that slipped my mind lately, but I still wanted to post the pictures.
Most of these pictures are of from Knoxville, even though I spent most of the week in Texas. Flowers were very much on my mind that week and I was fortunate enough to be in Dallas in time for the bluebonnets, as seen in the lower left photo.
There was no plan to my photographic choices, just whatever would capture my imagination at any given moment, but obviously I was focused on spring. Focusing on spring is always good.
G completely lost the ability to swallow by yesterday afternoon. He is home but hospice has taken over his medical care.
I spent most of yesterday on the phone, answering questions and dealing with other people's issues. At times I felt like I had no energy left for me. Luckily comforting words and hugs were available.
Today I felt I needed a totem.
Then I turned the phone off for a couple of hours and gave myself time to breathe and find that place of inner calm.
Sometimes the signs of change are there before us, but we are so wrapped up in our own heads, or in the minutia of life, that we fail to take notice. Sometimes we are momentarily blinded, but then we just adjust our mental sunglasses and continue on, caught up in our plans, only later noticing that the road has changed and we missed the turn.
Two weeks ago, a few days more perhaps, G did not recognize me. I knew it would happen. In my head I knew it, and I thought I was prepared. It is true, there had been days when he did not remember my name, days when he knew I was someone important but he couldn't quite say who, days when I was his mother or his first wife, or even perhaps simultaneously myself (his wife) and his mother. These confusions are minor things. The day I am speaking of was different. That day, not only did he know know that I was someone he knew and cared about, I was nothing to him. I was met with blankness: Not even fear, just a complete absense of presence. As far as he was concerned I could have been a chair. Worse than being a chair was seeing the empty eyes, the loss of someone I hold dear even as I touch his body, hand to hand, flesh to flesh; the sheer emptyness chilled me to the core.
Later that same day he was back, and it was if nothing had changed. But a change had begun even though I was not ready to recognize it. I had looked into the eyes of the future. Since that date G has been declining steadily. There were some bright moments, moments I would cling to like an impossible dream, but they did not last. I went to Texas and had long coherent conversations on the phone with G, conversations such as I hadn't had in over a year. I was told about the wonderful dinners he had with family in my absense. I came home to bright welcoming eyes that filled my heart with joy, and I told myself that I had been over-concerned.
My joy was short lived. It is as if some part of G knew what was coming. He had been having nightmares since that terrible dark blank day, as if he felt the edges of darkness creeping in as he struggled to keep them at bay. Some inner portion of himself had to put up one brave final front, muster all his mental forces and fight back, and so he did, for a few days. But then, I was back, he was relieved and spent, and the battle lost. It would have happened regardless of whether I left or not. It has happened before, these momentarily flashes of brilliance where the man he once was shines forth, before sinking beneath the waves. You would think I would learn, that I could see that this was just the eye of the storm and worse was yet to come. But I am human and I never see, except through the retropsectoscope.
Last July I learned that G was losing the ability to swallow, that we would have to shift to soft foods and that eventually even that would become impossible, that he was beyond the help of therapy. At yet we managed well for 9 months. Yes I pureed most of G's food though occasionaly he would eat a regular meal. We were doing so well I had forgotten the despair (only hinted at here) following that diagnosis. Apparently one can only outrun the devil for so long.
It is dinnertime, and I am sitting at my desk writing this as I eat, sitting here eating by myself listening to S prompting G, helping him to eat his dinner, talking him through the process we take for granted, of eating and swallowing. Is this the first of many such meals? What does it mean to be eating the same meal, in the same house, and yet separate? Meals were one of the last things we could share. Now even that may be gone, and if I feel profoundly alone in this house filled with memories and voices, how must G feel? I have memories. I have myself. What does he have? Even memories seem to be as will-o-the-whisps, to vague and fleeting to grab hold of.
For the last few days meals have been a trial. I ate. I attempted to talk G through eating, showing hime how to swallow, talking him through the steps, but he would get too worked up when I prompted him, too worried about doing it wrong, too afraid of disappointing me, clinging to me like a life raft in a turbulent sea, fighting so hard he could drown us both. His aide could help but my presence was a detriment to progress. I would have to leave. Today was impossible. And so I am here at my desk listening to the slow motion train wreck occurring down the hall.
I don't know how to get through the static. I don't know if it is possible. Perhaps all that is possible is to treasure the lulls in the storm.
I am in Texas visiting my mom this week, so it seemed like a good time to share a few photos of the needlepoint sampler.
Class ended last month, and I am almost finished. All that remains are a few decortive details which will be finished up next week. When I am doing needlework I loose all worry, all sense of time, and am just content. This tells me that I have not been giving myself enough time to explore my own gifts. In fact I have probably not been giving myself time at all. A situation that needs correcting.
The good part of my recent period of forced inactivity is that it has forced me to stop overthinking, overdoing, and just overachieving for a bit and think about what was actually imporant and just be. I've been trying too hard and as a result seemed to have misplaced something essential. I see the path; I'm not quite sure where it is taking me yet.
To begin I give myself persmission to keep a list of books I've read, but to not feel I need to share any thoughts. The results of forcing myself to write book revews were not pretty. If I feel inspired I shall write. Otherwise I like having a list. It is enough.
Last week, when I went downtown to get my eggs, I found that the Dogwood Arts Festival had begun and I had wandered into the chalk walk. I had a lot of fun wandering around looking at the various projects, mostly in the early stages of creation. I wished I had been more aware and had brought my camera but I managed to snap a few shots with my cellphone.
There were a mix of projects underway, some by very accomplished artists of various ages but I often found myself drawn to those projects that were being created children from various elementary schools. A few of their projects are in the collage above.
I'm no photographer, but I find myself often wishing I had my camera with me, something with a bit more control than my phone. Since I've found myself in this situation more times than I can count, perhaps the inner recesses of my brain are trying to tell me something. Of course, if I'm going to start carrying a camera around I will actually have to learn to use it as well. It seems there is no end to the stream of new things to learn.
Saturday we took all the furniture off the screened porch to be cleaned. I had someone coming to powerwash and seal the driveway and back concrete deck, so we did the concrete floor on the screen porch as well. Besides it was time (well past actually) that I gave everything a good cleaning.
My first plan was to move everything onto the lawn and spray it down with the hose. But the side yards are small, and the neighbors were having a sixth birthday party for their grandson. Although the children probably wouldn't have minded getting wet, they needed room to play. The furniture went into the garage and sat…and sat…and I fretted…and fretted…and fretted some more about when I would get it done.
The floor dried. Moisés was allowed back outside and decided he did not like the smell and feel of the new floor. Poor thing, so spoiled; he missed his carpet.
But I hadn't washed the furniture yet.
And so last night I did. I washed it in the garage the old fashioned way by hand. And it really didn't take that much longer than it would have out in the yard with the hose. More importantly the entire process was much more satisfying. As I washed and rinsed and dried each piece I had to be still, let my mind stop fretting and just relax, let it pay attention to the details. It is not that my outdoor furniture is precious in any monetary sense; it isn't. But as I washed each piece I realized how precious it is to me. I like the way it looks. It is comfortable. I have many happy memories of sitting on the porch reading, knitting, talking to family.
And it occurred to me that there is more to this ongoing process of simplification than I had previously realized. I understand that we have allowed the business of life to clutter our brains, and that there is far more that we think is "necessary" than is actually needed. But somehow I had let it slip from my mind that the process of caring for those things we have and need and love is also a part of the simplification of the mind and of life in general. If caring for what we have weighs us down, we have too much. And the process of caring for something is also a part and parcel of the way we make it our own. If we don't care, if we don't take care, we aren't really living our lives to the fullest. If we don't care, the outer trappings of our life have become a yoke and a burden.
My outdoor furniture is not handmade. It came out of a factory in China. But does that mean that now that I own it and use it I should care for it any less than the hand-carved table I inherited from my grandmother? I suspect not. Every thing is precious just as every moment is precious. Sometimes we are so busy playing "master of the universe" that we forget just to be, we forget to be thankful for who we are and what we have.
Yesterday I awoke to an overwhelming urge to wear blue suede shoes. Luckily I knew I had a pair hiding out in the master closet and so I wore them.
They made me very happy.
Actually, it was the hot pink soles that made me happy. I couldn't help but smile. I felt like I was walking on my own magic carpet of joy.
Wishing you all a lovely day filled with hope and joy whether you are celebrating a religious holiday, hunting easter eggs, surrounded by family or alone, reading a book, taking a nap, taking a walk or just revelling in spring.
I haven't dyed eggs in years, but looking at the natural colors of these eggs in the carton made me smile this morning. Mother Nature's dyes are just as lovely as anything I could create.
Let's just start off with an admission that nothing I finished in February required thought or in any way threatened to change my perceptions of the world. In fact it is questionable whether I can even count two of the the three completed books as reading as I actually listened to them on tape.
First, I actually read One Shot by Lee Child. I picked it up on a whim at the grocery store, knowing it has been rereleased because of the film based on this book. I have little to no interest in the film and even though the book I read was marketed as a film tie-in, I refuse to post a picture of that cover, filled as it is with the all too pretty face of Tom Cruise. I have to admit that I enjoyed One Shot more than some of the newer Reacher novels I have read. The focus on Reacher's code of honor was very strong, on his inner voice that keeps driving him to look for the things that don't fit, for not blindly accepting the easy answer and defending or avenging the innocent. The book is also an interesting analysis of how we tend to sometimes ignore the obvious, how appearances can be deceiving, and how the human tendency to over-do, especially when one is worried about being caught out in something leads to our downfall.
I somehow never really got in the habit of listening to books on tape. I have the capability and a backlog of books, but I always figured that I could actually read the book faster than I could listen to it being read and discounted the functionality of audiobooks. Of course when I was a full time caregiver I couldn't be running around with headphones on becuase I would get so wrapped up in the book I was listening too that I would be completly oblivious to G calling for me. Of course I get overinvolved with the paper variety of books as well, and can completely tune out the real world when I am lost in my reading. Reading or listening I am happy to be able to lose myself in a story again.
I started listening to Dennis Lehane's Shutter Island as entertainment while walking around my neighborhood, the daily 3 mile walk gave me a good period in which to get involved in the book. Little did I know when I started that walking up the hills in my neighborhood would actually make my back worse however, so the walks got shorter and shorter and I started listening to the book while I was working on my needlepoint instead.
I have to admit that I found the story gripping. I am also probably far less critical of a book when I am listening rather than reading. There were sections in the middle of the book that I thoroughly enjoyed as a listening experience but which would have driven me crazy had I been actually reading the book, but I was so thoroughly wrapped up in the story that these niggling thoughts stayed far in the back of my mind. Perhaps I am also more easily lulled by the sound of the voice and find it easier to get wrapped up in the story and suspend disbelief. I did not anticipate the ending; I knew something was amiss, but I was too engaged in the moment to try to figure out what was happening. In the end I was left wondering how much of each of us create our own realities and how much a measure of our sanity depends on how in sync our realities are with those around us.
Next, I listened to Ken Follet's Hornet Flight. I enjoyed listening to this also, and also got wrapped up in the story even as I thought it was rather derivative hash. It was, at least as read, entertaining and the characterizations were probably more engaging as I heard them in my mind than they would have been had I been translating the words on the page. I do think there is something in the human brain that loves the sound of the human voice telling stories and that told stories register differently in our minds, in a different way than do those things we actually read. Anyway it was gripping enough, and has convinced me that I should seek out more audiobooks, especially books by those authors for whom I am not likely to sit quietly savoring the beauty of their prose. As I want to do more needlepoint and needlework in general, books on tape might provide an interesting diversion.
cover of One Shot from goodreads.com
Cover of Shutter Island from Audible.com
Cover of Hornet Flight from audible.com