sueeeus

I heard a quote the other day. You need to give yourself permission to live life more fully. It struck me as apropos in the aftermath of losing my brother. I’ve been moping about for weeks, wrestling with a multitude of emotions. Sorrow. Disappointment. Despair. Melancholy. Uncertainty. Guilt. Wistfulness. Anxiety. And such. It’s not just him. It’s the holidays. I think I struggle with general melancholy every year, brought on by a warped sense of how things should be. I’ve observed that how things are is often a state brought about by overcompensation for how things should have been. For instance. The whole commercialized gift-giving thing. I’ve watched friends and siblings overcompensate unhappy childhoods by showering their children with excesses. They take it for granted, expect bigger and better every year, and lack satisfaction unless the status quo has been met by name brand or dollar amount. There is no appreciation for the simple things. Things that actually have meaning. Or usefulness. Things that somebody thought about and put effort into making. Material things don’t make your children love you more. And they don’t make up for what was lacking in your own childhood.

Sometimes I think empathy is a curse. Walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Feel their pain. But to what end To what good How can I retain clarity of mind to gain wisdom and understanding, rather than get caught up, as I am so apt to do, and sink in, spiraling downward into gloom and despair

Words are very powerful. Once you put them out there, into the universe, there’s no getting them back. For good or naught, they are launched on the winds of forever. That’s why I just deleted an hour’s worth of text. A pity party of one. What good would it serve, other than to get it off my chest I wrote it out, part of it anyway, and released some of the sadness and tension in so doing. It doesn’t have to be shared. It doesn’t have to go out into the universe where possibly it could bruise someone else.

There is something that terrifies me. I realize, in many ways, I am very much like my brother. The one who found no recourse but to release himself from the confines of this earth. There are many ways in which I am not like him, though, and this helps assuage the fear. He was frighteningly intelligent. I am not. He was reckless. I am not. He was earnest to the (n)the degree. I am only earnest to the (n-3)rd degree. He drank beyond moderation. I do not. He was fearless. I am not. But in his heart of hearts We are the same. I think. I get him. I think.

About living life more fully. What does that mean Those words sent me further into the mire until I pondered what is actually meaningful to me. More than anything, my beautiful boy. That after a lifetime of yearning, he IS my heart’s desire. To be sad that my life isn’t full is to tragically overlook how incredibly blessed I am. And what else is fulfilling, in the world of Squished Piggies A good job. A good wage. Food in the pantry. A roof over my head. A shirt on my back. A hot shower whenever I want it. The love of a good man. So I’m not a jet-setting glamour girl. I tried that. It wasn’t any more fulfilling than kicking back on the sectional with my man and my boy, watching TV. (But it would be nice to be in better shape and wear cute things, and it used to be fun to shop for cute things, back in the day.) So I’m not a socialite. The friends I do have are warm and wonderful. Not a bit superficial. It might be nice not to have to work for a living, but I like to work. It would certainly be nice to have more sleep, get more exercise, see more sunshine, breathe more fresh air, and eat more fresh food. I get some, so it’s still good.

Exploration of Identity
Obscure. Hidden. Concealed. Covered. Camouflaged. Protected. Inconspicuous. Undiscovered. Unnoticed. Unobtrusive. Sheltered.

…from The Princess Bride…

Vizzini: …you’re no match for my brains.
Man in black: You’re that smart
Vizzini: Let me put it this way: Have you ever heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates
Man in black: Yes.
Vizzini: Morons.

Even smart people need help sometimes. How can smart people get help, when the would-be helpers are, as Vizzini so bluntly put it, morons How can a master of the mind take the average mind-professional’s advice seriously, when said professional’s skills and abilities are just that –average. What can they (the smart people) be told that they can’t out-think, out-reason, out-diagnose, or out-wit

They may well be their own worst enemy. It’s not always a good thing to be smart. How many smart people have flown over the cuckoo’s nest

Humility. Patience. A willingness to listen. These things help, although they don’t necessarily come easily.

Not everyone is a moron.

I love how he grasps my fingers with all his little might when he’s tired and settling down to sleep. He pulls my hand to his face and doesn’t let go.
My heart swells. It is indescribable, this feeling of being wanted and needed. I drink it up, breathe it in. It fills me up.
I know I shouldn’t indulge him with too much coddling. There is a balance that I need to find, where he can know he’s secure in me, that he is wanted and needed and loved, and where I know he’s developing self-confidence, trust, and independence.

It is difficult for me. I caress his sweet little face until he drifts off to sleep. I slowly pry my fingers away.

Truth is absolute. Perception is relative. Reality is relative. Reality is based on perception. After all, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Red is red and green is green, but to one color blind, green is red and red is green. It’s not truth, but it is reality. One does not lie, to say red is green. Yet, in truth, red is not green. Does truth matter, then, if it is perception and not truth that influences and molds how we think and who we become I maintain that truth matters. I seek after truth, but am impaired by reality.

Is today Friday I’ve lost track. The theme is Something Special.

These stories brought hope and light to the mind of a very young girl, who, until reading them, felt alone in the world where nobody, not even her parents, knew her, or cared to know her. These magical stories of love and light and the battle between good and evil filled her mind with wonder and planted seeds of self-worth. These stories changed her life.

Many years later, this girl learned that another young girl, who recently lost her father, loves these stories. This book will be lovingly and beautifully wrapped, placed in the post and sent to a faraway place, so it will be something magical for a dear and special child to open for Christmas.

Preparing for the trip was very difficult. There was so little time to get things together. Going through a lifetime’s accumulation of photos. Finding the sum of a person’s life is only 124 photos. Crying. Shopping for suitable ash containers. Creating a slideshow for the service. Finding the right music. Crying. Installing a DVD burner in my computer. Getting it to work. Packing up. Crying. It was emotionally and physically exhausting.
We had a display with photos and flowers.
Small boxes filled with his ashes for loved ones to take. The lavender baby blanket that all nine of us came home from the hospital in. Some letters he had written.
Ashes and flowers on the mantle.
And balloons with tiny tissue packets of ashes tied to the ends.
They were beautiful.
We released his ashes to the sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The winds carried him away. Up, up, and away.

When it’s my time, I hope somebody sends me off like that. Up, up, and away.

Exploration of Identity

There have been better days

Red. I love red. Any time. All the time. There is much red in my world.

1. A perfume bottle. My prized possession. Art glass. Which I love.
2. A crystal bud vase. A gift my dad gave to my mom then took back for ‘safe keeping’. She later gave it to me. I’ve always loved it, regardless of its twisted past.
3. Art. My departed brother’s daughter, one of the apples of my eye. Oil pastels on artboard.
4. In case I ever go too fast on the treadmill. Not likely to happen. Ever.
5. Purchased by the super-case.
6. The gem of the kitchen.
7. Bought to brighten the room the day after my brother died. Now withered and dead.
8. The love of my life.
9. A watercolor print from a local artist.
10. Mini-diaper bag.
11. Candles on a bookshelf.
12. A gift from my honey.

Theme: Exploration of Identity

This series is from my big European adventure, mid-September through mid-November 1994, which was in itself quite an exploration of identity. My college roommate and I reunited to spend two months on a whirlwind Europe Through the Back Door tour, from Ireland to Greece and many places in between.

“Disciple Scholar Nymph Thinker Victor Irresistible Feral Bad Ass Rejoicing Cloaked Traveler”