The Weekly Wednesday Poem

Today’s guest poet  –  Rumi.

The World is no Match for your Love

This world is no match for your Love.
Being away from you
is death aiming to take my soul away.
My heart, so precious,
I won’t trade for a hundred thousand souls.
Your one smile takes it for free.

Ah, Well.

Lumpdate: I am starting to feel some pain in my breast – not where the lumps are, just a deep ache sometimes.  Hallucinations, hysterics, psychosomatic, nothing, who knows?

Holidays after a divorce are sad.  I had a family, but I am not part of it anymore.  Not really.  I haven’t spent a Thanksgiving by myself since I was 18.  Ah, well.

There are flowers, and Kelsea, and the promise of spring someday to be thankful for.  Where’s the strength I need now?

 

Follow the Medical Road

I don’t like to whine.  Truly I don’t.  It gets you nowhere and actually makes you feel worse.  I hope it seems more like I’ve been documenting my feelings around the divorce rather than whining about it.  So my writings about my feelings about the lump are to be of a similar tone.  As I say, I hope it doesn’t come across as whining.  Let’s call it emotional journalism, shall we?

I gathered my cojones and called the surgeon yesterday.  Of course, I got his appointment desk recording, and they said to allow them 24 hours to call back if I was requesting an appointment.  We’re at 24 hours now and not a peep.  Is it the approaching holiday that accounts for the delay?  Or do they just not want me?  Am I being rejected by the medical community?  I understand that offices can be closed.  But do THEY understand what it takes to reach out to a surgeon?  I somehow don’t think they do.

It seems with medical “stuff”, you have to make your own arrangements for everything.  Call for a mammogram  So if I have a mammogram, when do I hear something?  And from who?  Does that mean I have to schedule something else with the mammogram people?  Something else I have to wait for? Didn’t the doctor mention an ultrasound as she was leaving?  Call the doctor to confirm.  Call for an ultrasound appointment.  What were those surgeons names she blithely mentioned as she walked out the door?  Call to get the surgeons’ names.  Call for a surgical consult – or something - wait, what am I asking the surgeon for?  Here’s the name of an oncologist, just in case.  When do I call them?  And what for?  And the name of a breast reconstruction surgeon.   Huh?  The other surgeon doesn’ t do that? When am I supposed to think about THAT?  

And you know what?  I’m doing all this and I’m scared.  And there’s nothing anyone can do about that.  This sort of thing just lingers in your mind.  It’s hard to keep from feeling for the lump.  Is it bigger?  Is it gone? 

I am chewing my fingers out of stress, so Denise just gave me a squeezy stress hot dog.  That helps.  Am I overreacting?  I am tired, headachey, exhausted — is it stress?  Or am I “sick”?

Pat has taken Kelsea for lunch at the hospital cafeteria – strange, I know, but it’s good, inexpensive vegetarian food.  Is it a portent of things to come?

I’m so tired of thinking about this.  Where’s the mind eraser when you need it?

 

One Lump or Two? – And I’m Not Talking Sugar

Ah, yes.  The icing on the cake – or perhaps it is better characterized as between the layers? 

What better device to take my mind off the reality of my divorce and my impending unemployment than a lump in my breast?  No, wait – I’ve got it — two lumps in my breast!  One found by me, the other found by my doctor.

Let me preface the remainder of this post by saying it may be TMI for some, but perhaps it can be an educational experience for others.  For me, it’s a journal.

Every breast is different, just as every woman is different.  Now, I haven’t felt a lot of breasts in my time (with the exception of that group grope in the catering kitchen of Lionsgate after Mary got hers done).  It’s not something we women really discuss.  Men have, of course, felt more than I have, assuming they are lucky men, but they are not going around feeling breasts with the same focus as women such as myself.

I’ve got nice breasts, even now.  Back in my teens and twenties, they were small and practical.  Now they’re not small anymore – I would best describe them as “lush”.  I’m really quite fond of them.  From a breast tissue standpoint, they’ve always been lumpy, to use the technical term.  I’ve never felt comfortable doing breast self-exams because of their lumpiness.  I was never sure what I was feeling, and I was always a little queasy doing self-exams, probably because I was uncertain and afraid I would find something, because of my Mother.  And so I, like millions of other women, just wouldn’t do self-exams, unless it happened to cross my mind when I was in just the right headspace.  On the positive side, I have been religiously good about getting mammograms since my very early thirties, also because of my Mother.

So two months ago, when I was in the right headspace, I noticed a sort of thickening in my left breast.  Since I’m naturally lumpy (that really doesn’t sound attractive, does it?) and it was just after my period, I didn’t think much about it.  But three weeks ago, it came to my attention again, and it felt like there might be something unusual there.  Then I promptly forgot about it.  Until about ten days ago.  And I really felt it.  That was a Friday.  I called my doctor on Monday.  She saw me on Tuesday, and confirmed that not only did I have the lump I’d been feeling, but I had another one as well. 

When she confirmed my suspicions, she told me we needed to schedule a mammogram and an ultrasound, and a biopsy.  Biopsy?  That’s the word that makes your hands tingle and your head suddenly feel all light and spinny.  That’s the word that suggests that the dark things that have lived in the corners of my mind for years may be creeping out into the center of the room.  Doctors seem to toss the word out there so casually – do they know how it makes their patient (oops, almost said victim) feel?

The CNP proceeded to ask me more about my Mother’s medical history with her countless cancers, and asked if I had considered genetic testing.  My response was essentially, “Duh..uh..uh..i dunno?”  She said she knew how I felt and that her own mother had died of breast cancer when she (the CNP, not her mother) was eight years old, and she didn’t want the testing and they hadn’t told her that her mother died of cancer until she was “in the ground.”  You know, somehow, this story wasn’t making me feel any better.

On her way out the door, she tossed out the statement that I should talk to a surgeon (which generated a new round of feeling like a dog left on the side of a highway) and gave me a few names.  My parting words to her were, “I think you may have to write those down for me later.”  She laughed. 

How surreal the whole thing was.  Is.

That was Tuesday.  I called for my mammogram and they can’t see me until December 1.  Kelsea’s birthday.  How special.  I remember my Mother telling me on my 18th birthday, when she came in to kiss me goodnight, that she had cancer and was going in for surgery the next day.  She kept waiting to find the right time to tell me, and it somehow never came.  I remember lying in my bed that night, silently crying, tears flowing into my ears, thinking that THIS is what it’s like to be a grown-up.  Great.  I don’t want to tell Kelsea on her 13th birthday if my results are less than positive. 

I told Kathy and Denise, told Pat, told Mr. GF, told Issy, told E-Bro, told my boss Ivan.  That sounds like a lot of people to tell, now that I think about it.  I told people to feel less alone, but it didn’t seem to really help.  All last week, when I went to bed at night, I felt alone.  Very alone.  The hamsters that appear in the wee small hours have added a new team member – Cancer.  A little fuzzy hamster in a black cloak with a scythe.

Everyone has been a great comfort – Denise and Issy have offered to take me to the mammo appointment, Ivan provided me with some referrals for a good surgeon and oncologist (that one set me spinning again).  E-Bro and Bubba Sue are as supportive as they can be and make me feel loved.  Mr. GF offered the security of his arms and dedication regardless of how many breasts I have.

I told Kelsea yesterday.  I am not good at hiding things from her – she knew something was up.  It was hard – not as hard as telling her about the divorce, but hard.  We both shed a few tears and spent the rest of the day snuggling and laughing.  She is certain everything will be all right.  She offered to sleep with me, to keep me company.  It was enough just having her in her own room down the hall.

80% of breast lumps turn out to be non-cancerous.  There are many reasons that they appear, and they can disappear with no treatment at all.  But when you find a lump, cancer is the first thing that comes to mind.  If you watched your Mother die of cancer less than three years ago, after she’d lost one breast to it, and had a lumpectomy years before that, cancer is at the forefront of your thoughts.  Perhaps it’s alarmist, but it simply can’t be helped.  I have to ask myself, “Am I the 1 in 8 who will get breast cancer?”  I am one of ten women in my department at work.   Is it going to be one of us?  Is it going to be me? 

Is it already me?

Randomness On A Friday Afternoon

Oatmeal – the caped crusader in the battle against cholesterol.  But why does it have to be so glutinous?

I had yesterday off and treated it like an actual vacation day – didn’t get out of bed until around 9:30, cleaned the house (a little), did some thrift store shopping, saw Kelsea for a few minutes, watched Bones, played computer games.  I did try to take a walk, but it was remarkably muddy.  A pretty good day.

At the thrift store yesterday, I spent $3 on a sweet little dressing gown from the ’60s.  When I got home and put it on, I felt something in the pocket.  It was a neatly folded, unused tissue.  My Mother had one or two neatly folded unused tissues in the pocket of every coat, sweater or pants that she wore.  It seems to be a universal little old lady trait.  Thanks to the little old lady who used to own the dressing gown for the sweet memory of my sweet Mother.

I used to get my Christmas shopping done months in advance.  I would pride myself on it.  (Although E-Bro will vouch for the fact that, no matter how early I finished the shopping, I was almost always late on the shipping.)  My, how times change.  I have a few things stashed away, but am only just now getting down to business.

I wonder where the factory that makes plastic pink flamingoes is located?  Sounds like a job for Google…I seem to recall that they were stopping production, but I still see the darling little buggers for sale.  Either they caved to the uproar of protest from the masses or some other company has taken up the slack.

It occurs to me that randomness posts might tell you more about me than I would imagine, as they share the minutiae of an occasional day – sort of like Tweeting for the whole day in one place.

Speaking of which, I can’t get into the whole Twitter thing.  I really don’t need to know what someone is thinking, doing, eating or smelling at every moment of the day.  I mean, who has the time??

It is a lovely quiet sunset over the mountains tonight.

The Weekly Wednesday Poem

Today’s guest poet – Author Unknown

What Cancer Cannot Do

Cancer is so limited…..
It cannot cripple love.
It cannot shatter hope.
It cannot corrode faith.
It cannot eat away peace.
It cannot destroy confidence.
It cannot kill friendship.
It cannot shut out memories.
It cannot silence courage.
It cannot reduce eternal life.
It cannot quench the Spirit.

Why Can’t Education Be More Fun?

I’ve watched Kelsea’s education with an interested, inquisitive and critical eye for almost ten years now.  It continues to be a journey, one that has brought up many memories of my own education.  As  a parent, you find yourself having to help with homework, and trying to remember things that you learned 35 years ago, and have now forgotten.  Thank the Gods for Google – it’s a great mind-refresher.

The questions that Kelsea keeps justifiably raising are, “Why do I need to learn this?  When am I ever going to use this?”  Well, I provide the standard maternal responses – “We all have to pay our dues.” “You never know what you’re going to wind up doing with your life.”  But inside, I’m saying, “She’s right!  When is she EVER going to have to know about Elodea leaves and what happens to their cells when you put them in salt water??  And when is she ever going to have to use negative numbers?  This person wants to be a paramedic.  She wants to work in a bookstore in Hay-on-Wye in Wales.”

Our academic system – the whole “no child left behind” and C-SAP testing – may (and I say MAY) support children who are at a disadvantage in one way or another, but for the majority of children, it doesn’t seem to teach them anything useful, anything that will actually help them develop their identity and the skills they will need for whatever profession they choose, unless that profession is academics.  A friend told me that all of the things they are teaching her really boil down to teaching her different ways to think.  I support THAT, if that is so.

But even if that is indeed the case, why is it not possible to make the entire academic experience more engaging?  It feels as if we are training our children that they must get up at a certain time and go do something that bores them until they are “freed”.  Sounds like a lot of our jobs, doesn’t it?  Are we just conditioning them into the same monotonous, choice-free way of life that the majority of us now experience?  Why is it not possible to foster a culture of free-thinking entrepreneurs among our youth?

I understand and appreciate that there are academic standards that need to be met — that all students need to be measured by some bar that indicates their level of competency.  What I don’ t understand is why it has to be so dry.  There are teachers out there who have very creative and engaging ways of educating, but who are stifled by the regimentation of the system.  Typically, those teachers are beloved and remembered by students, not because their classes were slack, but because their classes were inspiring and fun, and subsequently, their subject matter is remembered.  But these are the same teachers who are challenged and reprimanded by principals and school boards (and by parents who fear non-conformity.)

When children are in the lower grades, creativity and fun are emphasized in the learning process.  Make the child love school.  Why do we abandon that at the higher grade levels, when children are once again changing, and need to be helped to love school again?  Kelsea used to cry when she was unable to go to school because she was sick.  Now, it’s like pulling teeth to get her enthused – and she’s smart, social and has good grades.  Imagine if she were none of those things.  The challenge for both her and us would be magnified to the nth degree.  (To her credit, when Pat and I both wanted her to take a mental health day not so long ago, she employed her own ethics and decided it wasn’t the right thing for her to do – even though she had begged us to not make her go to school on previous days.  I was proud of her.)

Yes, it might take a little more work to come up with interactive and interesting ways of getting core information across.  But wouldn’t it be more interesting, rewarding and challenging for the teachers and the students?

While I have been evolving this opinion over a number of years now, what really heightened my awareness was my introduction to the grammar texts of Karen Elizabeth Gordon:  The Deluxe Transitive Vampire and The New Well-Tempered Sentence: A Punctuation Handbook for the Innocent, the Eager and the Doomed.  Both books teach all the core concepts of grammar and punctuation, as well as some valuable nuances, using examples that are entertaining and memorable.    Since the English language can be a toy, of course it’s easier to make English textbooks fun than to make an Algebra textbook fun, but by gum, I’m certain it can be done, and there are no doubt geeks or academics who would be more than willing to take on the challenge.

And about school start times….physiologically, kids in the teen years don’t have their melatonin levels raise until late in the evening.  They’re not ready to go to bed early and they’re not ready to get up early.  Everyone’s lives would be more pleasant and productive if school didn’t start until 9:30 or 10:00, and get out at 4:00 or 5:00.  What’s the rationale?  An 8:40 start time does not allow parents to get to work at 8:00, and a 3:30 release time does not allow them to work until 5:00.  (Not that I am in agreement with an 8:00 to 5:00 workday either.)

Who among us adults, even now in our 40’s, does not have those dreams of going to a class and realizing you’ve missed the entire semester and are now here for the final?   Or of not being able to find the classroom for the entire year?  Why do we still have nightmares about school when we are well-established professionals?  I think it speaks to the angst and trauma that the current academic system instills in us on a level of which we are unaware — unaware because we are following a formula that is incompatible with our core.

Make classes have a more global focus.  Make them more interactive.  Make them fun.  Make school a comfortable and welcoming place to go.  Respect our children’s native intelligence.  And our children will learn and be hungry to learn more.  It’s that simple.  Then perhaps our children will not be subject to our nightmares later on.

Everything You Never Knew You Wanted to Know About…Sweden

When someone says “Sweden”, what do you think of first?  Blondes?  Moose?  Blonde mooses (meese)?  The Swedish Chef from the old Muppet Show?  Meatballs?  Well, there’s a lot more to Sweden than what you would expect.  I’ve not been there yet, but I’ve been doing a bit of investigating, and want to share some little known facts with you that prove without a doubt that Sweden surpasses all stereotypes and has some surprises to offer.

So, let’s get started.

Sweden is one of several areas above the Arctic Circle that is known as “the Land of the Midnight Sun,” a place where the lines between day and night become blurred.   For one or two months at the height of summer, the sun never sets; night is just a dimmer day, which can make hiking a wonderful experience, since you never have to worry about darkness falling.  You can even play midnight golf.  On the down side, however, having constant daylight can cause something called hypomania, which is characterized by a high level of creative and productive energy, a flood of ideas, euphoria, irritability, and elevated moods, but fortunately without the psychotic symptoms.  And as you might expect, in the winter, you get a corresponding period of darkness.  That’s the one that would do me in.

The Swedes have the longest life expectancy of all Europeans, with an average death age of 80 ½ years.  I can’t seem to find out why, though.  Perhaps it’s the fish. 

I can’t imagine that the population’s cardiovascular health is spectacular because Sweden has the highest number of McDonald’s per capita in Europe. 

All of the Tsars of Russia were of Swedish Viking descent until the last one, the unfortunate Nicholas II.

Stockholm, the capital city, was home to the first jumbo-jetliner-turned-youth-hostel.  What a marvelous idea for reusing decommissioned airplanes!  It looked clean and inexpensive, and even retained its oxygen masks, but unfortunately only lasted about a year.  It’s currently up for sale if there are any takers out there.

The Stockholm Archipelago is one of the finest (though I would imagine chilliest) sailing spots in the world.  With over 24,000 islands, and only 1,000 of them being inhabited, in a 100km span, it would be easy to find privacy for years on end.

Expanding on the watery theme, Sweden has its own version of the Loch Ness Monster.  Lake Storsjon reportedly is home to a huge sea serpent, appropriately nicknamed “Storsie”  that has been sighted hundreds of times since 1635.   

Now instead of water, let’s talk about ice.  There’s certainly no ice shortage in Sweden.  In fact, one of the things on my “Yet to be done” Life List is to stay in an ice hotel, and the most famous of the ice hotels is rebuilt annually in the area of Jukkasjarvi, near the Torne River.  This distinctive lodging has beds made from snow and ice, covered with reindeer skins and thermal sleeping bags, and an Ice Bar that serves beverages (vodka being a favorite) in glasses made of ice.  (They offer a souvenir glass made of ice to each guest, but I can’t imagine how challenging it would be to get it home.)

This will be the 20^th year that artists from all over the world have participated in its construction from 1000 to 2000 tons of ice.  Obviously, it melts every year, which must be mixed blessing.  I’m sure the architects, builders and proprietors are sad to see a work of art flow back into the river every year, but at the same time, there must be a sense of relief and accomplishment, a soulular connection with nature and the river, and excitement at being able to rebuild a more splendid place the next year, after a good summer off.

There are other truly unique places to visit that are off the beaten path in Sweden.  Ladonia is an excellent example.  An independent state in the Kullaberg Nature Preserve, Ladonia is a triangular-sized plot of land of about 1km, and is ruled by a queen and numerous ministers, including the Minister of Things Under Rocks, the Minister of Animals Especially Cows, the Minister of Harley Davidson Motorcycles and the Minister of Headphones and Bad Jokes.  Ladonia is a micronation, with all of its 14,000 inhabitants being nomadic and taxes being paid by donating creativity.  The structures that make up Ladonia are amazing.

The Car Cemetery lies in a forest about 2km north in the city of Ryd.  Years ago, people started taking their cars to an old gentleman who liked repairing them for little or no money.  Well, he eventually found his way to a nursing home, but there were hundreds of cars around his property in the forest, covered with moss in the summer.  In exchange for leaving the cars in their final resting place, as they very much reflect the heritage of the country, all signs directing people to the Car Cemetery have been taken down, so one must inquire of locals for directions.

But rest assured, if it takes you a while to find it, they have exceptionally clean toilets in the middle of the woods in Sweden.

And very cool phone boxes – but you probably won’t find one in the woods.

Or here, for that matter – if this place exists.

According to the Swedish Travel Board, directions to Chako Paul City have lately been much sought after by Chinese businessmen visiting Sweden.  Reportedly founded in 1820 by a wealthy man-hating widow, Chako Paul City houses 25,000 sex-crazed lesbians.  The city is guarded by a pair of blonde amazons, and women are only let out of the city to have brief liaisons with men (which makes no sense if they are lesbians.)  Most of the women in town are employed in the foresting industry, and sport wide belts of woodworking tools.  Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the town is a myth.  But the search for it has helped boost tourism in northern Sweden.

Regardless of your reasons for visiting Sweden, here are a few customs that you should be careful to follow:

-           Always, always, always be on time.

-          It’s the custom to take off your shoes when entering a Swedish home, so be conscious of the condition of your socks.

-          Do not put your coat on before you step outside the doorway of a Swedish home, as it is seen as rude and an indication that you are anxious to leave early.

And make sure you are aware of a few unusual laws:

-          Prostitution is legal, but it is illegal to use the services of a prostitute.

-          You can own your own land, but only to a depth of a half of a meter.

-          You may not repaint your house without the government’s permission.

-          If you release pigs into a jointly-owned beechnut forest, and you have exceeded your quota of allowed pigs, you will have to pay each other owner a fine for each excess pig and fix any damage that the excess pigs caused.

On another lawless note, a Christmas tradition is the victim of violent crime nearly every year.  Every year since 1966, a huge straw goat (Gavleblocken) has been built at Christmas in city of Gävle.  And almost every year, vandals have destroyed the goat – the poor thing has been burned (numerous times), run over by a motorized vehicle, and thrown in the river.  Starting in 1988, gamblers were able to place bets on the fate of the goat with English bookies.   The goat is guarded by police, volunteers, fences, webcams, and the Goat Committee that has been appointed to look after it.  The only year of its history in which nothing happened to the poor goat was 1994.  Its reprieve was only because, in this year, the goat followed the Swedish national hockey team to Italy for the World Ice Hockey Championships.  (I would have dearly loved to see the goat on the move.)  The goat’s most unusual demise occurred in 2005, when he was fired by a gingerbread man shooting a flaming arrow, and burned by vandals dressed as Santa.  Can’t wait to see what happens this year! 

The Swedes seem to have a bit of a thing for large replicas of farm animals.  The world’s largest wooden horse, or Dalahast, painted bright red, is to be found in the Swedish city of Avesta.

Well, because I love them and because I can’t let all of the Swedish stereotypes go unaddressed, I have saved the best for last – the Swedish moose.

There are over 200,000 moose in Sweden.  Moose signs are common on the roads, and you must watch out for moose particularly on the smaller, less-travelled roads, around 11:00 pm.

The safest way to observe moose is a on a visit to….the MOOSE GARDEN!  The Moose Garden in Orrivken, is home to Elvira, Blenda, Bettan, Nordis, Helge and Beppe, and the owners hand-produce eco-friendly paper from moose poop. 

 You can pay a virtual visit to the Moose Garden via the “Moose Cam” (here), which is, according to the Moose Garden website, “a web cam in which you can take a look on our beatyful mooses.”  After all, hade första hornet ifjol och var då en 6-taggare, vad månde bliva?? (which I pulled from the Moose Garden site and makes absolutely no sense when translated into English.)

So, ha en lycklig kvall – which means “have a happy evening”.

The Divorce Diaries – 11-13-09 – What’s Different After Divorce

Pat and I had our mandatory co-parenting class tonight.  It actually wasn’t the total waste of time I expected.  Of the 30 people there, we were one of three couples who attended together, and honestly, we were the only couple that had any kind of good rapport.   The energy in the room was as heavy as any room I’ve ever been in – sadness, confusion and resentment were thick in the air.  Overall,  I think Pat and I are doing a pretty good job already.  He calls me when Kelsea is pissing him off or stressing him out, and he hates it when I don’t agree with him, but he actually listens to my rational suggestions once in a while, which is more than I could have said a year ago.  As much as he would be loath to admit it, I think he’s finding us being apart better for him too.

I have been thinking about what is different now.  I’ve been living in the cottage for over a year, so things have obviously been different, but there are a lot of nuances to “different”.

Following are my reflections and assessments, from the philosophical to the mundane, with associated contemplative notes.  (All these are considering my times without Kelsea (or Mr. GF), as when we are together, who knows what can happen, and that is a good thing.  We have fun.)

I go to sleep by myself every night and wake up alone every morning. 
Good and bad.  I was really doing this anyway for the last who-knows-how-many years of my marriage.  Pat would always go to sleep in his chair in the living room, and sometimes would come to bed, sometimes not, but always later than me.  I would always go in and read in bed after Kelsea went to bed, and fall asleep with the light on.  If Pat came to bed, he would be up early with the dogs. 

I have to do my own dishes.
Bad.  Pat was chief cook and bottle washer in the family.  I have no dishwasher, and very little counter space, so the dirty dish situation always looks worse than it is, but I still can’t seem to get into the discipline of it every day.  My Mother would be scandalized.

I have to cook for myself.
Good and bad. See above.  When I met Pat, I couldn’t cook, even though I’d worked as a cook in restaurants off and on for five years.  He helped me learn how to be a creative cook and in the beginning, we would cook together.  But once I started working so much, he became the only cook, and got pretty critical of my techniques when I did cook (although he always said I knew how to spice things well).   So I went back to “I can’t cook.”  Now, on my own, I am having to re-teach myself how to be a creative cook, although one who does not have time to spend an hour preparing a meal that only I will be eating.  I’m really only just starting to work on this, and doing it now that I find I’m having to watch my diet more closely.  But I have so little time at home, and get home so late, that I don’t always plan ahead or cook ahead.  I’m definitely eating less, and only eating what I want, and that’s a good thing.

I am not being nagged to do more.
Good.  No one tells me I need to clean the house, walk the dogs, pull weeds, throw stuff away.  That always made me feel guilty and desperate, as if I wasn’t doing enough, and was failing at what I did do.

I am not being scolded or told I am doing things wrong.
Good.  Is this starting to sound slightly repetitive?  It seemed like I could never do anything right – be thin enough, fit enough, rich enough, generous enough, sexy enough.  Eat my dinner properly.  Hang the phone up.  You name it.  Now, I get to decide if I am doing something correctly for myself.

I do not have someone telling me I am incapable of x, y, or z.
Good.  This is a relief.  As stated above, it seemed like I could never do anything right unless I did it Pat’s way, and if I did it my way, he was sure to tell me I wasn’t doing it right and would never be capable of doing it right – if at all.

I don’t have my animals to comfort me and to play with.
Bad.  I miss my animals terribly.  Fortunately, Pat and I are getting along well enough that I can see them whenever I want, but it’s not the same as having fuzzy faces around all the time.  Poppy is a mini-blessing.

I don’t see Kelsea every day.
Bad.  This is the worst of it.  As you can imagine.  But oddly enough, I see more of her now than I did before.

I can exercise at home without feeling self-conscious (or having a dog try to play with my head.)
Good and bad.  I am definitely exercising more (partly because I’m not being told to do other things), but the dogs (and Mel) added an unexpectedly challenging element to floor-based exercises.

I don’t have a yard to deal with.
Good and bad.  I don’t have to be nagged about yard work.  But I loved my garden when my heart was into tending it.  I miss the beauty, the peace, the sense of achievement when I could grow things, the smell of the earth, the sound of the creek – and my hammock.

I have full control of the TV.
Good.  While I don’t care that much about the TV, it was ALWAYS on at Pat’s house, and we had very different tastes in programming.  It is wonderful to be able to keep it tuned on TCM, History, Discovery or Travel Channels, with the occasional program in incredibly bad taste thrown in.  And it is always off when I go to bed, so I never have to wake up to ask someone to turn the screaming or gunshots down.

I do not have to feel guilty about ________________ (fill in the blank).
Good.  I think I’ve probably covered this above.

I can meditate when I can.
Good.  This is very, very new for me, and I find I need stillness around me to meditate.  It would have been impossible to achieve in the environment I was in.

I can play music with impunity.
Good.  Another new thing for me.  I grew up with music, mostly classical, which was wonderful.  But Pat has never liked having music on, except during Christmas festivities.  I’d have music on and he’d come in and turn on the TV.  Made me nuts.  As it is, I’m exploring old favorites and discovering new ones.  My iPod is one of the best gifts I’ve ever been given for no reason.

I can sleep in on weekends.
Good.  The dogs do not wake me.  The cats do not wake me.  The TV doesn’t wake me.  Pat doesn’t wake me.  I get so little sleep during the week that this is bound to add to my store of health.

My extended family has shrunk.
Bad.  I miss them.  But to their dearest credit, they have not once made me feel like they faulted me for this decision.  I still feel as loved as ever by them.

I can grocery shop as I please and buy healthier things.
Good.  I now fill a cart helter-skelter and willy-nilly with impunity and rampant abandon, in direct defiance to Pat’s anal command of filling the cart in an orderly, logical fashion.  And I do not buy junk food or unhealthy, fatty stuff.  If it’s around, I’ll eat it, even if it’s not good for me.  And I don’t need it.  Another point in the health stockpile.

There is no one to reinforce my negative blurts about myself.
Good.  I have enough work in front of me building back my self-confidence in healthy ways.

I have less money.
Bad.  I have worked very hard since I was 16, with only one year off, when I just lived off savings and the proceeds from selling our house in the mountains (that I refinanced my house to pay for – if it weren’t for that, my house would be paid off now.)  But freedom always seems to come at a price.  And somehow the system, in the case of divorce, seems to financially punish the person who works the hardest.

I can keep my house clean.
Good.  OK, the floor is only clean enough for Poppy to eat off of, but it’s a hell of a lot tidier than Pat’s house has been for years.  And cleaner too.  It’s small and it started clean and it has less clutter.  But I feel better in a clearer space.  I firmly maintain that a fresh start requires a change of venue of some sort.

I have to do my own laundry.
Bad.  Of course, I had to do it half the time at Pat’s and I always had to put it away – I ask you, is it really true that a man can’t figure out what drawers hold which of his wife’s clothes after 17 years in the same house?  At any rate, I have laundry privileges in the big house, but it feels a bit like I’m intruding, the wash cycle is 45 minutes and the dryer is 60 minutes and it can only dry two loads sequentially without losing juice.  I had to run my third load through two cycles and my fourth load through three.  So laundry is an all day project. Literally.  At least I can pull out things that don’t belong in the dryer.  And no one fusses at me for leaving my clothes inside out.

I can explore my spiritual side without fear of ridicule.
Good.   Exploring my strong shamanistic capabilities, along with a more peaceful core of myself, has been fascinating on the rare occasions when I have the mental quietude to do so.  Pat is more of an atheist than anything else, and due to his upbringing, has complete disdain for most things spiritual.  I’ve let this side of me lie shadowed and sleeping for far too long.

I might grow old alone.
Bad.  But there are never any garuntees that you won’t, regardless of your marital status.

There is no one to fall back on if I find myself broke.
Bad.  Although, realistically, I’ve been at risk for going broke before, and the only person who I’ve had to fall back on (with the exception of my parents) has been me.  I’m very good at piecing things together when it comes to work.  I always have been.  Unfortunately, I’ve always had to be. 

I have to take care of myself when I’m sick.
Bad.  It’s awful to have to get up and get yourself stuff when you are really sick.  So much nicer to have someone to call to.

No one fusses at me for being late coming home from work.
Good.  I can work as long as I need to, without having to be exactly on time or get scolded for not being there when dinner is ready.  But…

I come home to an empty house.
Good and bad.  No one there to have dinner waiting for me, no dogs to be happy to see me, no little girl to hug.  But I come home to peace and quiet.

I have to do my own “man things”.
Good and bad.  I needed to expand my skill set to do “man things”, but that’s not to say I wanted to.  It was just essential in order to be truly independent and self-sufficient.  But I’m weaker (right now) and shorter than any man I know, and so it’s not easy.  And I’m teaching myself, with no instructions and no instincts.

I don’t have anyone to kiss me goodbye in the mornings. 
Bad.  I miss the daily dose of affection.

Hugs are harder to come by.
Bad.  See above.  But I am getting better at asking my friends for hugs when I need them. 

There’s no one to warm my cold digits on.
Bad.  As soon as there’s a hint of Fall in the air, my fingers and toes freeze.  No bootie, sock, shoe or blanket seems to warm them sufficiently.  I really need another person’s warm flesh to press them against.  Most unfortunate for the warm person.  And now, most unfortunate for me.

I don’t have a fireplace.
Bad.  I love fireplaces.  I grew up with one.  They are home for me.  Even though I don’t think we had a single fire last year, I really missed it.  I miss it now, on soon-to-be snowy days like this.

I can think outside the box in terms of my future.
Good.  Very, very good.

In Robinson Crusoe, Robinson used to tally up the pros and cons of situations, so let’s see what we come up with here (those things that are both good and bad get one score in each category):

 Good:  20                                                                                                                      

 Bad: 19

Well, that’s what I’d expect.  About even at this time.  It will be interesting to see how things look in another year.

The Weekly Wednesday Poem

Today’s guest poet — Pablo Neruda  (again, I know, I know)

Sonnet XXXIV 

You are the daughter of the sea, oregano’s first cousin.
Swimmer, your body is as pure as the water,
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.
Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.

Your eyes go out towards the water, and the waves rise;
your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell;
you know the deep essence of water and the earth,
conjoined in you like a formula for clay.

Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,
they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.
This is how you become everything that lives.

And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest –
vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.