Disquiet on the Home Front or The Grandma Situation

Mom called tonight. She wanted to know my plans for tomorrow. She and Aunt #2 are looking at a care facility tomorrow for Grandma. A week or so from now, Grandma will be turning 86. She has been living in senior housing for a decade. She is lucid and in reasonable health. However, Grandma doesn't eat or drink enough. A few weeks ago, she passed out in the grocery store -because she was severely dehydrated.

The housing co-op called Aunt #2 and told her this wasn't the first time. Mom sat with her at Barnes Hospital's ER. Grandma waited 8 hours to be seen. I guess passing out when you're 85 isn't an emergency. While they were waiting, calls went out to the entire extended family; and mom tried to set up a care and visitation schedule. Nobody has decided which days they want, so mom and Aunt #2 are looking at moving her to a different facility.

They haven't asked Grandma's opinion yet. Maybe she doesn't want to move. Maybe her apartment gives her a sense of freedom. Maybe she wants to keep the possessions she has left, and doesn't want them parted out to the family... And maybe she does. I don't know, and I think she should have some say in it.

The new facility sounds great to me, but I'm not the one going there. It's right next door to a Catholic Church, so Grandma can go every day again. She is a very devout Catholic, and has missed church a lot in the past few years. She wouldn't have to cook anymore, because they provide all meals. Grandma has told me often enough how hard it is to cook for one, when she's used to cooking for 10. That's why she doesn't eat enough. Most days she can't be bothered to cook. When she gets hungry enough, she'll re-warm yesterday's leftovers. Meals-On-Wheels visits her 3 times a week. I think that's what she lives on. It's sad, and I'm dumping all my sadness here, so forgive me.

Mom tried to brighten the mood today, by telling me Great Grandma's table would probably not go with Grandma. Well, that's just great. I really do want that old Queen Anne card table. It's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma. I remember playing with the decorative drawer pull before I could see over the table. I remember taking out Great Grandma's canasta cards, after she passed away. I remember how no one would touch the table, much less use it, unless Great Grandma said they could. Gods, how I love that table! It's been chewed on by puppies, scratched by cats and played with by 6 grand children. and I want that table when Grandma is ready to give it to me, not when Grandma is forced to give it up. If it's the only thing left to remind me of Great Grandma, then it's also the only tangible piece of her mother. When it is passed down to me, should I pick up Grandma, help her climb into my truck and drive her to look at her mother's table? What an impossible thought! (Clearly, I haven't used up my melodrama quotient in this life)

I don't know what to say, or what to think. I want to wave a magic wand and keep things the same, and I don't even know if moving Grandma would be a bad idea!
I remember Great Grandma, living in the nursing home she once worked at. I remember how the sun lit up her hair and made it into a halo, the last time I visited her. I remember Aunt #2 telling me I would have to say something because Great Grandma couldn't see me. She was blind now. I remember the adults talking over my head as if I weren't there, talking about how death would be a mercy to her. And worst of all, I remember the looks from the other people in the home, as this huge loving family came to visit. I got in trouble for wandering off several times. We would be sitting in Great Grandma's room, and I could feel need elsewhere. Twice, mom found me in someone else's room, listening to their stories and looking at pictures of their grand children.

I don't want to have the same kinds of memories about Grandma. Life doesn't stagnate. Life moves forward, whether you want it to or not. I know age happens, and I should be thankful that Grandma is lucid and mobile. But oh, how I resist this change of scenery.

*shudder* twitch twitch

I try to respect Christianity. I do try. I'll get myself all convinced that it is a fine religion, serving the needs of so many people. I think of the Christians I know who are lit up inside, glowing with love. I think of them and say, "See, Christianity is good." I love seeing people who have found a path.

You know you're on your path when you don't need to convince anyone to walk your path with you. I've been saying that for years. It doesn't mean religion is lonely, and it doesn't mean everyone should be solitary. It means when you've found the religion that fits, you're happy. When you haven't, you try to justify the rightness of your religion by making everyone else join.

I know, this seems to single out Christians, because they proselytize as part of their faith. And I've had pagans try to convince me that their path is right, and my own is wrong. I've noticed that if I have stepped off my path, I get all huffy and insulted. When I'm being my path, nothing they say offends me. I listen with interest. I feel happy for them, for finding what works... what fits their lives and lights them up.

Whenever a new church opens in my neighborhood, people knock on my door and invite me to attend. I always tell them, "Thank you! I have a church that I attend, but thanks for letting me know you're here." I generally add, "Welcome to the neighborhood." I don't tell them I'm Pagan, and they don't ask me if I've found Jesus. It works out quite well. I don't mind invitations. I do mind being told that I'm broken, lost or needy. Which brings me to today's point.

I was looking at some St. Louis Bloggers, and clicked on one described as, "A blog on my thoughts and such, and an ongoing photographic essay of St. Louis and various travels..." I'm an absolute nut for St. Louis architecture, of course I went to read the blog. Not as described, would be an understatement. (Yeah, when was the last time you read something here about fine arts, I know) The blog is pretty Christian, and completely inoffensive... except for this one bit. So I'm taking the one negative post out of context, from an otherwise decent blog, and copying it here for all to see.

"January 5, 2004 - 3:32:01 PM
I'm not sure weather to be happy or offended by this article on how fundamental Christian groups are working in foreign countries. Apparently we use all sorts of insidious tactics like humnitarian aid, education, and medical help to further our prosylitization program.
There was one quote in particular that gave me pause. I was reminded of the early objections of the Roman Empire against Christianity. The writer of the article said,

'What is objectionable in this fundamentalist campaign is not its desire to gain adherents, but in its determination to totally alienate their converts from all their traditions and all 'non-believers'. '

During the first few hundred years of the Christian church, Christians were murdered, not because we believed in a different God than anyone else. You see, the Romans allowed for all sorts of diverse pagan deities, but we were murdered because we had the audacity to declare that our God is the only true God. We survived then, prospered even. And we will prosper in Nepal too. I know. I've read the ending. We win."

See? I was all OK with this guy's opinion, until that last bit. The smug assurance of "we win".

I read the entire article about fundamentalist groups, and had no problem with it. Not once does the article encourage "murder". Toward the end, it mentions the legal battle between a women's group and a group of Christians.
here it is:
"Foreign funded fundamentalists are increasingly aware of the rising opposition by tradition-centred groups. (Buddhists and Hindus in Sri Lanka) to their activities and endeavour to camouflage their activities with a cloak of legitimacy. In Sri Lanka this has taken two forms. One is the presentation in Parliament of Acts to incorporate assorted fundamentalist groups so that they can pursue their subtle proselytization as a legal activity. The other is to use the 'carte blanche' given by the open economy to register their organisations as commercial enterprises.

The All Ceylon Women's Buddhist Congress (ACWBC) decided to face the legal challenge head on.

Two such Christian groups, based in Norway and Austria respectively, attempted to get their organisations incorporated in the laws of the country.

The ACWBC contested both cases in the Supreme Court and won landmark decisions rejecting their applications. It should be understood that this was no mere reliance on the duty of the State to protect Buddhism.

The point made by the Supreme Court was that while it upheld the freedom of worship of all citizens it could not countenance the establishment of bodies that would extend material and other benefits to those who converted to their set of beliefs. " thanks to the Daily News for the article.

Addendum

I wrote the last post, and lost my internet connection right as I was publishing. I thought I'd lost it. I was both happy and unhappy about that. It is easier for me to write about my old neighborhood, than it is for me to write about my gifts. I don't believe I'm unique, or uber powerful, or put here to change the world. I really think I'm no different than anyone else. And then I get confronted with "evidence" that I am unique. I don't know how to be with that at all.

So every once in a while, I try to work it out on my blog. I try to express that I really like my life, and there are some things I'm really good at, and I admire the many, many, many things other people are good at. I see someone doing exactly what I can do, and I marvel at them. I love the interconnectedness of everything. I don't want to be unique. Unique people are lonely people.

Saying, "Look what I can do" feels like bragging. When I get uncomfortable about my talents, I make myself write it for the internet world to see. Sorry for using y'all that way. :)

Tangent

That last post wasn't what I'd meant to say. It went in it's own direction. That's ok.

What I'd meant to say is that I had so much magic around me as a child, and I never knew it. I thought magic was flashy, permanent, and the stuff of legends. I wanted a fairy godmother, but life was easy, and no fairy godmother came. I wanted to fly like Superman, dress like Wonder Woman, and save the world like James Bond. And one more thing... I wanted to do it all while maintaining my secret identity.
I wanted my own personal fairy tale, not realizing that I was already living it.

Magic isn't flashy, it's private. It happens best when no one is looking, or when everyone is looking; rarely in-between.

I look at my life, and marvel at the magic. Just yesterday, the wind danced with me. Birds fly right over my head, totally unafraid. I had a hawk follow me from my home to my son's school, and back again. I can look at people and tell them where it hurts, and why. I can touch those hurts from across the room and take away some of their pain, if the want me to. I can see your future and I can see your past. I maintain my secret identity. I'm not special. I'm just another stay at home mom.

a nature of magic

When I was a child, I believed in magic. I believed in fairy tales, and happily-ever-afters. I believed that good things happen to good people.
And I wished like crazy for some magic to happen to me.

I had proof of magic, like all children do. I got coins from the tooth fairy and presents from Santa, and a book with a dragon in it -that I swore breathed smoke and winked at me when no one was looking. I didn't think I was special (or insane), I thought it was just like a dragon to hide in a book and wink at small children. I also thought dragons swiped princesses to teach them how to work. It would serve two purposes. The dragon gets it's scales cleaned, and the princess learns the value of work, growing up to be a good queen.

I could look at clouds and see herds of buffalo thundering across the sky. It lifted my spirits to know that the buffalo lived on, even though the cowboys killed them all. (that's kid logic for you) Mom would take me to the park and teach me to listen to the world. She never treated it like a lesson. She thought you should listen to the world because you could. She taught me that the planet, and every living thing on it speaks. I knew something she didn't know. Non-living things speak too. I would pick up rocks and ask her to listen to them, and she would say, "But it's just a rock. Rocks can't talk." And I would say, "Trees can talk. Grass talks. The wind talks. Why can't rocks talk?" She always said, "Well, because they're not alive."
As a very small child, I believed her. I told myself that I only imagined that rocks talk, just like I imagined dragons winking in books. It hurt to think that. So every year I grew a little more, and brought mom rocks; insisting that she listen better. Every year, she insisted rocks don't talk. I never gave up. A few years ago, when I really got into jewelery making, I brought her an assortment of rough gems. I put them in her hand, one by one, and told her to really listen this time. (yeah, I know. Shame on me for making my 50 year old mom listen to a bunch of dirty old rocks)
She said, "I don't know what I'm listening for."
So I taught her, the same way she taught me to listen to the trees, grass and sky.
She had forgotten how to listen with her spirit. I reminded her, with her own words. And when she remembered, she heard.
We sat with our heads bowed over this pile of rough gems, and she told me the nature of each stone she held. It was a magical moment. I love my mom.

A redhead, her snake, and his food

Last night, I went to get snake food. I actually like buying snake food. It's an adventure, and I never know what I'm going to get. The reptile store has an earthy, sometimes pungent aroma. They have snakes, lizards, tortoises and turtles, alligators, spiders, scorpions and frogs. One week, I'll see geckos stuck to the glass of their 4 ft high cage. The next week the same cage will hold an emerald tree boa. The only constant is the cage that holds impossibly large pythons for less than $200. Sadly, people buy snakes, then get rid of them when they grow too heavy to carry around. I would love to give a home to some of those beauties, and it's not practical. The cost of their food would be too great. Which brings me back to last night.

It was windy last night. I could see the trees whipping around as the cold front the weather guy had warned us about moved in. And Sinbad needed food. I'd been putting it off for too long. I stepped out the side door, expecting a bitter wind.
Instead, a strong warm wind swirled around me. It lifted my hair like a mini tornado and caressed my face as if to say, "hi". I suddenly felt playful and wonderful. The arthritic aches and pains I ignore daily just... disappeared. I felt like a teenager again. I stalked lightly through the backyard as if I were walking on air. Who knows? Perhaps I was, because that odd warm wind swirled around me all the way to the truck. Have I mentioned that I love being shaman? ;)

I drove to the Exotic Amphibian and Reptile Center (aka the snake store), still in that happy-playful mood. When I climbed out of the truck, the cold-front wind was, well -cold. Nastily cold. My lovely warm wind had abandoned me. The snake store stank to high heaven, and they were out of large mice. They had nothing but pinky mice. I didn't have enough cash on hand to buy the half-dozen baby mice Sinbad would need. The girl behind the counter suggested a small rat. I know Sinbad is big enough to eat a small rat, but I had avoided buying one previously. Mice are food, but rats are pets. They're intelligent, agile and capable of loving. I would feel really bad feeding a rat to my snake.
Of course, in the wild Sinbad would be eating rats, mice, baby bunnies and even rattlesnakes. It is a food cycle, don't ya know. So I bought a $2 rat. Looking at him, I realized how big his teeth could be, how strong his jaws, how potent his interest in surviving. (sigh) I asked the girl if I should "thump" the rat. She thought it would be a good idea, if I could stomach it. I decided I'd better find a way to cope with it. It's way too cold out to be taking Sinbad to the vet for a rat bite.

So I carried the rat out to the truck, wrapped in my coat to keep him warm. Don't ask me why I take such care of what is, clearly, no more than food. I just do. It's what seems right.
I turned up the heater, and headed for home. As I got off the highway, the wind began circling the truck. It had not abandoned me, it just didn't want to leave the neighborhood :) The wind, not as warm as before, but still nice; stayed with me all the way to the door. It even politely held the storm door open for me, and closed it behind.
I don't know why the wind chose to dance with me last night. I don't care. I'm grateful for it's gift.

Back to the tale of the food. I gave the box of rat to my hubby and explained about there being no mice. He was pleased. He'd been thinking of switching Sinbad to rats for some time. Now was as good a time as any. I told him about the thumping suggestion, and said I wasn't sure if I had the heart for it. By this time, hubby-man was playing with the rat. He was letting it crawl over his hand, and up his arm. He abruptly got up and took the rat to the bathroom with him. I knew what was coming, and a small part of my brain recoiled in horror. Good idea or not, it was deliberately harming a living creature. (now might be a good time to stop reading)

I heard a "thunk" from the bathroom, and felt all tingly and unpleasant. Our son asked, "Did you just thump the rat's head against the sink?" Hubby said, "Yes." That was apparently enough. Hubby headed toward the bedroom, carrying the now limp rat by it's tail. We followed. I really wanted to see Sinbad eat this monster sized piece of food. The rat began to twitch, kicking his hind legs. His eyes were still glazed looking, so we knew it was just reaction from the rat's now damaged brain. Every twitch sent little shocks of horror through me. The rat was dumped into Sinbad's cage, and we sat back to watch.

The poor rat had landed on his feet, and because of the kicking hind legs, began hopping around the cage. Had I been less shocked, it would have seemed funny. Then the rat hopped right into Sinbad's water dish. Hubby rescued it before it drowned. Good man. I don't think I could have handled seeing the poor thing drown. He laid the now soggy rat on it's side, and we watched the snake scent his way around the cage.

We left the room before Sinbad found his dinner. It wasn't interesting anymore, just kind of sad. Next time, I'm buying a mouse.

2 sleep, % 2 dream

Read that title, then shoot me. It's ok, really. I haven't abbreviated with numbers in my writing since high school, and the days of C Chat. (for the St. Louisans) Remember C Chat? Hubby-Man dragged me to a CChat get together at a park, and I never wanted to go to another. That was back when nerds were nerds. We're talking pale, thin, acne ridden boys with pocket protectors, here. I felt so incredibly out of place, standing next to the man I eventually married. From my asymmetrical haircut to my cute little pumps with bows on the toes, I did not fit. As a matter of fact, I was from such a different world, that most of the boys didn't even see me. That's probably why I didn't want to go to anymore CChat get togethers.

Anyway... I didn't sleep well last night. I had a ton of stories running through my head, plus the delightful "Jukebox Hero" by Foreigner as background. ...Standin' in the rain. With his head hung low. Couldn't get a ticket. It was a sold out show. Heard the roar of the crowd, he could picture the scene. Put his head to the wall, and like a distant scream; He heard one guitar. Just blew him away... etc. Is it running through your head yet? Muahaha. Shared pain is lessened, shared joy is multiplied!

I'm actually going somewhere with this. All the potential blog stories kept me awake, and I don't really want to write any of them. I want to write about nifty things. 100 things about me would probably bore everyone but me.

No Title

If you're unaware of the "Bryan Lamb is an asshat plagiarist" theme of the month; well, I'm sorry for you. You've been missing out. You can't read the majority of his plagiarism now, he deleted it wholesale, although the blog lives on.
However, Poundy wrote a lot of truly eloquent words about why you should care about this. If, instead, you'd like to expand your insult vocabulary, visit the "Bryan Lamb is a sorry plagiarist punk" guestbook. Created by the inestimable Sour Bob, it holds pages and pages of insults. Not your standard insults, either. You can giggle over great phrases like, "You are a waste of skin". (sorry, no name or link to give credit for that one)

Festival Longings

So I'm sitting on the sofa, basking in the sunlight and leafing through an Azure Green catalogue. I don't remember requesting one, yet it came in the mail yesterday, and they have just about everything. In the bumper sticker section they had this, "we all come from the Goddess, and to her we shall return". Thus I've been chanting a song Chasmyn taught me ages ago. I'm a little surprised I still remember it. I learn chants at festivals, and promptly forget them.

We all come from the Goddess
And to her we shall return
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean

It got me to thinking. What I need is a cd of chants. I don't want long songs. Just quick little chants with music. Wouldn't that be ideal? Wouldn't it be great if you could get a cd of all the chants used in all the rituals of a 5 day festival?
I decided to google it and found, right off the bat, this: Chants and Music for the Solitary Practitioner. Oh, yeah!

Ideally, I'd like to listen to a bunch and download ($) what I want. That suits me better than buying a cd with chants and long instrumentals. Nothing against instrumental music, but for that I prefer classical music with a full orchestra. Give me the whole concert, or at least a movement. Let me hear the strings -from violin to cello, brass, woodwinds, percussion, and for gods sake, throw in some tubular bells! I like music that surrounds me. For some reason, singing a simple acapella chant surrounds me just as effectively as an orchestra. I love it!

Yes, today I will be buying some music. I've been missing out on an entire world of paganism, by thinking what's available is just like what was to be had in the 80's. Closed mind, and all that.

Haven't had this much fun since Christmas

The most righteous Sour Bob, who encouraged e-mails to the plagiarist (who's name and/or link will not sully my blog) has set up a guestbook for us outraged peoples. I read all the entries and laughed so hard my tummy hurts. Then I realized I should have added my comments before I read all that gorgeous writing. I'm a decent blogger, and I am totally outclassed by some of those people. I love it!

You can read what others have to say, or you can tell off the sorry sack of shit. Or both :)