Category: Journaling My Days

I journaled for years on paper and I expect to be doing it in some form until my last days. In short summary, I teach mindfulness to parents of kids with challenges; I garden as often and as much as I can in Wisconsin and I am working through the threads of grief six years after my husband’s death. I am very grateful for finding and chasing the joy in this unexpected life.

counting joy

The blur of the busy, the full plate, and the inability to see what is missing or left out or left behind until I trip over the very necessity that I proclaim I steadfastly chase and hold onto dearly . . . 

Joy.

In the darkness that I allowed to blossom last week, I saw the glories of fall—the orange and gold leaves of the massive tree I can see from my kitchen window!  I have observed this tree washing dishes and cooking and watering plants and wondering how I am going to close my two kitchen windows tight. The tree is a few doors down the block in another backyard.  Green all summer, it has slowly been turning into a mighty blaze of autumn color. Last Monday, it was glorious as if lit from deep within, as if ablaze of yellows and oranges. I was almost unable to take in so much color. As the week moved forward and the wind picked up, topmost leaves fell in a rain of gold. By Wednesday, some of the orange was fading into brown and some of the brown joined the rain. By Friday, the gold had almost vanished and the tree top was almost bare, and the weekend saw more of the same.  Today, much more than half the tree is all branches, a skeleton of its summer self.

The noticing filled me with something that I had lost to exhaustion and frustration.

I can admit to missing the necessity of raking leaves.  I know I used to complain when my Madison gardens were filled over and over with the leaves of big trees for what felt like months.  And I miss the Julia as a little girl who raked and jumped in piles and enjoyed it all. Now, I look in yards full of leaves with a bit of longing, but not enough longing to volunteer to help rake.  Maybe some year soon?

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morning walk on the beach 

Ferry Beach, Saco, Maine

Impressions in wet sand. Sneekers and boots, sandles and a few bare and naked feet. Just a few bare feet, it is october afterall.  Round impressions from walking sticks and baby feet every so often. But regularly, those baby feet. And I wonder why. I imagine a parent, scooping up a toddler into a piggy back ride and then letting the wiggling wee one down after a short riding respite. Dog prints in wild archs going in and out of the ends of waves, the line where the tide erases everything. 

And I imagine how sooner or later, tonight and tomorrow early morning, a tide will come in and take away all traces of our shod and unshod animal prints. Flood the prints with the waves coming ashore, leaving the sand smooth and pristine again. 

What if the bits of sadnesses, stresses, worries and longings of our lived days were left in the prints we leave during our walkings. Left to be swollowed up by the lapping water. As if by intention, as if what we could not carry any longer could be returned to some universe. As if by returning to the sea what we could not bear, we might be comforted and even healed by the rhythmn of the to and fro, in and out, of the salty waves. 

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beginnings again

It is a beginning of September and my traditional time to return to what fuels my creativity and thus, my soul.  Cool weather, the first sight of the un-greening of leaves, and children back to school.  And a morning ritual that I have abandoned during a summer because who in their right mind can be disciplined during the hot, sun drenched days with a demanding offspring. But right now, the house is quiet, I am sitting at my desk and the only thing to do is to look for and return to how work happens. It is a return and it is always new.

I seem to have many loose threads that go together fine in my living them but don’t make for a cohesive blog post.  And I haven’t spent enough time writing this summer to keep them all going.

Baby Alfie is two weeks old. He has presented himself as a child who needs to be held to sleep which is tough on his parents during the night, but as the visiting grandma of the day to sit and hold a little baby who is happily sleeping in my arms is such delight.  He who I did not expect continues to surprise me. There is no doubt that I have loved my children and Wilbur, but I have never been drawn to infants.  This one has opened a new place for me.

And it is worth noting.

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alfie ray borick

Our newest little person made his debut very, very early this morning.  After going to the hospital around midnight and being sent home, Cheshire and Justin headed back only a few hours later. Alfie Ray Borick was born at 4:15 a.m. weighing in at 7 pounds, 14 ounces. 

I got to visit around lunch time and hold Alfie and watch his face and hands move.  He is such a sweet bundle. He is an old soul.

I don’t have pictures of mama or daddy — what was I thinking?  But just look at that face!

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muta

Muta died last night right after Julia left for the movies.  I was glad that she wasn’t home.  It wasn’t a bad death but it happened right in front of me.  I don’t know how Julia would have handled it.

Muta hadn’t eat at all yesterday. In the last week, even on appetite enhancers, anti-nausea meds and steroids, his eating has been sporadic and he has thrown up nearly everything I’ve given him. There was nothing more the vet could do for him. He had slept on my bed just three nights ago, jumping up as always. The last two days, he stayed mostly in the bathroom on the rug which he liked and under the kitchen table.

Julia left for the movies around 5:20; I was cutting tomatoes to roast.  Muta threw up under the kitchen table.  He laid back down and some of his fur was in the vomit although by this point, vomit was mostly a clear liquid.  I wanted to get the tomatoes in the oven and so didn’t immediately clean up the floor.  A few minutes later, Muta got up and walked to the back door.  He meowed very loudly.  He usually asked to go outside but not in this voice which had a strident sound.  Since he has been sick, I’ve kept him inside but during this last week, I had been letting him out. Sometimes he went into the backyard, but mostly he kept to the porch, finding a bit of sun and stretching out.  

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more catch up

I have catching up to do and no way to gracefully ease into it.

First, the cat. Muta is still with us; however, it is hard to really know how he is doing. I was waiting for some definitive answer. Some diagnosis and prognosis, but I don’t think I am going to get either.  

For about a week after our weekend in the hospital, he was about 80% his old self.  He wasn’t that keen on going outside but he jumped on the couch and my bed and sprawled out when he napped during the day.  He was on an appetite enhancer.  He ate the canned food that I had.  I gave it to him in small amounts—about a quarter of a large can at a time. He willingly ate it.  I think it was not enough to really satisfy him but he stopped throwing up. I imagined he was getting use to being fed 4 times a day; however, over the last weekend he began to throw up again. At least, once a day. On Monday, I went to a vet. She did a follow up blood test to see where his liver and pancreas related numbers were. I haven’t heard from her yet. She also did a bit of hydration for him and gave him a shot of a nausea suppressant.  She said to continue with the steroid until she got the blood work back. 

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muta update

Muta is spending the night at the hospital.  All the tests have been inconclusive and  there is  no exact diagnosis yet. His liver and spleen are enlarged although it is not clear whether it is for the same reason. Right now, the vet thinks that it is either lymphoma or a cholangiohepatitis.  Lymphoma would mean palliative care; the hepatitis might be controlled with medication. The mass the docs felt in his abdomen and the reason that we went for the ultrasound was his enlarged liver.  

For the night, Muta will get hydrated, something to encourage his appetite, an antibiotic in case it is a hepatitis infection that can be treated and something else I’ve forgotten.

We will see how he is tomorrow.

It has been a rough weekend and I don’t really hold out much hope for an easy outcome; however, we’ve experienced a good deal of kindness at the animal hospitals for which I am grateful.  The vet, Dr. Greg Krane, from PetMedic (Cambridge) who took care of Muta yesterday, made sure that Muta’s test results were sent to the ER this morning.  There is one test we were still waiting for and even though Greg told us the result would probably not be returned until tomorrow, he called the lab this evening in case the results would finished at the very end of the work day. Greg also called me twice during the day to find out how Muta was doing.  He urged me to ask him any questions and gave me complete, unvarnished answers.  The vet and staff at the ER were also kind and patient with both myself and Julia.  It was a long and hard day for her but I am proud of her patience and willingness to be present the whole day.

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muta

Sitting in an ER waiting room for Muta, the cat, to get an ultrasound on his belly. The ER is in Weymouth, about a half hour from our house and “half way to the Cape” according to Ed. There must be a thousand dogs here . . . okay, maybe 15. Muta would normally be making a lot of noise because of all those dogs. Today, he is sitting quietly in his crate. He hardly made any noise at all on the drive down in his crate. A sure sign he is feeling really awful.

And I am sad.

Muta is twelve years old. Other than the time when we moved five years ago and he stopped eating, and then last year’s puncture wound, he has been big and strong and healthy. He is the smartest cat that has ever been part of my family. He goes for walks with us and makes friends in every neighborhood we’ve lived in.  He is vocal and pushy at times.  He loves sleeping on our back porch in the warm weather and napping on the wide sill in the living room on sunny mornings.

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unexpected life

Begun on the 5th, finished on the 7th.

Sitting on my back porch, in some stillness. In my sight lines are some less than perfect pots of flowers and herbs that I’ve planted and babied in the blistering heat, a brilliant hydrangea in our back garden that is in full bloom, and the garden behind ours, long neglected yet still punctuated with blooming perennials that are too stubborn to recognize that they are no longer tended.

Yesterday was rather idyllic.  A summertime community picnic in Concord.  Hot dogs, Wilbur’s first, and hamburgers, sweet tea and strawberry shortcake.  And apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Firefighters set up a flat house with flames coming through windows and doors, all on hinges, and gave children the chance to aim a “real” fire hose and shoot water at the flames until the flames were defeated.  The line was too long for Wilbur to wait, for any of us to wait, but he loved watching other kids with the hose.  There was a playground with a sand pit for the pleasure of the littlest ones including Wilbur and his aunty Julia. There was a four piece band of what I thought of as old codgers playing blue grass and old rock standards.  Those codgers may have been younger than I am.  Best of all, we took a train to the picnic!  Wilbur’s current high interest topic is trains of all sorts and sizes, and so we met three stops on the transit line from Concord and took two little train rides to and from the picnic.  It was well worth it as everything about the train, especially moving, was fascinating to the little boy.  

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return

Happy Summer! (lots of this was written over the past 10 days)

Today’s longest day antics: A screening of flying lessons, the film by Sarah Waldron that Julia is in, late lunch with a friend, and horror movies tonight.

Yesterday, June 20, was our really longest day—up at 5 am to begin our ride to Jersey City for the Golden Door Film Festival, a stop at The Cloisters when we realized we were way too early to check into our hotel.  Loved The Cloisters. Hadn’t been there since before Cheshire was born. Finished the ride, found our hotel and some parking —Jersey City has not changed as much as I had imagined in the century since I was there —took naps, went to the opening night party for the festival, saw a bunch of very short and short films and fell into bed somewhere just before midnight.

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