Month: April 2023

A Play and a Poem

You know, I really do want and hope that you, the readers of this blog, gain something positive from the reading. I write about what’s happening with me, but my hope is that you can somehow internalize the words as reflecting your sorrows, griefs, loves, successes, hopes, and dreams. This week’s post is no different, unless you can relate to its being more positive, well, than at least the last one. Two experiences highlight my week, and both are positive.

The spoiler (the poem) is at the end. The second experience took place on Thursday. I was at a local music store picking up some equipment when Thaddeus mentioned that they were holding an open mic session in the recital room that evening. Thaddeus, who hosts, said he’s been struggling with turnout. “Please come play.” It would just be, hopefully, two or three musicians. I quickly realized it was time to put up or shut up. I agreed to come back that evening.

And so it appeared to be – at first. Then people kept arriving. A total of seven musicians performed, of which I was the third; five singer song writers and two pianists. There were also nearly a dozen others in the audience.

My heart began pounding as Thaddeus started things off. Probably the most polished of all of us, he played four original songs. In fact, all five guitarists played original music. By the time Joe finished his five originals, I knew I was next up. Though I felt that I at least belonged there, my stress level was high.

I played five songs beginning with Anything to Please (not yet recorded), Chameleon, Heart of Logic, Tell Elizabeth I Love Her, and The Song I Never Wrote For You. All were received well and applauded. And though I made several mistakes, some obvious, I was clearly in an empathetic crowd. After all was done, several people came up to me with appreciation for my playing and my songwriting skills.

I did it! I played in public in front of people I don’t know. It has begun. I am fulfilling a commitment I made to Pam (posthumously) and to myself, to step out into a new life that includes sharing myself, and in a way Pam, with – the world?

As you might imagine, I was pretty stoked when I got home. A nice Spring evening. I opened a can of beer and walked around the pond. It was then that my emotions caught up with me and, of course, I began to cry (as I am while writing this). Pam was not with me to share the dream. That coupled with the realization that I was actually going on with a new, still unfamiliar and uncomfortable life. And Pam would approve. Such a melancholy gift. Yet I have to move forward with my heart still in the past, hoping for a future that honors her life – and mine.

The Promised Poem – Promising Spring

Last Tuesday I began my day in contemplation, as usual, staring out the window at the birds flitting around the feeders, and suddenly this popped into my head. I had to write it down immediately in the journal I keep by my chair. I rather like it. I like its positivity. So here it is:

Flitting Birds
Branches Rustling
Sweetly Singing

Towering Trees
Skyward Reaching
Gently Swaying

Flowers Panning
Pedals Unfolding
To Heaven Praying

Greens and Blues
A Sunny Day
Gone the Gray

At Least Today

Pathetic, and a Random Act of Kindness

His day began typically, but with a heaviness of pain and sorrow that had been building for days. Morning contemplation with coffee. What could be accomplished today? First lawn mowing of Spring? Surf the Net? Practice music! Maybe a little laundry or floor sweeping just to try to keep up with the chores. Go for a walk. Those seem doable. And they were. But by mid-afternoon, having accomplished these simple goals, his brooding, the festering emptiness below the surface, was noticeably trying to break through.

This should not be a cooking day. It’s time to go out. Get out. Time to change surroundings, have a drink or two. Order something he wouldn’t make at home. But that lingering feeling. Can he muster the energy to get ready and go. And where? Not to his, or their, favorites. Don’t need to compound stress with nostalgia. Again, to the Net; “Restaurants near me.” Nope, that one’s too far. Don’t feel like what’s on ‘that’ menu. What about that new one? Not too far. Not much selection. But should be able to find something to go with a Moscow Mule or Bacardi cocktail.

Comfortable Spring evening, but a little on the cool side. He sees the gas-fueled flames around patio seating. That would be nice. Just a few others. Plenty of room to be alone without being alone. “Are you meeting someone?” asks the hostess. He extends his hand, smiles and says “I’m ‘Joe’. Nice to meet you. Now I’ve met someone. But I’m here alone.” Once seated he knows it won’t be comfortable on the patio, so he heads inside to be reseated.

Agreeing with the hostess on a table, there he sits. And sits. And sits. After ten minutes or so he goes back to the hostess and asks to have a server sent to the table. “I’ll let her know”, she states. Back to the table. And sits. And sits. Losing patience, he goes to the bar and asks to speak with a manager, who is there, and turns. “I want you to know that I just waited 15 minutes for a server to even come to the table. See ya!” and walked out the door. Well, that wasn’t helpful. Didn’t need anger and frustration on top of loneliness and emptiness. Now what? Might as well go home to figure it out.

On to the place across the park from his house. He’d been there before, but not often. Good Mules! Probably get a burger and fries. That’ll work. He walked the 1/4 mile through the park. When asked “Inside or out?” he replied, “Hmmm. Outside chilly, inside noisy.” The hostess suggested the dining area beyond the bar was quieter. And it was. Sitting alone at a small, square table that would be intimate for two, but with chairs for four on its flanks. He takes off his hat and un-pockets his phone, unlocking the latter to the background photo of his late wife, propping it on its case’s stand. Some sort of connection, intangible companionship while he enjoys an impressive breaded tenderloin and two flavored Mules.

And yet the feelings fester, like lava rising in the cone. Smoke rises in the form of welled-up tears. Enough to pull the handkerchief – her handkerchief that he always carries – from his pants pocket. Covered eyes, gentle sobs. As if he’s hiding his grief from those around him. Maybe, maybe not. His server, Emma, does a good job checking in. When finished she clears the dishes and mugs.

Instead of returning with the check, Emma states that the bill has been paid. But by whom? “A very nice person who thought you might be having a bad day”. ERUPTION! He can no longer hold it in. No hiding in a handkerchief now. Emma gives an empathetic sigh and leaves him to his crying.

The fiery smoke billows as the minutes trickle by. Finally, as she passes, he asks Emma about the person who pitied him. “Do I know them? May I meet them?” The person asked not to be made known. “You don’t know her, but I will ask her and have her come over if she agrees.”

More time passes as the eruption settles to a constant heated surge. Then to a festering underflow. Eventually, to some sense of decorum. Guessing it’s time to leave, he tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table as an extra tip for the server, and in lieu of paying for the meal for which he had not had to. He thanks Emma on the way out. All the time wondering who it was that saw through his thin veil of normalcy. He’ll never know.

He nearly dropped to his knees with sorrow and uncontrolled crying as he made the lonely walk home. Was this a gift, or affirmation of his woeful state of mind? Does it really matter anyway? Hadn’t it been getting better? Will he ever be better again?

All he could do was collapse into his easy chair. No music, no TV. No changing into sweats or brushing of teeth. Silencing the phone, he cried himself to sleep.

As you surely guessed, this is the story of me – last Tuesday. You may not have seen my follow-up comment attached to last week’s post. It was a foreshadow of Tuesday’s meltdown.

I woke up Wednesday from bed (I finally made it there in the middle of the night) looking back in the third person on what had transpired the previous day. I couldn’t get that out of my head. So that’s how I wrote it, and have added it to my Writings page in addition to its appearance here in this post.

I felt numb all day. Exhausted from grief. Disappointed that my progress had turned backward, holding out hope that such episodes will erupt less often and with less ferocity. I still have that hope. But it’s going to be a long few weeks leading up to May 12th, the anniversary of Pam’s passing. I still find it difficult to look at her picture without crying.

April 21st, a Thursday last year, was the beginning of the end of Pam’s struggle with PDD (or Lewy Bodies). She woke shortly after midnight with bad dreams and pain, leading to a sedative and a move to her easy chair (the one I now use and reference in the story above). Later that morning I tried to get her up from the chair but her legs were frozen. I tried to lift her and she ended up gently on the floor. I finally got her back in the chair where she remained for to two days.

This was it. The day I always said I’d need help. So I started making calls; doctors, nurses, care facilities, and eventually Hospice. A Hospice nurse came Friday the 22nd (Saturday this year) and assured me they could help. Within an hour I’d signed the papers to make that happen. I had no idea then that Pam would not live another three weeks.

Kara and Kelley arrived Saturday morning. They helped me get Pam cleaned up, dressed, and “comfortably” in bed. The lead Hospice nurse came again to present their plan of action and examine Pam more thoroughly. Thank goodness K & K were there. A Hospice team would start coming daily the following Monday (the 25th).

This chronology brings us current with what happened one year ago as of today (Saturday). In Pam’s words, it’s still “bullshit!”

Four Trips in Eleven Months

And I just might make it on my own

Yes, I’m still counting. Last week I was in the Atlanta area visiting my Mother, sisters, and brother-in-law. It was the fourth visit since Pam died in May of 2022. Each trip has been impactful and in some ways represents the progression of my grieving process.

My first visit last June was just a month after Pam’s passing. It had been 2-1/2 years since my previous visit, a combination of COVID isolation and Pam’s and my challenges here at home. I was a mess. I didn’t really want to go but it was time. It takes me two days to drive there. Not quite short enough to comfortably make it in one, yet a bit too short for two. Which leaves me time in a motel to contemplate – whatever, further exacerbating being alone for hours in the car.

Much of the time that first trip was spent crying and wanting to get back home. Sure. It was good seeing my family, but my raw emotions were almost too much to bear, and obvious to those around me. But I made it through. And somehow I knew that it was part of my process, getting out of the house, seeing family, being alone with my thoughts and sorrows.

Leaving home was not much easier in September. I was still attached to everything Pam, and Pam and me, in the house. I chose different routes to and from Atlanta that trip. Exploring. Hoping for new attractions and distractions along the way. Still a long time to think and feel, wonder and cry.

Still with raw emotion I visited, trying to express my feelings while attempting to engage and empathize with everything going on with those I love. They were great! I began to feel safe in my grief. I was allowed, and allowed myself to just be me, trying to at least see the top of the wide and deep hole, the void created by losing half of myself. But I still found myself longing for home. As if Pam was still there waiting for me, even though I couldn’t call her to tell here of my experiences, couldn’t listen to her voice as she told me what she’d learned of our grandchildren or of news in the neighborhood. We used to talk often and long when we were geographically separated.

Between September and the end of December the holidays were painful and sad. This was Pam’s favorite season. Decorations, cooking traditional holiday foods, buying and wrapping gifts and, of course, incredible hand-made greeting cards. She would be beaming! But not last year. I managed to bring up the mini Christmas tree with its tiny white lights to put on the window sill. But that was it. No cards, some gift-giving. Visits from our children. Lots of crying – lots!

I left for Atlanta after Christmas and was there with family for New Years Eve and my Mother’s birthday in early January. Once again leaving the house was difficult. While visiting, I sensed change in my emotional stability, not quite as tense, able to engage more “normally.” By then I was no longer counting the weeks since Pam died, just the months. Little changes, but still trying to climb out of the hole.

Last week’s trip had a significantly different feel. I was anxious to go. I even used the excuse of impending severe weather to leave a day early. I enjoyed the drive down and was comfortable with my stay in Clarksville TN, west of Nashville. A side note: this was just days after the shooting and in the midst of the Tennessee legislature debating ousting three Democratic representatives for demonstrating about gun control laws.

Staying with my sister, Mother and brother-in-law was completely relaxed. My other sister visited every day. I played my music several time to this enthusiastic and safe audience. We ate and drank and generally enjoyed each other’s company. Clearly my disposition is changing. I thought of Pam often and missed calling her to tell her about what we were doing. I missed her terribly, but only had one serious bout of uncontrolled sobbing. A clear improvement.

As I drove toward home I realized for the first time that Pam is no longer here (at home). She is with me in my heart. I am trying to go on with life knowing that she is always with me.

Made in the shade
Shabby view – NOT

I sat at an outside table at T-Rav restaurant in Jackson MO (near Cape Girardeau). As I waited for my pizza I started writing. I don’t usually share “unfinished” lyrics or those without accompanying music, but I’m making an exception in this case. I wrote them in an app on my phone, from which they are copied here. I’ve named it I Just Might Make It On My Own. Clearly written to Pam in my heart.

I just might make it on my own
I didn’t plan it so to be
No doubt I didn’t want to
Have to live without you

But here I am
Venturing out
Taking it all in
Making it on my own

It was supposed to be us
Stepping out together
Basking in sunshine
Splashing in the rain

But here I am
Venturing out
Taking it all in
Making it on my own

You and me
Wandering roads and byways
To see the beauty of the world
Meeting others who want to see

Now here I am
Venturing out
Taking it all in
Making it on my own

Eleven months since Pam died. I believe she would be happy with my progress. But I almost feel guilty going on without her. I’ll just have to keep her with me. Here in my heart. I know I will, as I make it on my own.

I have plans for a different sort of trip next month on the one-year anniversary of Pam’s passing. But I’ll postpone writing of that until afterward. Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to make it – though not completely – on my own.

Lighthearted – NOT

Every week I think I want to write about something fun or funny. But by the time I get to developing a title and topic, I am conveying serious thoughts and feelings. I should not be surprised, and people remind me, I have had a lot of serious stuff happening in my life since I first published Wut Javia.

I am not a fan of most comedy – with exceptions: Charlie Chaplin, Big Bang Theory, and some Rom Coms. Just this week I was discussing Keeping the Faith with my brother-in-law. Love the movie. Even though I’m not a fan of Ben Stiller, I did like him in that movie. I am a fan of the work of Edward Norton. And I think I might have fallen in love with Jenna Elfman after watching the move. There are other enjoyable lighthearted films, of course. But I watch fewer and less often now without Pam to share them with.

It comes down to just not being a lighthearted person. Though I laugh and make jokes, and enjoy humorous banter, etc., I am a serious person by nature. As I’ve been told. What I realized while contemplating this post is that being serious does not equate with being unhappy. And, if I’m serious and project that seriousness in my demeanor, then I need to be aware that others may have the same or similar traits. Can’t judge a book by its cover, so they say.

On the other hand, no one is happy all of the time. My Mother has projected a happy-go-lucky disposition most of my life. Few times, mostly when grieving the passing of someone close, has she cried, pouted, lashed out in anger (I don’t think I’ve ever seen that), or expressed dislike for others. I think the reasons are two-fold. First, and foremost, she always wants others to be happy, feel better, and also to like her. Second, Mom doesn’t want others to concern themselves with her problems, be they physical or emotional. That would lessen the effect of the first – having others be happy.

I have not had this compunction. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, especially when they are negative, such as sadness, physical discomfort, frustration, anger. Consequently, I am viewed as serious, if not downright grumpy. At one point in my corporate career I was nicknamed Eeyore because whenever someone asked me how I was I would answer “okay” or “I’m alright”, with that down-in-the-mouth mannerism Eeyore expressed.

One thing I am confident of. Regardless of whether you have a lighthearted or heavier disposition, nearly everyone experiences the full range of emotions, has the same fears and frustrations, just maybe to different degrees. So I hope you won’t judge me too harshly for being lighthearted-NOT when you read these posts. I hope that I can do the same for you and everyone with whom I interact.

“By the way” (nod to JJ) …

Did you hear the one about the truck driver and his pet bear? Well, maybe another time when I am feeling more lighthearted 🙂

Angles…Change Perspective

I ran across a graphic showing different ways of looking at the same object from alterative angles, changing perspective. More on that later.

It reminded me of some angles I have changed over the last several months. Last summer as I was coming out of the shower, I accidentally hit the wall hanging above the towel bar when I reached for the towel. After finishing up, I went back to reposition the artwork and realized I liked the different look. But how could I allow this change? Would it not cause angst, boldly altering how Pam and I had decorated our space together? After all, we so enjoyed shopping and accessorizing.

But the fact was I liked the new look. The inner conflict pressed upon me. Ultimately, I decided that it was okay to change some little things. Who knows? Maybe Pam would have liked the new look. I wish we could have decided together!

Before
Now

On a whim, I changed the angle of the dining room table and chairs. Pam and I always stressed over how to position this set due to where the electrician placed the overhead light in the ceiling. Our sense of order was disturbed whether we situated it with the length or width toward the large dining room window. If we centered the table under the light, it impeded our egress through the space. Such problems, further exacerbated as it became more difficult for Pam to navigate, especially when she required the use of a walker.

But I am no longer encumbered by these issues. And after contemplating changes in angles and how they affect perspective, I decided to try an angled setting. Yes, I do have the table centered under the light fixture. Some sensibilities should not be altered unless necessary. I’m not sure how long this will last. It does affect how I view both the indoor and outdoor space.

But somehow the change signifies a sense of moving forward with my life; a life forced upon me, not of my choosing!

What are my new angles? How has my overall perspective changed? I’m still working that out. But my eyes are open to where they will lead. I can only hope that I can discern the truth in angles and perspectives. Go where these truths lead.

Which brings me to the impetus for considering angles and perspective and how different views affect decisions. What is true? What is truth? Does changing the angle that we view things, the perspective, change the truth?

It seems easier to think about the world as black and white (a metaphor I don’t like), yes or no, good or bad, the world is flat. Decisions are easy. Not only does this kind of view make living together on this earth more difficult, it’s not even close to the truth. Science has long proved that we live in at least three dimensions and, in reality, there may be more (time is often considered a dimension).

Changing angles does change our perspective. Learning different points of view increases our realization of truth. Unfortunately, “we” don’t necessarily like the truth we find. But that doesn’t change what is true. I wonder if we can ever get to the point where we are comfortable enough with what is true to live together peaceably and happily with the truth.

Truth Perspective Graphic Link

Truth Perspective YouTube link