Favorite Philosopher's Blog

My ability to write and think deserves a nod of gratitude to the nuns who taught me love of the English language in high school.  Today I got my high school alumni magazine and take this moment to say a prayer of godspeed and gratitude to Sister Helen Warren.  There were others who shaped my brain in other ways – the algebra teacher who made algebra funny (Now giiiirls…) in the best Cheech and Chong voice you can imagine, the biology teacher who made science just so interesting (even though we sometimes played four-handed mini old maid at the back two lab tables when she turned to write on the board), and of course J.C. and that’s a private joke for all the Carmel girls – certainly she brow beat us all to be able to put together a composition in advanced comp.  I didn’t know how fabulous that experience was until I got to college and had to read fellow student’s writing.

But Sister Helen Warren.  She taught poetry and drama.   It was the poetry that rocked my world.  She didn’t just teach poetry, she would READ the poetry.  I still come across poems she read to us.  I could have listened to her forever – it wasn’t that she was such a fabulous reader of poetry, but her passion for it was contagious to me.  She was not romantic, she was all business, but when she read the poetry she became a different person.  It was like watching a musician at her instrument.   She was certainly annoying at times, and the “cool” kids thought she was totally weird.  She was totally weird all right, bringing to life poems from generations long ago, translations of poems from other countries, introducing us to poems of the future.

Whenever I stumble across a poem she read to us, I am transported back to that classroom.   This was a class I never minded going to and hated to have end. That fifty minute period always went way too quickly.  A few years ago I tracked her down at a retirement home for nuns.  I sent an email thanking her for her gift of my lifelong love of poetry.  I received an email back thanking me and telling me that the message would be passed on to her.  I will never know if she was too infirm or demented to answer directly, or if she could understand what might have been read to her.  I just hoped that someone the spirit of my gratitude could be felt by her.

Peace be with you, Sister Helen Warren.  And thank you so very much.

And know that “the monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.”   (Look it up…:-)

Well.  Two weeks have passed and I haven’t been able to think of a darn thing to write.  I think this must be part of the grieving process combined with the stress of moving – numb brain.  I am enjoying my new job at the skilled nursing facility (SNF).  I have never worked at such a great place and only wish I had enough energy in this old body to do it full time.  The staff is wonderful and we actually are given enough time to give each patient our full attention.  This is unheard of. Normally in a SNF setting you are dashing between two or three patients in the gym tag-teaming them.

I started this week trying to fill in the rest of my time with home health patients, and I don’t know if that’s going to work out or not.  It is all coming back to me why I wasn’t doing that anymore.  It’s lonely out there and simply not exciting enough for me.  It doesn’t help that I’m lost most of the time and the new Android tablet I’m supposed to use is daunting.  Best to give it some time, trying not to make any rash decisions in my present fragile state.  I’m not that fragile really, it’s all getting easier.  At least I know how to get to basic locations in the area.  Still get lost occasionally but am accepting now that even though I think I should be taking a left when the GPS says right, going right is usually right.

I have been dreaming about my dear Terri.  One night this past week she came to me in a dream.  I might as well be clear right here and now that I believe in angels.  They usually appear to me in my dreams, and those stories have been told elsewhere in this blog.  Last night was not a true visit.  I was dreaming that I was at the Lafayette Art and Wine Festival and crying because last year, in September, Terri was with me – we walked around as much as we could and it was one of those “don’t forget this” experiences – she already didn’t have her normal energy and we both knew things were tenuous.  She bought a large brimmed hat for her trip to Hawaii (which she barely tolerated), we stopped into a cafe and had a bite to eat, I have a lovely photo of her from that day, in that hat, and now that hat is in my sewing room, given to me by her daughter.

The dream from last week was a visit.  We were walking in her neighborhood, it was nearing sunset and the sky was colorful, the temperature perfect.  In my dream we were hugging and she said something like “see, you will still have all this when I’m gone.”  I buried my head in her shoulder and shook my head “no.”  For one brief moment she was still alive and even in my dream I could not tell myself it was a dream.  All I could do was think “don’t go.”  The best I could do was suddenly find myself walking along the tidewater at an ocean beach.  I was walking with another dear friend – Darci – and she was comforting me.  When I woke up I was feeling – even keel – not content, but not sad either.  I sent Darci an email immediately to tell her about it and got a return email telling me about a similar dream she had when her mother died last year.  The angel coming to comfort her, as Terri did for me.  I imagine her making the rounds of everyone who loved her and misses her so deeply, comforting them in their dreams, I’m lucky I get to be one of her stops on the circuit.

Summer approaches and it will be a final time of deep grief for me.  It was about this time last summer – the Stanley Cup finals – when I started to keep Terri company most evenings.  I started the wedding quilt for Missy – still pending, the quilt not the wedding.  The summertime TV shows we enjoyed are starting up again.  The weather is getting warmer.  This will have been the beginning of her dying.  This will be the time when she stopped and said to me “we will have to remember these summer nights.”

I don’t know what has happened to my “write everyday” commitment, but I guess I should cut myself some slack.

Last week found us in Boulder, Colorado for Joe’s graduation from University of Colorado.  He is now a Forever Buff.  It made me kind of sad – I’ve really enjoyed the times I’ve gotten to visit him there and he’s totally enjoyed the college experience.  The graduation was rather chilly – the day after we arrived it was gorgeous – 70 degrees and sunny; by graduation morning it was hovering around 40 degrees and overcast.  Fortunately there was no rain but I ended up having to purchase a CU hooded sweatshirt.  This is the second time I have walked away from Orange County without packing a jacket.  Duh.

The weekend was not without its fodder for future dinner table memories.  There was a mixup with Jeff’s flight to Denver.  He was coming to the graduation and then leaving directly from Denver to head to Italy for his summer session there and subsequent float trip around Europe.  Apparently the flight we booked for Wednesday conflicted with his final final, and in all the confusion we never changed the flight to Thursday.  No problem, Jeff was game for driving from Kansas – a mere 8 hour drive.

Unfortunately, his trusty Honda Civic had other ideas.  It dropped dead right smack dab in the middle of Kansas, a few miles out of Wakeeney, KS. (I”ll wait while you locate it on a map…).  He sat by the side of the road for awhile, and we also discovered that our AAA no longer covered him because we had to switch to the SoCal franchise, which had different rules, i.e. over 21 he had to have his own.  While Al was researching all that the state troopers came to his aid and he ended up getting towed to Wakeeney.  In the meantime I made a reservation for him at the Wakeeney Econolodge.  The next day we went to graduation and then Al and I took off for the five-hour-one-way journey to fetch our son, when the diagnosis came in that the car was dead dead dead.  After checking out of the Econolodge he did a warmup for Italy by hanging out with the locals at Twisters II Bar and Grill, playing pool and enjoying a few beers.  When we arrived we met his new friends and along with him thanked them for their hospitality.  We got his stuff out of the trunk of his car and took off the license plates. In Wakeeney, Kansas, if you arrive after the garage closes you simply call the owner and he happily comes over to help you out.  And he estimates the salvage company will give him $100 for the car which covers the tow so we’re all even.  Rational thought still exists in America.  Too bad you have to go to a tiny town in the middle of Kansas to find it.

Jeff is now in Italy, his dorm room facing the Italian Alps and the architecture reminding me of my beloved San Damiano Retreat House in Danville, CA, which of course is Franciscan and reminiscent of San Damiano in Assisi, Italy.  His tale of his journey there (after Wakeeney, that is, which is considered the start of his experience!) was classic – fourteen hours on a plane to Frankfurt, meeting up with other students headed to the same place, hanging out in Frankfurt for five hours to catch connection to Venice. Arriving in Venice just a tad too late for the first train to Paderno, Italy (an hour northeast of Milan), so they cooled their heels for another two hours, arriving in Paderno at about 10:30 p.m.   Apparently they messed around trying to figure out how to buy a bus ticket to the train station in Venice and finally asked someone who was getting on the bus and he looked at them like they were crazy and said “You just get on the bus.”  So Italy – tickets machines to buy tickets?  Only there for show, really.  You just get on the bus.  And ride it.  And  never need a ticket.

Mom always tells the story of when she and Dad were in Italy years ago.  Apparently there was a big deal in the papers because it had been discovered that the Italian postal service had gotten overwhelmed, essentially three months behind in sorting and delivering mail, and so they decided to dump it in the river.  Even the laid back Italians were not happy about this as the mail included things like checks and bills and other important stuff.

Anyway, I can’t believe my son flew halfway around the world and is hanging out in Europe for the next 12 weeks.  I join the millions of mothers over the years who have held their breath when their offspring make that journey.  These days, though, we have iPhones with FaceTime – which is like Skype only on your phone.  I asked him to please be kind and know that it is normal for a mom to worry or at least think about a travelling son all the time; he FaceTimed me this morning.  As school ends and he begins the backpacking part of his trip those calls will be spotty, but it’s nice to know I can see his face…growing more mature as the weeks pass, I am sure.

The final news item: the house in Lafayette went on the market about ten days ago and we have an offer and a backup offer.  The stress level around here has been cut in half with this development.  In another month or so we should be back to one monthly housing payment instead of two.

We will start going to open houses in various areas around here and will take our time deciding where to live.  Ed the Dog is curled up tightly next to me and has quit marking his territory in the house.  The Lakers and Oklahoma are in the last 5.7 seconds of game two aaand….Lakers lose!  Uh, no, I’ll never go to the dark side – Lakers or Dodgers – no matter how long I live here.

Leaving our home in Lafayette was difficult for one reason more than any others: leaving my animal friends.  The deer and the turkeys are a memory now.  They were both a pain in the rear end, but I still wondered if I would miss them.   I thought I was coming to The Big City of LA, and discovered I was actually coming to Orange County – no more crowded than the Bay Area in reality.  It comes complete with a mountain the size of Mt. Diablo in Contra Costa County.  Mt Diablo has a rich geologic and spiritual history.  It rises up rather suddenly out of the valley and its modest foothills to close to 4,ooo feet and, like a chameleon, takes on the character of whatever surrounds it that particular hour of the day.  Misty pastel colors in the morning, fiery gold in the evening, a dusting of snow after a cold winter storm, and every mood in between.  The area’s artists have a field day with this quintessential symbol of the county.

Here, I have been comforted during this transition by Saddleback Mountain – which also seems to be out of place among the valleys and seaside, and which rises to close to 6000 feet.  I think this whole business would not be as pleasant without turning a corner to see Saddleback exhibiting similar wardrobe changes as those of Mt. Diablo.  Gorgeous cloud formations, light, colors and shadows dress Saddleback up throughout the day.   When I was first here, it was a bit abrasive to me – you couldn’t fool me, that wasn’t Mt. Diablo.   Within a few weeks my soul embraced it as Mt. Diablo’s cousin – more than eager to please me with it’s own brand of hospitality and beauty.

Tonight I am compelled to write because we have a mockingbird.  We had them in Lafayette, too, and because I was given the gift of bird appreciation by my parents, I never felt compelled to find an all night Wal Mart in which to purchase a BB gun when they serenaded me in the middle of the night.   The one in my back yard usually sings just as the sun is going down, and boy does he have a repertoire!  I was already giggling as I stepped outside to get a better ear on him, and was full on laughing by the time he flew away.  He must have made twenty different sounds during the 10 minutes I listened to him.  Pure bird lover’s delight!   Chortle this and chortle that, tweety tweet tweety tweet, chip, chip, squawk.  You name it, this guy has all the vocal moves.

The hillside garden (which I don’t even have to mess with, it just kind of does its own thing) attracts hummingbirds, cooing doves, jays and a whole host of other birds I haven’t had time to really watch.  We also have bunnies, some little, some the size of a cat, all of which drive Ed the Dog absolutely out of his little doggie mind.  It’s very comical – yesterday after he whined for twenty minutes I finally let him out.  He was out on the hill, just inside the portable green wire fencing I put up,  (when he’s really nuts he flies out of the house and practically breaks a leg jumping over it)  sniffing away, when Peter Rabbit dashed across the grassy area just outside the house, Ed totally oblivious.  I didn’t tease Ed about that lack of hunting ability…too much…

Being southern California, we have lots of those little lizard-y things, some of which are not so little.  I had a dream that one was in the house last night.  At least I think it was a dream.  I’ve had them up north on occasion.   I have been worried about rattlesnakes but have been assured that unless you are in an area that is being built up you are probably safe, unless you’re hiking in which case I’ve been told that their rattle is very distinctive, impossible to ignore or mistake, and gives you plenty of time to retreat.

Finally, one advantage of no deer:  Absolutely huge and stunning rosebushes next to the house on two sides, full of buds and opening and opened roses.  This is one of my dreams come true.  When I used to work in the hospitals, patients would often have a container of home grown roses in their rooms from their local friends.  I lusted after bouquets like that and now I can have them.  We won’t be staying at this home forever, but I know now that I want a house with lots of southern California sun.  Why be here, otherwise?

I think I’m going to like it here.  Someone once told me when I was moving somewhere: “Don’t worry, Mary, you make friends easily.”  At least I know that is true about my nature friends…I like them all already.

My favorite Grateful Dead song (written by Robert Hunter, Jerry Garcia and Bill Kreutzman ) is playing right now – “The Wheel” –  “The wheel is turnin’ and you can’t slow down, you can’t let go and you can’t hold on, you can’t go back and you can’t stand still, if the thunder don’t get you then the lightnin’ will.”

The last few months certainly feel like I’ve been hit by both thunder AND lightning. The move, losing Terri, my job situation suddenly up in the air along with everything else has me trying to rearrange all the electrons in my body back to their former state. The darned ol’ wheel keeps turning though, and there is no going back to that state, ever.  I am forever changed by all of it.  The question is, how will I be rearranged?

Some things remain familiar.  The new job at the skilled nursing facility is just fine – nice people, I know how to do the work with my eyes closed.  I do noticed that after working in home health for so long I have a better sense of what  realistic therapy goals may be for this patient population.  I envision them at home – will they be able to go back to independent living? Will they need a caregiver 24/7 or just four hours a day? – and can better judge now what the expected outcome will be.  This in itself is a sign of experience and maturity that I did not have before.

Today I spent setting up my sewing room in our new home.  It is a bright room, like all the rooms in this house, and although I look across the street to another house instead of a fabulous view, it is just fine, cheap lace curtains softening the scene.  It is ocean overcast today, grey and humid – I can tell I’m near the ocean.  So can my hair.  Frizz city.  I sorted all my thread, started sewing the scrubs tops I am making for work, my computer iTunes keeping me company, when the Grateful Dead came on with my favorite song.  So philosophical.

In the corner on the bookcase that belonged to my Dad’s mother sits an 8 x 10 photo of my sewing partner in crime for the last ten years or so.  It is my favorite photo of Terri.  Al took it one evening when he need a photo of her for his iPhone – when she called her photo would come up.  It is very candid – she’s wearing a casual white three-quarter sleeve cotton tee, her cross necklace on, her hair tied back, her black bangs framing her smiling Irish eyes and face.  We were sewing that night when Al stopped by.  So now she is still here in my sewing room, proud that I have all but finished my scrubs.  She knows I will find comfort at my sewing machine as I always have.  It was more fun with her, but it is still comfort food for my soul.  The fabric, the colors and textures of the thread, ironing seams into perfection.  All’s right with the world when I’m in this little world.

I thought perhaps I would be tremendously sad to start sewing again, but thankfully that is not the case.  It feels wonderful and Terri would want no less for me and would be seriously irritated if I lingered in sorrow for too long in this room.   I will grow old now, the photo of Terri will not.  She will always be as I remembered her that night.  It’s left to me to hold on to the wheel until it’s my turn to let go for good.  The song ends this way:

“Small wheel turning by the fire and rod
Big wheel turning by the grace of God
Every time that wheel turns round
Bound to cover just a little more ground”

Well, suddenly real life begins again.  Tomorrow I have my orientation for my new job here in SoCal.  I was hoping that I would still be able to do similar work down here instead of patient care, but it was not to be.  What the heck, I thought, I’ll just go back out in the field in home health.

Last week, I went in to the branch of my company down here to pee in a cup and sit in on a weekly case conference to meet everyone and then orient to their computer system.  Fifteen minutes into the case conference my stomach started to tighten up. I felt the very soul of my being diminish.  It was all there, back in my face: being in the patients’ homes alone (a blessing and a curse), having to communicate with the team by endless phone calls, doctors who won’t respond to your calls, difficult family members who undermine the work we are trying to do that will help the patient achieve their independence or medical goals.  And on.  And on.

Add to that the fact that I have absolutely no idea where I am half the time and am still finding myself pulling into business park parking lots to open a paper map in an attempt, often in vain, to orient myself.  It just sounded like a recipe for mental disaster.

Once again, the flexibility and demand for physical therapists has come to the rescue however.  I will be starting a job tomorrow at my old friend, the skilled nursing facility.  Not easy work by any stretch of the imagination, but a setting I love.  I will work per diem on most Saturdays and during the week as needed.  The best part? It is less than two miles from my home!  I can walk or bike there!  Ed the Dog and I have already done the walk and it is 40 minutes, and that included his stop and smell everything along the way time.  Probably 35 in reality, although I will try not to cut it that close.  I have a new attitude about it all, because I know it is temporary now.  I no longer have to be angry and frustrated that I will still not have found PT nirvana, that mythical work setting that is only possible when one is a PT aide without the responsibility. I am moving on.

The realization also descended upon me that no matter how much I dislike this fact, I cannot leave patient care without more education.  It is apparent that Al and I are going to be working much longer than we thought (aren’t we all?) and I want to get out of patient care.  Period.   As you might recall, I started this blog when I made the difficult decision that the transitional Doctor of Physical Therapy program was not the right path for me.  It was clinical in nature and even if it allowed me to move beyond clinical work, the writing and teaching and whatever would have to be physical therapy related.  It was just too limiting.

In the fall I will begin a different and more useful program at Utica College in New York, which is an online offshoot of Syracuse University.  I will earn my MS in Health Care Administration.  With core courses like Ethical and Legal Issues, Quality Management and Performance Improvement in Evidence Based Health Care, and Perspectives in  Gerontology, along with elective tracks in Gerontology, this course of study will allow me choices.  I cannot see myself as an “administrator” but with better credentials after my name (a concept which I detest but accept now) I may be able to – remember the beginning of this blog journey? – share my wisdom through writing and speaking and who knows what else.

When I started building a dollhouse back in 1993, I remember discovering that like Alice in Wonderland, I had opened a door into a world I didn’t even know existed, the world of miniatures.  You can make or buy anything in miniatures that exists in the world.  It was amazing.  Likewise, my “goals” at this time are not to decide what I will do with this degree, but to keep my eyes open to the opportunities and choices along the way.  I will peek in all the doors, and I have faith that one will be the right one.

As usual, stay tuned…

Whoa.  Just minding my own business Friday night, relaxing on the couch with Al while Ed the Dog snored loudly and made sleep look like an art form, and I was  flipping channels around the TV.  Come across the quarterfinals of a crazy new series on the History Channel – Full Metal Jousting.  Wow.  Full metal fun.

First of all, let me say that it was my great Aunt Tess who was a jolly overweight total kick in the pants and who was the first person I ever heard use the expression “he can put his shoes under my bed anytime…” when she was probably in her eighties, talking about a guy in his thirties.

I’m not eighty but I’m definitely too old to be saying this, but any one of these guys could put his shoes under my bed anytime.   They look like normal and not even necessarily attractive guys until they come riding out on gorgeous horses, most of them looking the part with long hair flying in the wind.  Wow.  They do wear full metal for the joust, including a helmet, and a  12 pound steel plate on the left shoulder that is the target.  They get a point for hitting the plate, they get five points for breaking the lance and ten points for “unhorsing” which is exactly what it sounds like, and the other guy “eats sand.”   There are eight runs each match.  He who gets the most points wins the match and moves on.   Simple as that.  The horses are unbelievably beautiful and powerful.  The combined weight of the jousters and the horses averages around 2,000 pounds.  Big horses.  If you’ve been to Medieval Times you can understand the appeal.

The champion wins $100 grand.  These guys are serious. Right now I’m watching the semi-finals and the two guys jousting are good friends in real life.  But as they say “when you’re jousting you have no friends.”  Just witnessed a double unhorsing and the crowd goes wild.  Of course the crowd at this point is just the teams behind the jousters, but even the two jousters are cheering – I guess it doesn’t get any better than this in jousting.  I have a hunch this show is going to have a real crowd next time.

So, family and friends, if you want to see something amazing, get yourself on the History channel Sunday night 10p.m/9 central.  Take a step back in time, 21st century style.  You’ll be watching Josh Knowles, a red-headed god, and Matt Hiltman, a blue-eyed hunk.  Ladies, get ready to wave your hankies for your favorite!

OK so the wordpress header won’t let me put the whole photos in – it has taken me an hour or so to actually merge these two photos together and then I can’t use the whole thing.  So, I’m putting it here:

Pretty, huh?  The one on the right you’ve seen before, although not the whole thing.  That was my view from Lafayette home, complete with my wonderful St. Francis statue.  Do you realize how difficult it is to find a semi-smiling St. Francis statue?  Most of them look like he’s really depressed that he eschewed all his father’s wealth and hung out with animals.  Irritates me.  Someday I’m going to make a smiling St. Francis.  Maybe it’s because all the animals peed on his meager rugs.

Anyway, two mornings ago I walked out of my home in Laguna Hills, which is on a cul-de-sac. At the end of the cul-de-sac is a drop off into a little valley.  I don’t know why nothing is there, but nothing is.  The next door neighbor tells me in another month or so we’ll hear the coyotes who have a den there.  So I walk out and it’s misting outside – we really do get rain here – a storm expected tonight again – and there is a gorgeous full rainbow.  I could not get a shot of the whole thing because of the trees, but it was full, just like the one in Lafayette was full.  So I don’t know, maybe the pot of gold is Orange County.  I’m giving up trying to figure out where my pot of gold is.  Maybe it’s just wherever I am.

The flowers in the foreground are bougainvillas which grow in ocean zones.  They grew in San Francisco a lot but it was too warm in the East Bay for them.  It’s nice to see them again.  Pretty impressive, huh?

That’s my blog for today.  Just pictures.  I’d write more but I spent all my time figuring out how to put two pictures together.  I’m not even sure how I did it.

Ta ta for now…