Showing posts with label introspection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label introspection. Show all posts

Saturday, March 17, 2018

A Picture for My Thoughts


I'm taking apart the first album of the Mama's. Not her first one ever, but the first in a long line of albums. Sigh.

What's with the so-called "acid-free/archival" pages in this album? The cellophane breaks apart when I take out the photos. So much for trying to use my hands with delicateness and refinement.

For some reason-yet-to-be-identified, I'm saving the 3x5 pieces of paper (with a single punched hole) that were used as dividers between photos. The how-can-I-repurpose-this part of me has prevailed.

I don't know what to do with the photos after I've scanned them. For that matter, what am I going to do with the scanned photos. May be why there are long intervals between scanning sessions. And, for a session to happen, I need to play my era of Rock & Roll and Latin music so I can wiggle and waggle in my chair, as I do this rather sad and joyful exercise of remembering stuff in photos.  For instance: the rainy wedding day of a cousin; our yellow house with the lucky (kind of) 711 address; the Daddy's 71st birthday party; the Mama's afternoon of modeling for the camera; and the Older Brother, high school football and track athlete. Sigh.

Here I go, back down the rabbit hole.

Sunday, December 31, 2017

Onward and Upward!


The Husband is down with a virus so it was not a good rest for us last night. Cough, cough. Toss, turn. You know the drill. He'll be fine, we think positively. Leftover garlicky ginger chicken soup was turned into a pot of garlicky ginger tomato soup this morning, which shall be good for a couple of days before he tires of that kind of soup. He's already on his way to losing weight for the 20-pound loss goal we each set on Christmas day (our present to ourselves) by the end of May.

So. Here we are, the end of the year.

An outrageous year for our nation, leaderless. Executive actions and congressional duplicity turning us down the path of darkness rather than so-called greatness. I want to think that we've reached the bottom and it's only up now. A lot of us have no problem standing up against harassment, intimidation, lies, misconceptions, ignorance, and down-right bullying.

The personal score: A hysterectomy took away the cancer no one was really sure was there. The knees are still without a substitute for a lack of cartilage, yet turn on the dance music, what pain?  A neighbor from my young days, a cousin's wife, a friend's sister, and the first and late Husband's son all are now soaring in peace and joy throughout the universe. A celebration of 21 years of marriage. Fun times with old and new friends. Molly the Cat purring every day. The Mama's house becoming more our home. Missing the Mama, ah, but the Mama stories we tell each other bring us smiles and, yes, laughter.

Onward and upward into the new year we go. May it be one of good health, love, joy, peace, and common sense for us all.


Today I'm linking up with All Seasons, a weekly meme hosted by Jesh at Artworks by Jesh StG. Thank you kindly, Jesh. :-)



Saturday, December 16, 2017

Villa Mia


I'm reading Under the Tuscan Sun right now. This is my third start (maybe fourth) in the last 10 years or so. I enjoyed the movie so I bought the book when I saw it on the "buy 3, get one free" table at a bookstore. 

I finally got to a point that I don't recall having read. This morning I learned that the fig flower resides inside the fruit and a certain kind of wasp burrows itself inside the fig to lay its eggs. If it doesn't succeed, that's okay, it has at least pollinated the flower. If larvae has been deposited, ooh-la-la! According to Wikipedia (yup, I had to learn more), a mature male mates with a female then proceeds to peck its way out of the fig so that all the females can escape. The male, now wingless and, no doubt, quite spent promptly dies. May he forever rest in joyful peace knowing that he did his job well.

Frances Mayes is the author of Under the Tuscan Sun. For those who never read the book or saw the movie, Mayes wrote about her experiences restoring a villa in Tuscany during her summer months off from teaching in San Francisco. So far, she has romanticized creating a vision from abandoned chaos; eating simple, but elegant, Italian fare outdoors; respecting old and abandoned trees still bearing delicious fruit; removing thick, gnarly tree roots from under stone walls; discovering old-time wells; and, yes, even hiding in bed as a thunderstorm lingers over her villa. I'm not even a third way through the book.

While I was reading about the figs and Mayes' discovery that some of the trees on her property produce the oh so expensive pine nuts, I glanced up now and then to the view of the backyard. Bright blue sky . . . new cedar (or is it redwood?) fence . . . the branches and leaves of the apple trees, lemon tree, avocado trees, and pink geraniums dancing with the light wind . . . the swaying of the chimes, Slinky, and other things hanging from the apple tree by the patio. . . . I'm living my own version of recreating a villa in Tuscany.  Magnifico!

P.S. That's not my view from this morning. It's what I would see if I looked sideways as I stood in the view that I saw through the sliding door window this morning.



Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Feeling Free at Sixty-Four!


Yesterday I celebrated my first day of being 64 years old.

How did that happen?

My body knows I'm old. Probably my brain does, too. I'm guessing all old people say that since I have no guidebook for getting older.

Spiritually, I'm that five-year-old wandering in the fields surrounded by tall grass, wildflowers, butterflies, and sun bubbles.

I'm also that young thing uncovering worlds and possibilities.

I feel, again, a freedom to dream, to discover, and to do!




Friday, November 17, 2017

So I Am.


One thing about not being out there, being visible, being noticeable, being memorable. People forget that you're there. Until you're not there and someone asks, "Where the heck is the person who sweated this small stuff?"

SO UNFAILINGLY RELIABLE. I'd rather not have that on my tombstone. Shudder.

You might as well etch this beneath my name—DRUDGE.

Yes, yes, I know that the world can't run without us drudges. Did I say I abhor being a drudge? If I had, I would've done something about it long time ago. I would've taken the other path. Each and every time.

I cannot imagine myself as a high maintenance diva. Maybe in a parallel universe I am. Heaven help those people.


Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Just.


When I saw the episode of Grace and Frankie, an original Netflix series starring Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin, in which Frankie (Lily) mentions her diary and Grace (Jane) responds with "Your bullshit diary where you write in the air?", I thought that's how I've mostly been blogging the last 11 months. Unlike Frankie, I mentally write the words.

Have you seen Grace and Frankie by the way? In a nutshell it's about two vibrant women in their 70s who suddenly become roommates because their husbands announced they are gay, been having a secret relationship with each other for years, and want a divorce from Grace and Frankie because so that they can married. A mouthful, huh?

The series revolve around Grace and Frankie coming to terms with suddenly being on their own after 30-40 years of marriage. It's also about the women becoming each other's main support, although they don't think much of each other's life style. Grace is an uptight former CEO of her own company while Frankie is an old hippie artist. There are also secondary stories about Bob (Grace's husband played by Martin Sheen) and Saul (Frankie's ex played by Sam Waterston), as well as the adult children of Grace and Bob and Frankie and Saul.  Another mouthful!

I love this show. The storyline. The subject matter—after all, how many TV shows feature older people in a not-so-schmaltzy way. The cast, wowza! One of the creators of the show is Marta Kauffman who also co-created Friends. Quality! And, lots of strong writing, I must add.

Okay. Enough about this show before I distract myself from my original intention of today's blog. If you want to know more about the series, check out the Grace and Frankie website or the Wikipedia article about the series.

My original intention? I began this post on Sunday. Today is Wednesday.

My original intention?

Focus, focus, Susie, my darling dear.

My original intention?

Just—in all senses of just—to let me know that I need to express. . .to articulate. . .to humor. . .to feel out loud what's inside my soul.

Just often sad.

That shall pass.

And, while it is passing, I shall do my best to write my thoughts via the keyboard rather than in the air.


It's ABC Wednesday. This was my J post. Click here to please check out other participants. Thank you ABCW Team!

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Hole.


Is a hole only round? Can't it be oval, triangular, hectagonal, or another shape?

Must a hole be whole? A whole hole. Couldn't it be partial?

Is a hole always black? Not green? Purple? Rainbow? If it's white, could we see it?

Could a hole by holey? We just can't see the multiple holes in a hole.

Finally, could there be such a thing as a holy, holey whole hole?


Now that you've had your fill of holes, head over to ABC Wednesday, where I've parked my link. It's a fun weekly meme with wonderful bloggers from around the world. Thanks, ABCW team, for hosting the letter H. 

Wednesday, August 31, 2016

The "H" I Say


The other day I decided to keep a daily Have-Done list. For awhile, that is. Until I no longer need to let myself know that I have accomplished something each day.

Every day, I add things to my To-Do list. As you can see in the photo, the items don't always get done right away. Sometimes, not for weeks after I put them on the list.

The Have-Done things, so far, were not on my To-Do list. That's okay. They were usually stuff:

•  I would've distracted myself to do so I wouldn't do anything on the To-Do list. For instance, dig up a narrow piece of the front lawn to create a new home for a bunch of jade plants that no longer fit in their pots.

•  I would've discovered I needed to do before I could do a To-do item, such as clean the freezer in order to start it up again.

•  I needed to do that moment because they needed to get done then and there. We needed to pay that water bill, you know.

•  I would've eventually put on my To-do list. That would've probably been the applesauce I made this morning from the apples I picked off our tree last week.

There you go. That's how I am right now.  

H is the letter for this week's ABC Wednesday. (Thank you very much, ABCW team.) To read other H-inspired posts and/or to join in with your own, please click here.


Wednesday, August 10, 2016

It's Elementary, My Dear.

"Make an effort."

This morning I read that line in Emma: A Modern Retelling by Alexander McCall Smith). I felt like the character, and the author, was talking to me.  

Please make an effort, Susie. 

The Mama said it another way about herself when she felt tired, which was every day for her last several years. Plain and simple, she used to say, "I push myself."

After we buried the Mama this past April, the Only and Older Brother said to me, "Keep on living."

I scoffed at what the Only and Older Brother said. Of course, I'd keep on living. Why would I not? Lately, though, honesty keeps trying to surface. Drat that honesty. For that matter, dang to introspection, rumination, and heart-searching that show up in my dreams.

Sigh.

So, this is my effort today for the letter E for this week's ABC Wednesday: a story that I shared three years ago (April 5, 2013) about an amazing thing that reminded me of the wonderful effortlessness of life.

Flying with the Eagles

The Loneliest Road in America truly sums up the stretch of U.S. Route 50 through central Nevada. I had no idea Nevada had so many desert valleys until I drove this national highway.  You get over one mountain range and voila! It's deja vu—another endless valley floor with a mountain range staring from afar.

In the late 1980s, the First Husband and I decided to drive cross-country, from San Francisco to New York. However, the first day of our adventure began with a dental emergency and a pain that would eventually make itself known as cancer for the First Husband. After several days of checking with doctors, we got in our red Mazda pick-up truck and headed east, with an open mind that we would turn back at Denver if the First Husband did not feel well.

I don't remember how we decided to take U.S. 50 rather than the more direct U.S. 80 through Nevada to Utah. Most likely it was the romantic notion of driving the Pony Express Route. Those poor fellows. Miles of dust behind them and miles of dust before them. Still, if I had lived during that era, I would've wanted to have been a Pony Express rider. As it was, I did imagine myself a modern one as I drove us through eastern central Nevada. Instead of the U.S. mail, I was delivering the First Husband to several places in the United States where we could research the life of his father, a first generation Korean American who had dedicated himself to Korean independence from Japanese rule, as well as to spreading the Christian word. But, that's a tale for another day.

As we approached the Utah border in the Great Basin desert, the First Husband was napping in the passenger seat. Not too long after passing the sign welcoming us to  Utah, I saw two huge birds standing in the lane up ahead. As we got closer, I saw that they were nipping at a carcass on the ground. One bird glanced up at our advancing truck.

"Husband! Husband!" I slowed down, but continued driving forward. They were bold and handsome eagles. Young ones, I think. I was almost upon them as they positioned themselves for take off.

One eagle opened its wingspan. It seemed to be as long as the width of the front of the truck.

"Husband!"

The First Husband woke up in time to see us driving between two gliding eagles before they soared upwards into the sky. 



Please click here to check out the other participants and/or link up in this week's ABC Wednesday.