Something’s Amuck in Paradise

My first brilliant thought this morning: Something’s amuck in paradise. No coffee. No newspaper. And the phone rings, bearing wild anxiety from a woman I sponsor.

Mr. Coffee steams like mad to produce a thimbleful of lukewarm coffee. A hike into the colder-than-crap outdoors produces no newspaper. Both are essentials to awaken my bleary brain and allow me to produce speech. So I’m pretty pathetic when my frantic friend calls about her new medical insurance bill.

I tell my friend to hit her knees, then unearth the old percolator from the garage’s camping gear and crack open my morning meditation book, which discusses faith overcoming all adverse conditions.

That’s when my husband enters, bearing a hot latte and the newly arrived newspaper.

My Higher Power’s sense of humor is busy on a chaotic Wednesday morning.

The phone rings again: A service technician wants to postpone today’s scheduled maintenance so he can fix the heaters of those who are without heat on this 21-degree morning. Again I’m reminded that things could always be worse. I could be flat-broke like the woman I sponsor. I could be both broke and frozen too like others whose heaters aren’t working. I could be headed for chemotherapy this afternoon, like my own AA sponsor, or for radiation, like a man my hubby sponsors.

I shouldn’t ever take my first brilliant thoughts seriously. I can be as sour as I want to, or as joyful, because I’m free to start my day over again any time I like. By returning to a position of gratitude, by remembering to be thankful for what I have, I can make my home a better place in which to greet the world.

Today I have no legitimate complaints, as a man used to say in the early AA meetings I sat through 22 years ago. My humorous Higher Power converts even trivial adverse conditions into teaching moments about the value of faith. There’s nothing at all amuck in paradise today.

Scenes of Winter

The catfight wind yowls
churning the shrubbery
scrabbling over fences
staggers even the stoutest trees.

The stalk of a budded lily
arrow dipped in blood
aimed at heaven
quivers in its invisible bow.

The moon’s white opal
glows on blue velvet
rainswept with diamonds
swallowed by clouds.

Inside your love
is a woolly blanket
abrasively delicious
on a bitter night.

What reasons do you have to be grateful today?

Over at Poetry Jam people are pondering the power of home.

Chaos Theory in Relationships

I’m thinking hard about chaos. It is not just a theory. It is people! It is relationships with people!

What a messy business!

Chaos: a state of complete disorder and confusion.

Chaos Theory: a theory that complex natural systems obey rules but are so sensitive that small initial changes can cause unexpected final results, thus giving an impression of randomness.

Relational Chaos: I tell Myra that I like Joan’s new haircut. Myra tells Joan I think she’s cute. Joan tells my boyfriend that I’m gay. He ditches me and moves to Arkansas with Joan.

Relational Chaos Theory: While I sit around thinking broken-hearted thoughts about Joan and my boyfriend, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t opened my mouth.

While I was busy wringing my hands recently about relational chaos, here’s what I could have read in the little “Twenty-Four Hours a Day” book if I’d opened it like I should have done before starting my day in the chaotic world of people and relationships:

“He who made the ordered world out of chaos and set the stars in their courses and made each plant to know its season, He can bring peace and order out of your private chaos if you will let Him. God is watching over you, too, to bless you and care for you. Out of the darkness He is leading you to light, out of unrest to rest, out of disorder to order, out of faults and failure to success. You belong to God and your affairs are His affairs and can be ordered by Him if you are willing.”

So this is why I pick up that little book, I thought when I read it today. And now, this is what my little soul looks like:

Order.

Just for Today, I’m Sober

To an alcoholic, sobriety is as miraculous as water changing into wine. Because it isn’t one’s natural state, something supernatural has to happen to transform the nature of the beast.

If I forget to honor that supernatural fact, I’ll revert to my natural state. My own life was transformed 21 years ago. Years later, I did forget, and I became water again. That wasn’t fun. I spent three years vacillating ~ water / wine, water / wine, very confusing ~ before I experienced the miracle again.

Today I celebrate a new sobriety anniversary. It’s bittersweet because longevity is a badge of honor among recovering alcoholics. My husband has been sober almost 24 years. I celebrate three years today, and my heart is thankful for that. My competitive spirit isn’t: I coulda been an old-timer!

I’ve had to relearn the method of living in gratitude one day at a time. Yesterday’s gratitude doesn’t keep me sober today, just like yesterday’s food doesn’t feed me today. Yesterday’s food is already shit.

I’m in a state of flux again. It’s not the water / wine thing; it’s happy / sad, content / frightened. I was told last August that the death of my mother would be a life-shifting event. Well. So it is. The future has become uncertain. (Ha! she said, as if it were ever otherwise!)

I read this message this morning in “Twenty-Four Hours a Day,” a daily meditation book:

“We can forget about the future. We know from experience that as time goes on, the future takes care of itself. All we need to think about is today. When we get up in the morning and see the sun shining through the window, we thank God that he has given us another day to enjoy, a day in which we may have a chance to help somebody.

"All is fundamentally well. That does not mean that all is well on the surface of things. But it does mean that God is in his Heaven and that he has a purpose for us. Don’t be upset by the surface wrongness of things, but feel deeply secure in the fundamental goodness of God’s world.”

More Craziness Than You’ve Dreamed Of

Insanity takes many forms, and I've seen some of them in my life, but the type of insanity that most affects me these days is this kind: doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.

More about this later. Right now, I have to offer you a poem. I’m taking a break from insanity to ride the World’s Greatest Poetry Bus. In honor of what Bus Driver Poet Peter Goulding claims is “one of the most important dates in the Roman Catholic calendar ~ Pancake Tuesday, named after the venerable St. Pancake,” I have done as Peter commanded and composed a ditty to the pancake. Peter also demanded that we write in the persona of a poet of our choice. I chose Joyce Kilmer and to satirize his famous poem “Trees.” If you’re inclined to read somewhat ridiculous poetry, we Bus riders will be linked here.

First, Kilmer's version. He was a brave soldier who lost his life in WWI.

Trees
By Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
~~~~~
Now my version:

I Think That I Shall Never See

A poem lovely as a pancake
Giving me a hearty handshake.
Against my hungry mouth is prest,
With butter flowing from its breast,
An angel’s golden halo round,
A saucer of the sweetest brown.
It makes me lift my hands to pray
But no, my fork is in the way.
I shall in homage always wear
A nest of pancakes in my hair.
Upon their bosom I have lain
While maple syrup falls like rain.
Poems are made by fools like me
But pancakes come from pancake trees.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now back to the topic of insanity. In the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, you’ll frequently hear, “If you like what you’re getting, keep doing what you’re doing. If you don’t like what you’re getting, change what you’re doing.”

My injustice meter has been shrilling its alarm for quite a while. A heartbreaking development in my family since my mother died last summer has finally exploded like an alien in a scene from “Men in Black.” Purple alien blood goo drips from the walls.

Twisted events have twisted me and interfered with my serenity. I wiped some of the purple alien blood goo off my glasses today and found these lines in a book I love: “I can find no serenity until I accept that [disturbing] person, place, thing, or situation as being exactly the way it is supposed to be at this moment. Nothing, absolutely nothing, happens in God’s world by mistake.”

Today’s realization is that I need to withdraw from the battlefield. I had wanted to right a wrong, but I was wrong. It’s time to recognize that I’ve become insane as I defined it in that paragraph up there.

It takes a lot of swallowing to give up. My faith that good will come of this is weak. My husband, who has gobs of faith that God will accomplish his plan for the situation we face, has asked me to stop trying. So I’ve decided I’ll lean on my faithful husband and let God do whatever he wants to do. I guess that shows the degree of my pride, because it implies that God needed my help. From now on, it’s hands off. Excuse me while I go wash off the rest of the purple alien blood goo.

In the Face of Dread

(I'll get to these flowers later)

Here's a late Friday Flash 55 piece, a tale told in exactly 55 words, hosted by the G-man who doesn't know the meaning of defeat:

The ocean’s gray furrowed brow
reminds me of my brother’s face
when he turned toward me to look
unseeing through her window
the day our mother died

Something marched across his face
in regimental rows, something quiet
but relentless as a failing general
reviewing his troops in calm despair
before that final and inevitable loss.
-----------------------------------------

(Earlier in the day)

This morning is a series of stark contrasts. Starting with the micro and moving to the macro, inside me is both dread and willingness. I dread the crap that absorbed my attention yesterday and I'm willing for today to be different.

In the world right around me, neglected undone work hollers, but amidst that is a bouquet of flowers from the garden, quietly resting in their own loveliness.

The world at large clamors with contentiousness. I hear it. But my meditation book contained a different thought:

"Never yield to weariness of the spirit. At times, the world's cares and distractions will intrude and the spirit will become weak. At times like this, carry on and soon the spirit will become strong again. God's spirit is always with you, to replenish and renew. None ever sincerely sought God's help in vain. Physical weariness and exhaustion make a time of rest and communion with God more necessary. When you are overcome by temporary conditions which you cannot control, keep quiet and wait for the power of God's spirit to flow."

In the contrasts that face me today, I think I'll choose the quiet path. I believe I need to rest in the everlasting sheltering arms of the Most High. I pray your day has good in it, and I pray that I can help someone today.

(Postscript 11 p.m.: God answers prayers. I had a miraculous day, and during it, I helped someone. Yay, God. You are, like, totally epic, man!)

My Mother's Swan Song

My mother is dancing her last dance. I'm off line, holding her hand. Please keep her in your prayers. Her name is Frances.

Bright Spot on the Horizon

Just when you think your efforts are futile and Nobody Is Listening, a speck of hope appears on the horizon. It gives you enough juice to keep on keeping on.

Back in the beginning of January, the church that allows us use of its space for monthly poetry readings had a special Epiphany celebration. To bring home the concept of wise men following the star to find enlightenment, the church had paper stars all over its walls. On each one was printed a word that its members were to ponder through the coming year. Even we poets were encouraged to pick a star off the wall to take home. This is what my star says:

Since my post before last about giving up, two different attorneys are pondering my mother's case. Whether anything comes of that, it doesn't matter. Just the fact of their interest right now is enough to keep me moving onward. It ain't over till the fat lady sings.

Life is sometimes like that. A situation bothers me and nothing seems to effect change, not prayer, not action, not consultation with experts or crystal balls. Plodding forward is dismal and takes more energy than I think I have.

Then the bright spot appears on the horizon. I'm reinfused with hope for change. Maybe the time isn't right, right now. Maybe I have more inner resources than I thought. Maybe the Creator is saying, "Not yet," or "Not that," or "Something else is coming down the pike, so strengthen those feeble knees and endure another day."

This has happened before. I often don't know how to pray or what to pray for, so I use my judgment and pray for what seems fair or good or pain-relieving. (Mostly pain-relieving!) But since I don't have a Master's in Omniscience, I'm not qualified to act like God. I forget that sometimes.

I guess that's why we're supposed to pray only for God's will and the power to carry that out.

Resurrection

No matter what dramas play out in the human arena, in the spring I can find rejuvenation in the natural world around me.

We left the city of concrete and asphalt 12 years ago and moved to our modest town in the country, where nature hasn't disappointed us. We have seasons here.

This past month the oaks have fully leafed out with fresh green leaves. The hills are undulating fields of green. The vineyards are busy churning out new shoots. Wildflowers are brushstrokes of purple and orange and yellow.

A pair of blue jays have set up housekeeping somewhere nearby. I saw a robin yesterday. The woodpeckers are busy in the oaks outside my glass writing room. The air is alive with the movement of doves, hawks, crows, mockingbirds, and finches.

I love this cycle of nature. It's bursting with fresh life, life running rampant all around, life you can hear, and see, and touch. When the world is too much with me, I can focus on the resurrection of life all around me, and it builds my faith that all is as it should be in God's world.

Dead Wood Resurrected

Blue jay restless
as a cat in heat
hopping from foot to foot
in the dead pyracantha
with its black trunk
and fire-scorched leaves
sheared off shoulder high

That blue jay bird
breaks off brittle twigs
and spits them out
one twig, two twig, three twigs down
the fourth twig suits

And off jay flies
to build a nest
one damn twig
at a time.

Aha! It’s back.
And so’s its spouse
who alights in a nearby cherry tree
to observe this twig connoisseur
at work
Blue jay hops from twig to twig
in the dead pyracantha
picking only one

And off they fly
to build a nest
one dumb twig
at a time.

At day’s end
I check the bush
still black and scorched
killed this winter
by fireblight
(damn it all to hell)

I find it stripped
of all its twigs
by blue jay birds
who’ve built a nest
one dumb twig
at a time.

P.S. The photo is not mine; it's from an educational site.

One Sweet Day at a Time

One thing I know about life is it’s just one day at a time. Sometimes just a moment at a time.
It came to pass, it didn’t come to stay.

I used to be paid good money to think original philosophical thoughts. But then I went through the school of hard knocks, and I washed my brain one lousy thought at a time.
Life is a whole lot better now.

Yesterday had a few problems in it. I’ve learned how to live with problems: If you can’t change them, then find something else interesting to do.

In our town, a wonder art studio opened across from the downtown park. I went in there and met a nice lady named Nancy Becker, who just finished a work she was proud of. Here are a few shots of her painting and a poem I wrote about her work.

The Woman Who Painted Light


She stood with her knife and her palette
in the spotlight of the darkened gallery
mostly in shadow next to the spotlight
where her painting was clipped to the tall
wooden easel. In the spotlight the painting
glowed but she said come see it tomorrow
in the natural light of the sun. She said
she used nearly a full tube of white
and you would see such inner light
within the thick layers of paint
representing light on water, and her smile
was incandescent. This impression of reed
in river was a new style for her and it
pleased her; you could see the sparks
of pleasure in her eyes. In the two hours
it took to paint it, she reached a zenith
as an artist, and she knew it.

FBI Raids My Demented Mother's House

This represents my mother's fractured brain.

An extraordinary event took place yesterday at my mom’s assisted-living facility.
The FBI arrived at 6 a.m. and took control of the house. With them was a small army of the Dept. of Social Services and the county Ombudsman service.
The owners of the house, and three others like it, were arrested and charged with trafficking in human beings—basically Filippino house aides working as slave labor.

I got a call around 9 a.m. which alerted me to the situation. Mom was safe and a caregiver was on site. It was unknown if the house would remain open. For now all was well (!)
I immediately started making calls to track down the county ombudsman service and get more information. Nothing more could be told to me. They would contact me in the afternoon. A “placement” person would be seeing what she could put together for Mom, if it developed that she would have to leave the house.

At 2 p.m. I got home from an AA meeting to find a message on my house phone from the FBI, that the house was being closed immediately and my mother and the other residents needed to be moved out just as immediately.

The ombudsman gave me a very short list of facilities reputable enough to take my severely demented mother. None of them was willing to take her immediately. None of them was in my town. All of them were large facilities with high prices, protocol that required assessments of the client, multiple forms completed by a doctor, and no sooner openings than perhaps the next day, which is today, if they indeed chose to accept her.

The price quotes they gave me were $5,800 to $6,800 per month. In my town, an assisted-living facility charges between $2,700 and $3,500. In my town, assisted-living facilities licensed to care for dementia patients are in critically short supply.

When I got over to Mom’s house after exhausting all avenues for assistance that night, the kind FBI folks told me my mother was a sweetheart, she had been interviewed, and now it was my turn. I told what I know of the way the house was run, and I asked what they proposed to do about my mother.

They looked at me blankly. She was not their responsibility. Their concern was the house aides in a form of indentured labor. Someone from the FBI’s “Victim Assistance” office was there, but she could not assist, because her area of concern was the house aides of the other three homes, which also had to be shut down. No one in official capacity was interested in what became of the residents.

The Ombudsman said there was simply nothing that could be done for my mom. One of the other houseguests had found the last room at a facility 30 miles away. The other one had relatively no dementia and found a home in our town with another board and care home. Mom was on her own, because her level of dementia is technically “advanced” and it requires higher level of care.
So, praying like a mad dog, I took my moms things and put what I could into my car. Then I got Mom in the car and tried to explain to her what had happened. She couldn’t comprehend. I got her home, got her night-time meds into her, put her to bed.

Mom is a lost little girl who doesn’t speak grown-up language. She has nightly roaming problems, staying up and wandering in the dead of night, sometimes shouting at people.
She no longer understands her bathroom functions and uses whatever surface that is easily found…such as the floor, a chair, a hope chest….

So I’m trying to practice the tools I’ve learned in AA: Just keep doing the next right indicated thing. I have a small plan for tomorrow, running Mom hither and yon to meet with new facilities, go by the Doctor’s office, see about the requisite new paperwork, and see what unfolds. I’m pretty powerless and very confused.

But I know God knows and He is in charge, and I need only wait on his direction, keep taking the next indicated step. God has a place for my mom. Please join me, those of you who pray, and let us ask the Lord together, to be merciful to Mom. To guide us clearly in the way we should go. Mom has been asking God for a long time just to take her home to heaven. We join her in those prayers. We also ask that she receive good quality of life in whatever time remains for her.

Please remember us in the next few crazy days. Thank you!

(Update, 5 a.m. or so:)

At four this morning my mother wet the bed and got out of it to remove her wet things. We heard a crash as she fell. I ran in and found her without clothes lying on the floor, which she had also wet.

She was understandably distressed and confused. I helped her sit on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. Having no other bed, I laid a mat of dry towels on the bed, ran and got a pair of the Depends I'd gone out to buy at the late night store after she went to sleep, found some sweat clothes of mine (too big), and came back to the guest room. There she sat like a confused little girl.

I helped her to pull on her first pair of adult diapers (no fuss from her, as there had been at the house), got her dressed. Laid down another mat of dry towels on the bed, and she laid back down. Found dry blankets to cover her with. I rubbed her bony skull and forehead, and talked to her a bit. She found my warm hands welcome, and she drifted off to sleep.

My hubby dear stood by helplessly. Shouldn't we strip the bed and wash the sheets? He wondered. It quite mattered to him that the bed would be soaked. I said Eff that, she wants to go back to sleep. She was dry enough, and if the mattress got soaked, so be it.
I feel triumphant that she consented to wear her first Depends. This is going to be one hell of an interesting day.

Maybe with some luck and cooperation, I can give her a little bed bath before we head out to see what the day brings.

Keep first things first. Going now to have a little quiet time with God....