What binds me?

 

(Yes, I know it is Friday. I'm a day late!) 

Karen Eastland offered today's writing inspiration/prompt - to think about 'what we bind ourselves to' in our spiritual journeys. Check out her thoughtful reflections on this theme, and read the comments for links to other writers and their responses.

bind -
     to tie or fasten tightly

This prompt is so expansive...and a bit of a riddle, really. 

I wonder, 
am I bound spiritually? 
Tied up? 
Unable to believe in new ways? 
What anchors me?

Yes, my meditation on this theme has taken me in a zillion different directions and left me untethered (pun, yes?). 

Ultimately, for this post, I have landed in grief. Let me try to explain - 

A short while back, my sister-in-law died unexpectedly; she was very, very dear to my husband and me. She was his baby sister, and, with him being only two years her elder, she was someone who has always been a part of his world. Certainly, she has always been a part of my world with him; she was one of the very first family members I met, when he and I started dating. So, this is one of those tough deaths that feel 'unfair,' 'too soon,' 'more was possible.' It is painful. 

I decided to simply hone in on one small sliver of my spiritual understanding of the word "bind," which is to ask - 

what anchors me when a loved one dies? 

I offer a poem.

as I grieve

what am I to think 
of the turkey vulture
watching  
from our very roof
when
tears 
stain our cheeks 
welt our eyes
tremor our bodies
with the news 
of your death,
you,
our forager?

then
in the days
that passed
in the mournful
after
there are so many woodpeckers
working
hunting
finding

these are an easier happier perkier beauty
lively little birds
percussive shouts
pauses
further taps
as if
to say
HEY! 
LOOK UP! 
LOOK HERE! 
LOOK NOW!

which is you
which is you
which is you

every woodpecker
reminds
I feel
remember
hold you
in my heart
softly

nature 
mysterious and beautiful
little heavenly embraces 
offering light

as I grieve 

the sun telescopes through a dark gray sky 
a cardinal suddenly appears in the dogwood tree 
lenten roses stretch their freckled ruffled heads and genuflect
a wandering cat lingers on my driveway to greet me
the doe pauses as she crosses the street, looks right at me, 
tilts her head ever so gently
as I grieve 

each of these healing finds

a connection
to someone I hold dear
bridging is and was

a liminal touch

nature holds me wraps me binds me
as I grieve

the drumbeat of the woodpecker echoes my heart
as I grieve

SOLSC 2022 #13 - In sympathy

 

It is March 2022 and time for the

 15th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge  

Every single day, for all thirty-one days of March,

writers will share stories.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for creating this supportive community 

of teacher-writers!

"Look at these! I like these. These are little books." Three year old Frog was standing on our couch, reaching up towards the half-wall, which was lined with sympathy cards. 

"Those are cards, honey; we received those because Poppa's sister died," I explain.

She turns to her grandfather with a puzzled look, as if confirming this story of mine. She's too young to fully understand what it means to have died, but she is not one to be impeded by new language or terms. "Poppa, read me this one. Read me this book." Frog hands one of the cards to her grandfather, and he begins to read it out loud. Very soon, there is a pause, as he presses his lips together to resist crying. 

After a moment, he reads on, with a quavering voice. 

Frog hands him another card to read. And a third. 

It is too much; the tears win out. His face falters, his eyes moisten, his chin trembles, his tears flow. 

Frog stares at him. (Preschoolers can, at times, be so cold and distant when there is pain, 'ambulance-chasers,' drawn to the excitement but simply observing.) Then she hands me the next card. "Read this one, Nana. Let's read every little book up here. I like these." Frog is not to be deterred.

And there we were - Frog wedged between the two of us on the couch, me reading the cards one-by-one as she kept them in a stack on her lap, and Poppa listening with misty eyes. After I read each card aloud, Frog compared their pictures - "This has a bird! This has flowers! Here's a really big flower! This is a leaf from a tree. Which do you like, Nana?"

"I like them all."

"So do I, Nana, so do I."

This whole scene was really quite brief, only a matter of a few minutes. I am again reminded of the extraordinary magic of the young, their precious gift to us. I think: 

children slow us down 

make us pause

look closely at the cracks

which 

if we allow ourselves to follow their lead

to be present in their curiosity

along the fault lines

we will 

see 

think 

go 

deeper

we 

will 

feel

There's no rushing past

no ignoring

only together 

in this pain 

SOLSC 2022 #6 - On hopelessness

 

It is March 2022 and time for the

 15th Annual Slice of Life Story Challenge  

Every single day, for all thirty-one days of March,

writers will share stories.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for creating this supportive community 

of teacher-writers!

Most days, I begin quietly, contemplatively. I read, re-read, listen to, absorb a variety of meditative, loving, inspirational sources. It's somewhat aimless, unstructured, this quiet alone time. I take a lot of notes. I write write write in a daily journal. I write into the day. I love this time alone. It is sacred time.

Today begins with my finding these notes on an index card, kept at my writing table, from an interview I listened to ages ago... words from Devendra Banhart   - 

I have no faith -

zero, zilch, nada -

in today being a good day.

But I can try to do good today.

(I jotted them down quickly, they are perhaps an incomplete quote, but you get the idea.)

I love this.

Seriously, I do.

Just what I needed to absorb today.

I am grieving, we are grieving; raw from the death of our sister/sister-in-law just two weeks ago, the sad surprise of her death, all the emotions, history, memories it has dredged up... battered from the daily painful news of the war and atrocities in Ukraine; I could go on and on; yes, I'm just/we're just hurting, hurting, hurting. 

I have no faith -

zero, zilch, nada -

in today being a good day.

But I can try to do good today.

I went out on a long walk by myself, trying to lose myself in my head, pound and ground my body to churn away all the yuck inside...yes, if I can't seem to solve it through writing, I'll often try to walk it off.

There was this little guy, maybe eight years old, struggling with his bicycle - walking it on the side of the road. He wasn't someone I knew, he was a stranger to me, just a young boy. He was at that 'thickening' stage of child development, before height and hormones come racing in. I was immediately heartened to see him, just to feast my eyes on his roundness, thinking about my three sons when they were younger, how they grew just like this. Yes, I'm a weirdo. Hahaha. Anyhow, I called out to him - 

Do you need help? 

And he shook his head, no. At once, I could see the mixed-bag fear of 'I don't know you, lady, I'm not supposed to talk to strangers,' maybe even - 'hey, neither of us is wearing a mask, I need to keep away from you.' But his sweaty, frustrated face, the struggle and exhaustion in his eyes, made me think otherwise - he did need help. He couldn't get the bike going. I crossed the street to his side, keeping a distance, and said gently,

Looks like that could be the chain. I've had that happen a time or two. May I give you a hand? and I pointed towards the bike. 

He whispered, okay and rolled/scooched the bike towards me.

One knee in the dirt, next to the bike, I held the bike up with one hand, and took stock - yep, there's the drooping chain, slipped off. With my other hand, I grabbed it, pulled it, tucked it back into position onto the sprocket, instantaneously feeling the mucky slime of grease on my fingers (such a distant yet familiar feeling is bike grease). I rolled the bike back towards the boy, and wiped my greasy hands in the grass.

Give that a go. I think that's all it needed.

He jumped back on the bike and rode off, with an enthusiastic - Yes! It works! and an even bigger shout "THANK YOU!"

Leaving me smiling.

I have no faith -

zero, zilch, nada -

in today being a good day.

But I can try to do good today.

Home Work

These past few months, we've been living in a rather sad version of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, with one simple home improvement idea (hey, honey, let's get our wood floors refinished!) leading to - unearthing, really - a host of other issues. Isn't this always true of houses? Of teaching? Of any work? One sweet idea and the next thing you know, you are immersed in something tangential, then something else, and else again, on and on.

I've been surprised at how sad I am about the discovery that we have major repairs to make to the existing structure of our home. Yes, truly sad. Quite unexpectedly. 

Here's how I know: when the contractor shared impressive, clear, careful details of the work we must do, I burst into tears as soon as he left our house.

A good friend suggested that I am perhaps feeling a sense of grief, a sense of loss. The more I think about it, I think she is right.

We have an older home (1938). I like to say - "old enough to have problems, not old enough to be anything extraordinary." But, we have loved this home. It's been my home throughout our marriage (my husband bought it before we married) - some 33 years now. It's full of our fixes, our repairs, our "make do's." As one little example, let me share a photo of the kitchen "backsplash" that I painted 25 years ago, because we couldn't afford tile: 

I have been so content with this painted backsplash through the years! Ha! It makes me smile.

Our remodeling will begin any day now (we are waiting on blueprints...). I feel like a young child on the verge of a tantrum when I say: I really don't want to think about the innumerable details of this new work! 

But it is work that must be done. 

These structural repairs mean that a lot of the little, personal touches we labored on through the years will vanish. (Yes, the backsplash, too. I know - the time is past due. I hear you.)  This is why I am feeling such a sense of grief - it feels as if we're tossing aside memories, erasing our life.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I am making peace with the reality that the timeline will be long, inconsistent, unpredictable - as is true with most remodeling projects, but especially during this time of pandemic when every contractor is in hot demand and working on several things at once.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I remind myself, it's a good life, right? We are so blessed. Change is always, change is constant, change is needed.  

Of all the unforeseen and unfortunate problems in the world, this is a good problem to have. Quit my bellyaching!

Breathe in, breathe out.

Realizing I am feeling grief, I decided to work my way out of my blues. Action is needed! We "popcorned" ideas about things that need to be done around the house that are NOT this structural issue, that do not require a professional, that we can do ourselves. We came up with quite a list, big and small things. (Think - painting projects, culling belongings/extras, donating furniture and other items we no longer need.) Now, we are chipping away at these - and it feels WONDERFUL. Seriously. It helps to be accomplishing something.

This past week, we repainted four radiators (before the onset of cold weather). Here's a 'before and after':

BEFORE

AFTER - 

(Yes, there is a goof of paint on the tile above the right corner. 

Thank goodness for "Goof Off"!)

It also helps to write poetry - ha! Just yesterday, EthicalELA offered the inspiration to write an "Abecedarian" poem. I thought about our house and its overwhelming but necessary repairs, and an A-Z poem just flowed out of me. I love it when writing just tumbles forth, as if a release valve has been opened. Yes, it was truly a release. 

I guess the truth of it is, remodeling doesn't soothe my soul...I'd rather be writing.

Falling Apart Alphabetically

Absolutely excited to 

begin home improvements, the

contractor was summoned to

develop a plan of action.

Emotionally unprepared I was

for his first question,

Goodness, why is your ceiling sagging?

How is it that we never noticed?

I have asked this many times since.

Jarringly, it is all we see now.

Knowledge is sight, I suppose.

Lamentations aside, we have

mustered courage (though

nerves and tears still rule on many days) and we’re

opening ceilings

paying for blueprints

querying engineers contractors designers websites friends 

rapidly learning about beams and 

structures and foundations.

Things fall apart. Yes, indeed.

Unexpected challenges and loss, it is said, may also reap

very real opportunities, silver linings, transformation -

wisdom I should print on index cards or

xerox and post everywhere, reminding, as we

yearn for this work to be done, it simply

zigs and zags, ebbs and flows, starts and stalls.

___________________

It's Tuesday and I am participating in the

 Slice of Life.  

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

Redbuds and memories

It's Tuesday and I am participating in the

 Slice of Life.  

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

This past Friday, April 9th, was a spectacular spring day to be outside. Tony and I worked together in the yard, trying to eradicate those endless weeds and spotlight the spring flowers. I had a writer's notebook at the ready, trying to capture "live action" words for writing haiku, which was that day's poetry prompt with Dr. Sarah Donovan's Ethical ELA #VerseLove, where I am writing poetry every day in April.

We worked quietly, slowly, trowels in hand, moving the dirt, tossing the weeds, enjoying the day. We were already aware of the date and then noticed our redbud in peak bloom, always a beautiful sight. Both of us immediately got a little misty-eyed, and began to talk about its meaning. 

You see, we planted it to commemorate Tony's father, who died April 9, 1995. Twenty-six years ago. Wow. 

How can this time be, at once, both so long ago and yet so current, so right there, at the ready?

 

Are you finding yourself so much more raw and accessible, big emotions right there on your sleeve, during this time of pandemic? I find myself thinking back, reflecting frequently, on those I've loved who have died. 

Is it simply because I'm getting older? 

Is it spending sweet time with my granddaughters, seeing 'the passage of time'? 

Is it the loss of my father, earlier this year, after losing my mother two years ago, and this realization that I'm the older generation now?

Is it being retired, spending more time writing and reflecting?

Perhaps all of these play a role, but I think it mostly has to do with this time of grief we are all living through. This world in grief.

Without a doubt, I am so much more aware of the brevity of life. 

Tony and I, we remembered how, when we received word that Papaw had died, we immediately packed up the kids and the car and drove the long drive south from Maryland to Atlanta to be with family, to be in mourning. All along the long, long drive, spring flowers were blooming, and what was especially beautiful were these gorgeous purple blossoms that seemed to burst through the greenery of the trees - redbud trees. All along the way, purple, purple, purple. 

My father-in-law died at age 87, a couple months before our youngest son was born. He was a truly good and kind soul and it's always made me sad that I only knew him for maybe seven-eight years, that I had not had more time with him. We lost three of Tony's family in 1995; in addition to his father, who died of cancer, he lost two older brothers, one to a heart attack and one to cancer. It was a brutal year for us, in our young marriage, grieving all this loss. 

Lots has happened in those twenty-six years. Our youngest child is an adult now, and he never even got to meet this grandfather. His whole memory of Papaw and his uncles is through our family stories, memories shared. Even our older sons were short-changed in their time with these loved ones, being only 6 and 3 years of age. 

I do believe we have done a pretty good job of sharing memories with them, through the years. 

But that is the way life works, yes? We live and we die. If we are lucky, we get to love and be loved. Yes, for me, this awareness of the tenderness, the fleetingness, the fragility of life is felt more profoundly during this time of pandemic, with so many abbreviated lives all around. 

Let me close with some haikus about these redbud reflections - Tony and I actually wrote the fifth one together, which was very sweet.

day in the garden
turning over the soil
memories flowing

we planted a redbud
to bloom each year at this time
in your memory

when the redbud blooms 
we remember when you died
and sent us kisses 

flashes of purple
amongst the bright greenery
throughout the mountains

flowering redbuds
reassurances from you
all the long drive south

SOL21 Slice 28: From the ashes

 

I am participating in the

 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL21).  

All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 

 every day for the month of March 2021.

Thank you, Two Writing Teachers, for nurturing teacher-writers!

No one was around when I slipped into the portico, found the small box and fished out the little dime-size plastic baggy, which I quickly zipped into my jacket pocket, and then I continued on with my run. If someone had seen me, they may have been somewhat suspicious - what was I up to with such furtive movement? Well, to collect ashes for celebrating a virtual Ash Wednesday . . . that was some five weeks ago, the start of Lent. Today is Palm Sunday, and I breezed by the church portico again to pick up palms, to wave from our couch during the virtual service. Yes, it is a little - or a lot? - strange to be experiencing Lent in this virtual way, yet - in the big scheme of things, isn't it remarkable how we are persevering? 

We are finding new ways.

Lent has meant more to me than it has in many, many years. It's emphasis on wilderness, sacrifice, and loss has been especially poignant during this season of pandemic. This Lent is also the first without both of my parents - and I have been flooded with memories of my Catholic childhood, the strict observance of all the rituals and traditions: 

• Fat Tuesday where I ate all the naughty things I intended to give up during Lent, 
• followed by Ash Wednesday and ashes in the sign of the cross on my forehead, 
• meatless Fridays (this is such a non-issue for me as an adult - I rarely eat meat on any day), 
• praying the rosary,
• Palm Sunday (this was the LONGEST Mass, oh my, oh my, I'd adjust my sitting position on that cold, hard pew over and over and there was no mercy, no escape, the readings went on and on and on), 
• foot washing on Maundy Thursday, 
• stations of the cross on Good Friday (the only day of the year that Mass is not celebrated; I really enjoyed this service, with almost a 'story-telling' of the life and crucifixion of Jesus)
• ending with Easter Sunday service, where I always wore a nice, new, spring Easter dress. 

I stopped practicing Catholicism in college and, although I still consider myself Christian, all these rituals and traditions pretty quickly became a thing of the past. 

However, 

this pandemic, 

combined with both my parents deceased, 

magnified the symbolism of Lent for me,

brought all those childhood memories back.

When my own (progressive Christian) church offered these familiar symbols - the ashes, the palms - in our church portico, I felt called to go by and get some. 

This year, this year, this year. 

I decided to just surrender to whatever grief-fueled, 'flashback,' confusing emotion I am feeling, dare to participate in Lent as much as I felt inclined to do, and see where it might lead. I decided to go on my own personal, inward journey, not one tied to any particular creed. Surprisingly - actually, as I write, I am realizing that this isn't really surprising at all - I have found so much strength and solace in nature. Take for example this extraordinary tree I discovered:

You might be thinking - wait, that is no tree. You are right, it's just the remains. It's the hollow remains of a tree's trunk. Arborists have been identifying diseased trees in our local park, and this big, old tree was cut down, leaving only a 4 foot section of its stump (to be removed later, I'm sure). I couldn't believe the sight when I peered into the trunk - decay, rot, worn, uneven irregular edges, strange fungus and molds growing within, and totally hollowed out at its core. There are so many different colors and textures to death. Just one week ago, this tree was tall, thick, and strong-looking (to my non-arborist eye), growing on the bank of the creek, and now it is gone - and, from this look inside its trunk, I see that it was already long "going." This rot did not happen overnight, it was deep within. How long did it take to become so diseased? How early in the tree's life did the decay begin? What went wrong that it grew this way? 

I looked again into this hollowed trunk, and do you know what I saw? Through the hollow of the tree, I could see the water in the creek. Yes - water, flowing. It was amazing to be able to see all the way through the tree into the creek itself. I was filled with this sense of awe - oh my, this is ashes to ashes. Cycles, continuous cycles of life, life going on.

This Lent, I feel the passage of time, 

this keen sense 

of past, 

of gone, 

of forever. 

Yes, there is so much that is broken.

Yet, there is so much that turns me toward hope.

I continue "to rejoice in the precious now" (my minister's words on Ash Wednesday). 

"There is always something left to love.

And if you ain't learned that, 

you ain't learned nothing."

- Lorraine Hansberry

Apr23Poetry: The Tree

I'm trying something new, taking a risk this month - participating in
#VerseLove with Sarah Donovan,
hoping to write poetry every day this April.







Today's poetry challenge is to write about the cycle of time, and to be inspired by the changes that are occurring in the natural world. I'm not quite sure what happened here, but I went dark....

The Tree

The gardener lingers at the tree,

Surprised by the scene

Bereft of blossoms, branches bare,

Hardly any leaves.

What is this gray green fungus eyed,

Growing up the side?

Every other spring, majestic blooms,

Now, will it survive?

Grief is like this, when it comes about,

Whether whisper or shout,

Approaching loss always hurts

Seeing life worn out.

SOL19 Slice #17: Not too long ago

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

I drop by to see him one last time, before leaving for the airport. He's sound asleep, snuggled in a nursing-home-issued blanket, mouth agape, his right hand folded gently under his chin, as if he is lost in thought, deep thought. I really haven't had very much "good" interaction with Dad on this trip. I spent most of the day with him yesterday, and he said only a word or two. It's as if he is here with us physically, only.

I want to interact with him before I leave; I only have an hour. Should I wake him up?

The nurse says he had a very wakeful night, very unsettled, that he kept getting up, coming out of his room (with his walker), making his way to the sitting area, then going back into his room and back to bed again, over and over. At one point, he curled up on the nursing home couch and fell asleep. The night caregiver covered him with a blanket, not wanting to disturb him, hoping he might finally sleep.

This image of my elderly father wandering, restless, searching, in the middle of the night, just breaks my heart.

I cannot write it, without crying.

Right now, it is morning, and sunshine streams in the beautiful large windows, a bright winter sun, gliding easily through the branches of deciduous trees. The day beckons. This nursing home sparkles. It is a nice place, well taken care of, with good, kind personnel. Truly, this nursing home is a lovely place, considering.

I think of him in the middle of the night and I think - this nursing home, this is not his home. He doesn't know where he is. She (Mom) is not here. He doesn't want to be here. My family and I wonder, is he - perhaps - afraid of where he's headed, what death means?

Disquiet.

Anonymous people caring for him, calming him, redirecting him, encouraging him. They speak gently. They give him space and freedom to wander a bit, keeping him safe.

This image of my elderly father wandering, restless, searching, in the middle of the night - maybe he's remembering making rounds at the shipyard? Checking on things.

I'll never know.

I decide to walk over and just stand at his bedside, quietly. Remember that trick we all had as young children, where you stare your parent into awake? Yes! I decided to try it again.

I stood next to his bed, bending over, looking, staring, sending him the unspoken message, "Wake up, I am here!"

He woke!!
Truly!
He sensed me.
His first thoughts were muddled - Who's there? What? Then, "Oh, yeah, Maureen, you have to go back this morning." (He remembered!!)

He is quiet for a minute or two. Then,

"Maureen, look at you in that picture. You were very little then, weren't you? It doesn't seem that long ago."

I turn my head to see the photo that he is looking at, hanging on the wall near his bed:




This photo was taken about fifty years ago.

"No, Dad, it doesn't. It doesn't seem that long ago at all."



Such a precious few minutes with my father. I am blessed.

SOL19 Slice #3 Aging is painful work

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Paper cut: a cut caused by the sharp edge of a piece of paper (MacMillan Dictionary)

Tiny, almost imperceptible, and yet so painful. 

Mom died four months ago, in late October.
We moved Dad from their house to an assisted living apartment, at his behest, a couple weeks after Mom died, so that he would have caregivers close at hand. A month or so later, it was clear that he would never be able to live so independently again, and we emptied his house of belongings, dispersing them to family members, giving things away to thrift shops, and throwing things out.

Another month later, we moved him from his assisted living apartment into the nursing home. After a few weeks here, we realized he would never be able to live even minimally independently again, and, the last week of February, we emptied his assisted living apartment of belongings, dispersing them to family members, giving things away to thrift shops, and throwing things out. He will live out his days in the nursing home.

Aging is painful work for all of us.

He is 89, suffering from Parkinson's and profound grief. He and Mom met in 8th grade. He doesn't know how to move on, without. Yet he must.

He lives 600 miles away and I try to visit him monthly, now that he is so alone. Thankfully, my brother lives just a mile from Dad, overseeing his care. He has many visitors - his children and grandchildren.

There are so many small moments that profoundly hurt, like paper cuts.

A former Admiral, he is now powerless.

Used to giving orders, he is now entirely dependent.

Avid reader and television news junkie, he is nearly blind.

Conversations or books on tape are impossible because he is quite deaf.
A keen mind, he has the beginnings of dementia.

A once strong, athletic man, he has lost much of his balance, needing a walker to move, and he needs assistance to get out of bed or a chair.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

falling out of bed,

needing assistance to the bathroom,
trying to remember someone's name,

wanting a snack right now, right this very minute - but having to wait,
"Where's my BLT?" he roars.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about.
He is incapable of 

changing into his favorite sweatshirt,

listening to his favorite singer [Eddy Arnold],

making his own bed,
remembering his own meds.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

not particularly liking the caregiver on duty,

surrounded by 'old people' [his words!] more fragile than he,

unable to remember the date or time or what comes next in his schedule,
seeing only the vaguest outline of the high school photo of Mom on his nightstand.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about,
Each day offering a little less
mobility,
memory,
sound,
sight.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

but he is aware of each,

with heightened awareness,
just like paper cuts.

He shares with me a story:

"I said no to my physical therapist this morning. I don't see why I should even bother. Last night, at dinner, they made me sit next to an old guy. He was holding a baby doll! He was holding a baby doll that looked real, but, come on, you and I know - it wasn't real. Maureen, he was cooing at the baby doll. How did I end up in this place? I was never, ever, ever going to live in an old folk's home. This is hell."

Learning

after all these years

to accept, to be humble, to delight in very small things,

like the window seat in the sunshine,

at the end of the hall,

where he can sit

and savor

all that came before.

I don't know if it is possible for Dad to learn this.

To be with my father, right now, is as if to watch him die from 10, 000 paper cuts.