Zeus

I adopted a two year old black and white cat from the Humane Society three days ago. His name is Zeus and he is such a love. His little brother, Figgy, is adapting to the new addition to our little family, and has been sniffing and playing and scoping out this new creature, not yet sure what to make of all this. His eyes make me laugh and smile rather spontaneously.

I made a vision board several months ago, and in looking at it again, see that there is a black and white cat on it that looks nearly identical to Zeus. Coincidence?

Also, since adopting Zeus three days ago, my fair city has been pelted with daily (nightly) thunderstorms. Every. Day. Multiple times a day. Thunder strikes. Rain pours. Lightning flashes. It's really cool. I love these kinds of thunderstorms. They give me permission to read and lounge in bed with the windows open, feeling the stormy breezes while chillin' with my cats. And let's not forget how Zeus is king of the gods, the ruler of Mount Olympus, and the god of the sky and thunder. Coincidence?

Translating Schadenfreude

I live in an apartment above my grandparents. I am a good granddaughter. I love G&G very much, and am here in large part because I want to spend what little time we may have left together close to them. I try to make them happy mostly with my company, even when I'm busy, tired, etc. Honestly, the thing I do the most for my grandparents is spend time with them--just visiting and listening to old stories and letting them talk. This is the arrangement they seem most comfortable with. While they will accept help from the caregivers and from others, they don't easily accept it from me. Time I can give without being rejected. One meal a week they'll let me do. One morning a week to be with Grandpa while the caregivers and Grandma Junie run errands is fine. Beyond that, not so much. I think my grandma would let me buy her an endless supply of caffeine free Diet-Pepsi, but that's about it.

So when I received an email from my cousin (the lawyer of the family, three years my senior and the first born grandchild), I was surprised. She confronted me about making noise at night, and said they would like to make it a policy that there is "quiet time" after 11:30 or midnight". As a quiet girl who likes to read, write and sleep mostly while I'm at home, I was surprised to learn I am viewed as a loud tenant and a night-owl. Hah!

There were other things in the email, but the tone and tenor of the request was one of parent-child. I felt like a little kid or rebellious teenager being scolded for listening to NIN late at night and keeping the folks up. Had the caregivers just talked to me about this directly, like the adults that we are, it would be fine. Hardwood floors mean that noise travels. My bedroom is directly above his. I get it. The thing I don't get is why we couldn't have a normal conversation with the people directly involved.

I am blessed and grateful to be living above my grandparents, but coming back from living first in Taiwan, a world away, and before that out in Portland, Maine, I have to admit that consciously coming back into these family dynamics is difficult for me. I tend to want to draw back and it's a challenge to assert my personal boundaries (and have them respected) and establish my own life and what feels okay for me while living in such close proximity to everyone. This has always been my biggest challenge in life--having the courage and strength to simply be myself--to shine--to be my own person and stand up for what I believe in in spite of what my family may think of me. I get so bogged down in their labels, too often believing that I am what they say I am--irresponsible, bad with money, loud, selfish, undisciplined, greedy, overweight, flakey, etc. that I start to believe it. In fact, when the negative self-talk starts in my head (and it often does), it is these things I've heard or felt through behaviors from my family for years. Now I know they love me, but they just don't want me to shine too brightly. They don't want me to change. They want to feel safe, knowing exactly who I am and what I can do.

I remember being floored when my sister lost 80 pounds and trained for three marathons, all while having type 1 diabetes. The family was less than supportive. No one really commented. No one felt overjoyed for her. Even I felt jealous and threatened. When one changes, all are forced to interact differently. Family units don't like that. It was very eye opening to see my own reaction to my sister's transformation because it wasn't just about the weight loss or athleticism--it was her whole life. She was more confident. Started dating better guys. Started living her dreams. And there I was. Teaching in an inner-city school. Overweight. Depressed. Dating a guy I knew I didn't want to be with but was too lazy and insecure to change things. Not exercising. Rising A1C. The last thing I wanted to do was feel happy for my sister. So I didn't. And in denying that joy for her, I hurt myself, too.

I notice now that despite all the struggles and challenges I'm facing, I feel better about myself and I'm much more able and willing to feel good for other people. I'm glad when they succeed. I'm genuinely happy for them when they get what they want and deserve. I don't feel jealous too often these days, though that still creeps in, I'll admit, mostly around body image and finances. It's a good place to be--to be able to genuinely cheer others on and not feel like by celebrating their successes I am somehow diminishing my own sense of self. That's ego getting out of the way for a little bit and letting my own true essence shine. I am a happy, joyful person who loves to see success in all forms. I love to see people thrive. It's only when I'm down in the doldrums and not doing what makes me feel good that I tend to withhold my happiness for others.

Schadenfreude--I know it comes from that place of unrest within oneself where the ego feels pumped up by others shortcomings or failures. As a bilingual English/German speaker, I love those German words with no real equivalent in English because they seem so on the mark. Schadenfreude, Gemuetlichkeit, these are two well known words that have no real translation. I suppose the opposite of Schadenfreude is simply being happy for another's happiness. It sounds easy to do, but we all have days when it doesn't come so naturally. That's always a sign for me to look within and see what I can do to make myself feel good because there's nothing worse than gloating over other's misfortunes and being unable to celebrate their joys. I can think of no worse fate than that.

Lending a Helping Hand

I was late. I sped from one side of town to the other, barely stopping at those large red octagon things and other blinking lights. I had a massage to get to, after all. No time to relax. I was late. There was road construction everywhere and no parking on the main streets. I'd have to find a spot nestled somewhere on a residential side street. I found one a few blocks away from my massage therapist's office, quickly parallel parked, and power-walked down the avenue, oblivious to my surroundings. Not very "Power of Now" or "New Earthy," that's for sure. Bad awakener.

As I'm almost there (now 10 minutes late for my massage and cursing my poor time management skills since I'll likely lose precious massage time), a little old lady pardons herself and stops me to ask if I'd help her. Honestly, I look skeptically at her since she's standing outside a restaurant/pub, thinking she may want spare change, not that she looks particularly needy, but you never know. I may have held the purse strings a little tighter as I engaged with her. Then, she asked me if I wouldn't mind helping her across the street, what with all the road construction and busy traffic on the avenue and all. I instantly chided myself for acting like a twerp--assuming she wanted money instead of a hand across a busy intersection, but then again, I've never had the pleasure of helping a little old lady across the street before. I was out of my element. And running late. And I think I had all of a quarter in my wallet at the time.

So, I put my preconceived notions aside and let go of my need to be on time and "relaxed" and took an extra three minutes out of my day to help this stranger, a little old lady who lived in an apartment on the other side of the street, cross the street. She took my hand and I steadied her, as she said her legs were wobbly and felt like they'd give out. We weaved through the maze of construction and traffic and I led her up her apartment stairs. She was humble and grateful and sweet, and I felt really happy inside, knowing I had been given a gift. God had chosen me to help this little old lady cross the street--giving me the feeling of helping and slowing down enough to really be in the moment. As I took her hand, I felt her dry skin and her soft grasp and I put my arm around her back and felt the sun and the warm 70 degree wind through our hair. It was the best moment of the day, and reminded me how good it feels to help others, even strangers we may initially misjudge. I did lose 15 minutes of my massage time, but it was worth it. After all, it's not every day you have the chance to help a little old lady cross the street.

Grandma J. as Blanche du Bois

Apologies to those of you who are reading this and are unfamiliar with Tennessee William's work, but I just got back from a local theater performance of "A Streetcar Named Desire." It left me feeling blue. What I realized at the end of the play was that my Grandma Junie and Blanche du Bois are a lot alike--both blurring the lines between fantasy and reality quite seamlessly, or so it appears.

Both Blanche and my Grandma Junie love, love, love to talk and often blur such lines to the detriment of those around them, though they truly mean no harm. In the end, Blanche and my Grandma are much the same as they implore others to see them in a good light even as they fib and lie because they refuse to accept the hands fate has dealt them. Lying to themselves and to others allows them to make life appear as it should be rather than as it really is. My Grandma Junie is the real life Blanche du Bois, minus the alcoholism and imprudent affairs with men. I still don't know her real age.

I see more and more of Blanche in my grandma these days. The retreat into private fantasies enables them to partially shield themselves from reality’s harsh blows. Grandma Junie is, in essence, living on borrowed time. My grandfather has dementia. He is probably dying. Her son, the "Golden Boy" died young (in his forties from unmanaged type 1 diabetes and mental issues). Children dying before parents just seems so wrong. My grandma's youngest son, my favorite uncle, disowned her and the family twenty years ago and hasn't been back since except for a brief and uncomfortable appearance at his brother's funeral, though he lives mere miles away. He is, according to my father (who likes to exaggerate), a paranoid schizophrenic, though I never thought so. My beloved father, the only child left, rarely visits or calls and has avoided the family reality by smoking pot and drinking, though he has successfully managed the family business my grandfather started for 35 years.

Unlike Blanche, my Grandma Junie does not drink and is not an alcoholic, though her health is ailing and she lives in denial about the unfortunate combination of her unwieldy sweet tooth and her (unmanaged) diabetes and painful arthritis. She also had shingles. Her husband of 61 years, my Grandpa Ray, though a good-hearted man, had a fierce temper for years and just isn't the same anymore. He is legally blind, must wear a catheter and urine bag due to failing kidneys and his mind is sometimes lucid, though more often than not,slips in the unyielding grip of dementia and Alzheimer's. He doesn't have much time left and sometimes it seems as though he is literally whithering away, day by day. Threats of life sans husband and confined to a nursing home loom. When visitors and nurses are gone, I can hear the yells and frustrated screams of my seemingly mild-mannered long suffering Grandma Junie through the hardwood floors, and I know it is now my Grandpa Ray's turn in front of the firing squad. The first time I heard my grandma yell and swear. I was shocked, and sure I was hearing things. Living above them for four months, I now know the truth.

My Grandma Junie's Belle Reve (translates from French to "Beautiful Dream) is not a southern plantation, but simply the simple home her husband built for her shortly after their marriage. This house we live in now (me in the apartment upstairs, my grandparents downstairs) is the very home my Grandfather built 58 years ago before such things as suburbs and malls, which now flood the area, existed. He simply built this home for his lovely new bride, the town Alderman's daughter, on the top of the hill, and so it stands today. I am quite sure my Grandma Junie will die here. There will be no nursing home for her. She will stay in her "Belle Reve" until she breaths her final breath on this earth, as it should be.

Like Stella in Streetcar, I am in the habit of serving my grandma cold drinks and fetching her things. Her classic line "Would you like a soda?" is my cue to fetch her a drink. She's not interested in my thirst, but instead, this is her demure way of asking without asking. It's a standing agreement with all who know her to prepare her a cold drink before coming into the living room. It's standard operating procedure. We all get a good chuckle out of it now that I called her on it.

My grandfather requires 24/7 care due to his ailing health, and the irony is that my Grandma Junie has turned his nursing staff into her personal servants. They manicure her nails, soak her feet, give her pedicures, take her to the beauty salon and upscale grocery store, buy her new clothes, wash her laundry, clean her house. What started as nursing care for just my grandfather has turned into nursing care plus personal attendants and maid service for both my grandpa and grandma. The help, for the most part, concurs because I do believe they received well deserved raises.

My grandmother desperately clings to the bits of control and freedom she has left, and that is over her own mind and perspective--oh, and little things like telling the nursing staff how to slice the pie or how to set the table. They're not there as nursing staff in her mind, but to assist her in her daily life. Like Blanche, my grandmother often leaves the realities of the world behind and retreats into her own fantasies, her memories and the recesses of her own mind in order to avoid accepting reality. In order to escape fully, however, both must come to perceive the exterior world as that which she imagines in her head. This is why my grandmother almost let my grandfather die. She didn't care for him because she didn't see it. He was so ill and weak, his kidneys and insides so desperate that he was moments from death, but my Grandma Junie was oblivious. Luckily, my father was there and was able to take him to the hospital before it turned fatal.

My grandma is a stubborn woman--she sees what she wants to see, and ignores the rest. For years, family members simply comment that Junie sees the world through rose-colored glasses; it may be deluded some extent, but fantasy has often saved her pain, though reality bursts forth in the end.

Like Blanche, my grandmother refuses to tell anyone her true age or to appear in harsh light that will reveal her faded looks. My grandmother wears make-up to shield her vitaligo and wrinkles, and is embarrassed to be seen without her hair done or make-up on. My Grandma Junie also lives in the past, retelling stories of her youth and dates with many suitors, especially around my grandfather. She develops crushes on all manner of men, especially men younger than herself, like my ex-boyfriend from Norway and the husbands of my sister and cousin. She even fained illness and claimed my grandfather couldn't breathe, so as to solicit attention from the nursing help last night, bringing the young male nurse and her favorite Blond female nurse rushing over to her rescue Friday evening. Clearly, nothing was truly wrong, as she never called me down, and I'm only a few steps away in the apartment upstairs. Everyone was frustrated and upset, having been "played" and worried over nothing except the drama created by such lies. Like Blanche, my grandmother believes that her fibbing is only her means of enjoying a better way of life and is therefore essentially harmless. Unfortunately, this is often not the case, and those closest end up hurt.

And yet....after the play finished, my heart hurt for Blanche du Bois, just as my heart goes out to my Grandma Junie, whom I love dearly, despite her human foibles and mental illusions (delusions?). I don't mean to sound harsh to my beloved Grandma Junie, but I realize now how very close in mind and spirit she really is to Ms. Blanche du Bois. I'm sure a psychiatrist would have a heyday with her, but she's in her eighties and no one's gonna change her now. And why try? If it works for her, and it has for many, many years, so be it. I suppose there are worse things than insisting on seeing life through rose-colored glasses and always depending on the kindness of strangers.

Commitment

My friend, B., sent me the Goethe quote below, which is almost perfectly worded. I am familiar with the last three lines, but the rest is new to me. The focus on commitment speaks to me. I know it is one of my life lessons. I'm learning.

One of my challenges in life is to committing myself to something, someone, one place, one task, one job, one home, heck, even one country. My free spirit lifestyle has served me well, but this laissez faire attitude has also kept me from achieving some of my soul's deepest desires, such as writing a publishable book or even publishable articles, sharing my life with a dear partner, achieving financial stability, and knowing what wealth feels like. I am good at starting things, but struggle to stick with it and have the wherewithall and discipline to continue until it is finished. I am proud of myself for doing 190 days of the D-365 project.

I have stuck with it for over half a year; even on days I didn't feel like it, I did it anyway. Success is
in the little steps, the small moments of each day that we do what we do and remain present and
focused on the task at hand, whatever it may be, from washing hands to driving, to writing one word
at a time. In the end, the results appear. It is not magic, but commitment that gets the job done.

But let's let Goethe have the final word, shall we? 

"Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to
draw back. Concerning all acts of initiative, there is one
elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas
and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself,
then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one
that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events
issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of
unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance,
which no man could have dreamed would come his way. Whatever
you can do, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and
magic in it. Begin it now."

Welcome!

Welcome to my new blog! Not so many people know of it as of this moment, so I have no idea how you found it unless you are Beth or a few close friends. I needed a place to write and share and express that my family wouldn't see. So here we are. If you happen to be related to me, I welcome you anyway. You must care about me if you're taking the time to weed through the internet thorns to find me.

I thank you for that, on both counts.