I’m A Horrible Person

It appears I have been gifted with the award of being the most horrible person in a friend’s life.  I had no idea I was up for this award, so it goes to show things can happen despite your lack of attention.  And evidently it is my very lack of attention which makes me the winner this go around.

I have a fair amount of things going on in my life, some by choice and some by anything but my choice.  This means that sometimes I fail to check all my various contacts on an hourly basis.  Frankly it may be a daily or weekly basis even. At any rate this friend assumed I’d be checking in with him on an hourly basis.  Which I wasn’t because I was in the middle of a health crisis requiring a stay in the hospital.

So I missed a message from my friend saying his mother had died and he wanted to me call him, ASAP.  I missed this message for oh I don’t know a week and a half.  When I got his message, his phone was going straight to voicemail.  I left a message and sent him a message expressing my condolences and explaining why I hadn’t been in touch when it happened.

He informed me that a horrible person.  A truly horrible person for not being there for him.  So yes I wasn’t there, and it sucks, but I kind of had a legitimate reason. I was in the hospital with no means to contact him.  😦

And Then

When I was young, I would run through gardens and fields, never worrying if they were wet or muddy.  When I was young, I’d find a swing to play on or a tree to climb or a hill to fall back on and watch the clouds waltz their way across the sky.

When I got older I stopped running through gardens and fields.  One’s heels tend to get stuck in soft earth after all.  And mud splatter isn’t the most ideal thing to have on your cloths. When I got older I’d never find time to hop on a swing or climb a tree and watching those clouds make their way across the sky was another indication of how much time had already slipped away from me with, so many things left to accomplish in the day.

And then I got sick.  And in getting sick time stood still and rushed away all at the same time.  I wondered if I’d ever have the energy to make it down a hallway, never mind walk through a field or climb a hill.  And instead of having someone push my swing, would someone be pushing my wheelchair?  The movement of the sun, moon and stars marked time in some surreal way.  Each day and night blending into the one before it as if it didn’t matter so much anymore.

And suddenly I was better-ish.  I was out and about.  I was running, sort of, cringing at the pain I knew was coming my way.  But still I’d do it just to enjoy the perfumes rising from gardens, tangled and unkept as well as though so immaculate you thought even the insects were placed just so.  And in doing so, I set aside a timetable to get things accomplished.  Things would get done as they would, based on what I had time for.

I left my heels long in some forgotten box, enjoyed the rain and the mud.  Forced Beloved to tell me what he saw as he too gazed up into the sky and wouldn’t settle for answers such as “rain clouds” or “coming storms”.  Maybe, just maybe, by being sick I found a bit of a rabbit hole to go down.  No I didn’t see Alice or the Mad Hatter, but I did find a way to grasp back the simple pleasures that I had enjoyed as  a child.

Goodness Me

His voice drifted lightly to where I was sitting. Melodic poetry swirled around me from the kitchen, where he was singing as he cooked.  Van Morrison, I suspected.  It was, after all, one of those days.  A day full of cooking and music while I sat uselessly in a chair trying to forget about harsh and ugly words.  Those which had flown so easily from my lips to lash at him.

And now he was in the kitchen, singing what I was certain was Van Morrison’s songs while he prepared what sounded like enough food to last at least a month.  Van, after all, was skilled at putting poetry to music and Beloved was nothing if not a lover of poetry and music. He also happens to not be a bad signer, having spent time with choirs in a previous life.  Me, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket and I have been offered money to not sing.

The four-footed one happens to be a lover of music, well at least fond of music.  She is a lover of food and will endure even my version of singing if it means a scrap of food might come her way.  She is also no fool, she could sense this mood that had drifted down upon me sometime while I slept and thus had given me a wide berth all day long.  She and Beloved are no fools, opting to provide me with my own space and ignoring my mood.

It is hard, these times, when I realize just how little I energy or strength to do anything.  It is hard to allow that lupus has found an upper hand again and now I must sit and rest, waiting until I had found the way through this latest downturn.  While Beloved had to manage the house, the dog, his needs and mine all on his own.  Not that he complains, not ever, which makes it even worse somehow. As though he is above this, saintly next to my dark sinned filled wretched soul.

The harsh, ugly words had been hurled his way after he told me to get some rest when he brought me a book to read, a knowing smile just about there on his lips. I had wanted to throw that book at him.  Truthfully I wanted him to have to sit in the chair, rest while the world went on all around him.  I’d not ask him to sit like that for long, just enough for him to see what it was like for me as fun went on where he was not.  (Not that my singing would entice even the most deaf of demons to come into where I was, but it  you get the idea.)

I knew, as the last lines of a song hung gently in the air, that soon he’d come to see if I wanted help heading up to bed. As if I were a small child who needed to be told to go to bed, or worse needed to be carried to bed .   Oh yes, this then is lupus at its worst. While not the disease, no the disease can be so much worse. Rather this is me at my worst, Beloved and the four-footed one being targets of my rage since I cannot throw a book or toss harsh words at lupus in any way that causes any damage.



Stained Glass, Stained Soul

Beloved has a things for stained glass windows. He cannot make them as he lacks the artistic talent for that.  He cannot install them as his thumbs seem to rebel against labor of that sort.  But he can find an incredible amount of beauty in them, especially the way the sun illuminates them.  And he does pay homage to them when he can.

No matter where he travels to, he will seek out stained glass windows to capture on his phone and sit beneath, to let the colored light play against his skin while he contemplates his life.  To him, there is something special about being able to sit bathed in the unnaturally colored light and reflect upon his actions, thoughts, desires and dreams.  He can spend hours in silent contemplation, lost in a world I have no way of entering.   Mostly because I tend not to darken the door during these moments.

There is something sweet and precious about his ability to find meaning, purpose and something so much larger than we are yet connecting us all to the same one thing.  And I find myself sitting in awe of this, of a simple act that is not so simple nor as easy as he makes it seem.  And while he is refreshed from his moments or hours of contemplation I find myself breathless from trying to chase my thoughts into a meaningful pattern.  And in these moments of peaceful stillness and calm he seems blessed in a way I don’t know how to reach.  It is as if we are meant to be alone for that moment however long it stretches, he lost in contemplation while I am left waiting and holding on for the moment to pass in order to reach above to get back to him.

A Void

There is something tragic about this hole that resides somewhere within me.  I suppose we all have some type of hole within us and that is why humans reach out to and need contact with other humans. This hole, I fear, is of own my own making, perhaps from when I looked through at myself in the mirror and did not like what I saw.  So I slithered away from the mirror to shatter it later on.  And created a void in my life while I created a hole on the wall where the mirror once sat.

For years I chose to ignore the void, instead staying as busy as I could.  The problem with ignoring such a void is that it grows.  The more you ignore it, the more it is fed and soon what was a small mirror sized hole is suddenly the size of watermelon.  A watermelon that kept growing until it threatened to engulf my very being.

So naturally I filled it.  I filled it with surface things, not realizing that it would just grow deeper until there a hole down to my very foundations.  Just when I was sure I was going to be lost in the hole, a hand reached down and offered me help.  Actually it offered me a hand up out of the hole.  And so out of fear of being lost to the hole, and yes I dare say a bit of curiosity as to who would be so foolish as to offer me this kind of help, I stretched my own arm out and up towards that other human.

Slowly, ever so slowly, this warm hand started to pull me out of the hole.  But the hole wasn’t about to give up a prize such as my very being.  Sometimes I’d slip a few inches back down before making a few inches above the where I had been before.  I emerged awkwardly into the bright light above my hole and looked back. When I was in it, at first, it didn’t seem too bad, but when someone told me I looked tragic, it made me think.  Maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t too good for human contact.

So I worked on filing the hole, filling it with the love and friendship of good people.  I still haven’t managed to fill it completely and sometimes I can feel it starting to shift back to what it was before, but now I reach back to hang onto the surface.  I suspect I will never fully have the void erased, and to be honest I’m not sure I’d want that either, but I probably won’t get as far down as I did before.



The Problem With…….Me

The problem with the beach is that in order to get to the water’s edge, I have to carefully make my way across the sharp stones, course sand and debris before I reach the soft, wet sand and feel the water gently caress my feet.

The problem with the beach is that in order to enjoy myself, I need to wear protection:  beach shoes to make my way down to the water’s edge, sun screen (enough to cover a large house, applied a million times over), a large hat, sleeves and an umbrella.  It’s a lot to carry or wear for a few hours of water and sand.

The problem with the beach is that Beloved adores it.  He needs to feel the water on his feet, he needs to walk the wet sand and let the gentle breeze that is always present blow his worries away.

The problem with the forest is that there are roots and branches on the ground, threatening to trip me up.  I have to watch where I place my feet which means I cannot enjoy the majestic beauty of the forest.

The problem with the forest is that I have to jump small pieces of shrubbery and try to avoid landing on sharp stones while my balance is less than stellar to go with my shorter legs.

The problem with the forest is that Beloved adores walking through it.  He feels as if he is apart of something magical when he strides across the secretive landscape, finding treasures along the way.

The problem with time is that it keeps slipping through my hands, far too fast for my liking, at least when Beloved is around. Before I know it, it is time for him to leave again.

The problem with time is each moment seems to take an eternity to pass when Beloved isn’t here.  A lifetime seems to pass from one breath to the next while I wait for his arrival.

The problem with love is that while it is a sweet thing, it is also a bitter thing.

The problem with love is that it is fickle and fragile.  It twists and it turns with no logic, leaving me behind and struggling to find my footing.  The problem with love is that I don’t understand it, not really.  It just sort of happens and you hang on for the ride, hoping the low parts zip by faster than the good parts.

Relationships: It’s Complicated

Have you ever thought you had a pretty understanding of how your relationship was going? You knew how to read things and could tell when something was going sideways? Yeah that was me too. Until today.

Today I discovered that where I thought I had a good handle on things in a very close relationship, I realized I had no clue how the other party really felt. Until the other party decided to show me. By just ceasing to interact with me. Completely. No warning. No signs to be read in advance. Just suddenly shut me out.

Shut me out of my contacts, my texts and all of that. Yes friends, my phone has decided I am not worthy of a relationship with it any longer. It stopped working for me. And yet, when I mentioned this to a friend, it worked just fine for my friend. I feel betrayed and hurt, not to mention confused why my phone works for someone else and not me. I am the one who charges it and takes it out on adventures.

I’m beginning to think my phone caught me looking at newer phones and is jealous. But I’m loyal to my phone and I thought we had an understanding around this. Evidently I was wrong. Please tell me I’m not the only person who has been shut out and denied by their own phone.