Oooh Fire

I love a good fire. In the right place, like a fireplace or a fire pit. I love to watch the flames dance and flicker. I love the light they cast. And when it’s cool, I enough the heat of a nice fire.

There is something to be said about the crackling sounds of wood in a fire. The smell of wood smoke as it hangs in the air, just a bit before disappearing into a memory. These are things that I love about fire.

I do not love fires that cause massive destruction or damage. I hate hearing of animals or people hurt by fires. I cannot imagine what it is to lose my house and home to something that seems so enjoyable in one sense become an enemy in another sense. I don’t think I could ever view even a small flickering flame the same way again.

I don’t understand, nor do I enjoy the wanton burning of refuse and whatever people can get their hands on for the sake of burning something because it’s the time to burn stuff. To me that just seems foolish and wrong. And yet there are groups of people who feel the urge to burn things and fight for their right to burn things. No matter the cost. Typically when these people get in the midst of a good fire, it’s some innocent person’s stuff that is destroyed. But hey, they got their fire.

And so today I’ve come to the conclusion that a good fire is not good for everyone.

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Paint Me A Picture

Some one once told me that my life was a blank canvas and I was free to paint across it whatever crossed my fancy. But at the end of the day, I had to deal with the art work I created. In other words, while it was my masterpiece, it was also my mess and mine alone.

What this person failed to tell me is how hard it would be, how intimidating it may be, to pick up the brush and make the first stroke on the canvas. Oh not physically hard. No that’s fairly easy. The hard part was shutting down my own fears and questions and just go for it.

No one told me that I would be my own worst critic, harshest judge and therefore prevent myself from fully painting my canvas unless I chose to do so. Eventually I did. But not before I missed options to grab pigment and ideas because I was too busy worried that the color would be wrong or the stroke wouldn’t compare.

You see dear friends, I forgot that I was painting the canvas for myself. Not for someone else to view and judge. In some ways that might be easier. But once I let go of what would someone think if there was a splash of blue here and dot of green just over there, it was easy.

I wonder how much fuller my canvas would be now if I didn’t hesitate so much. I wonder if my strokes would be different or if I would have picked up the pallette knife and just gone for it. But as I wonder, I’m missing time on filling my canvas with other lovely colors, ideas and strokes.

Pieces

He finished cleaning up the small shards of glass while I sat down trying to figure out what I was going to do.  We were down to three glasses, five plates and three bowls.  Yeah I had a day of dropping stuff.  He never said anything as he cleaned up after me, he never said a word.

I was sitting there staring at the hands that betrayed me, thinking that if he had stocks in crockery we’d be good to go.  But he doesn’t.  Of course I was also wondering what else I would drop, break or destroy.  I was beginning to think I could change my name to the Queen of Carnage.  And at this rate, Beloved might just want to stay on his hands and his knees.

The fact is, there are days I can’t win for losing.  And breaking. And just basically lurching from one disaster to another. I’m not sure that he signed up for this.  Heaven knows I didn’t.  It’s not like I stood in a line up and asked for lupus, or all the fun things that come along with it.

Every time I think I have a handle on things, I drop it.  And every time, regardless of my anger, rage, frustration and disgust, he calmly comes in and cleans it up.  He is a kind man, this man who seems to spend a large part of his time cleaning up after me.  He will say things like, “I never liked that glass anyway”, or “it is getting time for new dishes, I was getting bored with these”.

Life with lupus, heck living with someone who has lupus, is a bit like a broken plate at times.  You can see how the pieces should go together.  You can even fit them back in place, but they are still damaged and unable to carry the weight they once did.  A small part of me wonders if at some point he won’t throw me out and keep the dishes! 🙂

Different Dance With The Same Steps

Beloved works odd hours.  Mostly because he works more than one job.  These odd hours leads to some interesting obstacles when it comes to meal planning, not to mention other logistics.

We try to do mass cooking when he’s around.  And by we I mean him.  He tries to sort out several meals that can keep for a few days.  He also tries to “repurpose” meat etc. so he can make multiple meals after.  As for me, I tend to pass judgment on what he is planning.  (In fairness, he is the better cook out of the two of us and he’s not a fan of my creations for the most part.)

The problem with this approach is finding storage room for everything.  And once we get past that hurdle, the next big hurdle he faces is actually eating the food days later.  Because what sounded delicious on Sunday is totally not what he wants on Tuesday.  So he kind of hastily eats it on Tuesday and then lists after something more tasteful that day.

Enter a quick stop for more than coffee, such as a package of nuts or cake if the mood strikes.  And sometimes, if the disappointment was large enough, it becomes a package of nuts and cake.  Or maybe two pieces of cake. At which point he arrives home between occupations and bemoans his food choice.

And around and around we go with this.  I’m not much better in that I tend to not be a fan of leftovers.  So this means he is stuck with his food that seemed brilliant only days before.  But each week we do this same dance.  And each week he swears it will be different.

Flames Fanned

Beloved got it in his head that he wanted to try his hand at a barre class.  He has never done ballet, although he faithfully attends numerous recitals of the nut cracker each year.  It did not matter to him that the class was mostly women, he was determined to give this a try.  So he grabbed an unsuspecting friend and off they went.

What came home was a different man.  The one who left the house could walk and move freely and easily.  The one who limped in the door looked as if in dire need of medical attention.  Or at least a place to collapse.  Now if he hadn’t done something similar before, I probably would have been a bit concerned, but I’ve watched him stagger in from other classes so this time I just kind of set up a collapse zone and let him be.

Beloved has a bad habit of overdoing things.  Case in point, a few years back he decided to grab a friend and sign up for a spin class.  Spinning seemed easy. So the two of them did three classes in one day.  End result was that neither of them could really move well for a few days.  But hey, it was easy.

When I was young, I did ballet.  I’ve done yoga (poorly) and pilates as well so I had an idea of what he was up against.  But I held my tongue and kept my peace because he wouldn’t have listened to me anyway.  Just as he ignored me when he decided that swing dancing would be so much fun.  Until he hurt his back.  Then it stopped being fun.  It stopped being something he did and he settled for working on his waltzing.

I have no clue how these fires get started in him, or what fans these passions within him.  But he dives all in, not even waiting a few moments to see what is all involved.  Instead he learns as he goes.  And then he will, he crashes or gets burnt out or something.  And it settles to something else.

So for now I shall leave him in his heap of barre class recovery and see where the flames are fanned with this fire.  If needed, I have a bucket of water at the ready!

 

Come Easy

Beloved is not the type of man to give in easily.  He isn’t stubborn as per say.  But he knows what he wants and he is not afraid to run an obstacle course or what have you to get what he wants.  And if what he wants requires waiting, then so be it.  If what he wants requires learning a new skill, no problem.  What ever it takes to get what he wants in an ethical and moral way, he will do.

These are admirable traits to be sure.  And if I’m honest I know I’ve done  a few of these very things in the past myself.  There’s nothing wrong with working for what you want and pursuing your dreams to your fullest, leaving no stone unturned so to speak.  And yet today this very trait of Beloved’s irks me.

And it irks me because I do not like the impact it has on me.  I like living my life freely, doing as I please, and making choices as I wish.  Beloved on the other hand has this weird hang up about life.  He seems to want to extend his.  He thinks that everyone should do anything and grasp at any offered piece of advice, weight it and then try to extend life.  He does not live with a chronic illness that is trying to slowly kill him.  He does, however, occasionally live with me and I do live with said chronic illness.

There is a point where trying everything just gets, well, tiresome.  And there are too many disappointments, twists and turns and suddenly you just don’t know where you are any more.  So well Beloved doesn’t give up easily, he also hasn’t walked a mile or even one step in my shoes. Because he can’t.  And what he can’t grasp now is that I’m tired of chasing the latest or greatest new thing.  So I’m not.  I’m just resting on that front, doing research and waiting.  And he, for once, cannot seem to wait and sit still.  It doesn’t come easy to him.

Like The Dog

The four-footed one made a new friend today.  The fact that her new friend is about three times her size is not an issue for her.  The fact that her new friend isn’t interested in her also doesn’t matter to her.  As far as she’s concerned everything is fine. And if the new friend is a temporary thing, she seems content with this as well.

Frankly as long as things work out, she’s okay.  She’s an easy-going kind of girl.  Until it doesn’t suit her anymore.  At which point she is no longer content nor so easy-going. Thankfully she lives for the moment, unless it’s around food at which point she has the memory of an elephant and doesn’t forget the when, where, why or who.

It would be wise to be more like her, forgive a little easier, let go of grudges and such and just hold onto the good times.  And food of course.  Well maybe not too much holding onto food because holding too much food would probably result in massive weight gain for me.  And massive weight gain would make me unhappy and I wouldn’t be able to forget about things.  So maybe not hold onto food too much.  But otherwise just like the dog.