It is hard to explain the delight of this.
I dont much live in the past and not just because I dont remember it very well.
But this I do recall. Mimi and her wonderful family.
I lived there in her house for 3 years or so. Oh sure I actually had a different address but it was her family that saved my teenage sanity.
I love this feeling.
Tonight I am clicking away at the keyboard Facebooking to my dearest oldest friend, Randy.
I love Randy. *hug*
It is funny but one of the features of Facebook is to search for friends. I couldnt remember if I had any friends when I live in Vancouver. Other than Randy of course.
I must have lived a small life for longer than I suspected.
No wonder I am so happy.
One for my brother, who only wants what we all crave - love and acceptance. The candle is to open his eyes to see he already possesses both aplenty.
One candle for dear Diana - may your health increase.
I suppose I should light another for myself. That my faith multiplies enough to make the candles worth lighting
Usually this means confiding about the antics and exploits of her wonky ex-husband. I always have time to listen as quite frankly if it were me, the man would be either in jail or dead. I have zero tolerance for violence and abuse. -= zero =-
It was rather worse. A lump had been discovered in her breast. A large lump. She was off for a mammogram and some unltrasound. One week later she is scheduled for surgery asap. A mastectomy most likely, a lumpectomy hopefully. And radiation following.
I have some candles lit. I think they will stay lit.
Ahh this is the stuff. Lounging about 'til all hours in the warm late summer evenings.
It is the time of year we know we are the lucky ones living here.
We have the best beaches in Canada right at our doorstep. In our case its a 7 minute walk down the hill to that gorgeous panarama and worth every step. MMMmmmm, paradise.
Apparantly the secret is *out* as every piece of real estate climbs ever higher in price.
Tonight, after the ritual visit to the bulk food store for lentils and grains, my keen senses detected a new real estate " house for sale" sign on the lawns in front of our estates. Another of our 14 is on the block now. And -shudder- it is my neighbour.
When my little haven was built back in the late 70's, it was targeted towards single elderly folk who were still capable of stair climbing. It was low end stuff, with one bathroom and a teeny tiny cubbyhole kitchen. No gratuitous use of granite, no sweeping countertops and high end appliances. There is no garage, attached or otherwise, and the back yards are little squares of hopefulness. We got lucky in the grounds department as a visionary planted low maintenance heathers, rhododendrons and low growing cedars. It looks great and keeps the doggies out whilst providing a home for the grouse and quail populations. They duke it out with the hummingbirds.
The quaintness of our abodes is unique for this area where the main target buyers are seniors wanting one level homes. There are oodles of condominium projects, mostly gated, mostly way up over the $250k mark. Our little corner of heaven has sold for $190k recently. A scandalous amount in these greed-ridden times but without parallel. There is nothing else in our price ranger comparable. --nothing--
The last two units sold to young couples as a first home. Will my new neighbours be like this?
It has been nice these last few years living between two older retired ladies. One is a gardener who keeps convent hours (and lifestyle) and the other a traveller who dragon-boats around the globe with her mates.
Ah change. Inevitable.
After wondering futilely what lived on the floor of my roommates room, at last I can authoritively hold forth.
Within the bounds of a 8 by 10 space, there were 7 pop tins, 5 water bottles, 33 of my sterling teaspoons, two bowls, five plates, and 3 huge hefty garbage bags of scrap paper, clippings and other more sinister things. And how do I know this? I took advantage of an extra day off to make good my threat of cleaning it myself. This undertaking was only possible as said roommate was not home for a few days.
Believe it or not, I did not find it disgusting nor upsetting. I found it very calming and satisfying.
It was just totally time to get that damn beast under control.
And now, as the machines finish the last of multiple piles of laundry, I am relaxed and happier than I have been for a long long time.
And the roommate?
She said a guilty thank-you although I am sure part of her wants to kill me.
Luckily the part that is grateful is bigger.
It is one small step to the walkway which will take me to my car. One step.
I appear to be on my elbows and knees. yeowwwwch. 3o long seconds is what it takes for my breath to return. For a short moment I am concerned that I have broken my wrist but miraculously it has bent precariously and returned to a human position. As the feeling returns to my extremities I realised that I have skinned my knees and arms. Minor scrapes are like paper cuts: they hurt majorly for so minor a thing. The shock is beginning to dissipate and the pain radiates like a warm sun.
Now I pretend to be fine as I hear the door open behind me. My client is worrying that there was water on her step. No no, I tell her its the damned glasses. Can't take me anywhere. I get up to prove I am really all right and thank God I am wearing black pants. The blood does not show. My hand rebels and will not hold my binder. I clutch it to my chest with my arm and make my hasty comic exit.
Next client is a palliative care assignment. She had a bad night and wants her opiated sleep. Hello. Here are your medications. Good bye. Quick. Efficient. Over.
Now I am at the beach. A Crane, a solo Crane, is sitting on the float where swimmers will congregate later. He looks out to Sea. Alone, like me. I watch "The Stroll" where joggers burn calories and dog-walkers exercise their little companions. Almost noone seems to have a larger animal.
Off to my left, a digger starts up. It is a strange sight. It appears to be scooping sand up and pushing it into the water. Why? The Crane flies away, spooked by the sounds. My radio is set to, what else? GodblesstheCBC. Dustin Bentall plays some folksy tune. Is this Barney's son? Or Daves? Or are there more than 2 Bentalls in this world. Bentall, there is a name that sparks memories.
David Bentall was the first person I knew to have a White Spot credit card.
I always pretended not to care about his wealth and vanity but secretly I was very curious.
Until we went to Keats Island camp and I met Barney Bentall.
I remember being young. It was glamourous and exciting and completely wasted on me.
I was always so busy. Running running running.
Now I stand still.
I like standing still.
breaks over... back to work.
It is inconceivable that the me of the 1980s would recognize the life and style of the me of the now. Trading in infamy for anonymity - taking for giving - upward mobility for standing still.
I like standing still! Who knew?
A new name to me to replace a cancellation or two. A wonderful elderly gentleman so very pleased to meet me, a cancer-ridden woman not many years older than I being so very happy to share her story in a barely audible voice. Blessings are raining down on me like sunshine streaming through a country kitchen window.
My best of all worlds is to hear people remunerating life episodes wistfully/sorrowfully/joyfully. To live in this world so sensually alive is not a blessing unless you live one on one all day every day; quite impossible these days unless you work as a paid Companion.
Or in HealthCare. Community to be precise.
Facility is more run run and run some more.
To do what you love and get paid for it is Paradise.
Blesse this house from every wikkede wight,
Fro nyghtes mare werye the with Pater-noster;
Wher wonestow now, seynte Petres soster?”
— (The Mylleres Tale by Chaucer , also Chaucer's The Miller's Tale, annotated version)
This is someone I understand completely.
Go Don go.
read his blog-- as many of his very insightful posts as you can - -
We went to see it on Saturday night with great anticipation.
It was a hoot and a half. Robert de Niro was grande as the fiercesome pirate whoopsie.
Or you can have the reading pleasure and enjoy that as well.
A purist might have quibbles with the film but it was great fun.
Like so many people who look great, I have my secret invisible injury to keep me company day in and day out. Some days it is far away from me, and others right in my face. It is completely impossible to explain to people who have no experience with it, and sadly the very worst to deal with are one's own family.
I had a very bad few days for no apparant reason at all. I do not take time off work for these things but I do have to come home and go to bed in a very dark room alone. The people I work with and the people I work alongside never have any idea that I could have anything less than a perfect life.
Oh this looking good thing. Because of my lifestyle choices, alot of people assume I am independantly wealthy. After all, I display all the trappings of success including a workweek most people would chomp their teeth off to get. I work 30 hours a week at most over four days. At most. My clothes are beautiful and bountiful and my car is shiny and newer, and I have a ridiculous penchant for jewels, but no, I am not wealthy. Not in the material sense at least.
Bad day. bad night. Another bad day, another bad night.
What did my own family say to me?
"Don't you think you will feel alot better if you would just deal with it and get over it?"
Well, yeah that would be great. Could you send that memo to God about reversing brain injuries? I am sure He will get right on it.
So I still take these damn medications, and wonder if they do anything other than make me fatter and sleepier. I look so good. Plus-size good but good, so they tell me.
Does this mean anything at all?
Not to me.
If I won a lottery prize of any substance, I would go off my meds and take a year off somewhere to see what exactly would happen. I know I would not sleep very much, and I know I would not be able to stand having many people near me, and possibly I might have a seizure but ......
It doesnt translate to text this preoccupation of mine.
Like Pinocchico I just want to be real.
I must admit I fretted all day about what on earth that could possibly mean.
"Expect Cultural and Privacy issues"
Well, bugger me sideways with a spoon but the last time anyone said anything like that to me, it was a 50 yr old alcoholic having a welfare wednesday party with a few friends that awaited me.
I was, most definitly on high alert for this one.
Semantics/syntax is everything.
What the phrase should have been was:
"This is a revered Elder. Please show utmost respect."
The client was the equivilant of a Prince, but not that he would have ever told you so.
His Caregiver on the other hand was very mindful of this. I do not blame her at all for wanting the HealthCare team to show deep respect. The gentleman was an utterly amazing force.
He hobnobs all over the world and leads ceremonies and blessings for WorldClass events but he was watching George C. Scott as Patton when I entered.
The home was a treasure trove of articles of cultural importance from all over the world. Given in trade for things depicted in large mounted photographs that adorned the walls. The photographs were of top quality and mounted like paintings. A story in every single room of that home. And yet, there he sat waiting and smiling.
"This is hard for me', he said. " I am not used to this."
Once finished the assignment, I left feeling blissed. It was such a privilege to have been there -
a wonderful blessing he presided over - for me.
After living here five years, perhaps I might stay awhile. It is small here and the storage is minimal. This has necessitated the premature ejaculation of many shinies and books and beloved mathoms. -sigh- I have wheedled down to where I no longer want to say goodbye to anything at all. Not long ago I gave away just under 3 dozen of my lesser clocks. It felt like a limb being amputated.
The new closet is not attached to my room, but the second very small bedroom. It is beautiful. White and pristine and in use by the bedroom dweller. But the storage....
(Good bye storage room) (Hello outside clutter)
It is really difficult to get things in order. I did not work at all on the closet so I cant complain there. All I did was come home and oooh and awwww appropriatly. Not enough, I am sure.
My new plan includes giving away many more things.
My limbs are twinge-ing.
The one I went to today had an address in the binders that differed from the ones on the Weekend sheets. It did not match the one in the computer. Three different addresses for the same client. There was nothing to do but call and get directions. I followed the directions meticulously, and wound up driving around a campsite, trying to avoid kids and bikes and weekend holidayers.
I got smart. I called the client. Seems the directions the OFFICE gave me left out a crucial left turn. -heh
All's well that ends well. As I left I heard the gentleman asking his wife, my client if she liked me.
"Like ice-cream" she said. "But better for me."
I will take that as a compliment.