Tag Archives: awareness

Hebrew Community Bonds

Fragmented communities, one of the hardest obstacles in today’s Hebrew life, become a very sobering circumstance when there are dangers to parts of the community based on their geographical location.

It’s difficult navigation on a day to day basis.  But an impending natural disaster situation for a small portion of the community makes you stand up and take note of your real community bond.

We don’t see each other, except on Holy days when the budgets and the timing works out.  Technology allows us to assemble otherwise, to keep in touch and to keep a finger on the pulse of our connections, our commitment to Torah.

Irma threatened my family.  Firstly, my Torah family, but also my extended family – and my friend’s family.  I could do no more than sit from very safe sidelines and worry as I watched the mesmerizing giant wheel storm approach.  As I kept myself busy with my housekeeping tasks, I kept the radar going, with a commentary running on the speakers – touch-points, an audio and visual perspective to those spaces that contained a portion of my important peoples.

All have reported in safe, and I’ve yet to hear all of the damage reports – but it seems to be minimal.

But I’m changed a bit.

My disconnect, my aloofness, my resolve to be independent of My Almighty and never make requests has been shattered.

I cried, and I asked for Mercy for my connections, my Community.  My priorities became more clear than ever.

That, I need to remember.  My bonds.

 

 

 

Finding Harmony

How often in life do you find someone who hits all the notes?

Seriously.  I’m not talking about ringing your orgasmic bell in multiple positions, I’m talking about what makes up your whole being, the tune, the tremor, the composition, the key.  A human being whose orchestration is identical to your own.

There seems to be a lengthy pause.  A recollecting of the individual nuances and rhythms, the high notes and low notes.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Not one person is an absolutely perfect match.

There is going to be, somewhere, at some point in the melody, a disharmony.  A chord that doesn’t blend, a flat where there should be a sharp, an overlap of keys.

It’s no wonder that the cultural expectation of true love, the fairy-tale fed expectation of happily-ever-after, is an elusive composition most often ending in a separation.

As a finely tuned human, you are going to have your own melodies, your own rhythms.

You likely know that a Bach type will likely not mesh well with a Joan Jett type.  Similarly, the Celtic Bagpipes camp is going to be at odds with the Lil Wayne camp.

agony

Accordingly, you make your choice for companions, be it in friendship or partnering, by matching your ‘music’ as best you can.  Perhaps even finding someone who fits a two or three-part harmony on occasion.

Then, because life is simply not simple, there will be an unexpected change in tempo at some point, for you or the other party/parties, which changes the balance so much that the chords compete drastically with each other.

How do you handle that? 

It’s certainly not the same for every person, but I can tell you how My Love and I handled such a change:  by communicating.  Sure, that involved a few loud discussions.  It certainly involved a few tears.  I hate to admit this, but on one occasion, there were also flying objects.

heart felt trio

 

All of those communications created their own composition.  One separate from the rest, but one that told a story of us.  A story of understanding both sides of the tune, recognizing that the changed tempo actually got our attention and knocked the figurative stuck needle off the track and allowed us each to find new songs for ourselves.

Thankfully, it turns out those songs were in harmony.

Reflections

publish beauty

We celebrated this little beauty’s first year recently.  An astonishing fact, considering how quickly this time has lapsed.

It’s been a blurry year.  One of those mind-numbing, day-in and day-out, so many similarities that they all blend together sort of years.  The drudgery, the sameness, mostly blending so completely that before you know, the moments for opportunity are past – passed, slipped on by to become lost time; sometimes regret, sometimes survival.  Mostly, just a blur.

Emergency ailments, celebrations, discord and distress, good health, economic woes, family time, work, great friends – all combined to create another assemblage of time.  Moments and milestones, smiles and scares.

I’ve worked way too much, and the job project has hit the manic phase – a major program changeover that will wrap in ten weeks, with the primary module going live in three.  I’m worn near the frack out.  I was not cut out for 80 hour work weeks.  They’re an attack to the peace of the home front, and emotional health in general.  But the light at the end of the tunnel is now much less dim.

Time to start preparing for the next stage.

Hubby and I are scheduled to host our youngest grandbabe this next spring, spending a full week with her sweetness.  In the interim, we think we need to arrange more visits to get to know her better – so we won’t be such strangers when she makes her special visit to our home.

Shortly after that visit, we hope to attain some serious financial freedom – an opportunity to make remodeling plans for this ol’ home of ours.  Providing that there are no surprises between now and then, the first on my list will be a new main floor bathroom.  Dreams sometimes become reality, right?

Then fall plans include a meet-up with a dear friend, one of my Torah community members, to celebrate a Holy day and travel time visiting places and spaces where I’ve never been.

In the meantime, life is moving along at the full-steam sameness.  Yet, as much as that feels like reality, it’s really not is it?

The world is changing every moment, little bits and pieces bouncing around, pinging off each other, creating actions and reactions that not a single one of us can accurately predict.

We live, we die.

In the in-between, lies reality.

Buckets Are Too Limiting

Dust in the wind, worm food – either way, my personal take on death is that I will know no more.  It will be the end of me, the last breath, the circle of life.  Last call…

It’s a heavy thought – to think that nothing follows, that there is just an end – but it suits me, suits my practical nature.

One of my sons once posted a thought, which I’ll paraphrase:  if a person is only good because they’re focused on divine reward, then that person is a piece of shit.  I don’t know if these were his own words, and I don’t know that he won a lot of praise or ‘likes’ for that.  But if you stop and think about it, it makes sense.

If only rules, or rules hedged about with some eternal reward system are keeping you from bouncing out of control and into a psychotic rage, or killing frenzy, then you’re simply a caged rabid animal.  Where is the realness, the human connection, the compassion?

If those pieces are missing, then you really are a piece of shit.  Like it or not, calloused though it may be, it’s the simple truth.

There are moments when I think people see me in similar light.  Cold.  Unreachable.  Distant.  Tightly strung.

The truth is that I feel so deeply, watch ever so intently and capture essences and nuances of meaning and feeling that often escape others.  It’s painful, it’s draining, and it makes me put on the tough skin of protection to keep it from shredding me into millions of little pieces.  Dust.  Pieces of dust that would so easily blow away, carried off to unknown places and spaces, away from me.

Another son stated when announcing a pregnancy that he and his wife were ‘growing a human’.

How aptly said.

A combination of their parts, their pieces, that attach little parts and pieces of the generations preceding them – a tiny piece of me – grew inside the womb.  Destined to be an infant, this little nugget emerged last November, a wonderful wriggling, wrinkled version of itself, a new growth on the family tree.

There are few people who fit ever so perfectly into my comfort zone.  My introverted self, my regulated and logical nature requires that I have plenty of space to call my own, and plenty of time to fill that space.  My sons and their spouses are included in those few (hubby’s a given, a keeper, the magnet holding me in my space) and it’s always such an easy-going and comfortable time when they come to visit.

But during a recent visit, there was this edge to me, this pressure behind my eyes, this feeling of tears that could burst forth at any given moment – a strange thing when I was so relaxed and so enjoying the company.

It took words penned by my dear friend for me to realize that it was pure joy ebbing and bubbling beneath my surface.  I was so powerfully moved by this new event, this new growth that it didn’t have a proper slot to fit into my logic, nothing prior to name this, to capture and label this emotion.

pail and leaves

My bucket flows over.

My list is now such a pittance, such a distraction from the wonder of seeing what comes next, what this fabulous little seed of a human brought with her emergence…

Bucket lists are too limiting.  What I want to see before I die, I cannot even begin to fathom.

But the end has suddenly changed course, because not only will parts of me continue through my son after I die, now there will be parts of me to last another generation.  That, my friends, that’s what’s real.

Chag Sameach Pesach

Happy Festival of Passover.

On the fourteenth day, at dusk, we eat the lamb with unleavened bread and bitter greens, with feet shod and loins girded.  And any lamb left over from the whole roasted lamb, is not to remain until the morning, it is to be burnt entirely in the fire.

That’s what I recall from the reading.

And that’s why I don’t keep the feast, just the remembrance.  I don’t have the means to roast a whole lamb, and I don’t have a physical community with which to share the extra meat.

I have purchased unleavened crackers.  And I will rid the property of items that contain leaven tomorrow, as the First Day of Unleavened Bread, Hag HaMatzot, begins at sundown and will last for seven days.  I will also bake unleavened bread tomorrow, using a favorite recipe.

Just like any other restriction, just before the deadline, you’ll find me cramming in samples of the restricted item, slice by slice, piece by piece, bit by bit.  I’ve enjoyed buns and pound cake and toast and cookies and crackers this week.

Over-enjoyed, really.

It will be good for me to refrain for seven days.  Likely a shock to my system, considering the past month of over indulging on bread and baked stuffs.  I’m ready though.

I’m somber already, as the Holy Days always strike me as such sorrowful times.  I simply don’t consider them to be the celebrations they were meant to be, when I’m living in exile.

But I’m extremely thankful to be able to observe the Holy Days.

Todah YHWH!

Is It Real…

Or is it Menopause?

It was a relief to discover that my red-eyed appearance was not an emotional symptom, but rather simply a case of dry eyes that I ignored to the point where my tissues were constantly inflamed.  Menopause symptom, likely, and easily addressed by adding Omega 3 and using re-wetting or artificial tear drops as needed.  As needed being more often than I remember to administer – but I’ll get there.  Thankfully, my constant red eyelids are now just an unpleasant memory.

Granted, I’ve been more likely to reach a silent overwhelm of emotion these days, particularly when I’m in the presence of my children.  It makes no sense to me, as these are some of the people with whom I draw the most comfort.

watered false nettle

I am rendered nearly speechless, unable to converse comfortably, or sensibly.  Some of it is attributed to tinnitus – there are only so many tones that I can focus on without losing part of what’s being heard.   Partly, it’s that I don’t want to miss a thing, so I nearly miss everything as I try to focus on every conversation at once.  Not as easy a fix – but I’ll be working to find my perfect hearing range so that I can focus to give full-on attention to the conversant in that range.

The part that I can’t change is that I’m full to the brim with love for these people, and am faced with a change in status, for which I have no practice.

watered dawn 2

Change is a constant in life, and I’ve done a damn fine job of handling change in the past (meaning that I didn’t go on a rampage, and I didn’t have a total meltdown).  Change during my earlier years was like drinking water.  I gulped it down and on to the next task I went.

About five years ago I noticed a shift, a grating of tectonic plates sort of shift.  Suddenly, I found myself irritable with too much change or too many compounded changes.  Sure, I could still function well, I could still move on to the next task, but my comfort zone had been impacted, and it unsettled me, irritated me.

Still in the irritable stage, change has been fairly constant, the compounded sort, but I’m functional.

watered daylight

A change in position not aptly prepared for – that sort of change is like a chasm that has opened up beneath me.  I’m not prepared for it, but accept that I must either embrace and learn to roll with it, or tumble along grasping recklessly at strongholds along the way.

Mother-in-law, Step-mother-in-law, Grandma, Step-Grandma – these titles, these changes to my position, have caught me off-guard in comparison with my own head-in-the-clouds, prior-concocted expectations.

Let me broadcast with great joy:  I have the absolute best of the pick when it comes to family.  Our sons were extremely easy to raise, and they chose very well when they chose their mates.  I have daughters-in-law whom I love dearly, and they are the perfect complement to our family.  Our grandchildren are a pure delight, and their parents are doing a great job raising these youngsters.

sunflower detail

My job should be easy, but I’m a perfectionist in the most annoying ways – obsessive about where my everyday use items are situated, persnickety about what I ingest, and particularly overly particular in creating my own expectations.

I want to match expectations that I set long ago.  I want to take bits and pieces from others I’ve observed in these positions and meld them into some fantasy figure, based on very little reality.  Who could possibly have factored in where I or my family would be in our lives when this particular stage of life arrived?

So I emote silly things based on my silly notions, and get myself all tizzy-frazzled for things that no one else can control.

Compound that with the fact that my mother-in-law died during my second year of marriage, creating a void where I could have learned a great deal.  My mentor is absent, that’s my excuse…

hewn

So I’m forging ahead in uncharted territory, with great hope that I won’t injure any relationships, step on anyone’s feelings, or cause any great distress; yet keep in mind my own emotional health and well-being.

Oh, and did I mention I’m menopausal?  😉

Understanding Snowbirds

Each year, another notch of unrest strikes at my aging body.

During the early years of marriage, our primary difference was where our ‘dream’ home was located.  He said humid Texas and I said rocky Colorado.  He loved the moist heat and I loved the dry cold.

As an easy compromise, we remained in Kansas.  Hot humid summers and cold-ass winters.  Neither of us really thrilled about the locale, but staying put is ever so easily accomplished.

Aging, it seems, makes me reconsider – perhaps there’s merit in warmer climates.

As the joints in my fingers squeal little prophetic tunes of ‘if you think this is bad, just you wait’, and my cold ankles send icicles up my spine, I recognize that there will need to be some more compromises made – and quickly!

I’ve discovered that once my ankles become chilled, there is no other body part that I can warm to adjust my core temperature back to comfort.  I simply have to find a method to keep my ankles warm, always.  Similarly, the back of my neck is now a temperature modifying zone.

Where are those leg-warmers of the 80s?  Why didn’t I subscribe to that fashion phase and store a box of them as mementos?

Thankfully, scarves have been quite the recent fashion craze – and as usual, I’ll finally be interested in them once they’re going out of style.  Count on me to be completely off the tracks of fashion sense.  🙂

Seriously though, I’ve recently discovered that quality “short”boots – not the ankle boots, mind you – provide just the sort of heat entrapment necessary for these thermostat ankles, so I’ve stalled the caravan South for a bit.

But I do understand those SnowBirds now.  Does that mean I’m still learning?