Winter Hush

Winter has found her way back to the Northland--and I, for one, am happy.  Something inside me rebels when Spring comes so early.   I admit to enjoying the 50 degree temps while we had them, but inside I wanted just a little more Winter, because I'm just not ready.

Spring brings the frenzy of new beginnings, awakenings to new birth, the riot of colors as plants and trees blossom and retake the fields and branches.  But part of me, at least right now, longs for the bare charcoal branches against and washed-slate sky.  I want to feel the cool of the earth beneath my feet and the icy wind stinging my face and burning my fingertips.  I'm not ready for all that energy, I'm not ready yet to be reborn this year.

Summer is fine I suppose, but it is bright and explosive and transient. Get the good weather before it is gone! we say.  Enjoy it while it lasts!  But Winter is the constant in these parts. I wonder if I could ever stand to live somewhere that didn't have Winter--real Winter.   Sometimes boisterous, but mostly slow, steady and frankly beautiful.

Tonight after a bit of snow, I shoveled off the front steps in the dark.  It was a wonderful night, dark and quiet.  All sound was muffled, light glowed through the haze of fine snow, and even the moon seemed to shine from behind a white veil.  I sat for a while on the steps and enjoyed the silence and icy beauty.  Thank you Winter, for your lovely embrace, your slow steady hand and the space to balm my heart and soul.

Thoughts on Lent, as it Looms

I am Catholic, have always been. Your family might be Italian, Polish,German--mine is Catholic. Very Catholic. I'm not that level of Catholic any longer, though I do still consider myself Catholic.   If you had asked Pope Benedict or my mother, I am not a very good Catholic. If you ask me and (I like to think and hope) God, I’m doing okay.

So Lent. I get asked every year why I give up things, and why I am punishing myself, etc. But that isn't the point of Lent, at least not in my world. Lent is about feeling--keenly, your humanity, your physicality, your vulnerability. Yes, I do "give up" something each year, but I don't do this to suffer for my faith, quite the contrary.

Will there be a sense of denial, undoubtedly. But...that isn't always a bad thing. Denial doesn't have to be a hairshirt, self-flaggelation exercise in martyrdom. By denying myself these things I desire and crave, I'm reminding myself quite vividly that they are things. They are not what is important. They are objects of desire, which frankly kind of hold me back sometimes.

I think that we are given these amazing bodies, and this amazing place we call the universe in trust. We are to do the best we can, take the best care we can of them, then when our time comes, we give them back. Taking care of myself--although it will mean denying myself some things I love very much is a small way of saying thank you. Thank you for giving me this body, and the tools and abilities to keep it healthy and safe. Thank you for giving me this amazing world to live in, and all these creatures, and the responsibility of stewardship.

It is also about getting to a closer relationship with What Is--call it God or Jehovah, or Allah, or just plain Love, or Frank if you like--subjugating my desires to focus on the plan for me, the path I'm to take can show me things I never would have known, wrapped up cozily in my blanket of luxuries.

I don't believe in a God who would give us such lovely wonderful bodies, capable of pleasure, giving, love and caring and then tell us we are forbidden from doing so. I do believe in a God that loves us all simply because we are. And that is something I learn a little bit every day--it is enough just to be me, and try to be the best me I can.  I also must love others, ALL others simply because they are too.  It is enough for them to just be, too.

I don't believe in a God that guides our every movement, and smites us when we step out of their complicated and not-so-clear lines. I so believe in a God that ever-so-gently coughs behind their hand *ahem* at appropriate moments to give us a nudge. That gentle whisper in our ear that guides us toward the right thing, that lets us know we are here and loved and doing okay.

And that my friends, is my prayer for you and yours this Lent, that you can always know that wee tiny whisper--you are here, you are loved, and you are doing okay.

Hope Horizon

A believe-it-or-no unretouched image of the gorgeous sunset.  Reminds me that hope and light are always on the horizon and always beautiful.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the speed of life these days—my own life specifically, and all of our modern lives in general.  Everything is immediate, change is lightning-fast and I wonder how much of the world and our own lives we actually see in its detail.  Anyway.  All this got me thinking about a piece I wrote about “Field of Corn” an art installation in Dublin, OH.  It is one of my very favorite pieces of public art, and long ago I wrote about it for a long deceased web publication. 

Sam Frantz was an agricultural engineer who invented the first hybrid corn. This art installation is on the site of his former farm on...Frantz Road, of course. An interesting way to honor both his memory, and Dublin's (recent) history as an farming community.

I've looked around the internet for a little more information about this, and have discovered that there are apparently quite a few people who Hate The Corn. They truly hate it. A just a few samples of the corn hate (unattributed, of course)

"that atrocity is only a coupla miles from my house i specifically don't go that way as often as i can just to avoid it."

"I'm embarassed to say I live very near this monstrosity. It's like a big crop of man parts attacking!!! Quite scary up close!"

"The corn is a huge embarassment and a complete pisser of wasted tax dolllars."

Now. Please. As the photo attests, we've been rather close up to the corn, and I wasn't scared. And honey, if you are mistaking corn for a field of giant "man parts" I don't want to know about your dating life. In fact, if you refer to them as "man parts" I think you might need to take remedial Sex Ed. But... if the good folks of Dublin are running around thinking that this is a giant field of penii, that explains why they are so "embarassed." And while we're talking about wastes of the taxpayer's money...I could think of a quite few that cost considerably more than the Giant Corn. But we won't get started on that. (note: the Corn was not funded by tax revenue per se, partially from a grant from the city--taken from the hotel bed tax revenue--and partially from private sources. There was no Corn Tax, in case you were wondering)

Far from being scared by my close-up view of the corn, I was intrigued. Each ear is, like real corn, subtly different, but taken in the wide view seem identical. It takes enlarging something as simple and common as corn for us to see it as something more than a collective noun: corn. Perhaps that is the point here. What else are we missing, in our blurry sped-up world of driving past and skimming over? What else are we reducing to a collective noun--lives, joys, people?

To quote William Blake:

"To see a world in a grain of sand and a heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour." (from Auguries of Innocence)

Sadly, for those who are Corn Haters, not even 109, eight foot tall ears of corn can show them the infinities in their hands.

Memory, or Why Bee Is This Way Sometimes

I have thought about writing this for a long time.  Thought about just telling people about this for an even longer time--and now I feel like I almost have to do it.  So here goes.

*deep breath*

Hi, I'm Bee (or Amy if you know me from work for from my youth) and I have trauma-based memory issues.

So--hi again.  (That is a joke, see?)

In my mid-twenties I sustained a rather serious head trauma which neither my doctors nor I realized was terribly serious right at the time.  We were pretty wrong about that, as it turns out.

I have some kind of serious memory problems, as you may have noticed, or maybe not.

There are two basic ways I have issues with memory--one is likely more apparent to most people, my inability to process linear time, and the second my random (though not consistent and not constant) short term memory processing issues.

The time sense issue is pretty straight forward--I just have no concept of the passage of time.  If you ask me how long ago something happened, I honestly have zero idea.  Could have been last week, could have been 8 years ago it is the same to me.  How long was I married?  5 years?  13?  I truthfully do not know.  And no immediate sense of the passage of time.  How long have I been in line at Target?  3 minutes? an hour?  I cannot tell the difference.   Now--lest you think I am a complete flake--I have pretty well developed ways of keeping track of these kinds of things externally so I can say, fill out a resume or an application for somewhere to live.  In those cases I have my (rather large) database of such things.  It is basically the catalogue of my life--jobs, homes, relationships, friendships, car maintenance--anything which could possibly have a date attached to it is listed.  If it weren't I would have absolutely no idea where to begin.  The only things I can remember with a fair deal of precision are things which occurred before the head injury--so prior to 1994.

I know this sounds weird, and I can imagine it is kind of hard to understand what it feels like.  The best way I can explain it is this.  You know that feeling when you hear a song and you just can't quite remember who sings it?  You KNOW you have this information, you KNOW you have heard the name but it is tantalizingly out of reach.  The harder you think, the blanker your mind gets about that issue.  That is me basically any time something involving a date or time is involved.  How old are my nephews?  When did my mother die?  How long have I lived in this house?  When is anyone's birthday?  No clue.  None whatsoever.  

This particular issue is the reason I am writing this now.  This year will be my 30-year high school reunion.  At this event there will be people I haven't seen in--wait, I know this one!--30 years.  They will of course be asking the kinds of questions one asks long-lost acquaintances.  And I won't have the answers.  I hate this, more than the other annoying parts about the memory issues, I hate that feeling.  The feeling that I am a poor historian of my own life.  And I unfortunately know this to be true as well--it seems like I'm a horrible (and bad) liar.  If you ask me twice in rapid succession a time-related question, you'll probably get two different answers.  And both times I'll be making my very best guess.  

There are so many people in my life--important people to me--that don't know about this, I've never told them.   Why?  Well--it is embarrassing, and people look at you very differently.  Also, they talk louder, which I find weird.  I can hear you just fine...just don't ask me what you said right away after if I'm stressed.

Which leads to the other annoying thing--the random short term memory processing issues. These aren't constant nor consistent.  They are worse when I'm stressed out or overly excitable.   I have trouble with basic spatial memory most of the time.  I have to leave my keys, phone, glasses in the EXACT same place every single time or they are lost to me forever.  Truly, if I go to look for my keys and they aren't in the right place, for all I know I chucked them in the sewer.  I have no idea.  If we have a conversation (particularly an intense or emotional one) and you ask me about it 2 hours later, my memory of it will be vague at best.  Give me 24 hours and it will be better.

This is why I'm good at lists--and given my job I have to be.  A huge part of my job relies heavily on short-term memory--and when I am stressed, mine goes out the window.  Again, I have a very well-developed series of coping mechanisms that you probably never noticed.   All those selfies I take?  Sometimes they aren't just because I'm so cute, sometimes they are to help me remember what day I was at which event and who was there.   If you scrolled through my phone you'd see lots and lots of photos of my car.  Now--I love Ruby, she has been a great car to me, but those aren't because I love her so.  They are there to help me remember where I parked.  If it isn't at my house or assigned parking at work, I can't remember where on earth I left her.  Believe me, if you are riding with me I am COUNTING on you to remember because I know that I absolutely will not.  Ditto my horrible sense of direction.  If I haven't gone somewhere enough times for it to become basic muscle memory, there is a good chance I can't remember how to get there.  It is why I SUCKED at tanking in WoW, and sometimes sucked at healing.  Sure I may have run this instance 50 times, but in some sense it is Groundhog Day for me, every time.

So hey, classmates.  If you are reading this know that I might seem a little weird (okay, weirder than you even remember, which is saying something I know), and a little sketchy about details in my life, but I am genuinely glad to see you and excited to learn about what has been going on in your life.

Everyone else, I hope this explains maybe a few of my oddities--I mean, it doesn't explain my hatred of Nickelback, but does that need explaining?    And I hope that it might start some conversations about memory issues and how they can affect us all--even we younger-ish-kinda and normal-ish seeming folks.  We are all aging, and some of our parents are having memory issues--but talking about them is the right thing to do.  Believe me.

Peace to you,  Bee.

A Visit to Some Old Friends, The Hardings

I needed a bit of a break from things today, some time to clear out the cobwebs in my head and heart.  I'm on a short hiatus from running as my Very Bad Ankle has been hurting and I don't want to suffer an injury at this point of my training.

Running has been my mind-clearing go-to for a while now, but as that was unavailable I reverted to an old favorite--the drive.  The same higher functions that are engaged when running are engaged while driving and the rest of my mind is able to roam free and work through things.  Also, I get to sing at the top of my lungs in the car.  Believe me, the tops of my lungs are quite healthy and you don't want to be terribly close when I get belting.

Off I headed to Marion, OH on this glorious afternoon.  It finally wasn't oppressively hot, it was sprinkling off and on, somewhat overcast and simply a scrumptious day.   I've been fascinated by the Hardings for years.  I grew up a half-hour away from Marion, and for years worked and went to school in Marion, so it is as much as part of my history as anywhere else.  And the Hardings are a big part of Marion.  As we stand close to electing someone like Harding in many ways I thought it fitting to visit.

Most often remembered for the scandals that plagued what became the end of his presidency (Teapot Dome, and his numerous affairs being most notable), the Harding that fascinates me most is Florence.  She was a divorcee, a few years older that Warren.  She married him against her father's wishes (he thought Warren was social-climbing, which was absolutely true) in the house in which they co-habitated.  She was a shrewd businesswoman, a gifted promoter and hostess and was honestly the force behind her husband's business and political success.  With the megaphone given her as first lady, she championed the single working woman, and advocated higher education for all women.  Also, I firmly believe she was involved in the murder of her husband and its coverup, and that she was murdered as well.   But those insane ramblings are for another day, eh?

I leave you with some great pictures--the monument itself is beautiful and, as such things tend to be, a bit lonely and sad.  Warren Harding was beloved by the populace during his presidency, but in the end here he lies in a quiet empty monument rarely visited save for school children.  He is forever known for his excesses and mistakes than the good he did as president.  I left thinking about what was notable in my life, and how I can work to make the notable better.

The Streets of My Town

The streets of my town are not paved with gold,
they are not built of money to spare
but lined with love and hope.
And that is more valuable than cash underfoot.