Forgiveness, love, healing, restoration, a new life, new beginnings, it’s all there for you!
Seize the day!
Well, it’s that time again. Time to hit the open road. I’m excited.
A couple friends (and my dad) are helping me get my stuff transported. Der is on his way to Europe today. Da is waiting impatiently with my cat, dog, 7 goldfish, and, of course, my beautiful duchess peony that still has not bloomed.
Miraculously, I’ve managed to line up a job I can do strictly online, from anywhere in the world. Yeah. Admittedly, it won’t pay a bundle but it’ll keep me from dipping into my savings, and it’s enough to keep me in baubles and finery.
Piccolo called me on Thursday morning. He left a message. He wanted me to do another job for him, an emergency job. He had a May 10 deadline. Everyone would work 24/7. The sum he was willing to pay was frankly a year’s wages.
My Gran said I could stay with her for those few weeks. My friends said they would store all my boxes. Everyone was willing to help me stay. But I called him back Friday and said no.
The life I had lived here was over, dead and gone. I couldn’t live it again. I didn’t want to, no matter the price. I told Pic I was packed already. I had another job. And I was sorry, but . . . . I was surprised how easy it was to close that door and how happy I felt doing it — ecstatic actually.
Now I’ve decided to close another.
I’d like to say I’ll keep in touch, but I don’t know that I will.
I’ve been blogging for almost two years now, basically as a publishing courtesy. However, since I don’t publish anymore and I never really wanted a blog . . . it’s probably best to leave off now on whatever kind of note this is. Number 140, I think.
I’ll probably still comment on some of my favorite blogs. Just because I’m giving up writing one doesn’t mean I’ll give up reading others! Hardcovers and Heroines, Liquorstore Bear, Talain’s photography blog, and The Bunny Adventures are some of my favs.
I believe all will go well for me “where pines and maples grow.” Platonia said last night my 6-card tarot reading* was entirely favorable to starting to a new life, so that’s what I plan to do. At least that’s the plan. You never know what will happen. I might just . . . SQUIRREL!
The other day as we were packing up my home, my friend, Naphthaly, was on the phone telling another friend:
“Well, he’s right. Never say you’re sorry if you’re not wrong. You have to stand up for yourself.”
I didn’t say anything, but it did explain Naph’s multiple marriages (3 or 4, I can’t honestly remember).
Of course, I knew at least a couple of her marriages had been bad, to really bad people, and I do believe that one ought stand up for one’s self. But in a good marriage or a loving relationship of any kind, it’s OK to say you’re sorry — even if you don’t believe in your heart you are wrong.
Why? Because no one has 100% knowledge about anything. Everyone make mistakes, although sometimes we don’t realize it until it’s too late.
I don’t advocate peace at any cost. Heaven knows! But there should always be wiggle room in a relationship. There should always be some cushioning built in. There should always be compartmentalization so one failure doesn’t turn into relationship destruction.
In other words, relationships should be held together with bubble wrap, because the duct tape method is too intensely painful.
Last night, at about 8 pm, when it was full night, my doorbell rang. Red had a complete meltdown. I looked out into the darkness and there were three young African-American boys, no more than 13, standing well back from the door and my dog.
I put the howling Red away and came back to the door. They hung back, about 5 feet from the door, at the edge of the porch light, as if they didn’t really want to be identified (or attacked by my dog).
They were well dressed. They seemed well cared for by their parents.
I asked what they wanted.
They said they were in the neighborhood collecting for “underprivileged Black youths in the community.”
They were well spoken and polite, but it was all I could do not to laugh out right. It was obvious these three were trying to scam money. Any youth in this area isn’t underprivileged. Too, it’s so white here they were probably the only African-American youth for miles. But I was amused. I liked them. And I wanted to see how far their story would go. So, I asked what was the group that had sent them out collecting.
They said, “The black adult community.”
I asked if they had a permit, which is required for collecting in the city.
They said no.
I asked if they a copy of the 301(c) of their charity.
They said no.
Politely, I recommended they go back to their pastor or charity leader and maybe get these things. Then, I wished them well and sent them on their way.
I watched them go the neighbors on the corner, one on a tiny fixed-gear bikes (indicating they lived in the area). After some discussion, they went around the corner.
About 10 seconds later, a cop car pulled up and went around the same corner after them.
I wasn’t surprised. Someone less charitable than I probably thought they were casing homes. I assume the boys were picked up for panhandling, or, if they did collect any money, fraud.
I hope they were sternly warned and released to their parents. Though I must confess, I felt bad for their parents. I’m sure they had worked hard to bring their boys to a safe affluent community with strong schools. And now their kids had just thrown it all back in their faces in a bid to get some easy cash.
At the same time, I did wonder if their parents weren’t contributing factors. That is to say, why did these children already hold such negative images of the abilities and opportunities of today’s young African-Americans that they thought it entirely reasonable to knock on strangers doors at night collecting for this group?
Someone put the idea into their heads that in America being of a certain race (to which they belonged) was reason enough for charity. I don’t mean to be skeptical, but are US African-American youth really as in need of charity as say, homeless victims of a tsunami, or people who have been set on fire during religious persecution, or an actual orphaned African child with AIDs?
Anyway, I’m not sure why I’m writing about this. I guess as a cautionary tale. But what the caution is, you’ll have to decide for yourself.
Bad Me has decided the caution is never have children. They’re more of a crap shoot than a solid investment.
I had that dream again. I have it frequently, even when I’m not seeing anyone.
I’m standing at the altar, sometimes with someone I know, sometimes with a stranger, and then it happens, the “Do you . . . ?’ moment.
And I say, “Sorry, no. “
No groom ever takes it as an insult or a devastating event in the dream. In fact, everyone always seem genuinely happy for me, that I said no.
It’s very strange.
Last night I dumped the male partner of a female friend. They’re in a committed relationship and even have a baby together. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t care for him.
So why him? I’ve no idea.
After I dumped Ike, the wedding singer began crooning Fly Me to the Moon. And the next thing I knew, I was drifting through space admiring the stars.
I suppose that’s the truth of it, I’m just too much head in the heavens to leave my heart on the ground.
This may not be true for others, but moving house always gets me thinking about my personal history. Most of the time, in wrapping up an object, I’ll flash on a memory. They run the gamut, good, bad, happy, sad, ugly, beautiful, romantic, tragic, funny, weird . . . .
The other day I picked up a framed picture of the ocean. I was back in that moment, years ago, when I was sitting on the beach in maui with my family. We had an couple hours between plane changes. So we went to the beach. It was just after sunset. In the warm pink air, with the soft lapping ocean, I thought that moment was perfect. I still do.
Then I looked at the frame. I like to repurpose antique frames, mostly from the 1880s and 1890s. I love a heavily ornamented gilded frame. I like to use them for my favorite memories. When people walk through my place, they can tell right away what’s important, just by the frames.
On the other hand, most people just find my frames insanely inappropriate for the pictures in them. I don’t mind. And that thought, of inappropriate pictures, brought me to a memory from my childhood.
My Catholic grandmother had a friend who’s son was a pastor in one of those large, typically American, happy-clappy churches. She went there sometimes for the fellowship.
Anyway, this friend’s husband died. Even though friend and her husband were technically Lutheran, the memorial service was held at their son’s church. I can’t remember why, probably my gran was minding me and my grandfather couldn’t go with so I was the deputized proxy, but I went with her the day my gran went to the memorial.
The actual burial was held the day before. Thank heaven. So the was just a table with book and picture at the front of the sanctuary. There was a big turn out, over 500 people. It was a very nice memorial, music, video montage, memories, laughter, prayer. Eventually though, it ended.
People start heading for the refreshments (they had great pie) in large herds. After a few minutes, things cleared out significantly and my gran and I finally got a chance to walk down to the front, to the table where the condolences book and the photo of the pastor’s father resided.
My grandmother signed her name, and mine. But me? I couldn’t stop staring at the photo. The father lived a long life. I’m sure there were plenty of photos the family could have used. Why this one?
Later I overheard someone say the photo was selected because the father had been proud of military service. Still, even though I can understand that, I wouldn’t want my friends, family, and parishoners’ lasting memory of my father to be of him young and smiling — in a Luftwaffe uniform.
Like I said, weird memories.
My job with Piccolo unexpectedly ended on Friday, well, not totally unexpectedly.
Pic hates analytical work, so he thought would take another six weeks. I like it, so I never thought would.
I’ve been tying up loose ends, sleeping, and packing this weekend. I should be with Der by Palm Sunday, if not before. Although he’ll be off in Belgium, which is probably good. It gives the animals a chance to settle in and get familiar with his scent.
My grandmother is a bit upset she’s losing her personal attendant, but realistically, it’s probably good for her. She needs to make better choices with her health and having me around to call on doesn’t help.
She chose to stop driving and ended up losing her license, because I was around to drive her. I warned her, but she didn’t listen. Too, she’s getting a bit forgetful, because she doesn’t eat right or exercise appropriately. She could, she simply chooses not to.
I feel a bit guilty leaving, but my parents say I shouldn’t, that I’m not responsible for her bad choices and she might make better ones when I leave. Or maybe not. But either way, it’s not my responsibility.
I have to say the whole experience here has made me feel more responsible for me. I have begun to make better choices and be more aggressively independent because I can see where bad choices and giving up even a bit of independence leads.
That probably all sounds strange when I about to go walkabout and exist on the kindness strangers, but I see it more as me, on my own, finding out more about me and what I want out of life.
And now I have to go feed my goldfish, because I am responsible for them!