Thursday, November 8, 2012

Lost to time. Feels like February. Last week my son only had school on Friday thanks to Sandy's power outages. Our power went out five times, but fortunately came back on minutes later. That week felt like holiday break without the holiday. Not festive, more bleak than break. Grey and cold. I can't imagine what it was like for those without power, and for those hit hard along the shore. I still can't find images of Ocean City, New Jersey, I search though am afraid of what I'll find.

My husband's brother died last week. I really didn't know him. He suffered from schizophrenia. He was plagued by memories of horrible things- that never actually happened. Do to the severity of his illness in a way my husband lost him years ago. My husband talks of the boy he knew, of the times they shared. I sense the depth of my husband's pain. And he is grieving most, for a life that didn't get to truly be. For all that could have been, should have been, but wasn't, and now for certain, never can be. I am not sure, what, if anything, comes after this form of being, but I pray. And I pray that he is somewhere, restored and well. And that some of the wonderful that he missed out on here will be part of his future.

It is November. I have to keep telling myself, not January or February. Look the fields are still green and gold. If any trees yet hold their leaves they are russet. I am trying to do National Novel Writing Month, but struggling with it. Which becomes more surprising when you consider- that I am cheating- so far I'm only typing up stuff I have already written. So I should be much much farther. I wrote some new stuff for JAD 2 this week,which is good, maybe next NaNo I can type that stuff up. And this weekend I'm bound not to make up for lost time. It is supposed to be nice out, and I have tulips waiting to be planted. The cold weather ushered me indoors before I finished. There are holes left in the dirt, waiting.

I have had a good week and a half- no real physical problems. That said, I am a tiny bit afraid to plant my tulips. Last time I did yard work, about two weeks ago- I got fiercely dizzy. I was fine digging holes and transplanting- but standing still, and walking were awful. I staggered about the yard, walking on an invisible seesaw. Standing still felt like falling backward, and sitting down like falling through the ground. Eh so I am not so keen on repeating that experience. But if I have learned anything this past year, it is that if I expect problems, I'll be just fine so I'll feel like a neurotic headcase for having been concerned. It is only when I don't expect any trouble that I could be in for it. So I'll expect the worst, assuming that will bring me the best, and hope the universe doesn't call me out on this strategy.

It will hit me hard if I can't muck about the yard properly anymore. Because if I can't do it, it wont happen. My husband doesn't understand the importance of flowers. How I dream of them in winter. I love the magic in it, the dark cold days, the heavy white blankets of snow that recede revealing a barren landscape, that bursts forth into blooms. Rows of happy petaled faces, smiling in the sunshine, waving in the wind. What they mean to me, visually, emotionally, it is like planting joy. (oh yeah I went there, full on corny. And I'm not stepping back.) He will never plant them, feeling that if I can't do it, that is proof that we need to streamline, make life easier for ourselves; we should get rid of the ones we already have. He doesn't have the time or energy to do it (which is true). And feels I should save myself for maintaining the house, which includes stuff like moping. I hate moping, I'd much rather dig a hole. I told him that last week, he said, "I can tell." And so you can.

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