REDONDOWRITER'S SACRED ORDINARY

Helen: Beautiful Old Age at 98

Though American culture does not revere its elderly like many cultures do, many individuals and groups do find their elderly sacred. Every Sunday I see Helen in the front pew of the church where she sings in the choir; she has a voice like an angel, a memory like a steel trap, and I love to hear her tell her stories. She is frail, but hardy in her frailness. Do you know what I mean? Who needs a celebrity, a politician, a rock star to revere when right in our midst we have our own Helens?

This week Helen turned 98 and we honored her at our coffee hour after church was over today. Following are a few photos of beautiful Helen interspersed with a poem by David Herbert Lawrence (1885-1930) with his poem "Beautiful Old Age." 

 

It ought to be lovely to be old 

to be full of the peace that comes of experience

and wrinkled ripe fulfillment.

 

The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life

lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies.

If people lived without accepting lies

they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins

in their old age.

 

Soothing, old people should be, like apples

when one is tired of love.

Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft

stillness and satisfaction of autumn.

 And a girl should say:

It must be wonderful to live and grow old.

Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! --

 

And a young man should think: By Jove

my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life! --

              

   

Welcome Joyce to the Blogging World

A few days ago you read Joyce's story about Chloe, her late kitty, in an Animal Writes entry. Joyce, from Massachusetts, came to visit when she was in California visiting recently, and I really encouraged her to start a blog. She is a like-minded soul to several people who read here and she welcomes ideas for her new blog: Joyce's Amberchlopaz.

Here is Joyce with my Cookie who took a real shine to her when she visited.

Joyce's "About Me" blurb says, "I am 56 years old (how on earth did that happen?). I work as a psychiatric social worker in a hospital, where I have worked for 37 years! (How did that happen?) I love animals. I recently lost a beloved cat, and am now down to one cat. I also dearly love dogs, and horses, and lambs and pretty much every other kind of animal. For this reason, I am a vegetarian. I practice yoga once a week, and I am in school studying psychoanalysis, mostly for the experience of it all. I recently took a train trip from MA to CA, to visit my brother and my niece and I had a wonderful time. Hope to go again next year!"

Way to go, Joyce. I'm not familiar with the Blogger software, but any of us will offer what advice we can while you get up to speed on your blogging learning curve. I look forward to hearing your stories. You are interested in a lot of things that I am.

Animal Writes: Second in a Series

Won't You and Your Pets Join Animal Writes?” That was my invitation on July 23. The first in the series was Smith Kaich Jones’ "Story of Bob" posted on Aug. 21.  Hopefully you will want to include your pet sometime, living or passed over. Just comment here or send me an e-mail.

The second entry is the story of Joyce S. from Massachusetts and her late cat Chloe. I wrote about Joyce in An Example of Strangers Are Friends We Haven't Met Yet when  she visited me in Redondo Beach a few weeks ago. 

When I finally moved into a place where I was allowed to have pets, I knew I wanted to get a cat.  It was April, 1995, and the cat was to be a birthday present.  My mother, friend, Jeanne, and I went to the Massachusetts SPCA to look at the kitties.  I saw Chloe that day, but I did not choose her.  She had a chopped off tail and that put me off a bit at the time.  I chose a beautiful, purring, fluffy orange cat, who I was to name "Butterscotch."  All the arrangements were made and I was holding her, when they decided to recheck her for ear mites.  At that point, they realized she had a big cut from having been in a fight.  They would not let me have her, as she might have rabies.  I cried, and cried, and cried, and cried.  I had already fallen in love with her, and they would not let me have her.  We went away and didn't go back there for another week.  My Chloe stayed there for another week.  The following Saturday, we went back, and we got Chloe (and Amber, my tortoise shell kitty who died several years ago now).  They were both birthday presents, one from my mother (Amber) and one from our friend, Jeanne (Chloe).

Chloe was named, "PK" at the shelter.  I think that might have stood for "Pretty Kitty," and she was gorgeous.  I kind of wanted to name her, "Peanut Butter, Chocolate, Marshmallow Fluffy Kitty," as she seemed to me to be a beautiful compilation of such colors and flavors, a beautiful sundae kitty.  Amber was, "Amber Pamber, Puddin' & Pie." 

In the beginning, I used to call Chloe my "hurry up kitty," as she used to run to the kitchen in the morning when I got up.  One of her dearest traits was to put her cold little nose into the corner of my eye if I was upset or crying.  The three of us lived five happy years together in that apartment.  Then I moved into a condominium, in 2000.  At around that time, two things happened.  Chloe was diagnosed with diabetes, and a new kitty joined our family.  He started showing up on the deck outside.  He was a scrawny, scrappy, guy, who kept coming back.  One day, my vet was coming to the house and I decided if he made an appearance that day, I would have him checked out by the vet.  He was okay/no diseases, and so he got neutered and became my third kitty.  This didn't go too well with Amber and Chloe, but it was too late.  He had endeared himself.  His name is Topaz.

Chloe needed insulin twice a day and special foods.  We did eight years of management of the diabetes, with some crises and hospitalizations along the way.  I figure in the end she may have costed more than $10,000!  (Worth every penny.)  She became quite chubby over the years.  She never minded the insulin.  She was an angel.  This summer, she started to get sick and was diagnosed with kidney failure.  I tried hard to help her get well, giving her subcutaneous fluids every night, but she stopped eating.  The last thing she ate was a few licks of tuna off my fingers.  We did our fluid routine nightly.  I was supposed to go away for a week for a conference at Cape Cod on a Sunday.  I did not go.  She was too sick.  I agonzied over how long to let this go on versus when to have to make the dreaded decision to let her go.  Anyone who has been through this knows the agony.  We had a last long weekend together, the weekend of July 4, a three-day weekend when we spent lots of time just cuddling on the couch.  The time came.  I scheduled the vet to come the following morning.  The night before, I thought I might have waited too long.  She hadn't made it to the litter box and had a wet bottom.  (Cats don't do this!)  I called the vet, crying.  I gave her her fluid bolus, and she did a little better.  The vet came the next morning.  It was a nearly unbearable feeling to let her go.  My beloved, my sweet peanut butter, chocolate, marshmallow fluffy kitty.

In memory of Amber, Pamber, Puddin' & Pie, and my sweet, gorgeous fluffy kitty, Chloe

Thanks, Joyce for sharing Chloe with us. Who wants to be next at "Animal Writes?"

 

Can I Rise Above My Political Cynicism? I Hope So!

It was incredible to watch Barack Obama’s historic acceptance speech tonight. He has a quiet kind of charisma—not flamboyant like John, Robert or Ted Kennedy and Bill Clinton, but his intelligence, strength, compassion and inclusivity made me feel a lot more hopeful about the future of our country than I’ve felt for a long time. Dare we hope for change? I liked his list of campaign promises although the realist in me wonders how in the heck he’ll ever manage to accomplish them. But, I’d like to give him a chance to prove himself. I am rarely teary about anything in my later years but when all his family and ultimately the Bidens and all their friends and family came to the podium, with the fireworks and the music as backdrop, I was crying. A friend tonight in Denver wrote that she wished she believed in God so she could pray for Obama to win. I got a kick out of that.

During all the convention hooplas every four years, I think of my late father a lot. He was a radical where politics were concerned and he had a lifetime’s anger fueling his beliefs. I was teethed on liberal politics, although as I came into my own adulthood, I have found myself much more middle ground than how I was raised. I even vote Republican now and then. After Robert Kennedy’s assassination, the last time I was truly active in politics, I lost momentum and hope for the future. The Viet Nam war was heartbreaking. My hope returned when Bill Clinton was elected president, but my cynicism resumed when we found out that he cheated on his wife, but even more so when he lied. Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Most powerful men are not faithful to their wives and I can deal with that, if the security of the country is not compromised. I’m pretty intolerant to lying, however. I noted that they didn’t show John Edwards at the convention; I voted for him in the primaries and his lying was also a huge disappointment to me.

My dad was in the political trenches all his life, backing whoever and whatever causes he believed in. When I was a kid I was often embarrassed by his activities and outspokenness; I got teased a lot because I was always saying, “My dad says---.” You can imagine how that went over. 

I've shared this photo before, but this is three-year-old me looking at dad as though he walked on water. Dad, mom and my four sisters lived precariously through the depression; I wasn’t born yet. After the depression, dad found his political voice. He was active in the AFL-CIO as an organizer, was a Roosevelt Democrat, but later became disenchanted with the party and definitely opposed to the unions. He admitted to attending a few Communist meetings but it wasn’t his cup of tea. He felt more at home with the concept of socialism. At his death he had been a Technocrat for several years, however.

So, dad, here’s your 71-year-old daughter remembering you tonight after immersing myself in politics all week. You would say, as you always did, that the greatest nation in the world was going down the tubes, but—it hasn’t. How I wish you were here so we could argue back and forth about what we saw this week. You probably wouldn't even have watched, but I guess there is a smidgen of idealism still alive deep inside me.  

Democratic National Convention: A Wordle Take

Wired Magazine ran an interesting article about Twitter messages after Michelle Obama spoke last night--and they generated this Wordle. If you've never made a Wordle, try it out. 

I was very moved by Ted Kennedy and Michelle Obama's speeches last night at the Democratic National Convention. It reminded me of the good old days before I became a political cynic. Hillary Clinton's unification speech tonight was also very inspiring and I can only hope her delegates who are threatening to vote for John McCain listen to what she recommends. What a treat it is to listen to real orators; there are so few left today.

So, tomorrow night we have Bill Clinton, who looked like a very happy man tonight.  And Thursday the Obama-Biden acceptance speech. I just hope security can keep the skinheads and violent religious righters prowling around Denver under control. And I wish the same next week when the Republicans take their turn. One of the down sides of living in a free country is that there are a lot of kookaroos around. 

Portrait of a Girl in Blue

When I was visiting in Portland, Vicki shared several photos of her art work and photos she has taken when she was out and about. This is actually a real girl, the daughter of someone she knows.

I find her stunningly beautiful in a Goth way and I definitely want to work her image into a collage. But more than that, I want to do a freewrite in my journal about this image. She seems Goddess-like to me. 

In those eyes are the wisdom of the world; she seems the epitomy of an exotic maiden. There is also a lost part. 

Ah, it's amazing to me how some photos make me want to write, write, and write some more.

What does she evoke in you?

Won't You Join Me in My Secret Garden?

This is the front gate to what I like to call my secret garden. Come on in, won't you? 

My patio faces east and it is largely shaded, as you can see, although it's time for the fall trimming of the ficus. Once inside this gate, you are in visual overload as not only is it what I call a slightly overgrown garden (I like it that way!), it is filled with spiritual symbols from most of the world's spiritual traditions. I also have a lot of white wicker and cobalt pieces. I'm sure, if you have read here before, you know that I collect cobalt, inside and outside the house. Every symbol, every object, has a story of how I obtained it or who gave it to me. 

The majority of my plants are starts from someone else or else gifts that ultimately got planted. 

The reason I'm showing you a few photos is that for work I am the proud owner of a new Nikon D60 Digital SLR camera. It has taken me a few hours to learn the basics, but Nikon has great online video tutorials. Cookie and I took a long walk this afternoon so I could try out the camera. But I ultimately came back to my own home and garden. 

This is one of my creeping Charlies and a small ceramic piece sitting on a shelf using the close-up mode. And this is Our Lady of Guadalupe purchased in San Diego's Old Town last summer. More of the yard and now I'll stop boring you. I need to get the hang of the new camera and since I return to work tomorrow, I'll have lots of opportunities to practice there.

The Burden & Blessing of Regret in Later Years

Oh, boy! My copy of Joan Chittister’s “The Gift of Years: Growing Older Gracefully” came today.  I find all of her books, and her lectures, to be so inspiring.

This is my sister Betty who lives in Washington state and she is one of my mentors for growing older gracefully. She will be 85 in December, was widowed a year ago, and she remains active in spite of some infirmities. 

She still drives in the day time and is the “organizer of activities” for her senior complex. She really had a lot of challenges in her life, but she lives with few regrets except the final weeks of her husband’s life where she wishes she had made some different choices. She uses a walker now everywhere she goes, but she doesn’t let it limit her although she is reluctant to travel on a plane or train alone. I thought a lot about Betty when I ran across this passage about regret in Sr. Joan’s book:

“When we rethink our past choices, the central question is if everything in us that needed to develop as a result of each choice, did. Have the lives we chose brought us to the fullness of life God wants for each of us?

The burden of regret is that, unless we come to understand the value of the choices we made in the past, we may fail to see the gifts they have brought us.

The blessing of regret is clear—it brings us, if we are willing to face it head on, to the point of being present to this new time of life in an entirely new way. It urges us on to continue becoming.”

My sister Betty is a role model for living life a day at a time, taking each challenge and each joy and facing them with grace. Betty had bladder cancer surgery three months ago and in her recent check-up, the urologist told her the cancer had returned. Damn! Please keep her in your prayers with her latest challenge. 

Live With Intention

As I've written before, I've spent the past few days indulging myself in my office/studio. Yesterday I had the utter delight of spending hours with a woman I know from church, Bev, a working artist who constantly creates, teaches art four days a week, and still takes lessons herself. Her studio is much smaller than mine and yet she produces a huge variety of art. I'll write more about this another day.

I have four pieces actually underway: two self-portraits, one collage which is part of a key rack, and the piece you see here. The format is 10 x 10 and my scanner can't scan that big, but you get the point. I still want to put on Diamond Glaze and a coat of Dorlands wax. If there is one thing I need to be reminded about continuously, it's to live with intention. Today I did. 

 

Animal Writes: First in a Series

“Won't You and Your Pets Join Animal Writes?” That was my invitation on July 23 and I am remiss in not posting sooner. Three people replied and following is Smith Kaich Jones’ “Story of Bob” taken from her blog Emmatree: Tales of Art and Anxiety in an April 20 entry.  Hopefully you will want to include your pet sometime, living or passed over. Just comment here or send me an e-mail.

I was sorry to hear about Bob’s death, but I like to think of him, and all our pets who have died, playing in the fields of heaven. Kind of like William P. Young’s description of The Garden of Eden in his bestseller, “The Shack.” 

Here is The Story of Bob

 

"Where Bob came from I can't be certain. He was just there one very dark night, waiting for me on my front porch. I was living in the country then. I pulled through the gate onto my property & my headlights swept across this white & cream cat sitting there as if he were home. For a split second I, too, thought, good, he's home & then remembered he wasn't mine. It was cold, he was hungry & injured, and against all good sense I fed him. And that was that. He was there every evening & soon every day. His leg had been hurt, apparently in a fight, and I had no extra money to pay for my vet to see him. But I called Dr. Alexander anyway (best vet EVER) & he recommended some home remedies & Bob got well. My cat Maggie was not at all happy about that turn of events - she is a one-woman cat & sees no reason why I shouldn't be a one-cat woman. But Bob was there - for months he would sleep under the house next to the heater. Eventually he & Maggie reached a truce, and when the time came for me to move back into town, there was no way I could leave him. So off to the vet he went, to be neutered & vaccinated, and we came to town.

I don't remember how many years it took until Bob left me for Mary - y'all remember, my across-the-street-neighbor. He checked out other houses first, kind of like Goldilocks looking for the bed that was just right. One of our ex-neighbors came home to find him asleep on one of her son's beds - we never knew how he got into the house. But eventually it was Mary - Mary & her House of Many Colors & many comfortable chairs & a just right ginkgo tree to leap into. And so he moved in. How could I stop him?

Bob made his own destiny in this world. He knew what he wanted & he made sure he took the right steps to achieve his desires. Mary always told people he had 2 moms, but really he had none. He was his own man. He took care of himself.

We lost Bob today. He was about 14 years old, maybe a little older, but it was too soon. He'd been struggling with a kidney problem for several months, and was under the weekly care of Dr. Alexander, about whom I cannot say enough good things. But last night, his kidneys began to fail, and by this morning it was obvious we had to take him to the Emergency Clinic. So Mary, Lyndi-Linda (Mary's caretaker) & I drove him in, and all 3 of us held him till the end. Katie was there to hold Bob in the sunshine before we left Mary's house & he seemed pleased to feel the breeze & hear the birds & smell the flowers. Robert returned home from his week-long photo shoot to bury him, and found a 1917 Mercury Dime deep in the ground while digging. 2 nickels from Lyndi-Linda's pocket were buried with Bob, to pay the ferryman. I found an azalea bloom, some blue flowers & pink & purple & tied the bouquet with grass to lay on his grave.

Bob, you were so loved. Take care, sweetie."