Cont'd. . .

Ah yes. . .back in home sweet home, wet basement and all, having driven 100 miles in rain that fell hard and harder.  Binghamton is still showing evidence of the recent flooding.  The roads are full of bumps and potholes and in places, the streets are still lined with piles of homeowners' soggy belongings.  Very sad, yet encouraging to see how resilient folks are and how they care for one another.  Although I did overhear a conversation about "pickers" driving around in trucks and collecting appliances to sell as scrap metal, presumably for their own gain.  At the risk of being naive, I'm going to choose to believe the cash is intended to be donated toward flood causes. 

I was getting so hungry and tired on my way home, I broke my record of years of abstaining from "fast food" (which I consider the number one enemy of the human digestive system) and went through a drive-thru.  I'm pretty sure I'm going to regret that later.

Visibility was so poor while driving that it took longer than usual to get to the doctor's.  My appointment was for 3:30 and when I saw that it was 3:34 as I pulled in the parking lot, I hoped I hadn't interfered with the scheduling.  No need.  At 4:25, I was called from the waiting area and at 5:06, I was seen by the doctor.  By 5:11, we had agreed my hand is fine, and I was leaving. Since I wasn't on a tight schedule at that point, I didn't mind the wait, though.  I was wishing I had brought my ear buds so I could have listened to one of my audible books.  (I like to listen to them while I'm working around the house.)  I do have a printed version of the Bible on my iPod so I randomly chose Matthew and read 7 chapters while I was waiting! 

I have to be careful when I do that in public, though -- oh, not because I don't want anybody to see me; it's not that.  It's because I'm apt to forget my surroundings and start singing when I come to passages that are song lyrics.  That's one of the perks I enjoy about getting older. . .I can do things like that. . .and no one bats an eye!

Choices. . .

Drove out to Curves while it was still dark...came home -- finished a few tasks...back to town for car inspection...home again...tended to water-soaked basement...have been mucking out drainage ditches in pouring rain outside the house and through the woods (while visions of bear attacks danced through my head)...now to get ready to go to Binghamton for a doctor appointment (hand surgery follow-up) where I'll say, "it's fine" and Dr. will say, "yep, it's fine" and then I will get back in my car and drive the 50 miles back home.  As for the bear attack vision, I'm only half-kidding.  The truth is, I found myself thinking that if such a thing were to happen, I would be unconscious and, therefore, no longer concerned with "water wrangling."  That the idea held some appeal (however slight, and so pitifully pathetic) was rather jolting.  The jolt made me realize: "Now, this is more than just a nudge.  This is a boot in the rear; a cuff up along side the head." -- Thanks, God!

So what do I do in these wallowing fits of depression?  First, I remind myself that there is always more than one direction with which to proceed and that the choice is mine.  My two most common choices are 1.) I can have what I call a "poor spell" (fling things, cry and curse) or 2.) I can, as I like to say "turn it around" and begin to think of all that I am so very thankful for; to remember that whatever I may be dealing with and however looming it may seem, there is always someone, somewhere who would consider it "small stuff."  I recognize these varying dimensions of woe because I know how it feels to believe the worst thing that could possibly happen, already has.  It is a lesson in perspective.  And yes, I am grateful for even that!

Besides, I already had my "poor spell" once this week.  

Shades of Woodstock. . .

Shades of Woodstock!!  As I drove over the hill this afternoon, I thought I must be waking up in the '60's.  The road was swarming with happy, sandaled people dressed in tie-dye attire who were determined to motion me into the field that had become a large parking lot.  They seemed surprised when I indicated my destination was further on down the road.  Really!  What would I be doing at a pot . . . I mean, rock fest?  

Peace, man! 

Too wet to plow. . .

Very often, when Bob was arranging his commitments, he would say, "The Good Lord willing, and the creeks don't rise." -- The creeks are rising. 

And sometimes, instead of saying something like, "Sure, there's nothing better to do," he preferred, "May as well; can't dance and it's too wet to plow."  -- It's too wet to plow.

What tender memories this weather evokes as it bubbles and oozes its way across the basement floor and down the drain. 

Nothing to hide. . .

My dehumidifier is working overtime.  Do you suppose it makes a difference...its setting in a puddle all night?  Oh, woe is me!  Every now and then I do lose sight of that obscure little light at the end of the tunnel.  These are some of those times that try my soul but I know a Power  (I am NOT referring to NYSEG) higher than I will take me by the shoulders and steer me, if not around the obstacles - then through them!

Yesterday, I wrote this prayer and today, when I read it, even I said, "Dorothy, you're wierd" and I thought it was just too gloomy to post:

 "Lord, I am depressed. Let me just stay here awhile and visit the chasms of my darkest hours. Let them surround me and hide me in their blackness until I am soothed by their velveteen softness. Let my heart ache, let my eyes cry. Then, when you are ready, Lord, lift me from this place and show me the glittering light of happiness again. My arms will be reaching out for You." 
Today, now that I am no longer in that moment, it feels a little more acceptable to post; although not fully so since it is such a secret place.  Then I thought, "So what?"  This is my life's journey, after all, and the "valleys" are no less pertinent than the "peaks." The purpose for my journaling is so that I can continue to determine who I am and what on earth I'm here for.  When I began this Blog, I very gingerly decided to open its door to any who chose to enter (at their own risk, of course!)  Not because I believed I had something worthy of sharing but simply because I have nothing to hide. 

It also spares my family from being held captive to my endless chatter about what I am thinking.  I wonder if that's why they suggested Blogging to me in the first place? 

Let go and listen. . .

I'm finding that I'm not particularly fond of holiday week ends.  Their significance seems to me to have become lost over time.  This is "Labor Day Week End."  By today's standards, it merely indicates the fact that summer is now over, school students will be returning to classes if they haven't already, Monday will be a "day off" and on at least one of the three days, there should be a picnic.  Those things are all well and good, however, my own feelings about them have changed over the course of my journey, thus far. 

Things are different when you are the lone occupant of a household -- a "family" of one.  It's not that there is nothing for me to do or no place for me to go.  On the contrary, I am so very blessed by family and friends with whom I know I am always welcome to include myself at a moment's notice.  And I often do.  But there is something very different about so-called holidays now.  The first time I noticed that difference was Memorial week end in 2008.  I was caught off guard, wondering why I felt so excruciatingly lonely when there were many things I could be taking part in with any number of people.  "It's not like I don't have options," I thought to myself.  Painful as it was, I was curious about this line of thought and intrigued by the fulfillment of further insight if I were to follow it through.  So, instead of choosing one of the more comforting options -- surrounding myself with people, I immersed myself in yard work and let the thoughts flow. 

Afterwhile, clarity began to unveil itself and I began to understand this "difference" I had been questioning.  Of course, it's different!  Everything is!  Nothing will ever be the same again!  They are the facts and cannot be changed.  All the wishing and pretending in the world are not going to change the facts.  That established, I began part of what I call the letting-go process.  After all, I had practice.  I had already said good-bye to the growing-family days back when we became "empty nesters" and a family of two.  Still, we had each other, we were a team -- an "us."  We made decisions about holiday activities (or lack thereof, since we liked puttering around home the best).  Now, here I was letting go again and stepping into a place so foreign to me.  "I am a spectator now," I said out loud.  But it was okay, somehow.  It wasn't self-pity.  I thought, "How lucky we were!  We were young and had a dream and we lived it!!  Wouldn't it be selfish to say it wasn't enough?"  (But I still wish it could have been longer.)

That May day, in the yard has been a source of comfort, strength and guidance for me through many holiday week-ends, ever since and I am grateful I made the choice that day to stay and "listen."  Sometimes we forget to listen.

Power outage aftermath. . .

Just when I got used to squinting upon entering a room, I now remember I have light switches! Now, where to start...where to start. By swabbing the refrigerator? Melted fudgecicles, strawberry ice-cream and raw chicken have oozed a very interesting pool onto my kitchen floor.  On the positive side, perhaps I have discovered a formula for a new and improved super glue!