Old Year's Realizations (instead of New Year's Resolutions)

* there is no sign for "beats out" or "stronger than" so i had to use the greater than > sign above.
my mother's cigarette addiction superseded many things and she chose cigarettes over most everything else, including relationships.

The Stuff They Probably Never Hear About

This has been an awful year.

Loss, dysfunction, health woes.

So it shouldn't surprise anyone to hear that I'm not exactly filled with Christmas cheer. I did try to brighten my spirits by spending some time coming up with ideas & creating some stuff for people & sending out surprises but some of that has fallen flat, too.

A little while ago, I sat down at the computer and saw a notification that I had a message from a long-time fan of my artwork - I'll call her G - who became one of my best customers. More than that, though, is that I now consider her my friend.

Anyway, I don't always notice that I have messages because I'm terrible at social media so it was weird that I saw this one right away today.

Here's the message that she sent:

𝘏𝘪 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘯. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴 (note: I occasionally sell greeting cards of my artwork) 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘐 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘓𝘖𝘓. 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘶𝘴𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘬 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘴. 𝘈 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥'𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘣𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪e𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘫𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘺. 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵. 𝘏𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺.

****************

Well, you can imagine that I cried a little bit when I read that message.

And that's the thing right there: "𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭".

I have been told on occasion that my artwork evokes memories in people, reminds them of some faraway place and time. I've had people tell me their stories...because my artwork reminded them of the house or farm they grew up in or some other bittersweet memory that they were compelled to share with me. Oftentimes they'll APOLOGIZE as they tell their story...as if they are burdening me with their sentimentality.

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 could be further from the truth.

To be told that something you create brings someone back to happy time or reminds them of someone special to them - well, I don't know how to express what that means other than to say it just sincerely doesn't get any better than that.

It's the fuel that sparks my creativity.

It is my personal definition of success.

So my friend G managed to give me a little dose this morning of the (elusive) thing that this season is all about: joy.

Cusp Of Dusk is the name of this piece, that G sent as a card to her grieving friend.

You might think that Cusp Of Dusk looks a little gloomy, but if you look closely, you'll see that the curtain in the second floor window is pulled back a little bit and the light is shining through.

And you know, where there's light, there's hope.

I hope G's friend notices the little window of light on her greeting card and can find a little glimmer of that this season as she nurses her broken heart.

I hope that this little story reminds you to tell people how they've touched you or made a difference to you or stuck up for you or about the time that they (͟f͟i͟l͟l͟ ͟i͟n͟ ͟t͟h͟e͟ ͟b͟l͟a͟n͟k͟)͟ and how it made you laugh/cry/smile/thrive.

Tell them the stuff they probably never hear about.

It's the gift that keeps on giving. I assure you.

Merry Christmas,

Sleeping Thru Summer

Finally, the end of summer is near.

I'm certain that this was the worst summer of my life as I can't recall any others that were as horridly oppressive with endless days of excessive sunlight that lasts too long; heat and humidity that suck the life out of me (and maybe you, too?); and the worse thing of all, a drought, as the icing on the misery cake.  I assure you that for me, a lover of cloudy and rainy days, endless days of hell-sent sunshine with no rain for weeks and weeks on end is tantamount to torture.

Through this dreadful summer season, I was also attempting to work through some significant trauma that unexpectedly surfaced in mostly a massive way after my mother and aunt died within 5 days of each other.  The trauma was lifelong, I knew of it, was diagnosed with it, but was very much not aware of the extent of it until my mother died and then my aunt died. Then, within days of their deaths, an historically extremely difficult and narcissistic relative - who played a significant role in some of my aforementioned lifelong trauma - upped their toxicity to a level even I didn't think they were capable of.

The carpet that had been hiding all the trauma "dirt" that had been swept under it for decades just could not contain it any longer as if a giant wind gust had burst through the door, tossing the carpet aside allowing all the dirt to escape, as it swirled all around me like a giant tornado filled with every bad thing that had ever happened and/or been done or said to me.

Obviously you can't ignore a giant tornado of bad things/thoughts so now that the so-called dirt of it all was everywhere I had to start trying how to figure out what to do with it all.

You're thinking I pulled myself up by the bootstraps? Grabbed the bull by the horns? Seized the day? Danced like no one was watching?

Well, no.

What I actually did was spend an exorbitant amount of time in bed or on the couch. Ruminating, ruminating. I spent way too many days reliving some pretty bad stuff and trying to make sense of it which is a true lesson in futility when you're trying to figure out how people can be so absolutely awful when you yourself are not an absolutely awful person (I'm only awful when I'm hungry). 

When I wasn't overthinking during the day, I was sleeping, which is what you do when your brain is so overworked that it has no choice but to mix up a batch of whatever hormone causes excessive sleepiness just so it can get a break from what you are putting it through.

So there I was, sleeping the summer days away and trying to work my way through a lifetime of crap* that had been delivered to me from the people whom I had loved the most.

Not exactly the "summer fun" everyone talks about.

In actuality I've never been the summer fun type anyway. Because of some autoimmune conditions that have gotten worse in the last decade plus a real deal diagnosis of Summer - or Reverse - SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder), I can't be in direct sunlight without paying a hefty price. Part of all that is I'm photosensitive so being out in the hot summer sun brings on a whole litany of torment for me up to and including breaking out in a wildly itchy, oozy rash on any skin that's exposed to the sun. 

Spotted Sharon in the surf

It shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that once it starts feeling like summer, I draw the dark curtains and hide inside the house, crossing off the days on the calendar until the cooler fall days arrive and the sun becomes less evil.

The bonus of doing that is that it has made sleeping all day a lot easier.

But one cannot just sleep their life away and so as the sun sets on the Summer From Hell 2022, it is time for me to toss aside my sleep mask and locate my bootstraps so that I can do my best to pull myself up from them.

As anyone who has or knows anything about trauma will tell you, it never leaves you. 

"They" say you can heal from it but I think healing just means finding a hypothetical shelf where the trauma can be placed instead of carrying it around on your back or in your arms all day, every day.

That way, on its shelf you know it's there, but you lose the burden of its weight...and, trust me, I will take that any day of the week. Trauma is wildly heavy.

Now, with the cooler weather upon me along with its ability to allow for clearer thinking, I wake up from my summer slumber and do my best to start building a shelf.

*The causation of my C-PTSD is familial, situational and medical.  It was the mostly the familial aspect that was prevalent during this summer.

Outrage Du Jour

If you're paying any attention to the world right now, you already know what the Outrage Du Jour is and because I am very, very tired of All Things That Incite Outrage, which is basically everything at this point, I flat out refuse to even mildly broach the current outrage topic.

I have my views on it and you shouldn't care what they are because that's not why you're here, so I'll just keep them to myself.

(But I will tell you that you might be surprised to know that my opinions often fall into the Unpopular category.  We'll just leave it at that. Also, I'm an introvert so bandwagons aren't really my thing.  Too crowded, too loud.)

Wait, though.  Can I just run off to a brief tangent so we can talk about what I just wrote for a minute?  The part about "that's not why you're here".  I wrote a piece about that once, I'll have to find it.  I'm talking about when you follow a person or their page or whatever and it's because they bake or they make origami or they write poetry and you really like the thing they do but the next thing you know they're off and running on some political tirade or rant about the most recent Outrage Du Jour and you're all like Huh? What's happening?

Call me crazy but living life in a perpetual state of outrage doesn't seem like a good way to live your actual life.

New Home, New Adventures, New Memories

Very quietly, we listed our house, bought another, and moved...all within about 2.5 months.

The dust isn't settled yet; we're in the new house (in South Jersey) but we're still moving the leftover stuff out of the old house (Toms River/NJ Shore).

I'm exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. 

This is a big move; one that we didn't exactly plan for but that became necessary due to circumstances.

JP has been commuting back and forth across the state since September when he transferred to his new position so that's been ridiculous. And when my mother & aunt died a few months ago, that was the final straw. We had moved to Toms River to be closer to both of them; there was no need to stay there now that they were gone.

So the decision was made and then things happened quickly. What I mean by big move is that it's a move that is a complete lifestyle change. We moved from a county (Ocean) with a population of 600,000 (not including summer tourists which makes the population explode)...to a county (Salem) with 60,000 people.  A 90% reduction in chaos.

As someone with a very strong aversion to anything loud, crowded, overpopulated, traffick-y...moving to Salem County is a balm for my beat up soul. 

There are trade-offs, of course, to living in the least populated place in the state. Everyday conveniences aren't very close by (an example of that became evident when we needed to fill a prescription but found out that the pharmacy at the local Walgreen's does not have weekend hours.) 
There are no Target stores close by, for example, and our Walmart is just regular, not Super.
None of that matters to me as I'm not much for shopping anyhow and I don't want to design my life around where I can shop.

The past two years have taken a huge toll on me. I knew that to be true while I was in the middle of everything that comes with a dying mother and a dysfunctional family while living in an overcrowded place that gave me panic attacks every time I went anywhere. What I didn't know was the extent of the toll it took and actually didn't find out until after my mother died and I closed the door on the dysfunction. Then BAM! it all hit me. It was as if I were holding myself mostly frozen for two years, perpetually holding my breath for all that time as the hits kept coming.

Once I started to exhale, to thaw from being in that frozen state...well, that's when the damage became evident and it was worse that I had suspected.

Now it's time to work on healing in this new space where there is no static, where uncrowded roads like the one pictured above are abundant and I can relearn how to be more in tune with the things that matter.

I'm excited.

Mother's Day, Hallmark, Obligations & My Mother

Yesterday was Mother's Day.

I am not big on Mother's Day, perhaps that is because I have a daughter who makes me feel special on the regular, no tangible gifts required, just our happiness when we're together.  Albeit Mother's Day was cute when she was little with her handmade cards and sloppy breakfasts but that's where I think Mother's Day belongs: with those whose children are small and not filled with the idea/burden of obligation.

Basically, once Hallmark comes into the picture I lose interest.

Yet as yesterday approached I did note - poignantly - that it would be the first Mother's Day in which I did not have a mother. Two and a half months have passed since she died, so there is still that sting, although my grief is of the complicated variety.  Mother's Day mattered very much to my mother which was just one of our very many differences and, like all other holiday type days, when it came to her I approached all of them with a particular dread - the kind that comes from having to do something not with a spirit of fun and excitement, but with the weight of obligation.

As with every other event, off I would go to try and figure out what I could possibly buy for her that she would appreciate or even like.  She was a woman with no interests and I do mean that literally. My mother did not like music or books, she had no hobbies and no interest in current events, didn't like going out to eat (or anywhere else), and since she never left her apartment there was no sense in new clothes or pretty jewelry. Her existence was cigarette smoking, coffee, playing computer solitaire and watching the same movies dozens of times. That is the complete list.

Try shopping for someone like that.

Carnations

When Life Hits Hard: Grief & Dysfunction

To say the past month has been hellish is an understatement.

On the morning of February 17th, JP and I watched as my 88-year-old housebound aunt was driven away in an ambulance after being ill for a week or so with what she told everyone was a cold. We let the hospital know that I was the local contact person in the family, along with my Virginia-based cousin who was designated the not local contact.

The hospital staff said they would call me later in the day to update us after they completed their evaluation of my aunt.

We waited but no call came. We went to sleep that night thinking they didn't call because testing was not complete, only to find out the next morning that wasn't the case at all.

Turns out that the two daughters of one of my aunt's friends - in their infinite wisdom (or lack thereof) - in perfect busybody fashion could not wait to find out what was wrong with her so they called the hospital and pretended to be her niece (i.e. me) and the hospital gave them all the information.  So the hospital did not call me that day because they thought they had already spoken to me. We, her family, sat around sick with worry not knowing what was happening with her while these busybodies had all the information.
But wait, it gets 'better'.
One of the daughters of that friend, thought she would "update" me via Instagram - if you can even believe that - and proceeded to tell me that my aunt had been sick, that she went to the hospital, etc - all of the things HER ACTUAL FAMILY already knew - especially me and JP since we'd been with my aunt several times that week. She wrote in such a way that it was as if we all had just forgotten about our aunt - who lived one floor above my own mother in the same building - and that she/they knew all there was to know about what had been happening to her despite the fact that these people lived states away and hadn't actually seen her in God knows how long. The audacity left me almost speechless.

Then this person dropped the bomb in her update and told me my aunt's diagnosis, which we - her actual family- did not know because these fools* circumvented us and lied to the hospital.

Diagnosis:  Covid.

Somehow my 88-year-old housebound, unvaccinated aunt had gotten Covid and it was obviously very, very bad.

10 days after my aunt was admitted to the hospital and was still there battling Covid, on February 27th, my mother passed away, losing her battle with lung cancer and ending her lifelong love affair with cigarettes.

Then, on March 4th, I woke up at 4am-ish and was in the bathroom when I heard the house phone ring.
It was the hospital calling to tell me that my aunt had passed away an hour earlier.

There are cautionary tales from this nightmare that I want to address**. 

1. My aunt and mother both refused to get vaccinated despite their advanced age and the large target that put on their backs from Covid.  My mother, in fact, told me she didn't want to get the vaccine because "there's too much wrong with me."  No amount of reasoning could sway her.
My aunt likely thought that since she never left her apartment, there was little risk to her. She did all the other right things and when I was in her apartment recently, it broke my heart to see the stack of pretty masks she had near the door and all the cans of Lysol she had and used after someone dropped off her mail or groceries.

Because I was the person the hospital called to discuss my aunt's medical issues, I now know what can happen to an elderly unvaccinated person that gets infected and it is the stuff that nightmares are made of. For a while during her hospital stay she was physically improving, but Covid had gotten to her brain and the doctors did not know the long-term effects of the delirium it caused that had a griphold on her and her brain.
Up until a conversation I had with one of her doctors, I had no idea that Covid could cause delirium.

  
So she had physically improved but there was the mental part that was the problem. They informed me that the next step for her if the delirium improved, was to transfer to a rehab facility, which filled me with more dread. This was not a woman who would do well in that environment.  

Then my NFL and NBA-loving aunt, who had an affinity for Nacho Cheese Doritos, who never forgot to call anyone on their birthdays, who told me on her own recent birthday on Feb 2nd that her new plan was to make it to 100, developed a pulmonary embolism thanks to Covid and as the nurse who called to tell me she had passed said, "she declined rapidly as a result"...as in succumbed to it less than 24 hours later.
A couple or few vaccine shots and she'd likely be at home right now, counting the money in her bank account, and cheering on her favorite teams.

2. Just please do your best to stop smoking. You already know the risks but maybe you've never seen someone die from it. Maybe you don't know how your smoking affects your family and what you might put them through some day when your lungs are black, when your voice disappears, when you can't breathe or take 3 steps, or when you lose the control of all of your bodily functions, when your feet swell up like balloons and crack open and ooze.
Maybe you don't know all the things you'll miss out on, all the memories you won't make.

Because of my own health conditions (lung issues after double lung collapse) and the value I place on my own health, I could not spend any time with my mother in her apartment because the cigarette smoke was so bad. There was not a surface that was not coated with nicotine and I promise I am not exaggerating. Upon her death, nothing in her apartment was salvageable.  I cannot fathom how they are going to re-rent her apartment; it is that bad.
 

3. Do not ever call a hospital and pretend you are a family member because you are nosy trying to find out information about someone. Respect the family of the person and always defer to them. If you are entitled*** to know the information, wait for the family to give it to you. Don't be a jackass.

Am I bitter?  You bet I am. Bitter, angry, sad, mad, horrified, disgusted. That's not even the complete list.
It's going to take time for me to work through all of this - and I haven't even told the whole story yet.

*Apparently one of the fools - the one who made the call and lied to the hospital in a massive HIPAA violation kind of way - is herself a medical professional who should very much know better. 

**But first let me say that you might not agree with what I have to say and that's okay. All I ask is that inasmuch as you have the right to your opinion, so do I - so, please, no angry comments just because we might disagree.  I'll just delete them anyway so best not to waste your time or mine if that's the route you were going to take.

(Also, commenting anonymously is not really anonymous, by the way.  You'll have to trust me on that.)

***Entitlement has been a theme lately.

A New Season

The past month has been nothing short of hellish.

My mother passed away on February 27th and five days later my beloved aunt passed away.

This was followed closely by some very unnecessary and unpleasant family strife which always seems to happen in dysfunctional families. At least the one I come from.

So now it's time to move forward (baby steps) and even though I always much prefer the cool, darker days of fall and winter...coming into springtime is bringing me a little bit of comfort.

Renewal and all that.

The Road To Nowhere

This is from a newspaper article I was asked to write back in 2014:

"Creative people are often asked about their inspiration or their muse or whatever it is that kicks their imagination and motivation into high gear. Some have really complicated rituals while others turn to music to put them into their prolific state of mind. There are even a few people that recommend sticking to a routine which I do not get at all since I see routine as the antithesis to creativity.

As an artist who uses photographs as the basis of my artwork, when I need to get my blood flowing I get in the car with my cameras and sometimes a person or two that I love and my dogs and I hit the road. Drives to nowhere are always the goal, and always on country back roads. Nothing soothes my soul and clears my head more than indulging the wanderlust and need for simplicity that is imbedded in my personal genetic makeup. Farms and barns, cows and horses, corn fields, roadside stands, and a sky full of puffy white clouds.  There is not much that can be better than all of that. My artwork revolves mostly around these kinds of bucolic scenes although I do add a whimsical twist to them in order to really get people’s attention. We are all so inundated visually and otherwise nowadays that sometimes you have to go left of center to make people see.

When I am out on one of my drives I have to pull over countless times to let someone pass so that they no longer tailgate me.  They ride up on me not because I am going too slow but because they are going too fast.  Although I am maintaining the speed limit, I am in the way of them racing at breakneck speed to get to where they are going in record time.
I am in the way of them racing to speed through their life, seemingly oblivious to the risks they are taking, the most important being the risk of missing out on the very quality of their own lives. 

I want people to slow down. That is one of the reasons why I enhance my landscape artwork so that it has a manipulated, wonky element to it.  It makes people pause; they linger long enough to really see what they are looking at.

I want them to pay attention to the beauty that is everywhere that they are not seeing as they lose their senses of wonder and awe to the myriad of distractions that everyone is consumed with and buried under nowadays.

I cannot imagine that it is worth any of these risks, particularly the risk of not seeing all there is to see every single day of our lives.  Remember staring at clouds until they turned into recognizable shapes?  When is the last time you did that?

These days everyone is preoccupied as they rush from one place to another. They are talking, texting, checking in, status updating, tweeting, Instagramming, picking up, dropping off, shopping, etc. 

All of that distraction is coming at a very high cost and that cost has nothing to do with the ridiculous amounts of money spent on gadgetry.  

When is the last time you got in the car to go for a drive to nowhere?  How about taking a walk in the countryside just to listen to how quiet it is there?  Do your kids know how great it is to dip their toes into a stream or to laugh while watching the antics of a bunch of farm animals?

Le petit bonheur is a French term that translates to the small happiness.  It means to take pleasure in and appreciate the little things. It means that if you see a lady with a camera pulled off to the side of the road, instead of speeding past her, think about slowing down to see what she is taking pictures of. 

You might wind up being very pleasantly surprised."  SOH, 6/14

Grief, Chapter One

     Aside from the obvious the one thing I really hate about death is that all traces of the person disappear.

    

     And it doesn’t take long either. 

     Gone, like dust in the wind. When the dead person’s name is mentioned people cast their eyes downward, as if they’re looking for the person on top of their shoes or somewhere on the sidewalk.  Say the name of the dead person out loud to someone and they respond in hushed tones, like they’re talking about something or someone shameful or embarrassing. 

     Pictures might stick around for a while but eventually they’ll be put away, too painful to keep in plain sight. Personal belongings are put away in boxes that are mainlined for a closet or attic never to be brought out and gone through again. Sometimes Left Behind People even give the dead person’s stuff away to Goodwill or the Salvation Army or some anonymous organization that has drop boxes in the parking lot of the local supermarket where some strangers will wind up with the dead person’s favorite sweater or shoes, maybe even with their scent still clinging to it. This makes me very uncomfortable.  

     Message to the dead people I know: I hope no one gave your stuff away.  I hope it’s in a box in the attic and sometimes someone sneaks up there when no one else is around just so they can open your box and spend some time with you. 

     I have not been able to figure out how to get them to believe me when I tell them how wrong it is to act like dead people never existed.  Of course, I’m the crazy girl who thinks that dead people are still here; that you just can’t see them in the flesh anymore.  I’m the one who wouldn’t think twice about continuing to set a place for the dead people at the dinner table or even to talk out loud to them but that kind of thing is seriously frowned upon in polite society.  The thing is though, that everyone does it to one degree or another, they just don’t admit it which is a really big shame. 

     What I don’t get is why people let the love they had for the dead person turn into sadness. I mean, I understand grief. Well, that’s kind of an understatement. There’s not a lot of people who understand grief better than me.  It’s been my constant companion for decades now.  I take it everywhere I go kind of like a best friend. Or, a frenemy. I don't think it's very nice that a person spends their lifetime - however long or short it is - doing things and having conversations and making people laugh or maybe they made really good chocolate cakes or gave great hugs or would not give up those corduroy pants they wore long after they went out of style. Whatever it was, whatever they were, it seems to me that it is a downright travesty to sweep all of that under the rug, never talk about any of it, and instead get sad whenever they are thought or spoken about. Makes it seem like their life didn't have much meaning or substance which is the absolute furthest thing from the truth.

     Anyway, since I live with grief all the time and I have watched its effects on myself and others for years, I know how it works. Or how it wants to work.  Grief is always there even when no one has died.  It sleeps in the background of everyone’s life as they are preoccupied with living. Grief is the boogey man and the bully rolled into one. Once grief wakes up, it bangs on your door and if you let it in it will lay on your couch, dine at your table, sleep in your bed, drive in your car, brush with your toothbrush, and invade your thoughts, your attention span, your very ability to think.  

     Like a squatter, grief moves in uninvited and stays for as long as it likes and everyone seems powerless to do anything about it.  Sometimes it stays for an acceptable period of time and leaves.  But don’t be fooled, it will never be very far away.  It just goes back to sleep, albeit fitfully, in the backyard or the garage or the basement. 

     And sometimes it goes and hides in the closet after wreaking havoc and comes back out years later when it’s the last thing you ever expected. 

Cozy Palace

"Growing up, I was always taught that it is a sin to make judgments on people and that you should avoid doing that best you can. Besides, nowadays you can get tarred and feathered and given one of a hundred different labels if you say out loud what some people think is the wrong thing or if you make a judgment that people don't like.

Yet it seems all them same people are the ones who talk bad about where I live.

Well, I don't care what they say.  I love where I live. This place is my cozy palace.

When I bake cookies in my little oven they taste and smell  just as good as the ones that fancy people make in their expensive kitchens. Maybe I don't have a granite countertop but I have prepared many meals on my plain laminate one that have nourished and given pleasure to me and the people I love.

Heck, I could rip out my old countertop and put in a granite one anytime I want to but that's not going to change a single thing around here except to drain out my bank account for no good reason other than so I can say I got a granite countertop. No, thank you.

You know, this little place holds just as many memories as any other house anywhere on this planet, by God. It knows our tears and every other high and low that's come our way. It's protected us from every storm that's passed through, too. And every year we set up the Christmas tree with all our old ornaments and the twinkle lights right there in front of the windows so everyone can see and maybe get a little bit of spirit.

Maybe it ain't much, but it's home.

Yes, it is our home."

-Sharon O'Brien Huey