Once More Into The Fray

Dear Hearts

“The thing that is constant is change.” Heraclitus.

Four years ago I was married, working as a school teacher full-time, living in my house, running four days a week, and feeling like I finally found my stride.

“Bang, bang my baby shot me down.” Nancy Sinatra

I didn’t even know that Asshole was smoking pot and despite my many concerns (LEGALITY), he didn’t care and wasn’t going to stop. My grandmother was still alive. My grandfather could still walk and ride his bike.

“Big bada boom.” The Fifth Element.

Now I cannot work full time, certainly not as a teacher. My grandmother is crossed-over. Walking—occasionally I’ll do that. I am living in my grandparents’ house 850 miles away from me where I spent 39 years of my life. And, I think I may be picking up the pieces oh, so delicately.

Where’s the glue?

Mother Church. My family. Myself—gee, what a relief with that one.

G-Pa can walk any real distance or ride his bike. Scoops, the old-fashioned ice-cream parlour, closed after almost 100 years. Aunt Faerie and I went to Olson Hill today—an artisan historic Swedish religious community. She has been going there since she was a girl. The highlight of Mom and my summer trips out here was always going to Olson Hill. I wore Gram’s earrings today so that she could be with use. We used to have a proper English style Tea at 3 p.m. in the Swedish restaurant, which is now closed down.

Aunt Faerie and I had a good day. Once I reminded myself to stay in the present moment and not in my head be everywhere else. I used to spend big money at Olson Hill. Today I got a coloring book of faeries, an Olson Hill tee-shirt, a handmade ribbon-like necklace, a few Dover sticker books, and a Support the Police magnet. All under 30 dollars. That’s a change.

Before we left around four, I got a coffee and Aunt Faerie and I sat on a bench surrounding a tree while I had a cigarette. We used to do that when we were in England. I don’t even think about going over to England anymore. That dream has taken a back seat to figuring out how to navigate this life.

I AM LIVING IN THE HOLY CITY. In the bedroom, I have the dresser is still full of Gram’s sewing things. One box is labeled, in her neat, feminine handwriting: “Look here for whatever you can’t find.” I am carefully and with reverence boxing all those things up to make room for my things. The pictures on the wall are hers. I may make some changes there. If I am going to live here; I need to live here.

Moving on is what Martha called it. I am full of ambivalence.

I have to move on, because if I don’t I will not be living.

“Get busy living, or get busy dying.” Stephen King.

Gram would not mind, I know that intellectually, but if I REALLY move into the room—then I know I am not on vacation anymore. This is my reality now. I miss her so. To my left is the magazine she was reading when she died and her knitting things. I cannot move those things. But, I need to root somewhere. Here is my last hope.

So many events: Gram’s death; my breakdown; my house that I fought for; living with T., becoming Catholic—all the good, the bad, and the ugly played into this moment of me here in Gram’s chair blogging.

God must have a plan. I have to believe he does because this life cannot be all random. IT JUST CANNOT BE. It’s been a hard four years—and it’s not easy yet. I don’t know if it will ever be.

But if I don’t change things in life, I will not survive.

I have a choice.

"Once more into the fray...
Into the last good fight I'll ever know.
Live and die on this day...” The Grey

I have a choice…

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel.

PS: I love G-Pa and begrudge him nothing, but if he tells me one more time about how I drive too close to mailboxes and parked cars—I should stay ten feet away??—I may just show him what a broken side mirror looks like.

It’s one of my triggers. Duh. I realize that now. Asshole and T. both relentlessly criticized my driving. It’s a trigger. Just like calling me a “fucking bitch” or “fucking retard.” How do I tell a 96-year-old man, who is letting me live with him and buying me food, that he triggers a PTSD response in me…?

PPS: To the guy at Olson Hill who stopped dead in the street and said I was the best-looking lady in the two states he’d been in today—thanks! J