Refraction

My generation is experiencing loss.  We are mostly at the midpoint of a centenarian life; I like to think we'll live another healthy 50 years if we want.  Unfortunately, that means our parents and other family members are growing older too, passing away in greater numbers as life's cycle continues.

Watching my dear friends go through this in 2015 has been heartrending.  The roller coaster of illness, hospitalizations, disability, relocation and for some, death foretells a future that I don't want to consider for my own family and yet, I know it must come to pass.

Writing helps me process what I see and feel when confronted with these painful passages.  Because I've been an onlooker rather than a participant, I've observed a commonality between the ill/dying loved ones and their grief stricken family members.  Each exists in an emotional/physical fog as they struggle to find a safe path through this passage.

I'm imagining the intimate connection of how two loved ones must say goodbye.  Each is on their own journey...one processing their own demise, one processing the demise of their loved one.  Regardless of who is around to support them, no one but themselves can walk the path and understand the passage.

They are each other's light passing through a fog, a refraction of love and a reflection of life and death.

refraction:  the fact or phenomenon of light, radio waves, etc., being deflected in passing obliquely through the interface between one medium and another or through a medium of varying density 
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REFRACTION

I sit alone

A chair of hard wood and straight back

I sit alone

Time rushing, unchecked

Others see life, a purpose not lost,

Harder for me, adrift more than most

I gaze alone

A cavern of dark thoughts and cold moments

I gaze alone

Thoughts seizing, now frozen

Others feel warmth, flames newly lit

Harder for me, scared I still sit

I rise alone

A rock of limestone and sand

I rise alone

Legs trembling, knees stiff

Others walk forward, time still unspent

Harder for me, not knowing my strength

I step alone

A foot dropped in great pain

I step alone

Heart broken, life stained

Others flee sadness, but it fills me whole

Harder for me, chasing dreams then my soul

I float alone

A welcome thick fog

I float alone

Grief stricken, but calm

Others call to me, beloved on each side

Harder for me, I’m saying goodbye

When I Can't Tell You So

It's very difficult to hold back unsolicited advice to others dealing with the mentally ill.  In the past, while coping with individuals whose minds took vacations from reality, I experienced great pain.  Trying to have patience, empathy, and understanding while being subjected to their radical thoughts tested my limits of forgiveness.  Giving up, I stepped away to preserve my own peace and health.

 Letting someone go who exists physically but has disappeared mentally is a grief filled undertaking.  Moments of connection cause hope but without medical intervention, it's a lost cause.  No one can truly come back without help.  But getting help means giving up control and I've come to accept that the need for control is all that the sick can rely on.  If they control their environment and those who step in and out of their circle, they're able to convince themselves that sickness isn't within them.

Watching others encounter ill family or friends for the first time is equally frustrating.  No matter our experience, our advice is useless because hope springs eternal for those newly exposed...exposed to seeing their loved ones drift away or create havoc within the relationship.

That moment of "I told you so" will never pass from my lips as I watch the destruction take place for others.  Sadness instead as we see them struggle to comprehend their loved one's unhealthy mind and realizing that helping our friends manage their pain is more important than understanding another's madness.

What We Permit, We Promote

It's the simplest of sayings and the hardest of truths.  Our courage is challenged daily by its premise.  When do we step in to protest, initiate action against injustice, or state our opinion loudly?

I was reared in the submissive culture of passive aggression.  Unruly discontent was frowned upon; many in my Appalachian/Southern society learned to be disagreeable without being insufferable.  In other words, if we chose to stab you in the back, we did so with a butter knife to extend the misery...much more polite that way....

The desire to keep confrontation neat and civilized, maintaining our courteous Southern facades has always smacked me as hypocritical.  Why can't we be passionate and messy when we disagree?  And yet, it is hard to break free of one's upbringing.  I pride myself on being independent and equally castigate myself for not being more blunt when I observe appalling behavior or hear inane comments.  Pride goeth before the fall....

All those ignorant or inappropriate social media posts?  I don't always comment; people dig their own holes and I let them.  But I don't hide others' messiness from myself by unfriending or deleting them.  It's good to know where folks stand on issues and to see their how their psyches are incompatible with mine.  Plus my inner psychoanalyst knows it props up my own self esteem.  We humans are insufferably egotistical.

Enemies.  Frenemies.  We have them regardless of our good intentions to keep the peace.  And so then I look at the saying and ponder:

What we permit, we promote...

Is it enough to sit behind a keyboard expressing opinions?  Do my protestations fall on deaf ears during friendly debates as I encounter fixed thinkers versus fluid thinkers like myself?  And in today's hyper cyber society, does it matter?  The news cycle is so frenetic that absorption seems impossible.  We move from tragedy to ecstasy, entertained in a hamster ball mentality that moves quickly without getting anywhere.

Philosophy versus reality tends to be my motivator.  If an actual outcome can be altered by my oft unwelcome comments, then I open my mouth or tap my fingers to cry out an opinion.  But I'm learning to stay quiet upon hearing a philosophical rant from someone who never alters their view.  Their need to reinforce themselves doesn't translate into wasting my breath or usage of my gray matter if they're not open to hearing other ideas.

What we ponder then, can we eventually solve?
Perhaps.

Post Traumatic Fog Syndrome

Luxuriating in one's stable state of mind is a curious way of finding out that "stable" is practically impossible.  What kind of balance is achieved?

It's easy to wax and wane away one's days believing that past hurts have disappeared.  Faint scars may still be visible but we don't want to believe that scar tissue underneath can still cause problems.  Yet when pressure is applied, pain reappears and so it is with the trickiness of our mind fog.

Most days, the brightness of the path before me pushes away the fog.  I don't allow pessimism to steal days from my journey...most days.  And then a tiny niggle of pain works it way through a crack in my joy, seeping quietly into my dreams.  No rest for the weary, nor answer to why one feels adrift...just a quiet thief reminding me that scar tissue can hurt.

I suppose that I no longer believe in lifelong balance, happiness, fog free existence.  It's a strange fairy tale to give up as we're told so often by "experts" that we can prepare ourselves for pain...past, present, future pain.  My only preparation is recognition now.  I can at least suck in and ready myself for the punch of pain when it arrives.  A small gift.  Preparation.  Sight.  Acceptance.  Resolution. And then patience for it to pass.

Perhaps that stable state of mind is just what we need for the next round of fog to come upon us.  It is easy to fall prey to its tempting calm...peaceful stability.  Turning over during our rest, our souls pressing down on the scar tissue awakens us, pains us, reminds us that we are simply waiting to make our way through another fog.

A Hacker Remembered

Today's "hackers" can stake claim to this new moniker but I grew up observing my grandfather perfect the art of hacking.  Many among his generation might also argue that they too are the original hackers.  Survivors of The Great Depression, war time rationing, etc. set about up-cycling and inventing new uses for the ordinary, transforming how we viewed everyday objects.  Consumerism took a back seat to necessary reinvention and society as a whole profited from this outlook.

Post war times brought many back to the sales counter and my grandfather partook in the new gadgets as well.  He was the first to set up a television in the backwoods of his small community and he was an active ham radio participant.  I remember my grandmother railing at him for setting up huge antennas but it didn't stop him...he simply disguised them better or made sure the landscaping was up to her standards.

Many mornings I would see him walking alongside the road picking up litter that marred his property.  He didn't throw it all away; he kept a collection of vintage liquor bottles in one of his sheds as well as hub caps.  Long before there were "man caves," he built various sheds to hold his found treasures.  Waiting for the next great financial calamity was part of his generation's psyche...they truly felt the hunger and despair.  My generation has seen nothing like this and I can only hope that I nor my children ever will.

Often times, I tell people that I grew up in the area that was ground center for the "War on Poverty/Hunger" yet I did not go hungry nor want for necessities.  The lessons my grandparents learned were to save, to survive, to hack enough to keep clothes, food, and shelter in abundance for their families.  Even now, I tease my children that I'm headed back to the hills for an apocalypse.  It is ground zero for survival and I take pleasure in my own small hack jobs.

Young hackers who spend time on YouTube learning and teaching others, keep up the good work!  Past generations are counting on you to pay it forward, to survive, to persevere and hack on.

For Grandpa Clint, Happy Hacker's/Father's Day!  You live on in each project I pursue.

Shaken, not Stirred

Ah, the complexity of a martini or a life.

Ingredients, adornments and the mix-up...shaken or stirred.

Life's transitions can rise slowly, cresting river-like and afterwards,

A mess.

To be shaken seems harsher but then,

There is no surprise at the damage.  It is expected.

How then to choose, to proceed when mixing a martini or life?

What final taste will we experience?  Bitter?  Smooth?

A choice...

To gulp or to sip

And to melt away in its grip....

The Destination

I don't think there is a way to effectively share my new found definition of "destination" to my children.  At their stage of early adulthood, all paths are clouded with hormones and expectations.  Would it be that I could go back to myself at that stage, I would advise my erratic self to seek wisdom from those outside my immediate circle...away from parents. friends, lovers and toward experienced thinkers and doers.

My confidence was not developed enough to find those individuals.  I'm hopeful that my two ducklings aren't stunted with that malady.  Did I do enough to inspire them to be adventurous?  To trust their gut and mute the cautious naysayers...including myself at times?  Hopefully.

As a young person feeling trapped in Appalachia, I coveted the experiences of others who traveled and experienced new cultures.  I thought that the only way to share that was to leave behind my heritage.  Funny enough, when I moved from Kentucky 25 years ago, I felt only despair.  My love for novelty did not outweigh my need for HOME.  That first move taught me quickly that the only way to enjoy the world was to stay tethered to my upbringing.  Live and learn....

I take my Appalachian sensibilities with me everywhere.  All that I see and do, all who I meet and absorb are translated through my early life experiences...adventures that I was participating in without knowing they were rare and precious.  Now I know.  Now I appreciate.  Still I am part of my beloved Kentucky and still I am part of my beloved hills.

And so I do not have a set place to get to in life.  Instead, it is a feeling of peace, safety and a need for exploration that guides me.  The moves I had to participate in to keep my family together toughened my heart and challenged my soul.  All of the bonding and severing that takes place when one moves consistently changes a mindset.  I accept now that my life will be very fluid.  What I hold on to is the knowledge that houses are just a place for me to hang my hat...home is my heart filled with love for my family near and far and friends scattered about the country.

I take joy in present time, present experiences and I don't count on being anywhere for long.  I love and hate the moves simultaneously.  I covet and despise the unknown.  I am content in feeling my wings and roots.

The journey, NOT the destination is enough for me now.