Just Another Pint

Tired of sad and lonely, tired of depressed; want to make it go away. My love left an ache that just doesn't quit, not one little bit. I loved my life with my honey; we were both assholes from time to time, but other times we clicked along beautifully. We were the average people of this planet in love; because of love, I believe in God. Love takes a hard day’s work and transforms it into a gift for someone more important, yeah, someone more important than you.

Do you know how many people haven’t felt that? People tell me to let go of the past so I can enjoy my now, but I cling to the time when love lived in my life. Now, too many angry people want to hurt each other; who wants to go near?

Place, the other great character in any story needs to provide for the plot. I live on a tropical island bitching about being sad and lonely; why don’t I move? Where would I go?

July, the month my honey died, proves painful annually; the month of widowhood picks the scab off wounds not healed. In July lifting weights only hurts, I feel inches away from crying, but it’s my job to make myself feel better. All I can say is repeated applications of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia and hot fudge topping does wonders after four years. 

What's It Gonna Be

To my dear sweet niece,

At twenty I married your mother’s brother; he liked to hang with the guys at the bar, so I went to the library because I like to read. We were young and in love so we picnicked and made love in the woods, but twenty years later, I’d say,

 “Wanna go to the movies; come on, let’s go.”

“Nah, I don’t want to go,” meant an evening watching TV.

If I wanted to go to the movies, I should go to the movies, so I said,

“I’m going to the movies; you want to come?”

He replied with his usual,

“Nah,” not missing a step towards the family room sofa.

Never had I gone to the movies alone; I held the notion that we should do things together, but had to honor that if he didn’t want to go, it was his right, so when I opened the front door, with my heart pounding, I called,

“See ya later.”

Looking back, I wonder why all the drama; the thought of being a married woman alone in a movie theater upset me, but determined to for once do what I wanted to do even if he didn’t, I left.

I remember my fingers being all sweaty, wanting to sob, but being me, I thought, fuck him and started the car, threw it into reverse and backed out of the driveway. Before I could get into forward gear the front door opened; he threw his shirt on while heading to the car.

“Yeah, a movie sounds good,” 

was all he said in his best nonchalant, cool dude style.

Honey, I don’t know anyone’s life but my own, but I have learned to love and value myself enough to do what pleases me.

Your mom and her brother were tight; she’d tell me stories of things she and her brother did. Oh, my, your family had love.

I remember you with long blond hair and bangs; it seems you were one of the taller kids. What a sweet girl, I thought, you took after your mom.

This much I know; a man who loves you may not go to the ballet with you, but he’ll join you on things he likes because he wants to be with you.

The times I went to things without him, surprisingly, I’d come home smiling. Learning I could have a good time alone helped me get out on my own after he passed.

With or without the love of my life, I must try to enjoy my life or be a miserable old bitch; what’s it gonna be, honey?

The Saggy Remainder Years Challenge

Most days I know what I believe, I think about it quite a bit. On what if days, who knows what will cross my mind?

I can see myself as a fat old lady stuck on a broke island waiting to die, which is true or as the adventurous daredevil traveling to beautiful places alone in her spare time, also true.

In between all these good times, I sure can feel sorry for myself. There’s no getting over you, my darling, even after four years.

God, thanks for the opportunity to have the tribulations that balanced my trials. One’s life should be a wild ride; oh, the shit, you do over the years.

Opting out on children means you don’t get to be grandma. It was my husband I never planned on living without. This majorly sucks and how do I let go of the loss enough to enjoy the saggy remainder years of my life?

That’s exactly the challenge; make the best out of the remainder when every day is bitch or brag and the best may be a pain-free day. Our days no longer hold wide open promise; a day working in the garden means happiness.

Daily, my husband suffered physical pain but managed to love his life and bring joy to others; he was one of those guys. I’ve seen a great spirit live a humble life in torture. I can quit complaining. This is me shutting up, accepting the saggy, remainder challenge.

Always, My Love

“Get over it,”

some have had the guts to say.

“Move along with your life,”

others counsel.

“He’d want you to be happy,”

A few console.

Fourth anniversary here in a bit

I miss being your wife

The showers of love poems

Sweet and sappy

People who like me, a small council

But no one on Earth to touch my soul

Alone, no you to hold my hand

Sampling life’s wares

Many shores to meander

Sunsets seen with toes in sand

Postcards wishing you were there

Always, my love

Post Trip Blues

We were going to weather every storm and enjoy every sunset together. Before that horrid day in July of 2013, I hadn’t thought about life without him more that briefly; I couldn’t contemplate being without my honey. 

So often one person in a relationship cares more than the other. Sometimes people take turns, but when you get it right and you both care it’s beautiful. For the rest of my life I may never have that beauty again; why wouldn’t I be sad?  

I hate being sad, during the last three years I’ve traveled to Costa Rica, Cuba, Trinidad, the Dominican Republic, New Orleans, and Orlando; all were fantastic. Living on a lush tropical island poses no hardship, so why do I think of these last years as miserable? 

Accepting my new reality is another one of those sheer cliffs to be climbed. After three years some would say not a new reality, but to me as yet unacceptable. I have a reputation for being stubborn. 

Perhaps I’m feeling post trip blues because for a month living in St. Rose, Louisiana I lived more in the moment and thought of Kirt less. 

The artwork collected at auctions with the passion of a zealot lays on the floor waiting to be re-framed. Pray, God, I live long enough to see pretty pictures on my concrete walls.  

My overall mental health can easily be identified by what I’m wearing. Days in my honey’s 1990’s cotton pants mean moody or who gives a shit.Positive days wear a new outfit and makeup. And, Friends, if there ever were an age for makeup I have surely found it. 

Would that I was an old soul with wisdom seeping out my pores, but my soul is young; I make mistakes. 

So much to see, and go, and do beg me to come and play, but a to the bone budget demands frugality. Discipline is difficult in a poor me frame of mind, but if I 

want another adventure, I’d better kiss it hello. 

Speaking of frames I lost the nails and eye hooks; I’d better learn those words in Spanish before shopping. 

Yes, it’s the post trip blues, just selecting a potential next trip has me feeling a tad perkier or maybe it’s fresh air after the rain. Today is a friend’s birthday; happy birthday, Gloria! 

We’re going for decadent chocolate cake before I hit the gym. 

People Or

Breezy and partly cloudy, that’s one of my favorite days. Do you find yourself looking out the window to be refreshed by nature? Remember staring out the window in grammar school, thinking about nothing? Any place we are, we can connect with love and peace by looking out the window. I remember in Chicago staring at a gangway between two brick buildings like something would suddenly appear.  Sometimes I’ve found myself needing it so badly I’d trance out.

Human angst, the state we seem to live in is a contaminating energy. I love people; we are wonderful, wise, and witty, willingly or not. All the silly-serious things we do amuse me, for the most part. Haughty people who raise their noses in the air when we happen to make eye contact sometimes make me laugh out loud. I don’t mean to be rude.

Most people are wonderful to meet, a smile and a nod as a brief eye contact is made in passing brightens my day. Is that really weird? I’m going to New Orleans for a people fix. It’s one of those places where you won’t encounter the mundane average woman who looks through you as if you weren’t even there when your eyes meet for a second. I haven’t phased your consciousness, really? In those women, I always feel much pain. I find that can be a contaminating energy; do you feel it that way or do you have better self-protection skills?

Almost four years after Kirt’s death, I am starting to feel the rhythm in my new life. Time at my home in a beautiful valley has been terribly lonely, but with time nature heals.

On a one-to-one basis, we need to start finding the good in each other. We are all one, the same human race.

Crazy energy in January opened a path for aliens, no, not Muslims or Mexicans, aliens from who knows where! Trump supporters ran the streets insane because a tough-talking guy like them would take charge, while liberals went apoplectic about the bomb in his hands, the environment, and a whole bunch of other stuff. America radiated crazy after the blast, so who would notice a few time space shifts?

I can’t say too much, they frighten me. They’re not like us at all. Hopefully, I can sneak a bit into my story and they won’t notice. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know why. Be watchful for the unusual. It’s all there for you to see for yourself.   

Friends?

My life has developed a fairly even pace. Tears are no longer a regular part of the program and after a lifetime of being half of a we, I’m comfortable enough going alone.

A widower once told me to strive towards contentment. I’m pleased with the life I’ve led, so now that time has eased the pain of my loss, I am content or as content as an old overachiever ever gets.

With my wonderful Aunt Margaret gone I have less in Louisiana to share warm feelings. Ever since I left New Orleans at the age of twelve, I’ve wanted to return to live at least part of the year. Until I’m ready to move I hope to develop a cadre of friends.

The first couple of weeks with you were awesome. I can’t thank you enough; that time was a gift to my spirit. We obviously weren’t meant to live in close proximity, but when treated to small doses of each other it would be good?

Yes, it’s all about friends. Into my life many lovely people have come and gone; I’ve been blessed. Some of my favorite people shared a mutual interest or passion, which for me has always had something to do with dogs.

In this new phase of life, I’m exploring possibilities. I see the last quarter of my life as empty pages waiting to compliment an interesting life.

I’ve learned that a fine acquaintance becomes a friend after the first altercation/disagreement. My gratitude for allowing me your sofa and into your life is enormous; you always were a good guy in my book. I hope you remember the good times as well as I do.

In two weeks I’ll be having oysters in Amite with Margaret’s sister, and then the Tennessee Williams, which comes before the French Quarter Fest. I love New Orleans. Bookstores, blues, jazz, writers’ groups, and City Park, I can’t wait. Perhaps you’ll meet me for coffee?

My Heart, A Poem

My heart is a lovely place to be with wisps of light and love

Surrounded by souls of every dog I’ve ever known

Beauty becomes us, but I couldn’t seem to find mine

Pretty exterior attracts cads like a hand to a glove

Most young men only want to make you moan

One great guy loved me for a really long time

It’s easier to see your beauty if someone else finds it first

A beaten body can harbor a sunken soul

As on drowning victim can die of thirst

Life’s travails take their toll

A healing heart hides not from pain

It flicks searching for fellow wisps of light on this earthly plane

Hello New Year

Sharing with another human being who also cares creates a beautiful bond. Family, friends, lovers it doesn’t matter; its rich treasure only increases in value with age. In 2016 I learned who I am without my other half.  

At this age many people congratulate themselves on who they have become; the unshakable confidence amazes me. It must feel wonderful to be that proud of yourself.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m far from ashamed of myself, but within a few years money gone in the recession, followed by life partner, best friend and lover passing has me re-evaluating how I want to spend these last years.

I’m a good person, so I’m proud of that, but my quirks and foibles cause me to wonder how much bad or negative I invite into my life. It’s eternal question number twenty. What could I have done differently that would have made a difference?

Weak, strong, smart, stupid, shy, bold, friendly, cold; I’m all of these in an old lady’s body on the short path to the finish line. I’m also the girl who still wants to enjoy the journey.

Welcome, 2017

Not Home Alone for Christmas

Christmas, the time of family caring and sharing comes crashing down on those of us left alone. My fourth Christmas without my husband won’t be home alone.  A flurry of activity in San Juan with a friend I met in Santo Domingo last year should occupy this holiday.

My lament when Kirt lived was we didn’t have a big family to share the holiday. His people died, mine moved away or brought the woe in woe is me. On our holidays at Starved Rock Lodge, we lounged before a roaring fire in a huge stone fireplace decorated with animal heads and garland, photographed bald eagles, and swam in an indoor pool. I loved the person I was with and now I’m alone with an acquaintance.

It sucks, right? That’s always going to suck. Being positive is a conscious choice; noticing every slight, anger at every wrong, and in general keenly observant of what is wrong is my heritage. On which side of the family I’m not going to tell you.

Work to mend the shreds of my heart continues. I choose not be melancholy; I choose to be happy. Somebody, please tell me; how do I do this? I’ve been sad so long that it feels like carrying a brick in my backpack.

On my fourth Christmas without my beloved, I’ll soak in the beauty of San Juan, while listening to the life story of a new friend. I won’t be alone. Be well.

We Change

People say that we don’t change, but I’m here to tell you we do. During my teens and twenties, it seemed to me that I observed more, knew more and understood more than most people around me. I was known to be smart. Now, I know I’m just a dummy with an ego.

Knowing this frees me from effort to save face. Before I realized this I thought I just had a fuck you attitude. Grief, a realm of its own, forced me into new behavior. I hadn’t been this angry or sworn this much since the terrible teens.

To top it all off I’m a Type A personality who ran out of gas. In my deepest depression, I made shorter lists; column A: go to movies and gym, column B: research methods of suicide.

I made goals to travel, to exercise and to explore the island. In some ways I haven’t changed; throughout my life, I’ve made lists and set goals. In those dark years after Kirt’s death, I didn’t recognize myself without his light shining on me and reflecting mine back. The little old list maker planned her way to a new life. Hah!

Trouble is in my head I’m surrounded by burned out shells and broken branches. To do all the right things, the things you hope will cheer you and soothe that screaming ass pain doesn’t get great results in the presence of overwhelming loss. It makes me think about holistic healing that heals precious bit by bit.

Recently, I read something by a man within hand grenade range of my age; in this piece, he congratulated himself for his wisdom, maturity, and courage. He saw himself as a role model; his friends heartily agreed.

Could this have possibly made me feel any more fucked up? I know nothing; I question everything. Everything dear disappeared; nobody knows my name.

Remember Janis Joplin belting out, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose;” why not, huh?

Spanish Jazz Intro

Sunday in Old San Juan sounds like a title to a song about a woman alone, who on seeing a rainbow over the park where she’s heading knows it’s a signal for joy.

The comfort of together is lost to her; those she loved left this life to continue their sacred journey. Left alone to learn to honor her existence, she wanders steep walkways. What do I want to do? My knees hurt; how far do I want to walk? No pain, no gain, so she heads to the top of the hill where a Turkish restaurant serves quality food.

Doormen try to entice her into their restaurants.

“Genuine Puerto Rican food, you will love it,” he said with almost a leer on his face.

“Yo vivo aqui. I get that all the time. I’m looking for something different,” her eyebrows seemed to leap a couple of times before her mouth and eyes settled into a lascivious smile. She walked on aching knees; where the hell is that place?

Finally, the Turkish doorman leads her to a table for one in the corner. She gathers the spirits of her dearly departed. Isn’t this charming, she asks. She’s not alone when she invokes the spirits who love her. Imagining herself surrounded with love she looks across the room; there’s no man handsome or otherwise to smile at her, just a few young couples very much into themselves, but she sees the pity in young women’s eyes.

Pity, the place where she’s lived for three years, draws her into the dark energy. She feels diminished; lentil soup and yogurt revive her. She heads back to the Bahia Urbana for an evening of jazz, topped by Jorge Pardo from Spain.

A credible group of students opens; her head begins to bob with the beat. These kids are good musicians and a couple of the talented girl singers. She smiles at the stage, enjoying the display of promise.

The second group was individually wonderful musicians, but she didn’t connect with them when they played together. This for some reason made her sad. She thought about leaving, but she had never seen jazz musicians from Spain before.

If she didn’t know they were from Spain, would they stand out as different the local band? She thought about the roots of jazz in the states, while group number two rocked some fabulous individual riffs.  She happily remembered when Caribbean Jazz became part of her world.

Would Spanish Jazz imprint strongly or be a wisp? Her back ached, so before the last set, she stood to stretch. You know the look folks get when they’re trying to look, but don’t want to be seen looking? Some seemed friendly, some held pity, kind of an awe you’re alone face and some were simply; what the fuck level of surprise is she doing here, but she never felt malice.

The walk to sustenance led to back and knees screaming above the music, but she’d come too far to leave without being exposed to some Spaniards playing instruments.

Generally, flutes fail to hold her attention, so when the thin longhaired man began to play she was thinking that maybe this wasn’t going to be worth the wait. A couple hundred miles round trip drive, gas, tolls, and parking for just getting there meant she wanted the trip to be worth expenses. A little seasoning and you go all critical, she laughed. His playing seemed rather pleasant.

Jorge Pardo stood like a toreador waving his wand; that looks and sounds pretty good. With a quick right to left movement his flute left notes, she followed in admiration. “He’s so Spanish,” she chuckled, having seen a fair number of flute playing people over her lifetime.

The stage backlit by well designed, colorful commercials showcased the performers in silhouette. A second man, holding a guitar stepped into the light and both had the most amazingly erect posture. A Spanish guitar speaks about the culture, the vibrancy of the people; the young man playing fluently carried himself with the same manly elegance as Pardo, who next played sax.

The drummer who could play in anyone’s band supported and blended very well. A clever fellow with an enormous base pleased her when more of the same would have been too much.

Flamenco goes so well with jazz; sound, presentation excellent, so she wanted to dance, but nobody was dancing. She packed up and danced her way out of the park. Young women signaling her thumbs up gave her a helping hand down a slippery slope. They seemed happy to see her. She felt a lovely group synergy; the trek to the car didn’t seem quite so far.

Problems, self-pity she left at the door the night she learned about Spanish Jazz.

Changing Growing Grateful

Learning to live alone and be happy in your senior years can be a slog. So many things that seemed important no longer matter. My I give a shit about list is embarrassingly large. For someone, who always wanted to be liked and respected, it surprises me how indifferent I am to other’s opinions.

Opinions filtered through eyes that don’t see me, but similar folk who came before me. People all too often rank each other as better or worse. If you’re seen as better, there’s jealousy. If you’re seen as worse you don’t matter. I don’t wish to be seen as better; to be given a set of attributes that doesn’t fit chaffs. My self-respect, my ego won’t allow myself to be treated poorly as if I didn’t matter.  

What matters is a day spent embracing beauty, the salty air blowing off the ocean, the roar of the surf commingling with local music, or better yet, jazz.

As the star of our own personal production, we can choose to share the stage with others or grab the light and refuse to relinquish. Some feel they’re the most interesting in the room or simply hope to have something to contribute to the conversation; I confess upon occasion I’ve worn each.

Center stage is not something that came easily, as a child, being center stage was generally followed by a beating. Sitting on the sidelines, watching; that’s safest. But we’re all the star of our own life; sometimes you just have to deliver your lines. And when it works, it really feels good.

In a room full of people there’s always someone who’s jealous of the person taking center stage. That’s what this better or lesser comparison system creates; perhaps it comes from our eat or be eaten stage.

From the safety of my planet, I see the beauty and diversity of God’s creation. I surround myself with what reminds me who I am, a child of God. We all are, as the cells on my body are part of me. To wish the biggest asshole ill hurts me! My spirit, my soul doesn’t thrive when I get involved in jealousy or pride.

Healthy self-respect is the neighbor of arrogance, who always pisses people off. One’s confidence will be attacked by other’s insecurity, and sometimes you’re the asshole doing the undermining.

Focusing on me, at this stage in my life seems altogether appropriate, so like it or not, get on with it.

Tonight there will be jazz in the street; guess where I’ll be.

Enjoy your day.

  

Carry on Jazz

If you can’t be decent to me, you can’t be near me. I hold my comrades to that minimum level of behavior. Beyond that I’ve been entertained by an array of craziness; sometimes not so entertained.

When someone, who knows your weaknesses, strikes in that tender zone, they intend to hurt, which in my book makes it malicious. I could tell how it made me feel, be clear about the pain caused, question why you wanted to hurt me, but maliciously causing pain isn’t an oops; it’s a scary character flaw which  repeats the behavior loop.

Being separated from the person you spend the most time with and have a ton of fun is not an easy thing to do; a surgical approach avoids an ample amount of drama. I hate how loud people get, myself included.

We haven’t spoken since the incident. The only contact, a text:

Are you mad at me?

Reply: Yes.

It seems this is the type of drama where in each side plays out a list of grievances or worse yet, say things in a competition to hurt the most. Oh, goodie, I think I’ll pass. Perhaps we’ve simply had enough of each other. Goodbye. 

We spent a considerable amount of time together each week, so the first felt like withdrawal. Wednesdays were fun; that’s pretty much why I didn’t understand her behavior on Thursday, but anyway the test of my readiness to be alone comes next week, big time.

I may be crazy; this may be too much for a senior lady alone, but the music calls. The Dominican Jazz Fest begins in the capital city, Santo Domingo; my hotel is a ten minute walk to the venue. What’s the best way to return to the hotel at the end of the evening?

Alone, I’ll miss the “what shall we do” discussion, but this is a bucket list trip. It’s on!

After a night of jazz in the Colonial Zone on the south coast, I’ll drive across the island ending up in Cabarete. Each night a different view, I thought it a ballsy trip for two senior ladies. I didn’t plan to do this trip alone; that’s a real adventure. Yikes!!

Let’s be real; I’m a fat old lady, alone. Of course, I’m scared. Many times I felt afraid when I first came to Puerto Rico. The fear I owned; across this island people have been kind, so when I went to the Dominican Republic, I felt comfortable, and a large contingency of police to protect the tourists made me feel safe.

Alone, this trip is scary for me, but listening to good music takes me to a happy place. I’m going. Please, pray for me. 

When a Friend Is Not a Friend

Stay positive; don’t bitch. That’s what my angel says. Tell it like  it like it is; the hell with whoever gets pissed. I don’t know who whispers that in my ear, but I hear it in my head.

We all have that public persona of how we’d like to be seen or perhaps more importantly how we’d like to be. I want to be a nice person who’s fun to be with, but if you hurt me or piss me off, who knows?  

We all spend some time in the asshole zone. God forbid, but maybe, I’m about to go there. That’s not a place I care to visit, but one thing I know is that when someone starts “messing” with you, it won’t end until you leave or have it out.

Just for the record people mess with you when they say hurtful things or embarrass you in public. You know the one, when you give them the how could you look, they look back with that innocent, huh, but you can see the corners of the eyes narrow ever so slightly, giving away intent.

Would it surprise you to hear that the person who messes with you will innocently rip you off? This person owes you a hundred dollars, and when you’re handed the folded money; will you look at it or will you stuff it into your pocket? You count and it’s twenty short. The twenty appears from the rear pocket where it was missed. This personality never apologizes, preferring to offer humorous quips. 

People who hurt the ones who care about them are perhaps repeating the treatment they received in childhood. As much empathy as I have for them, I need to escape that. I won’t choose to be with anyone who makes me feel bad about myself.

All my life long besties are dead. In finding compatible friends we go through so many misfits. Some times I just want someone to share a good day, but don’t mess my day up with meanness.

Who tells a friend to “order your Thanksgiving dinner for one? You should have a turkey dinner for Thanksgiving. You need this. This is a good idea for you; do you see this? Dinner for one, this is perfect for you. You should get this.” 

Who hammers this at you, while at the same time bragging how many homes welcome them? Is this person insensitive beyond imagination? Why would a friend be so hurtful?

This conversation took place over a coffee. “What are you trying to say to me?” I felt stunned.

“I’m just sayin, in case. You know,” attempting to sound conciliatory.

I rose and began collecting my napkin and cup.

“I don’t have to clean this up; let them clean it up,” my friend said in a voice so haughty that it shocked me.

Unfortunately, shock doesn’t slow my mouth; I fled the scene saying something about arrogance and ignorance, clean up your mess, and who knows what else.

What do you do, when someone tries to stick a fork in you every once in a while?  I grew up in a neighborhood where people messed  with each other as a big competition. I moved to the country to escape.

My sweet country boy didn’t like that thing city people do, so I stopped. He was right; life is more pleasant without it, so anyone introducing that negativity into my life needs to go.

This is so sad.

Life After Loss

Thirty-eight months after my love passed, like a sleepwalker I open my eyes to a world without you. Each day collecting experiences, a memory without you is what I have. Nightmare of the first year eased into the sadness of the second year. Even in the third year depression owned more days than not, but I soldiered on.

Date people say; meet a new man. It will heal your heart, but I fear it only would cover the hole with Play Dough.

Besides, where in the hell does a fat old lady go to meet a man worthy of a good conversation let alone love or companionship? By this age we all come with luggage a new person could get lost in. Who needs it?

Frequently I feel that I’ve joined some old ladies club where my opinion or worth receives little value. Middle age men cut in front of old ladies in line and have the nerve to look at us like where do you have to go. The worse part is clerks will take care of them first because they look important to the clerk. Balls to that I tell you.

When your life is a struggle between I’m chicken shit and what’s a painless way to kill yourself, that’s when the vultures hit. In my case a mechanic referred to me by a friend stole all the air bags out of my SUV. A handyman hired to replace the washers in all the faucets charged me for replacement parts he returned after he turned the old washers over gaining about six weeks before I had the same problem.

These things aren’t end of the earth bad, but I was already at the end of the earth. I’ve heard similar stories of people preyed upon in their darkest hours, so at least I’m not taking it personally.

They say that the colors of our auras reflect the energies we possess. Hurt and loss are a couple of ways even a normally happy, person loses positive energy. I knew a kind hearted, good woman, who after the loss of both of her parents got lost in the valley of the shadow of death. Her energy became so dark that the dogs in the neighborhood raised their hackles and barked at her.

Until I met her I’d always thought of negative and positive in simple terms of good and bad.

Since I’ve been in this dark place dogs react to me differently. That saddens me so; I must do something about it.

My exercise program is an apt metaphor for my life: hurts like hell, demands consistency, but little by little, poco a poco, improvement. I must be patient with myself.

Choices

Cheer up; is it as easy as a pill? Or is it the same as filling your day with beauty and pleasure, only to return home to sad and lonely?

Am I just a melancholy person?  Is that my new normal? No, that can’t be me! I see beauty in the day.

Perhaps I need more respect for my feelings; the shadow of my loss looms large even after three years. What did the Beatles song say? Filling the hole where the rain came in; was that it?

Someone told me that to strive for contentment is the best I can hope for at this stage of life. In his letters I met an educated man with the perks of life whose sadness rivaled my own, but I don’t accept contentment as my ultimate for the present.

My life will never be the same without my darling, but I’d like my joy of life back. To take pleasure in the day without an immediate return to sadness would signal my next stage of healing. I yearn for it.

Daily problems, the proof of life that screws with each day don’t impact me, except sometimes to punctuate Kirt’s absence. I’m just so tired of feeling sad. To add to my burdened feelings, is guilt because I am so blessed. I’ m healthy, living on a warm island with God’s beauty in my face.

Life is always problematic; I faced challenges finding joy in the doing. How do I get back to that, when loss is beating the snot out of me?

Guidance, I pray to recognize it. Ending on a high note with hope!!

Stormy Weather

Puerto Rico is under a tropical storm; the rain beats a steady rhythm. At three o’clock on a Sunday my darling died. My throat feels ragged from screams three years old. It rained that day as well.

The scent of wet humus wafts in the window on the cool, moist air. A chill feels good to me as thunder rolls through the hills. Nothing like a lazy, rainy day, I just finished reading See How They Run by James Patterson; no wonder why I’m feeling moody.

Times of feeling alone, separated from loved ones are the most difficult to deal with; don’t you agree?

We confronted our problems admirably; dare I say with dignity. We were strong.

Alone, I’m becoming a strong woman again, but there’s little heart in it. The biggest freaking irony is that I’ve lived in my head more than my heart. My life’s process has been to learn to live more in my heart. I wanted to feel things more acutely. I had to want that! The tight rein I held over my feelings didn’t suit me.  Goodie.

At every point in my life I believed what I was doing was preparing me for my life’s purpose, which I thought to be as a dog trainer. But I’m still here, so I have further purpose, but the thought of fulfilling my destiny no longer sparks my imagination.

We had goals and dreams that we worked hard to achieve. We were always going somewhere or doing something. Things at first seldom worked out, but how sweet it is when they do. We made a nice life, but then things happened and now I’m alone.

My life partner, my best friend from grammar school, and my closest family member all died within two years. That’s more alone than I’ve ever felt.

Depression parked it’s behind on my shoulders and rides like a cowboy, but bit by bit a new woman emerges, who likes to go and do. She’s finding her strength, and hope for a meaningful life apparently springs eternal.

The rain has passed; the air is still, only a single coqui sings. I’d better go do something.

My best to you!

The Woman of My Dreams

Do you feel it; the negative energy on our planet rises with the temperature. Every individual interaction creates energy. The more hate we throw around; the more is coming our way. It’s a snowball of karma aimed at us.

We want to be positive, loving people, but somebody has an asshole moment in your direction, so now, we’re pissed. This was your friend; how could they?

Discussing it only brings on more bull in the form of lies and excuses, so why bother?

At an age where you’ve seen it all before, the games become instantly recognized; you see how people advance themselves with others. You try to be careful of new people, but when you have nobody, you really must give it a try.

Here’s the thing; in the last few years, I’ve been burned so much that I’m beginning to relish my alone time. My favorite time is alone in public places where people delight me. I am the friendly older woman smiling or perhaps observing what a fine family you have. Our exchange creates a spark of positive energy.

This may be a shame, but I don’t care to get to know people well enough for them to have an opinion on how I live, call me a bitch, or tell me what I should do.

I respect your choices; be who you are, but show me the same respect. Don’t be duplicitous with me; my forgiveness is not a forgone conclusion. Once you lose my respect, we’re over no matter what else you have to offer.

The inevitable choice to be an asshole back or to walk away discharging as little negative energy as possible; flip a freaking coin, I can go either way; I am not the woman of my dreams.

  

The Woman of My Dreams

Do you feel it; the negative energy on our planet rises with the temperature. Every individual interaction creates energy. The more hate we throw around; the more is coming our way. It’s a snowball of karma aimed at us.

We want to be positive, loving people, but somebody has an asshole moment in your direction, so now, we’re pissed. This was your friend; how could they?

Discussing it only brings on more bull in the form of lies and excuses, so why bother?

At an age where you’ve seen it all before, the games become instantly recognized; you see how people advance themselves with others. You try to be careful of new people, but when you have nobody, you really must give it a try.

Here’s the thing; in the last few years, I’ve been burned so much that I’m beginning to relish my alone time. My favorite time is alone in public places where people delight me. I am the friendly older woman smiling or perhaps observing what a fine family you have. Our exchange creates a spark of positive energy.

This may be a shame, but I don’t care to get to know people well enough for them to have an opinion on how I live, call me a bitch, or tell me what I should do.

I respect your choices; be who you are, but show me the same respect. Don’t be duplicitous with me; my forgiveness is not a forgone conclusion. Once you lose my respect, we’re over no matter what else you have to offer.

The inevitable choice to be an asshole back or to walk away discharging as little negative energy as possible; flip a freaking coin, I can go either way; I am not the woman of my dreams.