Reset

In your life have you ever hit the reset button? I’m not talking about walking out on spouse and kids mega reset. Sometimes I get to the point I quit; it doesn’t matter how long I’ve been doing whatever, when it’s over. That’s a little reset.

Some people become something when they graduate; they do that their entire lives. Others explore more options, resetting our image to reflect new interests.

Some resets you want; you pray for them to happen, but hurricane, recession, accident, anything can reset your life.

After three years of living in the twilight land of I give a shit, caring, hoping, and wanting, welcome; haven’t seen you in a long time.

“Are you ever satisfied,” my husband occasionally asked, as I careened from one goal after another. My productive years of being, doing, and giving gave me an action adventure. I could have done differently, but wouldn’t. “Yeah, Honey, I’m satisfied.”

Retirement, alone is a reset different from what I had in mind. I saw myself pushing his wheelchair all over the world.

Sixty-eight seems late to hit the reset; what are my options?

All That Jazzed

What’s on your list of favorite things? On my list you’ll find jazz. A goal to fill life with my favorite things in 2014 became my 2016 goal to attend as many jazz festivals as possible.

The Heinekens Ventana de Jazz in the tropical splendor of Condado on the last Sunday of the month provided my jazz staple this year. The San Juan Jazz Fest in the Tito Puntes Stadium and the French Quarter Fest in New Orleans spiked spring with quality music. In June the monthly Heinekens Ventana de Jazz moved to Old San Juan, another beautiful spot by the ocean.

90.3 fm, el capital de jazz, my favorite jazz radio station en el Caribbe hosted a festival in Rincon, the island surfing capital. If you want to hang in a hip tropical isle town, Rincon will get the how cool is that juices flowing.

Brenda Hopkins Jazz Band held me captive in Rincon. For a woman to lead a band full of men, I find unusual; don’t you?

How does a woman, the key board player, lead a half a dozen young buck musicians? Heart and soul, she out plays, while honoring her teammates’ talent; the girl’s got class. Meeting women like that is truly one of my favorite things.

Ta-dum, drum roll, please, the oldest, the biggest, the best jazz fest in the Caribbean happens in November, the Dominican Jazz Fest, Nov 8^th-12^th and I’m going with a friend.

Moments, Precious or Not

Precious moments or not so precious moments make up our lives. I’m working hard to make more of my moments precious.

So much crap comes into each day.  Whether it’s the power went off or the loss of your BFF, it’s the bitch of the day or proof of life.

What really kills me is that at this age the odds of my demise keep going up. Who thinks much of life ending in the twenties? Okay, the depressed will.

My mom is ninety-three and counting, so I may have a longevity gene, but my dad died at forty-two. If I live until my mom’s age, that gives me about twenty-five more years.

My first twenty-five years came and went in a flash. I’ve met people more messed up by childhood, but then I sure could hold my own. If they wanted crazy, I’d show them.

Blessed are people who are interested in anyone other than themselves. Without the few adults who noticed and liked me, my childhood would have been unbearable. To those people I credit my desire to do well, and please.

So at sixty-eight and counting, I hope to focus on this being the best year I can imagine.  Days I’m out, experiencing my beautiful island, you can believe that day pleases me. The hardest days of my grief, thankfully have been endured. My question is no longer, how can I go on without my husband, but how can I best go from here.

Hope for today, hope for the future relinquished due to age appalls me. I require a new skill to adjust my expectations to what I can do. How do I challenge what’s possible?

It’s the time of year to list my goals for 2017. Just thinking about it gives me a precious moment!

Another Saturday Night

 Frequently, I have no one to go with me to the movies or to listen to music, or whatever. Sometimes that’s a so what, but other times it’s a complete stopper.

Last night Q, a night club in my town had the blues, the blues! The blues right up there with jazz!!

You have no idea how pissed I am at myself for being such a candy ass little bitch.

Brenda Hopkins’ Jazz Band, one of my very favorites on the island, was performing the blues.

Have you ever watched yourself sabotage you? You really want to do something, but can’t workup any enthusiasm.

Any time spent listening to live music, vibrating with the band, the sound synching us with the musicians’ virtuosity, can’t be beat. Smile.

I wanted to go to that concert and didn’t.

About three o’clock that afternoon, I took a shower, washed, and set my hair. You could say that the event was eagerly anticipated; I haven’t heard live blues since New Orleans last spring. I popped a movie into the computer. During the opening credits I shuddered with a feeling of dread.

What the hell is the difference between going into a bar alone or with another woman? I can go into all types of places with a companion. If she’s stupid enough to go in there, I’m certainly stupid enough to give it a try.

I knew from that moment of dread that it wasn’t going to happen.

Senior years bring self imposed limitations because as a New Orleans blues man said, “I’m a victim of comfort.”

An agitated feeling irked me. My fingertips got wet; my hands shook. The conflict, the thought that I would let fear or laziness prevent me from doing something I dearly want to do flipped my switch.

Last night with the strength from a good bit of healing, I grit my teeth, and vowed I would get out of the house to hear the blues.

I ate dinner during the movie commentary, which made me drowsy. I must have dozed, but in my zeal to get out I left early, a very early seven thirty.

I drove through Quebradillas, which had a fiesta in the public plaza. Parking looked grim already. I went to a party in the plaza in Hatillo on Friday night, so decided to deal with parking after going to the store in Isabela. Coffee and movies beckoned.

Walking around the store warmed up my back, which felt ok, but I couldn’t focus on shopping after finding The Tudors, the complete series. For a Saturday night the line was short, by quarter to nine I’m back in Quebradillas where the police have pulsating blue lights blinding me in terminally stalled traffic, and no blues until after ten.

To get to Q I’d have to go all the way around the plaza and suddenly I felt so tired. Tired like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. All I wanted to do was get away from there.

The pulsing blue lights destroyed my resolve. It felt as if I couldn’t go. Intuition or a panic attack; who the hell knows?   

Ch, Ch, Changes

I opened the closet door to bury my nose in my husband’s shirts, but he’s no longer here. Pictures of his beloved face look long ago.

Now, the time I live alone fills my days; my life is the merit of my actions. Perhaps that thought shouldn’t overwhelm as it does.

Goals have always been important to me. Lately, my goals are puny. 1) Enjoy the day. 2) Work out. 3) Travel. 4) Go to jazz festivals.

These are lovely goals for a retiree, but light weight. I always have had a cause or two aside from personal or professional goals. Contributing to the greater good, the rent we pay for our space here, have I paid my dues?

I fight for what I believe in; I’ve been part of many causes. The dog problem on the island has held my attention for ten years, but now I feel apathetic.

Malaise, melancholy smolder my life away. Missing you can’t be allowed to diminish my future. For each one of us, our life is our work of art. If I have ten or twenty years left, what do I want them to say?

Motivated, hard driving described me for decades. People frequently called me an over achiever. I identified with that; it was me. And now zip like my husband’s scent in the house.

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!!