beth anderson

“Write hard and clear about what hurts.”

The title for today’s blog post is a quote by Ernest Hemingway. He was a brilliant writer. His style was concise, he advocated use of one-syllable words wherever possible. But his prose packed a punch and conveyed realistic messages and images. I am not Hemingway though I value his sense of adventure. Like Hemingway, I’m not immune to my own demons but will refrain from an exit such as his.

In an effort to spring clean my subconscious thoughts, I choose to confront some in the hope they will turn to vapor and dissipate. Though I present as a stoic individual with a good sense of humor, my facade hides so much more…both positive and negative. One thing I have I accepted is I am a highly sensitive individual. Due to my “uber” sensitivity, I feel things at far greater levels than many individuals. In addition, I feel your pain and hurt as if it was mine.

I stopped going to the movie theater more than twenty years ago. Because I hate crowds? No. Because it caused me real pain. The ever-increasing levels of sound and the flashing of lights made the experience physically painful for me. And some thought I avoided theaters because it wasn’t cool for us, as adults, to fling jujubes and junior mints across the rows of seats at one another. I never wasted a junior mint. If I caught one, I ate it. BTW, Milk Duds are the best for slinging, due to their heft. I liked them, though, so never tossed them.

Back to sensitivity…Being ultra-sensitive may also lead, as it did for me, to super-sensitive reactions to rejection. It’s a two-way street, though. I feel other’s rejections in addition to my own, but mine are soul stopping. I’m able to cope with them much more effectively now that I’m mature. Not so when I was younger.

This post is really about unsuccessful relationships. Bet you didn’t see that coming. I’ve never married, through my own choice. I’ve had opportunities. Bottom line, in truth, is I never wanted to have to “share” my true self with someone else. I felt damaged beyond any hope of normalcy and did not want to inflict that on another individual. My friendships were guarded, my intimate relationships were guarded. My emotions transcend depths that few feel. While that may be euphoric at times, it’s also devastating at times. We all go through this to different degrees.

Though I was an attractive young person, I had few dates. Raised at a time when nice boys weren’t supposed to take liberties, sometimes they did and I learned that could be fun. Also influenced by my Catholic upbringing, I was well aware that becoming pregnant just wasn’t something that was going to happen. What I also didn’t realize at this young age was I was asserting my own independence in refusing certain activities.

What I didn’t know, due to gross naïveté on my part, was I was creating a bit of a negative reputation for myself. I was considered a tease. Say what? I wasn’t sophisticated enough to even conjure up an idea like that. But I guess I was. Fueled by beer, and wanting to be “accepted,” there were some brief dalliances at parties. So thrilled to be an object of interest from a cute boy, things changed at warp speed when I put on the brakes. Worse was being ignored by said boy in school in the ensuing days.

I admit to being ignorant as to how that whole romance ritual was conducted. I was too much of a reader and thought things would be nice and sweet as I’d read in books. Yeah, no, that’s not the way it worked. And the really, really silly thing is I still feel that hurt fifty years later. It gnaws at me sometimes like a bad toothache. I doubt the boys could even recall it.

In a lighthearted effort to banish my blues recently, I put some words to paper. Though they desecrate the lovely tune “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” my apologies to Willie and Julio, my words convey some of my thoughts. Here is my flawed rendition called “To All the Boys I’ve Kissed in Life.”

To all the boys I’ve kissed in life/Who caused me hurt and endless strife

They thought they were so great/But I can clearly state

I’m glad I’m not your wife.

To all the boys I once acquiesced/Who merely wanted to grope my chest

Due to my naïveté/I became a rude cliché

And just another conquest

The rules of love are fraught with fraud/The boys walked out the door

The rules of love count for naught/Most of you were boors.

There were a few decent sorts. And there were a few I should have treated more kindly. I went on a date with a boy a year older because his sister kept bugging me to do so. He was nice but I did not have a romantic interest. He may have come to my house and rung the doorbell. I may have hidden on my basement stairs despite my best friend’s car being in the driveway. It may have hurt his feelings. I hope he would accept my apology for me being a dumb teenager.

Trust me when I tell you my actual poetry is world’s better than my attempt at lyrics. Sometimes I’m still in 9th grade mode…you know…when we made up stuff like “Yellow River” by I.P. Daily.

There you have it, Mr. Hemingway. Not at all as mellifluous as your prose. But it’s genuine and from a personal place. It may always hurt but I am also able to see it from a more lighthearted point of view.

Ch…ch…ch…choices…

Gotcha! Ever since I completed and published my first book, my wheels have been slipping and sliding through a vast expanse of mud. I’m blessed to have choices. My mind, in its perpetual state of motion, flits from one thought to the next like a prize-winning contestant grabbing dollar bills from the air. Each day I ask myself the same question…what should I do next? Each day the answer is different. Each day I struggle to decide.

In the last several months I’ve come to realize my time to finish what I want to do grows shorter. And though I’m on the downside of my time on Earth, I don’t want to leave with so many of my “songs” inside of me.** But the choices pose an interesting roadblock. It’s inaccurate to call it a writer’s block. I think of it more as a decision block.

My files contain hundreds of hand-written pages. Some include poetry, some include vast chapters of fiction, some include family history. With the exception of the poetry, most are unfinished. The digital files in my computer reveal snippets of memoir and more fiction. And, yet, my head still holds an almost endless stream of ideas.

Do I have time? It is not my question to answer. I do my best to keep juggling. There are days when I’m successful but there are days when the balls drop. Each day I pick them up and get them going again. The outcome of the daily juggling is not always mine to control. And though I ask myself the same daily question, I do not get the same answer.

This I know for certain. I must write. It’s as essential to me as breathing. Most days this one thought travels through my conscious thought…”The desire to write was planted within you for a reason.” Hmmm, ok. I get it. But, why?

My beloved Ray Bradbury says, “Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.” I feel this one to my core and, yet, the fear of reality is strong. Hemingway tells me, “Write hard and clear about what hurts.” Am I ready to go there? Maybe not. Stephen King posits, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.” I could go on. Don’t worry, I won’t.

Today I’m following Anne Lamott’s advice…”You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

For today, I have chosen to soar. To sustain me, the lyrics of a Lynyrd Skynyrd classic, “If I leave here tomorrow/will you still remember me?”

**N.B. Please don’t make assumptions from my words. Mortality is an issue many of us ponder as we age. I’m not planning on going anywhere soon, but that’s controlled by a Higher Power.

Paying it forward

The Alone Girl yearned to give back in some way. Not so much because she’d taken advantage of programs available as a youth, but in spite of them. The Girl had never been much of a joiner. And, honestly, there were few programs available when she was growing up.

Thankfully, literature offered the Girl a reprieve from some of the stress and responsibility of her life. After several attempts at publishing novels, she managed to hit the mother lode. That success paved the way for her to give back.

A writer’s life is solitary, but in a happy way. One is alone with the thoughts that stomp and rage through one’s conscious and subconscious minds. Harnessing them in a meaningful way is the true test of a writer’s skill. After repeated attempts, the Alone Girl wrote about what she knew best…challenges and what they do to one’s soul. It wasn’t that she wanted to “bare” it all for recognition, she hoped that what she wrote would help at least one other person understand and cope with what life had wrought.

Now the Girl was ready to pay it forward, to help other young people find a niche. And she was ready to do it in her own unique way. The Girl was a dreamer from her early existence. She yearned for opportunities to enrich the lives of others, to create practical learning experiences, to leave a legacy so there would be fewer Alone “Kids.”

And it was slowly taking shape. Over the years, she had developed her dream and put her ideas on paper. Her burgeoning literary success allowed her to create specific visions and definitive business plans. The trade off would be having to become more involved publicly. While this was not an idea that caused her comfort, it was not a high price to pay for illuminating her dream.

Though she created the dream, it could not be carried out in a bubble. It would require assistance from the rest of the “village.” It was not in her nature to ask for help, but ask she did. The response was staggering.

“If you build it, they will come.” Field of Dreams

“You better – lose yourself in the music, the moment
You own it, you better never let it go (go)
You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime”. Lose Yourself by Eminem

N.B. The Alone Girl knows she has the same odds of winning the lottery as she does writing a smash novel, but she knows dreams may come true. She’s also playing the lottery.

“I keep the visions to myself”. *Dreams* – Fleetwood Mac

You do you…

Acceptance finally entered my heart yesterday. It was a bittersweet moment and, yet, it brought peace to my agitated soul. With an elderly parent who is losing cognitive ability, it’s so easy to want to correct them. This is especially true if your parent was a perfectionist and you, in turn, are a perfectionist. Life is not perfect.

I found myself wrapped in a sweet moment yesterday that served as a lesson. It told me to rethink my expectations as my guidelines no longer fit the situation. I was seated with my mom, on a comfy sofa, in the common living room area of her assisted living facility. She was reading me an article from the New York Times. I don’t know why nor do I know her purpose but it was important to her at the moment. Instead of asking her questions, I settled directly next to her and listened.

As she read, occasionally pointing at a picture within the article, things made sense to me and I knew I needed to just let her do what she felt was important. In that moment, her need was to share those words with me. Mind you, she reads the paper without glasses. With my newfound acceptance of letting “her do her,” I relaxed next to her and let my head rest on her shoulder.

Without missing a beat, her hand reached up and cupped the side of my face. My soul was content. She stopped reading long enough to exclaim about the softness of my skin as she patted my face. I chuckled and reminded her of the many times she’s told me that since I was little. Looking directly into my eyes, she smiled and said, “you’ll always be my baby girl.”

“You were my strength when I was weak/You were my voice when I couldn’t speak/You were my eyes when I couldn’t see/You saw the best that was in me.” Because You Loved Me by Celine Dion

Beautiful wreckage…

“The most beautiful stories always start with wreckage.” Jack London

Jack London’s writing style was fresh and descriptive. Given his penchant for writing about the natural world, I enjoyed reading his work. And life is full of those moments when something sneaks up on you and bites you somewhere that gets your attention. I’ve been experiencing spurts of those moments.

While visiting my 96 year old mom at her assisted living facility the other day, I experienced a moment of empathy for Wile E. Coyote when struck by an anvil courtesy of the Roadrunner. (A point on your average if the “beep beep” just sounded in your head.) She had discovered some pages from an old address book and was reading the names aloud to me.

For most of them, there was no longer a connection in her memory to those names. Finally she looked at me and said, “They’re all gone, aren’t they?” All I could do was nod. So I asked her what she wanted to talk about. She gave me a confused look and replied, “Is there something to talk about?” Then she started to read the names aloud again.

These moments rocked me to my very core. They signaled the end of my intellectual and verbal relationship with my mom. No longer will we have cogent conversations. No longer will I be able to seek sound advice. No longer will anyone understand my unique flaws as she did.

I’ve been adrift for a few days. “There is no pain, you are receding/A distant ship, smoke on the horizon…”. The problem is I’m not comfortable nor am I numb. It’s heartbreaking to watch, the decline of a once substantive individual. I’m handling it rather selfishly at the moment. My diabetes has decided this is a good time to manifest itself through damage to my right eye. And the one who understood me best cannot comment.

I will sail through this emotional abyss. “oh but that’s the irony, broken people are not fragile.” This I know.

Both Sides Now…

She wasn’t thinking about “rows and floes of angel hair.” Wait, you mean it isn’t bows and floes? The Girl shook her head. Wrong, as usual. Surrounded by air that was slightly humid, the faint whine of mosquitoes sullied the solitude. She thought again about how things seemed louder to her and how even the slightest noise startled her.

The familiar flutter in her chest as a twig snapped caused her to spin around and jump at the sight of a friend sneaking up on her. The Alone Girl was used to being teased by others who found humor in startling her. Her practiced smile appeared as her friend chuckled, unaware of the state of panic caused within the Girl. Decades later the Girl would learn, oh, whatever. It doesn’t matter. What’s done was done and can’t be undone. The damage remains.

The friend asked what the Girl was doing. The Girl replied, “I don’t know. I was listening to the woods.” And she was. There were so many layers of sound in the woods from breezes brushing by leaves to birds scrounging for seeds to the faint undercurrent of a nearby stream. The Girl belonged in this environment. She needed this peace. It was like she visited this space in order to recharge.

The insipid “friend’s” chatter was gnawing at the edge of the Girl’s awareness. Determined not to respond to the repeated questions of why she was so weird and why did she do odd stuff like this, the Alone Girl stood up from her seat on the fallen log and walked off. Never deliberately confrontational, she walked away signaling the end of the conversation. That was her M.O.

In further search of peace, she stopped midway on the bridge over the huge pond. There she observed fish of all sizes jockeying with each other for a snack. It was a dog eat dog world everywhere. The pale sun of early spring bathed her face. She closed her eyes and listened to the frogs making their presence known. Why was it that any variety of sounds could be a blessing and a curse to her? Was she the only one with this perception? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a subject she dared bring up to anyone else. They didn’t get it.

As always, words coursed through her head as though spurred on by what she heard: “Before the breathing’ air is gone/Before the sun is just a bright spot in the nighttime/Out where the rivers like to run/ I stand alone and take back something worth remembering.” She felt a smile cross her face. Her moment of peace was complete.

Lyrics from “Out in the Country” by Three Dog Night

Creating mood, or maybe not.

She leaned into the wet snow that tangled her eyelashes and pelted her face. Walking was difficult in snow containing a high-moisture content. Her wet Docksiders slapped along the sidewalk. The girl peeked sideways at the yacht-like cars chugging their way home. Homes that were warm and welcoming with dinner waiting on the table.

Meg was making her way home, wishing for the umpteenth time that one of her teammates would have offered her a ride. Yet, day after day, Meg slogged home in the darkness. Meg vowed to herself not to forget how the other girls would avoid eye contact, knowing Meg was too proud to ask them. The phrase “Be kind to others” was part of Meg’s automatic thinking – a lesson she learned at a young age.

As she drew closer to home, the strains of a song skipped through her head. Her mind was never quiet. During these solitary walks, the girl often conducted a stream-of-consciousness conversation with herself. It helped to pass the time. She considered the tune in her head to be her theme song. Its title? Alone Again (Naturally). Her circumstances matched the song’s title but not the events of the song. Meg spent a great deal of time by herself. And that’s why she called herself the Alone Girl.

The skinny on weight loss…

It’s simple. Eat fewer calories than you expend. The quality of the calories plays into it as well. But, that’s the bottom line.

The skinny on me is I wasn’t always fat, obese, a whale…call it what you will. I was active through college. An operation created hormonal imbalances in my body. Coupled with that, my anxiety levels went through the roof (see also, hormonal imbalances). I ate for comfort. First I spent a few years consuming lots of alcohol. I stopped that in my late 20s and became a severe over-eater.

I was raised to eat in a healthy manner. My mother provided balanced meals. I wasn’t a picky eater so I ate my share of fruits and vegetables. I even ate liver once a month. Typing that made me wince and shiver at the same time.

It was a treat to go out for an ice cream cone. Mostly we had homemade desserts and cookies. Drinking a soda was also a treat. I can only blame my weight gain on myself. I’m not lazy, I’m not a slob, I’m not a moron. And yet, here I am fighting the food demons daily. I’ve been on pretty much every diet, weight loss program, you name it. I’ve maintained my unhealthy weight for a few decades, never letting it get beyond a certain point.

I’m more than capable. I’ve been to nutritionists. What I cannot seem to do is to control the mental health demons that drive me to eat and eat some more. You might be saying that you’ve eaten meals with me and wouldn’t say that I overate at all. That’s true. I’m not going to give anyone fuel to hurt me with ugly words. Those of us with this issue know how to “cope.” A person might have a “stash” at home. Or might zip through the drive-thru on the way home from eating with friends. I’ve done both. Believe me, I’m not proud.

In our modern day and age, weight loss medications are all the rage. I have type II diabetes controlled by insulin. I’ve had the opportunity to try many of the oral meds from their inception, as well as the injectable’s. And, oh yeah, another nod to that surgery I had…I’m not able to tolerate some meds and foods. Do they cause me problems? Yes, but it’s not minor inconveniences…it’s horrible stomach pain along with all that comes with gastrointestinal distress.

Now, I’m not a doctor nor do I claim to know much about chemistry but I know when it’s time to stop putting stuff into my body (except for food, obviously). I’ve dutifully tried the new crop of weight loss drugs in a huge attempt to lower my blood sugars.

Thankfully my endocrinologist is part of a large group who are assailed by large numbers of sales reps. I’m always willing to try something that may help me so last spring I spoke with one of the diabetes educators about the types of insulin pumps that are on the market. In July I received some training for my new insulin pump. It’s marketed as a “bionic pancreas.” And it is, more or less.

It has the job of providing my body the correct amount of insulin it needs. My job is to change infusion sets every two days and also to refill the insulin when it runs out.

This is the pump in its most basic form. The tubing attaches the pump to the needle at the infusion site. For me it’s my stomach or the side of my stomach, just above my waist. The gizmo in the upper-right hand corner is a continuous glucose monitor. Often worn on the back of the upper arm, it communicates wirelessly to the pump to keep it informed of my blood sugar readings. The pump uses its algorithm to determine how much insulin I need and dispenses some every five minutes. The only thing I do is to “announce” my meals. I tell the pump if I’m eating more, the usual, or less of each meal. The pump has taught itself what amount of carbs I eat and bases the insulin required on that.

Back to calories in and the quality of such….I just had a checkup. Even eating badly as I often do, my a1c level, a measure of average blood sugar over the last three months, decreased by 1 1/2%. That’s big, for me. Using the pump has been a learning curve but I’m glad I persisted. It also means one needle insertion every 24-36 hours instead of 4-7 shots per day.

Last week I woke up and my legs were aching badly. Hauling myself around creates a strain. I’ve had one total knee replacement and the other knee is screaming for relief. Oh, and a hip is complaining loudly. I am fully aware of what my body has had to bear. Does that stop my binge eating? Why, no. No it doesn’t.

So take the new weight loss meds. My body is unable to tolerate them. Ok, then have that gastric bypass surgery. Ah, no. I already have GI issues. From those with whom I’ve spoken, the surgery can manifest itself in loads of GI issues involving the bathroom. Plus my stomach is fine. Why would I irreparably change it?

Calorie quality. There is one weight loss plan that is sensible and works as long as you work it according to plan. When I do, I’ve lost weight and my blood sugars are much lower. I’ve started it at least 25 different times. Will this be the time it sticks? Will this be the time that my binge eating demons will be exorcised? Let’s hope so, even in a small way. I’m no stranger to pain and I have a high pain threshold. But I’m tired of the pain, so tired. I despise that there is so much I’m unable to do any more because of the pain.

As Kenny Loggin’s voice parades through my head…”Are you gonna wait for a sign, your miracle?/Stand up and fight.” I’ve got to. My body tells me so. My mind has other ideas.

It’s back to following Weight Watchers where no food is off limits. You learn to plan and prepare. And if you follow the plan, you can eat a more than satisfying amount of food…the good calorie stuff.

Dinner of chicken, roasted tiny potatoes and veggies w/a sprinkle of cheese.

A bridge too far…

For all that the Bear Mountain Bridge is historical and important, it played an unexpected role in the dismemberment of my sanity. This bridge was built in 1924 and connects Bear Mountain State Park, NY with Cortlandt, NY. It spans the Hudson River allowing residents from two large counties in New York State, Orange on the western side and Westchester on the eastern side, easier access to one another.

As a resident of the Capital District of New York, I was used to traveling throughout New York and New England by the time I was a young adult. Since the area where I grew up was influenced by the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers, I was used to crossing the variety of bridges in the area. There was never any fear involved. It was a means of getting from Point A to Point B.

It all changed for me on one fateful night in the winter of 1982. Everything changed for me, and within me, at that time in my life. If you knew me prior to this point in time, I’m glad. If you’ve only known me since that time, all I can say is I’m sorry you didn’t get to experience me as I was before that time. And, trust me, I miss who I was before that time. Try as I might, despite a lifelong travail through therapy and medications, I’ve never recaptured the core construct of my personality. When you’re twenty two years old, it’s hard to envision such a profound transformation could be imminent.

The night I traversed the Bear Mountain Bridge, the one and only time, began happily. I was on semester break from graduate school and visiting a boyfriend who lived downstate in Monroe, NY. The previous evening he had treated me to dinner at a magical Japanese restaurant. This night we’d dined at home with his parents, a very pleasant occasion. We were then off to meet his best friend and his fiancée for some fun bowling.

It should have been an omen to me that my boyfriend changed his shirt to match mine in color. I do remember thinking it was a bit odd to see us in matching pink. And bowling was something I did not do on any sort of regular basis. The third warning flag was the constant chatter from my boyfriend about the size of the friend’s fiancée’s engagement ring. He told me mine would be larger. Whoa, Nellie! We’d only been dating a few months and marriage was not part of my thinking at the time.

But as a perennial people-pleaser, I wanted to make a good impression and off we went. I was not geographically familiar with that area in the least. He mentioned traveling across a bridge to get to our destination. That wasn’t an issue for me as I did it all the time at home. In fact, much of my life has been constructed to make others happy. “The times they are a’changing…”

Here’s the rest of the recipe for this disaster…in third grade I was in a bad car accident during a snowstorm. Relax, I wasn’t driving. But the three of us in the car were each seriously injured. This created fear for me as a car passenger (still), especially when dark and the weather iffy. Add the increasing anxiety and depression since my female surgery eighteen months prior.

On our way to the bowling alley, my boyfriend took the most direct route which meant driving over the Bear Mountain Bridge. I’d never seen this in the daylight, so I couldn’t visualize it (a coping mechanism for me). Then the weather turned and sleet started to pelt us. We arrived safely but my insides felt like liquid.

When it came time to go back, the sleet and snow persisted and I begged to return to his house a different way. It meant going a different and longer route but the bridge wasn’t a few hundred feet in the air. Luckily the boyfriend complied.

That would turn out to be one of my milder anxiety/panic attacks. I had no idea what was happening inside of me and why I was so unwell. I’ve sailed these waters for the past forty-four years. Through lots of work and med changes, I found a medication balance about twenty years ago. It’s not perfect. I’m still prone to cyclical depression and anxiety is very much a part of my daily life, but it’s far more manageable. The downside is the meds cause weight issues and my anxiety drives me to overeat. As I said, it isn’t perfect. It’s allowed me to exist.

I’ve given up on many things I’ve wanted to do in my life. But as life grows shorter I have promised myself to do things I’ve wanted to do and are within my capacity to achieve. My first book is written, published, and well-received. Last fall, I took an Amtrak sleeper car to Spokane, WA., and back, to meet some of my first cousins from the paternal side of my biological family (I’m adopted). I made the trip by myself. My cousins were welcoming and I’m so glad I made the journey.

I’ve done a few other things I’ve wanted to do for a while and I’m still pondering learning a musical instrument. In the spring I plan to drive over the Bear Mountain Bridge, in the daylight, so I can thumb my nose at it for its role in my earlier life. Wait, who am I kidding? It deserves a double bird flip. And that it shall have.

Four first cousins and a cousin’s husband.

Holiday transitions…

Ha, you thought it said traditions. Luckily this post addresses both, I think. The accompanying photo popped up in my Facebook memories today. November 2020 was during the height of the pandemic when many of us were sticking close to our own groupings of loved ones. Since my mother and I comprise our family, that’s why the table is set for two.

My upbringing focused on time-honored traditions, especially for special occasions like the holidays. My mother’s attention to the traditions bordered on fanaticism but it was done out of love and respect for her mother. Not that it wasn’t awfully close to the concept of tradition in Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery.” “Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones.” Yes, this story speaks to the negative aspect of some traditions. I prefer the positive.

Traditions may also be comfortable, like a well-worn, favorite blanket. They may remind us of a time when we felt safe, loved, and comforted. Those are what I cling to, even just loosely. Childhood holiday preparation meant getting out the “good stuff.” In those days when most brides of our parents’ generation still expected to receive China, silver, and crystal as wedding gifts, their use was saved for special occasions. And they were expected to be used at those times.

This picture made me smile as I looked at what was in it. With my then 90 year old mother as my companion for Thanksgiving, I knew she would prefer to see the “good stuff.” And, honestly, I wanted to use it for the occasion. Silver was polished, crystal was washed, and a treasured linen was freed from its place in the closet. I was happy with the result and it meant a great deal to my mom. She grew up eating from those dishes, with that silver, each Sunday until she married at 20. My mother and her brother were very sentimental about their mother’s memory. The dishes and silver are my grandmother’s from the mid-1920s when she married. The linen tablecloth was hand embroidered by my grandmother or her sister, likely just after the turn of the 20th century.

The linen napkins were some of my mother’s wedding gifts. My contribution was the setting. That’s my home and furniture. And I prepared the meal (comprised of traditional fare, of course). The pumpkin centerpiece was given to me by a good friend and it had a bit of an “elf on the shelf” connotation. Where would the pumpkin be found next? It became a victim of my most recent move when I had to merge households.

Why do some of these material items bring me comfort? They have been handled by people I love and especially by those I’ve loved and have left us. They in turn were comforted by their relatives previous touch. These items were obtained through love, respect, and a great deal of hard work. They are as much a part of me as they are part of my “stuff.” I’m proud they’re mine. But their true monetary value does not measure their worth. “The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart.” (Judy Garland)

Here’s a little something for your senses…”Touch me/It’s so easy to leave me/All alone with my memory/Of my days in the sun…”. “Memory” by Andrew Lloyd Webber.