The list

The tables at the diner are pushed close together to make as much room as possible for more patrons. I sit on a booth seat at a table for two, in a line of five tables for two. To my right is a woman holding her half of silence with her I assume husband because they are both wearing rings. To my left is a young boy of about seven years. He is not at all interested in being at the diner anymore and his mother is pretty much exasperated with his collapsing and sitting up and leaning on her and whining. She is breathing slowly, working on her patience. Sitting across from me is my friend Georgi. She's full of conversation from the minute I sit down, starting off with grey hair.

"Why is it," she asks me, "that men look distinguished when they start to go grey?" She moves her eyes but not her head towards the silent husband to her left.

"Not sure, Georgi," I say. Going grey isn't something I spend my time pondering. I am so blond that I figure I'll just go clear rather than grey because grey would actually be more color than I have right now.

"Well, when I get there, it's one of the things I'm going to ask him."

She goes into a story about a natural dye she's found "under ten dollars, less than ten minutes and I do it at home. Perfect." Although I hear her, I've been snagged by her comment. Gets where? Ask who? And then I realize that she means heaven and God. And I smile because conversation with her is refreshing. She's forever slipping in gems like that and it never fails to make me happy.

Defined today - I am

a daughter, sister, aunt, godmother
not a mother
not a wife
not very patient with some people
very patient with others
and losing patience with a few
very weary of promises
searching for solutions
wondering where the past three months have gone
wondering if I'm qualified for any of this
nervous every time my phone rings
still holding on to some wishes I'm not ready to make
frustrated, desperate, worried, stressed
wearing pink and black
recently manicured and pedicured
wondering what's for lunch
laughing that spell check just suggested "Pedigreed" in lieu of "Pedicured"

What's in a name?

Inspired - influenced; having the intellect or emotions moved
Work - these words
of - necessary preposition, but you knew that
Self-Indulgence - to gratify one's taste or desire

That should somewhat explain the name of this blog. External inspiration pushing the internal need to write.

I believe that all blogs are self-indulgent, but think of the environment and all the trees we're saving by not feverishly penning our thoughts in journal after journal. In the end, all that self-indulgence makes us an environmentally generous lot.

There's a splinter in my eye and it reads react

I am TIRED. I am having one heck of a time leading my life. I think I'm in charge but that is a joke. Simple stuff like fulfilling my goals for the day, following a simple plan of certain items on the agenda. Not happening. I keep getting side-swiped. While I know that I am not a target - no one is aiming at me and it is not personal - I feel like a doormatt, a backboard, a spittoon. Given what I have in my mind and experiences, I still cannot come up with a single realistic solution. Is it possible to find a solution for them that will also give a solution to myself? I'm not sure. And not being sure? That is hell. I mean it. *sigh*

With a nod to James Taylor

Tonight was a breath of fresh air (I know, I know, it's cliche - but it's true all the same). When you are grieving, you accept that you are in that dark place but there are times when you want out of it. It doesn't feel good, wanting to escape, but you do want to nonetheless. Right, who am I talking about, you? No, me. There are times when I am so tired and so worn down by the weight of missing my father and longing and wishing and hoping for everything to be different, or at least to have five more minutes and if not that I'll take five seconds.

Every now and then there are people and conversations that - for a moment - take me away from that missing and desperation. Tonight was that way. Tonight was dinner with two friends, and the conversation political. Tonight was about the Pope and President Bush and, well, entirely different conversations than I've had lately. Which is good, I'll take it. But at the same time, there is an energy expense to these conversations and I put forth that energy so that I can join in all the due passion and opinion. And it feels good to argue (debate) something that is not emotional. But it's energy spent and that is from a supply that I don't really have. I'm drained. And vulnerable.

When this evening was over, I got into my car and remembered like a punch in the stomach that I am alone. As soon as I shut the door, I was aware of it in that way that silence is sometimes louder than sound. My world settled gently but painfully around me. I sat in the car tonight and looked at a photograph of my father. He's wearing his red sport coat, holding a glass of wine, looking right into the camera with his beautiful blue eyes. And a tear dropped from my eye. It was time to go home. Time to return to what I am struggling to accept is now my familiar, which is a world without his presence, but one all about when he was once present. I turned the key in the ignition and the radio gave me this:

I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain
I’ve seen sunny days that I thought would never end
I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find a friend
But I always thought that I’d see you again.

Yeah, I always thought that I'd see him again.

Inches apart, yet miles and miles away

You can go to sleep one night and wake up the next day and have your entire life as you know it be different. Or a series of nights. Three months could be a night. Three years could be a night. If you noticed. Does she notice? I have no idea. But if she doesn't notice, then time has not passed and she's more or less stuck. Things may have changed, but time has not passed and time itself takes on a completely different meaning when one no longer acknowledges it. She's not concerned, allowing one day to float into the next, unrecognized or unnoticed, and one week into the next. The blur of weeks into a month, one month into another. She no longer needs this system of day and date, of schedule or organization. It seems that she's holding onto the present real tight, and the past, but not tomorrow, or the next day or anything beyond. As long as she sits in that throne and holds on, everything is okay. Where is she? I have no idea. What is she thinking? I don't know that either. But I do know that the world she lives in and the world we see her living in are two very different places. We send her plenty of invitations to come out but she will not. And for us she's hung a Do Not Disturb sign on her life. And it's not only a request but also advice. As if the hornet hung the same on its nest. Approach with caution.

This seat is taken

Two weeks ago I was here at the cabin writing about how two weeks from then, I'd be in Paris. It didn't work out that way. The result of having to postpone the trip left me with this weekend open, and well, here I am back at the cabin. And happy to be here.

Being at the cabin is like spending time with my father. If I could. I feel him here, see him here, see results of his work and his heart and his dreams here. This place is saturated with him and that's perfect. I have 20 years of memories here. I recall him at every spot. In the kitchen preparing his oysters, on the porch admiring the land, at the bar preparing his martini, downstairs in his workshop, outside setting out the sprinklers, taking the golf cart out for a 'cocktail cruise' with Mom, preparing the rods to go fishing, cooking the fish from the day's catch. And sitting in his chair at the dining table. So many dinners I had beside him at the table. So many mornings we sat across from each other, drinking our coffee and reading the newspaper while everyone else was sleeping. I'd look up at him sitting across from me and smile at him because those quiet morning hours we shared were so precious to me, the time that I had with him before the house came to life with the family and conversation. I look at that chair now and though it is empty, his was such a presence that I feel him there. I miss him so much it chokes my heart and yet when I look at this chair, I can breathe again. How I wish he was sitting in it right now. How I do wish that.

Morning walk

It's a nice mile walk around the island. This morning's surprise cool temperature and breeze made it all the nicer. The Cottonwood and Sycamore trees are fully loaded with their new green leaves and the wind blowing through them sounds like a distant crowd clapping. It's a treat to hear. But the best part, the very best part, is making this little walk around the island in my pajamas.

Because that's what she said

Sharon [from outside on the porch to me in the kitchen]: Alison, do you have a pencil?

Me: There's one right here but you have to sharpen it. [Then looking at Eddie] Eddie, will you sharpen it, please? I don't think there's a sharpener, but you can use a knife.

Eddie: Wait, I think I have a pencil in my backpack.

So, Eddie goes upstairs and looks for a pencil and Sharon comes inside and is looking around the cabin for a pencil but in odd places, places that a pencil would never be, say, in the area beneath the stairs where toys and puzzles are kept. And I'm looking at her with a look on my face that reveals that my mind is saying what the heck are you looking there for?

Sharon: Did you look on the clipboard I brought down, I think I have a pencil on that.

Me [admittedly a bit flustered]: Well, why did you ask me for a pencil then?

Sharon: I don't need a pencil, I thought you did. I'm looking for a tennis ball.

I'm not at all sure how that happened but I am quite sure that I'm sitting here right now with my own little preview of what life will be like when my hearing goes out. I think it just might have its moments of amusement. And as far as inventory goes, we do have pencils. And tennis balls.

This is it

You have to love small town Texas.