Knitting gives me a tension knot

I've been knitting. As a general rule, I despise knitting. The needles are too long and I always pull the yarn too tight and then I can't get the one needle underneath the yarn and I miss stitches and it's basically a huge lesson in futility. Plus, my fingers get in the way, and the instructions appear to written in a foreign language. But now I LOVE it. I found a new way to knit. As you can see, hats have already been made! I'm using these round looms. I wrap the yarn around the loom, use one small hook instrument, and then, wa-laa, there is a hat.



I've also been making beaded mason jar hanging lanterns. I'm a weirdo. This picture does not do them justice. I do need to refine the finished product a bit and put about an inch and a half of fine, clean sand in the bottom for the candle to nestle in. They look beautiful at night lit up outside. I like the plain-ness of the mason jar with the little bit of bead pizazz on the handle.


As for me and my day...after the cake comes out of the oven (It's my dad's birthday today and although he died three years ago, I really like the ritual of still making him a cake. I spend the day thinking about him and honoring him a bit. And I'm sure that somebody will eat the cake.), I'm going to head up to see my mom. It appears that they're taking much better care of her now that I've lit a fire under their bums.

Part two, the second time

Quote of the late evening:
"Never be afraid to make someone do what is right"
jmd


It's only an hour from the time I wrote that last blog, but after midnight tonight, I have vowed to get back to my creative whirl...so, I must catch you up first. After calling three doctors, and after they, very graciously called the facility and the doctor who released my mama, that doctor called me himself. I voiced my concern, informed him that I'm not usually the squeaky wheel, but, for my mother I will do whatever I have to do to assure that she is well cared for. Huh-ummm....in fact, I'll be a calling the insurance company in the morning to inquire as to how long the average hospital stay is for a hip replacement in a older woman with dementia. And, if she's not smiling and alert when I go see her in the morning, I'll need her readmitted to the hospital, because that's how she was the last two days when I saw her. And, I'd like to see a list of the times and amounts and kinds of pills she's been given. And, I'd be heading up to see my mama in a few minutes and I hoped they'd have a "watcher" with her by then. So I tromped up there at 9:30 pm, and my mama was much better. Clean, new diaper, pillow strapped between her legs to keep her from tweaking her new hip, warm blanket, tucked in bed, very nice woman sitting in a chair at the side of her bed, watching The Closer, I think, on tv and glancing at my mom occasionally. That's all I wanted. No disco ball or caviar milkshakes. Just good care. I just wanted someone to do the right thing. Thank you.

Now I am going to go finish my glass of wine, go to bed, and start a new book from the library. Creativity can wait until tomorrow. And again, thank you.

I was going to write about something else

Well, here I sit, drinking a lush glass of rich red wine from a bottle that cost over ONE STINKIN HUNDRED DOLLARS. No, I am not celebrating. (I really did not intend for my blog to be a vent, only a smiling icon of creativity, oh well. And I really have only had half a glass. Can I talk about my mother?) My mom got released today from the hospital to a skilled nursing facility. Less than 72 hours after a hip replacement. She's 87. She has severe Alzheimers (capitalized merely because it really is that big). I went to see her. Can you hear me scream from where you are? Here's the diff....Hospital...tucked in bed, warm and cozy, catheter in, a sitter who SITS by her side 24 hours a day, correct meds, healthy shakes and pureed food, fed while still hot (the food, not the shakes), the pillow between her legs - put there to keep her from crossing her legs...strapped on, sweet nurses, monitored, watched, cared for. Skilled nursing (with little skill or nursing).....no blanket pulled up, no diaper on, no one watching her, no rails on the bed, leg pillow tweaked, MAYBE they might be able to check on her once an hour but no guarantee, pureed food sitting there cold with no one to feed her. Clothes disheveled. Lortab extreme so at 72 hours she is half, no, one quarter as alert as she was an HOUR after the surgery. The doctor that released her unavailable. I've been on the phone for the last three hours trying to get her readmitted. But no one can do it. "She must have some type of medical reason" they all say. How about, well, maybe, what do you call it.... insufficient medical care!

Back to the wine....for those of you that didn't know, I used to own a wine store. I bought (cheap) several bottles that were pretty darn swanky. I have realized lately that it's really pointless to save things for a "special" occasion or the "right" time. So, I'm having a glass of special as we speak(write). Live. Now. Please.

Mom - Part Two

Life is weird. Hours after the "All about my mom" post, she fell and broke her hip. Since she really has no language to speak of (is that a pun?), the only way to gauge if she feels pain is by facial expression. A nurse could ask her how she is and my mom would have no idea what or how to respond. In fact, it wouldn't even dawn on her that a response was required. And, actually, she probably would have forgotten both the pain and the question by the time the inquiry was finished. So I felt good being able to translate, and to let all the care giving people know that, no, she cannot respond, she cannot answer questions, and she cannot follow directions. Oh, but she'll smile at you and she does seem to understand a bit of what's said. (She also has Pick's disease, which takes away language.) They all prepared me for the worst; she's frail and has dementia and is 87 years old and "you just never know."

I thought a lot about life and death sitting with her in the emergency room Thursday night. I thought a lot about it all day Friday, talking to the anaesthesiologist and the bone doctor and the nurses (who were all kind and wonderful), and taking Jay up before the surgery to kiss his grandma, and sitting in the waiting room and cafeteria (awesome food at that Flagstaff Medical Center by the way) while she was in surgery and post-op. Shout out to Maggie and Alyson who sat with me.

Man, I was scared. I was also wondering, as usual. I kept thinking about quality of life...and living life...and what's for the best...and why... and I thought, in-between my own fear and anxiousness, that whatever happens is okay.

But I tell ya, when they let me go up to her room after the surgery and the post-op, and she was alert and she looked up at me and smiled and gave a little laugh (Yeah, after a new hip, she's chuckling), I was so flipping happy. I was so unbelievably happy that my own little mama was still here, still smiling, and still not remembering a darn thing. A little bit of selfishness on my part but I still need hugs from that lady, and she's still here to give them.

All About My Mom

May you live all the days of your life.
--Jonathan Swift





I went to see my mom yesterday. She's my little sweetheart and my big motivator.










Here is a poem about her....




Care

I would stand in the circular drive
at McEachron elementary school, my hand splayed out
above my eyes, watching
for the Olds.
When it pulled up, I would struggle
with the heavy door against
the Kansas wind and settle my slight
ten year old self
on the burgundy velvet bench seat.
We were going to Bike’s
Burger Bar for thirteen cent hamburgers
while all the other kids sat
at the gray formica tables in the stark gymnasium,
eating beef-a-roni and drinking milk
from tiny red and white cartons.

Every other Friday at exactly noon
she came to get me;
the only one leaving school for lunch, the only one
having a Bike’s hamburger with french fries
and a pop. Sitting at the speckled table,
my mother would listen as I talked in-between bites;
she would ask questions,
and make sure I had enough ketchup.
I don’t know what we talked about; recess maybe,
a mean boy or how my cat, Tony,
could meow the loudest of all the cats.
And before she took me back
she would dip her napkin in the cold,
sharp ice water and wipe my face.

On Saturdays she would let me
polish the philodendrons with a cotton ball
and a plastic cup of milk and mayonnaise.
She would vacuum,
and iron sheets and handkerchiefs
while I knelt on the floor
and cleaned each soft green leaf.

Now we are walking down a sidewalk
where nothing is familiar
to her. Not the cars passing, not the house
where they have lived
for seventeen years, not even me. I think
that I would like her to take me to Bike’s Burger Bar
again, or mix the milk and mayonnaise
with an old tarnished spoon
and let me wash the leaves
for her. I would like to sit together
by the side of the house, planting marigolds
and petunias, dropping the pink, writhing earthworms
in a Folgers Coffee can; the scant grounds
of coffee left in the bottom
for food. I would like to go somewhere with her
and have her listen to me, and ask questions,
and make sure I have enough ketchup.

She will not ask any questions today.
But the hand that I hold is the one that once held
the damp napkin and washed the lunch from my face.
It is the one
that held the iron
and planted the marigolds, the one that
opened the Folgers and turned off the light
before I slept. As we keep walking, I settle
myself against her slight frame,
draping my arm across her shoulder,
and hold tight to the body, living.

End



Not to get preachy here, cause you know I hate preachy, but this woman had a miserable, abusive childhood. And then somehow, she pulled it together, and she became a great mom and wife and community volunteer. She was the queen of macrame plant hangers, and the stand-on-the-porch-and watch-the-tornadoes-roll-in gal. She was there for me and my family, for her friends, and even for herself. She had a wonderful balance in her world.



This last picture is from yesterday. When I walked in she was snoozing on the couch. She woke up when I sat down. I chatted, she sat next to me. She has the smoothest, softest skin of anyone I know. She put her hand on my hair, like she's done a million times before, and I knew that if she could have said any one full complete sentence it would have been..."When are you going to do something with your hair?"

Wrestling with the Numen

Just wanted to pass on this great word....

Word of the Day: Numen (noun)

Pronunciation: ['nyu-men]

Definition: (1) The spirit, driving force or divine presence (but not a deity) residing in a particular kind of object or place; (2) creative powers or spirit, a muse with attitude and muscle.

Usage: The plural is numens or numina; no one seems to care. Just remember that the vowel [e] becomes [i] in the Latin plural, as it does in the adjective, numinous "containing the aura of a supernatural or divine power." Aside from their many gods, the Romans believed in particular powers that resided in objects that explained their behavior. For example Frutesca was the numen (spirit, driving force) of fruit, while Fulgora was the numen of lightning. Mercia was the numen that caused laziness and Maturna, the numen that held couples together.

Suggested Usage: Numina are expected to protect the things they abide in. When parents return home to find the children asleep but the house a wreck, they might say, "The numina of our house must have been away for the evening." However, the word today also refers to one's creative powers as opposed to the gentler muse: "I'm waiting for my numen to move me toward the completion of this Word of the Day."

Etymology: Today's word comes from Latin numen "nod, behest or beck, divine will" from nuere "to nod." Akin to Greek neuein "to nod" and nyssein, nyttein "to prick, sting." The same Proto-Indo-European root emerged in Sanskrit as navate, nauti "he moves, turns" and nudati "push, jerk,". The original idea was that the nod of a godly head leads to good fortune and numina were spirits of the gods.

Define it.

What IS creativity anyway?! As I am half way into my second month of Opus, I am trying to define it a bit...okay, maybe I'm just trying to see what I can CALL creative that might also be functional (dusting?), or selfish (reading People magazine?) and still get my four hours completed. And if I make it sound like a chore, please remember, this year of Opus is all about working at creativity, not waiting for the muse to whap me on the head. So yes, it's a chore; a lovely, fascinating, beautiful chore.

The official word...creative 1. Having the ability or power to create. 2. Creating; productive. 3. Characterized by originality and expressiveness.; imaginative.

I will catch you up a little on what HAS been done that is unquestionable; (1) Transferred 50 hours of super 8 film onto DVD as the first step in my documentary about my mother. (2) Created, framed, and filled out paperwork for 5 County Fair art entries. (3) Wrote two average poems and one good one...partial revisions also done. (4) Planted three gardens and obtained canning jars and on-line canning instruction. (5) Am working on one piece of furniture...well, a drawer actually. I've painted it, and fiddled with pictures and words. It's really more of an art piece. I'm chronicling the whole process on film to post here when I finish.

Those seem to be true creative projects. Totally allowable. These next things are items I think I can squeeze into the four hours but are slightly iffy; (1) Taught first session poetry class at NAU (2) Started a great book, Honeymoon With my Brother. (3) Tried out several new recipes, including pesto/cracker crumb coated salmon and mushroom and spinach enchiladas. (4) Saw the play, The Underpants. (5) Started a blog :)

And then these last ones are borderline at best; (1) Filed four stacks of papers, receipts and writings (2) Played golf with my son (this is far more creative than you would think). (3) Brushed the dogs (4) Thumbed through my 40+ pages of quotes thinking about including a quote on each blog.
Tangent alert...quotes give me hope and courage many times when I have trouble finding those things within myself. For example...

If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then
by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced.
--Vincent Van Gogh, Dutch Post-Impressionist Painter

I also fished at the trout farm which, in a round about way, struck a creative chord. Picture this - a small pond filled with so many fat trout that all you do is throw your line (tied to a long bamboo pole)into the water and thirty fish start fighting for the bait. And it's mostly kids and they are all flipping fish out of the water and the fish are slapping all over the ground and bait's flying off hooks and the kids are squealing and parents are flailing and hollaring and it's all on fast forward. The whole thing made me laugh so hard I had tears running down my face. It's like a keystone cops production line of fishing. And if laughing isn't at least fuel for creating....

How does this garden grow?

This is the first Mr Stripey tomato. He has plenty of time to grow very big and very striped. What a flipping cool thing. I still don't think I'll believe it until I see it...red tomato, orange stripes. Who ever heard of such a thing? Genetically altered? Freak of nature? My plan is to go to an Amish seed web site (yes there is) and get my seeds there for next year. Heirloom, I believe, is what they call them.
Then, I'll figure out how to harvest the seeds from my own plants to sow the following year.

And next we have a wee pumpkin. I love to grow pumpkins, even if it is stupidly optimistic. The growing season is so short here that they almost never get big and ripe. I don't even care if all I get are the pumpkin flowers. They are beautiful, all huge and sticky and yellow-orange. And the plants are wild and green and they have those tiny springy-type vines that shoot out and grab hold of other plants and the random trellis. Those little buggers are strong!

This small okra fellow is cool. He's the only one so far. Anyone have any good okra recipes? I'm hoping, of course, for more than one okra. They tend to be quite slimey if you don't prepare them right. My dad was a huge okra fan.

And finally, my favorite of the day. The smallish, purple hiding turnip. Can you see him? He's just expanding underground, quiet and nestled in the dirt. I will put him in soup with fat chunks of hamburger and carrots and a bit of pasta. In the fall when it's chilly at night and time to wear sweatpants again. Yum.

What's fair is fair

I am going to enter a few photos in the county fair. Here's the funny part. To enter the pictures, one must take the pictures, enlarge them (no one wins with a 4 x 6), frame them, and then fill out paperwork. The enlarging runs a few bucks, the framing at least 20 dollars, even with 40% off at Michael's, and then the paperwork is, at best, a bit confusing (what category am I? what should I name this picture? should I use my real name?). Whew. This is all to win a ribbon. Yes, a ribbon. Isn't that silly?! And yet, I am so excited at the thought of winning a ribbon. Last year even before the OYOO, I entered three pictures. My son entered a picture and a sculpture. When we went to see the results of the judging, I prepared him with many important speeches about how not everyone wins and don't be disappointed when you lose. Well, you can imagine my chagrin when I was NOT chosen as any type of ribbon winner but his sculpture took a blue ribbon. And yes, I was a little disappointed, as I thought the fish picture was a shoe-in. And yes also, that blue ribbon with the shiny gold lettering tied to the top of Jay's wooden sculpture (Another Universe) was quite a beautiful thing.




I'm going to branch out this year, (hedging my bets, so to speak) and enter other categories, such as lettuce - check out the wheelbarrow lettuce garden - and I do have some nice banana peppers growing. Oh, and a great tomato plant called Mr. Stripey. I did not name it that, the tomatoes supposedly come in red with orange stripes. Photos of Mr. Stripey will be posted later in August to confirm.

The What and The Why

In the beginning (three months ago)....I needed a job. I was borderline frantic. Everywhere I looked I saw things I wanted to do that no one would pay me to do. Garden, write poems, paint and put together all this crazy furniture I bought years ago. I wanted to learn how to can my garden harvest and I wanted to make a documentary about my mom and do art projects and take African dance. I wanted to teach poetry writing (which they DO pay me for...a little). But the eighttofivejobwithbenefits monster was breathing down my neck.

The What...One year of opus. Take one year, June first to June first. Take out a loan to live on, supplemented with meager teaching funds. Make it count. Four hours a day of being creative. Not just waiting for the muse to knock on my head with, "hey, here's a poem for ya!" but five days a week, four hours a day, WORK at being creative. Find it. Learn how to can food. Paint. write, read, garden, teach, take classes.... but explore the creative. Take one year. Opus - "A creative work, a masterpiece." My one year of opus.

The Why...Mostly, my mom. My mom has Alzheimers. She is so cool. She doesn't know me anymore, but she sure is happy to see me. She likes to laugh and she gives a good hug. I go see her a few times a week. She lives in the memory unit of an assisted living facility. Facility sounds so cold. But she has a nice room and people who make sure she eats and sleeps and is warm at night. I'm crazy about her. When I go see her I am always hit with one big thing... THIS is where we end up. So, as I leave her and get into the elevator, I'm thinking, "Do it now. Live. Live this life. Now." And when I get in my car I'm thinking, "Live your life. Now." And even by the time I get home I'm still there. Still have that voice hollering in my ear, "Don't waste it man, do the things you want to do. Soon enough you'll be sitting in a dining room with 20 other people eating pureed food so, since you've had that damn furniture out there for five years it's time to take it out of the box, put it together, write a poem on top with cut-out letters from magazines, paint it seven different colors, shellac it, and be done with it, ecstatic simply at the feel of brushing paint on wood." Or something like that. Something like, "Do not take this life for granted."

The Sacrifice...I love sacrifice. But it has to be real. Not "I'm going to give up lima beans" because I don't even like lima beans. I had to think of several things that I would miss. And some that would save a little money. So, #1 - Buy no clothes from June first to June first. This would not be difficult for everyone but I really like buying clothes. #2 - No credit card use. Wow. Yuck. Okay. #3 - Two bought coffee drinks a week, max. #4 - secret sacrifice.

The Blog... To begin with, I had to get over my idea that blogging was self-indulgent blathering about oneself. Blah Blah Blah I ate mini wheats for breakfast and took a nap kind of stuff. Knowing that I really need a supervisor, a motivator, and a, so to speak, kicker-in-the-butt type deal, I liked the idea of sharing the details of this year with people who might ask "So, what creative thing went on today, missy?" I wanted to know that when I go in Target and see a really cute skirt that I'll never find again and that would look soooo good on me, that if someone sees me buy it, curtains for me!!! Then, I read this great blog (Hermitgirlofthemountains) and that inspired me. And finally, I'm a WRITER! Writers write. This is practice. It's creative. It's my one year of opus.

Second Day

I'm practicing. I wonder if there's spell check on a blog? We'll find out soon enough I guess. I'm going to add a picture and see if it works....

There should be a picture of Stan.

And I guess that if I'm checking to see if there's spell check, I should misspell seomthing.

First day

Oh, never mind.