After 96 years of being her delightful self, my Grambie passed away on Saturday. I had the chance to say goodbye over the phone, though she wasn’t responsive. It was her time, no doubt about it, but despite all the mental prep it hit hard. I leave in the morning to go celebrate and remember her with my family, and I’m looking forward to spending time with them despite the reason.
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It’s been rather quiet around here, both in life and in blogland. I lost my words awhile back, and haven’t really found them yet. I battled some kind of throat/tongue infection for the last week of December that was extremely painful and cost me more pounds than I had to lose. It didn’t eat my tongue away, but it put a hole in my heart that let out a lot of stuff that I did have to lose. Repressed feelings … anger, disappointment, a good dose of grief … it all came bubbling up to the surface from whatever holes I’d stuffed it down into.
Yesterday’s shootings in CT have left me chilled, heartsick, and quiet. Breaking the silence to share a few things that I think we’ve lost as a nation, beyond the tragedy of the lives that were taken, a pool of grief and sorrow that I can’t begin to fathom. I only feel it’s slippery edges.
We’ve lost our ability to hope, and most of our trust. We grab at it in bits and pieces, but the fabric has become threadbare and full of gaping wounds. We hope that the government will fix it, or laws will curb it, but we look for somewhere to put the blame. We’ve lost the ability to filter our inputs, both physical and emotional, and it’s suffocating us. We’ve lost sight of forgiveness. We’ve lost our ability to look at wrongs without thinking of revenge and payback. We’ve stopped assuming personal responsibility for our lives. We’ve lost the ability to lift each other up, day after day, without a tragedy to wake us up, and that briefly. Why does it take a Sandy or a Newtown to make us look each other in the eye, and hold each other’s fragile hearts? Without love, we are empty. Without hope, we are lost. Without faith, we have no vision.
It was the phone call this afternoon that tipped the balance. A simple call to Verizon, to ask if the payment I’d scheduled for next week was going to prevent their threatened suspension of service. Been there before, and yes I get touchy when finances are tight, but it always works out. I had to wait through their menu 3 times before my “0” would get me an actual human, but I was connected right away. Gave my name, and he looked me up, but when I tried to answer his second question, he suddenly couldn’t hear me. At all. I could hear him clearly, but he obviously heard nothing. I hollered to no avail, and he hung up after saying it was due to a bad connection.
When I started homeschooling, I was told that I’d be likely to confront my own issues at an unprecedented level. While the idea seemed strange to me, it’s proved very true. Moving to the woods made me suspect the same thing would happen, and while I’ve not been caught off guard this time, it’s certainly not any easier.
The alarm went off at 4:30 this morning, and as usual it was a brutal up-rising … car to warm up, food and sundries to throw at M as he packed his bag, jackets to find, and warm sleepy boys to drag out of bed and into the car. It’s Monday, and that means time to send Dad back into the city for the week. He has to catch at train at 6am to get into Manhattan for 9am, and the drive to the station is about 40 minutes. By the time he’d run back into the house for his phone and charger, we got on the road, crept over the bridge, and raced down hwy 97 entirely too fast (IMHO) for the fog and dark and lurking deer. I munched cold granola and started to fall asleep, trying not to wake up completely but knowing it was a losing battle.