Warm, Fuzzy Thoughts

I was sitting in the dark, in the corner of our kitchen, late, late on Sunday night. The dishwasher was filled with clean dishes, and there was a sink-ful of dirty ones (Ken likes to stack them up neatly but ignores the fact that all the crud is being left to dry like concrete)...these are the things that a woman ponders in the middle of mindless snacking. I was wondering why I was so tired, even though it was coming up on midnight, and confused about why I had no incentive to clean up the mess. It seemed so peaceful in the twilight, but tomorrow's trouble was baking right in front of me. I threw up my hands and went to bed. That's never a good idea, because apparently our brains never go to sleep and I dreamt about critters feeding on the detritus all night, to the soundtrack of some creepy song on a true-crime station on YouTube. No, they have not found JonBenet's killer, no matter how many podcasts I've listened to...

This morning, in the light of day and with strange sleep patterns from last night, I surveyed the new week and the old. I have my yummy new Pixiebob kitten, Jillian, zooming all over the room. A new pet in the house is rather like having a new baby. The old cat, who is 16, thinks that I should now be strung up by my toenails. At some point this week, I have kept all but one of our 13 grandchildren. We had overnight company, with our daughter's family staying here while our son-in-law worked on fixing our front walk (yes, herringbone!) Last, but not least, the dentist informed me that all four of my upper front teeth had to be replaced with crowns. Those who know me, and many who don't, know that yes, I'm headed for heaven, thanks to the blood of the Lamb. But here on earth, there's some kind of purgatory or maybe even hell related to me and the subject of teeth. Even though I have been ever-faithful in the flossing and brushing of them, I must bear the tribulation of bad ones. My MawMaw would say, "They're just crumbly." She said that about her bones, and maybe that's happening here too. 

We have found that the best solution, when approaching any serious event in a dentist's chair, is to sedate me. My dentist wisely pumps my gums full of Novacaine, but before that he prescribes drugs that I happily take. I had my 11-pound babies a-naturale, but don't be messin' with my teeth without knocking me out. And don't touch my feet, either. Our daughter, Liz, picked me up after the procedure because I wasn't allowed to drive home. Ken told her to put me in the recliner and just stick the kitten on top of me. I don't remember any of that, but there was a warm, purring being there when I woke up, hours later. And people wonder why pets are important... 

My Valentine

February always finds me, like Bilbo Baggins said in The Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien), "...thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread." I definitely don't feel skinny, but in the hovering winter before  spring in the Deep South, I feel I'm in that dream where I am desperately trying to run, but my legs seem to be slogging through mud. There's a beast or ghoul catching up to me, but nothing will make me able to go faster. Eventually, I start flapping my "wings" and slowly, slowly make my way into the sky, right before I'm gobbled up. Yep. Winter in Georgia is a bad dream, with snatches of false spring interspersed with cold, bleary, wet days. My neighbor from Anchorage says that it's colder here than Alaska, because of the humid misery of it. Thank God it's short, but I must really learn to be grateful. Things could be much, much worse.

We just celebrated our 43rd anniversary, which is a bright spot in the winter morass. It was really a month of fun and uncommon blessings, if I'm to be truthful. Our son, Jonathan and I surprised Ken with a new-to-him Big Truck. It has extra muscles, good for hauling campers and pulling down houses. People might think it strange, how we do it around here. Jon and I find vehicles and show up with them, when there's cash to do such things. Then we sell the old ones at good prices, because Ken takes such fantastic care of them. He trusts Jon's judgment and prefers the shock and awe of it. I've seen neither hide or hair of him for two weeks while he's detailing and tricking out his new baby.

For my Christmas, anniversary and birthday gifts for possibly the rest of my earthly life, Ken's gift to me this year was a kitten. Little Miss Jillian Pixiebob made her entrance this week, after a harrowing $56 roundtrip dash to Orlando to pick her up. Word to the wise: do not bring kittens on planes. No one is happy and you might get murdered.  

Love isn't like a Hallmark movie, where the end is a kiss and promise. That's just the beginning. Love is a man who hates cats but gives his life over to a kitten just to make his wife smile. He tolerates my animals, helps me out of chairs and trucks, tucks me in at night, puts my special pillow under my back, lets me have all the babies I wanted (and we tried for even more), puts on his boots every day and works his whole life, loves his grandkids like there's no tomorrow, is happy to watch all my "stuff," never complains about the squeaks and squawks from my flute practice, encourages me when I want to take yet another class, sees that we go to church, tithes even when it hurts, straightens up my messes, cleans and shines my nasty car, takes me to the symphony (when he'd rather do a Netflix binge), brings me soup when I'm sick, and especially, loves me when I'm unloveable, which is often. The scriptures say that a man's job is to love his wife as Christ loves the church. The world and even the church seem to have a hard time staying faithful or married. I think I'll keep this one.  

 

Buzz, Buzz, Help...

Along the paths of life, I have met people I bonded with instantaneously. Spirits link, a thread of understanding passes between us, and a lifelong friendship ensues. In "Anne of Green Gables," Anne called them kindred spirits. I have a number of these souls in my life -- the quiet, Coke-bottle-glassed Gail in high-school band; eccentric and funny Susan; tall, brilliant and quirky Grace in college; smart, always-researching Kathy across the table from me on a cruise; hilarious, cynical Cynthia playing piano beside my flute at church... I always found smart, funny, nerdy girls a lot more interesting than what folks consider "popular" -- vapid, silly, shallow. Better to be warm, brainy and kind to all, than to be snooty and trendy. Life's just way too short for uppity-ness.

Recently, two such friends (Cynthia being one of them) and I decided we were all sick of our phone addictions. We are of a certain age, not entirely decrepit yet, but feeling that our brains were being short-circuited. My question was: is this just the natural course of things or is it truly our phones and all the disruptions of social media that's causing our brain cells to fall out? We bought copies of the book Reconnected: How 7 Screen-Free Weeks with Monks and Amish Farmers Helped Me Recover the Lost Art of Being Human by Carlos Whittaker.  In a nutshell, the author turns his phone and screens off for 7 weeks, spending time with monks in silence, then working hard with an Amish community to detach from his attachment to all things media. Mr. Whittaker also had an interview with Dr John Delony which sums it all up. See on YouTube: "I Gave Up Screens for 2 Months (Here's What Happened)". I highly recommend watching the short video -- easier for our scrambled brains to decipher. 

I read all the time, with books at every stopping-place -- the side tables, bedside and even the bathroom. But it took me many weeks to finally finish Mr. Whittaker's book, maybe because it hits way too close to home. I wish, maybe, I had the luxury of taking weeks off to turn everything off. As I pondered the subject, I asked myself key questions: Don't I have to keep my phone on, because of my business? Because of my family, grandchildren, my Mama? One time I turned my phone off, only to wake up to five overnight messages from Mama. She had had a mini-stroke or blood sugar event, and in her confusion kept dialing, trying to reach me. One could say, she could call Ken or my siblings. But that night, she didn't. For that reason alone, I can't put her on "Do Not Disturb." As I looked further, however, and tried to honestly assess how much time I spend on my phone, I realized the vast majority of it is not in talking to clients or family or checking emails for business-related contracts or communication. The problem is in all the rabbit holes that I go down when those first tasks are completed. 

I raised my children without much technology. I personally hated the TV and would have gladly thrown our 13-inch black and white one in the dumpster (yes, they used to manufacture those). From childhood, I felt that TVs were horrid, that it was a terrible way to spend your life -- watching other people live rather than live it yourself. I always thought it strange that a room full of people would quit talking, to watch mindless programs for hours, while they had all these interesting, real, breathing folks right next to them. That was a good way to live. Little did we know what was coming...

But then something happened in the last few decades. I accepted the wonders of technology and embraced my smart phone, which turned me stupid. Now, I don't have to ponder the universe. I just google it. If there are awkward silences with strangers at the doctor's office, instead of striking up conversations with intriguing people, I just pick up my phone (like they are doing, too). If I'm sitting on the front stoop at my house, in the glorious sunshine, instead of noticing the bluebird family flitting about or the minty green buds peeping out from the ground, I'm checking on Suzy Q's Facebook nonsense, which probably isn't even accurate. It is very, very difficult to resist the instant gratification of knowledge, even if it's not even going to help me decide what I'm going to believe about, well, anything. Trivia is truly trivial, and I've fallen more and more into the pit of knowing much about nothing. Meanwhile, I point at items and the word won't come out of my mouth. That is plumb scary.  

My girlfriends and I are supposed to meet one more time about this subject. We are trying to come up with strategies to disentangle us from this mess. Mr. Whittaker's book didn't seem to have enough constructive ideas, except for taking a massive sabbatical which I can't seem to do. The only thing that has helped me so far is to leave the confounded phone on the charger when I get up in the morning, or to put it into the next room while I'm getting busy. Even at that, my brain is listening for the buzzes and pings which alert me to clients' needs (or my Mama), so am I really detached? 

I'll let you know when I figure it out.