i'm coming home

There's nothing like going home after a long hospital stay, whether one is human or turtle. Truck, a 75-pound loggerhead turtle, was released on his own recognizance today and he RAN into the surf of the low tide at Great Dunes Beach on Jekyll Island. What a great pleasure to watch his joyous reunion with the ocean he holds so dear!

sky talk

Look up! That's my message today. I find myself looking up at the sky often these days. It's a habit I once had as a child and as a younger woman, lying on my back in the grass or on the sand of a beach, watching the shapes and stories in the clouds. I find it to be a reassuring pastime, especially of late, especially since I read the sign language at Daytona Beach.

Crazy Dog says...

Crazy Dog told me this morning to write down three things that I felt strongly about and had felt strongly about for some time. Crazy Dog then listed three examples that didn't really speak to me - however, they did prompt a thought: I miss my mother and resent not having her.
Crazy Dog's advice was the basis of every change-your-life program in the world. If you cannot change what is causing your distress, CHANGE YOUR ATTITUDE TOWARD IT. YOU have the power to make yourself happy, YOU and you alone. No one else can change your life (which is simply a reflection of your mental outlook)but YOU. Money, fame, popularity, purchased goods - it's all just STUFF, and stuff can be taken away or lost.
So, I have to find a way to truly accept this loss in my life. I acknowledge the loss, I do, but I also acknowledge my resentment. Mama had her mother (my Grandmama) in her life until she was 59 years old. Mama died when I was only 42. As I see it, she "owed" me at least another ten years, right? Maybe even 15?
But she left this world, and ME, early. And she used alcohol to do so. Alcohol. I wish I had never told her about that Nicholas Cage movie. I had emphasized to her that cirrhosis of the liver was a painless way to die for the one who had it, that it was a disease that only hurt others in that person's life. At the time, we were all dealing with family members who allowed alcohol to rule their actions, their lives, their brains. I kept trying to impress upon her a need for tough love, a need for the enabling to cease, a need to let them sit in jail and dry out. Maybe so.
Mama developed something wrong with her blood. After a typical woman's life lived on the edge of anemia, her body was now manufacturing too many red blood cells. The doctors couldn't seem to pinpoint the cause, but to treat the symptoms, Mama had to go have a pint of blood withdrawn every other month or so to keep her blood from becoming too think for her heart to pump. The doctor cautioned her that the condition would cause alcohol to be especially toxic to her liver and so, for a while at least, she curtailed the cocktails.
Then, about a year before her death, she started drinking more. Meanwhile, she was still allowing others to bring their alcohol-induced troubles and pile them up on her. And I kept preaching tough love, tough love. And I didn't acknowledge that I was pushing her away.
Now, I cannot count the times I have wanted to call her and share some news. Now, I cannot count the times I have wanted to hear her voice. Now, I cannot count the times I have wanted to hug her and tell her how much I love her. Now, I cannot and I feel so guilty for having let her down, for allowing her to feel that she couldn't talk to me about how distressed she felt because she knew I would say she had to use tough love.
What stupid things people say sometimes. What stupid tings I, me, myself, have said sometimes. Like now. I'm still trying to accept blame for Mama's death because of things I did say or didn't say, as if my words meant life or death.
That's CRAZY. I have no control over the actions or thoughts of others. NONE. Maybe that's the lesson I really still need to learn: I ONLY HAVE CONTROL OVER MY THOUGHTS AND ACTIONS. So, if I have thoughts which are distressing me, I am the one who has control over the effects of those thoughts. I am the one who can CHOOSE how I allow those thoughts to affect me. Damned invisible trees, again.
Perhaps Crazy Dog just might know what he's talking about.

keep on truckin', baby

After the jazz film, I decided to take a little drive. You see, my odometer had been creeping up for the past few days, edging toward 100,000. I had been watching, doing a little math in my head for distances I knew and trying to estimate when that numerical threshold would be passed. Well, when I left the film downtown, my first thought was on dinner and getting some, as it was already 10 pm. Then, as I'm driving along, an image registered in my mind: the mileage on my 2001 car was going to be turning in another fifteen minutes or so, and I did NOT want it to be finalized in the morning traffic tomorrow. NO.
I decided I wanted to mark the occasion by cruising out toward the beach. I doubted that I would reach the Sugar Shack, but that would be my goal! So, there I am, cruisin' in the dark, listening to the radio and singin' along, keeping one eye on the road and the other on my dashboard. Thank God the traffic was light!
I had wanted to be able to pull over and take a picture of the odometer reading as the 9's became 0's, but it wasn't to be. A taxi began chasing me as I cruised, forcing me to pay full attention to the task at hand - driving! - and distracting me from my mission. I had hoped to make it to the beginning of the pass lane, near Fort Pulaski, before all of my 0's shifted, but, as the evidence bears out, I did not. Still, I had a nice drive and have this little tale to mark the passage of my vehicle officially into its old age. Good enough for me!

11 september

I did go see the documentary at Muse Arts Warehouse, joined by a friend. I had questioned the host to ensure no media-frenzy pictures would be present and he assured me the film was free of such crassness. So, I stayed. And, even though I cried through almost all of it, I must attest to its truth about grief: everyone has a different way to deal with the stages and everyone has their own pace. Overall, I would recommend it for counselors everywhere as a helpful tool to show those grieving that there is more than one way to work through the pain of loss.
Truly, time is the most healing factor, provided the griever is able to give themselves permission to stop grieving. That last part is hard: to finally reach a point where you have to forgive yourself for not being there at the right time or not doing a particular thing or not saying the right words. To forgive yourself is to acknowledge your own mortality and faults. To forgive yourself and accept the loss is to give yourself permission to live again.
Afterwards, I went to my beloved beach, shedding the dress I wore and revealing the swimsuit beneath. The northern beach was lovely, sparsely populated, with a sky featuring one lone rainbow kite fluttering its tail. I walked along the shore, in and out of the surf, until I reached the rocks at the end. I sat a while in the deserted lifeguard stand, closing my eyes and letting the words of the great ocean fill my mind with reassurances and calm, then walked back down the shoreline, collecting two broken shells along my journey. Such peace!
Eventually, I returned to my Saturn, duly waiting where I had left her. I returned a call to a dear friend and we dined together, enjoying each other's company, with no talk of the day's date. Upon my return home, I called my dear cousin and told her of my day and she sent love and love and love along the telephone line into my ears and into my mind and around my heart.
She's always had a knack for that very thing...

decade-anniversary of horror

My dearest cousin sent me a PowerPoint file today, titled "World Trade Center." The following is my reply to her.

"I couldn't bear to watch it. I am surrounded by invitations to 10-year anniversary events for the horror of Sept 11, 2001. I despise hearing it trivialized as 9/11, some catchphrase coined by the media. I remember well where I was when I heard the news: I was at work, having a normal morning, when one of the guys called to tell me the news. The next thing I knew, the word was all over the radio, the airwaves, all around. The tv kept showing the horror over and over that evening, so I left it off. I simply could not keep those images from my mind and crying, yet I was surrounded by media cashing in on the bad news.

I tried to concentrate on the outpouring of love from THE WORLD during that time. So much heartbreak being soothed by those who did not live in the USA, so many words of concern and hope for a better tomorrow, so much reassurance that we were not alone in this distress and terrible loss of life.

THAT is what I would dwell upon, NOT the evil wreaked by twisted minds."

That said, I may attend one of the events tomorrow. The film is titled "Rebirth" and features five stories of lives forever changed. Brought here by the Psychotronic Film Society, for a one-day-only showing at a favorite venue run by folks I love and trust, and attending with friends I consider family, I tentatively intend to attend the early showing. Should the film prove to be too much for me, I'll leave and flee to the beach, to allow the sound of the waves and the embrace of the sun and the kiss of the sea breeze to comfort and restore my soul.
Actually, I shall PLAN to go to the beach afterward. As a favorite quote by Isak Dinesen reminds me, "The cure for anything is saltwater - sweat, tears, or the sea."

don't stop me now

Thanks, Google, for reminding us.

killing zombies

I have discovered a video game: The House of The Dead. Woohoo!!! I felt a need to destroy SOMETHING, but I didn't want a shooting-at-humans game. Dave & Buster's set me up right! Not just ONE zombie-killing game, not just TWO, but THREE machines, each with a different weapon to use. Oh, yeah! I didn't care about the points I amassed or the levels of play attained - oh, no, not me. I delighted in watching the zombies become headless masses, holes blown in chests, blood splatter all around. Destruction!!!
No, I do not own a gun. Games like this remind me of WHY I don't own a gun. My seven years in the Navy first convinced me that I should not own a gun, and so I do not.
But I sure did enjoy destroying zombies on the three variations of The House of The Dead available to me. In fact, I enjoyed it SO much that a song composed itself as I drove north along I-95, a song which I sang several times on my way to Jekyll Island, singing with great glee and joyfulness. Here it is:

If killing zombies is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
In the House of the Dead I can slay at will
And I do so with all my might.
With pump-action shotgun
Or hair-trigger Magnum,
It matters not to me.
As long as I can blow their heads clean off
That’s the way it should be.

If killing zombies is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
If killing zombies is wrong,
I don’t want to be right.
I don’t want to be right
If it means my slaying is over,
I don’t want to be right
If it means the zombies take over.
I don’t want to be right
If killing zombies is w r o n g,
I don’t want to be right.

(To the tune of “(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don't Want To Be Right”)

sign language

The sky told me "I love you" today. I was walking along the water's edge at my beloved Daytona Beach, walking away the blues from my step-dad's death. On this lovely, warm day, the sky was incredibly blue and seemed to reach out into the Milky Way for wisps of white to paint across its wide expanse.
There I am, walking alongside the ocean, trying to think of nothing, listening to the gentle song of the waves. I had been watching the tiny birds skittering in and out of my path as I, in turn, skittered in and out of the path of children's flying feet. The sun beamed down on the glittering sea, on the lifeguard stands, on me, drawing my eyes upward, upward, to enjoy the blue.
And there it was. I stopped in my tracks to take in the message, holding out my right hand to look at the image there and then back to the sky's clear vision. I looked around, sure that others must also see the love writ large - but I was the only one cognizant of the scene above our heads. I brought forth my cell phone's camera, to see if its eye could find the same image as my own. Miraculously, the air stayed gentle, allowing me to take a couple of pictures before the inevitable shifting of the canvas dispersed the lovegram from heaven.
I was able to enjoy these clouds for quite a while as I continued my walk, my spirits revived, my faith restored.
I had not forgotten those who had moved on, nor had they forgotten me.