Other World?

I'm sitting here at Morris's bedside in his hospital room. It's been six days since his colon surgery and they say he is recovering well. The white board over his head specifies his diet, records his latest blood pressure and names his staff de jour. (Two days ago Morris groggily asked his nurse if they have much staph in this hospital to which she enthusiastically replied, "Oh yes, we have lots of staff....several buildings just full of staff., more staff than any hospital in this area."  I'm sure she didn't understand the look of horror on Morris's face, unaware of his almost paranoid fear of staph infections).

Since my last post, I have heard from several of you regarding coincidences (or is the plural coincidenci?) And really, when you start paying attention, they're everywhere. It seemed to a couple of you a freaky coincidence that I wrote about coincidences on just that day, because you had experienced one also. I just love that, when I realize that what was on my mind was what was on your mind.

How 'bout this? When I got to Roswell,  I sat down to talk with Morris for the first time since his diagnosis. I wasn't sure what to say (Duh......who knows what to say at times like that?) He is a very independent, self-sufficient kind of old guy and didn't even want anyone to know about his cancer, much less fuss over it. So I just waited to hear what he'd say and it was this (slightly paraphrased):

"Kim, I was in Kroger this morning buying groceries and I was fumbling with my discount card at the checkout counter. I thought the man behind me might be getting irritated so I turned to him and apologized for the wait. He said it was no problem at all, that he had all the time in the world. We compared ages" (What is it with old men comparing ages?) "and he couldn't believe I was almost 92.  He was 72. He said he felt very blessed to be thriving at his age because he had been through colon cancer and had survived. I told him I had just been diagnosed and was about to go in for surgery. He looked me straight in the eye and said I was going to be fine. He said it was a piece of cake. He said I would be absolutely fine. Later, he found me in the parking lot and walked over to again remind me that I would be fine."

Morris concluded his story with........"Coincidences like that don't just happen!"

I told Morris it must have been a man-angel and he nodded, smiling like he believed me. Of course,  my heart was pounding because I had just written about the subject of coincidences and Morris had NOT read my blog.

I know it's all around us, the everyday comings and goings of another realm of existence, what the science fiction writers call a parallel universe and Christians strongly believe in but aren't sure what to name it.  Did you ever read about string theory? ......... the scientific evidence for that other world  we encounter........ confirmation that what we see isn't all there is........that there is "immeasurably more than we can think or imagine" and it's not in some far away galaxy called heaven. It's right here.....right now! God's spirit and His emissaries, busily intervening in ways that make us look up and over our shoulders and wonder who's there.

Last night I talked to Vivian on the phone for an hour and caught up on news. She asked if I was reading anything worth reading and I shared my latest Kindle acquisitions. Then she recommended Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. I had heard of it. She went into detail about the section on the Beatles having played all through many nights, honing their talents and preparing for their big moment of discovery. Sounded interesting.

Over coffee this morning my brother told me, out of the blue, that I should read a book by Malcolm Gladwell called Outliers. Before I could gasp, he started describing the section about the Beatles having played all through many nights, honing their talents and preparing for their big moment of discovery. I wondered if he had told me that yesterday, had forgotten and was telling me again (it wouldn't be the first time),  and maybe I had dreamed it was from Vivian. But no, I clearly remembered it coming through the phone from Vivian, just 12 hours earlier.

As they would say in Roswell, "Wudea mayka that?" (I'm definitely reading Outliers).

Coincidence

Our view

Where do you stand on the coincidence issue? You did know there was an issue, didn't you? Most Christians I know are not believers......they think those things that appear to be random associations are actually providential and have meaning in the scheme of things. They are coincidental atheists.

Yesterday Sharon and I set out to find a place for brunch. We had nothing in mind except to maybe find a new place. After driving a couple of blocks down Central Avenue, Sharon, who has a life and doesn't like to waste time,  reminded me that my iphone knows everything. So I pulled over and googled "brunch places on Central in St. Pete". What came right up was a quaint little cafe one block away from where we were.

We ate at a table on the sidewalk. There were only two tables outside. That was probably because there were ants in the sugar jar and derelict types wandering around being loud and creepy. We didn't mind. The weather was beautiful and we were feeling our urbaninity.

Right across the street I commented on the stately four-story Alexander Hotel. I had never really noticed its classical revival architecture before, though I've driven past it many times. I was wondering when it was built and by whom when Sharon reminded me that my iphone knows everything. I googled it and discovered it was built in 1919 by Neel Reid (and that it was classical revival architecture).

I went on to read that Mr. Reid had once lived in my hometown of Roswell, GA. Roswell is a big city now, but was a small town when I was growing up. My ancestors founded it in the early 1800's. Mr. Reid had lived in Mimosa Hall which is one of the founding father's residences, built in 1830. I would guess that my great-great (and maybe another great, I'm not sure) grandfather, Valentine Coleman, had been a guest there at some point.

AND.............Neel Reid died in 1926, the year my mother was born. AND...............it was on February 14, the day she married my daddy (but of course not the same year because you can't get married the year you're born, unless you're from Alabama where I always heard there were no marriage rules). Anyway, these little connections fascinated Sharon and me, as we flipped ants off our coffee cups and avoided eye contact with the passersby.

Then there's this:  You know that our family has been grieving the passing of Greg's parents, both gone within the last four months. Just as our hearts were feeling the twinges of relief,  we find that Morris, my mother's long time, loving, might-as-well-call-him-husband.... has colon cancer. His surgery is scheduled for Wednesday.  He's 92. I am really worried as I set off for Roswell on another leg of this peculiar, yet familiar journey.

There's a circle of sorrow swirling over my head from the generation of my parents. They seem to have formed a line at the bus stop, as C. S. Lewis mused, awaiting their turn to board the Greyhound that will take them from world to world. Vivian's dear father found his seat just this past week. And another friend's mother has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. 

It hurts because it isn't natural. God never intended death when He created the universe........didn't plan for us to suffer......and yet we do. Man has been googling that one since he left the i-garden........and still no easy answers. Of course, we have to take responsibility for sin (and thus pain) in the world......and believe that God has taken responsibility for redemption. So many cycles in motion, each dependent on the others, interlocking, interwoven......a master plan.........no coincidences allowed (well maybe a few, like Neel Reid from Roswell).

But btw, Morris's last name is also Reid. You'd have to be seriously mystical to read anything into that, but nevertheless, it's there. Just like the grief.

Ideal Date

Sometimes I take myself on a date. Not that I'm that desperate. I do have some cool guy friends who I go out with occasionally. The last one commented that my cute new floral jeans looked like a nurse's uniform from All Children's (I know you're reading this, Date, but don't worry.  I'm protecting your identity so my girlfriends won't come beat you with clubs).

Anyway, sometimes it's just nice to be with me. Like today. I asked myself if I'd like to go to a movie and I said "yes".  I asked what I'd like to see and I said "How 'bout that Oz movie?" So off we......er, I went.

I know how to do movies right.....in traditional Vermeer style. I have a movie purse that has stood the test of time. It holds microwave popcorn,  Reese's Pieces, water and a thermos of vanilla-flavored coffee.  I no longer have to share these with my children, so my date and I can smuggle it in and consume it all...even if that elicits some curious stares from the coupled-up theater patrons (are they still "theater patrons" if its a movie theater?)

I can walk to Muvico from my house. I don't have to ask my date to pay for parking. My date always agrees to sit exactly where I want to, near the middle.  Our opinions of the movie never conflict and neither of us likes to stay for the credits.

When it was over I asked myself if I'd like to walk over to Beach Drive for a latte and people watching. I enthusiastically agreed. Sitting there outside Paciugos, just for a split second I wished I had a guy friend across the table to talk to. I pictured it and almost started a conversation then thought better of it. I could easily get carried away with that (both figuratively and literally). Many of those people you think are on drugs in the street have probably just been single too long. 

I decided it would be healthier and more comforting to picture Jesus sitting there with me. He is, after all, my constant companion and best friend.  But he isn't really my type for a date. That long wavy hair and beard are so .....'60's. I'm really glad we have no sketches or even descriptions of God, the man. That would screw a lot of us up. Bad enough Mary is always showing up in loaf bread and such.

After sipping and people watching I chivalrously walked myself home and heated myself some leftover collards and beans. I told myself I was too full from the latte for supper, but I reminded me I would be hungry later so I might as well eat. Then I could relax, sit with me on the sofa and watch TV and blog.

I like myself. I have a lot of style...for a cheap date.

Distortions

Above my loveseat

When Greg got sick, over seven years ago, the world went cubist.  The buildings all slanted, people's heads dropped below their shoulders and twisted, trees looked like they had been watered with vodka and were swaying under the influence. Everything was slow motion and asymmetrical. The universe was out of whack.

I remember doing simple, ordinary things like grocery shopping. I wondered why all those people in the frozen foods didn't look depressed. Didn't they know what lay ahead? Where was their anguish? What was wrong with them? They should all be in therapy before they cracked, maybe find a way to get those misshapen faces back between the ears.

A few weeks ago I bought some vintage museum posters to hang on my walls. They're by Matisse and Braque and LaFarge. Impressionistic. They are soothing to me. A little surreal but not disturbingly so. Realistically so. The world isn't always "real". Things don't always appear as our reason tells us they should. You've probably noticed that rationality likes to jump the track.

Our pastor has been teaching a series on the book of Job. It may be the oldest manuscript in the Bible. The world hasn't really changed much since then. Read it and see if you don't identify, if not with Job, then with one of his three friends and confidants.

I hope you read "The Gift", a post on this blog on December 12. Greg's mother was diagnosed with leukemia the same year Greg was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  She fought a hard fight to stay with us but finally left this old world three months ago, just before Christmas. We grieved, but it all made sense. She had struggled for seven long years and was ready to go, as they say. It matched the Nocturne on my wall ... a  lone flower, muted and beautiful, open and expressive, but very still and shadowy....a hopeful sadness.

"Paper or plastic?"

Three weeks ago her beloved husband, Wally, began feeling ill on the golf course while visiting his son in Phoenix.  Brent was alarmed and called the paramedics since Wally had hardly been sick a day in his life. On Easter Sunday we will fly back to northwest Iowa to lay him to rest beside his wife.  They're saying he also died of leukemia, only a week after diagnosis. We are all in shock and disbelief. 

When I went to pick up some things at the downtown Publix, I noticed there was something not quite right about the cashier.  Guess she's been that way all along, but I'm just realizing it.....again.

Caffeine?

If you know me, you know that my mind often goes foggy. You've been telling me about your crisis and seen a far away look in my eyes (probably wondering if I remembered to change Daffodil's water). If you don't know me, well....yes, you do...if you know any middle aged, active, multitasking woman.  We seem to be all alike and we're good with us. We've earned this period of flakiness.

But we aren't too proud to want to get better. So today I dropped by Rollin' Oats, St. Pete's primo health food store,  to pick up some caffeine tablets. I find that drinking coffee helps me focus and doesn't give me a buzz like it does most people. I can take my last sip of java at bedtime and fall into a peaceful sleep. (I am often maligned as a coffee guzzler but the truth is......I sip a lot but rarely consume more than two cups  a day). So I thought maybe a greater dose would yield a greater result.

Walking into Rollin' Oats can be intimidating.... All those natural looking people milling around becoming healthier by the minute, just by brushing past so many supplements. All I wanted to do was grab my goods and get out before someone noticed I was wearing make-up. But where to start looking? Someone must have recognized my look of bewilderment and approached  me with "How can I help you?"

"I need caffeine!" Suddenly the milling stopped. I think the entire store came to a grinding halt. I know I heard whispering. You'd have thought I had asked for a piece of fried chicken.

"CAFFEINE???? YOU NEED A BOOST???"

When I think of  Boost,  I think of my mother who drinks Boost.

"No, I don't need Boost, I need caffeine" (more whispering). 

"Have you considered Omega-3's?"

"Yes, I already take fish oil."

"B-12?  Exactly what do you hope to accomplish? " I was pressured into confessing that I wanted to try caffeine to help me focus... that aging is taking its toll on my concentration. They should have at least put me in a curtained booth for this, with an ordained health priest on the other side to grant me absolution (They also had many "ab"- solutions in Rollin' Oats but I didn't want those).

I felt publicly humiliated. Where were the other middle aged women at that point? I think I saw one dive behind the organic pineapples. Others were slinking out the door.

Ten minutes of more interrogation and I was on my way with something called  Up Your Gas (I kid you not!)  It has green tea extract in combination with other health food store sounding additives (although we don't use the word "additives " in there). Guess I'll drop by Walgreens wearing a hoodie and dark glasses to pick up my bottle of Bean-O.  Sounds like I'll need it.

Shopping

Last weekend I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and bought a memory foam mattress pad.  I have still been forgetting things these last few days. I don't think it's working.

It's just another rung in the ladder of extravagance I've been climbing lately. It started with the round rug. Then I bought some interesting museum posters that were a sweet deal, but having them framed negated the bargain.  Then the major spree in BB& B (although I'm happy to say they honored the 20% off coupon that came in my email five days later). All things for the yellow bungalow.

I may be obsessing over it. It is, after all, my dream house. Not because it will ever be featured in House Beautiful, but because it's all mine......my vision, my taste, my sanctuary.  It's a musty old book I chose because the words speak to my heart, and now I have the privilege of some editing and revising. Being single affords you the luxury of personal choice. When you mess up, you face the music on your own.  But you also get to have a lot of things your way, and that can feel pretty good. When I moved in just over a year ago, I focused on the big things: knocking down walls, refinishing floors, adding a bath, etc. That was normal, right?

I'm not so sure about now.  I find myself micromanaging the floor mats and taking things on and off the mantel. I think I dust too much. Productive people don't usually dust, do they? Yesterday I bought a house plant whose teal leaves with a streak of pink match the tiles in the guest bath.

Is this the way of retirement?  All that creative energy has to be channeled into something, doesn't it?  I'm not complaining! It's just that my new priorities are glaring at me against the backdrop of last month's teaching.  I do miss being in the trenches but like I said, I don't want to go back. But neither do I want to become shallow, and spend time on things that don't matter or, worse yet, convince myself they do matter.

It's not the moral dilemma I wrote about earlier, not all about what's right or what's wrong. It's about me being happy with me, being interesting to me, having worthwhile issues to contemplate and satisfying contributions to make.

I'm okay at the moment (still doing my music, volunteering, meeting new friends, etc.) But I see how this shopping thing could get way out of control. I see why homemakers have notoriously had to struggle with it. First a rug, then a poster.  What if I become a hoarder? How will I find Daffodil in the debris? Will she insist I go back to work? Nah, she likes this new gourmet cat food I bought her at the trendy pet store.

Back To Work

Taking a break from the homeless dilemma (before you offer me a room, read the previous post),  I spent these last two weeks subbing in the same second grade class every day.  I haven’t taught regularly in nearly three years, but let me assure you that two weeks ago I started strong. Within an hour I had untied myself and established order. Bribes should not be underestimated when the ratio is 17:1 and you’re the 1. They are to the substitute teacher what the swinging watch is to the hypnotist: MIND CONTROL!

I carefully followed all the teacher’s lesson plans when I remembered to look at them…but you know my memory.  I made sure every student’s needs were met, unless they needed to make obnoxious noises during one of my "be responsible"  lectures. Within just a few short days I became……..not attached……not bonded…..but vaguely  familiar with each child.  That’s the best I can say.

I’ve been passionate about teaching since my junior year of college when I realized that being an astronaut would make me throw up. I set my sights on a more noble cause (that’s not sarcasm, it’s true) and I have never regretted my choice.

These last two weeks have been stressful and challenging and I have loved every minute.  I may not have loved them without the bribes, but a great time was had by all.  It’s much like I imagine grandmothering will be….. over-indulgence, over-stimulation, party party,  then "ta ta"  ("God, please don’t let that principal read this"). 

The teacher‘s plans were spotty since she was not expecting to be out so long. So I whipped out some instructional arrows from my quiver of experience and watched them once again hit the mark.  By my last day, every child in the class could subtract one digit from two digits using regrouping (so it will only have to be taught ten or twenty more times before they retain it),  AND they were using the word "scrutinize" on a regular basis with their classmates (as in "Stop scrutinizing everything I do"). That cut down on tattling.

I worked long full days and came home exhausted. It reminded me so much of earlier days. I even caught a gratuitous sore throat and cold. What would teaching be without sniffling and bumming meds?

 So do I want to go back?

I see it like this:  middle age, retirement, widowhood and empty nest all lined up end to end and connected to form a bridge that has taken me from one side of life to the other. It was one of those swinging bridges for sure, scared the bejeebers out of me. It was high as the sky and many times I lost my footing and almost fell like a bomb into the proverbial "abyss" (I love that word "abyss"…… if a bomb explodes in the "abyss" does anyone hear it…..or get blown up?)

Now that I’m on the other side (not to be confused with dead, of course), I feel a sense of past and future both within view but just out of reach. I don’t want to be a full time teacher again. I don’t want to mother young children again. But… I would like to fall in love again…… and be a grandmother ….. and occasionally substitute teach.