A Work in Progress
I have been blogging rather sluggishly for a while now, not really digging in, not really being very honest or deep because... honestly, although it is my blog, I love it when Oatmeal and Whimsy is funny. I like life better when it is funny, too... But as you all know, this is a sad season of my life. I have way too much thoughtful time, and honestly when I am with my dear friends and family, I feel kind of like a thud of "boringness" wrapped up in a cocoon of isolation-causing, mundane activities.
Friends ask how I am doing, how I am sleeping, if I get out, do I like living here in Mom's-turned-my house? Uh.... insert shrug...I don't know. The best explanation I have is that I am digging out, truly and metaphorically, spiritually, financially (did anyone know that funerals cost over $9,000?). And physically. Sometimes as I lie in my bed in what is really now my bedroom but usually referred to as my bedroom in the dining room---I can literally smell the old dust from the boxes and dishes, the corners and cabinets I have dug through that day... Definitely NOT the lavender stuff dreams are made of! More like the Sandman I guess.
Overflow and lost... waiting for order and justice... and a warm, sudsy bath!
My parents were a team... of collectors, purveyors and then excellent curators of a lifetime of hand-selected items resplendent with stories, and I see them, eyes a-sparkle with the memories of how each piece got here... from there... and the little old German lady from Herman, Mrs. Haun, who was later featured in Country Living (and oh, yes, we have a copy of that issue). And she wrote long letters to my mother for years because the two sparked a kindred spirit in one afternoon... or an auction suggested by a long-bearded, Santa Claus twin in that off the road Orchard in Glasgow who carved me a wooden whistle and drove his mules instead of reindeer in Moberly's Christmas parade. And that just begins the flood of a lifetime of not things, but memories. Now I would never take their trips or their joy from all those day trips of auctions, flea markets, or shops... Not to mention the legacy of generational inheritances. I laughingly informed a dear friend today that I was "gasp!" mixing the dishes from my paternal and maternal grandmothers' separate but equal china cabinets. She told me she feared the china would argue in the night. I love my friends!
And one last disclosure. At long last my son has become a dynamo, a total Mr.Clean as he throws himself into the joy of making his house, my old house, his home. I am beyond thrilled, and it is beyond time my junk hit the road... so he is bringing it down five or six boxes at time for my sorting, culling, cleaning, and eventual either a grand reunion of banishment.
And as you all now know. This is just stuff. The real storm. the mammoth obstacle is the fact that I miss my mother so much. I miss her "healthy" and the times we had driving all over the countryside. And I miss her recent, altered yet consistent self, so very much a whole woman in a paralyzed shell. Caregiving was simultaneously awful and beautiful. I feel shell shocked, and I do not feel like me..but if I walked in the door, I might not know who I am. This will pass I am told.
I promise there will be shallow waters and recipes in this blog's future... But there has to be some deep reservoirs to shelter my truest thoughts, as well. It is nearly 3:00 AM.. Goodnight, dear friends... I sleep with the fragrant memories of both dust and vanilla candles... and a little bit of tonight's Movie Lover's popcorn...
Whimsy and Hugs!
My planners are my always present comfort... Prayers, writing a better story, and dreams...
Friends ask how I am doing, how I am sleeping, if I get out, do I like living here in Mom's-turned-my house? Uh.... insert shrug...I don't know. The best explanation I have is that I am digging out, truly and metaphorically, spiritually, financially (did anyone know that funerals cost over $9,000?). And physically. Sometimes as I lie in my bed in what is really now my bedroom but usually referred to as my bedroom in the dining room---I can literally smell the old dust from the boxes and dishes, the corners and cabinets I have dug through that day... Definitely NOT the lavender stuff dreams are made of! More like the Sandman I guess.
Overflow and lost... waiting for order and justice... and a warm, sudsy bath!
My parents were a team... of collectors, purveyors and then excellent curators of a lifetime of hand-selected items resplendent with stories, and I see them, eyes a-sparkle with the memories of how each piece got here... from there... and the little old German lady from Herman, Mrs. Haun, who was later featured in Country Living (and oh, yes, we have a copy of that issue). And she wrote long letters to my mother for years because the two sparked a kindred spirit in one afternoon... or an auction suggested by a long-bearded, Santa Claus twin in that off the road Orchard in Glasgow who carved me a wooden whistle and drove his mules instead of reindeer in Moberly's Christmas parade. And that just begins the flood of a lifetime of not things, but memories. Now I would never take their trips or their joy from all those day trips of auctions, flea markets, or shops... Not to mention the legacy of generational inheritances. I laughingly informed a dear friend today that I was "gasp!" mixing the dishes from my paternal and maternal grandmothers' separate but equal china cabinets. She told me she feared the china would argue in the night. I love my friends!
Today's final look after sorting...
Who knew?
I promise there will be shallow waters and recipes in this blog's future... But there has to be some deep reservoirs to shelter my truest thoughts, as well. It is nearly 3:00 AM.. Goodnight, dear friends... I sleep with the fragrant memories of both dust and vanilla candles... and a little bit of tonight's Movie Lover's popcorn...
Whimsy and Hugs!
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