Change Is Hard

…but change is certain.

Tag Archives: sad


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When the future is uncertain

Autumn light catches color.

Autumn light catches color.

I suppose the future is uncertain for everyone, after all tomorrow is not promised. But when you’re 101 the future is even less certain.

I wonder what that feels like.

We grow up looking forward into forever. When we’re five we can’t wait until we’re 10, excited by those double digits. And then we want to be sixteen so that we can drive a car and eighteen so we can vote, and twenty-one so we can legally celebrate with a beer.

Golden glow tinged with red.

Golden glow tinged with red.

And the future stretches out forever into the horizon.

Then suddenly you’re closing in on one hundred, then a hundred and one, and you’ve outlived most of your siblings, many of your friends. Your only child. And you remember the smallest details about the century just past, the events, the places you’ve lived, the places you’ve left. So many people that are now gone.

Purple focus.

Purple focus.

You don’t see so well now, you’re uncertain who is entering your space, and family and friends announce themselves and you smile and nod, glad of the company, the time to talk, to tell some of the stories, some of the things you have stored in your mind.

You know time is passing, that your body is becoming more frail, that a fall will likely cause you to lose the last bits of independence you enjoy now. You’re careful. Still, it is inevitable.

Early morning light shimmers.

Early morning light shimmers.

And when you fall you hesitate to push the button for help. You know it will mean leaving your home behind, perhaps for the last time. You’ll be leaving all that is familiar and under your control.

You know you’ll no longer be able to make all the decisions, that you’ll have to live somewhere else. Somewhere different and less private with less privileges and fewer friends near.

Lonely.

Lonely.

But you push the button.

And now things are being sorted out and you wish you could go home but that’s probably not an option. And the future looks different than you wished it could be but maybe that doesn’t matter so much anymore.

Maybe you’ll be fine for the time you have left no matter where you end up, as long as your friends and family still come to visit and you all get to tell the stories of the old days and remember the good times.

Standing proud.

Standing proud.

Maybe you’ll be fine. Because no mater the length of time allotted your future still stretches into the horizon.

Note: Many of you have read and care about Aunt V. She’s in a rehab center now and things are being sorted out.

She’s being brave, but change is hard.

Pink. A favorite color.

Pink. A favorite color.


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WordPress Photo Challenge: Local

Years ago I lived a few miles north of where I live now, in the city of Flint Michigan. You’ve probably heard of it. Last year it came to light that the pipes connecting many of the homes to their water supply were corroded and the water was contaminated with lead. Many children in the city tested positive for lead poisoning.

The water crisis garnered national attention. Presidential candidates visited promising to help. CNN arrived and interviewed residents. Congressional hearings were held. Celebrities donated thousands of bottles of clean water.

We were all outraged.

The tainted water had already been running into households for more than a year back then. And now it’s been more than a year since. This is what being local to Flint means today:

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I heard this week that a grant has been won by the city of Flint to help resolve the problem. Some pipes have been replaced, others have been coated with something to stop the corrosion. A few families now have clean water.

Many still do not.

And most people there don’t trust that their water will ever be safe to drink. After all, they’d been told it was safe before and now their children are poisoned. Their future is uncertain.

There are no easy solutions, but I can not imagine using bottled water for everything. For washing dishes, for bathing children, for cooking.

For years.

I’m not proud of the fact that these images define local in a city just up the road. That we seem to have forgotten, moved on with our lives, assumed someone was doing something to fix the problem. Someone else.

But this is still the reality of ‘local’ in Flint Michigan.


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Remembering our friend Ludo

We knew him as a puppy. Follow the link to read his first post, introducing himself to all of us. What a cutie! He was one of our first blogging doggy friends eight years ago. We loved reading about his adventures with his mum and dad and his rabbitdog siblings.

Ludo Ludwig Van Puppy

Ludo Ludwig Van Puppy

We watched him grow up — into a handsome, fun loving, adventuring dog. He loved his Mum and TNP (his dad) so very much. In fact he got to attend their wedding!

Ludo loves on his dad.

Ludo loves on his dad.

And he came to love his little brother Arran too, even though we all know little brothers can be a bit of a bother sometimes.

Ludo and his little brother Arran.

Ludo and his little brother Arran.

Ludo liked to take us along on his vacation adventures, and through him we got to see a lot of the Lake District in the UK. His parents were always careful to choose dog friendly locations including restaurants and hotels. Ludo was a very very lucky boy; he got to visit some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen.

Ludo shared stunning country with us all.

Ludo shared his stunning country with us all.

And it was always special to see it through his eyes.

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And did I tell you he won awards in agility? He loved to run and jump, especially with his mum.

Ludo could fly!

Ludo could fly!

He even got to go camping at agility events! Katie says she’s glad Ludo got to camp, it’s a truly special thing to do with your folks.

Camping is so much fun!

Camping is so much fun!

Ludo enjoyed holidays too. Especially Crispmas. He liked to celebrate with his family and always wished us good holiday cheer. Crispmas just won’t be the same now.

Ludo and Arran and the rabbitdogs pose for Crispmas.

Ludo and Arran and the rabbitdogs pose for Crispmas.

But most of all Ludo loved running along the sea, getting his furs salty and wet. Chasing his ball. Chasing the waves.

Just chasing life.

Gotta get those waves!

Gotta get those waves!

Ludo only got to live eight years. It wasn’t enough for any of us, especially for his mum Dee and his dad Richard. Though we knew he was fighting cancer we all hoped he could stick around a few more months. Years maybe if we were lucky. But it was not to be and Ludo went on to his next adventure beyond the rainbow bridge last month.

Hurro! It's me Ludo!

Hurro! It’s me Ludo!

Ludo carefully taught Arran all the important things about being a sheltie. How to ask for treats, to get the best belly rubs, to chase a ball. How to tilt a head for the best effect and make the humans smile. And now he’s taught us, once again, how to smile through our tears.

Any treats up there?

Any treats up there?

Eight years was not enough. We all wanted to watch Ludo’s antics forever. We all wanted the bad cancer stuff to go away. But he had become uncomfortable and his parents made the oh so difficult decision to let him fly. Now he’s running, forever free, by his beloved sea chasing the waves and barking with joy. It’s the way I’ll always remember Ludo.

He’s not so far away. He’s right there in our hearts where we can visit him whenever we need a glimpse of his silly handsome face.

Handsome birthday boy.

Handsome birthday boy.

Thank you Ludo, for sharing your life with us. And thank you Dee and Richard for facilitating that sharing. Ludo was magical. And magic lasts forever.

Hugs.

See you again someday sweetie.

See you again someday sweetie.

Note: All photos were taken by Dee or Richard. Wedding photo taken by their professional wedding photographer.


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Happy Birthday Mom

At Gulf Shores AL

At Gulf Shores AL

Your birthday snuck up on me again this year. I used to know it was coming, used to shop for the perfect card to send, used to plan exactly which day to drop it in the mail so that it arrived on your day.

Used to.

Now I’m more likely to realize it’s August 11 when I hear on the news about the Perseid meteor showers which always lit up the sky on your birthday. Like your own personal fireworks.

Happy 88th birthday Mom. It’s been twelve years since I’ve mailed a card to you. But I’m sure you know that we’re thinking about you on this and every day. I bet you knew we were all together last week at the home you and Dad built. We had a good time at the lake.

But it would have been better if you’d both been there too.

High School Senior

High School Senior


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Lunch with Mom

Home

Home

I want to go to lunch with my mom. Just a casual lunch, no earth shattering things to talk about. Maybe in a little coffee shop after a day of shopping.

But we weren’t like that. We rarely shopped together, neither of us were really into it. We didn’t meet for lunch at little coffee shops, though she made all of us lunch thousands of times at home. No, we weren’t the stereotypical mother/daughter. Plus she lived in Alabama. I lived in Michigan. Each visit I made was a big deal, a family reunion. Something she’d plan for weeks.

An event.

The hellos were wonderful, full of anticipation of time spent on the lake or around the table, all of us together. The goodbyes were heart wrenching, never knowing how long until the next reunion.

I want to go to lunch with my mom. Just a casual lunch, nothing special. I want to talk about her ducks and my dog. Her garden and mine.

Sometimes at night I look at the sky, stare at the stars and ask her to please come home. Please. But I know she is home now, and there aren’t any flights that leave there.

I’m here and she’s there.

Someday I’ll have lunch with my mom. It probably won’t be a casual meal because it will be a pretty special reunion. An event. For now I guess I’ll go make a sandwich and talk to her in my head. About her ducks and my dog. What’s in her garden today, and the tomatoes in mine.

You know – just casual stuff.

Her lake.

Her lake.


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Paddling the blues away

Morning light.

Morning light.


My family has come out to the lake and gone home again. The house feels empty and I’m feeling a little blue. But this morning the sun rose on another perfect day and there’s nothing to do when you’re feeling blue except take a paddle on a gorgeous lake.

So I set out.

Let's head out and see what there is to see.

Let’s go see what there is to see.

This is what we lake people call ‘water ski water’ because it’s the perfect glassy surface to fly free at the end of a tow line. I’ve had plenty of beautiful skis like that over the years but this morning was designed for more quiet refection.

Going around a bend I lost the perfect water and headed into a bit of a wind. And I realized I had forgot the sunscreen and the water bottle.

Paddle harder!

Paddle harder!

So paddling got more difficult physically and mentally. But I wanted to see how far I could go with a bum shoulder. So I’d rest a bit, floating silently, looking at all the lake houses, now empty of their people for another week.

And up at the next point I saw a tree. A tree that made me feel even more blue.

Not fall color. Not.

Not fall color. Not.

Because surely that was not fall color! Surely that was just caused by the drought. Even though it’s sitting right on the shore with plenty of water. Sure.

I quickly paddled around that point, and the water was smooth again.

Mom and Dad are everywhere on this lake.

Mom and Dad are everywhere on this lake.

I’d have to go way past that island and around that next point to get even close to the mountain where my parents’ ashes were spread. So even though I was curious about whether I could paddle that far I floated a bit and reluctantly turned around for home.

After all the turkey buzzards were circling above, waiting for me. And I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of dehydrating in the hot Alabama sun.

Ever hopeful circles.

Ever hopeful circles.

As with any trip, the paddle home seemed a lot shorter than the going out had been. Partly because that breeze was at my back. Partly because I’d moved into a rhythm, one with the water and the sun and the breeze and the paddle.

Still, home looked pretty good.

Home and shade, plus a bottle of water, await.

Home and shade, plus a bottle of water, await.


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Paying our respects at the Freedom Tower

Pools and names.

Pools and names.


There are no words adequate to describe the sheer size while looking up at the tower gleaming against the bright blue sky. No words to describe the deep emotion running through a crowd that stands mostly silent around the perimeter of the two pools ringed with names of the nearly three thousand that died.

Reflecting somber thoughts.

Reflecting somber thoughts.

No words.

Each day memorial staff place white roses in the names of those victims who would have been celebrating birthdays. Their lives are remembered by their families still and now complete strangers linger to gently touch the letters of the names cut into the smooth stone. Showing respect. Honoring.

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Inside the museum our tour guide provides detailed history. She is careful of our feelings, telling us it’s a difficult story to hear, to have experienced, to remember.

Fire truck. Cab is destroyed. All died.

Fire truck. Cab is destroyed. All died.

She reminds us that there are those among us that were not yet alive on that day and that it is important to tell the story. To not forget. To pass the lessons on.

Part of the antenna from atop one of the towers.

Part of the antenna from atop one of the towers.

In the great hall there stands the last piece of formative steel to be removed from the site. Taped to it are pictures of some of those that died, put there by the construction crews and city employees working on the cleanup. A makeshift memorial captured and preserved forever.

Back wall is the original footings of the tower. Last formative steel removed covered in heartfelt graffiti.

Back wall is the original footings of the tower. Last formative steel removed covered in heartfelt graffiti.

A long wall is covered in tiles, each of the 2,996 a different shade of blue, no two alike, because each of the 2,996 victims was unique. Blue, because the sky on September 11, 2001 was the wonderful clear blue of a perfect autumn day.

"No day shall erase you from the memory

“No day shall erase you from the memory of time.” -Virgil

There are things inside the museum that are hard to see but important to remember. There is a room with photos of each of the victims. Photos lined up, from floor to ceiling, row after row of faces smiling, eyes looking back, stories to be told, memories captured.

Hard.

But our guide reminds us that this memorial wasn’t built with hate. It was built with love. And that coming to visit is an act of love and respect and honor.

Old and new can exist together in harmony.

Old and new can exist together in harmony.

So we swallow our tears and we promise to pass the story on to the next generation in hope and peace.

Wings of hope.

Wings of hope.

And then we move out of the museum and back onto the streets of New York City under a brilliant blue sky.

Never forget.

Never forget.


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Healing doesn’t mean you aren’t grieving anymore

In the beginning you believe the worst possible thing that has just happened to you and your family is the absolute worst possible thing ever. That no family, no person can possibly be grieving as deeply as you are. And time passes and your focus shifts slightly beyond your own searing pain and you see that someone else is hurting too. That others have experienced similar events.

That it’s not all about you.

And that’s the first baby step to healing. That realization that you are not alone, that others have similar stories, similar, though not exact, pain.

I’ve started reading Cheryl Strayed’s “Brave Enough.” I’m not very far into it — barely started in fact — and already this quote of hers makes me stop and reread. And nod in agreement. And read it again. And want to share it with all of you.

“”When you recognize that you will thrive not in spite of your losses and sorrows, but because of them, that you would not have chosen the things that happened in your life, but you are grateful for them, that you will hold the empty bowls eternally in your hands, but you also have the capacity to fill them? The word for that is healing.”

And now, not an hour later, I’m reading a blog written by a woman who has been through trials most of us couldn’t imagine, including the sudden death of her husband a year ago. A line down near the bottom of the post stops me again. And makes me want to share it (and her) with you.

“Emotions don’t get better. We get better at holding them. They don’t get less heavy, we get stronger.”

Both women are right. Out of trials and loss and grief and pain we get stronger. And often we grow in directions we might never have moved without the experiences that left indelible scars on our souls.

I never wanted nor dreamed of the losses that changed our family. But given that’s the way it is, I’m pleased to continue the growth, spawned but not defined, by life events.

Wherever you are in the cycle of life, I hope you can see the light and hope and growth shining ahead of you. If you need a hand up, there are plenty of people willing to take hold. And if you’ve moved into a good place yourself, glance around once in awhile. Someone might be there, just in the shadow, ready to move, but needing a little nudge.

I’ll get off the soapbox now.

1954 Dad and Mom

1954 Dad and Mom