Birthdays

In the 19-aughts, my grandmother, born 99 years ago today, was a tiny girl in a midwestern town, no doubt doted upon by her homemaker mother and executive father.

In the teens, she grew up and went off to board at the Columbus School for Girls.  Somewhere in that time period, maybe a year or two later, she met her future husband, on a golf outing with their respective fathers.

In the 1920s, she was graduated from a Seven Sisters College and married my grandfather on the same day.  She was by all accounts a brilliant student, but largely untouched by the movement that had just resulted in women's suffrage.

By the end of the 30s, she was the mother of three sons, living on a quiet street in a small town, my grandfather's and great-grandfather's business ("Hay-Coal-Seed-Fertilizer-Water") having scraped through the Depression.

She and her family waited out World War II in the 40s and her sons, too young for the military, went off to school in New Hampshire. (Insert: A Separate Peace.)

In the 50s, her grandchildren began to arrive and her new home, built on a picturesque hillside in the country, became a haven for little people.

In the 1960s, tragedy began to strike, with the loss of a daughter in-law and grandson (my family) to a car accident. The 60s also saw the beginning of my grandmother's career as a world traveler, always accompanied by grandchildren.  She gave up on my grandfather, who wouldn't set foot on a plane or a boat, and eventually made it to Europe, Africa, Australia, and the Pacific Islands.

In the 70s she lost two more daughters-in-law in rapid succession.  She was beginning to age, but her home, with its brick patio and lemonade under a maple tree, was always the most welcoming place in our world.

In the eighties she became a great-grandmother and lost her husband.  She listened  to  her granddaughter, though, and had a hip replaced and managed one last trip, a birding jaunt to Trinidad and Tobago, before depression and deafness began their evil incursions into her life.

As the 90s passed, she aged rapidly.  She moved into an assisted living facility and her house was turned over to various members of the younger generations as they went through miscellaneous life transitions. She is a shrunken version of her former self, her bones as brittle as bones can be and her skin like paper, easily bruised and torn.

Today,  her still-keen mind trapped behind the veil of blindness and deafness, she struggles for meaning in daily life.  Help her on with her coat and help her feel her way to her walker, and she speeds down the hallway like a demon, eager for the car ride that will release her from the confines of her physical life.  But much of her time is spent alone, encased in darkness and silence.  She is much burdened by the knowledge that her middle son has been widowed a third time, and frustrated by her inability to understand what her great-grandchildren are up to. 

I read last night that only 1 in 10,000 Americans makes it to the age of 100.  My grandmother -- who told me when she was 80 that "there is just no point to this hip operation -- I'll be dead in two years!" -- seems to be on her way.

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On another note, my journal is ONE year old today.  I have never before in my life managed a journal for more than a few consecutive days, so I think a little celebration is in order.  Happy Birthday to Me, Too!

99

My grandmother will be 99 tomorrow.  A tough one for her, I think -- she has so little interaction with others, due to her dear-blindness and near- deafness -- and I know that she wonders how she could have lived so very long, when she has lost her husband, four daughters-in-law and a grandson.

I have been living with my sorrow over my stepmother's death for the past two weeks, and with many questions about what enhances life and makes it worthwhile, and what diminishes it to the point that it is not.  I have a picture in my bedroom of my grandmother in her 70s, on an African savannah with zebra grazing behind her.  But overseas adventure notwithstanding, she has lived for at least the past ten years within the confines of two small rooms, increasingly unable to recognize or converse with those of us who love her. 

My father has begun the inevitable process of questioning his and his wife's decisions about her medical care, raising issues that my brother and I tried without any success to discuss with them, and creating intense internal regret on my part for my utter failure in that regard.  (I reserve my fury for her doctors.)  And, of course, we are bombarded at every turn with Terry Schiavo's tragic existence.

Birthdays are just not what they used to be.  And the hibiscus blooming in Florida right now are many miles and months from here.

Easter Morning Moon Setting

When my son and I left the house around 6:00 this morning to walk to the cemetery for the Sunrise Service, the full moon was low in the sky.  I have learned from the author of Ruth Store that this one is called the Moon of the New Grass and, sure enough, the new grass is making its appearance amid all the slush and mud.  I thought I'd post this photo tonight in case anyone wants to look out early tomorrow morning and catch a glimpse of the tidal pull toward spring.

My day was kind of off kilter.  I didn't have nearly enough sleep last night so I napped a lot, with a break in the middle to take the boy to the airport.  I'm going to have to work intently this week to make up for a week-end of lethargy.  My daughter still has a week of vacation left, with nothing much planned, but her college acceptances are trickling in so at least there's a bit of news every day or two.

Back to sleep for me.

At The Last, A Victory!

Sunrise Service, about 6:45 this morning.

Cases of Mistaken Identity

First, earlier this week, I did one of those ubiquitous online quizzes (courtesy of Patrick's Place) and learned that, contrary to my real-life Leo-ness, I am more in line with 

I'm not an astrology afficionado, so I had to google Pisces to find out what this new revelation might mean.  Having spent most of my life content in the assurance that I am in fact a Lion, I was somewhat discomfitted to discover that I might be more akin to a Fish.  And I can assure you that I am never, ever, indecisive or self-pitying.  Moi? I think not.

A couple of days later, this time thanks to Sistercdr, I learned that, in my medieval phase, I am a PRIORESS:

(You are a moral person and are also highly intellectual. You like your solitude but are also kind and helpful to those around you. Guided by a belief in the goodness of mankind, you will likely be christened a saint after your life is over. )

I am pretty much 150% sure that the actual nuns I know, along with everyone else, will be dumbfounded to learn of my incipient sainthood.  I like the blue outfit, though.  Goes with the water that my new fish-self inhabits.

However, I am not yet done transforming myself.  I had mentioned to Theresa one day that, while in my former-ambitious-lawyer-life I had always come out as an ENTJ, I seemed to be emerging as someone else.  So when Sister also published a hilarious list of Meyers Briggs Prayers and several of them spoke to me, I decided to do a quickie online test and lo! I am emerging as an INFP.

My prayer?

Lord, help me to finish everything I sta

Well, yes, it did take me four or five hours to wash the kitchen floor yesterday, due to numerous self-inflicted interruptions.

I was a little surprised to discover that I have an introvert side.  Maybe all this writing is rearranging the folds of my  brain.  I did check my other possible prayers, of course, and they are:

ENFP: God, help me to keep my mind on one th – Look, a bird! – at a time.

and, my personal favorite,

ENTP: Lord, help me follow established procedures today. On second thought, I’ll settle for a few minutes.

By the way, Sister found the test at Ian's Messy Desk, whish is a new blog to me and looks to be an intriguing one.

This little diatribe on my shifting self (no. . . NOT shiftless) was prompted by a comment in my previous entry, a very generous comment from a reader who thinks my name is Celeste.  It's not, of course, any more than I am a selfless and moral introverted fish, but I googled that one, too, and it means, as I thought, "Heavenly."

So now I am a fish in the sky.

Productivity

I'm reading Jim Wallis's new book and hoping that members of the media are, too.  It did seem to me toward the end of the last election that there was a sudden collective, albeit limited, recognition on the part of the august fourth estate that the far right wing of the Republican party does not have a lock on the Christian faith.  Early on in the book, Mr. Wallis notes a reporter's comment  that he had always reported religion from the point of view of the "right" simply because it had the loudest voice.  I think that many reporters, who are themselves on the whole a notoriously secular group, have been surprised to discover that there are vast numbers of deeply faithful Christians whose views are much at odds with the current administration.  Anyway, there's nothing much new in the book for those who share the thoughts that Jim Wallis has been articulating for years in Sojourners, but it's a useful compendium for those who have relied entirely on the mainstream media for their understanding of the Christian message and the people who try to live it.

I'm also reading one of those sweeping historical novels that I find so absorbing when I have a to-do list a mile long.  I am weeks behind in grading student assignments, I don't have that chilled wine in the frig that I mentioned a few entries back -- not to mention the shining floors, clear windows, clear counters and organized stacks -- and I have to do reams of research on the dome of St. Peter's for my own class -- so naturally I am about to go back to bed to curl up with a saga that begins in the land of the druids and is going to take me forward about 1000 years.

A friend is IMing me, trying to get me to go for a walk, and the phone that I can't find is ringing, so I think I'll go back to bed and read.

Beach Beach Beach Beach Beach