Whew! - Wordless Wednesday

No prizes for guessing where this is!

Frazzled

What do you do when someone is driving you crazy? Do you put them and yourself out of your collective misery by spilling some blood? Do you walk away? Or do you suck it up, grin and bear it and hope that tomorrow the sun will shine?

My mother-in-law is 83 years old. Is blessed with good health, a loving family and a keen intellect. Her husband is 80, is confined to a wheelchair, deprived of the ability to enjoy life as he remembers, to live independently. But never a word of complaint passes his lips. Unlike his lady wife.

For the past week or so, everytime I show my face, I am subjected to the "poor me" litany. I'll breeze into her bedroom with her breakfast tray, all bright eyed and bushy tailed to be met with the, uncharacteristic, quivering voice, "Im feeling a little down, this morning, actually". I murmer something about the curative powers of tea and disappear downstairs to get Larry, the saint, up out of bed.

This man, who has had every activity and hobby that he holds dear, taken from him, who is totally dependent on other people for his very existence, is delighted to see a new morning and me. A big, cheery, toothless smile, and a willingness and enthusiasm to face the day, whatever it might bring. We have the banter, we do the necessary ablutions, we enjoy each others company. By 10am I have to leave.

By lunchtime, I'm back again. Summoned by her majesty, to deliver milk, or bread, or tea or anything else that can possibly be deemed a necessity. By 4pm she's on the phone, "I can't move the wheelchair, there seems to be something wrong with the wheels, can you come down and have a look at it?" By 8pm, the dog is missing, the back door won't open, the toilet is blocked or she has a terminal headache, all of which necessitate, yet another visit.

Each time I call, I do what I can. But its never enough. Will it ever be enough?

She's not always as needy as this. And I am not unsympathetic, usually.

But I am tired, physically, mentally, emotionally. I can't fix her life. I can't be responsible for her happiness. I am not a magician.

I'm human and, today, I'm a little bit frazzled.

The Eyes Have It

Fascinating things, eyes.

They dance and sparkle, twinkle and glare, approve and abhor, accept and reject.

All, without uttering a single syllable.

Mighty weapons.

I have a memory from my teenage years that comes back, occasionally, to haunt me.

On the periphery of my circle of friends and acquaintances, a shy, gentle, beautiful girl hovered. She didn't attend the same school as we did, she was conservative, not at all on the wild side, her family were wealthy, she lived in a very large, secluded house in a very select area. She was extremely pretty, with long, blonde hair, big, blue eyes, dressed in the finest clothes and perfectly groomed, never a hair out of place. Her name was Lisa. We all, secretly, wanted a bit of her, apparently, idyllic existence. I often felt that she disapproved of us, but still she hovered. We wondered about her. Why did she keep hanging around? What did she want? Why was she slumming it? The reason became clear, one Sunday afternoon, after she was seen wrapped around one of the main stags of the herd at the weekly disco. Aha. As far as I was concerned, she was more than welcome to him. He was a tall, good looking fellow but way up himself. Obnoxious, even. Big, loud horsey laugh and very little of interest between his ears. They made an extremely odd couple. She so dainty, him so large. She so refined, him so uncouth. But then he got bored, as 17 year old, cerebrally challenged males tend to do. She was heartbroken, and once again, on the periphery.

We met, a couple of weeks later, again on the highlight of our week, at the Tabu Club (the infamous Sunday Afternoon Disco for Wayward Teenagers). There were 5 or 6 of us madams, checking out the talent, discussing the pros and cons of certain tactics, bemoaning the severe lack of God's gifts to women. I hardly spoke more than half a dozen words directly to Lisa and can only remember being slightly bored with her. But, later, I heard from a mutual friend that "I scared her" that she thought I had put a "hex" on her relationship with the aforementioned Lothario, that I was "a witch" and that my "eyes were frightening, like devil's eyes, she was afraid of me".

I was gob-smacked, to say the least.

What had my eyes said, without my permission?

It got me thinking. What if we had to remain speechless for a day, a week, a year, forever. If we just had our silent eyes to communicate. Would we thrive and prosper in improved, noiseless, communication?

Or would we become extinct, murdered by misunderstanding?

Dancing Days

Being a child in semi-rural Ireland of the 1950's and 1960's was one sure way of ridding yourself of any high faluting notions that you might be nurturing.

"You want to WHAT?"

Digging the size 5s firmly in, I repeated my request. They indulged my whim and so, it was off to Mrs Legears Irish Dancing School with me. I jigged and reeled my way through complicated steps, intricate formations and garnered cups and medals to line the walls of any decent sized coffin. Mrs. Legear was a formidable woman. You were there for one purpose, and one purpose only. To dance, to learn and to bolster her reputation at the Annual Feis. No talking, no giggling, no tittering as she demonstrated the complicated choreography, like a demented, overblown penguin. For an extremely large lady, she was as light as a fairy on her feet. And she loved to dance. You could see it on her face, ecstatic, as she twirled and skittered, jumped and rocked, jigged and horn-piped across the timber floors of her converted garage. She had no children herself, so she MUST have really loved dancing to endure the hell-in-black pumps that descended, riotously, at her front door every Wednesday afternoon.

Eventually, I got notions. I wanted to be a ballerina. Yes, the ones that get to wear the tutus.

So, back to Mrs. Legears, but this time, on a Tuesday. I did positions and plies and all kinds of complicated ballet things until I thought I had died and gone to heaven. But, I was less than brilliant. Much less. I was way too gangly, all arms and legs. But I did get to wear a tutu. A green one. Accompanied by a severe case of stage fright. My budding ballet career died a natural death.

I still love to dance. In the kitchen, in the garden, in meadows and mountains. At family gatherings, I'm first up and the last to fall. I'll dance with anyone or no-one. I love the freedom of moving to music or even just following the inner echoes. I love the inner release, the exuberance of disappearing within and re-emerging as a bird, a dolphin, an emotion, a life.

Cha-cha anyone?

Curiouser and Curiouser

Let me introduce Pedro and Jose. (Names have been changed to protect their identity.)

Pedro is the brazen, daredevil teenager in front. Jose, skulking behind the bucket, is his all-too-willing sidekick.

Street cats, the pair of them. Loitering with intent, on street corners, behind buckets, high up on precarious roosts, seemingly, unaware of the passing parade, grooming themseves fastidiously and waiting. Waiting for the unsuspecting victim. The innocent passerby, going about his business, interfering with neither man nor beast. Then, out they pounce, yowling and mewling like banshees, skittering and scattering like demented fur balls, glaring malevolently and spewing forth hissing sounds that would make your eyelashes curl. Having frightened the bejaysus out of their victim, they, then, retreat to the nearest "safe house" and proceed to curl up into 2 innocent kitties. Why do they do this? I have no idea but can only surmise that they are, indeed, practising for the tiger world. Where it is very dangerous. Where they will need to have all their skills in top cat shape.

I have always had a rather ambivalent attitude to cats.

But, I found myself warming very quickly to these 2 ragamuffins. Bold and brazen, they most certainly were but did they care?? Not on your Nellie, No Siree. They were doing what they had to do to ensure their survival. I like that.

Pity us humans don't do the same.

Birthday Bird

On the morning of the 3rd October 1986, I announced to GB that maybe he had better take a day off from work. This was rather unusual. Unusual, in as much as, for the previous 24 hours we had been on Vision Only due to some hormonal glitch on my part. His words not mine. So, a severe lack of verbal communication was the order of the day. I duly fed the ravenous offspring, prepared lunch boxes and scraped a rake in the general vicinity of my head. Ready for the day, we - the children and I - headed off.

He never asked "Why?"

I walked daughter no.1 to "big" school and son no. 1 to "playschool". Happy as pigs in the proverbial, they were completely oblivious to the momentous change about to wreak havoc on their innocent lives.

GB was still sipping tea at the kitchen table when I got back an hour later. Well, at least, I had been heard. It was, by now, 10.30am. Time was marching on. "I think it will be soon", I announced to no one in particular, thereby giving him an opportunity to maintain the vision only status, or not. To my surprise, he enquired "Would you like to go for a walk?"

And walk, we did. And talk. And pause. And breathe. And walk again. And pause again. And breathe again.

By 11.45 I figured I'd had enough walking, talking and pausing. It was time for the "real" games to begin. On our way back to the house, during one of the more significant pauses, we noticed, not 10 metres from us, a hawk swooping down from the cover of some tall pine trees and tackling an unsuspecting, obscenely overweight pigeon to the ground in a flurry of feathers and pitiful squawking. We watched, completely fascinated, while Nature did what Nature does best. The hawk was merciful. The pigeon didn't suffer. Much. We had no time to waste so, thankfully, we missed the decloaking and ultimate annihilation of the feathered victim.

"Hawk Who Brings Down Pigeon" made her prematurely, grand entrance at 1.15pm.

She was a serene child. Other children, especially younger ones, gravitated towards her like nails to a magnet. They still do. She was quiet. Worryingly so, at times. And then she hit 16 and the, hitherto dormant, hawklike qualities emerged in all their glory. She hovered and swooped, demolished and destroyed, decloaked and annihilated all that were unfortunate enough to cross her path. Nature in resplendent glory. Not unlike most teenagers.

She's a Libra, she's a Hawk, she's a fine, loving, sensitive human being. And she's spreading her wings.

Fly and soar, bird of my heart.

All Saints Day, Abstinence and Away in the Brain

November 1st has arrived.

NaBloPoMo is upon us. Brains, all over the world are clinking and clanking, turning and churning, clogging the airwaves with stories, ideas, anecdotes and tall tales. The necessary, humdrum, everyday activities are abandoned, cast gleefully away on the turbulent seas of cerebral activity. All in the pursuit of eggcelence.

This is my first installment of, what I hope will be, 30 days of continuous blogging. A noble undertaking, considering the circumstances. But, then, I have a plan. "Thats all thats needed", I tell the doubting Thomases lurking in my grey matter. A Grand Plan. A Master Plan, even. Unfortunately, as I pen this, the words of Robbie Burns are nibbling at my ears, reminding me that "the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft aglae".

Think positively. Onwards and upwards. Into the valley of death .....

During my school days, the nuns were apt, with monotonous regularity, to remind us simple, impressionable, maidens, in solemn, reverential voices, that November 1st was a SPECIAL day. "Why is that Sister?" we would enquire, demurely, knowing full well that the ensuing explanation would guarantee us at least an hour off the dreaded Maths class. "Well, girls, its the day we remember all the Holy Saints in Heaven who have gone before us and are guiding all of us sinful, mortal beings to Jesus Christ and Eternal Life in the Lord......." And she was off ... gone, like a bat out of hell, on her favourite hobby horse, reminding us of the martyrs who died for us, of the Little Flowers that prayed for us, of the Animal Lovers that guided us along the perilous journey called Life. Wasting her sweetness on the desert air, we all thought.

But, years later, one desperate November, I remember trying to do a deal with God, but, not really getting anywhere with Him, I decided to try the good, old reliable saints. I was VERY desperate. I promised them the sun, the moon and the stars if they would only do this one thing, just this one time, for me. They left me stewing for a couple of days. During which time, I cogitated and ruminated and figured I'd better up the ante a bit and make it an irresistable, once-off, never-to-be-repeated offer, that would swing it for me. The offer was approved and accepted. Written in blood, sweat and tears.

"Fear not, oh good and faithful servant, your labours will be rewarded. But remember, be true to thy word". They didn't ACTUALLY say this to me. But I got the message.

Since then, every November, it is the dry season.

I always honour a good deal. And the Saints just love it. They dream of, eventually, saving my soul. Optimists, the lot of them.

But, at the time, it was a very good deal. Needless to say, that didn't stop the friends, the companions, the boozy buddies, the birds on the trees, the dogs on the street, from tearing the divil out of me. I had one particular friend, who hailed from the northern territories, who used to assure me, with manic nodding of her wild, red head, that I was, indeed, "aweay in the breain".

Away in the brain, I may be, but the deal still stands, 30 years later.

I hope the saints are roaring approval in the hallowed halls of the afterworld.