On memories

Memories are a funny thing. We all know what a memory is, but we cannot find it, elicit one on command, or pinpoint the area of the brain where memories are formed. Metaphors abound that try to describe a memory: watercolors, clouds, wisps of smoke, lines on a leaf, a bank, file cabinets, books, a safe, writing in the sand. These metaphors attempt to corner something abstract, to capture a memory so it can be put in a jar, examined, measured, recreated, but it is all pointless. I have often wondered where our memories go when we die; do these memories just disappear like water down the drain (see there, another metaphor)? Or do they merge with God, where these memories actually began. I know, confusing, but since God created us, and knows what happened, what is happening, and what will happen, doesn't it make sense to assign the job of memory storage to him?

Regardless, the older I get, the more I wonder about memories: my own, my family's, my friends, and the world at large. Our memories are formed somewhere (we do not know where, although scientists have tried to figure that out) by not just our visual experiences, like photographs, but in a much more complex way. All our senses have a hand in creating memories--our smell, taste, touch, hearing, and sight--and how we feel at that moment. Are we happy? Sad? Worried? Afraid? Excited? At the time a memory is created are we recollecting other memories? Our environment, the weather, family relationships, our health, what is going on around us--is the TV on? Music? something cooking?--weaves tendrils into our memory bank and creates a new one. 

Memories sometimes build on each other, or draw parts from other memories. I look at a photograph of myself as a child, imagine what I was doing then, and then voila! there is a brand new memory; I  place myself into that photograph, and then create a memory of that event, even if I did not remember it happening before I saw the picture. The resulting memory is not real--it was manufactured by looking at a photograph and either someone told me about it, or I made it up; it is a false memory. For example, there is a photograph of me, probably 3 years old, sitting on the grass at my Nana's house, and my sister is sitting on my lap, laying her head on my shoulder, and my mouth is forming a little oval. In my mind, I think I remember that moment, and that I was saying "Aw she loves me." Is it an authentic memory? Who knows? But I have created that memory in my mind (somewhere) so many times it has become real.

We can repress memories of painful or shameful, embarrassing moments (but those memories are always there.) We can also manipulate our memories by our moods and make them larger than life, or practically nonexistent. Other people can twist and bend our memories by talking about how they remember it. And well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning self-described "experts" can take an innocent occurrence, or something that happened to someone else and make it our crosss to bear, or our victory. Three people involved in the exact same situation at the exact same time in the identical place will remember an event, a feeling, a situation, in three (or more!) different ways. We ascribe memories to the wrong people, the wrong time, or the wrong place, or worse yet, create our own memories as a buffer from something too painful to face. 

People recount memories to justify their own actions, reactions and feelings toward someone or something. Memories are great, because they can make us feel wonderful or they can help us not make the same mistake. But they are only memories, and these memories are only real to the person who made theme; my memories are only accurate (to a point) for me, and nothing I do or say to anyone can make them see and relive my memory the way I do. 

So yeah, memories are great, they are different for everyone, they are elusive little buggers that shift and change and hide and pinch. The most important thing about memories though? They are in the past. They are done. They are gone. And to live in the past in our memories, real, imagined, or manipulated, does the memory maker no good.

The moral of the story? Don't trust your memory. Trust God. Love him. Love others.

Form new memories.

You know you are alone when...

... you make too much conversation with the Starbucks barista 

... your spouse is more interested in channel surfing than sharing news about each others' days

... you talk to your dogs, ask them questions, and actually answer them

... your chickens seem happy to see you

... Jesus is the only one who truly understands you

... your phone doesn't ring or send you a notification except for reminders, ads, and robocalls

... you are actually glad when you get one of the above calls

... you're about to have surgery and none of your family will be there to take care of you

The most meaningful parts of my day involve other people's children, helping them learn, making sure they feel loved, giving them the time and attention my own family doesn't seem to want. 

I served my country, loved my family, took care of them when they were sad or sick or dying, celebrated with them when they were joyous, gave of myself until there was almost nothing left. No I didn't do it for anything in return, but now that I am older, and alone, and want someone to take care of me, to listen,

they are 

all

gone.

Where is my lane?

Exactly where is this lane I am supposed to stay in?

Conversations with adult children, specifically women, are laced with danger. If you say nothing or don't reply to a question fast enough, you could be construed as (1) not listening, (2) not caring or (3) thinking she is doing everything wrong.  Say something too quickly, or a short reply because texting a long reply takes too long, and you are told you are meddling, butting in, out of your lane. The past few months I feel as if I have been walking through a minefield; say the wrong thing or say anything at the wrong time or just nod and listen and BOOM. And it is not as if I am offering advice every day or telling them they don't feed their children right or they are horrible wives. I don't nag them about not calling, nor do I send 16-page letters chronicling every single offense, real or imagined, they've committed since birth, complaining how no one cares. I grew up getting letters like that from my mother, and was constantly told I wasn't good enough, and never would be; so I know from painful experience how much it hurts to feel inadequate. Nope, I love my daughters and my stepdaughter and I cherish the relationship I have (or thought I had) with them. 

I don't want to be the person they have pigeonholed me to be, the 40-something mom who was trying her best to raise competent, loving, and Godly women. That was nearly 30 years ago and I am finished raising them and just want to keep getting to know them, who they are now, what they think, what they love, and how they see me. I want to be that rare and beautiful blend of mother and friend, which is something I never had (either actually). I want them to know me, to ask me my thoughts, to understand how I feel about things like getting older, death, grandchildren, my parents, the music I like, how am I doing with my brother, or about my life in general. And I want to be able to speak the truth to them, to tell them what I see in them, or in their lives, that is good and wonderful, but also what may cause them pain and disappointment. 

And therein lies the rub, my Shakespearian friends, because my middle-age daughters take offense when I say anything that even remotely smacks of advice, even if it is not. Why? Because I am "the mom," the one who controlled them when they were little, kept them safe, disciplined them, yelled at them, and dished out consequences for their misbehaviors. I am told to mind my business, stay in my lane, to not bring that up ever again, etc., etc. Do they really think I want that role back? That I want to control their lives or discipline them or keep them safe? Do they really believe I am such a meddling busy body? Can't they see how much I love them and want to be a part of their lives? That I think they are wonderful human beings? Do they not know how much that love is worth, and how much wisdom I can offer from nearly 70 years on this planet? I would have given my right arm to have a mother who wanted to know about me, be a part of my life even after I was "all grown up." 

Maybe that's the problem--overcompensating for something I never had by trying to be that to the young women God entrusted me with. Some folks my age have almost zero contact with their grown kids, others have one or more adult children living with them, and still others just share coffee and light conversation. I want more, but these three women, two of whom I raised, seem happy with having less. And as I approach the "golden years" of my life there is so much I want to say, so much I want to share, and who better to share it with than women I love? Sure I have friends and a husband who is awesome, and acquaintances where my days take me, but it is the next generation of me that I want to share things with, so that when I am gone, there will be some part of me here who knew who I was and what I loved. 

The funny thing about this conundrum I am in? Young women my daughters' ages and younger seek out my advice and my companionship and my wisdom; they see me as a valuable resource to tap into, so why the disconnect with my own? 

Who knows, right? 

God does, I know...I think I am going to have a chat with him about this next time I talk to him.

Splish splash I was taking a bath...

Have you ever gotten so accustomed to doing something, something you really love, that you take for granted you will always be able to do that? But then slowly, ever so slightly at first, your ability lessens, you falter, perhaps you do not enjoy it as much, until eventually that function, the capability to perform that task diminishes to the point it is no longer enjoyable or even possible? And you come to the realization your body is now your enemy, it no longer listens to you, but does whatever it wants, whenever it wants, and cares absolutely nothing about etiquette, grace, or even safety. 

No? Well, you are more than likely under 40, and definitely under the age of 30, and you sit there on your nice tight butt with yo ur unwrinkled skin absent  any age spots, raising your pretty eyebrows that still actually require tweezing, and you think to yourself, "How ridiculous! That will never happen to me because I eat all organic, vegan, non-GMO, farm-to-table food on BPA-free plates and I do yoga, cross training, meditation, hiking, biking, and free weights." You go right ahead and believe that. Meanwhile, let me tell you about my love for, no, obsession with, baths, and how that obsession recently led to a shocking discovery.

My very first apartment was on the second floor of a lovely home in Parma, Ohio, and had a bedroom, kitchen, small living area, and a bathroom with a big bathtub--big enough to sleep in. Working full time at a small hospital, taking respiratory therapy classes at a local community college, and getting very little sleep, the best way to relax was a nice hot bath right before bedtime. Worked like a charm; taking a hot bath to destress became almost a nightly ritual. Later on, when I was married and pregnant, a warm bubble bath soothed both me and the little one growing inside me. Fast forward a couple of years and I had toddlers (two of them), and after a long day at work on active duty, followed by laundry, housework, and putting the little ones to bed, my escape of choice? You guessed it...a hot bath. This continued as the kids grew up; they would clamor for my attention and I would escape to the bath, sometimes even locking the door. Then the girls grew up, left home, got married, even had children of their own. 

When I retired and we moved to North Carolina, I found the perfect tub for our log home: a large triangular jacuzzi tub! Sure it took over the majority of the bathroom space, leaving very little room for a shower, but it was my dream tub, like a bath tub and hot tub rolled into one. If I was cold, not feeling well, getting a migraine, sad, or couldn't sleep, you did not have to look far to find me. Then the grandchildren started coming--first one, then two, then three, and finally four granddaughters--each of them eventually taking a bath in Nana's/Grandma's giant tub, and usually more than one child at a time. If there were grandkids at the house, you can bet that tub was in use, complete with toys and wooden spoons and measuring cups and lots of soggy towels and wrinkly toes. And oh the bubbles! Just a little bit of bubble bath or baby shampoo, turn on the jets, and bubbles would be up to the top. I have photos galore.

As the years went by though it became harder for me to climb in and out of the tub, and there were times I needed a little assistance. I practically had to do a "downward dog" move to get up, and hold on to the window ledge and the shower wall to get out; it was not pretty, trust me. Afraid of falling or, worse yet, being doomed to taking only showers for the rest of my life, I bit the bullet and ordered a walk-in tub. The downside to this? Not one store within 100 miles had one I could sit in or try out, so I was ordering blind. I did not want the tall one with the seat, because I love soaking in the tub, and I did not want to take up too much room in our soon-to-be-remodeled bathroom (Alex was finally going to get the shower of HIS dreams), so I did not want one that was too wide either. So I ordered one that was a walk in tub, not too wide, no seat, just a slight elevation in the rear of the tub. The tub came in. Did I think to go sit in it BEFORE we had it installed? No. 

Now, two months after the arrival of the new "easy access/easy exit" bathtub, our bathroom remodel is complete, the shower is beautiful, the old tub is gone (I cried while looking through all the photos of little granddaughters covered in bubbles), and my new tub was ready for use. I opened the tub door, closed it and latched it, closed the drain plug, turned on the water, and went to sit down. Um, nothing really to hold on to so I could lower myself gradually like I was used to, so I had to just sit as gracefully as I could, which turned out to be not graceful at all. It is a wonder I did not crack the tub. Ok, I say to myself, I need to work on that, maybe do more upper body exercises. Meanwhile, I will just lie back and relax in my new tub with some bubbles. 

Twenty minutes later, the water is still nice and hot (a good sign), and I am ready to get out, so I release the drain plug, and wait for the water to drain out (so I can open the door). All the water is out, and I think, hmmm, now what? Those bubbles made the tub pretty slippery, and this tub is too narrow for me to turn around, so how do I stand up? I have no leverage, nothing to grab onto, and I am in the worst sitting position possible, unable to get any use out of my not very useful leg muscles. I mean, I haven't been able to get up off the floor to a standing position for a few years now without some yoga and gymnastic  movements, so how the hell do I get out of a slippery narrow tub?

"ALEX!!! HELP!"

He did, and then I cried and cried and cried. 

Next order of business: find some sort of bath seat to put in the tub that will allow me leverage. 

Moral of the story: Always try on your new bathtub before you install it.