stories

Today marks the fourth of my Dad’s “birthdays” where I am unable to physically share a hug with him.

Intellectually, he is juggling half a dozen lit torches, Ming vases, live puppies, and running chainsaws.

—Neal Stephenson, Cryptonomicon, p. 819

This morning, I was reading-along with a MetaFilter post (Melting Spoons and Autistic Burnout) and reflecting on my many clients and the challenges we all face.

I woke to a bespoke Sunday morning, and I found myself in a Spring-Forward state of mind.

With morning coffee,
I awoke to my two cats.
My thoughts exploded.

As I was viewing New Posts on Metafilter, and I came-across a sharing by Kattullus:

“still sleeping underground and had not yet spoken”

My tangents started here:

The residents of the very-assisted wing of the assisted living home gather in the living room to wait for dinner. Their walkers and some wheelchairs fill any empty spaces. Some have come on their own, starting almost an hour ago; others are brought by the attendants. The lone man came first, and sits sleeping in his chair in the middle of them all.

The young woman walking alone down the dark street just before the start of the New Year paused often, her head turned toward the brightly lit house from which happy voices could be heard. As the midnight hour got closer her pace slowed almost to a halt, as she listened to the sounds of celebration from the houses around. Then, she began to hurry, trying to make her Kleenex last until she got home.

     When I was a young girl my parents spent many weekends at the “club house,” which consisted of two houses on stilts along the Gasgonade River. The men fished, running trot lines four times a day, and the women cared for the children and cleaned and cooked and read Mickey Spillane mysteries. These houses are owned by my two uncles, and these weekends are filled with easy camaraderie and a lot of teasing. After supper and before running the last trot line they play cards and drink beer, laughing and often accusing each other of cheating, while the kids “sleeping” on the porch listen.

A letter to Family and Friends

Charlene (Char) passed in her sleep 31 January 2025

You will be gladly-sadly missed.

I've written a lot previously about my time with my Mother...

sigh

Now, it seems that I get another chance, bittersweet as this may be.

Having spent a satisfying Morning with Mom, we decided to go grab a bite to eat, then walk Torrey Pines State Beech for Sunset. It was a totally-fantastic day!

She asks "Where are we to spend our time tonight (given that I had not made sleep accommodations for that Friday)"?

'I don't really know . . . maybe we can find a hotel in the LA area that's close to the airport?'

[She immediately dives-down into her phone, and produces a solution]

"Wi Spa . . . it's gana be great."

Thích Nhất Hạnh, who passed in 2022, wrote in The Art of Living

We should not be afraid of suffering. We should be afraid of only one thing, and that is not knowing how to deal with our suffering.

Despair and feeling hopelessness are languages that many are not able to speak.

I am heartbroken when I read the stories of those who have reached a "I cannot do 'this' any more" cusp-point.

I am heartbroken because I have been faced with such a cusp.