The etymology of feelings

Last week was my last session with Mollie. She is quitting her job of 10 years and going to take care of her aging mother. Her family is overloaded by the issues there, and she wants to regroup personally.

I feel so responsible.
(late 16th century (in the sense ‘answering to, corresponding’): from obsolete French, from Latin respons- ‘answered, offered in return,’ from the verb respondere )

Seriously, I'm not sure who influenced whom in these similar trajectories. My guess is that we are mirroring, not each other, but the changes in our society. My friend B wrote a long comment to a previous blog, the gist being that as a culture we are moving from independence into cooperatives, which, in our current isolated and virtual lifestyles, might be a good thing. While this move is being prompted by financial woes, it's totally probable that those woes are a symptom of the basic sickness of our version of capitalism.

However, both Mollie and I are not so interested in the financial aspect of our choices. We are pondering our live's meanings, goals, and futures, in a spiritual sense. We have both been feeling stagnant, staid, static.

• mid 17th century: from Latin stagnant- ‘forming a pool of standing water,’ from the verb stagnare, from stagnum ‘pool.’
• late Middle English (as a verb): from Anglo-Norman French estai-, stem of Old Frenchester, from Latin stare ‘to stand’; in the sense ‘support’ (sense 5 of the verb andsense 3 of the noun), partly from Old French estaye (noun), estayer (verb), of Germanic origin.
• late 16th century (denoting the science of weight and its effects): via modern Latin from Greek statikē (tekhnē ) ‘science of weighing’; the adjective from modern Latinstaticus, from Greek statikos ‘causing to stand,’ from the verb histanai . Sense 1 of the adjective dates from the mid 19th cent

We both have spent 10 years on a path that is mostly about serving others and staying put. We miss our adventurous selves, the people who traveled and explored. She has, I think, been more adventurous than I. After all, I stayed in one place and profession for close to thirty years. She moved around a lot in her earlier life, and that is much more typical. How many mid-lifers actually want to be nomads, really?

Still, she has been questioning her choices, and I think it was her inner searching which informed the discussions which opened me to possibilities. Instead of feeling trapped....
("contrivance for catching unawares," late Old English træppe, treppe "snare, trap," from Proto-Germanic *trep- (cognates: Middle Dutch trappe "trap, snare"), related to Germanic words for "stair, step, tread" (Middle Dutch, Middle Low German trappe, treppe, German Treppe "step, stair," English tread (v.)), and probably literally "that on or into which one steps," from PIE *dreb-, extended form of root *der- (1), an assumed base of words meaning "to run, walk, step." Probably akin to Old French trape, Spanish trampa "trap, pit, snare," but the exact relationship is uncertain). ......I now feel haphazard,
(1570s, from hap "chance, luck" (see hap) + hazard "risk, danger, peril.")

The difference is nominal, really, but important. Snares are dangerous: one walks, runs, steps, MOVES into them. By chance, one moves into peril. So, will this haphazard movement of mine lead to another entrapment? Is that what life is, movement from one danger to the next? Is all change haphazard? Perhaps. Or perhaps that's the final fear that needs to be answered before I can move on, before I can fully feel adventurous.
(Middle English: from Old French aventure (noun), aventurer (verb), based on Latinadventurus ‘about to happen,’ from advenire ‘arrive.’)

Am I about to arrive? I hope so. Meanwhile, I feel so grateful
(mid 16th century: from obsolete grate ‘pleasing, agreeable, thankful’ (from Latingratus ) + -ful.)
to Mollie for being there during the past 20 months (has it really been that long?). She has been a sounding board. She has not let me flail in negative self-talk, but has asked the questions that needed to be answered. If I can say that I have arrived at a place where I am no longer PTSD, it is largely due to our work together.

It's probably time for me to to do that work on my own, or with other people, but I will miss her. I hope her trajectory is a joyous one, or that the painful moments are few. I have every expectation that her next steps will be good for her and those she loves. And I trust that I will follow a similar trajectory.

I feel hopeful.

(Old English hopian "wish, expect, look forward (to something)," of unknown origin, a general North Sea Germanic word (cognates: Old Frisian hopia, Middle Low German, Middle Dutch, Dutch hopen; Middle High German hoffen "to hope," borrowed from Low German). Some suggest a connection with hop (v.) on the notion of "leaping in expectation")

Easter morning

So many of my friends are heathens like me, that it is a surprise to log into FB and discover other friends  commenting on Christian joys and sunrise services.  I used to be in sync with that.  I remember in previous years going to church and singing Easter hymns in four-part harmony, looking at the lilies by the altar, enjoying the pastels and veiled hats and really cute little girls in little white shoes and stockings with lacy tops.  I used to decorate Easter eggs and take pix of them among the garden flowers.  I created origami baskets and filled them with Whopper Robin's Eggs for the family.  I harvested spring herbs for special omelets, and I made breakfast breads with cinnamon and raisins.  I was into it.

But today I am celebrating a quieter, less domestic, less-communal sort of re-birth.  I want to bring myself back to life, and that needs to happen alone.

It's a rocky path, though.  I woke at 5 and listened to the birds singing in anticipation of the dawn.  I put on a robe and went outside:  the air was cool, springlike, almost balmy.  I felt almost too warm in my fuzzy yellow robe.  The scent of some flower drifted past on a fresh early morning breeze, a light caress.  Daphne?  Lilac?  Something spicy, something sweet, something uplifting.  I breathed it in, sensing the serenity of the morning, but my eyes were still gritty and wanted to close, so I went back to bed and had an AWFUL dream about shopping for antiques, paying $75 for a broken box, and somehow upsetting two of my sisters.  I woke up and decided to start this day differently.  D is at the beach with his men's group, I have the shedroom to myself.  I will turn things around, do some Qi Gong, some Tai Chi Chuh, make some coffee, snuggle with my dog.

And it works.  The neighborhood is quiet, and my shedroom is like a little cabin in the woods.  My urban cabin:  I love it so much.  The light streams through the skylights, and I look east over my garden while I practise and putter about the little kitchen area.  The cat leaps to the window ledge and watches me.  She doesn't seem to want in, she is companionable but not snuggly today.

I realize that what I really want is to go back to where I was 20 years ago, living in a one-room converted milk barn.  Back then, I walked across the driveway to the big house to take my shower, and it was perfect:  I figured out what the weather was and planned my clothing while I washed away the sleep.  My house felt connected to the earth and sky, and I felt connected, too.  I read A LOT and listened to music.  I went for long walks with the landlord's dog, and spent a lot of time with friends.  I put a darkroom in the landlord's laundry room.   I had everything I needed.  I was serene, content.

My shedroom feels very similar:  I start every day with a stroll through my garden.  I walk around the house to shower, do laundry, use the bathroom, watch TV, use the kitchen.   I don't need those last three, at least not often.  My kitchenette is sufficient for the basics, TV is a time and brain drain, and once the composting toilet is installed, I am set for most daily living.  The big problem is that I cannot really go back to this simpler life and still live with D.  The shedroom is too small for two, and he can't live without the amenities.  It's really a space built with my needs in mind.  He likes it, but only on limited terms.

It's been a tough spring, a tough year, a tough time all around, and not just for me.   In general, I know how lucky I have been, how supported.  I still have my home, my family, my friends, my pets, my sanity, my health, my work.  Basically.  There have been stresses on all of these, and I find myself bone-tired by 9 pm, every day.  I don't answer phone calls, I don't go to choir or music night, I hurt people's feelings, I hide from them and the consequences of my actions.  I lose track of my keys, my phone charger, and my checkbook.  (I'm still looking for my keys.)  There is no rhythm to my days, and I haven't meditated or practised Tai Chi Chuh or violin or viola da gamba since.....I can't recall when.

The home is evolving, and it's an ongoing process:  working with the new tenants, trying to keep the airbnb going, still painting the house and fixing up the yard.  There's some remodeling left to do, and some reorganizing and de-cluttering (who knew we had so many pictures?  books?  vitamins?  bottles of cortisone cream?  ditto of lotion and shampoo?)  Every day has a big project attached to it, sometimes two.   Order is slowly being wrought out of the chaos, but it feels like it's taking too long.  I yearn for a stable environment.  I miss my friends.  I miss myself.

But, I do seem to have the remnants of hope to build upon.  I have proof, in fact.  Recently I sent this message to a friend who was checking up on me:

Thanks! The sale is over and garnered almost enough income to cover vet emergencies and paint and floor refinishing! We had spent a week trying to toss things, and then left the sale to the professional and skipped town to recover. The sale was 3/24-25.

We went up to Port Angeles to visit Dave's wonderful cousins, and Carbon's laryngeal paralysis kicked in....after one hour on the way home it was so bad we stopped at the nearest clinic. 3 hours later, after several shots, and oxygen treatment, we were on our way, only to stop yet again to spend the night at a Motel 6. Total cost, for all of this, $400.

It's really scary to hear your sweet old dog panting for breath for 5 hours straight. No more road trips for her.

Then we got home and found Simone had an abscess. It was so bad they put in a drain. She's a tuxedo cat, and it looks like a grotesque bow tie. It stays in for 72 hours, which means an RCA victor collar and being sequestered inside. When I put the collar on her, she backed into a corner, eyes round with fright, and refused to eat or drink. We left her in the living room over night, and in the morning she greeted me sans collar and made a bolt for the outdoors. But, we've managed to keep her fairly well contained, and she's leaving the drain alone, so such is life. She really is quite sweet, and doesn't fight me too much over all this unnatural treatment.

Cost for that, $170. It would have been closer to $700, but I got a wellness plan last year when she had what has become her annual spring abscess.

Amongst all of this, I decided that, while the rooms were empty, we really should refinish the floors and paint the walls before the new housemates move in. That's tomorrow. Needless to say, we are not meeting that deadline. Cost for floors, $500. Cost for paint, $350. Will be working with the housemates to finish up.

We made $1375 on the sale. You do the math!

I spent today reorganizing the entire kitchen and clearing away the grime of 20 years, prepping for a shared kitchen. The floor guys came today, so it was the only room we could access. Fortunately, the shed room remodel is basically done, and we can sleep and rest out there. We put Carbon and Simone out there to keep them away from the chaos.

During all of it, I've been bickering with D. It makes me so sad that we don't always pull together.  This work could be fun, or at least a way to build closeness.  Instead we argue about what to do and how to do it.  The moments of consensus emphasize the disconnects, and I can't seem to focus on the positives.

On the plus side, the various changes to my homestead are wonderful, and once the final arrangements are made, it'll be a huge relief. I've needed to declutter for a long time. I really like my little shed. It's like a cabin, with a peaked roof, roses peeping in the windows, rain on the skylights, a little kitchenette, and a shuttered closet. The only thing it lacks is a bathroom. We're adding an outhouse next week, and regular bathroom stuff will be in the main house. Reminds me of my days in the milk barn on Taylor's Ferry Road. 

Still, I'm doing okay. Still interviewing for library gigs, still renting the studio for airbnb, still working on call, still wishing for a new career. Looks like innkeeper or landlord is the most likely. At any rate, I'll try not to let you all down. I hope you are right about my ability to ride this out. It's pretty exhausting right now.

Okay, so, the remnants of hope are a little tattered.

False Hope is Corrosive

I spent another day getting the runaround from various institutions and crying.  I am now officially ready to throw in the towel, which I suspect is the goal of all involved.  There are so many people in need, they have to have a way to winnow people out.  But they don't want to appear unhelpful.  So, they start with random rules.  They advertise services and promise they will help people.....if they are eligible.  The eligibility requirements are truly head-scratchers.  Why does it matter when you last refinanced your house?  (That's the one that winnows me out.)  Or how much you owe?  Or how much equity you have?  Need is need.

If you can get past the eligibility requirements, they then set up a process to winnow you out.  I've already described the mortgage assistance boogie, but there's a further twist:  even if you do get to apply, there's no saying you will actually be accepted into the program.

Essentially, you are running through a maze.  You keep running down blind alleys.  Then, you see a run that ends in a doorway, the door held open.  You see green fields, seascapes, mountains:  whatever symbolizes freedom.  You run towards the door and just as you reach it, WHAM!  it's slammed in your face.  And a voice says, turn around and try the other tunnel....see, there's a door there, it's going to open in 2 hours, just sit by it.  Ooops, you're sitting next to the wrong door, it's never going to open.  Try that door over there.  Repeat again in 2 weeks.  And again.

It's just plain mean.  It would be better if I spent my time focussing on what I can do for myself, not on  these phantom promises and false hopes.

So, next time I get ready to whine about my sad state of affairs, I will breathe deeply and think about what is working in my life.  I will think about chocolate, fresh bread, the scents of rosemary and lavender, good books, classical music, strong hugs from people I love, making s'mores at the fireplace....there are so many things to bring joy, and few of them require much effort to acquire.

As Scarlett says, "Tomorrow is another day."