A friend on Facebook has a regular request: that people post one of their thoughts or feelings that seems to be universally unpopular.
Blogs that focus a lot on pets or grandchildren or food … bore me in a very short time.
A friend on Facebook has a regular request: that people post one of their thoughts or feelings that seems to be universally unpopular.
Blogs that focus a lot on pets or grandchildren or food … bore me in a very short time.
Christmas hasn’t been the thrill it was in childhood (then only because of the gifts and shortbread cookies and lefse and rosettes and time off from school; I never gave a hoot about gathering with the family once teenagerhood was reached, and the celebration of the Christ child? Meh; though I always did like the sparkling lights and shiny decorations, and still do) and the holiday no longer matters to me whatsoever. Actually with very young children in the family now, it’s more of an ordeal. Have I ever mentioned that I only enjoy small children in short doses? (You think you’re a grinch! I’m this way year-round.)
In my family we each used to give and receive about 30 gifts because we had aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents living nearby and we all gathered on Xmas Eve and Xmas Day. It was a windfall of luxury for a kid, even though most gifts were just stocking stuffers.
Sorry for those for whom Christmas has sentimental meaning, but frankly it’s a relief that I won’t be expected to attend any get-togethers on either Himself’s or my side of the family.
I’m still working part time at the village office — apparently we are an essential service, as the water treatment plant has to keep operating, the streets need cleared of snow, and somebody has to manage that, pay the maintenance man, the utility bills, collect tax and utility payments, sell garbage tags, etc., and that’s me. However just this week the provincial government reluctantly made it mandatory to wear masks inside all public buildings, so all but one person who entered the office has worn one. Before that, maybe one person did (besides me) and many seemed to think I was being overcautious. They stated that since our rural population is so low and spread out and “There are no cases around here,” we didn’t have to worry about it here. D’uh. I won’t say I Told You So out loud, but am thinking it.
Covid has only begun to be felt (by me) now that infection rates have skyrocketed in the province and I’ve told #1 Son he can’t come out here, as I don’t want to risk spreading anything to him or his household after I’ve been at work in a public office. He has a hard time understanding. The CEO of his group home and sheltered workshop will allow him to come to my place for the weekend. It’s me who says no, not for a while yet. My son phones me on Thursday nights. This week he said “But you do LIKE it when I come out to your place, right? You still want to see me, right?” This mother’s heart breaks just a little to hear him ask such questions.
Son #2 is probably just as happy if his mother doesn’t drop in once a week, even bearing a loaf of homemade bread. Sometimes it seems that bread’s what gets me in the door.
Himself’s tried to make it clear, gently, to his son Princely and daughter-in-law in the next province (not that Himself will say it directly; no testicles at all when it comes to his family; if they continue to plan on coming, it will be me who has to tell them not to) that we don’t want them to come here either. Alberta is a hotspot for covid and Princely et al don’t seem to curtail their visiting and travel in any way. They don’t seem to “get it.” They are doing all the things they normally do except come here this month and go out of the country. Otherwise it appears that their lives go on as usual, shopping for something to do, travelling between provinces, having groups of friends over, etc. We’re more shocked that they seem willing to risk their wee girls (ages one and three) getting sick. I guess it’s that most people don’t die from this thing; but that’s not the point. The point is, the hospitals are reaching capacity already. My dad just had an emergency surgery he might not have gotten if things were as bad a few weeks ago as they are now; as it is, the hospital and home nursing services must be understaffed, because more than one serious error in his care was made.
It’s not good. It’s Canada’s turn.
People are a lot less intelligent than I once believed most were.
I’ve been pleased to hear that friends around the world have been smart, staying home as much as possible ever since March. The news from the States and the UK is alarming. It’s begun to be alarming here too.
Please, people: stay home whenever you can. When you do, you’re among those who are making a difference.
Yes, it is. In the southern part of the province, 20C-below was forecast for last night. That’s about the same as 20-below in Fahrenheit — or maybe you can’t even imagine that. Anyway, we see more of that in January and February, not October! They tell us it’s going to warm up this coming week. Sure doesn’t feel like it.
Not too sure what I can possibly write that might lift your spirits.
I woke up at 6:45. It was still dark out and I debated whether to stay up or not (after a trip down the hallway to pee). Since the sourdough bread I make requires two rises for a total of 7 hrs and I hope to take Sonnyoy home for supper at 5, I decided to stay up and get it started. That took half an hour by the time I’d cleaned up. Then I went back to bed and slept again before waking up and reading in bed till about 10, when I made sourdough pancakes for a late breakfast.
Now where was I going with this. Oh yeah. When I woke up, my first thought was “I’m not happy.” Have you ever noticed that those waking thoughts are often the deepest, clearest truths?
I need to do the things that help me be happy. That was my advice to myself. Get off the pot (have been doing that; I blame it for everything, when in actuality I smoke so little that it probably has nothing to do with anything). Get outside for my long walks again, which I haven’t been doing since the cougar sighting (on a neighbour’s webcam) last winter. The fresh air and exercise may do the trick.
But it’s so frickin’ cold out there! I have worn my ski pants to drive to and from work. Winter temperature dictates. That could have an impact on my low spirits, too. I believe it does.
Dad’s been suffering with a clinically stiff neck and while feeling better after an appointment with a physiotherapist, last night Sonny phoned him and was told he couldn’t talk because he was sick. I began to fret. He’s 81 after all, though in excellent health and fitness. I texted him; no reply. I texted my sister Trixie. No reply. I phoned her. She didn’t answer her phone. An hour or two later she responded; maybe Dad’s meds have caused some stomach upset, she figures. She’s on the job, and lives just a five-minute walk from Dad’s new place, so there’s nothing for me to do from here. I’m relieved she’s there.
It would help if the sun came out.
How’s your mental health, Ms Penelope? Tell me.
Yup. Any blogger worth her salt posts an entry at least once a week. I’m lucky if I get around to it once a month. Or two. Tsk.
As a kid I thought “tsk” was pronounced “tisk.” It was a long time before I realized that the sound made with the lips — not a word — was spelled this way.
“Awry” was aw-ree.
“Phoebe” was Fo-bee, as in hoe-bee.
“Zoe” was Zo, as in hoe.
Maybe now you see why I post so rarely. I mean, look what comes to mind! Thoughts that pass by in a jiffy if I’m not sitting right here in front of the keyboard. It’s a wonder any of my “deep thoughts” make it onto the screen at all.
This is me just priming the pump by saying hello. I know you’re out there, even if I don’t know who you are or your name. Even if there’s only one of you. It’s not the thing that matters. It’s the pleasure of writing something, anything, and seeing it in print.
It’s a beautiful thing that those who are passionate about writing no longer need to rely on a curatorial publisher in order to get their words in front of other eyes.
The disturbing side is that every fool and bully can amplify their voice on social media. That distresses me. Not that they have a platform, but that no matter what it is, there are plenty who will believe it. That’s the scary part, and tiresome too.
I’ll say no more. My world’s a good one. I’m healthy, safe, warm, well fed, content, loving my loved ones. It’s not a dream-come-true in every way, but my main desire became my reality: living in a rural setting with no close neighbours. I have always tried to, since I was 19, and never felt rooted or free when stuck in a town or city.
Struggles are mostly in my own mind. That must be lived with too, so I work on being aware of thoughts as I’m having them. In response I’ve been saying to myself, at times, “These aren’t very nice thoughts. I don’t have to believe this or repeat it to myself right now. Do I really choose to?” Having a choice follows observing what I’m thinking instead of just thinking it and letting it lead me.
Well peeps, I hope to be back soon but can’t promise, as we both know by now. Now off to read some of your blogs.
The alarm on my phone dings at six. I turn it off and snuggle back down into the covers. The alarm on my clock dings a few minutes later. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, turn it off, turn on the lamp, and snuggle back down under the covers. I snooze till seven and get up when I hear Himself in the kitchen making coffee.
He is standing at the counter, looking at the calendar, when on my way to the bathroom I swing by that way to say Good Morning. I see that he has a medical appointment at 10 o’clock.
It’s the beginning of my work week. I run myself a bath, climb in, and am lying there doing a meditation/visualization practice during a quick soak (it’s always quick; I’m not a long-soaker) when I hear something and open my eyes. It’s him standing in the open doorway, giving me the stink-eye.
“Are you the only person who has to use the tub this morning?”
Ah. “You only had to say ‘Hurry up, please,” I reply, irritated that he’s irritated that I never thought of thinking about his schedule before thinking about my own. I quickly shampoo my hair and a couple other bits of bod, stand, reach for a towel, and begin drying off.
Himself comes in and sits on the toilet with his head in his hands.
“Headache this morning?” I ask. No reply. “What?”
“I have to be out of here in 10 minutes,” he tells me.
“And as soon as you asked [in your roundabout, passive-aggressive way, I didn’t say], I got out of the tub. So what’s the problem?”
Here is a person who expects everyone’s life to revolve around him and his concerns and plans, and when it doesn’t — when I don’t think about his needs before my own — he is resentful.
That’s okay. That’s human. What’s not okay is me feeling guilty or bullied; I have had enough of that. I’m not going to be cowed by his anger any longer. Don’t move furniture because he will be pissed off? Fuck that. I’ll move it when I feel like it. Make meat and potatoes for supper because he will be pissed off if I make rice or pasta instead? Too bad. I’ll cook what I want to eat because my desires are just as important as someone else’s and I’m the one doing the cooking. When he cooks, he sure as hell doesn’t cook what I’ll like. It’s always what he likes — meat and potatoes — and he thinks he’s doing me a great favour. I’m so sick of potatoes, I take the tiniest portion I can get away with without offending the cook.
He went out the door without breakfast. I guess he woke up later than he should’ve — it’s not like I was in the tub more than 10 or 15 minutes — and was rushed and that’s why he was trying to blame me for his distress. Someone else is always to blame when things don’t go his way.
I’m not going to let it ruin my day, that’s for sure. I’ve been letting myself feel my “feels” even when I wish they were different than they are. This is my current challenge: accepting the way I feel instead of rejecting that part of myself. So I’m aware of my own irritation and the fear that there will always be these kinds of irritations in my life. There is no “perfect” life. And I remind myself that my life is actually as close to “perfect” as it’s ever been, and that I experience intense joy most every day. Yesterday it was while I noodled on the piano a little. Nothing fancy. Very basic. But oh the sound of it! The beauty of the notes, the harmonies!
Life is good. So good that the tiny irritations should be swatted away like gnats. Why isn’t that easier?
Thanks for the followup to our telephone conversation, where you gave me the sad news that I won’t be hearing from Elinor personally but that she did receive and appreciate my letter. I’m glad that I did at least get to touch base with her again after so many years. I thought of her so often. How could I not? She was SO GOOD to me!
You’ll be having a tough adjustment to life without her; it’s not easy, especially the first year or two. Nor is it easy to walk with a loved one through cancer. Our family was there with my mom and though we knew it was better for her to go when she did, so as to suffer no longer, we hated to part with her. Not to mention, personally, how PISSED OFF I was that this could happen to someone so important to us. That’s life, but we don’t have to like it.
I hope you have good friends and family to help keep your spirits up, and that you make a point of doing all the things a person needs to do to go forward and enjoy the rest of your own life: keeping in touch with people, getting out, eating well, stuff like that. You know what’s on the list! The things a widower doesn’t feel like doing (or feels like doing but shouldn’t), yet feels the lack of if he doesn’t. Right? At least, that’s how it was for my dad who was in his sixties when Mom died. He still misses her companionship but is healthy and living a life that she would’ve wanted for him, even without her.
Hang in there. Take care of yourself.
My friend Bee has been seeing a self-proclaimed healer who has a habit of sleeping with his “clients.” She has refused conventional medical treatment for a diagnosis of breast cancer, and has been well for more than five years with help from a healer who, herself, died from cancer not long ago. That’s when Bee found this new guy, became enamoured of him, and believes all his crap about “entities” and “demons” and so on.
I raise an eyebrow and tell her it’s ridiculous, but she believes whatever he tells her, hoping that he can help her survive breast cancer with root tinctures and dowsing rods.
I have always respectfully supported her treatment choices but when it comes to believing that wherever you go and everyone you meet, you are helpless against being infected with “entities” or “demons” that are making you ill (and that if you don’t believe this is happening, it’s because the entities or demons have already got control of you) … I just don’t and have told her so. I don’t believe we are that vulnerable.
I can believe that there are unhealthy emotions that stay with us or that we even pick up from others sometimes, and that these can affect our wellbeing. I can even believe that, to him, these appear as ugly spirits. I can believe that Bee has seen this man effect apparently miraculous healings on other people; she wouldn’t be making up these stories, though she is prone to enthusiastic delusional interpretations of what she has seen. But I’ve also met him — just the once, and just recently — and I was not impressed by the personality of this man whom she describes as uniquely loving and powerful. I was disappointed to find him small-minded and radiating desperate ego. When I said so to Bee afterward, she explained that they weren’t getting along that day and so he wasn’t himself. That’s why he didn’t overwhelm me with his loving self.
He has got her running in circles and no longer thinking for herself, and I don’t know what to say to her anymore. We’ve had conversations similar to what you’d have with an abused woman who keeps forgiving and staying with her abuser (much like the conversations I have with myself and share on this blog). I responded to her email (which is below) but to her report about her health and what he’s said about it, I kept my words to a minimum. A mere “Sorry, and let me know how things go.” What’s the point of saying yet again “That’s nuts. Get away from him” when she has never followed my advice before? She’s agreed that what I’ve said is true (except for my refusal to accept his word as law, especially about demons and entities), but it doesn’t change her addiction to him.
She doesn’t listen to me anyway; she listens only to him. I don’t know how to help her or even if it’s possible. She seems to be digging her own hole and I’m helpless to pull her out of it.
Here’s her email to me:
Good day My Dear! Thought I better check in with you! I’ve been back in my own house for about 10 days now. I went rushing back to J’s in hope of a self-discovery that would aid my healing but it wasn’t so….anyway now my blood has risen very high and the cancer is in both breasts. I guess I did something wrong, I was on many websites reading and exploring and they filled me with a lot of negativity (J cleaned me 3 times in 4 days) — negative energy and full dirty chakra. In 1 day I acquired 18 entities….so now for whatever reason J is not allowed to heal me.
The last video I came across was Eckhart Tolle…’Teaches a Young Man’ …1:38 min., found under Living Luminaries on you tube. Fairweather, he explains it so well. Now I am re-reading the book and it’s so much easier to understand! (I listened to the video twice and took some notes)!
I’m drinking hemlock again with hopes it will bring my blood down. Other than that I’m being quite still. (At home.)
That’s all the news for now! Have a great day,
Maybe Eckhart Tolle can talk some sense into her.
If you have any suggestions as to how I might better get through to her than what I’ve said/done so far, please email me at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Have you ever awakened and realized you were not looking forward to absolutely anything in the day ahead?
That happened to me at 7 o’clock this morning.
This is rare. Usually I’m at least enticed by coffee.
Today I thought, as I lay there, “I’m not excited or even contented about anything planned — the usual things I get done on Mondays. Blah. I don’t want to get out of bed. But I don’t want to stay in bed either; I’ve been here long enough. I slept fairly well. What’s the matter with me? Oh well, best get on with it.”
I threw off the covers and swung my legs to the side of the bed, pulled on an oversized warm housecoat and some slippers, grabbed my glasses and the book I’m reading, went to the kitchen, poured myself a coffee, carried the carafe to the living room and refilled Himself’s cup, dropped off my coffee and book nearby, deposited the carafe back in the kitchen, and padded back to the corner of the couch where my book and coffee awaited.
Himself’s face was already in his smartphone, as it always is, from morning to night and even after he’s gone to bed, and he began telling me about something one of his relatives had shared on Facebook.
“That John A. MacDonald was a hero who gave the First Nations people the vote — ”
I gasped. “What??? That’s ridic — ”
“Don’t tell me to shut up.”
“You could let me finish what I was trying to tell you,” he said.
“I could, if I wasn’t so shocked at what you were telling me,” I said. “It was a knee-jerk reaction — I can’t believe people are that stupid.”
But all too many of them apparently are. As is this woman who is stupid enough to still live with this man who thinks it’s okay to bark at her to shut up if she interrupts him when he’s speaking. She shouldn’t have, of course; it’s impolite to interrupt people, even when occasionally one’s heard something so dumb that it has thrown her a little.
It was not a good start. I have been cranky ever since.
One night I was feeling lonely and sad, and said to Himself, “Do you love me anymore?”
“Yes,” he said. “Do you love me?” and I couldn’t answer yes. I do, of course, care about him and sometimes do love him, but at that moment I felt so “out in the cold” — coming second to many other people and to his smartphone — that an honest reply would’ve sounded bleak.
Last night I asked if he could tell me one thing he loves about me. He made a joke, ignoring the question, trying to get me to say what I love about him; his way of avoiding answering. That’s always the way it is when I try to talk to him about my feelings; it has to be about him instead.
“I can give you a number of things I love about you,” I said. “But I asked you first.”
His reply: “I love that you’re practical about money and don’t spend a lot. You’re down to earth.”
Me: “I love your sense of humour. You’re uniquely witty.”
Him: “I like that you drive out to the field to give me a ride home” and “Sometimes you make and bring me a lunch out there.”
Me: “So the things you love are the things I do for you. Or what I don’t do with money. There isn’t really anything about me as a person.”
And somehow he came up with “When the kids are here you’re mad all the time. They can feel it, you know.” Nothing to do with the subject at hand, but it must’ve been weighing on him. Who could wonder?
I told him that I try my best to be pleasant and make them welcome, for his sake, but that pretending for five days is exhausting and obviously I’m not very good at it. I told him that I can’t sit around visiting for five days like he can, that I have nothing in common really with his son or his daughter-in-law whose faces are in their phones most of the time anyway if they’re not watching TV or even while they are, and that I don’t enjoy playing with children or listening to the noise they make or having the TV on all the time.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I know they’re everything to you and you want to spend every single moment with them when they’re here because you don’t see them as often as you’d like. But me? The moment I hear they’re coming, my stomach turns, and I don’t relax till they leave.”
So there. The truth is out.
I hope this finds you well, and excited about life. I could use some of that, myself. It’s cool in here this morning and I’m still exhausted in spite of three nights of good sleep. I think it might be from pretending the inlaws are welcome when the truth is that they aren’t (they left Saturday). I find pretending just about kills me but I must do it for Himself’s sake and so as not to hurt feelings or make his son and daughter-in-law feel unwelcome, even though I am sick to my stomach the moment I hear they are coming out for a visit or even when they drive into the yard from the Little House a mile away where they spend their nights and keep their two ugly neurotic bulldogs.
We had them here for a few times and hated those dogs in the house; they attack each other every once in a while and startle the shit out of me; one of them freaks out if there’s a paper bag or a broom or you open the oven door — she’ll attack them; plus they are not small, they sit on the furniture, they drool, they pace around underfoot. Our house is less than 1000 square feet; add two extra adults and two small children and it’s already a challenge without two bags of useless solid muscle taking up space and on the move. Himself wouldn’t say anything, he’d put up with them and bitch to me about them. Finally I told his son Princely that we don’t want the dogs here anymore, so they started staying at the Little House where Himself and I lived with my two boys for the first 8 years after moving here together.
Such a dilemma, trying to welcome your spouse’s kids just as he always seemed to welcome mine. He likes kids; I apparently don’t care for them much. It’s not really them, it’s me: the noise of small children makes me feel like my head’s going to explode, and there’s no place for me to go to get away, and when you have young parents who don’t handle their kids firmly but instead bribe them, negotiate with them, and threaten (but don’t follow through; example: “You stop that right now or I’m going to throw the iPad in the garbage!”), and then let them have their way anyway, it about drives me around the bend.
Add to that a grandfather who is fawning and desperate to spend every moment with the children while they’re here (when I’m so looking forward to them going elsewhere) and just learning to stand his ground when it comes to one or two rules we have for children in our house, which we have to be particularly assertive about if we want the parents to follow — like having kids eat at the table and not walk around the house with food. Our directive has been ignored at least twice, and this weekend I repeated my request loud and clear. They think it’s ridiculous, apparently. I think they’re in our house, so they should respect our wishes. I don’t go to their house and turn off the TV, though it would make being there a lot more pleasant for me.
I spent as much time outside as I could, pruning my flowers that have taken a beating from an intense hailstorm that came through the yard recently, and made arrangements to be away from home as long and as often as I could without making it obvious that I wished I didn’t have to come home at all. Once I got here at 9 at night and not only were they all here but Himself’s mother too, and the TV was on really loud, and it was all I could do to keep the chagrin off my face and join them in the crowded living room instead of putting in ear plugs and suffocating myself with a pillow. All the time they are around, I wish I lived alone so I wouldn’t have to be in this space of noise and confusion, feeling invaded and trapped.
“Be happy for Himself, this is his dream come true, having them here; it’s not all about you, my dear! It’s only five days several times a year … handle it! Open your heart! Grandchildren are a gift!” I have talked to myself till I’m blue in the face … I have asked (prayed to?) the sky and whatever spiritual helpers I have to help me react in a more positive way. And as sweet as those little girls can be, and I do feel tenderness toward them, it’s the adults who make the problems. Kids with effective parents are a lot nicer to have around.
I’ve also realized that I’ve felt this way about small children ever since I was a teenager … always looking forward to them being asleep in their beds, if they were present at all, and sorry to hear them wake up in the morning if they’ve slept at my house or I’ve slept at theirs.
There you go. I’m a monster. I am what I am and am trying to accept it, but am not proud of it.
I don’t think I was so much this way with my own kids when they were small; probably because I was accustomed to them, and because they were being raised by me so they listened to me and respected boundaries and limitations set by me and knew that I meant what I said and would follow through, rather than by those who are doing things differently and, in my opinion, in such a way that it’s hard for others to be around them and their children.
I used to think I was overreacting to the situation of Himself’s grandchildren, that it was me being set in my ways or selfishly concerned only about my own comfort and convenience, but one evening a close friend was here at the same time as the kids and she and I went outside and she said “Holy Cow, Fairweather, that’s ridiculous! What the hell! It is WAY over the top!” So it isn’t only me being a bitch. This time, each morning before they arrived for breakfast, I’d listen to Himself’s anger and anxiety about the way the kids are being raised to be the bosses in their household and how that’s going to make them very unpleasant to have around in a few years. He even took his son aside and told him about this concern. That’s really all he can do, besides trying to model what responsible parenting looks like.
Me, I still dream of having my own place so I could not be here when they are, and it wouldn’t look like such an insult. As it is I refuse to go with him to their city when he visits them, as I hate being at their place. The dogs that startle me several times a day with their sudden barking and growling, the TV on loud all day (oh and kids’ shows, even worse!), the son and daughter-in-law wanting to drag us out shopping, have friends over, go to the homes of friends and drag us along … it’s just … an ordeal for me. I’m glad to say oh dear, you go to the city without me, you’ll be able to stay longer than I’d be able to because I have to be back in a few days for my job, you know … and I’m much happier and more relaxed here at home when Himself’s away, anyway. I am glad when he comes back … but not for long. LOL.
I’m talking to you like you’re my diary. Laying it all out there, no matter how cuntish you may think me. Just truth, even when it’s ugly.
The reading with the medium. I’d only booked for a half-hour, as I thought that if there was anything important to be learned, it should appear in that amount of time. My sister Merriwether decided to join me, since we both wanted to know how our mom is doing and were curious about any other relative who might like to communicate with us. The medium explained that she sees auras and that in the auras there are images that appear, given by the dead who are present, and that she then figures out what the images symbolize and tries to translate them to us so they make sense. Much like what I do when I do intuitive counselling for people, only I’m not seeing auras and images, I’m translating pictures shown on cards.
She said a few things to convince us it really was our mom communicating (it was she who’d taught us to sing as small children; she’d always tried to get Merriwether to sing more loudly; she didn’t like to spend time outside but preferred to tend to her household and kitchen). There were a few things like this and then finally she said “Nothing much is really coming through, I don’t know why. Sometimes that happens. It’s not anything wrong, but it can’t be forced,” and gave us our money back. The one message I came away with was “It’s time to Let It Go.” Let what go? Whatever has been bothering you. (Easy to say, harder to do.)
We joked that we must have our shit so together that our dead mother didn’t think we needed any extra help or insight.
The medium went on to do private readings for three other people, who were blown away by whatever it was she told them.
We were a bit disappointed but not overly so. I’d been hoping for some kind of advice to get me through the kids’ visit … to help me change my attitude, but then, how could my mother understand anyway? She loved small children and would play with them for hours, sing to them, with them, etc. I’m more like my dad — when there were kids around — and there often were because Mom would babysit her young nieces and nephew — he’d find something to do outside on the farm. Like what Himself does when I have a friend overnight, or he goes to bed early and leaves me sitting up with my friend. Why is it that men can do that and no one raises an eyebrow, but women look nasty when they do it, and feel guilty?
I may have mentioned that my friend Bee was diagnosed with breast cancer and instead of taking the medical route of amputation, etc., chose to be advised and treated by a medical intuitive and other alternative practitioners. When she went for an MRI afterward, there was no sign of the cancer. About five years later, she believed it had returned. Her medical intuitive had herself just died from cancer after living years longer than her own doctors had predicted she would, and my friend went looking for another healer. She found this guy and also began an affair with him. He’s an ego (who shouldn’t be fucking his clients in the first place) but also does healings for a lot of people who rely on him and are true believers in his healing abilities. I’m not a believer in his particular story about being given directions from God, but when I’m in pain and the dentist and doctor aren’t helping me get relief, I’m open to anyone and anything who might. This he did for me over the phone at the end of June when I was suffering so much from an injured gum (apparently) around one of my molars, and so on Friday afternoon I went to his home, met him for the first time, and had him do a healing. I thought maybe my problem is that my heart has closed up or shrunk over the years and somehow something could help me be more open, loving, accepting … the person I think I am, and want to be, but often am not.
I don’t know if it made any difference. By the time I got home that night after taking the long road around and driving slowly so as to arrive as late as possible, it was 8:00 and very cold out and I got into bed to warm up and just stayed there. Himself and gang were at his mother’s for a family supper and as always they’d gone out of their way to make me feel wanted, but the last thing I felt like doing was joining a small roomful of at least 10 people. Not just the noise, but COVID! for god’s sake! we may not be aware of having much of it around here but the numbers are climbing, and by the time you find out one person has tested positive, they’ve already spread it around, so … I don’t attend his family get-togethers. At the same time, if someone there has the virus and is symptom-free, he’s bringing it home anyway.
Himself’s son and family live in a city that has been a hotbed of Covid19 sufferers, yet they seem to take no precautions, visiting as usual with their groups of friends, crossing the border to visit someone in BC, then crossing the border to come here, staying in another city with Princely’s mother and her family, etc., but anyway I couldn’t avoid them, they’re over at our house for coffee and breakfast first thing in the morning and they’re here with their overtired kids running around whining till 10 at night, not put to bed … ARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH. I do not understand why so many do not take this thing seriously and don’t seem to believe they may be part of the problem of spreading it to the people — older people, too, supposedly most at risk — whom they supposedly love.
It doesn’t help that you get people like Himself’s mother, in her eighties and not in ideal health to start with, who can’t stand to be alone (not that she is; she lives on one side of her house and Himself’s brother and sister-in-law live in the other, and Himself stops in to see her every day) and encourages her adult children to bring their children and grandchildren and stay in her home for weeks at a time, coming from that city that’s a hotbed of the virus. I love the woman, who’s always been kind to me and a friend, but I shake my head at her self-servingness. (Not that I’m saying I’m any better than that; just maybe in different ways.)
We have one pet in the house, a small dog. He’s been having health problems for the past couple years so we figure the downward slide of old age has begun. I know I won’t be spending thousands of dollars to keep him alive at all costs, as the difficulties will just be ongoing. He’s in good shape for his age and he’s a real sweetie, but once he’s gone there won’t be any creatures in this house that are furrier than me and Himself. I will enjoy other people’s pets instead.
Oh, the eczema! Princely had a very irritating breakout of eczema on one leg and so I asked The Healer if he could recommend anything. He has transplanted comfrey from another province to his acreage here, and went out and picked some of the leaves. He said to have Princely put the sticky side (back of leaf) against the skin, wrap it, and leave it on for three days.
I wasn’t sure Princely would try it but he wrapped the leg up with the leaves on Saturday morning before they left. Said the itching was driving him nuts, but kept it on. I checked yesterday to make sure he isn’t having an allergic reaction, and he isn’t. The leaf appears to have dried up but he’s kept it on. I will let you know the end result. Maybe you can find some comfrey leaves or a salve to try?
The other thing The Healer said would help is a tea made from sumac stems/branches, and you’d drink about five cups of it a day for some time. We don’t have sumac trees here so it wasn’t something Princely could try even if he was willing. Let me know if you’ve found any relief yet. I can imagine it’s crazymaking. I had hives and a rash on my hands and arms (and eyes) for a few weeks after Mom’s diagnosis of terminal kidney cancer. I know how horrible the itching can be.
Do you think I’ve bent your ear enough for one day?