Living the Disorganized Life

 

I am disorganized. There, I said it. Whew! What a weight off my shoulders.

I’ve spent the better part of the last five decades promising myself that I’ll get organized–only to break that promise thousands of times.

I admire organized people: the ones who always know where stuff is, who clean their files out every year, whose desks are cleared every day. I want to be one of them, to join their club.

I don’t know what it is about me. I set up systems and within days, I’m back to my disorganized ways.

Now, it’s  not that I can’t find thing—often I can—especially when I stack them in the same place each time. chaos pixababyBut too often, I have to tear my files, (such as they are) apart, to locate some important piece of paper.

My late husband was the direct opposite. He filed everything, labeled it, and once a year cleaned out his files. After he passed away, I was so grateful for his organization because it made everything easier for me. Now I worry that when it’s my turn to ascend to the pearly gates, my daughter will go insane trying to find stuff.

So, I think I better try to at least find the urgent stuff, re-file it, and resolve to keep it where it can be found easily.

At least that’s my intention.

Now, where is that list of blog ideas?

 

 

Picture courtesy of Pixabay

 

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Progress?

The Lake

The Lake

The developer here in my community continues to build new homes wherever the company can find a space that could accommodate a house, even if it’s a lot no bigger than the proverbial postage stamp.

That’s the price of living in a community that is still actively under construction.

Recently the developer has begun to clear land to build homes along my favorite space here—a linear lake that runs parallel to Solivita Boulevard.  I take my dog Sparkle for a walk there, as do many other residents. People also walk and bike along this pathway. The pathway is shaded and the view across the lake is serene and natural with a thick stand of old trees. I often stopped there to meditate.

I don’t know why I was so naive about this area. I thought that it might be a “forever green” space—but, alas, it wasn’t.

The first sign that something was afoot were stakes with red ties on them, obviously marking the boundaries of lots, which popped up one day. When I first saw them, I felt saddened. I love this path and the beautiful view of the water and the woods that frame it. The thought that the woods would be torn apart for more homes was upsetting, especially given the fact that there is plenty of land left to develop. But this particular area would be in high demand. It will command a view of the golf course and the lake.

I cringed at the thought of listening to the bulldozers as they uprooted old trees covered in Spanish moss that went back possibly a hundred years or more. I had seen the bulldozers when another nearby tract was cleared, and the crashing and crunching of trees was sickening.

I wondered if there was some way to stop this development. But I knew it would be a fool’s errand.  I imagined lying down in front of the ‘dozers as they rumbled along the road hell-bent on their mission of destruction. Then I imagined myself being scooped up with the tree debris as it was loaded onto a truck and hauled away, or worse, set afire.  After all, this is Florida—the land developers dream of because virtually anything goes.

So far the clearing of the lots has been prudent. Many of the older trees have been left standing. But I fear that that can change any day.

A thought occurred to me when Sparkle and I were out for our walk. The neighborhood I live in now probably resembled this particularly beautiful area before homes were built on it. The whole tract of land that our community was built on had been a favorite hunting ground—a virtual wilderness for many generations.

I can imagine the thick groves of trees that populated all of what is now called Rainbow Lakes. And I’m sure that the bulldozers knocked down old tress and displaced all sorts of wildlife to make neat parcels of land.  Later, young trees were planted on the plots of land and landscaping was installed. The unnatural replaced the natural.

 

So, I can hardly criticize the developer.

After all, I was happy to find a nice house in this development. I never gave a thought to what had been here before and the impact that building my home had on the environment.

Still, I can’t help wishing that some areas were “hands off” simply because of their natural beauty. Where the developer sees high priced homes on choice lots, I see a stand of woods bordering a picturesque lake. I keep telling myself to concentrate on the soothing water and the trees that border it still.

But a question keeps intruding into my thoughts.

Is this progress?

I guess it depends on your perspective.

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A Gust of Wind

marilyn-monroe-555603__180

 

There’s an iconic photo of Marilyn Monroe. Her skirt is being blown up by gust of wind as she tries to hold it down.  She’s all blonde bombshell in the picture, high heels and make up, laughing as she tries to keep her skirt in place. It’s a publicity photo from the movie “The Seven Year Itch.” Marilyn looks carefree, and of course, very sexy.

I wonder how she really felt that day.

Did she have her period and was she having cramps?

Was she hungry because her agent or movie studio mogul had her on a diet?

Was she lonely?

Did she feel exploited?

Was she drunk or high on drugs—prescription or otherwise?

Marilyn Monroe was, and still is, an American icon . She was the sexy, unattainable girl,  an ideal beauty, and the object of lust, envy, and disdain.

Reportedly, she was difficult to work with: chronically late, couldn’t (or didn’t) learn her lines, and perceived as not being very intelligent by some.

She was exploited by almost everyone she came in contact with.

She died alone at a young age.

Her’s was, in many ways, a sad life—rather like a coat of paint on a dilapidated house.

It seems to me that happiness for Marilyn Monroe blew away on a gust of wind—and every time she thought she could reach it, a bigger gust of wind came along, and it soared higher.

 

Picture Credit Pixababy

This is a photo of a wax statue of Marilyn Monroe

 

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I Feel Blessed

 

 

I feel blessed to be surrounded by so many wonderful people.

Trite? Maybe.Friendship chinese-676654__180 Pixababy

But consider this: my life took a drastic left turn on August 25, 2012 at 10 p.m.

My husband died.

I thought I was ready—six months of watching him die in bits and pieces should have prepared me. But it didn’t.

I went through the motions, appearing to be in control for several weeks.

Then I laid down on the couch and stayed there for months.

What dragged me out of my monumental funk?

Family and friends.

First it was my sister and sister-in-law who made me accomplish the important tasks necessary when someone dies.

I joined two key groups—a Widows Club and the Singles Club. These were the people who got it; the people who understood my pain and let me talk. I continued to participate in my Writing Group: a gathering of intelligent, vital, and interesting women who shared my passion for writing. Through that group I had opportunities to express my creative self.

The next three years brought challenges I couldn’t imagine: three surgeries, two bouts with MRSA, and then cancer, the deaths of my beloved brother and sister, in addition to several friends and other relatives.

My life raft through all this turmoil was family (of course) and the friends who stepped in and became a safety net.

Yes, I feel blessed.

 

 

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The Widow’s Club

 

It’s not a club I clamored to join. In fact, none of the members wanted to join it.

We were recruited in the harshest of all possible ways.

The initiation was almost as difficult as any street gang’s—we had to experience the death of the person most of us would call “our best friend, lover and life partner”—our husbands.

My inaugural date is coming on its third anniversary this August—the day Dan died.

I now know  that joining this club has helped me to make sense of all that happened in the eight months preceding my husband’s death. I’ve had many opportunities to share stories and memories, and I’ve received empathy and sympathy, but never pity, from the other women.  Knowing these women who have experienced what I did, and have continued to thrive, encourages me.

I see the common threads that are woven through all of our experiences: the feelings of loss, of being adrift, the anger, the sadness, and the confusion that follows the death of a spouse or partner.

Through the sharing, I’ve felt a lot less alone than I did before.

And on a more upbeat note, I’ve had some fun with my widow friends. We socialize, enjoy one another’s company, and have bonded individually and as a group. I’ve even learned to laugh again.

Losing my husband was a trauma. But I am grateful that the Widow’s Club was here, so when I went into my

woman-511849__180 Pixabay free fall, there was a safety net.

 

 

Picture courtesy of Pixabay

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Uggs I thought that my readers might enjoy a short story today.

 

Boots

Emma loved her boots. It had taken her a whole year of babysitting the brats down the street to save enough to buy them. Before she went to sleep each night, she would count and tally the total of the bundle of bills that had accumulated in an old shoe box under her bed. Then she would subtract that total from the cost of the coveted boots.

Chastity, her best friend, went with her every time she stopped at the store to try them on. Emma would slip her feet into the boots, feeling the stiff leather as it touched her calves. The fur on top sometimes tickled her legs, but she didn’t mind.

The sales clerk had gotten used to seeing Emma and Chastity at the store. Emma even knew her name, Marcia Anderson. Emma would seek Marcia out and look hopefully at the woman.  Marcia would peer over the glasses that were perched on the end of her nose.

“Sure,” she’d sigh, “go ahead and try them on—again.” Then she’d shake her head and lean toward the other clerk and whisper something.  They both could barely contain their amused smiles. Neither woman would admit it, but they enjoyed watching Emma prance around the store in the camel colored boots.

Now the boots were hers. She carried the clumsy square box into her bedroom and set in on her unmade bed.

Emma reverently removed the boots from the box, and caressed them as if they were kittens. The special silk blend socks she purchased to wear with them made it easier to get them on.

She turned each foot this way and that, marveling at how the boots looked. Then she walked in front of her full length mirror, watching her feet. She squealed with delight.

“I can’t wait until everyone sees them,” she exclaimed.

Then Emma grabbed her beach bag and towel from the closet floor and rushed downstairs.

Her mother’s expression said it all. She raised the spatula she was wielding like an extension of her arm.

“For Pete’s sake, Emma. Why are you wearing those boots today? Aren’t you going to the beach? I told you they were impractical for Florida!”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes. “You just don’t get it, Mom.”

The door slammed.

And  Emma clomped out into the bright sunshine and 80 degree weather.

 

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An Unwelcome Visitor

 

 

The most unwelcome of all visitors called on me recently.

This visitor is never welcomed and usually not greeted with any enthusiasm.

If fact, when you, your friends, and family find that it has called upon you, they, like you, are worried concerned and fearful.

The visitor was cancer. The “Big C.”

It intruded into my life sometime in late January with the “incidental” discovery of a (thankfully) small tumor in my right kidney. Unbeknownst to me, it had been there for two years—but recently had started to grow.

I felt overwhelmed at first with the myriad decisions I had to make. Where to seek treatment? Should I go back to where my family is (now that I am a widow) in Buffalo? Stay here in Florida and lean heavily on my circle of friends? Could I still go on my much anticipated trip to Hawai’i? Would I survive? What would be the financial and emotional cost to me, my daughter, family and friends?

I finally came up with a plan—and after much consultation, thought, and prayer, I decided to stay in Florida and seek treatment at the Moffitt Cancer Center in nearby Tampa.

Happily, my surgeon Okayed my Hawai’i trip and I blissfully spent some magical time there.

My friends have rallied around me, doing all of the things I need. My family supported me in my decisions—and best of all, the surgery was a great success—so far.

I still have weeks of recovery to look forward to, but I’m trying to do more and more every day.

Writing this blog post is a huge breakthrough for me. Up till now, I’ve kept the “news” of my cancer limited to family and friends. I did make a onetime status update on Facebook as a courtesy to those who correspond with me on that venue.

Sometimes I wonder why I was  so reluctant to go public (as it were) with my cancer diagnosis.

I wonder if by not announcing it, I’ve made it less real to myself. Or if I was  trying to fool myself.

No matter what, I’m looking forward to being a cancer “thriver”—which is what my many friends who have looked this unwanted intruder right in the eye, and stared it down–call it.

 

 

 

 

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Hawai’i

Surf on the Black Sand Beach in Hawai'i

I finally got to Hawai’i. Three tries, three cancellations, and finally—I made it!

Hawai’i was all I hoped and dreamed it would be.

The weather was nearly perfect:  warm and sunny with a lovely breeze that kept the bugs and humidity away—and wrecked havoc on my hair.

The beaches were stunning with crashing waves and rocky shores built from lava. Everywhere I went I heard bird song.

Maui, especially, was a feast for the senses. Dramatic valleys, cliffs, lush vegetation, waterfalls and flowers were everywhere.

One of the most interesting aspects of being in Hawaii for me at least, is how almost everyone is a blend of ethnicities. Our tour guides, with one exception – a New Jersey transplant–were mocha skinned people who recited a League of Nations list of their individual heritages. As a casual visitor, I had no reliable way to gauge race relations. But it seemed as if many different people were blended into “Hawaiians.” There is a movement in the Islands to preserve the culture of Hawai’i. As a result, many of the very few pure Hawaiians left have retreated to a private Island where they live according to ancient traditions.

For those of us who come as visitors, this desire to preserve the culture is evidenced in the authentic Luaus that are available on every Island. It was also evident in the pride that our tour guides took in talking about the wonders of their beautiful home state.

It’s amusing to me to realize that the hula—a truly lovely, meaningful dance form—was forbidden by the Calvinist missionaries from New England who came to Hawai’i in the 1800’s. The hula was described by none other than Mark Twain in his book about the “Sandwich Islands” as a lascivious dance.

The highlight of my visit to Hawai’i (which I have pledged will not be my last visit) was a tour of the Road to Hana with Jasmine, a Hawaiian of Portuguese and Hawaiian descent. She shared the history of Hawaii, the folklore, and many of the customs as we road along the sinuous road to Hana. The Hawaiian chants and music she played enhanced the tour. We saw some fantastic scenery—scenes that are impressed on my mind forever.

I felt like Hawai’i got into my soul when I was there. And I welcomed it.

 

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April Tenth

Joanne Poth Joyce

Joanne Poth Joyce

There are certain dates that are more meaningful than others. One of those dates is April 10,1983. That was the date my Mom passed away after almost two years of coping with lung cancer.

I remember that day with crystal clarity.

It was a Sunday—a week after Easter. The weather was perfect: warm and sunny. I had attended noon Mass and then rushed to my parents’ home to see my Mom.  It was around 1 o’clock in the afternoon. When I got there, it was obvious that Mom was dying. I helped my Dad change her nightgown and then kept vigil with him as she left this world.

The priest came and gave her the Last Rites.  At one point, shortly after she died, I was aware of her soul—her anima—leaving the room.

My brother Michael was there with his wife and boys and I remember my sister Susan being there, too.

Eventually, the rest of my brothers and sisters (except for my youngest sister who was in Honduras doing research for her doctorate) assembled at the house.

As the daylight waned, we sat on our parents’ bed and talked about our Mom and our loss.  It was both sacred and comforting to be able to be together in that way.

Now, all these years later, all that’s left is memories. I wish I could hear Mom’s voice one more time, or sit and talk with her again.

So much has happened since then. Our Dad died only a year and half later, babies were born, my sister and another brother got married, one of my mother’s children died too soon, my husband died, the grandchildren grew up and great-grandchildren were born. The family faced many crises and survived.

While time has tempered the grief, I still mourn for my Mom. She was only 60 years old when she died. We never got to see either of our parents grow to be old. They are preserved at a certain age and time in our memories.

Yet, I still yearn to spend one more minute, hour or day with my mother.

 

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Boots

winter-boots-258148_640

Emma loved her boots. It had taken her a whole year of babysitting the brats down the street to save enough to buy them. Before she went to sleep each night, she would count and tally the total of the bundle of bills that had accumulated in an old shoebox under her bed. Then she would subtract that total from the cost of the coveted boots.

Chastity, her best friend, went with her every time she stopped at the store to try them on. Emma would slip her feet into the boots, feeling the stiff leather as it touched her calves. The fur on top sometimes tickled her legs, but she didn’t mind.

The sales clerk had gotten used to seeing Emma and Chastity at the store. Emma even knew her name, Marcia Anderson. Emma would seek Marcia out and look hopefully at the woman.  Marcia would peer over the glasses that were perched on the end of her nose.

“Sure,” she’d sigh, “go ahead and try them on—again.” Then she’d shake her head and lean toward the other clerk and whisper something.  They both could barely contain their amused smiles. Neither woman would admit it, but they enjoyed watching Emma prance around the store in the camel colored boots.

Now the boots were hers. She carried the clumsy square box into her bedroom and set in on her unmade bed.

Emma reverently removed the boots from the box, and caressed them as if they were kittens. The special silk blend socks she purchased to wear with them made it easier to get them on.

She turned each foot this way and that, marveling at how the boots looked. Then she walked in front of her full length mirror, watching her feet. She squealed with delight.

“I can’t wait until everyone sees them,” she exclaimed.

Then Emma grabbed her beach bag and towel from the closet floor and rushed downstairs.

Her mother’s expression said it all. She raised the spatula she was wielding like an extension of her arm.

“For Pete’s sake, Emma. Why are you wearing those boots today? Aren’t you going to the beach? I told you they were impractical for Florida!”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes. “You just don’t get it, Mom.”

The door slammed and she clomped out into the bright sunshine and 80 degree weather.

 

Picture Credit–Pixabay.com

 

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