Kombucha Jar Cosy/Sweater!

So I am going to pick-up on my blog ... well, my second blog ... I don't want to mess with my first one.  This is my recovery/surviving blog and all that goes along with that!  I guess I could/can/might use this forum to share my trials/successes/less than successes with knitting patterns and my newly-found love of Kombucha and home brewing -- houseplant propagating and whatever else feeds my need for whimsy or productivity.

80 oz. pickle jar and 1 gallon dispensing jar

I'm a knitter and have created a bunch of patterns for fingerless gloves, baby bonnets, teapot cosies, socks and stuff -- and most recently, Kombucha Jar Sweaters (Cosies).  Many have suggested that I sell them on Etsy, but I really get the most joy out of making them for my own brewing needs or for people I love who have adopted a SCOBY from me and want to start brewing their own.

I am trying to figure out how to create a pin on Pinterest but in order to share my pattern, I have to give it a link!  So that's what I'm doing here.  I have a very basic, easy pattern for a Kombucha Jar cosy.  You can easily alter it to make it your own -- by adding cables, or stripes, or buttons or whatever -- but it's a good, solid foundation pattern. FUNCTION is the main purpose here -- to shield the brewing KT from direct sunlight and to keep it warm and at an even temperature in a chilly house like mine.

1 gallon jar with spigot

Some of you are thinking "What the heck is Kombucha!?"  Some of you know I'm making it because of Facebook or Instagram.  Some of you might already be enjoying this tangy probiotic beverage that my daughter never lets me forget I stuck my nose up at -- I mean who wants to try "fermented tea," I ask you!?  Well, if she had immediately followed-up with, "It's flavored and fizzy and refreshing following a second fermentation process," I would have!  (Not to mention the really nice and handsome lumbersexuals who brew it and let you try samples at the city market ... yeh, that's a thing :-)  Rockin' the man bun.

1/2 gallon square jar
SCOBY Hotel!

I will follow-up with my tried and true Kombucha brewing technique/instructions in a later blog.  It's easy, fun and not too labor-intensive.  If you're thinking about it, start by purchasing some grocery store 'bucha and save the bottles!  Start out with small amounts -- like 8 oz -- and follow with equal amounts of water.  If you're already a sauerkraut eater or a kefir drinker -- or even a regular yogurt eater, it shouldn't upset your tummy too much -- but a little upset is a sign of balancing your system.

So for this first blog in a very long time -- I offer you the Kombucha Jar Sweater/Cosy!

Kombucha Jar Cosy

for 1 gallon beverage dispensing jar

(with alternative directions for 80 oz pickle jar 

and short ½ gallon storage jar)

Materials:        size 9 double-pointed needles, set of 5

                       any worsted or bulky yarn (4 or 5 weight)

                       row counter

                       stitch marker

Cast-on 56 stitches, and transfer to four needles thusly: N1-16/N2-12/N3-16/N4-12. 

Join and place marker for knitting in the round. 

[for 80 oz. pickle jar, cast-on 44: N1-12/N2-12/N3-12/N4-8]
[Alternatively, you could knit on straight needles and simply sew a back seam, leaving an opening for the spigot.]

Work 5 rows of k2/p2 ribbing.

On the next row, knit every stitch, increasing 4 stitches evenly [k13, kfb] 4 times – 60 stitches. Knit evenly for 39 more rows (40 stockinette). 

·       20 rows stockinette for ½ gallon square jar; skip to garter stitch rows and base

·       for 80 oz. pickle jar inc. 6 sts:  k6, kfb 6 times, end k2 - 50 stitches; then knit for 52 rows, and skip to garter stitch rows and base

Spigot Opening:  Move the marker up to the working row where N1 and N4 meet.

Work in stockinette stitch as if you’re working on straight needles.  Knit across the four needles then TURN your work.  PURL back across to the marker.  TURN and knit across, etc. for a total of 8 rows. 

With right side facing you, as if to knit, JOIN needle 4 to needle 1 to being knitting in the round again.

Knit 4 rows.  Then …

Garter stitch base rows:

Purl 1 row.

Knit 1 row.

Purl 1 row.

Knit 1 row.

Decrease for base:

(shifting a stitch from one needle to the next here and there to accommodate the k2tog’s)

Gallon & ½ gal. jar                                            80 oz. pickle jar

Row 1:  k8/k2tog around.                               Row 1:  k3/k2tog around.

Row 2:  k7/k2tog around.                               Row 2:  k2/k2tog around.

Row 3:  k6/k2tog around.                               Row 3:  k1/k2tog around.

Row 4:  k5/k2tog around.                               Row 4:  k2tog around.

Row 5:  k4/k2tog around.                               Row 5:  knit around.

Row 6:  K3/k2tog around.                               Bind off.

Row 7:  k2/k2tog around.

Row 8:  k1/k2tog around.

Bind off.

May Day ... MayDay! MayDay!

I'm chuckling -- noticing the double entendre of the title of this post.  HELP!  That seems to be my every day mantra.  Oh well.
 
According to the wonderful Wikipedia, May Day is related to the Celtic festival of Beltane and the Germanic festival of Walpurgis Night.  May Day falls half a year from November 1 – another cross-quarter day which is also associated with various northern European paganisms and the year in the Northern Hemisphere – and it has traditionally been an occasion for popular and often raucous celebrations. 
 
This is particularly intriguing because I am Scottish and German :-)  I particularly like the reference to "raucous celebrations," though I am mostly rather 'reserved' in my celebration.  I still LIKE the possibility of being raucous ...
 
Of course, the other concept of 'mayday' is that of "an emergency procedure word used internationally as a distress signal in voice procedure radio communications. It may derive from the French expression "venez m'aider", meaning "come help me", the last two syllables of which sound similar to "Mayday". Alternatively, it may have been coined randomly, making the similarity to "m'aidez" coincidental.  It is used to signal a life-threatening emergency primarily by mariners and aviators, but in some countries local organisations such as police forces, firefighters, and transportation organizations also use the term. The call is always given three times in a row ("Mayday Mayday Mayday") to prevent mistaking it for some similar-sounding phrase under noisy conditions, and to distinguish an actual Mayday call from a message about a Mayday call."  (Wikipedia.org)
 
Distress.  Yeh, I have known distress.  I have called out for help.  Remember the prayer of my sweet friend who also lost her husband to a long and ugly illness:  "Help me.  Help me.  Help me."  Mayday!  Mayday!  Mayday!  Sometimes we don't think that our pleas for help -- our simple prayers -- are answered ... well, at least not in the way we hoped.
 
May is always a big month.  College seniors graduate; high school seniors prepare for finals and make choices for college or other life direction ... tulips bloom and tease; gardens get planted, anticipating the last hard freeze.  Mother's Day comes and goes, as does the anniversary of my own mother's death.  (This year, it falls firmly on Mother's Day.  She will have died THIRTY years ago.  Yeh.  What do I do with that??)  Memorial Day rears its (ugly? or reverent?) head near the end of the month, marking the death of my sister's husband, usually yipping the haunches of her birthday (never a happy month for her, ultimately).  But this year, I am determined to be joyful, dang it.
 
My beloved daughter is graduating from college this month -- in just a couple short weeks.  Thank goodness she is a very easy-going, "chill" young woman.  She doesn't have high expectations of big celebratory events!  (Thank you.)  She does want to be embraced by those who love her, though.  This is lovely.  She has accomplished wonderful things in her four brief years of college.  She travelled a good 325 miles away from her dying father to begin her college career.  She needed to do that.  She should have done that.  She did that with grace and sorrow and ... my love and encouragement.  She made the Dean's List that semester -- and every semester.  She is remarkable.  My daughter.  Our daughter.  Our beloved.
 
She didn't do all of this alone.  She had the loving support of two wonderful aunties and two grandparents within a hop, skip or a jump of her. How else could I have allowed her to go so far away?  She had the support of the congregation who baptized her; the college where she spent every summer coming to an intrinsic understanding of Jesus' Great Commission (the mission field).  She had the loving support of many saints who loved her ahead of her comings and goings.  That is a beautiful thing.  And she has been blessed by the loving education of her professors and administrators who know her by name -- and have encouraged and nurtured her these last four years.  And she has always had the undying love and support of her soul mate, her beloved brother.  I am so thankful for all of them.
 
However, again, she is on the cusp of travelling far from home -- far from me.  David and I took her to Italy, where our family experienced Holy Week right where St. Peter and St. Mark established the church.  A year later, I travelled with her to France.  Since then, she has travelled to South Africa for a semester of study and to the Galilee, where she performed research for undergraduate studies and experienced just a bit of what her father and grandparents had before her.  This summer she will return to the Middle East ... my little world traveler.  Where will winter take her?  I think I know...
 
Yet on this lovely spring evening in central Virginia -- having experienced a breezy, mild perfect spring day -- I ponder how far we have come.  I remember the day my daughter was born -- a Palm Sunday 22 years ago -- so full of life and readiness that has never faltered.  She made her debut with a curiosity and tenacity that has sustained her through her brief stint here in the Kingdom of Heaven thus far ... with either a crayon or a pen in her hand ... and I am excited to see where she will go.  I'm also a little nervous and a wee bit scared because I know where she's headed right away -- but I do trust in God to return her both safely and further enlightened -- ready for her next adventure.
 
Nonetheless, as for me?  Mayday!  Mayday!  Mayday!  Come help me!

Boyfriends, Girlfriends and ... our Iniquities

Sunday ... the fifth Sunday in Lent.  Renewal?  Maybe not yet.  Redemption?  Yeh ... ongoing.  What am I feeling today?  What am I thinking today?  Where am I today?

My children are young adults ... and they are both in love.  That takes me back to when I was their age -- 20... 21 ... 22.  I got married when I was 22.  Oh my ... just a month shy of 23.  Scare me.

David was 21.  We were babies, at least in today's world.  Not so much back in 1987.  We knew we wanted to be together "forever."  We wouldn't dare disrespect our parents or our Lord by living together!  We got married.  It was wonderful.  True love and all that.  A lost idea in today's world ... today's world.  Ugh.  What a disappointing world.

I've been enjoying getting to know the ... what do we call them these days??  Boyfriend/Girlfriend?  Other halves?  Hmmm.  The lovely young adults with whom my children are currently involved.  Ugh.  That's a mouthful.  But I have to protect the identities of the innocent.   Ha.  Innocent.  I hope so ... nonetheless. No names!  I have protected my own kids, so I have to protect the offspring of others -- those whom I have never even met.  So, I'll call them my extended beloved.  And I do love them.  :-)  Will you be a part of my life in the future?  How far into my future?  Gone are the days where forever is forever.  Enter the days where "forever" is maybe.  Kind of.  Who knows?  Whatever.  I'm so sad about this.

And yet I have come to know and love these two beloved who have become constants in the lives of my children.  I think they love me, too.  With what wisdom or constancy can I embrace them?  My home is your home.  My God is your God.  Will they accept that?  Will they love, too?  The dog is easy; our God may not be as easily understood.

It's Year A in the Lectionary.  Today's Scripture ranges from the raising of Lazarus to the flesh vs. the spirit to the dry bones of Ezekiel.  These are all really tough ideas -- what do I believe?  What do they believe?  What do we believe?  We are a family -- I think -- perhaps -- maybe.  Joshua 24:15b: '... but as for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.’ Get used to it.

In the not so distant past, I thought I sort of kind of had a "boyfriend."  I never used that term.  He used the term "girlfriend" once -- by accident.  Then immediately altered the comment to "a girl who is a friend."  Ha.  I'm no girl.  I am entirely woman.  Thank you.  But there was a hiccup -- a hesitation -- an unsurety.  Of course there was.  I still kind of sort of feel married! but I'm not.  I'm widowed.  So is he.  He is also a broken person -- one who has known great sorrow -- and great loss.  And a bunch of other junk.  The junk made him dangerous -- a risk.  Good grief.  Literally -- grief.  He got a pair of handmade socks, a great Bible and a favorite movie -- and some of my heart.  His cat got in a few good scratches (I still have the scars) and a catnip toy.  He thinks he's still in love with someone else.  Aren't we all?  David Bailey is no one with whom to be reckoned.  I don't think he cares enough to be reading this anyway, so he'll never know.  Ironically, it IS in his nature to care.  I know this and that's why I gave him as much of my spirit and attention and affection as I did.  But he's way behind.  Who knows when he'll catch up.  Most likely when it's too late.  Okay ... where was I going with this? 

I dabbled with online dating the other night.  Okay ... let's take a moment to collect ourselves.  Yes, I know.  I can't believe it, either.  Two beloved -- very close to me -- have encouraged me to do match.com or whatever.  I've always eschewed them.  I believed God had someone in mind for me -- would handle this -- ya da ya da ya da.  I'm almost 50.  For heaven's sake. 

I did the whole thing -- the whole profile wizard, etc. etc. etc. -- and even the payment process.  Then I totally freaked.  I searched high and low for the avenue through which to cancel -- no such luck.  I finally found a phone number on the west coast through which I could cancel.  I cancelled.  I  emphatically told the lovely lady on the phone that their billing process was tricky and lacked integrity and I cancelled.  Cancelled.  Cancelled.  She was sad.  She commented on how much effort I had put into my profile.  OMG.  I wept and wept and wept.  Is this really my life?

I hope my kids don't read this post.  First of all, I don't want them to worry about me.  More importantly, I don't want them to be as disappointed in this person for whom they have feelings as I am.  I know he loves them.  How does he manage this?  How can I manage this?  I prayed for him today.  I can't wish any ill-will upon him.  I care about him still.  Jesus, help me.

But there's a greater purpose here -- a commentary on friendship -- on relationship.  I've been contemplating relationship -- friendship -- lately.  What comprises a relationship?  A friendship?  What do you think?  I know what I think! 

Does relationship require a certain degree of attention? of communication?  If you've read any of my stuff, you know that I think that it DOES.  Friendship requires attention, affection and communication.  We say that certain people are our "friends," but isn't that really short-changing true friendship?  Sure, some of my friends live far away.  It is more challenging for us to regularly regard each other.  Okay ... but "friends" who live in close proximity to me are people for whom I extend attention -- regard -- care.  These are beloved for whom I constantly care.  What is constant?  Daily?  Weekly?  Monthly?  YES.  Any and all of the above.  Sure, some are souls who are in my daily or weekly life.  Then there are those with whom I spend a little less time -- monthly, perhaps.  They don't attend my church, work with me, live near me, etc.  But I love them and care about them.  Then there are those who, perhaps, live outside of my weekly or even monthly life, but whom I care about a great deal.  Of course there are those who live really far away, but for whom I have great affection.

What do we do with those who used to be within that "regular care" circle but who are no longer a part of that circle?  Ok ... they're still friends, but distant friends.  I have a few of those.   Not all of those distant friends are because I wanted them to be "distant," but because they deemed us to be distant.  That's life.  Move on ...

So the question looms:  Who do you love?  Who are your true and lasting friends?  To whom do you extend your time, attention, affection and grace?

Good question.

How full is your cup?  Upon whom do you empty your cup?  Who fills your cup?  What is your cup? 

Just when I think my cup has been "emptied" by a certain friend, she fills it.  That's how I know she's a keeper.  She's not the only one.  There are a few.  Most of them are women; not all.  My son fills my cup from time to time.  David filled my cup just when I thought I couldn't go on.  My new pastor fills my cup unknowingly.  A sister fills my cup daily.  My daughter does, too.  But a whole bunch of other people drain it.  Some days I am truly running on empty.  These are my darkest, lowest days.  Those who fill my cup are truly blessed.  I hope they know what a gift they are to not only me, but to others who are blessed by the filling of my cup.  Does this mean anything to you?  The cup?

Yesterday I didn't get dressed.  My cup was decidedly empty.  I got up.  I had breakfast -- and lunch -- even dinner.  But I did little else.  I did some devotions -- I read a little in my Bible -- I was in touch with a friend, a sister, my kids -- but I wasn't fruitful.  No, wait!  I took my dog for a walk.  I exercised.  Got some fresh air.  To me, this is a victory.  What did you do yesterday?  Mow your whole yard?  Clean your entire house?  Do your taxes?  Something huge?  When all I did was go for a walk and do the dishes and these were victories?  See?  Our realities are different.  I used to be an achiever.  A doer.  Now if I get dressed, it is an accomplishment.  How does that make you feel?  I'm embarrassed.

But not really.  I've been "down" here long enough to know that when I actually get out of bed, it's a victory.  If I get my dishes done, yay!  Some of you understand and are cheering me on.  Those of you who don't understand, God bless you.  I hope you never have to understand.  I reach out every day to my Lord in thanksgiving -- some kind of thanksgiving -- so that I can be in His presence and clamber at that elusive joy that is promised to me.  To those of you who don't have to claw and clamber, rejoice wholly.  I wish I were in your shoes ... really.  But in my own shoes, I know the grace of God's mercy to the least of us.  Thank you, Jesus.  Thank you. 

Isaiah 53;⁵ But he was wounded for our transgressions,
   crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the punishment that made us whole,
   and by his bruises we are healed.
⁶ All we like sheep have gone astray;
   we have all turned to our own way,
and the Lord has laid on him
   the iniquity of us all.

Widows ... and orphans

Even I think of "widows and orphans" in a context of a Word document.  Widows and orphans are a typographical no-no.  How dare we leave words alone on one line on the bottom or top of a page??  Horrors.  And yet ... I'm left all alone tonight.  Most nights.  Almost every night.  On my own line.  In my own space.  In my own company.  In my own home.  Alone.   "A widow is a word or line of text that is forced to go on alone and start its own column or page."  FORCED to go on alone.  Yep.  That's me.  Excuse me ... That is I ... who is forced to go on alone ... you get it.

My kids aren't truly orphans.  They're not "single words at the bottom of a paragraph that get left behind."  They have me.  They have each other.  However, they are fatherless and that means something altogether different -- and altogether poignant. 

or·phan [noun]  1) a child who has lost both parents through death, or, less commonly, one parent. 2) a young animal that has been deserted by or has lost its mother. 3) a person or thing that is without protective affiliation, sponsorship.

But wait!   ... "less commonly, ONE parent."  Maybe they are, to a certain degree.  Goodness knows they don't enjoy the same benefits as their peers with two healthy, working, successful parents.  I don't want to remove any special consideration from my kids, but, hey ... I'm still alive.  And I love them fiercely and they know it.  They have plenty of protective affiliation.  They have that unconditional love thing that comes from the momma.  That's me.

That is I.

They are getting along in age.  One is now 20 ... and the other is closing in on 22.  What, then, is the natural progression of things?  Do the tables begin to turn ... to slowly rotate ... to swing the "protective affiliation" thing?  Does the momma naturally evolve into the position of the person or thing who falls under the "protective affiliation?"  Hmmm.  Probably in the not-so-near future, but ultimately, maybe ...  Especially because I'm a widow.  Dang.  Poor kids.  They're supposed to have a father taking care of such stuff.  I'm supposed to have a husband living beside me.  "Supposed to ..."  What a crock.

The first year after David died I did experience the blessing of special consideration ... "protective affirmation ... sponsorship" -- from my neighbors and from my church family.  I was and continue to be wholly thankful for that loving blanket of care.  However, the emergence of my situation has faded, I know.  My seemingly courageous and healthy "survival" has allowed my neighbors and friends believe that I'm ok.  And I am ... for the most part ... but I am alone -- "forced to go on alone."  I can count on one hand the number of beloved who understand that and who consistently check in with me -- care for me -- be with me.  Two of them are fellow widows.  Go figure.

Do family, friends, church owe me special attention?  Hmmm.  Good question.  I'm not really one to whine or to expect such stuff, but Scripture has something to say about it.  The Psalms say plenty about "defending" and "pleading the case of" the widow, as well as God "not pitying the widow."  That's confusing.  But the Lord said to "do no wrong or violence" to the widow and that the "widows can depend on me."  That presents a reader with conflicting information ... but the over-riding message is:  Widow-dom = bad.  Nobody wants to be a widow.  Yeh.  Me neither.  And yet, at times, widows were honored -- like at the raising of Dorcas. 

 

Acts 9:36 In Joppa there was a disciple named Tabitha (in Greek her name is Dorcas); she was always doing good and helping the poor. 37 About that time she became sick and died, and her body was washed and placed in an upstairs room. ³⁸ Lydda was near Joppa; so when the disciples heard that Peter was in Lydda, they sent two men to him and urged him, “Please come at once!”  ³⁹ Peter went with them, and when he arrived he was taken upstairs to the room. All the widows stood around him, crying and showing him the robes and other clothing that Dorcas had made while she was still with them.  ⁴⁰ Peter sent them all out of the room; then he got down on his knees and prayed. Turning toward the dead woman, he said, “Tabitha, get up.” She opened her eyes, and seeing Peter she sat up. ⁴¹ He took her by the hand and helped her to her feet. Then he called for the believers, especially the widows, and presented her to them alive.

"Especially the widows."

Timothy wasn't such a good friend of widows.  Ultimately, through the centuries, his word has been distorted and has not been such a good friend of women in general.  That's another blog ...

But James made it pretty clear:  James 1:26 Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless. 27 Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.

 

So to those of you who have taken good care of the widows (and orphans) in your midst -- and I've heard so much about your good works through grace -- THANK YOU.  You are blessed.  You are holy.  To those of you who have taken good care of me -- consistently cared about me, checked on me, called me, written to me, loved me ... THANK YOU.  Matthew 5:⁷ Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

So on this Friday night, having gone to the movie theater alone, spent the day alone, spent the evening alone and now going on to bed alone ... I bid you all great peace.  During Lent when we are called to remember the love of Jesus and the joy of our salvation, I leave you with these ponderings from Henri Nouwen (look him up).

The Honesty Of Compassion

Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned.  Luke 6:37

 

Compassion means to become close to the one who suffers, but we can come close to another person only when we are willing to become vulnerable ourselves.  A compassionate person says:  "I am your brother; I am your sister; I am human, fragile, and mortal, just like you.  I am not scandalized by your tears, nor afraid of your pain.  I too have wept.  I too have felt pain."  We can be with the other only when the other ceases to be "other" and becomes like us.

This, perhaps, is the main reason that we sometimes find it easier to show pity than compassion.  The suffering person calls us to become aware of our own suffering.  How can I respond to someone's loneliness unless I am in touch with my own experience of loneliness?  How can I be close to handicapped people when I refuse to acknowledge my own handicaps?  How can I be with the poor when I am unwilling to confess my own poverty?

I must do some things to fulfill my duties.  But isn't it time I examined my routines and cut out the things I do just to stay busy?  Lord, help me this Lent to begin to focus my attention on the important things. 

[RENEWED FOR LIFE:  Daily Lenten Meditations from the works of Henri J. M. Nouwen, Mark Neilson, editor]

And that means me, too.  Daily I struggle to discern what I'm supposed to be doing!  How am I called to glorify my God?  To be wholly in the "presence of Jesus?"

Maybe there is a widow to whom I should be attending ... or some orphans.  Yeh.  I can do that, too.

It's Been a Year ...

... since I wrote about being "under pressure."  It was the same week a year ago -- week "8" of the year. I know this because it's my timeshare week.  It always falls over David's birthday.  This year he would have turned 48.  What do I do with that??

So during the last year I took a couple risks.  Risk for me is pretty low-key.  Let's get that out in the open.  I'm cautious by nature.  (I passed that on to my son; not my daughter.)  I dipped my toe into the cold water.  I got hurt.  I did it again.  I got hurt again.  Not a good pattern, right?  My sisters and close friends encourage me to be cautious -- to be guarded.  I bravely state that I'd rather risk that hurt than be mortared-up -- isolated and bitter.  And that's true.  But NOT being hurt would be a lot better.

I'm on retreat again.  I decided a couple years ago when both kids were in college to actually spend my timeshare week at my timeshare -- at the beach in the middle of winter.  It's wonderful.  I have a balcony right on the Atlantic.  I can chose to freeze and hear the ocean or be warm and read. I chose both alternatively.  I walk and walk and walk up the coastline on the water's edge, dodging the surf -- then back on the boardwalk tramping the sand out of my shoes.  I meander in and out of the beach shops that delightfully remain open in the winter, allowing me to fulfill a familial obligation to conduct cheesy souvenir shopping.  It's so gratifying to find the perfect keepsake for the year (this year a bottle opener and an insulated coffee cup ... yeh, I know .... kind of boring, but last year's bamboo windchimes never got hung so they're still good).

Last winter I brought a friend with me to experience the winter beach.  This year I'm alone.  Beloveds have asked why?  If this is wise ... Do I want company?  My responses span from "yes, of course ... I'm accustomed to being alone" to "what is my choice?"  And I have invited a few to join me.  I know at least one would have come had I said I just couldn't be alone.  Thank you.  Another would have been challenged to take the time off.  I'm really okay.  As I told a sister, I do most everything alone.  Why should vacation be much different?  Is that a commentary on my life?  Perhaps.

Even when David was alive, I lived possibly the majority of my life alone.  Some weeks he was gone from Friday through Monday -- sometimes Thursday through Tuesday.  Weekends were lonely and challenging, but one can get used to most anything, right?  Whether right or wrong/good or bad.  It was to what I was accustomed -- my normal.  I didn't like it then; I don't like it now. 

I haven't read much since David's death.  It is a glaring contrast to pre-widowed behavior.  I was always deep in a novel -- reading through several in a week most of the time.  David could sometimes get me to read one of his non-fiction favorites ... but the point is that I was an avid reader.  I sort of feel a bit like an intellectual failure the last few years -- reading a bit of young adult fiction here and there ... dabbling in grief books or healing devotionals -- but never really committing to any written word.  This week I brought some spiritual stuff, a silly book and a popular novel.  I'm more than half-way through a book about sorrow, joy, blessings and faith (humbling) -- more than half-way through a book about how people affect each other.  Interesting.  I already discarded a tedious parody -- and have yet to open the novel.  What does that say about my state of mind and heart this week?  I'm seeking avenues for joy -- permission to trust that God's promises "not to harm me but to prosper me" have merit.  Ugh.

So, Henri Nouwen, you have me very humbly acknowledging joy.  Thank you!  At least you permit the sorrows first.  Yeh, I have a bunch of those.  You have made me ponder blessings and want to break further out from my own suffering.  It is time, right?  Believing it and wanting it are a little different than doing it, but it's a start.  I've also been repeatedly slapped in the face by a best-selling devotional about self-pity and self-preoccupation.  Geez!!  Today's entry basically accused me of rebelling against God by not trusting in His promises to care for me even though my future seems precarious -- that my future is a mystery and I should just put up and shut up (translation:  have faith).  Ouch.  Be patient.  How much longer do I have to wait before I "prosper?"  What are these promises?  Then the self-pity creeps in and I only see my sorrows and lose sight of my joys.  It takes a LOT of energy to keep on keepin' on!

So in the interim, I have tried to be in "community" with someone who made me feel less "different."  Someone who understood my sorrows -- my losses.  I risked a good deal ... and was hurt.  I was truthful and vulnerable and naked -- offered Grace that, it turns out, was decidedly undeserving ... but isn't that was Grace is?  Nouwen expresses this as 'lifting our cup' of our life -- sharing with one another our "sufferings and joys in mutual vulnerability" so that the new covenant (Jesus' sacrifice) can become visible among us.  "The surprise of it all is that it is often the least among us who reveal to us that our cup is a cup of blessings."  And I'd do it again.  I want only to BE a blessing.  Of course it would be lovely if I would also be blessed, as "promised," but I guess I'll have to wait patiently on the Lord for this -- assuming that I don't rebel against this promise. 

"The cup of blessings is the cup the meek have to offer to us."  ~H.J.M. Nouwen, "Can You Drink the Cup?"  How do you convince someone that despite their brokenness -- their abandonment -- their aimless wandering-- they can actually bless others?  I don't know ... but, on David's birthday, I have to give him credit for believing that they can.  He believed that there was no heart that could not be turned and that those who suffer the most have the most to give.  But only if they tear down the walls that imprison them and find liberation -- freedom to be a blessing, to be in community, to lift their cup to life.  Isn't that beautiful?

The rest of the world is sleeping
Like it seems to do every night
Here I am again, alone with my friends
the candles and the clouds and the moonlight

I know it isn't the first time
I'm sure it won't be the last
But this is my time, these are my hours
Gotta take them now before they become the past

And night after night I keep trying
to understand this life that I live
I keep coming back to the same old track
Those who suffer most have the most to give

There's a heart that's bleeding in the heartland
and another that is broken in the east
Somewhere far across the ocean
there's a soul just searching for peace

Prisoners of hope,
Love's last refugees
If we cannot suffer together,
Then our pain don’t mean a thing

The rest of the world is sleeping
Maybe, tonight I will too
If not, there's always tomorrow
And If not there’s always you

but every night, you can find me with my candles
celebrating this life I live
listen to this song and always remember
those who suffer most have the most to give

"Most to Give," Love the Time - http://www.davidmbailey.com/audio/DAVID_M_BAILEY-Most_to_Give2_hifi.m3u

Hey, 2013, don't let the door hit you on the a** on your way out!

Yeh.  It hasn't been such a great year.  Well, there have definitely been some highlights.  I've made some pretty unexpected choices and done some unexpected things ... and have surprised myself with certain changes in me.  But 2013 has been frustrating and isolated and sort of sad.  I think those things come with change, along with some excitement here and there and at least a little happiness dotted in and around all the other stuff.  What does any of that even mean!?

The time period from last fall to the latest autumn pretty much marked the first year I have ever truly had on my own.  Most people thought I'd be wallowing in loneliness with my son off to school and my nest decidedly empty (save the RBD) -- but it was actually a year of revelation and (for lack of a less hackneyed word ...) growth.

When my mother died, I was finishing my sophomore year in college.  I spent the summer picking up all the pieces of my own life -- taking care of my broken father -- and two younger sisters.  Moving straight into an adult position at the age of 19, I sort of lost those last two carefree years of college -- yet somehow managed to "free" myself enough to fall in love with a most unlikely younger man.  Still, firmly scared of life at that point, I accepted a job at a firm far from home (and David) ... but working with my older sister.  The transition to the "real" world was more gentle and I wasn't really on my own.  Just a few months into that job -- living in a dreary apartment with so little money that I didn't do anything and didn't have any friends outside of work -- David and I got engaged.  Then, just after the New Year, my dad had some serious health issues, so I returned to Pennsylvania.  The objective was to help out at home, but a serious car accident in freezing rain landed me in the hospital with a fractured pelvis and I became a dependent to my ailing father and grandmother.  That was not the plan. 

When I was mobile and able to drive, I started working for my dad.  I was able to plan our wedding throughout the spring and summer and continued to work for my father's corporation following our late summer wedding.  Still a dependent, right?  But a year after we were married we moved to DC and I got a "real" job in the "real" world downtown Washington.  I did the big commuter life thing -- metro busses and subways -- then the long drives from the suburbs.  Then we started a family.  I had barely ever lived on my own.  I had only barely lived my life according to my own desires and schedule.  And I didn't want to! 

David started to become quite upwardly mobile around the time we started a family.  He began to travel extensively nationally and internationally.  I was so isolated.  I had worked part-time in DC until my daughter was 1 and I was pregnant with my son.  One evening trying to get home from work, an accident on I-95 prevented me from getting back to my baby in childcare while my husband was on a business trip in Switzerland or Wales or Belgium.  I was newly pregnant and the situation was pretty dire.  I quit the commute after that -- telecommuted until my son was born -- then quit altogether to raise my kids.  Just a couple years later, on the cusp of a move to Boston, David was diagnosed and everything came to a screeching halt.

Then I became not only a mother, but a caregiver and a home-base "rock."  David's travel life didn't end, but changed.  He travelled at least a third of the time.  Even if I had wanted to, it would have been extremely challenging to have any kind of career of my own.  (Too bad I never thought of writing back then ...)  Thankfully, I had a great group of friends -- other at-home, young mothers -- who came along-side of each other and diluted the isolation of choosing that life.  Raising my children is the most important and gratifying thing I have ever done.  That job is nearly complete ... so change is inevitable.  Change.

Some people think we were nuts getting married so young.  At 22, I had had very few worldly, exciting experiences.  It's true.  But I was able to embark on adventures WITH David -- not a girlfriend or roommate.  A husband.  That was great!  As young adults in DC, we were pretty poor.  We didn't go out much -- a draft was over $7 back in the late '80s.  Our little cave of an apartment cost us around $600/month and his starting salary was around $19K.  Somehow we managed some fun -- taking the "Montrealer" (Amtrak) to Canada -- a wee precursor to more international travel.  Then, just a couple years later, we travelled to Cyprus for Christmas with his family and extended the trip to three weeks -- two of which were spent kicking around Germany (not long after the wall came down), Austria, Switzerland and Italy spending every other night on the train.  We found ourselves on the Ponte Vecchio on Christmas Eve 1990 with a crowd of [wonderfully] crazy Italians swigging champagne, smashing bottles and shooting guns.  Yes, guns.  It was the most memorable night of my life to this day.  Incidentally, I had the best sex of my life that night, too.  No more on that, you dropped-jaw people!  Ha.

So ... the point is that I chose to NOT be alone.  I decided that living side-by-side with David was way preferable to being independent and adventuring on my own.  I would do it all over again.  I don't regret getting married young at all.  However, over this last year I got a taste of the liberties that being on your own can offer.

I no longer had to consider anybody else's needs or schedules or desires or problems or or or ...  I could sleep when I wanted; get up when I wanted (when I wasn't working); go out when I wished; eat what I liked; choose to get dressed or not.  No more homeroom bells, teacher conferences, lunches to pack (I love you guys -- loved making your lunches, but man! that got old!)  You get the point.  I still went to church every Sunday, but sometimes skipped Sunday School <gasp>.

But after a while, the liberty got stale.  The on my own stuff became boring and I, again, found myself to be quite isolated.  A friend who had been available started working longer hours and found a companion.  It didn't take long to recall why I chose to get married:  To live along-side of someone with whom I shared a belief system -- a value system -- love of music -- love of family -- love of travel.  Someone to warm the other side of the bed and brew the coffee.  Someone with whom to debate (discuss) a topic -- with whom to worship -- with whom to pray.  A warm hand to hold -- a movie-going companion -- a late-night dreamer.  Devotion.

So, along with everyone else, the new year offers somewhat of a clean slate.  Let's call it a "blank" slate -- on which to design, write, dream, risk -- across  365 more gifts of life.  I'm the first to admit that many of the upcoming days will be spent doing little that matters -- let's call that "rest."  Some days will be spent going through the motions of life with little to no consideration of affect.  Hmmm.  Maybe I can focus on that -- deciding what effect my motions and choices have on my world -- on the greater world.  It's too dang exhausting to attempt to have a positive effect every day, at least for my own tired soul ... but maybe it's something on which I can ponder.  Maybe the "greater world" can be a person or two or three.  Yeh, I can work with that.  I usually do anyway. 

So, returning to the same old same old ... Love.  How can I better love this year?  Love me, love others, love the world ... and better love God.  I think most of the fear is finally gone.  That opens up more opportunity for hurt -- for disappointment.  But it also opens up a world of expression, color, warmth and even trust in an untrustworthy world.  I may fail horribly and fall painfully on my butt, but at least I will have been open to the change -- to unexpected freedoms -- to new people and chances to venture down new roads -- to living more fully.  Will I embrace it?  I want to believe in people again.  I want to believe in God's promises.  I guess the newness of time will tell. 

Jeremiah 29:11-13
New International Version (NIV)

¹¹ For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. ¹² Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. ¹³ You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.

Am I out of stories to tell?

A beloved has commented that I am doing less storytelling and more exploring of forces and values and loves in my life right now and wondered why the change.  I really had to stop and ponder the question.  I have already acknowledged feedback that "exile" is more dark than "uncleaving."  But why? 

To be  honest, many of the "stories" I could tell would be a bit damning to the main characters.  No true protagonists would explode onto the scene(s).  And that is really very sad.  I'm in a stage where the people in my life are either grossly disappointing or simply solid.  Disappointing can provide interesting tales! but I'm not ready to expose such shenanigans.  Maybe in the near/later future -- when their identities can be less obvious.  But for now I'm stuck with tales of not-so-dubious circumstances ... and those can fare less intriguing, right?  Everyone loves a good dirty laundry tale, though we shouldn't. ... "Identities have been changed to protect the ... GUILTY."  <snort>

So, in the interim, of what do I write?  Hmmm.  I'm doing laundry.  Whatever.  My house is dirty.  Yeh, what else is new?  I may have ten souls descending upon me for Thanksgiving and I should be panicking!!  Now that's a story, right?  Let's count beds ...

Once again I'm spending the evening with Allie, my faithful dog who swears she is in charge.  She sure is persevering sometimes -- standing at the edge of the kitchen (not allowed IN the kitchen) wagging her tail, ears perked, softly whimpering for a dog treat.  I'm trying to get her to stop that because it drives me nuts.  Begging is bad behavior.  I blame this on my kids who continue to feed her from the table against my wishes!  I hate a begging dog.  Sadly, though, she usually wears me down, not unlike the Persistent Widow of Jesus' parable wearing down the mean old king.  Keep praying keep praying keep praying -- translated to dog-speak:  keep whimpering keep begging keep wagging ... Who am I not to love my dog as God loves me?  So she gets the bone and the behavior is reinforced.  God, throw ME a bone, won't you please?!  Whatever.  Daughter, I already told this story!  http://reluctantlyuncleaving.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-true-alpha-female.html
 
But what I haven't written about is poor Allie's sensitivity.  A couple years ago, she began to have some real issues with her skin.  Her ears drove her crazy and had become course and stiff from some infection or something.  The skin on her belly started to turn black.  Her neck had become raw and the fur under her collar had fallen out, leaving her skin inflamed.  She was an itchy mess of a dog!  I was very distracted at that time with the business of death -- of keeping my kids afloat -- of making it through each day.  When I finally truly recognized Allie's discomfort, it was pretty advanced.  Guilty doesn't cover how badly I felt ... but human vs. dog ... humans took priority. 

The vet was able to give her a good steroid shot (the "silver bullet") for the itching -- and $50+ dollars' worth of ear ointment.  Add to that, a $30 bottle of antibiotic shampoo, the office visit and the regular exorbitant flea and heartworm meds ... I was paying more for my dog's healthcare than I had for David's!  (I'm freaking serious.)  Our vet was great -- very down-to-earth and understanding about my life situation/financial limitations, etc. and asked me if Allie and David were close.  She said it could be an emotional response to his death.  I had never considered that!
 

Hm.  Allie and David had a sort of Machiavellian kind of relationship.  I simply mean "cunning" here ... with a touch of self-servitude.  David was a snacker.  Allie is a snacker.  He wasn't really a dog person.  She isn't really a people dog (she won't fetch or play ... but does like to be the center of attention ...)  David and Allie had a relationship based on him doling out high-class snacks (almonds, cashews, pretzels, potato skins, combos ... anything in a crackle'y bag) and her continuously wagging her tail, perking her ears and giving him the loving eye in return.  When I was at work and the kids were at school, these two were constant companions -- especially during that last year of his life when he wasn't travelling as much.  They had a truly symbiotic relationship:  symbiosis (noun pl. sym-bi-o-ses) - 1. Biology - A close, prolonged association between two or more different organisms of different species that may, but does not necessarily, benefit each member; 2. A relationship of mutual benefit or dependence.

Yep.

But I thought there was more to it.  When David was in the Hospice House, I decided to take Allie to visit him.  I thought that he would respond positively to her and she would respond positively to him.  That wasn't the case!  He barely acknowledged her presence; she didn't even look at him.  It was almost as if the two of them already had an understanding:  It's over.  Move on.  I was stunned and perplexed.  Allie didn't make a return visit and David never asked about her at all. 

But after he died, her skin changed.  Why didn't I notice the possible connection?  I know full well that Allie is an emotional dog.  She can be quite vindictive when she decides that she's alone too much -- aka, neglected.  When the kids are at college and it's just me and I'm at work, or out shopping, or out at a rehearsal, or out with friends -- she's here all alone.  No crinkle'y crackle'y snack bag, no hand feeding her high-class snacks, no hand patting her head or voice speaking her name.  And no man of the house.  Allie is very female-oriented (I've always been the "boss") but David was her companion and he was gone.  Gone for good.

Everybody thinks the RBD is a "sweet dog."  And most of the time, she is.  But when she wants to be a meanie, she is a meanie.  Over the last year when I have spent too many hours away from the house or, God forbid, a night or two! I come home to her having clawed-down the blankets and pillows from all the chairs and sofas.  ????  In the sitting room, the family room, my bedroom -- all game.  I travelled up to the college this past weekend to see my kids.  I figured I would prevent all the dragging-down of stuff by putting guitars on sofas and boxes on chairs. That worked!  She was stymied!  So, instead, she clawed-down two heirloom quilts from a quilt rack in my upstairs hallway.  That made me pretty angry.

Anyone who says that dogs aren't vindictive don't have an Allie.  She punishes me for every moment she spends alone.  She actually does relax over the summer when there are more souls at home, but right now, she's miserable and quite intent on making me the same.  Some of you may be thinking, "Gee ... a couple pillows ... blankets ... some dog hair. What's the big deal?!"  I know.  It sounds petty.  But it's bigger than that.  It's the punishment that she is imposing on me when all I'm doing is trying to live this life I have -- to be a good mother -- a good friend -- a formidable church lady, etc.  I don't need to come home to judgment that I'm a bad dog mistress -- or whatever.  In the end, I didn't ever want a dog!  So I get a little bitter.  I know you dog lovers are mad at me now.  But I'm not getting that promised unconditional love from my dog.  I'm being punished -- over and over -- day after day.  It's terrible.

But she's my only companion in this moment.  She knows I'm mad at her, so she's not even begging for a treat.  She went upstairs, defeated.  We will make-up -- maybe tomorrow -- maybe the next day.  We have no choice but to be each other's symbiotic partner now.  We weren't made to be that for each other -- we were made to vie for the alpha position.  Sorry, old girl -- but it will always be me.  Still, she is VERY cute and very sweet, aside from the misbehaving and I do love her.  Good grief.  I need to get out more.

Two days later ... I came home from a 13 hour day at the church and just loved on Allie.  She moaned with relief at being forgiven -- for she had not been destructive in my absence.  She came when I called and was forgiving, too.  Everything is back in balance for now.  Oh how peace ebbs and flows ... Right now peace as I bake sweet potato soufflé, green bean casserole and pumpkin pies ahead of a busy Thanksgiving holiday where souls will come together in joy and love.  Allie will be right in the midst of it all, begging for some turkey meat.  <sigh> 

But when everyone goes home or back to college, it will just be the two of us again.  And she'll be right down here in the pit alongside me.  It's good to have company.