Month: July 2024

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Dragonflies Dancing

Have you ever been on a walk or run or bike ride, and had dragonflies flitting and dancing about your head? It’s truly one of the most glorious experiences.

Photo by Richard Ricciardi

This evening, I was taking a walk to get the rest of my steps in. It was warm but not as humid as earlier in the day. I was listening to a cute romance novel, enjoying the sun on my skin and walking at a steady but not rushed pace. Just enjoying myself.

As I walked along, I saw the occasional dragonfly scooting past me, until I saw at least a dozen dragonflies flitting back and forth, dancing, playing, even watched one flip upside down in mid-air then right it self again. I could not help but gasp with awe and absolute delight! I tried to take a photo, but that wasn’t happening. Instead I took a selfie to show how happy and content I was feeling at that moment.

Seriously. Look at me! I was just feeling and looking good. Almost glowing.

I’m trying to capture these moments, trying to enjoy all the little things life can offer. Something as beautiful as a flight of dragonflies should be celebrated, you know? We won’t always have “big” momentous occasions or activities to acknowledge like vacations, graduations, new homes or jobs. Instead our lives are typically filled with just seconds of glee and wonderment, yet those seconds really do add up. It doesn’t always feel like it, I know. I often feel like I’m swimming in sorrow and grief, and you might, too. Or maybe you just feel overwhelmed with what life has been throwing at you lately. I get it. You know I do.

Try, please try, to find something that lifted you up for a minute this week. Was it that cup of coffee that tasted extra good today? Maybe you had a good hair day one day this week? Saw a cool cloud that looked like a heart? Or maybe it was that text from your friend you hadn’t heard from in a while.

Earlier today I sat on my porch with a smutty book and a glass of peach wine. It was bliss. And I knew it, acknowledged it and heaved a contented sigh.

What about you? What are some moments of delight you’ve experienced lately? If you haven’t experienced any, please let me know. I’m happy to send you cat or dog cuteness videos. Or giraffe videos. Giraffes are the best!

Hugs to you all.

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And I live…

I took the day off to live. The anniversary of Phil’s death requires me to do so. I didn’t go ziplining or travel to Europe, although both are on my bucket list. I did what I had intended to do today. I visited the Farnsworth Art Museum, stopped by the Rockland Public Library, found a kick-ass coffee shop and drank ambrosia (the actual name of the coffee with espresso), people-watched, took a walk in the rain, and cried. Not necessarily in that order.

There were some amazing pieces by Jamie Wyeth, especially the screen door sequence. The last two photos here are of the first in that sequence, along with a description. “In capturing a fleeting moment, Wyeth reminds us that our friends and loved ones may be in our lives only briefly.”

So. Fucking. True.

And yes, I was one of those people who stood in front of a piece of artwork and wept.

So much of Wyeth’s work is quite dark, and I couldn’t help but think, “Man, Phil, you’d love this shit!” There were comparisons to some of his pieces and Hitchcock’s film, “The Birds” (a film I watched with my brother several times) as well as Kubrick’s “The Shining” (also saw with my brother, but only once because he scared the bejezus out of me.)

The Farnsworth not only features the Wyeths’ works, but also a variety of artists. There was this great display of collaborative artwork by students. The pieces that are in blue, one that features the gun with “why why why” all over it was a piece by a high school student, as well as the other bluish piece that had one line that got to me. “My biggest fear is I will be forgotten.” Right now that’s not my biggest fear, but forgetting my brother is.

I’m sure that’s part of the reason why I write about him so much, why I continue to grieve him. He was such a fun and weird and interesting human and I wish everyone I’ve ever known (or never known) could have met him. I need him to live on in some way. And I guess this is my way. Because now it’s 7 damn years without him on this planet, and it’s just…wrong.

So take a moment, and if you ever met Phil, think about him. His laugh, his morbid and off kilter humor, his love of horror films, his love of his family and friends. And if you never had the great pleasure of meeting my big brother, I’ve told you a lot about him. Here are a few photos, too. Just take a few seconds and think about him. Let him live for another few moments, would you?

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Grief Mode

This past weekend, I gathered beach items from my basement and my friend’s shed, picnic items from the depths of our fridge and cupboards, and along with my ailing husband off we went to my favorite state park. I have been waiting for this for weeks! Peaks-Kenny State Park is one of my favorite places in the world. It doesn’t look like much, but the memories I have there begin as a very young child and continue to memories from just two years ago. It’s a special place for me.

One of the best memories (and stories) I have is when I was maybe 5 (?) years old. My mom kept talking about this giant slide and playground at the beach. But my little ears heard “Giant’s slide”, which meant the Giant must live there, right? We drove up to the park, about a 30 or 40 minute drive (I thought it took FOREVER to get there) and as we climbed out of our car, I saw a boulder with a sandwich sitting on it. I ran to it and yelled, “The Giant left his sandwich!” My mother had no clue what the hell I was talking about. Eventually it was sorted out, and it became one of the most adored stories of my childhood.

Once my son was born, we visited this park most summers. I needed to show him where the Giants used to live! It’s a wonderful place to hang at the beach, play on the playground, go for a swim, picnic, and walk the trails. Although I knew my husband couldn’t do many of these things, he could still hang on the beach and we could have a picnic. But…for the very first time in over 45 years of visiting this park, when we got to the entrance we were told the beach was full and either we could wait in line with at least 6 other cars until some folks left, or just leave.

We sat in line for 30 seconds, and then I drove the hell outta there. I was devastated. I was angry. I was so damn sad! It just took SO MUCH to get to this point. I packed the chairs, the umbrella, and the cooler. I made the sandwiches and brought the bag of snacks (and bottle of wine, because come on!). I made sure we had towels and sun block and books. It felt a bit like taking my son when he was a toddler. I had to do everything, but I knew it would all be ok and it would be so fun. At least for me. My husband typically doesn’t walk well anymore and he honestly hates the sun, but he was doing this for me. It’s been the one thing I’ve asked him to do with me this summer that involved being outside. Just the ONE THING.

And that one thing was gone. I was “angry driving” at this point so I pulled over when we had cell service. I asked my husband to look for a beach somewhere near by because I was about to lose my shit. For a change, I didn’t cry. I was too pissed off at the world to do that. I knew if I had to drive home without some sun and swimming, I was going to sob for a long time and eat a carton of ice cream–and not that little pint bullshit but a half gallon.

Now, when I say I wanted to go to the beach, I mean a lakeside beach. We are in central Maine and the thought of driving to the coast on a Saturday in July is basically suicide. We would be one of 10 Maine cars with the hundreds of others all out-of-state vehicles. This is the only time we really have traffic here, and I’ll pass on that!

Amazingly, there was a beach 30 minutes away at Lake Hebron in Monson. I didn’t even realize Monson had a lake! I was still seriously glum, but I figured I had to try. I ate a tiny bag of sweet potato chips to get my blood sugar back up and then I was able to keep going. We joked about what kind of hell we might find at this public beach. “What’ll you do if it’s bad or super crowded?” my husband asked. I told him we’d get our sandwiches from the back and head back towards home, but hit up an ice cream stand before we got there. I was very ready to eat my feelings.

But instead we found this lovely place:

The beach was literally a large strip of dirt and a side patch of grass, along with several picnic tables, a changing hut and a porta potty. But it was just what we needed! There were only 6 people there, and 3 of them were children. The old man and I staked out a little corner of the grass, I went for a swim, we both ate lunch and read our books. And I drank two glasses of peach wine that just improved my mood. It was absolutely delightful.

Once we got home, after a stop at Dairy Queen, my husband wanted to feel useful and brought everything inside in one trip. Did he nearly fall to the ground? Yes. Could he catch his breath? Not at first. Did I yell at him? No, instead I spoke quietly which is typically worse for him. “Look, we just had a really good day, so maybe don’t ruin it by dying today, ok?” He set the bags down, caught his breath and we carried on.

Am I bummed that we didn’t go to Peaks Kenny? Yes. Very much so. I know that if I’m able to get there this summer, it will be by myself. I know I’ll still have a lovely time, but it would still be good to have another person. But I’m happy we took a chance to try out this little beach. We really didn’t have anything to lose at that point, so why not?

And I’m grateful for those few happy hours. You know, I’m sure my husband will live another 5, 7, or maybe even 10 years. But as I saw with my dear brother, nothing is certain. And after watching Phil slowly die over 9 years, I know the signs–the body not able to move well, the breathing difficulties, sometimes even the mind slowing down. I didn’t know the signs at the time, or I chose to ignore them. I didn’t want my brother to die, even though I knew he would long before me.

But Phil tried to squeak out little bits of living as much as he could. He’d buy and eat foods from other countries and regions because it was his way of traveling AND trying something new. He read “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo because he wanted to make sure he read the 1,400 page novel before he died. He played with his nephew, spent time with his family and partner–he made memories for US.

That’s what I’m trying to do with my husband. We have nearly 30 years of memories, many good and many awful, But why stop there? He’s never been a very outgoing person, but I’m grateful he’s trying to do a few things with me so I have those memories when he dies one day. He might drive me batshit crazy sometimes, but I’ll still miss him when he’s gone.

It might seem morbid to be talking like this when Wal, my husband, could live another decade. But tomorrow is the 7-year anniversary of my brother’s death. I am in full grief mode right now. I feel such a horrid sense of dread and loss.

I’m at my kitchen table writing this, and I just want tomorrow to come so I can leave the house. These are the times I had a she shed to escape to.

Each year on July 23rd, I try to live. I try to live for my brother, to do something I’ve never done. Some years it’s just been trying a new food, other times it’s traveling with my son. But tomorrow? Tomorrow I’m leaving my house early, by myself, and visiting the Farnsworth Art Museum, where I’ve never been. My lovely library has a free pass patrons can use, so I’m taking full advantage of it. Hopefully the rain won’t ruin a nice walk near the ocean, but it’s ok if it does. Walking in the rain can be life affirming sometimes. Or it will make me feel more miserable. And I might like that better.

Hug the people you love, friends. Tell them you love them. This life goes by in a flash.

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End Times

Thursday morning I awoke with an anxiety attack. I don’t know what I had been dreaming, but my first thought was about my son’s ankles and the fact that they’ve been hurting him for a few weeks, shortly after he started playing football. That one thought spiraled into worries about new shoes and getting him a new doctor and worrying about the health of our current doctor and how do I pay for my last medical bill and I hope the food bank has more produce next week because this week was a bust and we really need more vegetables in the house and I need to stop thinking, stop thinking, stop thinking.

Yeah.

Hello, 4:30am.

So I got up, drank coffee, ate half a banana, and took a 4 mile walk while listening to a gloriously smutty romance novel. (Unfortunately Yours by Tessa Bailey–Anything by Bailey is fun and often smutty. Delicious!) My hip was screaming by the end of the walk, but at least I wasn’t concerned about money. The time outside and moving my body was enough to clear my head and make a plan to at least have my son’s ankles wrapped before that day’s football practice. I just refused to worry about the other stuff the rest of the morning. It was just too much to think about. It was just too, too much.

The thing is…life is not horrible. It’s hard for sure. It’s a struggle. It’s scary not knowing…anything really. The political climate of this country does not help matters. My son, my beautiful child, is a political science/government/history junkie and so we tend to read, listen and watch more news than ever before. But I have now had to stop, because I can’t stop freaking the fuck out.

I’m ashamed to say that when I heard there had been an assassination attempt on former President Trump, I was disappointed to hear that it was only an attempt. The anger I have at Trump for installing so many jackasses to the Supreme Court and his party’s disgusting Project 2025 plan, made me hope for his death. And I’m not happy that I had that reaction. There is no place for political violence.

But I have to be honest in how I feel. We’re living in a country where many women no longer have a right to choose what they do to their own bodies, and where librarians and teachers are harassed and called “groomers” for providing access to books that represent children like mine.

This isn’t the same country I was born and raised in. It’s turning into a hateful place, where people no longer feel safe to speak how they feel about a political candidate unless they are in a group of like-minded individuals. And I am speaking about both Republicans and Democrats. As a liberal Democrat living in a small conservative town, I rarely feel comfortable expressing how I feel here. When you see Trump signs or F*ck Biden signs on just about every road, how else should I feel? But I also know of librarians that are Republicans that will not say a word about politics for fear of their colleagues damning them for their views.

You know, I rarely talk about politics publicly. I work in a public library so I keep my mouth shut while at work (except with some colleagues), and at home we do talk about politics but sometimes it’s just too exhausting. It is incredibly difficult to live with someone who disagrees with you politically. So most days we keep it to a minimum. That’s how we’ve remained married for nearly 27 years. Yet our son, who knows more about American history than we do, and is thoughtful and knowledgeable about our current political system, will bring facts and a sense of calm to our family discussions. (Facts and calm to political discussions. Isn’t that something?) I see my son and much of his generation as a beacon of hope. When they are of age to vote and run for office, I hope we will begin to see a change in our world for the better.

And hope is what we need right now. All of us. For a variety of reasons.

You know, I sent this photo to a friend recently who is no longer speaking to me. I’m not sure why they’re not speaking to me, but it may have nothing to do with me. It was a message to let them know that I have hope that our friendship will remain and hope that our lives will get better, but also just to say that I’m still here.

And I am. I’m here. And so are you. And I’m so happy and thankful for that. So let’s get through another night together. I know we can make it through. ❤