OCTOBER 3, 2017
#peace #tranquility #love #light #hope #healing
Old stories. #1:
April 29, 2008
The Electric Argument
A few years ago, I read an online article about ways to reduce electricity consumption.
I was fascinated to learn that even appliances in the off mode could still be sucking up electricity.
When I passed this information on to my husband, he guffawed. “Absolutely. Not. True!”
I thought it was worth checking out, so I secretly unplugged some of our less used appliances.
Must not have been so secretly, because the next day, all were mysteriously plugged back in.
I unplugged them again, only to discover the phantom re-plugger had been ‘round the house, again.
Recently, watching an episode of the TV show “Til Death,” I laughed to see the very same issue addressed. Joy, of course, believed the electricity saving advice, and Eddie thought it was a farce. And, so began the plugging and unplugging.
It’s weird to see your life on TV. It’s also highly amusing.
Jeff and I never did resolve the electric argument. With all the unplugging and re-plugging, we never were able to prove a savings or not, one way or the other. Then, this month’s Reader’s Digest shows up, and guess what? The April 2008 edition, page 17, has a lovely little blurb about… Vampire Electricity.
If nothing else, at least unplugging all of those dormant appliances reduces the chances of a house fire.
Who me, worry?
Episode 106 of Til Death, “The Toaster” aired 2 months after Jeff passed.
If you’ve been there, it doesn’t matter how removed you are, how not-too-close you are, to the situation.
You don’t need to be there, or even slightly on the fringe.
Miles away holds the same cosmic shock as standing toe-to-toe.
In a flash. Flashback.
It’s all real, again. Not exactly the same, but you’re tossed that way.
Way back there, to that little box on the board that emotionlessly announces: This is where you are. This is your new beginning.
A new, non-optional, previously unimaginable, reluctantly occupied space becomes the jumping point.
Because the circular shift, the spin of the table, turns you dizzy.
The rules have completely changed, now, into a language you don’t understand. You thought you were winning.
This is the new precipice – the launch of the unimaginable.
Everything looks dully the same here in the realm of faded all.
The elimination of Point A to Point B, negates any previously planned paths.
The rebirth is deficient doors that will not take – that will never take – you where you want to go.
Open or closed; not one of them will stop the flow.
There’s no portal to the past. Only provenance.
Prior plans do not matter; there’s no map for this journey. No perfectly sized torniquet, either.
Bandage. Bandana. The heart bleeds through just the same.
This evening is sadly more unscripted than usual.
I meant to move forward, but there’s another story to tell tonight.
There’s no reason to relive that grief, when other’s are so…
… fresh, isn’t really the word I want to use, but it gets the point across, and tonight, I’m tired of searching for perfection.
There’s one thing I’ve learned about this business of living and dying.
Even if you know, it’s still a surprise.
There’s no way to prepare, but we try to do it, anyway.
We tell ourselves “If this happens, I’ll do that.”
“When that happens, I’ll do this.”
Strong. Sad. Brave. Devastated. Lost.
Reasonable. Relieved. Reassured.
Alone or in groups: family, friends, acquaintances.
You will be: all of them, at once, in a moment, breath by breath.
Whether you’ve been through this before or not, the emotional war is never won.
Because, there’s nothing to win in the face of loss.
There’s giving what you can and taking what you need. Relying on each other.
And my only imperative:
May Your Happiest Memories Stay with You Through This Time
and Forever into the Future.
I had the strangest reaction today. I thought, “I should call Mom.” And, I realized it’s been 18 years since I broke down in CVS trying to find the best last Father’s Day Card. Even if there was a direct line to heaven, there’d never be a data plan big enough to cover it.
I’ve come to respect my constant gentle oceanic laps of memory.
I’ve come to accept the ebb and flow of universal reminders; receiving laps sent to calm the fearfulness that I will somehow simply forget.
I’ve come to appreciate the awkward rhythms, just a tad off perfect timing.
I’ve come to expect the swell and crash when seasons change; when calendar markings recall.
I’ve come to regard myself part of the shoreline, evolving, as it does.
I’ve come to weather lapse as nothing more than uncontrollable retreat and resurgence, wearing away lines I’ve drawn and re-drawn until the shape of my existence has changed so unsuddenly, I am startled to find myself where I am.
Always missing the ocean.
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