Content about Spiritual Smart Aleck

Suddenly it became autumn, but it was not so cold or inhospitable on the kitchen porch this morning that the dog and I could not sit there staring into space and thinking deep thoughts.

My deep thoughts started with, there’s nothing like a quick trip to the Emergency Room to remind you of your mortality.

Yep, I had another exciting trip to the hospital. I was first seen here on the island, and was told, no, you may not go home and go to bed. Stop fighting your fate and lie down on the gurney. You’re going on a little trip into town.

After writing so exhaustively about the grief process after my husband died, it hardly seems fair not to write about how it’s going after two and a half years, because things have changed.

There were people who told me at the beginning that I would feel better in time, and while that was cold comfort then, it turns out to be true. Tincture of time, people, can improve many things, including grief.

O death
O death
Won’t you spare me over to another year?

I remember how terrifying the thought of my own death was when I was young. There were horrible nights lying in bed shaken to my core by fear.

I read the other day that when a mother is pregnant with a boy, some of that boy’s DNA is shared. It travels in the blood up into the mother’s brain, and moves in permanently, kind of like the kids do in their twenties.

The baby DNA doesn’t simply hang around there after it sets up shop. It helps to shield the mother from Alzheimer’s Disease. That’s what this learned treatise, probably something I saw on Facebook, claimed.

The incredibly loud noise in my head woke me at ten to six in the morning. I always have ringing in my ears, but this was ringing cranked up to eleven.

There was no going back to sleep, so I got up to go to the bathroom, and lurched. Whoa. Staggered down the hallway propping myself against walls so I wouldn’t fall.

I sat down and put my hands on my knees, and that’s when I noticed that my left arm was weak. I tried to stiffen it up, and I couldn’t.

Lately there has been a foofaraw about where transgender people go to the bathroom. Some people have this idea that if transgender people are allowed to use the bathroom of the gender with which they identify, male pedophiles will put on dresses so they can go into women’s restrooms and abuse little girls. At least I think that’s the argument.

I have been pondering lately how little control I have in my life. Sometimes it occurs to me that not being in control is not a personal fault of mine. It is simply the way things are.

I consider the big things I have not been able to control – the lives and health of my loved ones. Not much turned out the way I would have had it. None of my prayers for miracles was answered to my specifications. I am still not God.

I keep saying that I want to get things out of my house, not bring things in, but you know I hit Granny’s Attic at least once a week. There are certain people I see almost exclusively at Granny’s. It’s a social thing, and a time of relaxation and fun, browsing the second hand selection.

I was introduced to thrift store shopping by my friend Sonya back in 1967 in San Luis Obispo, California, where I went to college. She took me to the Salvation Army there and turned me on to the joys of buying used.

This past weekend a folk singing retreat called Rainy Camp was held in the foothills of the Cascades, out beyond Maple Valley.

The attendees were mostly people of a certain age – my age, or thereabouts, although there were some younger adults in attendance.

What all these people had in common was a love for group singing, and specifically a love for singing folk songs of all kinds.

The dog really likes the new bed. The new bed has a full-sized mattress. This mattress came to me as gift because I was griping about my wonky back and my old mattress that was causing the wonkiness. The person listening to my griping, a dear woman, said, “Oh, I have a mattress I was given that I can’t use. It’s practically brand new. Would you like to have it?”

Oh, yes, please. Thank you, dear woman.

As I write it is the week before Thanksgiving, and I am thinking about things for which I am thankful, and how hard it is to feel thankful when the brokenness of the world seems to be anything but a gift. I turn my attention from woes to gratitude.

I am thankful for my faith, which carries me through. I do get lonely, but I’m never alone.

I am thankful I had a husband who loved me and taught me what it was like to live with love. He made all the difference in my life.

I am thankful to have sons who grew up to be good men.