Scattered Thoughts on a Restless Night

At times, body and mind simply does not work on the cycle of time the world would impose.  A day is supposed to be neatly divided in to three 8-hour portions in a twenty-four hour perfection that, not coincidentally, matches the degrees of our globe.  Those portions are supposedly divided in to work, living and sleeping.  Do you know anyone whose life works out in such an ordinal way?  Me neither. One always bleeds to the other and the first place you steal hours from is usually sleep, then life and sometimes even work.  As my grandmother used to say, "It's always something...."





She used this statement to dismiss whatever little crisis or trauma or drama was going on in someone's life.  Truly, she did not do any of the above.  Everything was orderly, consistent and dependable in her world.  When it wasn't, the weather or the news was to blame and it was best to wait for the inevitable change or turn off the radio and TV.  Praying solved everything.  She worked her beads, nagged and praised God, the Lord, the Blessed Mother, the Saints, and was not above poking the Holy Spirit with an elbow now and then; all while trusting things would work out.  That she was generally correct, things did and do work out, was downright annoying to some of her family, go figure. 

My mother learned stoicism at her mother's knee.  She didn't panic, never freaked; wasting energy on worry was a sin, end of discussion.  Her reality was you do the best you can with what you have to work with, daily; tomorrow comes soon enough.  I never saw her sit up late fretting, get up early to wrestle with struggles, or argue with the universe about what was fair and right.  She did her best, and after three coca-colas with two fingers of whisky in each, she slept like a baby for exactly eight hours, as prescribed by the globe and time.  In the morning, she had her coffee, made her list, put on her face, and went forth to do her best.  It was more than most of us accomplish in this life.  I admired her for that. 

I learned chaos blows in to life on an irregular, irrational timeline from my father, the king of chaos.  He was an amiable soul, unless you left a cup in the sink or vodka was at hand.  I learned how to cope with anything and everything from my mother.  All of these lessons came long before I learned how to make a good cup of coffee and right after I observed that alcohol is not a demon but it feeds chaos and obliterates sensible coping.  Sometimes, now, I laugh about these lessons, mostly I simply ignore the memories and do the best I can with what I have to do with, minus the booze.  Those are coping skills, or so I'm told.  Whatever the label, I too, passed down lessons of living to my children.  It is what we humans do, pass the gospels of generations on, with intention, or clumsy inadvertence, or determination to break cycles - we still pass it on.

I worked hard, practiced over zealous diligence to ensure my children had all the information I longed to have as a child balanced with healthy skills to cope with the changes in weather, news, and that touch of insanity I married.  I taught them laughter works better than tears, fretting steals energy you will need for tomorrow, and most things do work out but never in the time or way you expect, never.  Frequently, this is a better than expected thing but it is hard to take, that truth.  I still struggle with it myself, no wonder they have niggles of doubts.  I taught them to pray, how to wait for answers, and how to poke the spirit when someone is suffering and needs strength Now!  Raising Godly People was my goal as a parent.  Whether they ever have a degree or a high salary job or discover the cure for the common cold, if they're loving, respectful of all, and faithful people, I've done my best with what I had to do with, 'nuff said.

As they've matured, I've been stunned by the unintended lessons they took in and made their own.  They live and work and rest with time for others as well as themselves.  They laugh without inhibition and know when holding someone's hand is the right thing to do.  They're fascinated with learning, but not locked in to the text/notes/test method so they can fit much more in their brains than I ever managed in mine. 

My Second Son is borderline autistic.  In our tiny town of unwritten rules that are chiseled in the gossip which is the foundations of every sidewalk, front porch or stoop, it was a challenge to find work.  But, he persevered, had many 'you blew it' interviews, and eventually an employer was desperate enough to give him a chance.  Sometimes, his boss tells me what a good worker my son is, "though he's still a bit quirky."  My son will always be quirky.  I love that about him, about all of my children.  Intended or not, we do dance to the beat of a different drummer, hummer.

There are times, I'm sure, they'd rather just Fit In, Be Like Everyone Else, and not have to Walk Their Own Path.  Not one has said this to me, but I hear it sometimes, in a wistful tone or resigned sigh.  Some day, I believe, they'll be glad for those challenges and the strengths they truly are.  I'm mature enough to know it  probably won't be in my lifetime, but you never know.

Recently, as I embraced my Old Biddy status, I added the label Eccentric.  It suits me better than quirky, which implies you can't really help being out of step with those pesky unwritten but eternally chiseled rules.  Eccentric is a bold admission that you just don't care about rules, or gossip, or weather.  As with my theories and practices of parenting, home education and faith, I don't shove my eccentricities in anyone's face or life.  I'm not standing on street corners preaching the word of eccentrics or insisting others must dye their hair with kool-aid to be truly acceptable.  I live peacefully and respectfully, please treat me the same has been my motto for at least two thirds of my life.  Sometimes that works out, most times I'm as bewildering to others as my son.  I can live with that.

I spent sixteen years of marriage trying to conform to rules that changed as soon as I mastered them.  When the marriage was dissolved in a civil court, I struggled to figure out what rules to follow while confronting the reality of raising six children 10 and under, three still in diapers, with the possibility of child support no more substantial than wind pudding and air stew.  It took considerable time to sort through what was true and right from those sixteen years and what was utter bull she-it.  There are still times I am suddenly confronted with a Pile of BS, shocked by the knee jerk reaction and old recordings grooved in to my vinyl. 

"Where the heck did that come from?!" Comes to me a bit quicker these days.  I recognize a triggered response and like a grubby archaeologist, I dig in the ruins to find the source.  It doesn't take as long to figure things out, whoo hooo for maturity, but it sure isn't less messy.  So when I wake in the middle of the night, and it's not a physical discomfort, I know it's time to dig around.  I try hard not to resent the inconvenience of interrupted sleep so I don't waste energy on useless frustration that does me no good.  I accept there are only so many hours in a day and being eccentric means the rules of eight tidy hours do not apply.  Get over it!

Pour the coffee, put on the specs, color, pray and listen - listening is the hardest part, for me anyway.  I want to tell myself what's wrong, how to fix it, and by the way, here's some other stuff to fret over.  All of that is distraction from some gremlin in my psyche that likes to stir up mischief.  I confess I slap him, hard, back to his stinky hole before he gets one of his gross, hairy toes dug in to what is probably a simple thing I just need to acknowledge, accept, and move on from.  Tonight, he didn't even bother, or maybe he overslept - he's older than I am after all! 

I didn't even finish the leaves on my postcard before I realized what was disturbing my slumber.  Logistics.  It boils down to that.  Logistics.  That is not being able to be everywhere I need, or want, to be, not having everyone in the place I want them to be, not being able to wave a magic wand so miles and hours merge without effort or struggle for anyone.  It's another bloody holiday.  One I have always held dearer than Christmas, and just after Thanksgiving, the Ultimate Holiday in my heart.  Trying to get 6 people in one place for more than a few hours is considerably more challenging than the equation of 5 working schedules + 2 vehicles = a lot of running the roads.  Knowing 1/7th of the family is too far away to be physically part of the family holiday is no easier this year than last, or the year before.  It is what it is and she's happy so get over it!

In my childhood, holidays were miserable, best part was being grateful they were over.  As a parent of young children, I prepared, planned, and worked at making holidays memorable, fun, and if we all had the flu, then we'd save the meal and festivities for the next weekend off and do it up right, no biggie.  I focused on birthdays more than holidays, making a weekend of the day of birth the celebration it should be.  As an Eccentric Old Biddy with grown children, I long for those easy peezy days of paper chains, glitter and balloons being snazzy decor; getting up at 4 to cook, and the happy exhaustion when it was over. 

Yeah, I know, loosing sleep over logistics of holy days is beyond eccentric and nudging into the wackO zone.  It does make me laugh at myself, do join me.  It did make me weed more BS from the ancient dig.  Good for me!  Wakefulness got me some extra coloring and prayer time, a grocery list made and some good music played, all in all it's been an extra early morning win win. 

It will all work out, it always does and if it doesn't - I did not fail my children or the generations of women before me.  Besides, there's always June to look forward to.  The only misery likely to be experienced is the grocery shopping and the storms they're forecasting for Friday.  I won't melt getting soggy hauling groceries that's for sure and certain.  We will gather when we gather and eat when we eat and play games when we play games.  Some time for conversation will appear, over dishes or taking out trash or while picking up limbs in the yard or dealing a hand of Uno.  We are still a family even if we're scattered a bit and juggling schedules that don't fit well together.  No one is dreading the holiday and wishing it was already over.  Chaos may swoop in, but it will be in the form of a cat trying to snag a snack not a drunkard or a sober narcissist.  Someone will spill something, but it will be a mess we joke about as we clean it up, not an excuse for violence.  We will do the best we can with what hours we have to do with and sing with joyous voices.

So that gremlin kicking at my misery triggers can just stay in his hole, where he belongs. 

Aren't fish soothing?