well excu-u-use me“You need to blog more often,” typed a dear friend. I agree with her, but it seems all I manage to do lately when I blog is make excuses for my lengthy absences. There are some valid excuses: family issues alluded to in previous posts concerning my father and his physical and mental well-being, the holidays, a certain inability to use my fingers for about a week after Christmas, my darling husband taking time off work during the two weeks surrounding the holidays, my preference for typing on the desktop which was largely controlled by the aforementioned husband, not to mention (though I am) my finicky ‘v’ on the laptop. The truth is, though, that when I am faced with a blank page and blinking curser, I am simultaneously overwhelmed with the fact that I both have altogether too much and absolutely nothing to write about.
the times, they are a-changin’The N boy had a job interview last week – the real kind, the actual career kind. This is a computer-related company run by someone the hubster used to work with, one which helps obtain certifications and reimburses for college courses according to grades received. And just like that, I am rudely awakened with the certainty that my time with this child under my roof is oh so short and precious. The prospect of college didn’t wake me up to this knowledge – the financial dependence married to higher education gave me a cushion of safety. Tell me, how does one prepare for a child to leave the nest when they have never even gone to school away from home? I know I am jumping the gun a bit. He won’t even be 18 until October, but with great velocity it approaches!
a first time for everythingWe recently had to move my father into an assisted living facility. Physically, he is in remarkably good shape considering how many underlying health issues there have been, but he suffers from dementia. Sometimes, you can spend more than an hour with him and barely notice that anything is wrong. Other times, you can have the same conversation repeatedly for that hour. If it weren’t for certain circumstances, he would probably be fine living with my sister or me. As things stand, this is the best option. The facility is in an old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere (and relatively inexpensive in the comparative analysis) which is a good environment for him. Still, he gets a bit stir crazy from time to time.
Last weekend (as in more than a week ago now, since it is taking me so long to write this post) I went up to take him out to the movies. We stopped for lunch first, enjoyed the film, and then stopped to buy him a calendar (his way of trying to keep track of time – though my sister also bought him one last week, so I don’t think it is working very well).
If I tell you that the factors in this equation are a chilly day, a bad memory-loop day, a moment of stupidity on my part, and a son with a very bad sense of direction, will that give too much away? Yes, dear reader, I locked my keys in my car for the very first time. I do believe the resultant hour and a half wait for rescue (and all of the associated grievances) might just be a strong enough deterrent to keep me from ever repeating that mistake. There is always hope.
let it riseAnd then there is
bread.
Sunday, I made pizza dough in the bread maker. The recipe merely instructs the dough to be divided after it has spent its kneading time in the appliance, then formed into crusts. Sacrilege! Those divided pieces of dough must be lovingly shaped into dough balls and left to merrily rise before forming. It is a moral imperative – even for me, and I don’t like pizza! In fact, an overnight rise in the refrigerator produces the very best results. But time, in this particular instance, was not on my side; therefore, I could be found forming semi-pliable dough into recognizable disks early Sunday evening.
The ingredients of life blend together. They are kneaded and allowed to rise in their melded state. If I try to work the dough as soon as the kneading is complete, frequently I end up with tears or holes – with patches and lumps – with a battle-scarred, tough, and barely recognizable finished product.
And so, as life’s cares weigh on me – most of them minor ingredients – I seek the wisdom to allow the rise time and, simultaneously, the ability to remember that I have the dough rising at all.
Life scurries past – a white rabbit in a rush, and I find it is so much easier to focus on the swiftly fleeting details of each passing day, allowing myself only the briefest of introspective moments. If I’m not careful, I will end up with dough of Lucille Ball proportions.
How thankful I am that control of my life does not rest solely in my hands (even if that is hard to take sometimes) but in the hands which lovingly formed the very fabric of the universe!
Labels: sleeping with bread, stuff
