Losing It

I lose it when I think about losing you.
I lose it when I think about your pain.
You should always choose love
But you can always lose love
And after that, your world is not the same.

No, nobody's died recently, but I have friend battling cancer and our last dog is close to its last legs...and you just know what's coming sooner than later. Sooner than you ever expected or dreamed.

I figure it'll be the same with my own life and death. Sooner than I ever expected or dreamed. And definitely sooner than I ever want!

So day to day is a great way to go...until you go. The bad part is...you must go.

The really bad part: I'm starting to feel like Woody Allen.

Happy Blogiversary to Me

"I've been blogging for a year!"
I proclaim ecstatically.
I'm trying to persevere —
Though somewhat erratically.

I was lying in bed last night, thinking when I should have been sleeping, as I do much too often for good sense or good health, when it occurred to me that I've been online for a year. Actually, to the day today! Cool.

I say "online" sheepishly. I still don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time. And I now have 3 semireal websites...always in progress.

But blogging is fun and fairly easy. So why don't I do it more? Why am I a slacker-blogger? I'm lazy.

But I'll do better this year! I promise. And I'm sure my Magnificent 7 followers will be thrilled.

I started this blog last year when I was about to turn 60. Obviously, I'm about to turn that corner, which was a biggee for me. I've still got the prime of my life to live through — no downhill slopes, for me, please.

Except for the inevitable losses. Stuff. Friends. Pets. Abilities. Sleep.

Stella Van, my mother-in-law used to say, "Life's a day-to-day thing with me." And she was calm and right and okay with the time she had left...no matter how long that was.

We have her ashes on our living room side table, and they're a comfort and a caution, just like she was.

Jim's sister brought them to us to keep for a while, because she's had them since Van died in 2005. It's nice to share! Thanks, Gig. (She's a great response poet; look at the comments.)

I have my mother's ashes, too, and those of one of our dogs. My fave, Ansel.

I have more to say about ashes and all that loss shit and whatnot, but later.

Today I celebrate my 1-year blogiversary!!

You're in the Jailhouse Now

Now if I had the wings of an angel
Over these prison walls I would fly.
I would fly to the arms of my poor darlin',
And there I'd be willing to die.

From "The Prisoner's Song," by Guy Massey

This was a song verse I remembered from childhood for some reason. And it came back to me when I was planning the next journal topic for the women in my writing workshop. It was our second session.

They wrote eloquently about the topic "If I Had Wings." A poem and a narrative description. They were all wonderful and all different. I'm learning so much from them every week.

The first week, they wrote about "What I Believe to Be True About Me." Wow.

You may recall I'm a volunteer with the Literacy Center at the Mesa County Library. Last time, I taught a US Citizenship class. This time, I'm launching a pilot project in the jail. The women said they wanted to do journaling and poetry. Write (ha!) up my alley.

So I went into a jail for the first time in my life. (And was even more grateful I hadn't been caught doing things in the past that would have landed me there.) It was weird.

The prison movies came alive, and it wasn't pretty. But it was different. It was empty.

Every week I walk through a series of doors so heavy they still startle me when they slam shut, even though I expect it. It's clean; too clean. Too white. Too stark.

I have to wait at each door until my buzz is noticed by "the tower." And in between each door, I'm isolated. Stuck alone between two doors I couldn't open myself if I had a grenade.

Then I walk to our classroom, which is big and empty and echoes everything. Plastic chairs. Bare walls. Three small tables for the women to use as writing surfaces. I have to sit in the sight line of the tower. If I don't and they don't see me for a while, COs (Correctional Officers) will come running. Thankfully.

But I'm not afraid. The halls are wide and empty. The seargent's office is close by. Heavy doors separate me from the population...as far as I can tell. Still, it's strange.

The women — we started with 7 — are great. Mostly in for drugs, theft, and domestic violence. (Yes, women hit, too. Escpecailly if they're violent alcoholics.) I can't tell you about them individually, but I like them all.

Last week when I showed up, one had been shipped off to prison in the early morning hours, and one woman had decided the workshop wasn't for her. The remaining 5 will stay, I think, until they peel off without notice as they are sentenced or go to fill their sentences.

Until then, we'll act like everything is normal. Because it is...we're the first, so whatever we do is what is normal. We'll see. I''ll let you know more as we go on.

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It's All Bigger Than Us

Well, I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt.
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn't bad, so I had one more for dessert.

Okay, make that Saturday and a double dessert. Tomatoe. Tomato. Mox nix. It's results that count.

Anyway, so early it was still dark, I popped a bottle of Tecate, squeezed in some lemon juice, and went out on the front porch with Tess, our dog. Thinking of Janet and Mom and Dad -- losses you live with and losses to come that you'll also live with.

And as I tipped my head up for that first tangy, cold swig, I saw them. Millions of stars. And it was comforting to be pulled out and out and out of my head for a minute, remembering that, in the end, the only thing that really matters is love.

I think the thing to do is tell the people you love -- and who surely must know when they are dying -- that you'll love them and think about them and miss them every day of your life.

Though death will eventually pull us apart
The love that I feel will live on in my heart.

And if I'm lucky, someone I love will tell me that before I die. We have to learn to talk about the uncomfortable, scary, and sad fact of death...because we all have to live with it and, at some point, experience it.

It's hard to really wrap your mind and feelings around that when you're sad and sorry and feeling terrible loss...and lost because you don't know what to do or say to comfort yourself and the dying person.

But we owe it to ourselves and them to try.

Lyric credit for the opening lines: Kris Kristofferson, "Sunday Morning Coming Down," one of the greatest songs in the history of the universe by one of the greatest songwriters. Fact.

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