Raven Sightings....

I'm in contact with a mentor from my college days in the early 1970s who now resides miles away from me in the Pacific Northwest region of the United States. Even before he retired, he admitted he enjoys "birding" and seeing some of his photos has been a wonderful thing for me, as he posts them from time to time (I have several friends and acquaintances who have developed great skill in nature photography, and I am envious.
 He especially seems fond of owls, and admittedly, it's been very rare for me to see an owl in the area where I live, though I do.hear them occasionally, and catch a glimpse of one in a tree looking wise (and probably for some hapless critter to wander by) but such sightings are not a common occurrence.
While at my place of employment the other day in a large city, I was sitting in the office of the psychiatrist whose office space I share when he is not in, which contains a large, upside down "U" shape window looking out onto a green area which slopes downward to a large culvert.
     Preparing for the arrival of my first client, I happened to look up after hearing a loud rapping at the window. Shades of Edgar Allen Poe! I'm guessing what initially attracted the bird, which appeared to be what I later identified as a Common Raven (see photo I found online)--it was a very large bird, and his rapping on the glass I surmised was due to the outer surface of the glass being a mirror reflective type. I say "he," but of course, not being really an expert, "he" could easily have been a "she." I never heard it make a sound, but shortly after its arrival, another similar bird appeared and they wandered along the ground outside the window, no doubt looking for some tasty bugs or other morsels.
   While looking up info later about my feathered visitors, I found that Ravens are the largest of the dark-winged birds, with crows being in the mid-range and blackbirds the smallest. The true blackbird has the best melody from the sources I read--if you're familiar with a song Sir Paul McCartney sang solo when he was with The Beatles, you have a sample of the true blackbird's song within that song.
   Given the location of my place of employment, though there are several office buildings within the same area, the building containing my office (and employer) is set further back from busy roads nearby, with shrubs surrounding the building, (often nesting places for ducks) as well as large stately oak trees, the aforementioned culvert, and a generally quiet setting. It has several types of "wildlife" who show up from time to time in addition to these two huge ravens.

Review: Malled: My Unintentional Career in Retail by Caitlin Kelly

Let's face it...in most areas of the United States, the economy has tanked. Everyone is scrambling for a job, and it's really difficult if you're "over-educated."
Kelly, a journalist for several publications, but on the staff of The New York Daily News, had relied not only on the steady employment she had at that newspaper, but also freelanced. However, as many who write know, freelancing, unless you've already got superb credentials, doesn't pay that well.
So, to help meet expenses, Kelly decided to try working at a department store which was opening in a local shopping mall. The wages were near minimum wage, and that didn't cover much when part of your earnings were required for parking. (Yes, employees had to pay to park at the shopping mall.)
      There were parts of her book to which I can relate. She mentioned working at a pharmacy as a teen, as did I. Low wages despite education, or being overly educated, check, same here. While I only paid for parking at some jobs briefly, it still was something I consider unfair.
     While I have never worked in a clothing store as Kelly has, I know how rude and demanding some customers can be, how children who aren't supervised by parents (something I've noticed is increasingly the case) can wander off, cause messes, possible injuries to customers by running wildly through stores. So those were parts of Kelly's book I could nod my head in agreement. As I could also agree with having worked with immature co-workers, and that's not just related to age.
   One thing Kelly admits about herself is that she has a great deal of confidence and ability to confront in most situations. Alas, that rarely is my modus operandi.
   My current job often requires confrontation, but it's more of a therapeutic tool in the situation, not one meant to be tied with etiquette.
   I enjoyed the book, and recommend it to those who really need to find out what it is like to walk in someone else's shoes, particularly those who are trying to work in retail without becoming indifferent or rude, a difficult task that Kelly admits in her book, especially when customers are indifferent to treating the salesperson like another human being. It's a lesson in learning how to be respectful, no matter what your educational or economic status in life is at this time. It can always change, given the uncertainties of life.

   

Book Review: History of a Suicide

Suicide is not a cheerful topic, yet it sometimes needs to be addressed. The belief among many therapists is that if you don't talk about suicidal feelings, you're more likely to follow through with the action, even if unsuccessful. Of course, that's also not saying it will prevent the suicide from being repeated or ultimately lethal.

Yesterday, there was a news story about a gentleman who had attempted suicides on numerous occasions, but something had prevented it. He was spotted by someone, put under observation, given medication, and every thing that could or should have prevented his suicide had been done, short of locking him in a non-lethal room for the rest of his life. In one suicidal attempt, his legs were damaged, but he remained alive, though needing artificial limbs.

Writers and artists tend to have a high rate of suicide, noted psychotherapist Kay Redfield Jamison in her book, Touched With Fire, which examines the lives of several writers and artists who ended their lives due to inner turmoil.

In fact the biting wit of writer Dorothy Parker expressed such ideas of suicide in several of her poems, the  most noted being Resume':

Résumé

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

But in Jill Bialosky's book about her sister, History of a Suicide: my sister's unfinished life, Bialosky tells the psychic pain (some refer to it as psychic ache) of her younger sister, Kim. Without retelling the story entirely, Kim had been in pain for some time, which was not easily pinpointed. Kim's suicide at the age of twenty-one, left a void in those she left behind who had tried to help her, most notably, her sister. Bialosky has sought for over two decades to understand why her sister chose suicide over life, and expresses the pain and guilt of those left behind after the untimely death of a loved ones in situations where there is no clear answer, while she gains insight and shares it with the reader.

Not En-Raptured

The news has been filled with various stories about the Apocalypse predicted by Harold Ramping, who has mysteriously disappeared since he predicted today would be the beginning of "The End Times" due to some mathematical calculations he had done through studying passages of the bible.

Admittedly, I stayed up late last night, tracking  a Twitter feed from New Zealand where "Herald Harold" predicted the beginning of the end of the world as we know it (somehow, that phrase always makes me think of the band R.E.M.) The New Zealanders were to be hit with a massive earthquake at 6 p.m. their time (though NZ does have more than ONE time zone...go figure.) Then successively, various regions of the world were all going to be obliterated at 6 p.m. when "their time" came. This is one of those times when the world truly ended not with a bang but a whimper.I feel sorry for those who gave up all their possessions thinking that they would no longer need food, shelter or clothing. You can either see these "believers" as "gullible fools" or have compassion for their beliefs gone wrong.

An Ogden Nash Moment or Two

I wrote poetry from about the age of eleven until thirty. Not sure why I stopped, as it never was intentional. Sometimes I blamed life, other times I thought maybe my "writer's voice" was dead. But below is one version of a poem I wrote in the mid-1970s which found their way into publication (albeit in a limited way.) A university professor who read it compared it to Ogden Nash. But I take credit for it.



                                                      

Consider the lowly bumpy toad

who lives in some dark, dank abode,

and eats his fill of bugs each day

and hibernates the cold away.

If man were like the toad would he

thrive in such mediocrity?

Or change his ways,

remove the dull,

with thought processes in his skull?

Copyright protected 1976

Review: Faith Interrupted by Eric Lax

  Something about the title of the book by Eric Lax intrigued me: Faith Interrupted: A Spiritual Journey and browsing a blurb about it piqued my interest further. So I bought a copy of the book to see what it was about.
  Like me, Lax is the adult child of an Episcopal priest. Besides a few differences related to gender, regional placements during childhood and adulthood, our stories intersect. He makes an observational comment with which I can identify. "For all my childhood, it was as if faith were part of my DNA, determining but unseen." But in many ways Lax's DNA and mine diverge, despite we both had grown up, literally, in the Episcopal Church.
 Lax's father had been an Episcopal priest for as long as Eric had been alive. My father did not become a member of the clergy until attending a theological seminary when I was in second grade, after he'd been in the U.S.Army Air Corps during World War II, and had been an automobile mechanic for many years. I can still recall my father's standard black lunch box carried by many blue collar workers back then, and the grease and oil under his fingernails when he came home from work, removing it with the rough texture of bars of Lava soap.
  Lax writes about his memorization of many parts of the Episcopal services within the Book of Common Prayer, the book of worship adapted from the Anglican prayerbook used by the Church of England.
 But Lax also recalls his time as an acolyte, something girls weren't allowed to do until I was nearly out of high school, and often that factor was left to the discretion of the parish clergy, which my father, being on the traditional, conservative side, was a bit slower to introduce.
 As a counterbalance more serious than the gender of acolytes, Lax recalls his decision to become a conscientious objector to the war raging in Vietnam, which was a real issue with males of my generation at that time because of the military draft system in place then. As a female, I never would be faced with such a hard decision. I don't want to say what happened in Lax's life as he made his way through his own spiritual decisions, because I would give away a large section of the book, but I know he and I both traveled our own spiritual journeys, again sometimes intersecting, other times diverging.
  Even if you aren't the child of a member of the clergy (be it Christian, Jewish, Muslim on Hindu...even non-denominational) if you've ever been on a search within yourself, especially trying to get in touch with the spiritual side, I recommend this book.

Ahhh.....There's a change in the weather

When I woke up this morning, a change was in the air...and by that, I mean a welcomed change. Since I live along the Gulf Coast (prefer not to disclose location) I have to deal with two seasons. I say "deal" because if I had my choice, despite the many people I know here, I'd live elsewhere. The seasonal changes in this area are but two: Green and Brown. Not-so-cold and blazing hot and humid. Living and Dead. OK, you get my point.

Having a nomadic childhood was difficult at first, but after the first couple of moves, I adjusted. Then I married someone from a town along the Gulf Coast. The warnings started. "If you marry someone from here, you'll just have to accept staying here." So far, that's turned out to be true. It's been a source of restlessness for much of my married life, and when some have suggested a "long distance marriage" I gave it a serious consideration, applying for a couple of jobs in areas where I would like to reside, but they didn't come to pass.

After mourning the loss of the brief cool weather here, I was pleased to wake this morning to chilly temperatures. Mind you, I have no desire to live where one has to contend with several feet of snow for six months or more (so I guess Alaska is out) but I WOULD like to reside where there is transitional weather, i.e. the beautiful autumnal colors I've experienced in the past.)

Because my current region of residence rarely sees snow, it causes work closures, school closures and total amazement when a mere coating of snow hits the ground. Ice does create problems, however, that my mother once grumbled about when I rejoiced in the snowy winters of childhood. She would say "Just wait until you have to drive in this stuff and you won't think it so much fun. Well, she was right.

When I first drove on ice covered roads here, I was trying to make a turn near a ditch that was about three feet in depth, but still enough to swallow part of a car if I lost control. It happened. I skidded and the comedian Bill Cosby's words rattled in my head to still my anxiety of hitting the ditch "When you go into a skid, turn your wheel in the direction of the skid." Fortunately, I didn't question that rule as Cosby did which sent his car skidding sideways--or so he relates to others. I never had that problem in other areas where ice was more prevalent. Maybe it was luck, maybe it was because the highway maintenance people (if there is such a group) went about their task of clearing the snow and ice off the road. Even though it wasn't fast enough to stop my mother from grumbling.

Death gets in the way

I'd planned to keep going daily with this blog once I restarted it a few weeks ago, but certain events got in the way. The major one was the declining health of my beloved mother-in-law who had gone into the hospital for a surgical procedure, followed by a period of rehabilitation. She seemed to be improving, and then things turned worse. A few days later, she died. Naturally, those who cared about her and loved her were stunned by the sudden change, and it opened a wound for me which involved a similar circumstance of my own mother's unexpected death a decade ago. I thought I could write about it, as I know that death is the ultimate end where we are all headed, even if there is an afterlife or reincarnation, both ideas I entertain. Even raised as a Christian, more specifically, the daughter of an Episcopal priest, I always considered the afterlife and have never really been afraid of my own death. I did worry about the deaths of those I loved, and still do, but while I thought for many years I would never survive without my parents, I discovered that I have been able to do so. My father had died several years ago close to the date of my mother-in-law, so naturally, that, too, caused a swelling of grief.

My father struggled with Alzheimer's Disease (or maybe it was those of us in the family who watched his slow decline who struggled) for about fifteen years. By the time he was in the end stages of the disease, he also had developed a cancerous growth on his lip. I remember the consult with his physician that my brother (older and only sibling) and I had. In the end, it was decided to not treat the tumor and let my father go. By that time, my brother had already begun to view our father as deceased, but even though recognition of us was seemingly impossible by our father, I still could not absorb the impact fully. It's been written in several books related to the process of grief (though some object to that word "process") that the "slow death" of a loved one gives a sense of resolution to the idea of death which doesn't happen with the unexpected death. It's hard to say, having experienced both types of deaths with my parents, which was harder.

But now, my husband and his sisters are all dealing with those things that usually follow the deaths of parents, their father having died eighteen years ago, another unexpected event, and I think we are all aware of how it feels to be as one writer titled it "An Adult Orphan."

Two mothers, same fate

It's been a week of mixed emotions. My beloved mother-in-law who had been becoming frail as the weeks passed, was admitted into a local hospital. It was decided to put a stent into a heart valve to help her circulation. The stent did its job, but I'm not sure how to perceive it. After a couple of days of improving health and a renewed appetite, my mother-in-law had a setback, and she never regained her prior improved health. Making the matter even more of a sorrow, she died on my husband's--her oldest child and only son--birthday. Her funeral was today, and it's an understatement to say we are all walking around in varying degrees of grief.

Graphic Novels in College Freshman English Courses

One of my nephews is currently reading the graphic novel V for Vendetta. He's winding down his second semester, first year as a college freshman. I'm not too thrilled with the fact that Freshman English classes now seemingly have to use graphic novels (graphic in this case meaning not violence, which is, of course, in this novel--in this case it equates to "comic book-like" presentation) to keep evidentially the interests of readers in a world rapidly doing away with many "old school" texts. I wonder if we are "dumbing down" our younger generations, or have they become so disinterested in using their own imaginations that the interest has to be presented in a Freshman class.
  Don't get me wrong, this has a very formidable storyline, reminiscent of other dystopian novels of a genre which is usually bleak in nature. I know this particular graphic novel has been made into a film. Not sure how well it did as a film, because initially the premise did not appeal to me. Now that I know more about the premise it is interesting, but I'm still not certain it should be a novel taught to first year college students. Perhaps it would be better to have a special studies course at an upper level devoted to several graphic novels of this caliber and quality, even though there's still that nagging thought of "dumbing down" older students.
    I can think of several good graphic novels I have read, probably the first being Maus, followed by a sequel, and Persepolis, Also in two parts. Barefoot Gen, similar to Maus, is autobiographical and about survival in wartime. Perhaps I'm just jaded by remembering my Freshman English year having to read a Hemingway novel and The Hobbit. Neither of which I cared for that year.

Still Alice,and me.

I read this book after several months of it languishing in my "to read" pile. The reason I put off reading it, despite an interest, is that for me the subject matter hits a little too close to the neurons. Alice, the main character has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer's.

At 57, I'm several years into that "OK, what did I do with that?" or "Why did I come in this room?" those things that an allegedly healthy brain tends to ask when it's beginning to age. But there was a closer connection than age-related forgetfulness. My father wad diagnosed with dementia in his late 60s and I remember a tone of fear in his voice when he was getting into the car to drive while in his 50s and saying "I'm starting to forget things." I just chalked it up to age, as I was in my 20s and rarely, if ever, forgot what I was doing or going.
       As my father progressed into the stages of dementia, it became apparent that this was not just some age related situation. My mother, his primary caregiver at the time kept denying it was Alzheimer's perhaps just a series of "mini-strokes. I told her it didn't really matter, it was horrible to see his decline. We both wished more than anything (perhaps she wished even harder) that he would "get his brain back." Sadly, that never happened.
      My mother died before my father, not just due to post-surgical complications, but because, I believe, she was overwhelmed with caregiver stress as this disease progressed. Suggestions for care options were offered, but she continued to deny help. It was an added stressor to an already strained relationship between her and me. Several nights she called me, crying, due to my father's continued descent into a disease that no one deserves, but we are currently powerless to prevent. When I attenpted to calm her via long-distance calls, or even visits, she would brush off my suggestions. Double frustration for both of us.
    Because my father, who possessed a brilliant hungry mind like he passed on to me eventually had that intelligence lost was heart-wrenching. Because he was prone to combativeness (often the reason for my mother's tearful phone calls) after my mother died, my father's physician suggested placement in a nursing facility which had an Alzheimer's unit, and because it was in a small town, my father was pretty well known.
    I wasn't there when he died a few years ago at 83. Part of me had mourned for a long time. I'm sure the family members in the book Still Alice might have experienced that "early mourning" or despair.
    The book was not an easly read, but it was an interesting one and I'm at a point in my life that I wonder what the future holds for me with this specter of dementia feeling ever closer when I lose my train of thought, my vocabulary doesn't come as quickly to my tongue as it did. Stress, aging, dementia. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

A book that frightens me..

I just finished a well-written book that scared me as much as if it had been  part of the popular horror genre.

Starting over....

Having been away from my blog for nearly two years, things have changed. In the coming days, I'll try not to be away so much and plan to sort of change directions with this new blog. Same name, different content. Let's begin again, followers are welcomed, as is feedback.