My mother in law passed away in March after almost a year in assisted living.

For me, as the in-law, I think of her daily. She was such a positive force in my life! We had a good relationship, and I loved her very much. She accepted me from day one, didn’t judge me, and was infinitely grateful to me for loving her son – and she told me so. Often.

I know my husband is in a more painful place. The memories are bittersweet. He misses her terribly.

Mother’s Day I was not home, but I prayed fervently for him, as I knew his heart broke a little more again.

This weekend, we went to a wedding of one of his coworkers.

He was a widower, and after several years of grieving and healing after the death of his wife, he met a woman at church.

They have been dating for quite some time, and had a beautiful church wedding Saturday.

At the beginning of the reception, the groom, who is 62, had a dance with his mother.

It was very touching … and tenderly sad. I looked at my husband and said “I’m sorry” as the tears sat gathering in his eyes. I knew he missed his mom, and this beautiful moment would trigger his memories of her. It did.

It’s important to feel the feelings. To let them come. And go. And come again. its important to let the grieving process happen – not to rush it, or move on too soon.

We honor her by remembering her, and keeping her close in our hearts.

We miss you, Mom.

Up until nine years ago, I was cat person.

I grew up in a military family, and all my growing up years, we had cats. They were easy to move with. Easy to clean up after.

I liked the idea of dogs, but out of control, yappy, obnoxious dogs on retractable leashes – or worse, running loose – made me crazy. Dogs jumping on me. Dogs pooping everywhere. No thank you!

Then came Mitzi.

I decided I wanted a dog, and I researched and picked a breed that was intelligent, and that I could exercise with. During my low days, I’d have to get up and walk the dog. Nine years ago, I met with the breeder, and eight years ago, I brought Mitzi the Australian Shepherd home.

She’s been a loyal companion. We both went to puppy class through canine good citizenship (AKC CGC), and I discovered it’s usually the owners fault the dogs misbehave.

I love Mitzi! She turned me into a dog person.

In October, I found a rescued German Shepherd (GSD) online. We’ve fostered a lot of dogs, but my husband wanted “his dog”. Pepper was 8 months old and dumped at a kill shelter. I have no experience with GSD’s, but he grew up with them. He fell in love, and we brought her home, renaming her Layla.

Both dogs love My husband tremendously. He knows how to interact with them, and he’s been a dog person as long as he remembers.

Layla has been a pain in the butt. She’s dog reactive. She’s anxious. She goes after my cat at any chance she can. She’s done a standing jump over a 5′ fence into the neighbors yard.

She’s also very cuddly, and will. Not. Leave. My. Side.

I don’t know if she’s sensing something, or if I resemble someone, or if she just likes me. Even when my husband is home, she is next to me. Always touching me.

I tried to stand back, let hubby take the lead. Yet the dog follows me everywhere.

It could be because the Aussie is always by my side, and she follows her. But where Mitzi sleeps at my feet, Layla will have her head on my shoulder.

In any case, hopefully as the hubby starts training her more, she will follow him around.

I doubt it.

Now that I have more time at my disposal, I’ve been setting small, attainable goals.

Things that have gone by the wayside are being addressed.

I’ve been slowly purging my house of the extra, the trash, the collected detritus that just gathered dust.

This process is ongoing.

Last month, I joined a gym, with the express purpose of taking classes. Specifically yoga.

I have the opportunity to go to yoga 3-4 times a week.

I’ve been running for several years, and I felt my lack of flexibility was my weak area.

As a child, I was a dancer from toddlerhood into high school.

Even at my most limber, it was hard to touch my toes. I’m tall, and my legs are disproportionately long. I’m not complaining about either fact, but they do lend themselves to tight hamstrings, and lower back strain.

I felt yoga could help. So last week, I began.

It’s an Ayurveda yoga class, and I’ve been loving it.

It’s such a complete experience to me. We start by putting away the stress and hurry of the day, and begin with a warm up.

Then we work through a series of poses. Always breathing slowly and deeply in through the nose, out through the mouth. Slowly expanding.

It takes a lot of modifications for me to practice yoga, but I knew this would be the case. Little by little, though, I make progress.

I’m old enough to not care if anyone is looking at me, not able to hold downward dog as many times as they can. I take each movement and breath deliberately. I turn off any stray negative thoughts. I listen to the Christian instrumental music, and I breathe.

At the end of class, we relax. It is wonderful after the strenuous series of poses.

For once, I am able to put my mind at rest, as well.

It turns out the yoga class is helping me mentally and physically.

I look forward to future flexibility…and continued peace.

Tomorrow is my two year diaversary.

It’s the lingo among type 1, insulin dependent diabetics to announce the anniversary of day they were diagnosed with diabetes.

I thought I was going handle this impended anniversary better.

Instead, I’m weepy, and made a pan of rocky road brownies to drown my sorrows.

(Side bar: I can eat what I want. It’s what my insulin pump is for. You have a functioning pancreas, I have an Omnipod.)

It was eight years ago this month that I was diagnosed as a type 2 diabetic. I cried as soon as I saw the first lab results. I knew what was coming. I now know it was an incorrect diagnosis, but at the time, it spurred me into action.

I changed everything. I stopped eating 80% carbs, and ate mindfully. I stopped drinking sodas. I started exercising. – walking a 5k a day. I lost 30lbs.

This was a long process of many small changes, that eventually led to my bringing my hemoglobin A1c down to 5.3. Normal!

I eventually started doing races, and ran 21 half marathons from diagnosis to present day. I really thought I had the tiger by the tail. I was managing my disease!

Little did I know I was in the honeymoon phase. What I really had was LADA – latent autoimmune diabetes of adulthood. My health changes bought me time. Eventually, though, my pancreas finally pooped out. In 2017, my doctor put me on insulin, and I asked to see an endocrinologist.

I’ve since found out that 50% of type 1, insulin dependent diabetics are diagnosed as adults. The term “juvenile diabetes” is not accurate. Only 5% of diabetics are insulin dependent. Lucky me. Sarcasm.

August 16, 2017 I got the results I knew were probable, but now were right in front of me on paper, in black and white. Undeniable. My body has attacked my pancreas, and I would need insulin the rest of my life.

The last two years have been more challenging. Administration of insulin is sometimes more art, luck, or magic than a accurate formula. Given the thousands of factors at play, from illness, stress, hormones, exercise, time of day, or phases of the moon, no two meals are alike.

Some days I do everything wrong, and my blood sugars are great. Other days I do everything I know to do right, and I’m up all night fighting frightening low blood sugars.

It’s frustrating to have to do public math with every single thing I eat. To have to calculate every action based on insulin on board.

My days of half marathon running are on hold. I’m working my way back up to it, trying to stay in safe blood sugar range. I’ve managed to get up to an 8k, and I am pressing forward with my training.

That’s me, whining about a diagnosis I didn’t want. I still don’t want it. It is with me now, for the rest of my days, so I have to decide how diabetes and I are going to get along.

So here’s what I’m grateful for. I am grateful for technology – within weeks of diagnosis, I was wearing a continuous glucose monitor, the Dexcom, and I get readings to the device, my iPhone, Apple Watch, and my daughter and spouse, who get alerts when my blood sugar starts to tank. This technology wakes me up when I could sleep though a hypoglycemic episode…or worse.

I’m grateful for the Omnipod. Instead of having to inject insulin multiple times a day, I have a pump that gives me my insulin.

I am fortunate to have good insurance. Insulin and diabetic supplies are criminally expensive. My last insurance was so bad, I quit my job to get off of it. My insulin was $600/month until I met my deductible. I require insulin to live. I had no idea the pharmaceutical companies are making a fortune off the insulin that was given to future diabetics by the scientists that formulated it.

I’m blessed to have a supportive and caring husband and family, who watch over me and hold me accountable. Who eat the low carb meals I eat, and forgo my former favorites, now forbidden foods, to help me keep my resolve.

I’m exercising daily. I eat regular small meals. I drink tons of water. I see my physicians regularly, and have my eyes and feet examined annually. I do what is recommended.

I’m determined to live as healthy as I can, and avoid the sequelae that can come with uncontrolled blood sugars.

All I can do is all I can do, though. A wise and very experienced diabetic told me that he could eat and do the same exact things on two different days and have completely different blood sugar results.

I want the magic formula….but there isn’t one. So I’ll do what I know to do.

And on a hard day, I’ll eat a rocky road brownie as I cry.

Time is fleeting…

I spend two days a week with my newest grandson.

I spend my days on FaceTime with my twin grandsons in NE.

I plan and wait to see my NJ grandsons.

A few years ago, no grandchildren…and now out sixth grandson is due next month.

Time flies.

Decades pass.

This year we’ve gained two grandsons, and lost a mom.

Ebb and flow.

It makes me acutely aware of how precious time is.

My children are grown, with families of their own.

Memories of their childhood are fading…as are memories of mine.

So today, and every day, I just want to slow down.

Appreciate the moment. Savor the laughter. Sigh into the snuggle.

Time is precious.

Savor life.

I’ve recently joined a private message group dedicated to minimizing clutter.

I started on my minimizing journey last year, after watching Marie Kondo on my cable streaming service. I was amazed. And inspired!

Let’s just say as a very artistic person with ADD, organization and neatness have not been my forte.

Squirrel!

I was raised in a home that was kept clean, and my brothers and I were all given chores.

My bedroom, however, was always more akin to the island of misfit toys. Under my bed were all the things that I needed to shove away out of view. Every surface had papers, and drawings, and books…etc.

It was my rebellion, I reasoned. I was the sole house cleaner among my siblings and I, and I refused to clean my room. It was the one area I didn’t have to.

It turns out it was deeper than that.

When my middle child was diagnosed with ADD in the second grade, I bought a book about it. As I read the diagnostic criteria, I saw that I met all of the criteria.

Well then.

While it explained a lot, for example my tendency to daydream, I also acknowledged that my scattered mind also manifested itself in my outer environment.

Adding to the ability or inability to keep a neat environment was my lifelong struggle with major depression and anxiety. When things were better, I did better. When I was having an exacerbation, it was all I could do to get up and go to work. I can function on a basic level during those times, but as to housework…I just couldn’t.

Now I’m learning new ways to organize. Minimize. Through journaling, goal setting, and scheduling, I am getting it done…bit by bit. During last years Kondo purge, I gave away bags of clothing I never wore.

I have stopped working full time, so now I can dedicate my time to family and writing, and I have household tasks scheduled in my phone calendar. Instead of the overwhelming task of my entire two story house to clean on my days off, I do different areas on different days. I set aside some bigger tasks for bi-weekly or monthly addressing.

Little by little, it is getting done.

The support and accountability I am getting from my online group helps me see I’m not alone on this journey.

I also see that our environment often reflects our inner life.

I have in the past been in close relationship with people on the other end of the spectrum.

Deeply troubled by anxiety and mental illness, they were the “neat freaks”. Every corner of the house was always cleaned obsessively. Laundry was always rolling in the washer and dryer. The vacuuming never stopped.

In the most extreme case, they would scrub the tile floor in the kitchen with a toothbrush, even moving the appliances to do so, whenever they had an anxiety exacerbation.

They also had closets and drawers filled to overflowing with brand new clothes, because they never wore an article of clothing more than once. Or, everything looked great on the surface…but open any drawer and it was stuffed with a variety of random items.

On the surface, one would look at the sparkling clean house and think everything is well.

In reality, it can be just as indicative of mental struggles as the house that is cluttered.

The bottom line for me is I am finding that when the area I am in is neat, I feel less anxious.

I’m never going to be power cleaning constantly, but now I know that I don’t have to.

It’s all about balance.

I went for a walk tonight, waiting for the sun to come down, with the hopes of a little cooler temperatures to deal with as I did my daily training.

The temperature came down, but the humidity was high, intermittently fogging my glasses. I placed my flashing reflectors on my shoes, and set out to get my workout in.

Around mile two, I was heading out of the newest part of the neighborhood. It was barely light now – the waning sunset was sinking fast, far over my shoulder to the west.

As I went down the dark straightaway, heading toward the main road, I heard the clip of dog nails, and felt a wet nose on the back of my leg.

I kept walking, but turned sideways to see a chocolate lab beside me, falling into perfect heel position. His tail wagged in time, and he brushed against my leg. I gave his head a good scritch, and told him he was a good boy.

“Where are your people?” I asked, just as he faded off to the left. In the dark, he was just a shadow that disappeared into the night.

“Cocoa!” Came a a voice from behind me, hanging in the humid air as I joined the main road. He was gone.

I remembered the miles logged with my chocolate lab, Reese, over the years. We had her seven years, before cancer wreaked it’s havoc and we had to gently usher her over the rainbow bridge.

Tonight, though, I felt the shadow of Reese as I walked my miles. The wet nose, the wagging tail…that was my girl.

Welcome home, girl.

I was in New Orleans this weekend, enjoying a quick getaway with my husband. We joined our friends for a celebration of their wedding anniversary.

This morning, we walked into the French Quarter to have brunch at Broussard’s.

We see each other a few times a year now, and we spent the morning laughing and talking, and enjoying good coffee and delicious local cuisine.

As the meal closed, the wandering jazz trio came over to our table and played a song.

While I was listening to the jazzed up version of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow”, I had a moment of clarity.

I was experiencing perfect happiness.

With tears in my eyes, I took everything in. The smiling faces of my beloved husband and our dear friends. The tender interpretation of the banjo player, bassist, and muted trumpet. The mid day sun filtering in through the patio windows. The beautiful old room we sat in, with its exquisite decor.

Family, great friends, amazing food, talented musicians, and beauty all around.

When I felt that swell of emotion, I knew I was blessed. I needed to acknowledge the sheer happiness that engulfed me.

In this way, I hope to ensure I’ll have this memory to cherish for years to come.

A decade ago, my son moved out on this date, and broke my heart into a million pieces.

I wasn’t surprised, but it wasn’t expected. It’s hard to join a blended family when you’re 16. Hard to deal with a father that is in and out, after almost a decade of being absent. Hard to deal with yet another stepdad.

I get it. I understand it all, in my logical mind.

When my post about my son moving out came up on my past posts app from a decade ago, I remembered the pain, visceral and fresh.

And breathe.

Ten years later, I can’t be prouder of my son. He’s married his high school sweetheart, he’s a talented and successful photographer and artist, and he works full time at a day job to provide for his family, which now includes my six month old grandson. He just moved into his new home.

Ten years ago, a lot of hard feelings. Hurt hearts. Dismay and discouragement. Uncertainty.

Time is on the side of the blended family when God is the center of it.

We are not exactly where I want us to be as parents and the kid pack, but. for the most part, we are all growing together…at our own pace.

I’m grateful my son and I are close, and have a loving relationship. Having an amazing daughter in love and sweet grandson just make my heart full.

God is good.

Happy birthday tomorrow, son. I love you.

I’ve been a daydreamer for as long as I can remember.

As a child, stories were always spinning through my head.

A child of the 70’s and 80’s, I spent a lot of time outside, by myself.

I was there in body, just like I was in elementary school, but my mind was often far away.

I can remember clearly traipsing through the neighborhood as a very small child, caught up in an adventure in my mind. So caught up one time that as I spun around, eyes closed and head back, caught in the moment, I was brought quickly back to reality as I ran, face first, into a swing set. Stunned, I felt the blood pouring from my nose. I went home, a stuttering sob erupting from my mouth.

I knocked on the screen door, and was told to stay out until lunchtime! This was the norm back then. Insistently, I kept banging. My exasperated mom answered the door, only to be horrified by what she saw.

Minutes later, cleaned up and encouraged I was okay, I went right back outside again.

Hours and hours of my childhood were spent laying on my back on the sweet, soft grass, staring at the clouds. I would see figures and animals and people in the ever moving sky. I spun stories out of silky cloud tendrils.

Early in my teenaged years, I’d lie in bed and transform my world. My room butted up next to a bank of iris blooms and lilac bushes, and I would open my window, even on the coldest nights in the Wasatch Front, just to smell the sweet blooms as I nodded off.

I’d pick up where I had left off the night before. My running story was of a secret world outside my window. It became a portal to another world, a world of sidewalks that opened up to hidden stairways to an underworld. I’d be walking along, carefree, and then the sidewalk would slide open, and I’d drop into the underworld. Dark, but not ominous. I’d spend time imagining how to get back.

Even now, and for the past decade at least, I daydream myself to sleep. I’ll imagine I’m in the crows nest of a great sailing vessel. Or on the deck of an ice cutter, shaving its way to the North Pole. The peaceful waves, or the movement and noise of the cutter, rock me to sleep.

I hope my daydreaming continues…and I’m grateful I wasn’t discouraged from doing it when I was growing up.