Over and over, I have heard the phrase “bloom where you are planted”.

It sounds nice. A positive saying, and it makes a good pass along meme.

It’s easier said than done.

Ten years ago, I planted some narcissus bulbs under the live oak tree in the front yard. I followed instructions as to depth and temperature requirements.

A year later, a beautiful flowering plant rewarded me for those moments digging in the dirt.

That’s the only year it bloomed.

Oh, it comes back up every year. And every year, there is another slender green shoot that follows somewhere around it. It has managed to reproduce, but it has not bloomed.

I like the flowers – especially the pretty part. The delicate fragrance that rewards you for bending down to admire them.

For whatever reason, the narcissus doesn’t have all it needs to bloom here. It may not get cold enough in the dormant season. It may get too much rain, or not enough sun.

Who knows.

All I know is, it’s doing the best it can. It’s taking what it can from the environment it’s been given. It’s coming back every year, and it’s reproducing.

The other little plants don’t even know they are supposed to bloom. Maybe the original one has forgotten how to.

Ten years ago I moved into this house, in a state that I have never been fond of. I came here solely because my family was here. I stay here because my husband and most of my children are also here, too.

I come from northern and western climes. I enjoy all the seasons – fall, winter, spring, and lastly summer. I love the Gulf of Mexico…to visit. My heart is in the Mountain West.

I am trying to bloom. After almost two decades, though, I have a feeling it just won’t happen here.

Oh, I’ve tried. I’ve looked at the sunny side. I’ve exercised in the the gnat filled humidity. I live with huge roaches that fly, for goodness sake. I’ve seen snakes and spiders and devils horsemen grasshoppers. Possums, armadillo, and bear frequent the neighborhood.

I’m still here.

I’m planted.

I don’t know if I’m replicating, but I’m growing.

Through storm and heat and floods and bugs. Through rejection and celebration and loneliness and change.

That’s me you see standing.

I may not be blooming, but I’m growing.

Do I get credit for that?

I did a lot of observing from my sick bed this week.

I was happily visiting my daughter and her family when I was stricken with norovirus. For the record, I don’t recommend this nasty bug – it delayed my flight home for 3 days (because I am a considerate traveler) and shed 8lbs from me in less than 2 days.

Not enjoyable.

From my 48hrs of self imposed quarantine, I had a lot of time to think. There are only so many cooking shows to watch.

The first thing confirmed to me was we have precious little in life that we are in control of.

I understand traveling is a great way to be exposed to a plethora of communicable diseases, and I plan accordingly. I use a lot of hand sanitizer. I stay in my bubble. I hand wash wherever I am able.

I still got sick.

I made plans to get home using the most inexpensive ticket available- and it was still expensive. While prudent at the time, it turns out the airlines don’t care if you are very ill and unable to travel without camping out in the tiny lavatory the entire flight. No credit, no mercy, no money back. Oh, and original airline offered me a one way home for 50% more than the initial round trip ticket purchased.

I passed.

I made myself available to my son and daughter in law, and tried to spend as much time with my grandsons as possible. I lost Monday and Tuesday to illness. I could only lie in bed listening to the boys chatter at each other. Wednesday I cautiously ventured into their space again, interacting with them, soaking up every minute of time before tucking them into bed last night. Too soon, they were asleep, and out of my reach until another trip.

I realized acutely the growth I have done as a person and a parent, and realized where I had room to grow.

Obvious again was the fact that advice can be given with the best intentions, but it doesn’t mean it will be heeded. Or appreciated.

It was a humbling few days.

I’m acutely aware of my blessings. I have a husband who I love intensely, and who loves me just as intensely in return. I have healthy and brilliant parents, amusing me and advising me (advise I am eager to hear now!), and I treasure each day with them.

I have wonderful children who are good humans. Who have married well. Who have and are producing grandsons that bring me more joy that I am able to express.

I’ve come a long way, baby…literally and metaphorically.

There’s always room to grow.

…And that’s just what they are doing!!

A few years ago, I made my first trip to Europe. It was February, and I knew Great Britain would be cold and damp. I needed sturdy, comfortable, and warm shoes.

I hate shopping (see previous blog), but I had to do some searching to find the right shoes. They turned out to be a sturdy leather boot, warm and waterproof, with hearty soles that could handle just about any weather.

I took my new kicks to London first – we landed there at 0500, and survey says it’s wisest to stay awake all day, to avoid some jet lag, and to adjust to the time change.

I walked all over London, rode the tube, and climbed aboard the double decker bus. These boots carried me into pubs and before castles. They stood on tip toe as I strained to take in Westminster Cathedral.

The next day, we explored Bath, Salisbury, and Stonehenge. My boots walked in the steps of ancient vacationers seeking healing waters, and carried me through marble floored churches. They stood in place while I read about the Magna Carta, and later ran me around Stonehenge (it was very cold and damp).

The boots walked cautiously up narrow stone stairs in several ancient Welsh castles. They held me up when I turned the corner at the Cardiff National Museum impressionist wing and saw Monet’s “Water Lilies” for the first time.

Since that trip, the boots have walked along the Seine in Paris, silently raced through The Louvre, and strolled through the Musee D’Orsay. They have tapped along to street musicians as I had a simple breakfast of coffee and a croissant within view of the Eiffel Tower.

My now broken in boots have raced to embrace my son, daughter in love, and grandson in Germany. They stomped through icy fields with World War Two concrete “dragons teeth” along the former border of Germany and France.

The frozen packed snow crunched under my boots in Switzerland as I turned in a circle, amazed at the stunning Alpine panorama around me. My feet stayed warm as I drank mulled wine, my breathe a cloud around me.

For all that European excitement, I’m excited today that my boots are carrying me to see my daughter and her family – a year ago tomorrow they ran through several airports as I rerouted in attempt to see my daughter, in serious condition as she delivered my twin grandsons. Today everyone is healthy, thank goodness. These boots will keep my feet warm in the frigid Midwest winter.

I’ll need sturdy legs to hold my twin sons in my arms! These boots are traveling on assignment to do just that.

If it wasn’t fun enough to have a couple of diagnosis that I am trying my best to deal with, the insurance companies make it even more maddening.

Today I needed to refill a prescription – when I went to the counter, it was double what I should be paying.

First, this RX is outside of the insurance company’s tiered therapy plan. I went through those other tiers of medications long before I started this insurance in June. My MD had to fax in a waiver stating such. He had to do this twice, as the insurance company had no record of the first interaction.

Next, I was told I’d have to get the RX by mail order, 90 days at a time. The cost was triple what I can get it for from my local pharmacy, with a prescription card from the medication manufacturer. Twice the insurance company has sent my MD the mail order waiver. Twice he sent it back. It still is not resolved. We are five months into this now. Five months of calling monthly. Including today.

Then, I realized I needed more insulin pod delivery systems, so I called the notorious poor service medical supply company. I’ve used the pods exactly as written, and I will run out soon. This company has to be practically threatened daily to send orders in a timely manner on a good day. After arguing with me that I shouldn’t be running out, she said they would send me one box. After I faxed them a form.

Oh, I’ve been trying to fax said form for 24 hours. It won’t go through – the problem is on their side. As a diabetic, I don’t want to run out. The form went through on the alternate fax line given to me after 20 minutes on hold, but the order has not been placed.

I’m on hold now with the pod manufacturers. Today’s pod failed as I instilled the insulin – a first. I know they will send me a replacement – whenever I get off hold. I’m at 20 minutes of Muzak waiting now.

It shouldn’t be a full time job to deal with insurance issues- but it is.

The sad thing is this insurance is miles better than the hospital insurance I had as a nurse.

I’m grateful I have insurance- but the system is broken. The MD’s and patients are at the mercy of the insurance companies. It should not be that way.

The happy ending to today’s take is my pod company is sending me 4 pods overnight mail so I don’t run out.

Amen.

Until next month.

I drive my husband crazy because I am always taking pictures.

Wherever we go, I’m taking pictures of us. Of beautiful scenery. Of the place we are. Of the food!

My rationale to him as I pull him reluctantly into another shot is always the same – some day when we are old and grey, we will love looking back at all our memories, capturing time in a click.

Little did I know how quickly I’d prove this to myself.

When my mother in love passed away eight years ago, I went through all my pictures, and found I didn’t have any with her. It crushes my heart. I cherish the photos I have of her, and have framed some for the house, but I wish I had the foresight to take pictures with her.

My dear current mother in love is suffering with dementia, and I made a photo book for her of the family, and the farm she loves. For a time, this helped her remember the good days. She loves her family so much!

Now I have a “remember when” type application coming across my iPhone daily. It shows me pictures of what was going on, this day in history.

It is coming up on the one year birthday of my twin grandsons, and I am so glad I have the pictures of my very pregnant daughter. I can’t wait to watch the growth of my premature sons, playing out in pictures! They grow up so fast. I only have a fraction of pictures of my own children as babies. Back then, you had to have a camera. And time! I didn’t have either, and those memories are fragmented in the mind of a middle aged woman.

Right now I have been getting pictures on my timeline from a fun trip to Walt Disney World they I took with a group of friends. It is one of many trips taken with one of my best friends, Dallas.

Dallas is in the fight for her life right now, with a diagnosis of ALS. Her friends and I are praying for her daily, and rallying around her.

But the pictures! They make me laugh, smile, and remember all the amazing good times we have had because of her. With her!

Take the pictures. Snap them when you get the chance – the spontaneous ones. The crazy ones.

Capture the moment – because time, indeed, is fleeting…and none of us are guaranteed tomorrow.

I’ve got a song in my head and my heart almost all of the time.

I thought this was normal, just background music. I wake up singing a song, and throughout the day I will realize there is a song in the background of my musings, and I will make note of it.

I asked my husband the other day if there is music playing in his head all the time. He looked at me, perplexed, and said uh, no.

I was taken aback! I thought everyone experienced this.

Music is a powerful force in my life. I have been singing since I was old enough to hold a brush in front of a mirror. I sang in the choir in elementary school, and by high school I was directing a children’s choir.

From high school up to ten years ago, I sang on praise and worship teams and sang solos when I felt led. Music touches the very core of my being, moving me in a powerful way. Often I am emotionally overcome when I hear great music. It’s a deep part of who I am.

I love most music – I listen primarily to Christian music now, because it helps my depressive nature keep looking up.

Throughout the years I’ve enjoyed jazz, classical, rock, blues, and bluegrass. I love some classic country, but avoid current country music. It, along with really hard rock, are not pleasant for my tastes. I want to listen to music that is worthwhile – music that I won’t be annoyed hearing in the background of my subconscious.

So many songs have memories for me. Most 80’s hits have very specific memories linked to events, or places.

As the Christmas season approaches, my soundtrack is running to favorites of the season.

My love of music is truly intrinsic. I wonder if anyone else has a soundtrack running all the time.

Tonight we purchased an eight foot tall Frazier fir from a tent in a large home goods parking lot.

It arrived today by semi, culled from a tree farm somewhere on the border of Virginia and North Carolina.

Wrapped in twine, we cut it free to examine it, shaking it loose to let the branches fall down, away from its cocoon like wrapping.

We turned it this way and that, and found it to be acceptable. After cutting off a few low limbs and the sapped over stump, we had it netted, and brought it home.

It stands in my living room, a dark presence in the center of the bay windows.

The smell of it permeates everything. It feels colder, fresher, and more peaceful in here.

I like the dark tree.

It’s already sacrificed its life for the Christmas season. There is something in the purity of unadorned branches that draws me to it.

It draws up warm water from the stand, no longer growing in neat rows up north.

Now it silently resides here, with me. Alone.

I’ll vacuum up the tiny needles that fall in the weeks to come as it slowly fades away. I’ll smile and remember the first time I place an ornament my child made decades ago on its branches. I’ll lie under in the twinkling lights for hours in weeks to come, longing for Christmas past, and looking to Christmas future.

For now, though, I embrace it in my solitude. We are both alone. Bare. Silent.

As real as we can be, uprooted, transplanted, and repurposed.

Growing up, my parents may have had disagreements, but I didn’t see them.

My dad didn’t raise his voice at my mother, and he never, ever cursed her.

As children, we were expected to respect her. We were not allowed to talk disparagingly of her – we still are not.

This is the standard I expect. It’s the standard I grew up with.

When promise to love and to cherish, there is no cussing and disrespectful talk. It’s because there is self control.

It doesn’t matter if the other person pushes all your buttons. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

Being committed to marriage means putting your spouse first. Loving them and honoring them means not yelling at them.

I leaned this the hard way through previous abusive relationships.

I will not accept that again.

I hope my children won’t, either.

Nearly twenty years ago, I was sleeping after a night shift. I was having a run of the mill dream – I remember dreaming, but the important thing was happening in the background.

As the dream wandered through my unconscious mind, occasionally I would hear a voice clearly speak the word “misogyny “.

The dream continued, and then again, a clear voice said “misogyny”.

At that time in my life, I had no idea what that word meant. When I awakened, this word was echoing in my head, so I went and looked it up.

Suddenly, everything in my life made sense.

I was in a relationship with a very abusive sociopath. I had gone to our non-denominational church and plead for help…I was rebuffed with the “wives obey your husband” crap.

Now I knew the root. My partner hated women – truly hated them, with a viciousness I had never before seen.

Worse,the “church” we attended promoted misogyny – the “Pastor” belittled his wife and mother in front of the congregation. The men were to be obeyed. The women were to take it.

Shortly after this dream I literally ran for my life, taking my children as far away from this pathology as I could.

Last night, a word interrupted my dream again. Much like that first dream 20 years ago, this word was being spoken clearly in the background. When I woke up, I again looked up the word – I was familiar with it, but was not applying it to my life.

The word was inexorable.

“Impossible to stop or prevent”.

I knew immediately in my soul what this referred to.

At first, I was discouraged. I began to pray for insight into what this meant.

I got it. This particular situation has been the same for over a decade. Despite the best intentions on my part from the beginning, there would be no changing the heart or attitude on the other side.

I know now without a doubt that this is a battle that must totally be fought on the spiritual side. The heart, mind, and will are inexorably set. Nothing will change it.

But God!

I’m a fixer and I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve read dozens of books. I’ve studied the pathology. I’ve ignored. I’ve tried it all.

It’s out of my hands. It’s inexorable.

This is a part of my life, and although it is a frustrating and toxic situation, literally nothing I can do or say can or will change it.

So I am free at last. Free to turn it over to an all powerful God.

Free to put my energies into relationships that are open, healthy, and growing. Or at least have the potential to be so.

I’ll not fight against the inexorable march toward divisiveness and self destruction. The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions.

I’ve let it go. At last! God, it’s in Your hands. I release it to You.

Oh, what a relief it is.

It’s Black Friday. All over the country, people have been camped outside of big box stores, or getting up at the crack of dawn.

Traffic jams are all around malls, and people are racing through the aisles of stores, looking for bargains.

Not me.

I do not have the shopping gene.

If you asked me my top ten least favorite things to do, shopping would be up there.

I shop rarely, and tactically. I have a goal, I go straight in to get it, and I leave.

None of this lingering around, looking at things, browsing the end caps.

Even at the grocery store, my eyes rarely leave my list. I know where everything is, and I get it and go.

Part of this is due, I’m sure, to my introvert nature. Less people, less chance I’ll have to talk to someone. I’m uncomfortable talking to strangers. Small talk in line gives me hives.

I’ll admit most of my non-grocery goods are bought off the internet. It is what works best for me.

I’ve never gone shopping on Black Friday- and that’s just fine with me.