Blue in the Face

I know most of us have used the expression "I talked until I was blue in the face." I really try not to do this often and only in cases where it is really important.

I have been in a situation for years now where I have tried to get someone to understand a situation. Off and on for about 10 years to be exact. Finally, I  have come to the conclusion that:
a. The person hears and simply does not care.
b. The person honestly can't grasp the situation.
c. The person thinks that if he/she does not acknowledge the situation, it will cease to exist.
d. The person has an extraordinary ability to ignore physical evidence.

Blue is not my color.

And I am tired.

Overload

I love Edvard Munch. His simple, expressive "Scream" painting say it all some days.

This week has been one of those weeks where it seems that I have just had too many things (words, problems, situations, ideas, etc.) thrown at me in rapid succession.

The problem? I just can't seem to take it all in as fast as I used to be able to. I don't know if it is just age, fatigue, or what. Due to many factors, I don't sleep as well as I would like to. I know lack of sleep tends make me feel "dull."

I am pondering as to whether or not I need to step down from some obligations (NOT my watercolor classes at the Senior Center!) and let younger, more energetic people handle them. Unfortunately, these same folks tend to lack the time to follow through and maintain things.

For the time being, I guess I will just scream silently and hope things settle down soon.

Father's Day 2012

Tomorrow will be my first Father's Day without my Daddy. And it is hard to believe he has been in Heaven for six months already. 


Tomorrow, the newly added handicapped restroom at Yokena Presbyterian Church will be dedicated in Daddy's memory. Now I know that some will see this as perhaps undignified, but I see it as perfect. 


Because of treatments for his prostate cancer, and following the removal of a sizable portion of his colon, Daddy always knew where every restroom was in every store, restaurant, and gas station. And, as he was an extremely practical soul, he would heartily approve of the memorials given to him be used for the purpose of a more accesible restroom. 


Daddy loved Yokena Presbyterian Church. When asked during Sunday School class one day what he thought would happen after he died, Daddy made the following quip.


"I'm not worried about it. I am going to be a little angel with wings floating around everwhere, checking on the Sunday School class." 


Tomorrow, I think he will be watching from Heaven. And beaming with pride. 

Singing

Lately, I have found myself singing around the house again. For the longest time, even though I love to sing, I didn't do this. There just did not seem to be any point. I wasn't going to be singing a solo anytime soon. Why keep in shape? 


But since I have been really using my voice on a regular basis (not just holding back and trying to blend) I find that I am getting back notes and a degree of breath control I thought I had lost. And what a joy this is! 


Next Sunday, I will sing at Yokena Presbyterian Church. In July, I will be singing at First United Methodist Church in Clinton. Then I am off to Hermanville, MS for two Sundays. And, of course, I hope to make a stop a Truly Ministries during this time as well. I am grateful to them forever for allowing me to spread my wings and get back what I thought might be gone forever. 


This is just part of "The Lord's Prayer" from last Sunday at Truly Ministries. Not perfect, but so much better than I thought it would ever be again. 

A Pocket Full of Nickels

This poem is by the late Bev Nason, who was also "blessed" with Myasthenia Gravis. She really hit the nail on the head. Substitute prednisone for Mestinon in my case. And my variety of MG does not go into remission.

A Pocket Full Of Nickels

By Beverly J. NASON  

On a good morning, we awake with a dollars worth of invisible nickels
in our pocket, or perhaps we find them after our
first dose of Mestinon.
We must decide how to spend this precious supply.

Shall we shower, dress, make the bed, have breakfast, go to a job,
and recklessly spend them all at once?
Perhaps, we should just use twenty-five cents,
and dress without the shower or shave, leave the bed for later,
and spend five to fifteen cents for breakfast.

We alone may judge from our recent experience.
Having decided, we act, and our precious deposits is made into an
invisible slot, filled with invisible batteries.
These batteries kick in slowly and we drain their reserve.
When it is close to gone, we force ourselves to rest.
As the day progresses, we decided to do a small chore.
The shave, shower, shampoo? Five more nickels perhaps?
The bed? One nickel perhaps. Cleaning house? Going to work?

How many nickels will we have to spend today?
For many of us, we can barely afford one nickel at a time, today.
If we have the luxury of time for a rest period or a nap,

We might awaken with a sudden new supply of nickels in our pocket.
Probably our next dose of Mestinon will provide us with a
fresh supply. For others, we may find we've chosen unwisely
and squandered our day's wealth,

Or borrowed from them tomorrow, to do what had to be done,
or simply what we wanted to do to improve our quality of life.
the debt must be repaid, and time in bed will be the price.
We can gamble them all away, or spend them gratefully.

When we awake, morning after morning, with pockets full of nickels,
Such an abundance that we no longer have to count them
We have achieved Myasthenia Gravis remission

May you all have "pocket full of nickels"

Carefully Taught

I just watched a PBS special on the late, great, Oscar Hammerstein. Most folks know him as the lyricist, who, with composer Richard Rogers, gave us timeless musicals like "The Sound of Music", "Oklahoma", and "South Pacific" to name a few. 


But I learned a lot more about Hammerstein, the man, tonight. He fearlessly dealt with racism in 1927's "Showboat." He cast "Carmen Jones", an all black musical, and quite daring for 1943 (20 years before the Civil Rights Movement." And Hammerstein pondered the issue again in the "South Pacific" in 1949 with "Carefully Taught."


The sad part is that we have not come that far in the past 60+ years. Everyday I see instances where young children are already being taught hate in places and by people who should be teaching them to love. 

You’ve got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught
From year to year,
It’s got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff’rent shade,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You’ve got to be carefully taught!