Pardner Says What?

Funny, is it not, how a unique communication style often develops between long-time partners.

"You'll be pleasantly surprised tomorrow night . . . "I said to my partner and wife of forty years after a bit of lighthearted evening banter about me taking so long to finally get in bed. As I returned to my nighttime routine and ritual, she countered.

"Oh yeah? Well, what's that pause about?"

I expressed the remainder of my thought as sweetly but snarkily as I could. "You'll be pleasantly surprised tomorrow night when I have YOU do the dozen little things I do every day to ready us and the house for the next day. I set up the coffee pot, adjust the thermostat, close all the shades to help conserve energy and save us a few bucks, and blah-blah-blah."

 As I, at last, made my way to the bed, she chuckled and calmly retorted. "I look forward to a day when you utter the words, 'You'll be pleasantly surprised,' and they'll be sincere."

Eyebrows grabbed hairline in surprise at her response as I reacted with, "Yeah, heh-heh, I suppose."

We both got a good laugh from it, but I had to admit (yet again) to using sarcasm as my go-to for expressing disdain or taking issue. And why do I do this, especially with someone I love dearly? Precisely. I do so because I know she loves me in all my crude ruggedness and more. Doesn't that sound decent? It's the truth, part of it anyway.

The rest of my motivation stems from knowing her so well, knowing she has, in times past, often ignored my points or dismissed them when I communicated nicely. Knowing she frequently chafed at sarcasm, I resorted to using it to rile her up and get her attention. Still, though communicating this way proved useful in the past, her comment the other night was a literal eye-opener and cue to be sweeter to my sweets.

And it works both ways. Wifey, knowing me as she does, has adapted her word usage to accommodate my quirks. In response to how often I've asked about dollars spent on her shopping sprees, she now beats me to the punch when dragging her bags of booty into the car or house.

 "I only had to spend (xyz amount) on all this," she'll jovially state while I'm stink-eyeing the goods. On one such trip to town and chauffeuring her to several stops, she used her go-to of "I only spent" about four times. When I pointed this out, it was her turn to blush and giggle.

If you're blessed enough to be in such a fun relationship, well doff-hat to you. If not, create one. Your health will benefit and you'll contribute to the collective joy of intimate-speak.

 Baamaapii miinwaa kaawaabmin = later again I see you {Ojibwe}

May your moccasins never wear thin and your spirit always soar.
Migizi Newsong

Every Sacred Day

 

Funny, is it not, that we often assess, judge, and label certain days as better or worse than others. This is a short but altered recap of the last two-part post and done in poetic form. A friend posted the poem recently and I thought it ideal to share here.

Every Sacred Day
I am no longer waiting for a special occasion; I burn the best candles on ordinary days.
I am no longer waiting for the house to be clean; I fill it with people who understand that even dust is Sacred.
I am no longer waiting for everyone to understand me; It’s just not their task
I am no longer waiting for the perfect children; my children have their own names that burn as brightly as any star.
I am no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop; It already did, and I survived.
I am no longer waiting for the time to be right; the time is always now.
I am no longer waiting for the mate who will complete me; I am grateful to be so warmly, tenderly held.
I am no longer waiting for a quiet moment; my heart can be stilled whenever it is called.
I am no longer waiting for the world to be at peace; I unclench my grasp and breathe peace in and out.
I am no longer waiting to do something great; being awake to carry my grain of sand is enough.
I am no longer waiting to be recognized; I know that I dance in a holy circle.
I am no longer waiting for Forgiveness. I believe, I Believe.
-Mary Anne Perrone

Please note this is an untitled piece and I ascribed one only for this post.

Baamaapii miinwaa kaawaabmin = later again I see you {Ojibwe}

May your moccasins never wear thin and your spirit always soar.
Migizi Newsong

Birthdays: Happy for whom? Part Two

Continuation from previous post.
"The nurses tried to change his mind and when that failed, they offered coffee. Nope, his jaw was set. I bundled us up and bid farewell to the panic-stricken nurses. Out into the howling wind and snow we went.

No one else was on the roads and this both relieved and terrified me. After nearly dumping the car in the ditch the first time, I started in praying to God, Jesus, even Mother Nature for a miracle. Honestly, I don't know what threatened your new life more, the storm and a drunk dad or me holding you so tight.

Before we got home, we had plowed through a half dozen snowdrifts that were easily 3 feet high. Each time, it resulted in a blast of snow pounding the windshield but your dad never slowed down and somehow kept the car between powerline poles. Once, the car was sliding sideways toward the ditch and a strange force shoved the car back straight. Probably an angel. But here we are and nobody will ever take my and your miracle away. I know what's what.

You know, when we got home and I tried to nurse you, I'm pretty sure all ya got was cheese curds, that's how stressed out I was." [TMI, Ma, Too Much Information]

 My mother's account left me with mixed emotions. Taking it at face value, miracle and all, I felt divinely loved and protected, felt I surely had been spared for a purpose. But, I also felt discounted and unworthy. After all, wasn't my life worth protecting by my dad? What about my mom? Why didn't she refuse to go, even if only for her sake? Life is rarely only black and white, so after the story I went on my unmerry way conflicted. Funny, is it not, how life often offers contradictory options.

Not so fast, Newsong! Give us something redemptive here. Sure thing. Though I haven't outlived muscle memory and autonomic response to Anniversary Effect, I choose to remember some critical truths.

1. I'm still here and loved by not only family and friends but especially Gitchi Manido, Great Mystery/Creator.
2. Being highly sensitive and intuitive can be both bane and benefit, not only to self but others. True, I can easily get overwhelmed and perceive things like birthdays as stressful, but I can just as quickly be there for someone in need. In the end, I believe the benefits will outweigh the liabilities.
3. I was born into a realm of relative affluence when compared to being born elsewhere, even in this country. I use this as a reality check when feeling down on myself and life.
4. Just because I regard celebrating my birthday as pointless and not something that creates happiness for me, I'll not deny others the opportunity to celebrate my birth and presence. Heck, I'm happy for so many existing and being part of my life.

In closing, I part ways knowing I'm not alone in all this. I share a winter birthday with lots of folk and I know many of them likely struggle with similar things because of it. If you happen to be one, I'd love hearing from you. Specifically, I'd like to know how you deal with it, or don't. Who knows, maybe one of us will create a group for us all to join and celebrate each other, even if virtually.

Baamaapii miinwaa kaawaabmin = later again I see you {Ojibwe}

May your moccasins never wear thin and your spirit always soar.
Migizi Newsong

Birthdays: Happy for Whom? part one

Funny, is it not, that we mark birthdays as beginning at the time and day we are forcibly squished from our supposed happy place? Why not mark and celebrate them as having taken place at the time and day of pleasurable (we hope) climax and ultimate conception, you know, after the moans and groans of the chemical and electrical fireworks of orgasm have had their grand finale? Seems like a much happier event to me, one more worthy of celebrating.

 My birthday is coming up in a few weeks and I'm already irritable. It happens every year without fail despite my best efforts of circumventing the mood with rational thought and willpower. Honestly, being born during winters months in Michigan blows, well, in my opinion. As a kid in the 60's, stores had little to offer by way of neat gifts during February. Typically, I got things only enjoyable during warm months.

"Sure son, go on out in the blizzard and play with that plastic airplane." Ten minutes later I'm back inside to dump the shattered pieces of the thing in the trash, then I go grab one of 5 bottles of Avon aftershave I also got as gifts and splash some on my 9 year old face. "Yeehaw, livin' it up," I'd think sarcastically. Funny, is it not? And the symbolism isn't lost on me, a crashed plane and its fragments equaling a rather broken sense of self worth and reason to be alive. Maybe memories of crappy birthdays lent to my mood over the years, that and what later became know as Seasonal Affective Disorder. Nah, it's worse (or better?) than that.

 You see, when we're conceived, a brochure doesn't magically appear to provide a detailed overview of our essence, the foundational stuff that will more or less define and identify us. My folks, back then anyway, had no clue I  was highly sensitive, had autism spectrum tendencies, and was given to deep intuitiveness. They didn't know the extent of influence their choices and environment were having on my development. I tell ya what, I would have chafed at parenting a kid like me. Sheesh. I digress.

Ever heard of Anniversary Effect? I didn't either until a super great, internal medicine doctor enlightened me. Not willing to diagnose me as a hypochondriac out of hand, he dug deeper and suggested it as a possibly. Yup, nailed it. It explained why every year I'd experience an array of tested and proved physical symptoms, ones being manifested as a result of unconscious and internal stress. (Learn more about Anniversary Effect here www.psychologytoday.com/blog/two-takes-depression/201105/the-anniversary-effect)

After doing some intuitive work on myself, a memory came to mind of when my mother shared by birth story with me. Here's my paraphrase of her account.

"I thought I'd die giving birth to you. You were a good sized baby and me being 46 at the time, I only had enough strength to get your head out. They had to use the salad tongs on ya." [Sure, Ma, no chance of this altering my brain.]

 "Anyway, your dad was beside himself with joy at you being a boy when he had resigned himself to a girl. I loved him and wanted to give him a baby even though I'd already had six kids by my first husband who died. Okay, so he was supposed to return in a few days to take you and me home. Thing is, him being a heavy drinker and all, he not only came to the hospital drunk, he came during the worse snowstorm of the season."

(Continued)