This is how it is
XKCD says it best again. It's all the comfort you get, really.
You just are, and then you aren't: the best you can do is to give whatever you're made of to whoever else comes up with you and after you.
It's been a flashback day, and I do mean flashbacks. I no longer wonder what it's like for trauma victims. My own sorrow is nothing like as bad as it gets, but there it is. Somebody was talking about the sudden death of the nephew of one of out mutual coworkers, and I was hearing Ted's last words and seeing the events play out. It wasn't as vivid as people describe it, but it was unshakeable, though I could continue with the conversation and take care of babies. Then later it was a book we were reading to the threes and fours (I spend an hour and a half or two hours in preschool most days), about mothers and fathers and what they do for their children. Somewhere between the daddy teaching the child to read the orah and the daddy teaching the child to use an abacus I lost it. And lastly -- every folkdance night this happens at least once, though Ted would never have gone folkdancing with me (he would go to the Greek festival and eat leukomathes and watch me dance, though): there's some couple my age or generally older, content, dancing together, having those little conversations you can only have with a bonded life mate, and it hits me like a hammer. The guy who's in early dementia (I think) gets me most often because he's gushing about how lovely and sweet his life is now with grandchildren and his dear mother-in-law and yearly trips with his wife to his home country -- it's not just or rational but it pisses me off that we don't get that. It was hitting me harder tonight, I think because of the earlier episodes, but it didn't detract from the night. I don't know why, but I can be practically falling on the floor from it one second and the next be drawn back in to the scene around me. I should be grateful for that. I am.
____
On a less-whiny note, I'm actually improving at folk dancing. I'm sitting out fewer of them, tripping over myself less, and catching on earlier in the dance. Some of this is the careful application of coffee (which I generally avoid because I'm excessively sensitive to caffeine), and some of it is practice, and some of it is understanding what's going on when I can't seem to move right (ending up on the wrong foot almost consistently is an indication of a thing or two going on besides random error).
One of the things that's going on is that I seem to process large-motor instructions slowly, whether their spoken or demonstrated. So by the time my foot understands that it is the left foot and the left foot is supposed to be up in the air, it's time for the right foot to be there. When begin to learn the dance, I overcompensate and rush into things. This is less of a problem when the dances aren't being taught -- late in the evening, or on live music nights -- as I am not trrying to learn the steps actually, I'm just trying to go in the right direction and not bump into anybody. I have a fear of wrecking somebody else's dance experience with my klutziness. When I'm pretty sure I can't do that, I dance much better.
The problem with the coffee is that if I judge the dose wrong it's one o'clock in the morning and I'm still thinking of reasons I shouldn't go to bed now.
For example, shouldn't I recolor all the fences in the Sims game with my chosen fourteen stucco colors? Tonight? I've got a head start . . .
Oh, and we're doing Urban Watch on Sunday. I don't know why we're testing the Soquel Creek storm drains right now, after the rainy season has started, but I'm happy for the opportunity.
You just are, and then you aren't: the best you can do is to give whatever you're made of to whoever else comes up with you and after you.
It's been a flashback day, and I do mean flashbacks. I no longer wonder what it's like for trauma victims. My own sorrow is nothing like as bad as it gets, but there it is. Somebody was talking about the sudden death of the nephew of one of out mutual coworkers, and I was hearing Ted's last words and seeing the events play out. It wasn't as vivid as people describe it, but it was unshakeable, though I could continue with the conversation and take care of babies. Then later it was a book we were reading to the threes and fours (I spend an hour and a half or two hours in preschool most days), about mothers and fathers and what they do for their children. Somewhere between the daddy teaching the child to read the orah and the daddy teaching the child to use an abacus I lost it. And lastly -- every folkdance night this happens at least once, though Ted would never have gone folkdancing with me (he would go to the Greek festival and eat leukomathes and watch me dance, though): there's some couple my age or generally older, content, dancing together, having those little conversations you can only have with a bonded life mate, and it hits me like a hammer. The guy who's in early dementia (I think) gets me most often because he's gushing about how lovely and sweet his life is now with grandchildren and his dear mother-in-law and yearly trips with his wife to his home country -- it's not just or rational but it pisses me off that we don't get that. It was hitting me harder tonight, I think because of the earlier episodes, but it didn't detract from the night. I don't know why, but I can be practically falling on the floor from it one second and the next be drawn back in to the scene around me. I should be grateful for that. I am.
____
On a less-whiny note, I'm actually improving at folk dancing. I'm sitting out fewer of them, tripping over myself less, and catching on earlier in the dance. Some of this is the careful application of coffee (which I generally avoid because I'm excessively sensitive to caffeine), and some of it is practice, and some of it is understanding what's going on when I can't seem to move right (ending up on the wrong foot almost consistently is an indication of a thing or two going on besides random error).
One of the things that's going on is that I seem to process large-motor instructions slowly, whether their spoken or demonstrated. So by the time my foot understands that it is the left foot and the left foot is supposed to be up in the air, it's time for the right foot to be there. When begin to learn the dance, I overcompensate and rush into things. This is less of a problem when the dances aren't being taught -- late in the evening, or on live music nights -- as I am not trrying to learn the steps actually, I'm just trying to go in the right direction and not bump into anybody. I have a fear of wrecking somebody else's dance experience with my klutziness. When I'm pretty sure I can't do that, I dance much better.
The problem with the coffee is that if I judge the dose wrong it's one o'clock in the morning and I'm still thinking of reasons I shouldn't go to bed now.
For example, shouldn't I recolor all the fences in the Sims game with my chosen fourteen stucco colors? Tonight? I've got a head start . . .
Oh, and we're doing Urban Watch on Sunday. I don't know why we're testing the Soquel Creek storm drains right now, after the rainy season has started, but I'm happy for the opportunity.