Taking stock this holiday season
The month of January, the two-faced month, is nigh upon us, at least it will be in a very few days. This is the time that we are often urged by default or social media (a Greek chorus urging me to lose weight) to take measure of the past and project a future with less of some things and more of others.
For most of my life it turned out to be more of some things that I didn’t want and less of those I did. Think weight and cash.
I could, if I were a total Pollyanna, vow to pursue a course of vibrant good health. I’ve been trying to work on that for two years with little success, unless you count my realization that my cane is a permanent fixture and that I should do something about making it more, oh, I don’t know, attractive, maybe. More stable on ice and snow, or stronger to assist me getting up the choir loft stairs at church, even adding a basket so that I can carry things up and down stairs. Or, perhaps, I can get one with a snow brush attached — get my “drift?”
I don’t know if this is a good or bad thing, but yesterday my ortho doc said that I was eligible for a permanent handicapped hang tag.
It seems good health is a retreating goal. If I move the goal post, though, I might be satisfied with lowering my blood pressure by 10 points or fitting into the jeans I wore last year. My gloves still fit, however, and that is a plus.
In pursuit of that new goal, I made biscuits yesterday, but put oatmeal in them. Yes, I did add sugar, but there has to be balance. I am my own worst enemy.
It seems this is deteriorating into one of my “poor me” sessions when I should be thinking of all the good stuff that is in my life. And there is much to celebrate.
I have two wonderful children who have, because of the excellent training I gave them, chosen their equally-wonderful mates. Is that pain in my back arthritis or the result of patting myself on the back too much?
I have two “love of my life” grandsons whose presence is beyond anything I could have hoped for, more than I could have dreamed.
The oldest one told me last week that I was getting older every day. He asked if there was anything he could do to help me in my declining state. He also told me that his other grandmother was “in good shape.”
The youngest one asked me if I had any Orange Crush.
I have a spouse who puts up with my moods and my limitations, especially those that involve moving stuff, lifting stuff, standing for any length of time and complaining that I don’t feel well. He may be up for sainthood any day now.
I have cats. Lots of cats.
Cat born under our shed. Cats that were neutered and sent back as feral but who have decided that sleeping on our bed is better than eating rodents and living under the deck. My spouse thinks that they are Italian and feeds them dishes of dry and wet cat food embellished with shards of chicken from a rotisserie chicken from Costco. Their dishes are always filled; they are really his cats.
I have great friends.
I have friends who love to visit thrift stores and consignment shops with me; who like to walk in the park, even if they have to slow down to keep pace with my truncated ability to move; who enjoy a long talk over lunch; who share their grandparent pictures and stories; who are as aghast at the current state of politics as I; who send me books to read and who appreciate that, although the world keeps changing, there has to be a center to hold on to. We also compare medicines, dosages and doctors.
I’ve been able to maintain a relative constant volunteer effort at the emergency department at St. Joe’s, something that keeps me sane, even when all the other stuff is creating a chaotic feeling of loss. How many people do you know who feel at home in an emergency room? This may qualify me as the family eccentric.
I love being in St. Francis Xavier bell and funeral choirs and, despite my inability to keep time, they are my connections with music. I do remember that the nuns in Brooklyn told us that to play an instrument or to sing was the equivalent of praying seven times. I’ll take that.
I treasure the strength that I have gotten from my faith, despite the current faults and weaknesses in the structure of the institution. I wish that things were different, but I have to deal with what it is and what it should be. I’m working on that.
There is my garden, not well-attended last year, now asleep in its winter clothes. And our cottage that has been my living fairy tale for more than 35 years. Neither care about my limits.
Being a teacher, though, still holds me in thrall. It is a way to touch the future, a way to connect as one human to another, to share how to learn, to measure truth, so often subverted by our desire to acquire as the measure of good and right in the world. My bookshelves are full of the lessons and the memories.
I like my Echo dot, the technical wonder that responds to my commands to bring me radio stations, music, the news and books to listen to. Speaking of technical wonders, my computer, on which I type this piece, has been my “volunteer” helper, allowing me to create, contact and learn so much. It has also been the source of strings of four-letter words that cannot be written or repeated.
What else am I thankful for?
My paper appointment book with space to write notes.
My to-do lists on scraps of paper or my favorite notepads from Syracuse Blueprint.
And I still love a cream-filled chocolate-covered donut, even though it is on the naughty list right now
But, all in all, as I look to 2020, I am hopeful that whatever resources I may retain can be used for something good, something better, more kindness and less self-absorption, more being outside and approachable, less inside and defending.
If I can lose 30 pounds, lower my blood pressure, cultivate better balance … hey, who knows?
Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.
