Haiku for the End of the Year

2013. Thirteen. Twenty thirteen. You certainly lived up to your superstitious reputation. At least in my life you have. You had to be the worst year in my life. You kicked 1993's butt. That's the year of the dissolution  of my first marriage.  The great year of 1997--the one that gave me not only a burglar, but a peeping tom--pales in comparison to you.  Even 1998, the year that brought me my father's death, can't beat you. You beat them all. You took away my sweet nephew, Oliver. You told my daughter the horrible truth about her placement for adoption. You stole parts of my mom's beautiful mind. You left my sister literally sick with grief and struggling to find herself. You gave me the fright of my life making me think I was witnessing my son's death. You brought up a ghost from my children's past and made him even more scary. You broke up a family I cared for deeply. You found my depression and gave it back to me. You were horrid, and I am glad to see you go. 

2014. Fourteen. Twenty fourteen. I'm so happy to see you. I've got plans for the two of us. You don't have to be the best year in my life. You have some pretty good competition.  1984 was pretty stellar, with my first teaching job, new friends, and actually living an adult life on my own. 1994 was super and tough to top. That's the year that saw me shed 170 pounds that was weighing me down in the form of selfish somebody I now call an ex-husband. You have to work pretty darn hard to beat 2000--when I met my beloved. And then there is 2002 when I married him, don't even try to shine brighter. 2010 has it's place high on the list of great years when we became parents! No, you don't need to be the best. But, I do ask you one thing: Please, give me and my family peace to ease our minds from this past year. 

Here is my haiku inspired this New Year's Eve, when burdens from the old year are feeling lighter, and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel can be spotted. 

Step forward into

Newness, with the light of hope,

inner peace, and strength.

Haiku about a Tortilla Chip

 A while back, we were shaking our heads at something our mother did. She had a sore throat. And after questioning and the doctor looking down her throat, we found out that Mom was eating Doritos and a piece scratched her throat. When I heard this I thought, "Only Mom." It gave us a chuckle. Well, today, I took Mom to lunch and we had tortilla chips with our meal. Guess what? we were enjoying our food when all of a sudden there was a sharp pain in my throat. Yes! A sharp piece of tortilla chip was trying to puncture my esophagus! Wow, did it hurt! Every time I tried to swallow, it jabbed me. I drank some lemonade and it finally gave up the fight. Now, I have a sore throat. Every time I swallow it hurts. And I am reminded that half of my blood is my mother's. 

I was on an errand, wincing from my sore throat,  I got thinking. There has been many, many times when I wondered how on earth am I her daughter? We are so different. We don't even look alike. At least I don't see any similarities--not like I see in my sisters. She has an extremely green thumb; Me? No, but I wish. She loves being out in the hot weather; I'm uncomfortable when it's above 85 degrees.  She can be very outgoing; I tend to be on the quiet side. She's tidy; I lean toward the unorganized. Mom loves to dress up and wear makeup; give me my jammies and slippers any time. The list goes on and on. In the car, I asked myself, well how are we similar? What did I get from my mom? I composed a list in my head. She gave me the joy of crocheting. She gave me some of my depression and anxiety. She gave me the gift of being able to make a good pot of rice. She gave me my strong teeth.  She gave me the ability to laugh at myself. She gave me the desire for a great deal. She gave me strength to endure under much stress. Oh, I love my mom so much! I love the things I received from her. 

Tonight I write my haiku, about that dang piece of tortilla chip that reminds me that I am from my mother, and as hard as it is to admit: For good or bad, sometimes I say, "My mother, myself."

 Each swallow tells me

"You are your mother's daughter."

And I answer. "Ouch."

Haiku about My Nephew, Oliver

It's been two weeks since my beautiful nephew died. One week since his funeral. I recognize that I am trying to accept this new sadness, this addition to myself I have to agree to live with. It is becoming a part of who I call "me." Two weeks without Oliver physically with us. The sadness at times is immense.

And yet, I found myself singing in the shower this evening. It's been a long time since I've done that. A very long time.  And I ask, how? How can we live with it? To live with "losing" our Oliver. To live with only being allowed to see him in our minds' eyes and in the hundreds of still pictures. It is not enough, will never be enough. We ache to touch him, and to hear his voice, and to have his eyes meet ours. What a surprise it was when I heard my own voice singing. It seems impossible that I was singing in the shower. What a content thing to do. The words to this song that we sang often at mass when I was a child was coming out of my mouth as I poured conditioner into the palm of my hand. And I felt that it will be alright. Even with this heavy addition to my emotional map.

Tonight, I write a haiku, inspired by my dear little nephew, Oliver, whose acknowledgement of his happiness and whose joy of living in the moment has become something I admire and will strive to do often, regardless of what has  happened and what may be coming around the corner.

Yesterday is done.

Don't fret about Tomorrow.

Right Now is what counts. 

Haiku about My Mom (3)

You know when you get an image, or a moment in time, or a piece of a conversation, just a little smidgen of a day get tucked in your brain, and then it comes to the surface days, maybe weeks, later? Sometimes it makes you laugh. But, I have one that puts me on the brink of tears. I have been tucking it back every time it surfaces. I told my sisters briefly about it. I used very little words, and I felt my nose start that itchy feeling I get when I'm just about to cry. I just said at the end, "That was rather sad hearing her say that." And that is the last I've confronted it, until today. It's been popping in and out of my consciousness all day. It's time to release it.

Last week my mom had an appointment with her neurologist, a checkup on how she's doing dementia-wise. For a few minutes, I had to remember where the office was. Mom told me where she thought it was and I knew that wasn't it. I found the address and we left. I told Mom, "It's right across the street from the hospital." But, Mom insisted it was not, so I drove her to where she said it was located and she saw that it was her allergist office instead. She didn't say anything and we went to her appointment. Afterward, we had to go back to the allergist for something that is another story all together. On the way home, we passed the neurologist's office and Mom said, "There is Dr. Yukki's office. I can walk from my house, just go on Cherry Street...." "Yes, Mom," I say to her. She says "See, honey, I can remember." And those five words have been haunting me since. 

Gardenia-one of my mother's favorites.

This evening I write a haiku, inspired by my mother's words, which she uttered to assure herself, more than me, that in that "bad" moment, she indeed can still remember. 

Struggling to find

that fact, which is hidden deep,

to prove I still can. 

Haiku about KISS

When I read that it's Ace Frehley's birthday today, about a half a dozen different memories shot through my mind. Ace Frehley was a member of the rock band KISS. They were popular during the late '70s, known for their black and white face makeup and their platform shoes and elaborate costumes. 

One of my KISS memories is being in the girls' locker room at E.E. Fell Junior High School. A couple of girls started singing Rock and Roll All Night, others started joining them and soon we had the whole locker room singing. By the way, this was the "honor" locker room. You get membership there if you consistently take showers after gym class. The teachers don't have to monitor shower taking in the "honor" locker room. Well, the singing must have gotten pretty loud. Mrs. Magsig  yelled in for us to shut up. We did. We didn't want to lose membership in the "honor" locker room.  

 

A recent KISS memory was taking our boys to a KISS concert with a good friend of ours. It was the boys' first concert. And KISS did not fail, with it's pyrotechnics and stage antics. Our oldest watched the whole concert with big eyes and a big smile. Our middle child had to leave about half way through the concert. The light show entranced him and then all of a sudden he rolled up on the ground and wanted to just lie there. I think the light show was too stimulating. I took him out and we listened while we followed people around the venue.

Two fun memories thanks to KISS. So Happy Birthday, Ace Frehley, and here's a haiku honoring your former band. 

Paul, Ace, Gene, Peter

want to party ev'ry day

And we sing along.

Haiku for My Husband (2)

Yesterday was my husband's birthday. In the morning, he taught his classes, and then enjoyed a relatively quiet afternoon just doing his thing. We had a nice evening with him.  We went to dinner where he enjoyed some chicken nachos and a beverage. At home he received his gifts. This year they were a Monty Python t-shirt which sported the line "It's just a flesh wound," a book of daily devotions for the intellect which contains 365 lessons from the seven fields of knowledge, and a lapdesk, which is not just any lapdesk (It has a lamp and its elevation can be adjusted!). I can't wait to see him reading his devotions at his lapdesk donning his new t-shirt. Afterwards, we had cake. It was a Snickers cake and everyone raved about it. Overall, I think it was a good day for him. 

Here is a haiku for my beloved, who seems to be always there for me when I need a shoulder to cry on, an ear to hear one of my crazy ideas, or a second brain to plan or connive.

My husband, my friend,

My brace, my fun, my balance

My cheer, my husband.

Haiku about Dealing with "Hard Things"

As I sit here realizing that I have not posted in over a month, I ask myself  why not? The last time I posted I had recently received news of my mother's dementia and my nephew's new cancer treatment being the last try before hospice is called in for his care. I had also been struggling with my daughter's sadness/depression. I had been struggling to face these heartaches and to support my sister and mother and daughter as they move through these rough challenges in their lives, sad that I cannot remove their burdens. I suppose the answer to the question "Why haven't I been writing daily?" is that life pulled the rug from beneath me and I had to spend some time trying to fix that feeling. And I think I have for the most part and can continue writing--even about the difficult stuff.

"Sometimes hard things happen that isn't easy to understand and hard to deal with," my daughter wrote a few days ago. It's a fact. They are hard to deal with and you have to work at it. Since my last entry, my nephew's medical care has been turned over to hospice. He's at home, being loved like crazy as usual.  This is one of those "hard things" my daughter wrote about. "Hard" isn't nearly strong enough is it? But, truly, what word is? It hurts. We have known this time would come; we tried to prepare for it. But, as someone pointed out, you can prepare for a punch in the face the best you can, it's still going to hurt. The sting of the news has lessened, now we are "dealing" with it--accepting it as something we have to live with, and then living with it.  

 Did you know?

The jellyfish is a symbol of acceptance and faith.

 

Today, I write my haiku of this struggle to live with these "hard things" life gives us from time to time.

Acceptance of this.

It seemed unattainable.

But, then, here we are.