I understand that Donald Trump as plastered an ad on the former post here, and so I must say that I would leave the USA before voting for Trump. He has so many unfortunate character traits that I cannot begin to name them all, and surely don’t know him at all because all I see is bits and pieces of his blather. So if his ad is indeed posted here–it’s outrageous and I’m letting people know how you steal things that are not yours (myspace).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Missing in my own blog…

Every time I start a blog post,  for reasons I don’t understand, it never looks the way I want it to. I can’t seem to get the colors, type face, spacing, or anything just right. I don’t like the colors it chooses for itself; that part seems to be out of my control, mostly because I’m not very good at this. Usually the colors are stronger than I want–I prefer pastels, maybe because sometimes my opinions have been too strong and not always fact based. At  least, though, I’m willing to change my mind, if relevant and contrary facts present themselves.

Lowell, my lifelong love and husband, used to say I just have to figure out how to make this site work the way I want it to. I explain to him that when I had surgery in which they cut open my ribcage and handled my heart, two different times, in fact–actually I’m not quite sure what the good surgeons did to me, and I’m clear that I don’t really want to–I don’t figure out anything very quickly anymore.

So where you see dark blue, remember I wanted aqua, and if you see other mournful colors, remember I wanted them bright and lively. But in this, as in so many things in life, I cannot always make everything as I want. What I’ve found is that I do best when I tailor my wants to the field of what is realistically available. I have given up wanting to be a pioneer pilot like Amelia Earhart (only not lost), and President of the US (and they thought Bob Dole was old). I also wanted to be a wife and mother, and that part I managed. I picked an amazing life partner In Lowell; and I think most of our four children are currently speaking to me. Truthfully, though, I haven’t checked this out today, having talked with only one of them this past week.

I don’t understand people who can blog every day. They must have far more interesting lives than I do. In fact, I find the older I get, the fewer opinions I have, and the fewer conclusions I draw. I discovered a few months ago, having been for quite some time a passionate Christian, that either my God went on vacation without leaving a forwarding address, or I closed down my hot line that has felt open for years. I worried about this for months. Then I decided I didn’t really care, because the God I believe in is a God of constant love, but not necessarily all knowing or all powerful. (I learned a long time ago that if you believe in a God who is all loving and good, all knowing and all powerful, like the God of the sermons and hymns of my youth, you run smack dab into the wall of the Problem of  Evil. There are lots of ways to wiggle out from confronting this problem, and I’ve found none of them convincing, so I simply gave up thinking about the whole thing.)

So enough of this. To sleep, perchance to dream–maybe I’ll dream the solution to the problem of everything. I doubt it, though.

 

 

 

Rollercoaster Blues

By now everybody who knows me is aware that my husband Lowell Masato Uda died about a year and a half ago, of leukemia, actually “acute myeloid leukemia.” There are ways, after being with him more than half a century, I still don’t believe in his death. He was so much a part of my life that for the first 15 months after he died, I could not believe–could not tolerate believing–that he was gone. I always felt he was just in the next room, going to call my name or step into the room where I was at any moment. Of course the reality of his death was inside me–imploding my emotional and spiritual life into a shriveled scrap of scorched flesh.

At moments I’d emerge, semi-conscious, but the pain was too great to stay fully alive and aware for long, and I would huddle back inside myself. I learned to playact being “normal me”–whoever that is–because I finally realized that being with a person suffering with breath-stopping grief is a terrible burden on others. Nobody should have to see this, or know what it is like until and unless they are forced to endure it. It can also be truly annoying for those who are irritated by seeing the emotional pain of others.

I tried talk therapy but quit after three sessions–or just didn’t set another appointment. In fact I knew at the time I left the third session that I wouldn’t be going back. I had figured out that the reason I’d enjoyed the two sessions so much was that the therapist had dogs there, full-size poodles, one brown, one black, and I related to them, comfortable stroking their silky pelts while talking with this stranger. The third time neither dog was present. I was bored.

I concluded that the therapist thought I was relating to the dogs to avoid dumping my secrets on her. Hmmm. My real, deep-down secrets are 0 0 0 0, empty set, empty set, empty set. I learned some years ago, as a child really, that every word I said had to be the truth as best I understood it, because (1) my memory wasn’t good enough to remember lies, so sooner or later I would trap myself; and (2) that lies poison everything. Just imagine if our leaders and everybody’s leaders, and all of us, could only tell the truth someone entitled to the truth (by this I mean, for example, there are some personal truths I share only with the appropriate physician). Or maybe I write about them in a journal.

Lowell was cremated, and the good part of that is I have the “urn,” a lead-lined cylinder about 14 inches high and almost 5 inches in diameter. It’s green and my daughter and I decorated it with flowers and tiny lights. On top are a pair of pewter lovebirds touching beaks. Lowell was especially fond of birds.

Now I’m coming to terms with the reality of his absence. I have quite a few photos of him hanging in my apartment. My fave is the one of him as a small child, barefoot, in overalls and a t-shirt, standing on a rutted road with a huge smile on his face and his eyes almost closed. He looks so happy. He used to say that once upon a time he and I met in a sandbox as little children–but of course we didn’t: he was in Hawai’i and I was in Iowa. But we dreamed our dreams, lived and loved.

I’d marry it again in a heartbeat, even knowing about this part of terrible loss.