flagrant thoughts

My pain, my amazement, my very smallness, overwhelm me
At moments in life, not always significant; at least not at the time.
But what can we know of greatness when the oak is still an acorn?
Did Einstein’s mother neglect her right to irritation
knowing that he would expand E=Mc2 from the wall to cosmic proportion?
Did Mozart’s father ever tell him to put the damn pans back in the cupboard?
Did De Vinci know he was monumental, or did he feel he was the manic/depressive
His friends probably thought him to be?
Could cummings have written about the bitter hands of winter as lovingly as he did of spring?
Or is it all, perhaps, just patience, good weather, and historical luck?
Not that I’ll ever be more than a woman wishing for well-loved, a mother long-loving,
And a mortal enduring. But some days, most days, that is enough.
For those few that it is not, I write; if not always well, at least honestly.

Waiting on my toast...

So yes, it has been one of the periods in this wild journey that makes you stop more often than expected to catch your breath and search for meaning or at least a little humor.

I spent last week back and forth between work, the hospital (where my mother was held hostage awaiting a diagnosis of congestive heart failure), and home to see which of the kids needed help with homework before starting in on my own. Why I find it necessary to seek another degree at 43 is beyond me, but I still feel it is the right path at this time. This Monday I found out that the financial aid I budgeted to catch up on the mortgage payment would not be in on Sept 24 as expected, but would actually be held until Nov 15- a week after I started attending my 3rd class which is my 6th credit hour this term. I spent 5 minutes in the bathroom crying, then returned to my desk.

In sorting email to tackle the days tasks I found one from a dear friend that has, for the week at least, put  things in perspective. It goes like this:

   

     Frank & Marge, a 90 year-old couple, go in for their annual exam. The doctor reports that for their ages they are both in remarkably good health, and side notes that due to common memory issues with advanced ages they may want to get in the habit of writing things down. That evening as they are watching TV together Frank asks if Marge would like anything from the kitchen while he is up. She responds, "Why yes! Some ice cream would be lovely dear." Frank responds, "Alrighty then." "Dear you should write it down like the doc said." "Woman, I can remember a bowl of ice cream," mutters Frank. "Well I'm certain you can dear, but I want strawberries on top. So I think you should write it down." "No, I don't need paper to recall ice cream and strawberries for 20 ft." "Well yes perhaps not dear, but I want whipped cream on top as well, so you really should write it down.""Woman, I been with ya for 60 years. I know how you want your ice cream. I don't need to write it down to remember strawberries and whipped cream."  Twenty minutes later Frank returns from the kitchen and hands Marge a plate of bacon and eggs. She looks at the plate, looks at Frank, and says, "Where's my toast?"

Once I stopped laughing like the mad woman I know I am at times, I realized that was the key. I may have thought I wanted Ice cream with strawberries and whipped cream, but life has selected bacon and eggs for me, and I am ok with that... I just want to know where my toast is.

So for those of you, who, like me are looking for reason in the pain and insanity that can overwhelm us at times I offer this, a sincere and heartfelt wish for at least one perfect piece of toast this week. When you bite in and taste the warm salty butter and lick that dollop of jam from your top lip with an embarrassed smile, hold that thought in your heart as ammunition against the next disappointment or moment of despair; remember that sometimes bacon and eggs is a better preparation for what is to come than ice cream.