A friend and I were emailing back and forth about the popular psychology that “it takes two to tango” and that insists people take responsibilty for their part in relationship problems instead of blaming others. I said sometimes it does seem that one person is being honest and fair while the other is being a jerk, and that this needs to be acknowledged. In the notes for The Dance of Anger, by Harriet Goldhor Lerner, this was put into words quite nicely:

"Hopefully my statement that we let go of 'angrily blaming that other person whom we see as causing our problems and failing to provide for our happiness' will not be misinterpreted. Here and throughout this book, I am referring to nonproductive blaming that perpetuates the status quo; this must be distinguished from other-directed anger that challenges it. Obviously, the ability to voice anger at discrimination and injustice is necessary not only for the maintenance of self-esteem but for the very process of personal and social change as well."

Maybe my mother was right. She wouldn’t let me go to the funeral of a classmate when I was in Grade 3 or 4 because she thought I was too ‘high strung,’ that I would be too bothered afterward.

We came home from visiting with Vincent at his Christmas party last night and, as usual after seeing him, I was devastated. It is so painful to see the life he is living, with no way out of it but death. I do not know how he copes — I guess he has no choice — and I do not know what I can do to help him. Perhaps that is what bothers me so much: that I can’t fix this.

The hospital setting, his room — without a home-made quilt, without a personal picture on the wall; loving music, one of his few pleasures, but having a CD player that is unreliable and not being able to afford a new one; no way of changing his circumstances.

I came home, and thought “The only thing that will help Vincent survive is his art,” even if he has to start drawing with his mouth because his one good arm isn’t that good anymore, is very weak.

Does anyone but the nurses, when putting him to bed or bathing him, even touch him? I asked for, and gave, a hug and kiss before we left. I wanted to gather him up and bring him home and make everything all right. But it is so not all right.

My lover went to sleep, and I put on the first CD in our 200-CD machine. It was one of Joni Mitchell’s earliest, and I went to bed with it playing, followed by several of her other CDs in the order in which they were released. She astounds me ... the beauty and power of her voice, her guitar- and piano-playing, the words so alive, the poetry of song, and her delivery — each song a polished gem in a string of jewels — that I decided if I had to choose one CD to be stranded on a desert island with, it would definitely be Joni’s Court and Spark. Talk about perfection. Of all the music I love, and there is plenty ... this I could not do without.

Ah, a good day, a normal day, a day of wellness after a day of suffering. Yesterday I took a pill at 7:30 a.m. and another kind at 10:30, and it wasn’t until 2:30 p.m. that I felt life was worth living again.

It is a sunny day, and one in which there is a date with my sweetheart to look forward to.

I’ve done a few dishes (not all), and swept the floor, and wiped the table and counters. I’ve started designing a web page for the fictional diary, and that’s kind of fun. I am so not a designer, but I do enjoy playing around with graphics and photos and fonts. And of course first thing this morning I wrote today’s entry for it. It is becoming more of a challenge, but I welcome it. I’ve always been able to rise to a challenge; perhaps it’s what I need.

In two hours I am to be ready to go. So I think I’ll go out for a walk now, get some fresh air. Toodle oo!

I let Barney loose with the digital camera.
So here, have at 'em.

These are made from beeswax:

My friend makes these. We have some for our Christmas tree. Angels playing trumpets.

I am a very bad girl. Didn't empty the flower pots and put them away for the winter.

Barney made this. It is on the light switch in the room I share with Sweetiepie.
 

You've seen it:

 

He is everywhere:

So is he:

Gloxinia:

Garage Sale specials:

I’ve been a slacker. Here, and in my life in general. Letting the dishes wait, hardly baking, not going out for a walk, all so that I can sit at my computer and read and write.

I have started doing yoga again though, down in front of the woodstove. It is magical — how good it feels, how fast.

The walker supports Don from the bottom of the step to the schoolbus each weekday morning, then stands near the juncture of our driveway and the main driveway while he is away at school.

I have been watching for the Big Healing for Don to take place this year, gift from The Sky, answer to my New Year’s Wish. It hasn’t happened, and if it doesn’t before 2004, it will be the first time I’ve made a NY’s wish that didn’t come true.

Why? I wonder. Is it because it’s a bunch of malarky? Or is it because we are not permitted to alter the life path of another? It’s one thing to wish for a new home, or a new love, or a career path. All of these are things I wished for myself. But maybe Don needs his life to be the way it is, and changing it drastically is not my call.

Rationalization in case of malarky?
Or truth; old knowledge ignored when I made the wish?

<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><><><><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<>

The Special Needs teacher called to talk about Don’s progress in school.

He is learning at an astonishing rate in his Math and reading this year; he is “my star pupil,” she said. “He has won the hearts of everyone in the school,” she added. “He is so friendly; we all love him. Of course, you’ve heard this before.”

“I have. Everywhere he’s been, his whole life. But I never get tired of hearing it.”

The way she is talking, he has improved dramatically in the area of academic comprehension. Maybe he is crossing over an intellectual threshold of some sort. His teacher seems excited.

I was kneeling on the living room floor the other night, folding a pair of his long underwear from the pile of clothes fresh from the dryer, when I glanced over and saw Farmbeau gazing at me with warm affection. I said, “It’s the sight of a woman doing your laundry, isn’t it? Ah ha! Now you know how I feel when I see you checking the oil in my van.”

The other morning I got up earlier than usual and sat in the living room, drinking my first cup of coffee. When the fire’s been going a while, the living room is the cosiest room in the house, and of course with the couch and chairs there, it’s the most comfortable. Farmbeau joined me with his coffee, and had a good gab. He had the gab. It takes me a while to feel like talking. But he was pleased to have someone to talk to.

The stomach of the stove was begging for wood, so I went out about 8 this morning to get an armload. As I stacked split logs onto my left arm, the sun glinting off the snow beckoned me out for a walk.

I stoked the fire and girded up for a winter stroll in Saskatchewan.

You may wear ski pants. You may wrap a wool scarf around your neck. You may wear ear muffs and mittens, and boots with felt liners. Your coat may be a long mink number or a short downfilled jacket. You may even be smart enough to wear a tuque. But unless you’re a balaclava wearer, the wind will freeze the skin on your face anyway.

Marya, this is the picture I was telling you about. The travelling minstrel took a photo somewhere in the BC rainforest, turned it on its side, added its mirror image, and voila this little guy makes me want to sit and contemplate the nature spirits. I see many things in this picture at various times -- a totem pole leading into the meditator’s heaven, a cute canine, a Victorian lady. I could look at this picture a lot. And do, as it’s in my livingroom (see below), where you can often spot an empty Boh bottle. God that’s good beer, if I say so myself.

I dug through my trusty old cookbooks till I found one for whole wheat pasta. Will try that today, with the machine I bought this summer.

Blue sky today, it’s been a while since we had one of these. Must get out in it.

xoxo
etc
kate

You put on ski pants and a tuque and scarf and jacket and mitts and boots. It takes an hour* to dress to go out.

I'm keeping warm, carrying wood in, stoking the stove, going for short walks between food prep and cleanage, reading and writing. Been to a potluck gathering of the Likeminded Ladies and for supper at Jack and Dawna's. The stuff of life.

I asked my sister Jill how she felt about being the basis of a character in the fictional journal I 'm posting.

"Use my middle name instead of my first," she said, "and it's fine."

"Okay, done. I've asked someone else to write entries for your character, too. Thought that might help keep it interesting."

"Kate, you've never written anything boring," she said. Jill doesn't know about this journal, mind you.

But is as loyal and lovely a sister as ever a person could have.

xoxo
etc
kate

* slightly exaggerated