This message from the Universe Comes from http://www.tut.com/
The older the soul, Ramona, the softer the glance, the quicker the smile and the sooner to say “I love you.”
Utterly fearless,
The Universe
They also skip and wink more than normal,and hold hands with those they walk beside.
Post 50
Comic strip “Pickles” June 20, 2012
Early this morning I was awakened by my kitty who was trying to let me know that her food bowl was empty. I had forgotten to fill it last night when I served dinner for my parents, which is when I usually fill her bowl with a quarter cup of dry pellets.
I have been working on training her not to meow the entire time that I am filling the bowl, because in the mornings it tends to wake my parents. As I opened the cabinet where I keep her bag of food I realized that this cat has no idea where the food comes from. I mean she may know that it is in this particular cabinet, but she has no idea how to reach it. This cat has no knowledge that I go to work, earn wages, go to a store and spend some of those wages to purchase a bag of food that was manufactured in a plant that converts god knows what into the delicious little pellets that she so loves.
I wondered if she sat around and wondered where it all comes from or what the process is in order for her to eat. I came to the conclusion that we are in the same position of this kitty without knowledge. We think that because we know where it came from that we know everything that we need to know. We may know where the food comes from and how it’s made, (most of the time), but there are things that are hidden in the cabinet so to speak, that we indulge in, but have no clue how we got it.
An example would be the rapper. Here is a person who has no idea where his/her wealth comes from. They think it comes from rapping, but there are hundreds of thousands of rappers, what makes their rap so special that it over fills the bowl? The basketball player who earns millions of dollars for shooting hoops thinks that he is such a special player that the resource comes from playing. In fact there are hundreds of thousands of players who can play just as well, even better who don’t share the same filling of the bowl experience. Can you say “Jeremy Lin?
Again, the bowl fills, over fills or under fills. This is our perception. We really have no clue what fills it. We come to a conclusion based on exterior manifestations that solidify what we believe.
I was told last night by “Veronique Corbett” author of “A different kind of love” that what we believe is just that, what we believe. What we know, that is what is true.
So I ask you-
How does your bowl get filled? Do you know or do you believe?
(Picture 1) Gilberto Socarras raised me for the first seven years. He was married to Mercedes, who was my mother’s sister. In reality he was my uncle, but I would not find that out until I was seven, at which point I returned home. I immediately felt the loss of Gilberto. I admit that I missed him more than I did Mercedes. I loved when he came home from work and kicked back in his recliner. That is when I would bring his house slippers and change his shoes out for the comfy slip-ons. He would light up a cigarette and I would climb up in his lap as fast as I could to blow out his match. I became fond of the smell of a burnt match as a result of this daily conditioning. Once I went home I never got to see him again. I got to spend some time with him when I was twelve and then I wouldn’t see him again until I was in my thirties. Gilberto has since passed and when I look at the only photo that I have us together I can still smell that burnt match.
(Picture 2)Luis Pedron was my natural father. I had known him my whole life, but he came into his role when I was seven. That is when my whole life was ripped out from under me and a new life was prepared for me without my consent, consult or participation. I had left the quiet home where I was an only child to a noisy, conflicted and chaotic world that my mother had created. I went from having my own room, to sharing with Lola. I had to share everything with Lola. That included my father. Needless to say I was an emotional wreck. I had difficulty with my origins, my identity and worth. I had panic attacks and had trouble sleeping. I would run to my new father and express the fear that I couldn’t explain. Luis always took the time to try to give me some peace of mind. I came to him because I had discovered a mark on my pinky that I had never noticed before. I was afraid of things showing up on my skin because I was afraid of what was inside me was about to come out.
Luis showed me the same exact mark on one of his fingers. He told me a story about how he had been lost at sea for many years and when he returned home safe and went to his mother’s house she told him that her son was lost at sea, but then he showed her this mark and she realized this was her son. Now that story was longer and more detailed about his survival on a deserted island, but the just of the story was that I belonged. He was my father and he proved it. Even if it was through a phony story, it made me feel like I was where I belonged.
(Picture 3) Bill Schermerhorn would come into his role of father just three years after Luis took over. My parents divorced when I was ten and my mother soon married Bill. I never called him dad, as much as my mother tried, I just couldn’t do it. Bill was Bill. When Bill first came on the scene it was all about my mother. He was mad about her. Whatever she said is what was done. He adored her and it was obvious in those first years. It was never uncomfortable. I didn’t ever feel that he had invaded our lives. At least for me, I was used to the fluctuation at this point in my life. Bill was a victim as we all were that loved my mother. Sometimes that is what brought us closer, sometimes it was what drove us apart. I can say that he never abused back. He never disrespected the girls. That was true of all my fathers. Bill was an educated and intelligent man. He taught us vocabulary daily. It was important to him because we were so behind in language since we had learned Spanish first. Bill may not have played the role of father that was traditional, but his role was to care for my mother. To this very day I don’t know what would have become of my mother if she had not met him. Actually, I do know. It would have been disastrous for all of us. He is her rock; as a result, he is our rock. He holds this role silent of any acknowledgement for what he does.
So to my three fathers, I say Happy Father’s Day and thank you for taking part in what my perception of a father is. It’s a good perception, thanks to you all.
Memorial Day marked one year since I moved my parents in. I have been caring for them for one year now. When I say my parents, I mean them as a unit. This week I had the rare opportunity to care for my mother alone. My stepfather came down with pneumonia and was hospitalized for two days. That was 48 hours of Mami, all alone.
In the meantime, I have been babying 4 flowering plants that my good friend Rick brought me to put some color into my spring. I must say that the plants were questionably healthy. They were dry, but still had some flowers. I threw them on the patio until I could get around to replanting them. A few days later I replanted the babies and began to care for them on a daily basis. I watched over weeks how they began to shrivel up. They were dry, so I moved them to a shady spot. Before long I had to begin cutting away at them, and little by little there was but a single stem on each of the four plants with nothing green growing on them at all. At this point I can’t really do much about it. I would shop for new ones and start again.
While my stepfather was in the hospital I had to watch over my mother. I am her caretaker; I am not the one who is by her side minute by minute. I stay by her side when my stepfather bathes, or when he is in physical therapy, and when he needs to nap. I have to sit with her every minute. If she is left alone she panics because she has no understanding of her surroundings at any given time. Having me or my stepfather next to her ensures her of her existence. She will ask every 5 minutes where my stepdad is. She will ask it as if it were the first time she asked. So I sit and answer her over and over because this is the only grasp she has on reality. This is her security, without one of us she would have nothing to base her life on and confusion would be a constant state of mind for her.
The two days that I had her all to myself would prove that this life, this journey and our experience is ever changing. That expectation affects the outcome. I had a concept of caring for my mother. Actually I have been calling it an equation. I call it the equation because I am always adding, subtracting or multiplying ideas that work or don’t work in keeping my mother at peace as she loses her mind. I will blog about this equation later.
Though trial and error I have learned some things, but with her alone this week I have hurdled over mounds of experience that has really put me ahead of the game. Our first day alone I spent two hours in our drive way, following her around making sure that she didn’t sit in an ant pile that she favors. I do this with her quite a bit, but because of the absence of my step father, it was kicked up a notch. The neighbors must think we are nuts. When I would get in her way and not let her sit in the pile, she would scream obscenities and try to hit me. Whenever she would lift her fist to me I would do something to distract her like I would just start doing jumping jacks or I would go into a Broadway dance routine. It worked. I decided that while she was verbally assaulting me that I would instead look at nature. I would focus on how the trees flowed in the wind rather than resisting. How wonderfully green everything was as we had days of rain. I do this because part of the equation that I came up with tells me that I have to eliminate negativity from my thinking. Instead of dreading a disease that runs in my family I am going to improve my ability to think positive. If I can master 100 percent, and I lose half of my brain function, then I will still have positive connections from which to draw on. Just a theory at this point, but I think I’m on to something here.
The last night that we spent alone together, my mother and I sat on the back patio for the first time in days because of the heavy rains, and we chatted forever. It was nice. I noticed one of the plants had grown green and bloomed. I got up from my seat and walked over to it. I just stared in amazement that it had not only survived, but it produced a soft purple flower. I looked over to my mother and realized that we had bloomed too. We had not only survived a dysfunctional past, a life time of illusions about who we were, but we were surviving this disease that threatened any chance for healing it all.
My mother watched me quietly and finally asked me “What is it?”
“The flower bloomed.” I told her.
“It’s beautiful.” She said with a smile
“So are you.” I said as I looked back.
“I look just like you.” She answered humbly.
“Isn’t life beautiful?” I asked her.
She began to sing:
“La realidad es morir y nacer
Porque llenarnos de tanto illusiones
La vida es un sueno, todo se va”
Translated:
Reality is to die and be born
Why fill ourselves with so many illusions
Life is a dream, everything goes away.”
I was amazed that she knew so many words to the Benny More song. I had my mother for the two days, but in that moment I had the real her. For a moment she was present, really present. This was the blooming of the flower. I shall enjoy it now because it will go away, and then come back again, but who knows when.
Like the flowers that I was caring for, my parents are withering away and you have to ask what the use is, but the blooming flower combined with my mother’s song reminds me that life is a dream and everything goes away, and then comes back. In the meantime, we care for it always.
For the last 8 nights I have been waking up at 3 a.m. I wake up as though it’s time to start the day. Some nights I will turn on the television and watch some brain numbing cartoon like Family Guy or American Dad. Other times I will lay there and try to go to sleep, but that’s exactly what I do, try to sleep.
According to Rob Thomas being up at 3 a.m. means that you must be lonely. What exactly does lonely mean? I’ve always considered lonely to mean that you need someone. Today though, I think it means that you feel alone. Is that what 3 a.m. is all about, being alone?
Since I am alone, I have the time to ask the questions that plague me. The first question I ask myself is “why am I up at 3 a.m.? The first few nights I lay in my bed hoping to fall asleep, but as the sleepless nights wore on, I found myself getting up and doing laundry, emptying the dishwasher or sitting at my computer hoping to come up with a meaningful blog.
When I was a little girl I had trouble sleeping, mostly because I was afraid when the house was quiet and dark. Both of which I was deathly afraid of. That was when I began to write. Writing took me away from where I was at the present moment and to the place of dreams and illusions.
I’m older now and I really need my sleep. I sometimes think about Michael Jackson, who claims he hadn’t slept for decades and wonder if that could be happening to me. Insomnia is common in my family and I hoped that I wasn’t falling into an unhealthy pattern.
On about the fourth night of waking up I heard a loud boom. It sounded like someone had hit the wall of my house. The first thing I did was to check on the old folks to make sure they hadn’t fallen. They were sound asleep so then I checked all the doors to make sure they were locked. As I began to pass a window, I saw a man standing at the top of our 9 foot stone wall. I could see him from the waist up and he didn’t have a shirt on. I hid behind the curtain as I phoned 911. I was seriously shaking by this time. As I talked to the dispatcher I noticed some bright flashes coming from below this man. It was like someone was taking pictures of his voyeurism. I waited for the police to arrive walking from window to window, turning on all the flood lights. The dispatcher asked if I had a weapon, I guess since the Trayvon Martin case in Sanford, they wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to start shooting a suspicious person.
The cops arrived and said that there was nothing out there. I asked them to take a drive around and they said that they would. Of course I didn’t sleep at all after that. Every noise alarmed me. When the ice tray dumped ice into the bucket in the freezer I heard it. When the motor in the water cooler turn off and on, I heard it.
The next morning once daylight arrived I took my coffee outside to investigate just what was going on. I was looking to see what this guy was standing on that set him up so high that I could see his entire torso. Sure enough, right where the security gate opens and closes there was a place on the pointed gate where someone could easily enter the complex and stand over my wall. One of the points was broken off, which is probably where he stood. As I contemplated what this guy was up to, a man was approaching from down the street. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. Could this be my perp?
The young man, who resembled the freak on my wall last night, approached me directly. He was a young guy, I’m guessing around 23 years old, and he asked me if I had seen a wallet around the area where I was standing. I realized this was my guy. “No, I didn’t see a wallet. Why, did you happen to be climbing the gate last night?” I asked him.
“No, the cab left me just outside the gate.” He answered.
“Well, did you have a good time?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He said as he walked away from me.
This was my guy, I just know it. He got drunk, couldn’t work his gate code correctly and decided to climb the gate. Why he stood there as long as he did is a mystery, but I feel better knowing that it was just a drunk kid and not some weirdo.
So if you are ever up at 3 a.m., go back to bed. We don’t need to know what goes on at that time.
ramonapedron 