Today while searching through my stash of new and partially used gift-wrap, gift bags, and tissue paper, I came upon a gift bag that was wan and wrinkled beyond usefulness. I don’t remember its history, whether I received it and saved it to re-gift, or whether I purchased it, but never discovered its occasion. I just remember keeping it, for many years, and seeing it every time I look through my supply.
It was originally one of those gift bags you order from the fund raisers for your co-workers’ kids’ schools or sports teams, because they are the least expensive item you can find, and you want to buy something, since your kid will probably have a fund raiser, too. These gift bags look really nice in the catalogue, but when your order comes in, you find out they are shaped like brown lunch bags, and the paper is – well, paper thin, not substantial like a real gift bag. They look as cheap as the price you paid for them. Serves you right. That would be “serves me right,” actually.
This one particular sad looking bag called out to me today, with its rust, gold, maroon and faded blue flowers, suspended on a dark chocolate background. It called out, not to be used. It just called out. The original design purported to be a tapestry of sorts – something like those screens you do cross-stitching on. It was pretty, but not very cheerful. The flowers seem to droop, or perhaps they were imprinted onto the master up-side down. Yes, I think that’s it, now that I turn the bag around.
Well, I knew I’d never put a gift in this bag. So I folded it lovingly, and placed it tenderly into my almost full trashcan. The gift bag seemed to solicit this sort of respect in its final hours. I found a comfy space for it between a collapsed packages-of-oatmeal box and the fliers that make their way weekly into my mailbox. You know the ones, from redplum.com “Coupons, Promo Codes, and Savings Tips – Find a Good Deal More.” Those.
Then, I started thinking about this item, how I’d kept it all these years, how it was in its own way a part of my family-of-origin’s frugal tradition of saving wrapping paper to be used a second, third, and fourth time, although it probably didn’t come from Mother, Daddy, or Margaret. And even though I know I won’t use it, I’ve grown attached to it. And, for goodness sake, I’ve now memorialized it in writing. How could I throw it away? So I’ve retrieved it from its sentence of doom, and here it sits beside me, as I am writing about it. What do I do with it now?
And what – you ask – makes this blog post fit into the retirement category? Well, ever since retirement was just a glimmer in my eye, I knew one of my first tasks would be related to my cluttered apartment. I call it: Clean Out and Clean Up, Search and Destroy, Organize and Arrange. Now that I am in my sixth week of retirement, I realize I have not started the daunting assignment I blithely said I’d take my first month to complete. My question is, how will I ever get rid of anything, if this silly little gift bag is any indication of My Propensities To Keep Stuff?
Stay tuned.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Life in the Slow Lane - Reflections from Retirement (Installment #1)
One of the most astonishing aberrations of retirement is my suspension of belief in the days of the week. Today, for instance, seems like a Saturday. I’m not sure why. It is Friday in the real world, but my brain keeps saying “Saturday.” Actually, I can make it whatever day I want, so long as I don’t tell anyone. Or if I do tell, I’ll need also to suspend my reactions to repercussive remarks from reality-based relatives (and friends) (but using friends breaks that lovely alliterative streak I had going there).
I think today may present itself as Saturday because most of the other days of this week, I’ve arranged encounters with the outside world, lots of them. In other words, I've been busy, in the Fast Lane sense of the word. And today, I do have a task to be completed: preparing a crock pot supper for Celebrate Recovery leadership before the CR meeting tonight, making it Friday in the real world, by the way, Brain. However, today I deviated from my Retirement-Based-Schedule-of-Sorts. I didn’t take my morning walk. I didn’t have my daily Quiet Time prior to entering my day. I haven’t even showered or changed out of my PJs yet. And though it’s almost noon, I just realized I never took my oatmeal breakfast out of the microwave to eat it, and I’ve been up since 7:45.
I did prepare gobs of fresh green beans already, now bubbling their way to tastiness in the crockpot. And I was in the process of washing the red potatoes when this day kept saying "Saturday, Saturday, Saturday." I suspended the potato preparation to write for posterity what I had been writing in my head, lest it go the way of many of my best works – into Oblivion, because I never wrote them down.
And for those of you who are tracking my TV addiction thing, no, I haven’t had the TV on today. But I did finish reading the last 70 pages of Wally Lamb’s novel The Hour I First Believed. I even uttered anguished cries aloud at the most unexpected plot turn. “No, no, no! You can’t let that happen!” And then I wept quietly most of the way to the very end, savoring the well-crafted, character-changing outcomes and the successful tying up of all sub-plot strings. A slow, introspective, leisurely Saturday sort of activity.
Though I have completed five weeks of retirement, the pace and content of my days still surprise me. Several busy days followed by a day of comparative inactivity apparently shifts me back into a workweek mentality. So if it’s okay with you, I’ll just go ahead and make this Saturday. Well, actually, that won’t work, because if it’s Saturday, I should have just finished watching the Gahanna Fourth of July Parade, and I should be busily making deviled eggs for my granddaughter’s third birthday party at 5:00. Hummmm.
When people ask me how my retirement is going, I’ve been saying, “It’s a mystery.” Yup, it sure is.
I think today may present itself as Saturday because most of the other days of this week, I’ve arranged encounters with the outside world, lots of them. In other words, I've been busy, in the Fast Lane sense of the word. And today, I do have a task to be completed: preparing a crock pot supper for Celebrate Recovery leadership before the CR meeting tonight, making it Friday in the real world, by the way, Brain. However, today I deviated from my Retirement-Based-Schedule-of-Sorts. I didn’t take my morning walk. I didn’t have my daily Quiet Time prior to entering my day. I haven’t even showered or changed out of my PJs yet. And though it’s almost noon, I just realized I never took my oatmeal breakfast out of the microwave to eat it, and I’ve been up since 7:45.
I did prepare gobs of fresh green beans already, now bubbling their way to tastiness in the crockpot. And I was in the process of washing the red potatoes when this day kept saying "Saturday, Saturday, Saturday." I suspended the potato preparation to write for posterity what I had been writing in my head, lest it go the way of many of my best works – into Oblivion, because I never wrote them down.
And for those of you who are tracking my TV addiction thing, no, I haven’t had the TV on today. But I did finish reading the last 70 pages of Wally Lamb’s novel The Hour I First Believed. I even uttered anguished cries aloud at the most unexpected plot turn. “No, no, no! You can’t let that happen!” And then I wept quietly most of the way to the very end, savoring the well-crafted, character-changing outcomes and the successful tying up of all sub-plot strings. A slow, introspective, leisurely Saturday sort of activity.
Though I have completed five weeks of retirement, the pace and content of my days still surprise me. Several busy days followed by a day of comparative inactivity apparently shifts me back into a workweek mentality. So if it’s okay with you, I’ll just go ahead and make this Saturday. Well, actually, that won’t work, because if it’s Saturday, I should have just finished watching the Gahanna Fourth of July Parade, and I should be busily making deviled eggs for my granddaughter’s third birthday party at 5:00. Hummmm.
When people ask me how my retirement is going, I’ve been saying, “It’s a mystery.” Yup, it sure is.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Morning Walk Revisited
This morning I walked willingly
omitting obligation
a grumpy fellowtraveler
Left him at home
I breathed
rain-washed earth pungency
I sang God’s praise
with robins and sparrows
I felt wind’s unwavering urgency
I absorbed Holy Spirit colors:
Deep blue morning glories
cascading over trellis ladders
Lush dense grass
wild from overnight storm
Orange palette day lilies
springing open at sunlight
Grey clouds superimposed
on bright white billows
with clear blue sky patches
peering through
Jesus,
breathe all vivid colors
of who you are
into my spirit’s lungs
willing me to live free
as you paint your image
in me
Nancy Godfrey
June 6, 2010
omitting obligation
a grumpy fellowtraveler
Left him at home
I breathed
rain-washed earth pungency
I sang God’s praise
with robins and sparrows
I felt wind’s unwavering urgency
I absorbed Holy Spirit colors:
Deep blue morning glories
cascading over trellis ladders
Lush dense grass
wild from overnight storm
Orange palette day lilies
springing open at sunlight
Grey clouds superimposed
on bright white billows
with clear blue sky patches
peering through
Jesus,
breathe all vivid colors
of who you are
into my spirit’s lungs
willing me to live free
as you paint your image
in me
Nancy Godfrey
June 6, 2010
Morning Walk - 2006
The air is still.
Morning mist hangs heavy
In the trees.
Step after step after step
She treks the sidewalks
Hoping to exchange lethargy
For health
Hoping excess pounds
Will fall from her aging frame
Hoping her Lord will infuse
Her fainting spirit with His fire.
She passes houses that
Do not divulge their secrets
Willingly.
But cluttered lawns
And unswept sidewalks betray
Their owners’ indifference.
Neatly manicured bushes
And flowerbeds suggest
Their owners’ orderly lives.
This is a timid emotionless neighborhood
Judging by random gardens.
Sparsely-sown shy flowers
Dot heavily mulched plots.
No lavishly-painted day lilies
Sing their songs in these yards.
No proud hostas
Parade their rich variety
Of greens here.
A single geranium now and then
A few neat clumps
Of impatiens
Purple morning glories climbing
A mailbox or two
Suggest muted lives.
One house remains
Permanently placid –
A puzzle to the morning walker.
An upright wooden organ rests
Upon the porch.
A second story window
Stays ajar at the same distance
Day after day.
No car in the driveway.
No porchlight left burning
Into the early hours of dawn.
Does anyone live here?
Who abandoned this house,
Not for sale
But definitely dormant?
Who lives behind
The cryptic faces
She sees each day?
What signs can she detect?
What insights?
Lord of the lost,
Show her who resides
Inside gnarled lives
Along her way.
Is the house abandoned
Or is its resident hiding?
Do perfectly edged lawns mean
Hearts in harmony with you?
Will you show her snarled souls
Inside masked countenances,
Drawing them to yourself
Through her?
Will you place in her hands
Vivid seeds
With kaleidoscopic possibilities
To be sown in fertile soil?
You have answered her prayer
For fire-infused power.
You will stretch
Her morning walk
Into a daily pilgrimage of praise.
Unneeded excess stuff
Is falling from her soul.
Her eyes are open to see
The creativity of your love
Surrounding her journey.
Astound her with the brilliance
Of your gardens
As she walks the path
Of her destiny.
Nancy Godfrey
August 20, 2006
Morning mist hangs heavy
In the trees.
Step after step after step
She treks the sidewalks
Hoping to exchange lethargy
For health
Hoping excess pounds
Will fall from her aging frame
Hoping her Lord will infuse
Her fainting spirit with His fire.
She passes houses that
Do not divulge their secrets
Willingly.
But cluttered lawns
And unswept sidewalks betray
Their owners’ indifference.
Neatly manicured bushes
And flowerbeds suggest
Their owners’ orderly lives.
This is a timid emotionless neighborhood
Judging by random gardens.
Sparsely-sown shy flowers
Dot heavily mulched plots.
No lavishly-painted day lilies
Sing their songs in these yards.
No proud hostas
Parade their rich variety
Of greens here.
A single geranium now and then
A few neat clumps
Of impatiens
Purple morning glories climbing
A mailbox or two
Suggest muted lives.
One house remains
Permanently placid –
A puzzle to the morning walker.
An upright wooden organ rests
Upon the porch.
A second story window
Stays ajar at the same distance
Day after day.
No car in the driveway.
No porchlight left burning
Into the early hours of dawn.
Does anyone live here?
Who abandoned this house,
Not for sale
But definitely dormant?
Who lives behind
The cryptic faces
She sees each day?
What signs can she detect?
What insights?
Lord of the lost,
Show her who resides
Inside gnarled lives
Along her way.
Is the house abandoned
Or is its resident hiding?
Do perfectly edged lawns mean
Hearts in harmony with you?
Will you show her snarled souls
Inside masked countenances,
Drawing them to yourself
Through her?
Will you place in her hands
Vivid seeds
With kaleidoscopic possibilities
To be sown in fertile soil?
You have answered her prayer
For fire-infused power.
You will stretch
Her morning walk
Into a daily pilgrimage of praise.
Unneeded excess stuff
Is falling from her soul.
Her eyes are open to see
The creativity of your love
Surrounding her journey.
Astound her with the brilliance
Of your gardens
As she walks the path
Of her destiny.
Nancy Godfrey
August 20, 2006
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Bum Thumb, Loose Screws, and GERD
Okay, so discussing one’s own medical maladies is admittedly a dangerous topic. Do you, like me, practice your ho-hum eye roll whenever someone says, “Let me tell you about my operation”? But wait! This blog piece will rivet you to your computer screen; it will bring smiles and chuckles. Uh-oh. I just typed the second most dangerous way to begin a blog post – self-announcing how entertaining the topic will be. Well, you be the jury. I have thick skin (and a bum thumb and GERD).
This story begins when my middle daughter was hospitalized week before last, for what turned out to be her gallbladder. From Wednesday morning until Friday afternoon I undertook a text frenzy from her bedside, keeping “family group” updated on her condition and treatment, as well as answering multiple individual texted responses. It wasn’t until the weekend that I paid attention to the fact that my formerly enlarged and ouch-y left carpal-metacarpal thumb joint (nearest the wrist) was now constantly crying and complaining, with moments of lightning pain and numbness, accompanied by increased swelling and redness. Something was wrong.
Dutiful patient that I am, I saw my family physician on Wednesday. She said probable tendonitis on top of already existing arthritis. Ice it three times a day, purchase and wear a left wrist splint for two weeks, and take Aleve for the inflammation. Oh, that’s right; you have GERD, so an anti-inflammatory will probably damage your stomach lining. Well, try acetaminophen, for the pain. And no more texting! (Yeah, like that’s going to happen…) Oh, yes, GERD is gastroesophageal reflux disease, also known as gastric reflux.
Fast forward to Thursday (oh, that would be the next day), when my left ankle started whining. Now granted, I have hardware in that joint, from when I fractured it about 15 years ago. Hardware – that’s what medical people call the metal that orthopedic surgeons install on a broken bone to stabilize it for healing. Sometimes they take it out later; sometimes they leave it there. (Mine’s still there.) Some people with hardware have increased pain during cold or rainy weather; some don’t (I don’t). So I’m wondering why my ankle is whimpering more than usual; it’s raining, but that’s never been a problem before. After getting home from Bible Basics at Vineyard, I inspect the ankle more carefully. I notice how it’s red, swollen, and tender to the touch. I wonder what’s going on.
Friday at work, I discuss my symptoms with the RNs at my company; they are case managers, pre-certification and utilization review nurses. They suggest varying causes for my symptoms, but all agree I should call my doctor. When she calls me back, she thinks I might have a loose screw. She orders an immediate X-ray, ice to the ankle, and Aleve even though I have GERD, with a follow-up appointment on Monday. When I report back to the nurses at work, one has the nerve to say, “Well, we could have told you that, without your doctor’s opinion!” The hardware, you see, is a metal plate attached by 7 or 8 screws. Perhaps the funniest part of this story concerns the order written by my MD and faxed to the X-ray facility. It said, “Left Ankle X-ray – Loose Screw.” I kid you not. You have to understand my doctor is A Real Person With a Wonderful Sense of Humor. I love her.
In the continuing sub-plot of the bum thumb, I found it necessary to actually purchase the splint. See previous paragraph where I mention the second appointment with Dr. T. She would not be happy about non-compliance. Besides, she is Always Right. I found a lovely thumb splint at Wal-Mart and obediently applied it on Saturday. Now, until you can’t use your left thumb, you cannot fully appreciate how many daily tasks require one. I clearly empathized this morning with my oldest daughter. First, you have to understand that when God was creating body parts for His children, He forgot a left hand for this beautiful, accomplished woman. (That would be ICD-9 Code 755.21 – congenital absence of forearm including hand.) So, my daughter, I’ve witnessed you deftly put on pantyhose (along with all the other daily routines you skillfully perform with only one hand), but help me now: how do you fasten your bra?
Update: I just spoke with Daughter #1. She says, "No, Mommy. God doesn't forget anything. That's the way He made me." And, "I fasten it in front. You taught me to do it like that." Interesting, how much I have forgotten in life.
Well, we have yet to confirm for sure whether I have a loose screw or not. Opinions do not count. We’re looking for medical evidence, here. Screws in orthopedic hardware do work themselves loose. In my own defense, no test has been ordered on my brain.
We’ll find out about my ankle tomorrow morning.
This story begins when my middle daughter was hospitalized week before last, for what turned out to be her gallbladder. From Wednesday morning until Friday afternoon I undertook a text frenzy from her bedside, keeping “family group” updated on her condition and treatment, as well as answering multiple individual texted responses. It wasn’t until the weekend that I paid attention to the fact that my formerly enlarged and ouch-y left carpal-metacarpal thumb joint (nearest the wrist) was now constantly crying and complaining, with moments of lightning pain and numbness, accompanied by increased swelling and redness. Something was wrong.
Dutiful patient that I am, I saw my family physician on Wednesday. She said probable tendonitis on top of already existing arthritis. Ice it three times a day, purchase and wear a left wrist splint for two weeks, and take Aleve for the inflammation. Oh, that’s right; you have GERD, so an anti-inflammatory will probably damage your stomach lining. Well, try acetaminophen, for the pain. And no more texting! (Yeah, like that’s going to happen…) Oh, yes, GERD is gastroesophageal reflux disease, also known as gastric reflux.
Fast forward to Thursday (oh, that would be the next day), when my left ankle started whining. Now granted, I have hardware in that joint, from when I fractured it about 15 years ago. Hardware – that’s what medical people call the metal that orthopedic surgeons install on a broken bone to stabilize it for healing. Sometimes they take it out later; sometimes they leave it there. (Mine’s still there.) Some people with hardware have increased pain during cold or rainy weather; some don’t (I don’t). So I’m wondering why my ankle is whimpering more than usual; it’s raining, but that’s never been a problem before. After getting home from Bible Basics at Vineyard, I inspect the ankle more carefully. I notice how it’s red, swollen, and tender to the touch. I wonder what’s going on.
Friday at work, I discuss my symptoms with the RNs at my company; they are case managers, pre-certification and utilization review nurses. They suggest varying causes for my symptoms, but all agree I should call my doctor. When she calls me back, she thinks I might have a loose screw. She orders an immediate X-ray, ice to the ankle, and Aleve even though I have GERD, with a follow-up appointment on Monday. When I report back to the nurses at work, one has the nerve to say, “Well, we could have told you that, without your doctor’s opinion!” The hardware, you see, is a metal plate attached by 7 or 8 screws. Perhaps the funniest part of this story concerns the order written by my MD and faxed to the X-ray facility. It said, “Left Ankle X-ray – Loose Screw.” I kid you not. You have to understand my doctor is A Real Person With a Wonderful Sense of Humor. I love her.
In the continuing sub-plot of the bum thumb, I found it necessary to actually purchase the splint. See previous paragraph where I mention the second appointment with Dr. T. She would not be happy about non-compliance. Besides, she is Always Right. I found a lovely thumb splint at Wal-Mart and obediently applied it on Saturday. Now, until you can’t use your left thumb, you cannot fully appreciate how many daily tasks require one. I clearly empathized this morning with my oldest daughter. First, you have to understand that when God was creating body parts for His children, He forgot a left hand for this beautiful, accomplished woman. (That would be ICD-9 Code 755.21 – congenital absence of forearm including hand.) So, my daughter, I’ve witnessed you deftly put on pantyhose (along with all the other daily routines you skillfully perform with only one hand), but help me now: how do you fasten your bra?
Update: I just spoke with Daughter #1. She says, "No, Mommy. God doesn't forget anything. That's the way He made me." And, "I fasten it in front. You taught me to do it like that." Interesting, how much I have forgotten in life.
Well, we have yet to confirm for sure whether I have a loose screw or not. Opinions do not count. We’re looking for medical evidence, here. Screws in orthopedic hardware do work themselves loose. In my own defense, no test has been ordered on my brain.
We’ll find out about my ankle tomorrow morning.
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