Patchouli Ponderings

Jehovah answers.
My mother is dancing now.

Hush, little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mockingbird won't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring
And if that diamond ring turns brass,
Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass
And if that looking glass gets broke,
Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat
And if that billy goat won't pull,
Mama's gonna buy you a cart and bull
And if that cart and bull turn over,
Mama's going to buy you a dog named Rover.
And if that dog named Rover won't bark,
Mama's going to buy you a horse and cart.
And if that horse and cart fall down,
You'll still be the sweetest little baby in town

I feel like a lone traveler
until someone catches me
when I stumble

I've been watching my own feet
unaware that you are here
right here
walking along with me

Holding me up
with words written on a page
But more than that

A strong arm
A cup of cold water
A song by a campfire
Bread for strength

And we get up, walk on
Facing forward
Watching not my feet
but on the lookout for those who are weary

Almost two years ago, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. The bad kind that no one survives. I talked to the doctor--told him to cut the vague BS because I'm smarter than I look--he had mercy on me and told me the truth; no one survives this. She has done all of the usual things--the radiation, the chemo, the experimental GEMZAR that made her want to die just to feel better--and now the treatments are over because the cancer is everywhere, on the move, taking over her body. Now she is waiting, using morphine and fentanyl to ease the pain.
My siblings are grief-stricken; they expected the doctors and the meds to work, for God to perform a miracle and heal their mother. They look at me with suspicion, wondering why I don't fall apart when they do--they LOVE her, that's why they cry--I must not LOVE her.
I dreamed about this years ago. The terror, the tears, the grief that takes the strength out of your legs and breath out of your body--I've done it already. There was not one minute that I thought she would survive this--where is my faith? They have been praying daily for her healing, laying hands on her once a week for healing--they believe and wonder Why? Why doesn't God heal her?

Isaiah 55:8-9 (New International Version)

Of all the gifts my grandmother passed to me--gardening, stubbornness, my birthday--the one that would really like to return is the ability to make a mountain out of a molehill. A day wasn't complete without something to worry about, to obsess over, to suck the good right out of the morning, afternoon, and night. I learned well from my grandmother.

These days are busier than ever; I've started my practicum along with the last required classes before graduation, there are three teen-agers in the house now, and Mr. P's business is growing. Someone is constantly needing something RIGHT NOW--clients, kids, pets, school, bills, laundry--and with my keen sense of mountain--building, well, dirty laundry isn't just dirty laundry, it's klieg lights and sirens highlighting my failure as a mom/wife/human being. My children will need therapy to restore their self-esteem after going to school wearing dirty socks.

Well, I understand that this kind of thinking will get me nowhere except and early grave or the doctor's office with migraines, all by my lonesome because neurotic people are MISERABLE to live with, so I've been asking. A LOT. It goes something like this:
"JESUS HELP ME! I'M GOING TO BE THE HEADLINE ON THE FOX NEWS CHANNEL TONIGHT IF I DON'T GET SOME RELIEF!"

That's not a question, I know. I always intend on asking for help, it just comes out a little different.

And then it's time to make dinner. Again. I have a thing about plain food--if I serve plain food, I feel like a---say it with me--failure. My cookbook collection is a little overwhelming. Does anyone else have pickled ginger or kefir lime leaves on their condiment shelf? Asking Mr P doesn't help--
"What kind of potatoes do you want with your hamburger? Hash browns, scalloped, twice-baked---"
"Just put boil them and put some butter and salt on them. You don't have to waste energy going all gourmet on the potatoes!"

The clouds parted, sunshine flooded the room, and the angels started singing.
Not really, but that's how it felt.

If I can just go all gourmet on the potatoes, I CAN put all of my energy into this one thing instead of 400 little things. I CAN MAKE IT ALL ABOUT THE POTATOES!

And it works. Life is much more about living because I have a place to focus my neuroses--
say it with me-It's all about the potatoes.