My mind is a chatterbox in the morning. Racing thoughts, tasks and feelings fill my cranium as soon as my eyes open. After several post-wake-up rituals, I chase my creativity.
I sit here on the couch, cup of organic coffee and plain black seltzer on the side table. I settle down and breathe. I try to get to the couch, desk or chair as quickly as I can, before the day gets hold of me. “Ass in seat,” a writing mentor once told me. Even though my book is nearing completion, this is not a stopping point for my writing. I want to keep my creativity flowing so the pipes don’t rust and my channel doesn’t get clogged.
My creativity is where healing lives. It’s what I do to heal myself. Writing has become the primary form. I can deal with emerging issues and inner turmoil by expressing it in words. It makes me vulnerable because I am sharing my truth with anyone who stumbles on this purposely or at random. But who cares? This is one life, one time to express, one moment to be a true expressive form for all that is. Today is a day where I need to let it out.
My 92-year-old father-in-law Paul is on the move again. We are taking him out of his assisted living facility, bringing him to Still Waters for the afternoon, then he’s going to California. His daughter and son-in-law flew in early Friday morning and are ready to host him out there. His room is ready, supplies are ordered and doctor’s appointments are made. Oxygen for transport is set up. Here we go.
Everything is changing again as it always does when caring for a high-age elder. These past three years have been intense, helping him in various ways but making sure his life is good and he is safe.
I will miss him but I am ready to let him go for a better experience. I think he has the chance for joy and laughter with his daughter’s family, more so than in a facility. The assisted living community, while it is the absolute best in our area, did not click for him. Paul didn’t care much about the other residents or activities. He was too focused on his own physical limitations than the opportunity that surrounded him to connect with others and participate. He became too frail to engage based on who he is and how he thinks. That was unexpected. I thought he’d be fully immersed and happy on his new chapter of life. It didn’t work. It was okay but it wasn’t the satisfying experience I was trying to create for him.
Imagining him in his new California life, I see him sitting around the dinner table with my sister-in-law, brother-in-law and their three boys, Paul’s grandsons. Bronson, who is eight years old and just about as cute as a little boy could ever be, tells a story about a leprechaun looking for gold that makes Paul laugh and smile. I imagine Paul having countless moments like this — little smiles adding up to a new part of life that is fun and happy. He will be part of something greater than himself if he will allow it.
Time will tell. This chapter is not closing, it is changing and shifting again.
Still Waters Pond, October 2017.