Not much of a housekeeper

 My ambition is to publish a memoir on my experience with manic depression (a.k.a. bipolar disorder). I’ve read over a dozen mental illness memoirs. I’ve realized that each memoir is written exclusively in the first person. While that is an important part of the narrative, for me it is imperative to hear from other voices, loved ones who watched from a vantage of sanity. When I’m manic and psychotic I am convinced that I am thinking clearly, more clearly than ever in my life. More clearly than anyone in the world. Only when I recover do I realize how distorted my thinking was, to put it mildly.

So, I have hired a skilled interviewer to talk to those close to me, they who have seen me in my mood swings. I’m in the process of watching these recordings and transcribing them. I will incorporate their insights into my memoir.

One of my brothers said, “She’s not much of a housekeeper.” This took me aback (be careful what you ask for). I’ve pondered his statement many times. It stings, but he’s absolutely right.

Of course, “not much of” is a pretty loose term. I’ve been in houses with more clutter than I can imagine accumulating. But the comment is a fair assessment.

It reminds me of a slumber party my mom threw for me when I was in fifth grade. I bought fancy pajamas with a matching sleeping cap and cloth boots from the Sears catalog and invited a few girlfriends to sleep in our living room. Dark-haired Rosemary, who was very proud of her Italian heritage, complained that her mother scrubbed the kitchen floor every week on her hands and knees. I laughed and said my mom hardly ever mopped the floor and never got down on her hands and knees.

After the party I told my mom about our conversation. She was mortified that I would admit such a thing to anyone, but especially to a girl with a mother of such habits. At the time, I wondered what the fuss was about. It never occurred to me that the floor was excessively dirty. Now I sympathize with my mom.

As may be typical of manic depression, my housekeeping reflects my moods. When I’m in an elevated mood, the house nearly vibrates with clean. Jim can sense it as he enters the house. Other times it’s much too much effort to keep up. Dishes pile up; the floor doesn't get swept much less mopped or scrubbed.

I’m grateful for my brother’s honest comment. It’s so easy to maintain a fantasy self-image. It’s good to look in the mirror and really see what's there. What everybody else sees in an instant.

The Longest Day

 Eight years ago, on June 21, our son Matt sent an email “The Great Gatsby,”

"Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it?  I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it."

Over the years, Matt occasionally resends the Daisy quotation and I usually realize I’ve missed the day.

But this year was different. On June 20 I searched and found that the summer solstice would arrive at 11:32 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time. But which day would be the longest? Turns out three days straddling the solstice are of equal length: June 19th, 20th, and 21st. In Lexington on those days, sunrise occurred at 5:07 a.m. and sunset at 8:25 p.m. 15 hours and 18 minutes of daylight.

So Daisy actually had two or three days to succeed. She gave up too soon.

Here in Lexington, for the past several days, sunlight has streamed through the small octagonal front window every morning, my personal Stonehenge.

On Monday, after noticing the sunshine in the hallway,  I went back to bed and watched the sun traverse our northeast window. I closed my eyes and sunbathed. No sand, no heat, no sticky sunscreen, just pure sunlight on my closed eyelids. Luxurious. Restorative. Nourishing.

The first hug of covid!

 Friday evening Carri, a friend of ours (and my ministering sister for those of you fluent in LDS jargon), hosted a farewell party for a mutual friend. We met in her backyard and ate hot dogs and watermelon.

Carri walked over to greet me and gave me a big hug. It felt good but strange to have physical contact with someone outside my family.

Two days later, I saw Carri at church and told her that I was reminded of the children’s picture book, Polar Express. A young boy takes a mysterious train to the North Pole and meets Santa Claus. He is chosen to receive a gift and requests a silver bell from a reindeer’s harness. Santa smiles and an elf tosses a bell to him. Santa holds it high above his head and declares it “the first gift of Christmas!’

In the churchyard, I raised my hand high in the air and declared, “The first hug of covid!”

I’m finding it psychologically challenging to venture out into the public. Last night Jim and I went to another farewell party, held outdoors at Kimball Farms ice cream stand in Carlisle. We ordered our frozen delights and mingled and talked for over an hour and a half. As dusk fell, we returned to our car. Jim said, “That was nourishing.” Yes, indeed. Worth the anxiety.

The Bees' Knees

 Exactly three years ago I wrote an elbow-appreciation post. I had weeded in short sleeves and developed painful poison-ivy rashes on both inner elbows. For several days I couldn’t bend my arms. I realized I had taken my arm joints for granted for 61 years.

Now I must discuss knees. On Memorial Day I worked creating a raised garden bed with Conor, the teenage boy I’ve hired as a gardener, and Caleb, Jim’s nephew. We worked for over four hours, digging trenches and installing a border of pavers. I was in constant motion, kneeling and standing back up. By the end of the session, my left knee, a problem since high school, could hardly tolerate weight and I limped into the house.

For the next several days I rested, careful not to twist the knee. I took the stairs one step at a time. My mom taught me the drill: down with the bad, up with the good. (This puts all the stress on the healthy knee.) But then I got careless and on Friday I was in worse pain than ever.

Monday was frustrating. I had to go up and down two flights of stairs multiple times with laundry baskets. It was so tedious. But I stayed true to my resolve to care for my knee. Down with the bad, up with the good. The tedium paid off: today I have no pain. I even ventured out for a two-mile walk on the Battle Road in Lincoln.

Speaking of the Battle Road (preserved in the Minuteman National Historical Park in Lexington, Lincoln, and Concord): on April 19th, Patriots' Day, I completed my walking Paul Revere's ride (having walked from Paul Revere's house in Boston to Lexington the Saturday before). That Monday I started at Lexington's Hancock-Clarke House, and followed Mass Ave to the old Battle Road. There's a curving stone wall at Revere's Capture Site, where Revere was nearly shot and the British patrol confiscated his borrowed horse. From there, in the early morning hours of April 19, 1775, Revere walked back to the Lexington Green where the Battle of Lexington was about to erupt. He walked in the pre-dawn; I walked at dusk. I'm grateful for knees.

Bird nests

 A few weeks ago, Jim and I were having a ‘homework party,’ where we share his office together, each working on their own projects. I saw a flash of orange and brown outside and realized that a robin had just flown to the second-story window ledge. I had seen a nest a few days earlier, from the driveway, but I couldn’t see inside.

When the mother bird flew away, we went to the window and saw four ‘robin’s-egg-blue’ eggs nestled in the grass and twig nest. It brought back sweet childhood memories of my dad lifting me up with his strong arms so I could peer into a nest and marvel at the tiny blue eggs.

Jim was concerned we would frighten the mother, so he put a packing box on the floor and later closed the blinds. We worried that she would abandon the nest, but next day I saw her again. Some days later Jim peeked around the blinds and found an empty nest. We can only guess that something attacked the nest.

A few days later I was looking out my bedroom window at the three-story evergreen tree next to the house. I saw a blue jay nesting. I was shocked: I’d never seen a blue jay’s nest. It gave me a warm feeling about blue jays.

I haven’t always had a warm feeling about them. I’ve always enjoyed their bright-blue plumage. But I had an encounter, probably 25 years ago or more, that left a bitter taste in my mouth.

A friend of ours from church had ‘rescued’ a nest of  three baby sparrows which had dropped out of a tree in her yard. She didn’t have a safe place to put it, so she asked me to foster the birds. I put them in our enclosed front porch and we watched them. As they grew feathers I knew it was time to let them fly. I took the nest out to our yard and watched. One of the fledglings jumped out of the nest and soared away. A second followed suit. But one sat on the ground.

“Go on!” I urged, to no avail. It sat in the driveway, inert.

Then a blue jay swooped down and caught the tiny baby. Shocked, I shouted and shooed it away, but the damage was done: the little sparrow lay dead on the asphalt.

Determined not to reward the jay for its cold-blooded greed, I got a garden spade and dug a hole near a tree where grass doesn’t grow.  I cried bitterly as I dug the grave and gently lowered the bird down. The blue jay had been so cruel, so heartless.

But here, outside my bedroom window, I saw a blue jay lavishing maternal care on her three babies. The day that it rained all day I saw her on the nest, keeping the nestlings dry.

Watching the babies grow has been delightful. A few days ago I looked out and saw a flash of wing, with the distinctive white and black markings on grey instead of blue. The baby nearest my window was stretching halfway out of the nest and spreading its grey and white wings. His nestmate followed suit. I wondered if they would fly away, but it was just a test run. They soon settled back into the nest.

Yesterday morning the heads and chests were well above the top of the nest. They were growing fast. I could see that soon flight will be imperative: they wouldn’t fit in the nest. Just two days ago only their heads were visible. They sat perfectly still, each looking out in a different direction.

This morning the nest was empty. I checked during the day, but they are gone.

Having a tiny blue jay family outside my bedroom window heals my heart of bitterness. It is part of nature, of the environment we cherish, to have predators and prey. If every songbird baby survived, the earth would soon be filled to overflowing and the food supply would run out. Birds by the thousands would die of starvation. Nature has built in restraints: food for the sparrow, blue jay, hawk, owl, and eagle.

Congregational singing

 Jim’s nephew, Caleb (David and Michelle’s oldest), flew in last Saturday night to spend the summer with us. He has an internship in Boston. The job is remote, but he is hoping to be able to go into the office at some point and see his co-workers. And I think he just wants to live in the Boston area (who wouldn’t?).

Sunday morning Caleb said he wanted to attend church with me. Attendance is capped, so I had to check with the executive secretary, who said there was a built-in cushion and it shouldn’t be a problem.

For the second week in a row, we were allowed to sing with the organ, albeit with masks on. Last week I could barely sing, a combination of a very rusty singing voice and the emotion of savoring an activity we haven’t been allowed to enjoy for fourteen months: congregational singing. This week my voice was a little stronger, but holding the cherished green hymnbook and singing still brought tears to my eyes.

Church attendance has been a constant in my life, my whole life. The first time I attended church in person during the pandemic, it felt strange and isolating. No hymnbooks and only every third pew occupied. Twenty-five people spread out in a seemingly cavernous chapel. Now every other pew is used and soon the attendance cap will be raised.

Asking permission for Caleb to attend highlighted the wonderful religious freedom I have enjoyed all my life and taken for granted until last year.

The weather was gorgeous, so we were able to meet outside and chat after sacrament meeting. I’m fully vaccinated, so I’m no longer worried about infection. The soul-numbing isolation is coming to an end. Hallelujah!

Dumb Thing with a Dumbbell

 Wednesday morning I did a dumb thing. I had just finished a bicep exercise with my 10-lb dumbbells and turned to look at my Nerd Fitness app to record my reps. I put the dumbbells on my straight-back chair and, you guessed it, one dumbbell came crashing down on my toe. It hurt! I squeezed the toe and after a few moments moved it gingerly, hoping no shooting pain would telegraph a report of broken bones. I was assured the damage was not great, but my workout was done for the day.

Replaying the event, I realized that my second thought (after the “This hurts a lot!”) was that I had put the dumbbell down carelessly (true) and that it had rolled off the chair. But that’s not possible: the dumbells have a hexagonal shape and can’t roll an inch. I had nearly missed the chair entirely in my thoughtless movement.

Rest assured the damage was minor. I cancelled my three-mile walk and didn’t even go out for a 5-minute one. I carefully arranged my feet as I got into bed.

The miracle occurred the next morning. Sleepy from the alarm interrupting my slumber, I walked into the bathroom and only later realized I hadn’t thought or needed to favor the foot. My body had started its natural healing process. I sport a lovely dusky bruise and the second joint is slightly swollen and tender. Yesterday I did a 3-mile walk.

The body’s healing doesn’t always prevail; David’s death is the most readily available example of that. But my dumb dumbbell incident highlights its wonder.