Thanksgiving in August

Department stores used to have Christmas in July sales. So here is a Thanksgiving in August post. Because I am very thankful.

The little things add up: I'm trying to just watch two hours of Jane (the Virgin) each day and by yesterday afternoon I'd already watched one and a half. How was I going to spend the other hours of the day? My mom texted to see if I wanted to come for dinner. This brought in so many extra thankfuls:

• I don't have groceries, so dinner was taken care of!
• My dad got to see me do my story time on FB Live and
• I got to hear in person how much my mom enjoyed it. 

Both nights that I had dinner with my folks, I ran into neighbors just at the moment that I was leaving, and that seemed orchestrated too. Sunday, I got to let my Swedish neighbors know that I had moved to Del Ray, and last night I got to see my neighbor P, who I used to walk with almost daily. Gosh I miss those walks. 

On the way home, I listened to Night Life with Brandi, my favorite DJ on the local Christian station, WGTS, and last night she had some folks call in with stories of when things seemed so hopeless but they turned around. 

The ones that I remember:

• A woman who was told she had one year to live back in 2009. 
• A woman whose college paid off her debt at the last hour. 

Right now I feel like there is no plan, I languish at work. But the small and big thankfuls and how they seemed (and probably were, thanks God!) orchestrated, I have to see that there is. Today I'm taking my tiny sewing kit to work so that I can work on sewing some felt animals, something I did two winters ago. 

Naming and not naming

My mother asked me at dinner if I was doing okay. I have no idea why I didn't name it and say, "I'm a little depressed." No, I just said, it's taking me a while to get into a routine. 

I used to talk to my mother a lot. Then I lived with her for almost five years. We talked while making breakfast, or when both of us woke up too early. When I lived alone, in Pittsburgh, I called her every day on the phone. Now that I live alone again, I don't call her every day.

After church yesterday, I could see the day yawning ahead of me. Eating somewhere, a nap, and a "Jane the Virgin" binge-fest.  

So I came up with a plan. A tomato plan. I would take my tomato from her garden and share it. 

Making dinner with her and eating with my folks last night was a good choice to quell my demons for a few hours. When she fawned over me sharing the tomato, I didn't tell her about how much food I'd thrown out because I hadn't been cooking and the food all went bad. 

Why didn't I name it? Maybe because she asked at dinner and my dad was there. Hearing and not hearing, as the moments go. I hate how he just tunes out because he can't keep track of the conversation. But I'd probably do it too. Hearing loss is worse than blindness. 

*****

I called her. I wished her a happy anniversary. She put me on speaker. I almost didn't tell her. But then I did. And she said she thought maybe I was. We talked for a while, and it was good. 

Writing helps. I had to edit out some sentences that weren't true, like giving myself some cognitive therapy. 

Sort of a "guest post"...

Sara Zarr posted a link to this blog post on Twitter, and it's short enough that I'm posting it here. The writer is describing bipolar disorder.

"Letter to an old friend"

Is it okay if I call you friend? I’ve known you for so long and it is time for you to be a friend. You are with me always. Sometimes you sit in the living room of my house, powerful in your presence. At other times you are like a guest taking a nap in an upstairs bedroom. I used to fight you or plead with you to leave, but I don’t do that anymore. I let you be. I’ve discovered the gifts you bring with friendship. I am grateful for the clarity you allow, for whatever energy you permit, for writing, above all for that, for the daily work of living. Who would have ever thought that we would end up being friends, that even as I do all I can to keep you gentle, I could welcome you? I accept you and limit you all at once. Come on in, there’s a rocking chair for you by the fire, but it is still my house. Now that you’re a friend, I don’t know what to call you. Your medical name sounds too formal and distant. You are more than a condition. You’re not me and yet you are a part of me. The metaphors used to describe you seem too impersonal. Darkness, grayness, the words lack accuracy. You are painfully bright at times. To call you by your symptoms is to treat you like an enemy and I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ll simply call you my old friend. I call you my old friend because I know you, I’ve seen through you. I’ve even seen compassion and hope in you. These are the things that only friends can see. I know you now, so well, and so I call you my old friend.

THESE ARE NOT MY WORDS, they belong to Francisco X. Stork. But they resonate so strongly.