The Power Be With You

 Love my radio and the other day, someone berated the no laundry outside rule as environmently unfriendly. She is right. No one wants to see Aunt Matilda's bloomers wafting in the breeze but what if it's only her towels and sheets and nothing intimate to offend the eyes. We are after all trying to reduce our footprints and that must include socks. Some of the drying racks these days have sock clips on them. How very clever. Taking these matters to heart, my deck which does, indeed, have glass panels, but which I cover with lovely cross hatced bamboo panels for the image of greeness in this city I love, I aimed to put some laundry outside in the sunshine. This morning , instead of loading up the dryer that takes most of one's hydro supply and cost, in a household, I took the washing basket out to my deck. The things inside the basket are almost dry what with the mega spin on my washer. I found my old laundry rack that fortunately fits below the level of the deck railing and loaded it on the deck, with hand towels and other non-offensive personal items. Who could be offended by a towel? Then I took an unused expandable bar about the size of a shower curtain holder and stretched it between two of my little wrought iron deck chairs and draped a folded sheet over it. Ah, I felt like being back in my rural seaside home where I lived for decades up the coast, and had a real clothes line that I loved to watch with white sheets floating in the wind. Will they smell as sweet with city air as they did by the Salish Sea? Likely not, but it's all air no matter where. I hoped. I felt somewhat guilty because there are condo rules I live by now, but because I live at the building rear where no one can see me other than a few friendly crows and seagulls lofting by. Would I be caught by the laundry police for putting sheets to the wind? I feared I might find, under my door, a dreaded white envelope. It could  tell me I am being fined for breaking the no laundry on the deck rule.  Well, said I to myself, they'll probably give me one chance since I am one of those LOLs, little old ladies.  Or will they, whomever "they" is. Not all my laundry can fit on the small drying rack, and some is, therefore, going round and round in my dryer. But this illegal laundry I hang out with a smile, see that the sun is shining on it. Will it smell beautiful when I bring it in, even if it's the last laundry ever to grace my deck? In a fit of positivity, I ordered some clothes pins, stainless steel. so they won't show up outside. I really wanted to buy the ones that are all colours, simply to glorify my washing efforts for the globe. I am now an underground criminal of the condo laundry kind and must, shhh,  operate surreptitiously. If I am found out and receive my warning letter from the "they", I determine for the good of the world,  to use the laundry rack beside the window inside, if nothing else. And of course, there's always the bathtub and my big walk-in shower where the laundry rack will fit. I am going to do my part, no matter what. There are fans in bathrooms to take out the dampness should there be any. Electric heat in my unit, is too dry anyway. 

Cell Of A Phone

 Phones that "do everything" are what we call the gripped thing in your hand, the bit of plastic that is never out of your sight or mind. In Dick Tracy's day, they were invented. Dick spoke into his wrist or shoe phone to solve crimes. Now, they do a lot more: to watch movies, make them, banking, baby sitting and love matching, plus dozens of other tasks including shopping and reading books. The word "cell" is appropriate because those using them are certainly in a phone cell. They are trapped. Few of these "prisoners" have "land lines" for back-up. Anyone who loses a cell phone is in a panic. It's kind of like carrying a Hope Diamond around and never daring to let it out of one's sight. I am not in the generation that insists life is impossible without the cell phone, thus connected to every aspect of  business life including social ones. Being in my generation doesn't mean I don't have one of the things, it simply means it isn't my life blood.  I use it when I go out the door. I don't like cell phones, but I don't hesitate to like the humans who have them even if, semi attached to their bodies.  The whole matter of cell phones has even, garment folk, who add pockets to skin tight gym wear and build ugly towers in beautiful places. One can't they argue be out of contact or coverage. They must be able to speak to their friends every second of the day- and night and do business even on their days off.  When there is no cell phone, most of these addicts can't function. Well, they could, but they are addicts after all, and can't bear waiting to make a call. They laugh at the other kind of appliance called a "land line". Most of these cell folk,  consider it grossly uncool  to have such. As you can tell, I am sick of seeing cell phones in hand everywhere and used non-stop. Heads are down as humans walk down the street, eat at restaurants, wait in line-ups, shop and talk into the air not paying the slightest attention to what's going on around them. Most don't need to chat, not the word means conversation, but are merely having an inane blab with some other nutty cell user. These devices are not all bad, well, none of them are, but their user' habits might be. When I was between condos I did all of my business thankfully with my cell phone. There was no other reliable communication system available. My mail, my correspondence with acquaintances and my entertainment were all done thru the cell phone. Had to be.  It worked for what it was made for. Most users of the cell are those don't need to but want to be in the habit of never being out of touch with their people. Often times it leads to grief because it's an impetuous form of interaction.  It isn't a need, it's a choice and there's nothing wrong with it when used the right ways. What it does do, is disallow one, just as being in a prison cell, any outside contact in other random human situations. It disallows humans listening to outside sounds or exploring anything outside one's own small circle.  A cell phone keeps you in a cell, in short. Parents also keep their kids in the same cell and often their pets and houses, too. They never take a break and get away from the grind. And worst of all, those who are nunned to their cell phones, don't discover what's out there besides what's inside their  cells. 

Incredible Shrinking Groceries

 There was one sci fi movie long ago and another recently that told the tale of people being shrunken down to a minute size. Their economy in doing so almost paid for the process they suffered to get that way. I'm not sure what their end results were, but hopefully they somehow returned to their original size to match everyone around them. That could be called a happy ending. Looking at my grocery delivery today, it wasn't a happy ending. I'm not going to join the plethora of complainers, suers and blamers out there, but I sort of want to today. The turkey for Thanksgiving is no bigger than a roasting chicken that would have cost a lot less. When I saw what has to feed six adults this holiday Thanksgiving weekend coming up, was laughable and those who live on the floor above and below must have heard my laughter  of hilarity when I saw this tiny, little Grade A bird that looked like something from the land of the shrunken people. The sack of stuffing croutons was bigger than the festive bird. Since we usually have to send everyone home with turkey meat and find containers for such, I comforted myself with that thought while in wonder over the tiny turkey, a mere icon of  our big ones inThanksgivings Past. There would be no left overs this year, and I will go easy on the stuffing mix and use half of the cranberry sauce in something else. Both dwarf the bird. Later, I saw the little bag of flour that used to be big at the same price, I'm not sure if I will use my bread flour for indulgences such as full loaves and perhaps make buns instead.  There were no brussels sprouts, the fresh kind so I may have to opt for frozen, if I can find them. My usual root veggie dish with carrots, turnips and parsnips would make up for it. Or so I thought. When I put away the carrots and parsnips, both  at luxury store prices, I searched for the turnip. Rutabaga is usually the size of three or four oranges that I no longer buy due to their high cost and low quality now. At the bottom of the paper bag, there was a little hard thing the size of a mandarin orange. Lo and behold, it was my turnip. I didn't know that they grew miniature ones. This was one and it certainly would not hold its own in my root veg casserole. Another order for turnip would be doubled to make up for the shrunken turnip in spite of its  giant sized cost. When I extracted the baby turnip from, the bottom of the sack, once again my peals of laughter could be heard far and wide. Other than the big box of cereal that has so far not been shruken by today's economy I noted that the jarred items had certainly gone the way of sci fi. The little squatty jars were so small they looked as though they belonged on the shelves of a play house. The mayo and the cheese spread that is my fave comfort food, will no longer be slathered onto my toast. They will be knifed across with speed and agility, to become but a slight flavouring of their former selves, rather than a nice squishy delight that pushed out the side of a sandwich as it once did. What used to be ten paper bags for recycle,have been reduced to only half of that. That's the good news. The use of paper is thus reduced, but my grocery bill is not. It goes up and up, and ever up but never down. 

Our Garden

 Let's talk about "god" or "God" or whatever name you give yours or not. For some, their god is the job or the career, money or a lover or ambition or greatness, sometimes evil. For others, it is the love of their lives and their families and their friends and their neighbours. And some say, there is no god or perhaps that there are many of them. It is their freedom and their choice to do so. The older you become, you see things no more as a child who has been directed in a certain way, but with aging, you've gone a long way on the path of life and you form your own ideas of what it's all about. Age and experience can change what you once thought or  believed in, to the point where you're not sure entirely what it all means. Many question their very existence. That sounds confusing, and unless you are "old" and can deal with questioning your life without bitterness  or blame, it's an okay time of searching. We elders don't mind speaking our minds, and we do have them, and in spite of what some well-meaning  folks think about our "minds" deteriorating with age, we are pretty good at knowing. But we try to be quiet about matters and truths since we have come to believe, based on our many years of life, that we know something younger folks don't,  as yet. Something I began to think, the other day because death has visited others I am close to, far too often, is the "god" matter. It kind of comforts me in a way to think of it in a new light.  I began to see God or the Supreme Being or whatever  your spiritual head is, as a gardener. The Gardener prepares life, the soil, waters it and makes the sunlight shine on the garden. It, The Gardener, whom none of us has met, nor likely ever will, but might want to, does a great job of making sure that where the seeds, us as humans, go, to have the best chance of living and growing. The soil has everything we humans need for living a good life. We, the seeds begin in the soil and everything that happens from then on, is solely our doing. The Gardener looks on and is always there to continue nourishing us and watching. But not doing for us. That is up to us and becomes our good fortune or bad. Seeds don't always grow well and some might be twisted either at the beginning  or later on, but we all start out the same way. We are seeds, and do what seeds are supposed to do no matter what. We grow.  How we grow often depends entirely on ourselves and where we put our energy and strength and desire to be alongside others. The Gardener is happy when we grow well and thrive and produce seeds and add support to all the other plants around us. I am sure The Gardener is saddened when some plants don't put out leaves or flowers or seeds and could while others, sadly try, but cannot. The Gardener hears the rustle of  leaves in the wind, the snapping of seed pods flung out to grow on their own,  the breaking of stems and falling and failing of flowers or petals on dying plants. The Gardener hears and sees but does nothing. It can't. The Gardener sees the loss and pities and continues to nourish the soil and send the rain and the sun and the wind. It's all the Gardener can do. The plants bend and raise their buds to The Gardener hoping for some help, but Gardeners can only sense; they can't help growing and changing and dying and living because only the plants can do that for themselves and The Gardener is not a plant.  The Gardener is just there.  

The Gift of Death

 We humans can't help thinking and believing that we are going to live forever. We avoid the subject of death, but it's inevitable. No one escapes, just as birth, the entrance into life.  Here we are, on our planet, growing, working, dreaming, longing, loving, fighting, praying, suffering: all of it, but for only a limited time. What we do here, might not live on. Most of us are remembered for only a couple of generations.  Humans who have become through their works and times, can be famous or infamous. Even then, there are limitations to those fames because it all depends upon who wants to remember them and their acts and who doesn't. The living control the earth and our dead famous are only reminders of what was, be it good or not. No fairy tales or great deeds or spiritual beliefs or wants or hopes or wishes, will change the fact that no matter what we do, we all end.  But it's not all bad. We do, after all, live. Life is the greatest gift we own. No matter how brilliant or creative or rich or poor or good or evil, our time will come. And when the time comes, death, either quick or not, we have only one opportunity to live. How the ending turns out, long or short, often seems unfair, and those who believe in fate say  that our time and work is written to happen no matter what. We respond, okay then, I'll just sit back and let it all happen because if it's all mapped out for me, why should I fret and putting forth effort. Others, like a certain very old lady I know, tells everyone that she will be living to one hundred twenty because it's her decision. Some folks do, in fact, get pretty close to that age. And why shouldn't she plan to live "forever"in spite of fatalists? Her karma, she says, is of her own writing, thank you very much. But death comes along in its own time, self karma  or not. Death  isn't always quiet and peaceful. If you have been beside someone who is dying and there is a struggle, you know the thought we all have. "Please just let 'it' happen."  Death is one of the realities we don't want to look at.  When I say the "gift" of death, it's the one where someone chooses to end ones own existence. They want it to be their choice, just as the old woman who plans to live  until one hundred twenty, they want theirs to end before the "bad stuff" happens while dying.  Family or friends  sit about their loved one's last days, in support. The  time is called The Vigil. If you've been there, often you wish for a faster, easier release for the person and now, there is such relief as their personal choice. The legal implications, however,  can be challenging. A  matter of self-ending, is not suicide which is something entirely different but is one chosen by those who have a mortal illnesses and/or aging complications and don't want to suffer pain.  To people who have chosen that route for their dying, it's a choice that is theirs personally and they feel it is, along with their supporters, personal, humane and sensible. Even if the documents are signed and permission given, sometimes, the legal "formulae" doesn't fit. Because they have unexpectedly had to become involved in medications that remove clear communications, they are not able to have relief via their choice of time to die.They, therefore, are not able to have their wishes, carried out. I find this doesn't  make sense. The personal choice of the dying, if it's  known should be adhered to as planned. Someone who plans such an ending has followed previously all the rules as laid out. Life and legalities don't always match. I am left hoping that this problem, might one day soon be remedied. One's life, is, after all, one's own. It seems that self-ending, should be a human freedom that should include the ending of life be stated and unless at the last minute is denied by the chooser, it go ahead as planned. It can be for many, the  Gift of Death.