CREATIVITY IS STIMULATED IN THE ABSENCE OF HABIT

First things first—today’s lengthy train of thought will be published without editing mistakes or it may continue to grow ever longer ... one portion, concerning birds of a feather thriving together is so convoluted as to beg for editing; so please skate over that passage as carefully as you would a rough parch of ice, because that train of thought, though a bit tough to get through, makes very good sense.

Firstly again (since, to my way of thinking, the subject of love takes precedence over all else) as I’d missed the birthday of a very dear friend, rather than flogging my aging memory, here is what my heart felt need to convey, today:  I know you feel my love, everyday, just as yours is always with me, because our love has become as pure, through and through, as is ‘true love’, which describes heartfelt emotion cleansed of thoughts running along tracks of judgmental defensiveness.

My friend’s response?  Our hearts are as one.  Except, she, being much less wordy than me, condensed her reply into one word—YES! 🥰

Secondly, my sixth infusion of chemo (or 11th if each 24 hour infusion over five days of my first hospitalization is counted, individually) went well, yesterday.  Hooray!
Three and a half months have gone by while a variety of tumor killers have been dripped, cautiously into my blood stream ... oh my!  So far, the only side effect from yesterday’s cocktail is my need to sleep large portions of today away—no surprise there.

If my next echocardiogram, scheduled on April 3rd, shows this current protocol of chemo deactivating the tumor without exacerbating heart failure, I’ll have won the lottery, hands down.

Thirdly, most of my 3 hours in the chemo chair, today, were spent tracking down TP on line to no avail.

The only people who have no need to forage for TP are US Senators, holding tight to their Republican seats, so scared sh-tless are these gutless ninnies of being stripped of their power that they’ll continue to sit on vital legislation until finding themselves tarred, feathered and run out of D.C. along with their brainless leader, trump, whom we’ll finally see dragging his cronies, who have stuck to their guns, down for the count while this megalomaniac remains so busy tweeting lies that his mad hatters will attribute his loss of the presidency, come Election Day in November, as having been due to fraudulent voting booths or some other tomfoolery that is sure to stimulate red hatters on the hunt to disparage every minority group, which proved vulnerable, during trump’s administration, to verbal attack, no astute questions asked—no intelligent answers given.

And now, as my mind wanders, here and there, until my re-chemo’d brain feels another cat nap, coming on, here’s yet another consequence resultant of fear of the corona virus running rampant through our streets:  Yesterday, Will and I felt a mutual sense of curiosity arising upon finding the empty lobby and corridors of hospital and clinic resembling neighboring ghost towns.  Upon asking a staff member—Why?  We were told that in preparation for pandemic contagion to spike, only critical care patients are being seen.  As many chemo chairs seen in cubicles were empty, I asked why, again. Patients, at different stages of treatment, are cancelling appointments so as to stay home.  My gosh.  We’ve set our sights on an illness that scares some more than cancer!  Who’d have ever thought ...

The day before yesterday, Will drove to Costco on senior day (Tues/Thurs) arriving at 7:20 am, 40 minutes before the 65’n up club was granted early admittance into the warehouse by a police escort.  After parking his car, Will’s eye, following the line up of seniors, found himself moseying round the corner of the main entrance only to feel flabbergasted to see the line number at least 300 people, monitored by employees to stand 6 feet apart.  Once the doors opened at 8am, as planned, the line began to move while the aforementioned policeman, standing guard at the entrance, counted a finite number, who were allowed in to shop, primarily for paper goods with, as was true of Will, TP topping their lists, and not until an elder, who’d completed his/her purchases, pushed a cart filled with supplies back toward the parking lot, was the next in line let in.

Upon watching this line of 300 move forward as slow as molasses, Will chose not wait, believing himself too late to procure the treasure coveted by this portion of our nation’s population whose conversations revolve around bathroom issues a bit more often with each birthday, which seems to roll around twice each year so quickly do the numbers add up, and with that deeper truth standing in line, 300 deep, beginning at 6am, do we come to see why folks of a certain age feel need to stock pile mega rolls of TP as well hand sanitizer, which is put to good use each time TP, having been unrolled, has been flushed away once the aged, who also stock pile Depends, arise from the porcelain god with need to squirt sanitizer into an upturned palm while flashing the bathroom mirror a smile of success.

As Will believed that his early bird arrival was too late to be counted amongst those fortune shoppers who would have filled their carts and checked out (standing six feet apart) before treasure troves of TP had proved sold out, he made an about face and marched toward his car rather than awaiting his turn to be admitted into Costco’s inner sanctum by a seriously armed guard in case the aged chose to storm the bastille ...

Though I wonder what we’ll choose to use if our supply of TP does not last to meet future demands, the possibility of running out of TP offers me no reason to fret, as of yet, and here’s why that’s true:
Creativity is stimulated in the absence of habit.
And along with that line of thinking—
Yesterday happened to be my grandson, Tony’s tenth birthday.
And in a timely fashion, our whole family shouted out with a festive—Happy Tenth Birthday, Tony!
Tony’s perspective:  ‘This is my most important b/d, so far, because it’s my first with two digits!’ and then his declaration provoked a few tears in need of shedding before Tony’s giggles rolled all around the spacious kitchen floor while our entire family (meeting up on the House Party app) sang Happy Birthday in such an utterly unsynchronized fashion that could only be worsened by the level of loudness, which proved ear-piercingly out of tune.  And a merry old time was enjoyed by one and all!

If we stop to think about Tony’s original, age appropriate dismay over his birthday party having been postponed, indefinitely, we come to see that this newly double digits birthday boy is too young to conceptualize international problems of pandemic proportions, and in addition to that deeper truth, he’s rightfully missing his friends something fierce.  I mean, really, who, at any age, can actually comprehend the gargantuan nature of today’s reality, which highlights our world spiraling, on and on, being that none has a glimmer of a clue as to how long this unnatural twist of fate, which has flipped daily life on a global scope, turtle-like on its back with no end in sight, will continue to remain beyond leadership’s creative control, especially since the leadership of our nation is made up of ostrich+like creatures—tiny heads buried silent yet alive in quicksand, too many having fearfully taken on the role of yes men when the rat leading us into hell uh, make that the red hatted red neck at the helm cannot stop lying through his two front teeth every time he stands before the American people, showing his lack of smarts to be every bit as naked as The Emperor, who strutted about town wearing no clothes to cover his shame, looking every bit as far from presidential as does the manic baboon who can’t possibly still be hogging The Oval Office, solely for his own good.  Seriously!

Months before my cancer diagnosis blew my mind, I decided to take a much needed break of who knows what length from watching the news, being that, for the most part, stories presented by anchors served to heighten emotional reactions, which proved less than healthy before melodramatic music deepened my feeling awfully frustrated, infuriated and terribly saddened when word about trump switched tracks to emaciated tots found chained in dark closets, having been beaten and starved half to death for acting out with behaviors that prove age appropriate, most especially when small fry, who have been tortured, repeatedly, know no other life.  In short, these true stories, accompanied by dramatic musical displays stresses me out, they could not be my bedtime stories just before I’d lay my head down to sleep with hopes of sweet dreams dancing on my pillow ...

Today, while riding his bike with Ravi (5) my son, Steven, saw two teams of young adults crashing into each other’s sweaty bodies while stealing a soccer ball from each other—so what part of 6feet apart, during pandemic crises, do they not understand as being vital to their health as well as the health of our nation and their loved ones, who may catch this highly contagious, deadly virus from toying adults who do not take this calamity seriously—for example, what if by shopping, lovingly, for their aging, thus vulnerable, high risk parents, these offspring, having incubated the virus, unwittingly pass it forward to the two people the soccer player most wants to protect.

If people would discipline themselves fo social distance for only a month, the pandemic nature of this health disaster may begin to minimize rather than maximize.  I heard that this virulent virus does not survive rising temperatures?  I mean with false news permeating our connection to trust, who knows what to believe?  Certainly not the person who died after hearing trump declare that a chemical in
His fish tank could be a cure ...

Thank goodness birds of a feather are creating ways to enjoy friends and fam by making good use of social media while remaining separated by at least six feet.

Gotta love it when the intuitive portion of our brains feels stimulated by startling events to unlock our rusty imaginations, freeing creativity to arise just as magically as did The Phoenix from its ashes.  Tony and Ray plan to meet their friends at a BMX bike park, where social distancing will be parentally enforced.  And Ravi’s neighborhood concocted an outdoors treasure hunt, much to the children’s (and parents’) delight.

As we miss our friends, just as is true of Tony, as long as chemo rests me kindly, we plan to invite our friends to visit on our patio, 12 feet apart ... just in case six proves not enough ...

Seriously, why, in the aftermath of horrific events, do some spirits screech toward a thudding stop, as though sticking to a spider web from which creativity is never freed to enjoy the light of day, and thus, based in negative energy, freed, the grass looks greener etc. etc.whereas positively focused spirits fly in flocks of birds of a feather whose bird eye view of bigger pictures adjoin puzzling pieces of life in hopes that untold changes for the better will move forward before anyone can clip their wings, so that rather than conjuring up novel ways of thriving, they find themselves hobbled with those, caught in that web, whose spirits are barely surviving, based in the absence of hindsight, which offers insight to those whose brains, trained to act like rubber balls, bounce away from defensive walls so as to explore aspects of life never experienced before as exemplified by a child, whose terrified experience with family tragedy offered her unbridled imagination sound reason to develop the mentality to think (for herself) out of the box so as to create a subconscious utopia of her home life once her defense system blocked the conscious portion of her brain from feeling scared, half to death, by not share her fears, problems, short comings or vulnerabilities, which remained hidden behind her ready smile with anyone, inclusive of herself until, as an adult, psycho-therapy appealed to her intuitive intelligence once she was parenting children of her own, who, though innocent of evildoers lurking in their midst, who might people their lives, looked up to Mom, whose eagle eye remained wide open to keep each of her young safe from anyone who may have betrayed their trust, harboring thoughts of doing them harm—as she had had no clue of happening to her, and though no conscious memory of having been sexually abused marred my ‘idyllic vision of my childhood, my subconscious kept hold of memories so terrifying as to have been buried alive, festering every bit as raw as had been true when my processor was too inexperienced to understand what was being done, secretly to me, though intuitively I’d felt wronged and in the wrong simultaneously so as to have been a good little girl repressing feelings of guilt concerning being damaged goods, and with time, you and I will come to see how natural instinct ‘speaks’ to all species of animal life at every age once stories unfold about a deeply confounded, sexually abused little girl, who grew to adulthood with no conscious clue of having harbored a mental block too terrifying to remember, over most of my life—even so ... rather than being a survivor, Ive always felt my spirit to be a thriver capable of creative leadership, and in keeping with tiday’s Insight driven train of thought, written by my brain’s power of intuition—

NOT ON MY WATCH WOULD ANY BULLY TRESPASS UPON MY SONS’ SELF RESPECT!

As I’m sure is true of you, my ears are ringing with examples of people, social distancing for safety sake, while their recently reawakened imaginations conjure up creative ways to make sound use of social media to enjoy each other’s company without swapping germs.  In fact, ever since this virus scared the bejesus out of everyone, my loved ones, (extended family and friends), both near and far, have been keeping closer tabs on one another than had been true just a few weeks back when every day life had felt far too fast paced and mentally grueling to stop long enough to warmly welcome a new neighbor to the block party, which, thank goodness, our current neighborhood organizes, now and then.  As a matter of fact, have you ever had cause to wonder how many neighbors, who live on your block or in your building, today, your memory could point out (much less name) in a casual line up of strangers?  Thank goodness, I began a book club in my neighborhood, twenty years back and nursed its fledgling years until our literary club of five or six developed wings of its own as strangers, whose patio homes had been built all in a row dotted the foothills of my mountain, as block after block of retirees grew to be friends.  And you can believe me when I say that lots has happened, both happy and sad, in sickness and in health as couples, who grew to care deeply about one another, changed or did not, with the times ...

When my sons were boys, riding bikes everywhere within the invisible boundaries of our original neighborhood, where house number one of three continues to exist, they felt free to play safely outside in the southwestern desert, with my blessing, as had felt natural to their dad and me when we grew up riding bikes to meet friends in the park with no clue that stranger danger might be lurking near the merry go round, slide or swings ... all my sons and I’d felt was the surety that if anything in the warm and sunny, happy go lucky Southwestern desert, where we chose to raise our boys, outdoors, every neighbor on both sides of our block as well as many others throughout our development (based in our having had a private community club house, spacious, sparkling well tended pool, brand new tennis court and horse shoe game, all of which existed kiddy-corner from our first home), created an idyllic setting in which daily life felt safe from big city strife. With wonderful stories concerning community (and one horrific auto accident thrown in for good measure) to pen about raising our boys within this quintessential, little piece of Americana, I wish to release the storyteller, who dwells inside my brain, which has switched tracks ever since cancer undermined the robust nature of my health.

Though our sons began to call,  pretty much every day, since my cancer diagnosis created reason for each of us to feel a growing sense of familial alarm, this week, our whole family began to make good use of FaceTime to enjoy each other’s company, individually as well as, all at once.  And though that proves a bit chaotic with three rambunctious munchkins chiming in regardless of who’s speaking to whom, we’re all so eager to enjoy this feeling of togetherness that no lessons in manners disrupt the magical wavelength created by love flowing freely through cyberspace connecting four households, separated, not just by miles but by fear of one of us catching and spreading a deadly virus, as well.

So here’s what I’m seeing though I’ve been pretty much quarantined within my current home for months—instead of paying a fortune to run on treadmills in sweaty gyms, my neighbors, living in our sun drenched climate, are walking outside for free, conversing freely with each other about this and that while safely, thus wisely, complying with social distancing, six feet apart.

Families are suddenly seen hiking, biking, playing games as well as cooking and enjoying meals, together, as had been true when my sons, forming a non-stop trio of pure energy, flashing from room to room, heard my voice call out—That’s outside play, and standing soldier-like while holding open our sliding, glass patio door, I’d direct all three boys and their fully energized friends, faces flushed as though spirits, fully lit, emanating from deep within each active body, had been primed to run a marathon, however, being kids in shorts and tees with scraped elbows and knees, rather than adhering to a rigorous training schedule, they’d simply run outdoors to play games which prove every bit as rough and tumble, today, as have been around since naked young lads were directed by grunts, wielding clubs, to stop throwing stones at each other in favor of casting rocks aimed at the heads of eatable wildlife seen scampering away from nearby primitive dwellings, which proved to be caves.

Seriously, if some things concerning human nature never change while others are certain to cave in on the spor then why, in the aftermath of personal tragedy, do some spirits screech to a thudding stop, as though stuck within a spider’s web when the rest of life seems to move forward at a clip?  In answer to a question as profound as that, I have experienced sound reason to conclusively believe that positively focused attitudes strengthened with purified injections of love and respect begin to offer evidence of my power of intuitive thought’s expansive capacity to make sound use of hindsight to gain inter-related strings of insight as to why I grew up to see myself as a thriving leader of groups rather than feeling like a crowd-following survivor, beginning in kindergarten (that storyline has already been published in a series of posts), moving forward right up until and inclusive of posting stories, overflowing with insights gained, day by day, until serious illness snared my think tank into a web created by sound reason to fear for my life ...

BTW, have I told you what happened when my mother’s voice called out—Annie—late last week?