My father was always scheming, always exploring, always day-dreaming.  When his eighty-year-old brain failed to grasp and retain current information, he reverted to plans, planted long ago in his fertile mind, which might explain his late life obsession with Egypt.

Although Dad’s checkbook lay atop his desk, his bank account had been closed when he entered assisted living.  He had lost his driver’s license for driving through too many stop signs and parking his truck in the middle of the road.  Nevertheless, he was determined to go to Egypt.  He would call his travel agent and tell her to research tours to Egypt.  This kind woman would play along, over and over.  It was his final trip to somewhere exotic, and to nowhere.

He’d call me and say, “I’m going to Egypt.  I set it up today.”  I would ask when he was going.  He’d drift off for a few minutes into another story and then tell me again he was going to Egypt.  “I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt.”

Egypt was Dad’s Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

I’d like to believe everyone desires magical moments, some spark of libidinous joy, something marvelous and wonderful, not just the recognition of such moments, but also their creation.

I’ve always wanted to tell the story of one elderly woman who chose not to tell her visitors on the day of her birthday that she had discovered her caretaker had predeceased her that morning.  Why spoil a perfectly good day with the dreadful news that Rosa was dead in an adjoining room?

The white-haired mother of a friend — we’ll call the mother Miriam — cannot be left alone at all, especially now that Miriam wants to kiss strange men in restaurants and stores.  We learned long ago to appreciate this sweet woman’s sense of humor and warmth.  I imagine she had always entertained herself with secret desires and admirations.  Now that her restraint button is on OFF, she’s making the most of every two legged, bearded opportunity for affection.

A musician friend of mine — we’ll call her Grace — doesn’t know what day it is, can’t keep track of her purse or glasses, and depends upon others for routine directions.  Her husband sees to her every need.  Grace can walk up to a piano and play Precious Lord by memory.  If she hears music, she sways and hums.  Three weeks ago she stood up in the church sanctuary and sang the hymn Holy Spirit, Truth Divine in two services.

When Grace arrived in the early morning, she paced and fretted.  “I can’t do this.  I won’t remember the words.  What am I singing?”

Her accompanist was gentle and confident, “We’ll be fine.  I’ll play and you’ll follow me.”  And that’s exactly what happened.  Although the hymnal was open on the music stand, and her eyes strayed to the pages, she wasn’t reading the words.  She was feeling them: “Holy Spirit, love divine, Glow within this heart of mine; Kindle every high desire; Perish self in Thy  pure fire.”  Her face glowed with assurance; her hands gripped an unseen spirit; her body danced with invisible angels.  She sang as if praying.

And for four stanzas, we could witness that exotic, transcendent moment when desire finds sanctuary in “pure fire” where we “shall be firmly bound, forever free.”  She transported us with her and well beyond “The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.”

Why this blog?
February 1, 2013

I wish I had a compelling and convincing answer to that question, but honestly I don’t.

I’ve picked up a book that tells me the voice inside my head is not me as it blathers on and on like this: “It’s time to leave.  Herb’s already at church. It’s too early.  I don’t like to arrive until people are settled.  But what will I do in the meantime? I’ll wash out this pan and clean the sink. Better wear an apron. You’ll need more hand lotion. This stove is a mess. Herb keeps forgetting to clean it.  You don’t have time to clean the stove.  Come on, you have to go. Did you lock the door? Careful!  Ice!  What have the birds done to the car!  Yuck!  Look at the hood! The windshield is a mess. I’ll have to stop at the car wash.”

How exhausting!  I’m sure glad that voice isn’t me!

At one level of consciousness it is me, but not the “soul” me, the solid “I am!”  Instead I’ve described an internal monologue of conflict that may or may not be reliable.  The narrative could run silently, beneath the surface, but for me that narrative wants an audience for reasons I don’t understand.

My husband has had cardio-vascular disease for twenty-four years.  He’s ten years older than I am.  He’s wearing out.  He’s more distracted than usual.  He’s often confused and frustrated by his waning mental acuity and physical strength.  He wishes he could be more and do more.  I sometimes feel like his dart board, but above all, he’s a dear, sweet man — beloved and admired.

Last week he made me a handsome wall hanger for my necklaces.  He repairs broken toys.  He builds bird houses.  He is writing a book.  He nurtures plants in our greenhouse.  He mentors student teachers for the university.  He’s a church elder.  He gives wise counsel to our children.  He is generous and unassuming, and independent to a fault.

If only I could deny what is happening before my eyes:  “Damn! what is the word? I get so tired of this.  It’s a thing, a whirligig, something that spins, a…you know…out there…you know….damn!” he sputters and shakes his head and gives up.

I’d like to write about natural beauty and art, about growing things, not dying things.  I’d like to look forward, not back, but when the future cannot be managed with earthly five year plans because anything could happen, it’s time to consider what is immediately vibrant and worthy.

I’m owning up to inevitable changes.  We are never alone, but sometimes I grope about in a private darkness of anxiety and uncertainty.  I wish to be brave and dependable, wise and hopeful, amusing and friendly.  Don’t we all?

I’ve decided to pick one word from the above list — brave.  At least today.  I’m going to be brave and tell our story.  Week by week.  Maybe our story will resonate with someone else.

Our friends are private people.  Our children won’t want publicity.  I’ll do my best to protect our dear ones from Hollywood scouting agents when they come knocking at our doors — think, Julia and Julia.        Fat chance!  We haven’t a thing to worry about, not on that score.  I might burn the beef stew, but I sure wouldn’t write about it!