Life in the Balcony
Sometimes I like to write about things I've seen...
Friday, March 29, 2024
What About Saturday (Repost with Revision)
Tuesday, December 12, 2023
Solvitur Ambulando
In January of 2022, I made the declaration (only in my head) that this would be the “Year of Maryann.” I was going to write, get healthy, be happy. Big plans, for sure.
That year turned into one of the worst I’ve ever
endured. I lost several friends, a job I loved and hoped to retire from some
time in the future, two beloved cats, and, in August, my mother.
I was depressed, although I didn’t know how deeply
until I was mostly on the other side of it. I’d curl up on the bed or in my
chair in the TV room, rewatch as many episodes of The Great Pottery
Throw Down as I could fit in, and putter around until I finally found a new
job in mid-November.
I never completely gave in to the darkness,
though. I knew somewhere deep inside that I had to fake it until I could make
it true again. So, I faked it - faked joy, faked faith, faked purpose.
One thing I didn’t have to fake was my love for
music - listening to it, leading my bell choir, singing in the choir at church,
and, best of all, singing a song or two once a month at my friend Micah’s 2nd
Saturday Jam. This is mostly a jazz jam, but Micah always lets me sing what he
calls “Micah-adjacent” tunes by Bonnie Raitt, Parker Millsap, and others.
I performed extensively throughout my childhood.
Violin recitals first and then voice recitals, chorus concerts, musicals, and
school variety shows. But it had been a long time, and these monthly jams
helped me build my confidence and remind me what it means to want to do a thing
really well, even if it’s just at a monthly jam in front of the most gracious
audience who would clap even if William Hung was in front of them, singing “She
Bang.”
The year closed out, and I gradually came out of
my funk, thanks in part to a good therapist but also because I really had faked
it until it was at least mostly true.
One of the things I lost when I lost my job was
the opportunity to take a month-long sabbatical. I was planning on hiking 100
miles or so of the Camino de Santiago in May of 2023 as a way to ring in my
60s. I didn’t know the term “Solvitur Ambulando*” at the time, but it basically
means “it is solved by walking.” I didn’t have anything specific to solve
except the trek into my senior years, but I knew that pilgrimage could give me
perspective I’d never had before.
So instead, I plugged away at my new job, sang and
directed, planned a church retreat and a writers' conference, and basically put
one foot in front of the other - still faking it some, but meaning it much more
than I had. Solvitur ambulando-ing without knowing that was what I was doing.
Then Micah asked me if I’d like to record a song
for a new band he had put together with a group of amazingly talented
musicians. Of course, I said yes - this was a dream I’d had since high school -
albeit one that I assumed was unlikely to come true.
And now, I’ve recorded a song in an actual studio,
sung in my first gig, and have a song on an album that is so full of beautiful
and exciting songs that the band members wrote and collaborated on; it almost
makes me cry every time I listen to it.
I have a new sense of confidence, I am happier, I
am more engaged with those I love, I’m writing again, I’m finding joy and
meaning in all sorts of little things, I have a renewed faith. Obviously, I
know that life has its ups and downs, but I’ve proven to myself that I can
weather the storms by walking through them.
The name of the album is Solvitur Ambulando, and
it is a compilation of the perfect music to listen to while walking and solving
(paraphrasing Micah here - but I second the sentiment). And if you’re listening
closely, you’ll hear me on track eight, singing an old song by Paul Simon.
You’ll hear more than that, though. You’ll hear my life being changed for the
better through music.
I’ve told Micah that he changed my life, and while
it sounds histrionic, it is true. I didn’t know it then, but the day that Rick
and I met Micah and his wife Shea at the Growler Store was one of the most
important ones in my adult life. It led me to confidence and joy when those
things were hard to come by—and that day led me to a place where I have met a
group of new people who are affirming, talented, and kind - Micah and Shea,
most of all.
Go download Solvitur Ambulando by the band
Standard Candle from your favorite streaming service, grab your headphones or
earbuds, and take a walk. And then tell your friends how great it is.
*Attributed to St. Augustine
Thursday, August 10, 2023
Still Missing You
The author with her mom, circa 1967 or 1968
Yesterday, August 9th, marked the one-year anniversary of the last thing my mother ever said to me. The day after tomorrow will mark the anniversary of her death.
In the past year, I’ve run the gamut of emotions regarding my mother’s passing – sadness, guilt, anger – and everything in between. Recently, I’ve replayed her last few months in my mind, wondering if there was anything I could/should have done differently. Should I have been more present (yes), was I loving and kind when I was with her (yes as well) – you know – things we all struggle with when a loved one dies. All the things we can’t change.
We got Mom into hospice care about eight months before she
died, and that was a true blessing because I didn’t have to be the “first
responder.” When she tried to get out of bed and fell (again), the assisted
living’s staff first call was to the hospice nurse, who could determine whether
or not Mom needed to go to the hospital.
Two weeks before she died, a substitute/contract med tech
found Mom on the floor and couldn’t immediately get in touch with the hospice
nurse. She told me she “wasn’t losing her job just because I didn’t think she
needed to call 911.” So off to the hospital Mom went, with me following soon after.
This was the first time that Mom clearly didn’t know who I was. When I told her
I was Maryann, she said, “You don’t look like Maryann.” I pulled down my facemask,
and I guess that was enough to convince her, but it was unsettling. In the car
on the way back to her Assisted Living facility, she told me she was glad she
didn’t have to go to work that night because she didn’t feel good. I’m not at
all sure she knew who was driving her home.
Looking back, there were times when I’d walk into her room, and
her face would light up. She’d say, “Oh. It’s you!” I now know that she was
likely giving herself time to get my name into her mind, but she at least
recognized that I was someone she should know. That trip to the hospital marked
(or caused?) a big, and what was to be the final, decline in her mental state.
For the two weeks after the hospital visit, her grasp on the
here and now got weaker. She spent a lot of time in the past – things like telling
me her homework was in the drawer and to make sure she didn’t forget it when
she went to class and wondering if she had completed her nightly paperwork
before she signed out from her shift as a nurse. I just played along.
The Monday before she died, I went to visit her. She was
very agitated, and her restless legs were at a peak restlessness. She was also
talking, talking, talking, but I couldn’t understand much of what she was
saying. She did ask me where her cigarette was (she quit smoking about 50 years
prior), and I told her I put it out.
The most striking thing that happened that day was that, for
a period of time, Mom was having a lovely, quiet conversation with someone who
was right in front of her. I could tell she was looking directly in front of
her face, not off into the distance. And she seemed so happy to see that
person. I wish I could have understood what she was saying. Dementia and mobility
issues had robbed her of so much joy, and it would have been nice to hear her true
sweetness one more time.
Besides the question about the cigarette, the only other
thing I understood that day was her saying, “Bye, baby!” when I left. I kissed
her cheek, told her I loved her, and that I’d be back soon. I wish I had known
that was the last time she’d talk to me. I would have said more.
I went back two days later, at about 3:30 in the afternoon.
Her room was dimly lit, and Mom was awake but completely still – a stark
contrast from the previous visit when she had been so agitated. A couple of
people were in the room, including the regular med tech and the hospice social
worker. I asked what was going on, and the med tech said, “She’s transitioning.”
Mom’s breathing was labored and loud, but otherwise, she seemed completely at
ease.
I thought I was prepared for this next step, but I really
wasn’t. Thank God for my brother, Phillip, who jumped in the car and drove down
from Knoxville as soon as I called, and the social worker, who stayed all night
with us.
Phillip and I held Mom’s hands and spent the night telling
the social worker stories about our childhood and ones we knew about Mom’s life.
For a time, we were sure she was aware we were there. I’m sure she enjoyed
listening to us talk. She liked nothing better than to hear people’s stories. I
hope it made the transition easier for her, knowing we were there.
Eventually, Mom’s breathing slowed and then finally stopped altogether.
We stayed for another hour or so and then went home to get some sleep. Her cat,
Nike, who lives with me now, curled up on the bed with me, keeping watch like
he always did for Mom.
And now, a year later, I don’t know any more about how to
live without her. I have to resist the urge to take the exit that would take me
to her assisted living facility. I have questions only she can answer –
forgotten names or events I’m sure she’d remember. Time can be generous and blur
out the hard spots, and I know it wasn’t all roses and sunsets, but I sure do
miss her.
Friday, June 4, 2021
A Letter About Pronouns
To the teacher who believes that using preferred pronouns "will defile the holy image of God":
Dear Mr. Cross,
Wednesday, June 2, 2021
Unconscious Bias Revisited
June 2, 2021
I wrote this blog post last year around this time. I have worked to recognize my own unconscious bias but I still have much to do. It isn’t enough to work silently. At a minimum, one needs to be an ally — better yet a partner in change.
Tuesday, May 11, 2021
Karens Anonymous
Hi…my name is Maryann… I mean Karen. I mean apparently, my name is Karen… I mean…
God. This is hard. I think I might be a Karen – maybe? I guess that’s what I’m here to find out. And I’d like to apologize to my friends who are named Karen (or Keren, Caren, or Karin). I don’t know who decided that Karen is the bad one but know that you are wonderful.
First of all, I’m not one of those “hey you kids get off my lawn!” types. And I don’t compose Nextdoor posts about people of color driving through my neighborhood looking suspicious because they are people of color. And I don’t write snarky responses to the people who DO post these things, starting a neighborhood war over the likelihood that the person driving down your street is your neighbor’s grandnephew coming for brunch. Frankly, the worst people driving through my neighborhood are my own neighbors DRIVING OVER THE SPEED LIMIT!
Oh, wait. See? There she goes. My inner Karen just showed her ugly, grey roots. (She seriously needs to get a box of color – and soon!). Breathe, Maryann.
Okay, I’m better now.
I will admit that I am likely to give someone not wearing a mask at the Kroger the stink-eye, but that’s not so bad, is it? All I’m asking is that my fellow shoppers GIVE A DAMN ABOUT THE PEOPLE AROUND THEM FOR ONCE IN THEIR LIVES!
Crap. There she is again. It seems as though she’s been breaking through more easily in the past few months. I’ll ignore the fact that the timing lines up perfectly with me cutting my meds in half, blame it on the pandemic, and do some more deep belly breathing.
I did notice the other day that the neighbor down the street – you know the one with the mid-century modern house - they need to mow their lawn, don’t you think? Thank God we don’t have any houses for sale on the street right now! I’d hate for a prospective buyer to see that. And I know that my lawn is a little bit overgrown, but I’ve been really, really busy and just haven’t gotten to it.
Oh. Yeah. I see it now. That’s kind of a pot and kettle situation, isn’t it? Shut up, Karen, and mow your own lawn.
Oh fine. I see on everyone’s faces that you think I need to mind my own business, avoid being a b-word on social media, and maybe up my meds again. I promise I will try. I will try really, really hard. And I’ll attempt to not fly off the handle the next time my neighbor complains about how many trees someone has taken down in their yard and whether or not they got approval from the county tree department. I mean, seriously. IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!
Oh well. I guess I’ll see you again tomorrow.
Thursday, March 4, 2021
Eulogy for a Friend