Even the Things That Crumble Can Eventually Make Us Whole

A good friend of mine is writing at a blog called Transformative Divorce. It's over there to the right, third one down on my blogroll.

Not only is she an excellent writer, but she's one of the most genuine, and generous, people I know. At this point in her life she's trying to unfold the mystery and the pain surrounding her recent divorce, and the pieces of her past that have played a part in all of it. And she's willing to let us witness it.

Although my own divorce was 12 years ago, I find the questions being asked at Transformative Divorce to be meaningful. They hit me in that "Oh, you forgot to think this through, didn't you?" place in my chest.

If you're going through divorce now, or have in the past, or if you just like intelligent, self-aware blogging, go visit her.

Short Circuit

That buzzing and crackling you hear is just my brain. I've ordered it to snap to attention so many times in the past two weeks that it's sizzled and zapped its way to "No. Turn on TV."

Come on, Candy-brain. Just read this one last student essay. Then we'll call it a night.

"Turn on TV. Eat chips."

It's the annual Thanksgiving break that always ends up being a marathon of work. Every year I swear I'll manage to make it a restful week. Then break nears and I start to waver. I decide I'll work really hard for the first few days and then have a restful 3 or 4 days. Then break arrives and it gets to this point, the one where I just hope I won't be grading on Thanksgiving Day itself. Why can't I simply accept the way I always do things and give up on being better, smarter, more organized, more savvy with my time? Huh? Why can't I blow off the idea of ever. improving. at. anything?

Well then. I see this hasn't gotten to a very pretty set of charms on the bracelet.

I'm going to go eat chips and watch TV.

A Belated Little Election Day Story

The people at Shiny Meadows were allowed to vote if they were able to take a pen and draw an "X". Dad was barely able to do this. For the second line that crossed the other, Mom helped hold his hand steady. He was then allowed to cast his ballot, with Mom filling it out for him. It's a little scary to think about those lost in dementia being "guided" by someone helping them vote. But Dad's vote was safe in my mother's care. After 69 years together, the political tastes are dovetailed.

As Mom was pushing him down the hallway in his wheelchair, another wheelchair-bound resident, Eileen, was being given her ballot by a nurse.

"Are you ready to vote, Eileen?" she asked.

"I guess I am. But I don't know shit from apple butter."