April Showers

A cool quiet start to another Sunday, this one the final one of April, the smell of rain in the air, lingering, waiting, allowing the morning’s rituals to begin without interruption.  There goes the family from down the street, off to their regular Sunday service, a tradition that is slowly dying a lonely death; it’s comfort and lessons and sense of community a thing of the past.  The sparrows, a mated pair, dance along the ground in front of the house, picking through bits of sand and gravel together, singing happy songs to one another as they pick the sidewalk clean.  The Robins, Mr and Mrs have chosen our little spruce tree out front as the suitable kind of tree for a nest, and have been spotted occasionally this week pushing bits of string and dry grasses into a shrouded, secluded, section of spruce boughs, safe from the cats, getting ready for the arrival of offspring. 

The blue-jay is breaking the quiet now with his shrieking call, and the cat who can’t decide if he wants in or out or both, is crying to be let back in, having just wanted out, presumably to trample the sprouting shoots in the back flower garden and enrich the soil with his own unique fertilizer.  The kids from down the street are playing in their back yard, and much like the cat, are sounding like they don’t know on which side of the door they’d prefer to be.

At least my coffee is safe and provides enough reassurance to see me through the beginnings of the day.  The end of April is a mixed bag for me, taxes are due, a birthday awaits, and as has been the case for the past few years, a headache calls and wants to keep me company.  A skeptic might say the three are related, and might even throw in the season’s uncertain weather as a factor for my casually caustic mood, with it’s shorter than normal fuse and nerves more closer to the surface. Maybe.  But I’m still in the mood to disagree regardless, and know its best to keep my distance lest I find myself in the midst of an argument I don’t want any part of, but with a disposition that wills me to win.

I refer to the episodes as headaches, but that’s entirely incorrect, as it would suggest the only manifestation is some head-related pain, and would that it were so, but no, its an entire body-mind affliction – like all ailments are though we choose to focus on the most dominant symptom – and I’m learning to recognize the changes and though so far I have been powerless to prevent them from assembling into a much larger force, I am comforted in the knowledge that by being present in the moment and conscious of the process as it evolves, my being aware of the altered states allows me to lessen their effect somewhat.

Minor depression-like symptoms coupled with feelings of pressure in the head and facial region, acute headache on one side or the other, usually the left, unless preceded by visual aura which almost exclusively affects the left field of vision but carries a right-sided pain.  Days before my neck will ache deeply into my spine, and you’ll find me tilting my head from side to side, slowly stretching to relieve the tensioned spring that runs from the top of my head to the middle of my back.  Then come the carb and salt cravings, like some bovine-induced spirit, I seek starchy foods and snacks to placate my mood and my uneasiness.  Keep an eye on the ego during this stage, as it’s apt to want to drive the emotional bus for a few days, self-centered analysis of issues, and an overwhelming inward focus dominate my thinking which will be cloudy to a degree, the ability to concentrate on fine details gets lost in the shifting priorities of self and connection to others.  And once that’s set in, then the pain builds and the eyes become light sensitive; all sensory inputs are overloaded really, smells induce aversion, and sounds, while not amplified, seem to linger longer in my head, muddying into a ringing of sorts, a frequency high enough to cause discomfort should I focus on it, but low enough to become lost in the mix.

I think I would be able to handle that combination on its own, but fate prefers to throw me a larger than fair share of lack of motivation along with a reduced capacity for feeling joy or happiness beyond not feeling pain, and that pushes me over an edge where I stay for awhile, stumbling blindly through the mess my mind-body has created, waiting for the curtains to be pulled back again (as long as my eyes can tolerate it) until things clear again and life returns to its wonderfully simple ways.

Disease? Sickness? Mental defect? Disorder?

No, its all part of how I’m wired.  I’m pretty sure I’ve been like this since day one, though I’ve had ups and downs through the years, where parts of the whole affliction were missing altogether, or others much more dominant than the rest, and able to be passed off as something else, treated as symptoms of something altogether unrelated, calmed by medicated shrapnel that happened to hit on the way by.  Moody and misunderstood; quiet and distant, brooding and seemingly solemn, preferring to thrive inwardly, letting few inside; that’s how it would read to an outsider, though the reality, as always, is something entirely different.

No, you’re right, I don’t get too excited at life’s events – unless I’m there in that darkened state, when I’m more apt to respond with something cutting and sharp, the attacking protection of a wounded animal – nor do I get too low, preferring to keep an even keel, riding the waves for what they are, returning to a fairly normal emotional baseline as soon as possible, but able to find nourishment and happiness in even the smallest detail, the tiniest speck of light, trying to carry those with me for the inevitable times when I’ll need them again, waiting it out.

The sparrows are still singing, and its getting cooler out there, as is my coffee, the Robins are puffing up as they sit on the wires, the rain clouds are slowly settling in.  Luckily for me my clouds are finally parting, though it may be a few days until I get that comforting feeling of community back where it belongs. I’ll just stand back awhile and let this storm roll through, then we’ll see what begins to blossom afterward.  After all, April showers bring May flowers, right? 

Returning Home

Its Saturday, the Saturday sandwiched between Good Friday and Easter Sunday, and we're back home - our childhood home - taking advantage of the long weekend to visit family and friends we haven't seen in awhile. I'm up early, no surprise, the open window of the bedroom allowing the wonderful sounds of Spring to filter through untouched, the robins and sparrows singing morning songs, the dog across the back-lane barking quietly to be let back in, a lone car driving past in the distance, a small prairie town slow to stir on a holiday weekend.

 The cat and I have emerged from our room, him eager to eat, me trying silently to find the essentials to make coffee in a kitchen that isnt mine, yet isnt quite foreign either, belonging to Karen's mom, and I succeed after a few wrong turns and locate the paper filters without waking the house. Missions accomplished, cat and I head to the front room and establish our personal territories, me in the green chair and ottoman beside the picture window, cat now on my lap, paws crossed, alert and attentive, but able to sleep should the lack of stimulation warrant.

 The sun is slowly rising, a few wisps of cloud linger from the storms that flirted with us overnight, the streets and driveways still dry. Its cooler this morning, great sleeping weather with the bedroom window open, if you can ignore the first birds of the day, but its Easter and a time for renewal and rebirth, and so the day beckons to make best use of the silence.

 Returning 'home' means different things to different people, depending of course on your age and stage in life: the recently graduated will soon be coming back from University in the cities, starting work in summer jobs to help pay for next September's schooling, returning to familiar rooms and routines, families happy to have their children back under the same roof once more, clinging to the remaining strands of the fraying family unit. Those that have moved on and started families of their own elsewhere, return for brief visits and for cherished memories in the making, the stuff of future photo albums and remember-whens. 

But while the house and location are still the same, the rooms - perhaps the same as the ones you occupied while growing up, or maybe thats now the sewing room or craft room, and now you're banished to the guest room in the basement or some second floor, the same room aunts and uncles share when they stop by to visit - the rooms have been repurposed in any case, no longer 'yours' but still you've got first dibs, and a childhood of memories linger in the old wood panelled walls, and tiny closets, the wooden rods grooved and worn from years of sliding wire hangers, of expanding wardrobes and style changes, today the home to spare summer dresses and fall and winter coats, but with just enough room left for your things when you return.

 Theres a slower pace to this place now, the storefronts on Main Street have changed since you cruised the streets on Friday nights, looking for friends and something to do. The old facades have been updated, some have been torn down, others remain unchanged, decaying while providing a glimpse of their past. Storefront signs now boast the sons and daughters of the original shop and office owners, businesses that still operate under the names you remember, now run by new owners, the inevitable pace of progress moving forward.

 We delude ourselves when we move from home that we're off to build a better life than the one that raised us into who we are today, with our bigger houses, more toys, and grander lifestyles than the ones we left behind, proving to ourselves and the rest of the world that we demand and deserves respect for who we are today, despite where we started, running from the small towns and little opportunities to the cities with their bright lights and constant hum, multitude of choices and options and promises galore. Like our parents before us who left farms and rural homesteads for a better life in the towns, we're doing what we know, moving on and moving up, but we know its just a game.

 We can pretend on these long weekends that we aren't from this place anymore, that we're different people somehow, with bigger and different problems served by a different and larger distant population, but when you stand out in that back yard now, the one that now seems so much smaller than when you were a child and days lasted forever, and you watch the neighbors working in their yards, tending to the massive garden plots that back onto that common lane, the piles of yard clippings and compost standing there waiting for a turn with the fork, or you listen to the familiar ticking of that anniversary clock in the front room, its pendulum keeping perfect time, you know its all a grand illusion, that while time and distance may have taken you from this place, this place was never taken from you, and in these tree-lined streets and wide deep lots still beats your heart, the seeds of who you've become were sewn here all those years ago.

 The boy and cat see this place as slower and more quiet, with different things to see and do, and memories here from visits past but they each prefer the familiar comforts and routines of the certainty they find when we return back home. And you know what? So do we. Home is always good for the soul, no matter how much its changed.