Death of a Dahlia

My dad took great pride in his golf course-esque yard. It was perfectly groomed, green and lush. You know the delight in the perfectly groomed marks left when vacuuming carpet? His yard was equally and tactically aligned; every week was a decidedly different direction. When his emphysema became too much for him to care for the yard, he sold the house. He would not hire someone to care for it, he couldn’t bear to watch someone else tender the greens.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say I have his green thumb, but I don’t think it’s black either. I don’t immediately kill plants and it certainly isn’t intentional. I’m not sure if I have a valid excuse as to my demise with botanicals, but this season has been an epic failure! (I’m not sure why I even plant cilantro, I don’t like it. It tastes like soap) Maybe the cilantro knows my disdain for it and just refuses to rise. My hanging baskets are always spindly. I blame it on the fact they are just out there hanging in the bright sun, being blown around, by the wind, with no protection. Kind of the way that I blame my lack of baking skills on the fact that my oven sucks; ok I’ve had 6 different ovens over the years. Anyway…image2

 

 

This summer my hubby and I fashioned a pretty amazing planter to cover up an electrical box that juts out of the patio. I decided to plant this 22 inch pottery-like pot, FULL of plants; 5 Dahlias + 4 Petunias + 3 White Dangle-y Flower Things. It was thriving. I was proud! I posted photos to Instagram and Twitter, they were glor-i-ous!!!

 

 

I began to notice their bright happy branches were starting to wither. The dinner plate blooms just hung their sad heads. They looked starved or something, so I watered them… often. I figured that since I had crammed so much into a tiny space, they must be choking each other out. They need more water. Right? Day after day they slipped away…

image1 (6).JPGMy hubby investigates the darling dahlias and attempts to water them and to his surprise, pools of water instantly form on the surface. He quickly announces that he’s certain that they aren’t draining properly. NO, dear one, THAT cannot be true! The leaves aren’t yellow and flimsy. They look, well I don’t know exactly what they look like, besides dead. Handy Helper Hubby puts a small drill bit into the cordless drill to offer a little drainage and upon immediate infiltration to the flower pot…whoooooooosh. A small river floods the patio! He places a couple of other tiny drain holes around the base, and we could have had a Slip ‘n Slide right there on the patio. But, but… they looked dry and….ugh. I took this defeat quite personally. I was certain that I’d assessed the problem correctly, but what I had actually done is drown them. And in the weirdest, most random way my brain works, I began to feel like I understood the drowned dahlias.

My health is definitely taking it’s own Slip ‘n Slide. My health is by no means in a crisis state, but it has been all encompassing.  A few days spent in the Heart Hospital left me with more questions than answers. A Dr. that explains away my fatigue as part of my depression and that I should exercise more, ok start exercising. I’ve dealt with depression more years than I can remember. I know what it’s like in the valley of stay-in-bed-and-shut-out-the-world. I have been able to get out of bed and participate in my life, but I dream of a nap while I sip my morning coffee.

There are more days than I care to admit, that I’m that dahlia with my head hung. Hanging in shame and guilt for my sickness. For my lack of energy. For most everything. I feel quite certain that I cannot bloom but I’m unsure of the condition that is plaguing me. When I really begin to think about the litany of illnesses and ailments, I just shake my head and sigh. When did I fall apart? How can this be my life? And then more of the drooping dahlia attitude because I’m feeling guilt over feeling guilty. I mean c’mon, I could have it so much worse. You know like the Zika virus or really bad Botox.

I’ve held the hand of my mom during her chemotherapy, I watched my father struggle with every breath for his next breath. I’ve watched my ‘little sister’ check her blood sugar and administer the appropriate amount of insulin. For the most part, those of us with chronic illnesses look fine on the outside. We melt into the landscape of everyone’s life without much elaboration. That may be part of the disguise of the dahlia. While others are assessing the situation from their personal patio, there is something contrary happening below the surface. With each statement made to a medical professional, I hear myself, I see the look in their eyes, as if there’s a cuckoo nesting in the dahlias!

As I look closer ant the planter on my patio, I realize that the petunias and white thingies are actually healthy! They look just fine!! I had been so preoccupied with the drooping dahlias that I missed the perky petunias. What a metaphor for my life, my timestamp of today. I’m so busy dwelling on the demise of my health, that I’ve missed the beauty of the support I have around me. The amazing people I have in my life, plant seeds of hope. They carefully tend to my needs more than I do. And that’s when I understand fully the confusion of the dying dahlia.

What may appear outward, isn’t necessarily what’s happening below the surface. I have to take care of myself, it isn’t selfish. I have so much more to plant and grow and cultivate in my life.

If I don’t take in self-care like sunshine, I’m sure to wither.

It’s a service to me and to others. It isn’t guilt driven. It is a gift I give to those whom I love. As it should be for all of us.

Surround yourself with people who are willing to investigate deeper with you and for you. Perhaps it’s a new perspective that will aerate the ground, a safe place to land where you can spill out like a river. I’m still searching for answers. I’m at a place of advocacy, for myself. I am beginning to weed out the things in my life that are choking out my joy. I am learning to breathe in the revitalizing spaces around me, and to rest when needed.

I will replant something glorious and give it proper attention. Bloom on.

 

Reasons Why I Am Not Blessed

Well, did that title make you sit up and take notice?
Did you think, she’s nuts!? (more nuts-er)
and… she’s off her meds, again!

Yes, I am nuts and medicated; but I am not blessed.  Well, not in this sense:

blessed

adjective bless·ed \ˈble-səd\

Simple Definition of blessed
: having a sacred nature : connected with God
: very welcome, pleasant, or appreciated
—used to make a statement more forceful

Watch out for your toes y’all… but this word has been so overused in Christianese. “How are you today?” “Oh I am just so blessed, thank you.”  I’m guilty, I’ll own it. But when I truly look at that phrase, while the intent is to give props to God, it has a certain arrogance about it. Forceful indeed!

Honestly, I don’t remember a time when God was not a part of me. As a kid, my parents would drop me at Sunday School and come back to retrieve me. I attended church and youth groups with friends, but I wasn’t raised in the church. My mom was a generational-cast-off-Catholic* and I think my dad and God had an agreement, “You don’t bother me, I won’t bother You.” I don’t really have a salvation story, it’s just always been. I have some great rescue stories and turn-around stories and Annisa-you’re-a-bonehead-stories to which God showed up in BIG ways. But to say I have a revelation, salvation story; no. I have a pretty shocking testimony, however… brace yourselves, it’s pretty deep… I AM STILL HERE!!!

I am still here, yep, sums it all up. Sexual assault survivor, teen mom, overachiever, striving spirit, depressed, anxious, medicated, suicidal, devastated, renewed – I am still here. Days I didn’t think I would be, days I didn’t want to be. Yet, here I am; but don’t call me blessed. The implications of being blessed points to God giving special favor. While I know that God has been my saving grace, I don’t consider myself in special, segregated favor.

People often tend to treat God as a Genie: 

One to bequeath gifts and health and finances and the perfect job, only in times of need on our part. We never speak to him, ONLY when we need him.

Some treat Him like the TV Infomercial Guy:

If I act in the next 15 minutes, You will get me out of this situation. But WAIT, there’s more! For just a nominal fee, (like going to church, once) You will restore ALL the dumb decisions I’ve made! Right? Act now, this offer expires soon!

And there’s my personal favorite, the Barterer:

Ok God, I’m going to give up chocolate IF you will just do this one thing for me! (anyone? anyone? thought so!)

[I personally believe] We don’t receive special blessings JUST because we believe. I know that will fly-in-the-face of some believers, but I’ve never been the docile type. Stay with me on the Crazy-Brain-Train…

There are believers all over the world; I have been to one of  the most underprivileged, desperate, no electricity, no running water, villages in Peru. I have hugged and kissed these little Grubkins, and found more joy and pure love in their hearts than any overindulged brat back home. So many of us would look at the two, side by side, and think, “oh, the American kid has so much more. So blessed.” and “Those poor unfortunate Grubkins, have nothing, how sad.” WRONG!!! Brown flag!!

 

To say that stuff makes you blessed is an insult to Grace

How can I say that God has ‘blessed’ me with things, and wealth and health, etc when children are living in poverty? Children are growing up in crack houses? Tsunamis and earthquakes happen to believers, too. I can’t view blessings as a reward for simply believing, not while so many suffer; cancer continues to ravage and kill,  a dumb-ass guy puts mouse poison on the salad bar at grocery stores, devastation all around. And Yet, I should have the arrogance to say, I am blessed.

I understand, know and believe that I am a Child of God, but I’m not the favorite kid. Yes, I also know that there is an opposing force to what God wills, and that we also have free-will. That still doesn’t make me blessed, special. I will admit, I used to correct people who would say that they’re ‘lucky’. Oh no, no, no….you are blessed! As I self analyze and [over]think my own words; this is what I actually said. “NO NO NO, you are wrong. Luck doesn’t exist. It’s because You are special. You got the goodies, oh favored kid!”

Yes, He is a good good father, and like any parent, God wants to see us succeed. He gives us free-will to choose a path, even if it’s the wrong one. He will wait on us, arms folded, to come back around. Inspire us to make better choices.  He is not the Genie, TV Infomercial Guy or Barterer, “Ok, Annisa, if you do this for Me, I will give you all your desires.” Nope, not how it works. God doesn’t discipline. He doesn’t punish, although many still live in that fear.  “Annisa, I saw that you partook of far too much wine yesternight, prepare ye for your smite.  {I know you read that in a Shakespeare-ish voice in your head}

Not even the pomp and self-glory of mission work, ‘ok Annisa, go to Peru or to a woman’s prison and reach out to those poor underprivileged, unfortunate souls. Show them how blessed you are” WRONG, again. “Annisa, go to these places. Have your heart broken, splintered into shards, and see that I love them too. Not more, not less. I love them, too. Humble yourself, you aren’t all that. What can you learn from them, Bonehead?” {yes, God calls me Bonehead}

God loves us, even when we are unlovable, even when we reject Him. Even, when we aren’t sure we believe IN Him, He believes in us. Picture in your mind, God gathering every believer in a row, linked arm in arm; He would look at each of us, and say the same thing, one by one;” I love YOU, I have such great plans for you, and you, and you…. ”

 

*MY definition of generational-cast-off-Catholic = Someone who’s parents divorced and could no longer attend Catholic Mass, only to marry a man who had been divorced, and not be able to attend Catholic Mass. {Thanks heavens, for the Catholics Come Home program}

 

 

 

Gone Baby Gone

I’ve come to the conclusion, I’m a curmudgeon. That old cranky broad that bitches about “this generation” and “you call that crap music”. Yes, I am she, but totally ok with it…
This generation will never understand the simple joys of growing up in a small-small town. Before the “nuke plant” came to town, when Super Value was the only grocery store and we didn’t have a stoplight. Gone are the days of the school kids painting the storefront windows (uptown) for Halloween. The quiet battle of getting to the shop owner first to claim your window. 

Gone are the days of going into Claire’s Crafts & Hobbies and actually see Claire, the small business owner minding the store. Where you can buy the model rocket kit you needed for Mr. Bradfords’s Science Class and poke at Taco the parrot, the store mascot. Not to mention, being a squealy girl watching the boa constrictor eat mice. 

Gone are the days of the “snake dance” through town for Homecoming. Where the town would turn out to join hands in a long pseudo-conga line to wind through the streets. It was often a crazy ride for which you would hang on for dear life. Many of us have battle scars to prove it. An event that would now have everyone sign a waiver, wrapped in bubble wrap and shin guards. Weenies!

Gone are the days of walking into Ma’s Place and seeing the same guys, sitting at the same table, having the same BS conversations, drinking lava like coffee, day after day. It was reassuring actually, you knew all was right with the world because it was being solved at the table in the middle. 

Gone are the days of pizza at Leombruni’s after the football game. We thought we were oh so cool. We were a rowdy group of punks!!! {{Please allow me a moment to apologize to Annette for being a little shit and lousy tipper.}} We didn’t really understand how people earned a living or how the world worked at that time. 

My heart is stirring with the memories of the old days; when we thought life was so complicated. The simple beliefs of honor and community were always revealed  on Good Friday. When all the stores uptown would close their business from noon to 3pm to honor the death of our crucified Lord. The hours He hung on a cross, dying. It was a proclamation of values of a small-small town. We celebrated faith. We expressed it outwardly. And yes, as a small-small town, everyone knew your business. The home-room-mom had likely called your mom to let her know you got in trouble at school and by the time you got home, even bigger trouble was standing in the doorway waiting for you! We also knew those same neighbors would be at your doorstep with a meal when a loved one died. They would be at your doorstep with a freshly crocheted afghan for your your new baby. 

Yes, this cranky broad misses her simple hometown life. But it ruminates within my heart, my soul and leads me forward. No, I don’t long to trade my iPhone I for the bright red teen-phone I had in my room, but I long to look at life through that filter of simplicity, community and values. A Good Friday indeed. 

Pardon Me

Please pardon my normal pleasantries and nice-nice for just a few moments, so that I may rant about… public bathrooms!
As if I’m not already aware of my fat arse, who in the fook designs public bathrooms?!? It has to be a man! My apologies boys, but it’s stupid!! 

How does a big girl walk in a stall, turn around and close the door?!? You don’t!! You sidesaddle the MotherTrucking toilet and swing the door shut with your purse. And pray that you don’t lose a lipgloss from your purse into the toilet. 

And if that isn’t bad enough…

Some asshat decides to put all the “receptacles” on one side, nearest to… you guessed it, my fat arse!! Now come on, I know you men rarely sit down in one of those things, but seriously? How am I expected to maneuver my left arm… at all?!?? 

 
And yes, I actually took a picture!! Standing IN the doorway, with the door open!!! Good googley-moogley even a twiglet wouldn’t be able to move in there! 

And don’t even get me started about the auto-on sinks that never work and you look like some idiot Kung-fu reject trying to find the happy place for the sensor. 

And on that note, I shall bid you adieu for thus endeth my rant about the loo!