Meredith Kendall's Blog, page 47
April 8, 2014
new role
Have I mentioned the grandma thing?
A new type of love, a new way to be, the next unknown, and the next thing my son is showing me. Thanks, son. Thanks for teaching me how to be a parent. Now you and your son will show me how to be a grandparent.
I had the best mother-in-law. What made her so great? She listened to me, she accepted me, she didn't judge, she helped in many ways. I hope I can be nearly as wonderful as she was. I'm learning to be a MIL to my two dear girls. I hope I do it right.
I also had the best grandma. She's still with me. What made her so great? She loved me.
Cynical, ironic, jaded: oh, I'm all those things and I bet you are too. I've seen suffering, deep gaping wounds, grief, and betrayal. So don't dismiss me when I write about love. It's real. And it's a new kind of love for me: grandson.
A new type of love, a new way to be, the next unknown, and the next thing my son is showing me. Thanks, son. Thanks for teaching me how to be a parent. Now you and your son will show me how to be a grandparent.
I had the best mother-in-law. What made her so great? She listened to me, she accepted me, she didn't judge, she helped in many ways. I hope I can be nearly as wonderful as she was. I'm learning to be a MIL to my two dear girls. I hope I do it right.
I also had the best grandma. She's still with me. What made her so great? She loved me.
Cynical, ironic, jaded: oh, I'm all those things and I bet you are too. I've seen suffering, deep gaping wounds, grief, and betrayal. So don't dismiss me when I write about love. It's real. And it's a new kind of love for me: grandson.
adventures in home ownership #45
There was a damp spot in the basement this morning.
Took my shower and went to check on it.
2 damp spots.
It was raining, snow was melting. I turned on a fan, left the light on, and went to work.
Took a nice walk after work, so warm! Blue skies! Came home and explored the back yard: mud, sticks, snow, gotta thin those raspberries, more mud.
Came in and checked the basement. A stream is running through the basement. The rugs are soaking sopping wet. Water.
Well, it stopped raining this morning. The stream should slow down, right? I turned up the fan, turned on the 2 dehumidifiers, and left the light on. Swept the water towards the drain. Good.
Oh, mold. Right. Went back down and dumped bleach around in the streams. Good.
Came back upstairs. House reeks of bleach. I'm going to die, right? Opened windows, turned on fans, lit candles. The scented candles will dissolve or inactivate the bleach fumes, right? Or will provide the spark to ignite fumes and explode house. Blew out candles.
Will go back and check stream in a few moments. Meanwhile, the bottoms of my bare feet look funny from walking in the bleach water. My feet are going to fall off. Hopefully after the house explodes and before I die of lung fungus.
Took my shower and went to check on it.
2 damp spots.
It was raining, snow was melting. I turned on a fan, left the light on, and went to work.
Took a nice walk after work, so warm! Blue skies! Came home and explored the back yard: mud, sticks, snow, gotta thin those raspberries, more mud.
Came in and checked the basement. A stream is running through the basement. The rugs are soaking sopping wet. Water.
Well, it stopped raining this morning. The stream should slow down, right? I turned up the fan, turned on the 2 dehumidifiers, and left the light on. Swept the water towards the drain. Good.
Oh, mold. Right. Went back down and dumped bleach around in the streams. Good.
Came back upstairs. House reeks of bleach. I'm going to die, right? Opened windows, turned on fans, lit candles. The scented candles will dissolve or inactivate the bleach fumes, right? Or will provide the spark to ignite fumes and explode house. Blew out candles.
Will go back and check stream in a few moments. Meanwhile, the bottoms of my bare feet look funny from walking in the bleach water. My feet are going to fall off. Hopefully after the house explodes and before I die of lung fungus.
April 6, 2014
can't
sleep.
Too much work, coffee, sunshine, good books? 60 hours, decaf, spring but temps 20-50, Ross Thomas.
Can't sleep.
Too much work, coffee, sunshine, good books? 60 hours, decaf, spring but temps 20-50, Ross Thomas.
Can't sleep.
sun
Sun plastered me to the rock like one of those gel window decorations.
You know what I mean, right? My coworkers decorate their office windows with colorful gel seasonal words and symbols. I don't. Who has the time? Do decorations really add to the quality of education? Enhance student learning and satisfaction? Am I supposed to redecorate my windows monthly? And my door weekly (inspirational sayings, puns, or family photos)?
I like to poke the gel.
It's like thin jello.
Anyway. I went to the beach.
Drove right in, noticed a park ranger fiddling with the chain at the gate so I waved. I have my season pass already, so didn't stop at the honor-system money-can at the empty toll-house. Drove right on. The road was smooth.
The parking lot was empty and that was odd. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and the road outside the park was lined with cars. The ranger pulled in behind me, driving a golf cart or 4-wheeler. "You're the first one in," he told me. "We just opened up, after mud season. It was a long mud season."
"I have a season pass," I confessed, nervously, in case he'd stopped to check the money can. "I got it already, at Popham," I babbled on.
"You must really like the state parks," he replied.
"Oh I do. I love parks. Even when I travel, I go to the state parks." What was wrong with me? Why was I going on so, and to a total stranger? I'm usually a nod or one word to strangers. We awkwardly disentangled our conversation and I set off down the path to the bay, excited that I might have the small beach to myself.
Oh. No such luck. Remember all those cars? People hiked in, with kids and lunches. Like I said, it's a small beach. A strip of sand and shells, then a line of seaweed and tricky rock, and then a steep cliff to tall trees. There were lots of people there. People watching, discussing, and photographing the ospreys. Kids called and cawed liked seagulls. Kids fell in tidepools. Mothers told kids, "Be careful! Watch your ankles! Don't get wet!" Was I ever that ridiculous and controlling? I hope I told them to go play, get wet, get muddy and sandy. I can't remember.
A middle-aged couple in hiking boots were wolfing down foot-long sub sandwiches. Huge bites and chews. A hipster couple was oogling the osprey nest. There's an osprey nest on an offshore island. No trespassing allowed. Just ospreys. Young couples with kids. People with cameras. I felt inspected and trapped. I turned right to walk along the beach.
I walked on muddy sand, shells, and seaweed. I walked past two women, planted on a boulder, eating lunch, and talking about working out at the local gym. "Treadmill..." I heard. "SO many INTERESTING people." Why were they shouting?
A young couple was huddled in a cove. I kept walking. I jumped from rock to rock, avoiding the snails. I carefully tiptoed across seaweed. I walked in mud and sand.
I found a stretch barren of people. I could still hear the hoots of the hikers in the woods above me. But I couldn't see anyone. The rock was black and glittering in the sun. The slabs thrust upwards. The seaweed was bright yellow and the shells were blue, white, and pink. I stopped and leaned against a slab, feet braced against small boulders. I felt the sun on my face, and slipped out of my winter jacket.
It was sunny, windy, and 45 degrees. Almost summer to a Mainer.
Sun plastered me to the rock. I felt sun and wind on my face. I could hear the wind and the waves. Snails dropped from the slanted rock and skittered down to the sand. I tried to nap.
I thought about sun, Reiki, light, and heat.
A family walked by, speaking melodic French. They found a boulder beyond, and sat in the sun, lulling me with language.
I couldn't sleep so I watched the ospreys, in the distance now. I watched seagulls swirl above, like an electron storm. I saw a bird with black wings soar and startle the seagulls and ospreys. I saw circles of light flash and float among the gleaming birds.
You know what I mean, right? My coworkers decorate their office windows with colorful gel seasonal words and symbols. I don't. Who has the time? Do decorations really add to the quality of education? Enhance student learning and satisfaction? Am I supposed to redecorate my windows monthly? And my door weekly (inspirational sayings, puns, or family photos)?
I like to poke the gel.
It's like thin jello.
Anyway. I went to the beach.
Drove right in, noticed a park ranger fiddling with the chain at the gate so I waved. I have my season pass already, so didn't stop at the honor-system money-can at the empty toll-house. Drove right on. The road was smooth.
The parking lot was empty and that was odd. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and the road outside the park was lined with cars. The ranger pulled in behind me, driving a golf cart or 4-wheeler. "You're the first one in," he told me. "We just opened up, after mud season. It was a long mud season."
"I have a season pass," I confessed, nervously, in case he'd stopped to check the money can. "I got it already, at Popham," I babbled on.
"You must really like the state parks," he replied.
"Oh I do. I love parks. Even when I travel, I go to the state parks." What was wrong with me? Why was I going on so, and to a total stranger? I'm usually a nod or one word to strangers. We awkwardly disentangled our conversation and I set off down the path to the bay, excited that I might have the small beach to myself.
Oh. No such luck. Remember all those cars? People hiked in, with kids and lunches. Like I said, it's a small beach. A strip of sand and shells, then a line of seaweed and tricky rock, and then a steep cliff to tall trees. There were lots of people there. People watching, discussing, and photographing the ospreys. Kids called and cawed liked seagulls. Kids fell in tidepools. Mothers told kids, "Be careful! Watch your ankles! Don't get wet!" Was I ever that ridiculous and controlling? I hope I told them to go play, get wet, get muddy and sandy. I can't remember.
A middle-aged couple in hiking boots were wolfing down foot-long sub sandwiches. Huge bites and chews. A hipster couple was oogling the osprey nest. There's an osprey nest on an offshore island. No trespassing allowed. Just ospreys. Young couples with kids. People with cameras. I felt inspected and trapped. I turned right to walk along the beach.
I walked on muddy sand, shells, and seaweed. I walked past two women, planted on a boulder, eating lunch, and talking about working out at the local gym. "Treadmill..." I heard. "SO many INTERESTING people." Why were they shouting?
A young couple was huddled in a cove. I kept walking. I jumped from rock to rock, avoiding the snails. I carefully tiptoed across seaweed. I walked in mud and sand.
I found a stretch barren of people. I could still hear the hoots of the hikers in the woods above me. But I couldn't see anyone. The rock was black and glittering in the sun. The slabs thrust upwards. The seaweed was bright yellow and the shells were blue, white, and pink. I stopped and leaned against a slab, feet braced against small boulders. I felt the sun on my face, and slipped out of my winter jacket.
It was sunny, windy, and 45 degrees. Almost summer to a Mainer.
Sun plastered me to the rock. I felt sun and wind on my face. I could hear the wind and the waves. Snails dropped from the slanted rock and skittered down to the sand. I tried to nap.
I thought about sun, Reiki, light, and heat.
A family walked by, speaking melodic French. They found a boulder beyond, and sat in the sun, lulling me with language.
I couldn't sleep so I watched the ospreys, in the distance now. I watched seagulls swirl above, like an electron storm. I saw a bird with black wings soar and startle the seagulls and ospreys. I saw circles of light flash and float among the gleaming birds.
Reiki journey
I don't have all the answers, but I'll help you start your journey. I'll witness, assist, facilitate, and participate. I'll walk some steps with you.
Just for today... be Reiki.
Just for today... be Reiki.
April 5, 2014
Reiki ethics
Students are discussing Reiki ethics and principles. We're in the last 3 weeks of our 17-week course. Students are writing final posts and papers. We have our last meeting next week, or maybe the week after. We'll share Reiki, do attunements, and say goodbye.
winter is melting away
Early in the week there were patches of ground visible, now there are patches of snow.
Daffodil shoots are up. Snowpiles are shrinking.
Goodbye, winter. Hello, mud season in Maine.
Daffodil shoots are up. Snowpiles are shrinking.
Goodbye, winter. Hello, mud season in Maine.
March 24, 2014
bronchitis
I was sick last week. Bronchitis. My chest felt tight. I had a wheezy productive cough. I read a lot of books and drank buckets of herbal tea. I coughed, sneezed, and wheezed. Cancelled fun plans.
I slept 10 hours every night and napped on the sunny futon every afternoon. I didn't speak to another human being for 3 1/2 days. No work, no chores. Watched the seedlings germinate and grow.
I took elderberry syrup (1 tsp 4x day), echinacea & goldenseal tincture, echinacea throat spray, local honey, and ibuprofen. My friend Betsy intuitively created for me an aromatherapy oil which I rubbed on my chest and throat, and then covered with a hot wet washcloth.
Every morning I did yoga asanas. I did self-Reiki. I meditated. I read enlightening spiritual articles and books.
Then I felt weller. I was ready. Had a cup of coffee and ventured out into the world of people: communication and commerce.
I slept 10 hours every night and napped on the sunny futon every afternoon. I didn't speak to another human being for 3 1/2 days. No work, no chores. Watched the seedlings germinate and grow.
I took elderberry syrup (1 tsp 4x day), echinacea & goldenseal tincture, echinacea throat spray, local honey, and ibuprofen. My friend Betsy intuitively created for me an aromatherapy oil which I rubbed on my chest and throat, and then covered with a hot wet washcloth.
Every morning I did yoga asanas. I did self-Reiki. I meditated. I read enlightening spiritual articles and books.
Then I felt weller. I was ready. Had a cup of coffee and ventured out into the world of people: communication and commerce.
when summer comes
when summer comes I'm going to have flowers, vegies, and berries everywhere. The backyard will be a kaleidoscope of color, texture, perspective, and aroma. Right now the soil is buried beneath 3 feet of snow and ice.
There will be green. Spring will come, mud and ice and robins. Summer will come.
When summer comes I'll be outside all day.
Right now my house is tidy. Orchids are blooming. The dishes are clean and put away, laundry too. Bed-sheets are clean, bathroom too. The futon maintains an erect posture, no slouching: ready for visitors. All vacuumed, dusted, scoured, and polished. Small but tidy. Perfectly controlled temperature and humidity.
When summer comes my house will be disordered and dusty.
When summer comes my gardens will be glorious with color, texture, and light. There will be orderly rows. Morning glories will twine and bloom up the fence. The cedars will burst with green. Raspberries will be an uncontainable jungle of juicy red petit bouches. There will be kale, carrots, and green beans.
Inside my house it will be hot and humid. There will be dust bunnies in the corners. Stuff will pile up: mail, notes to self, grocery lists, and intended gifts. Laundry baskets will overflow. Dirty dishes too. Houseplants will wilt. I'll finally notice, but mostly I'll be outside. I'll be weeding, watering, and wandering. I'll replant, rearrange, and rest. I'll be at the beach, holding my grandson, and exploring. Well, also teaching full-time. But just full-time, no extras. Well, just a few extras.
When summer comes I'll be a grandmother and a gardener.
There will be green. Spring will come, mud and ice and robins. Summer will come.
When summer comes I'll be outside all day.
Right now my house is tidy. Orchids are blooming. The dishes are clean and put away, laundry too. Bed-sheets are clean, bathroom too. The futon maintains an erect posture, no slouching: ready for visitors. All vacuumed, dusted, scoured, and polished. Small but tidy. Perfectly controlled temperature and humidity.
When summer comes my house will be disordered and dusty.
When summer comes my gardens will be glorious with color, texture, and light. There will be orderly rows. Morning glories will twine and bloom up the fence. The cedars will burst with green. Raspberries will be an uncontainable jungle of juicy red petit bouches. There will be kale, carrots, and green beans.
Inside my house it will be hot and humid. There will be dust bunnies in the corners. Stuff will pile up: mail, notes to self, grocery lists, and intended gifts. Laundry baskets will overflow. Dirty dishes too. Houseplants will wilt. I'll finally notice, but mostly I'll be outside. I'll be weeding, watering, and wandering. I'll replant, rearrange, and rest. I'll be at the beach, holding my grandson, and exploring. Well, also teaching full-time. But just full-time, no extras. Well, just a few extras.
When summer comes I'll be a grandmother and a gardener.
March 15, 2014
twinkie whoopie pie
You know how when you were a kid, Twinkies tasted so good? Then you grow up and eat them again and they're horrible. Tasteless chemical nothingness.
Well today I had a whoopie pie that was as good as my memory of childhood Twinkies. A student brought a box of whoopie pies from a bakery, which bakery I do not know. That's probably a good thing. Anyway, the cake was moist dense delicious vanilla maybe with a touch of banana. The filling was fluffy white cream, not too sweet, not too much of it.
Well today I had a whoopie pie that was as good as my memory of childhood Twinkies. A student brought a box of whoopie pies from a bakery, which bakery I do not know. That's probably a good thing. Anyway, the cake was moist dense delicious vanilla maybe with a touch of banana. The filling was fluffy white cream, not too sweet, not too much of it.
