Squirrel!

You know how they made fun of the dog in that movie, “Up,” where he would get so distracted by the simplest things? He was “Dug the Dog.” Kind of a perfect name for a dog. Sometimes we are like Dug the Dog, we are working and moving along just fine and then – boom! – distraction! Squirrel!

Dug the Dog

Grief is just so weird. Because in my rational, scientific mind, I KNOW my mom is better off. I know she is no longer suffering. I know, that with Alzheimer’s, there really is no quality of life. She existed, yes; but mom was not really living. She had small joys and the home in which she lived was perfect for her. She was happy. But she also was not herself. She had lost herself inside the disease. Certainly not the woman who had borne and raised me. So I KNOW all this, and yet I still miss her deeply, knowing I can never get a mom hug again. She gave good hugs. And I also KNOW that life goes on. It totally does. Laundry needs to be washed, meals prepared, gardens planted, etc. Life moves fast, and if you don’t keep up, it passes you by.

Raised Beds

For my husband and myself, our world has been focused on creating raised beds in our yard, In getting our vegetable starts going indoors. Trying to be as independent as we can be. But homesteading, or making your yard into a sustainable food production process, is exhausting. Truly tiring. My husband was on a tractor for 3 days this weekend. I was repotting our starts into bigger pots. We had a central focus, and it was all we were thinking about. And then we realized we needed to make time to attend Church. Which we did.

The Mass was wonderful. We had a guest priest from Kenai. He was amazing. His homily about the Holy Trinity just hit me center-beam. And I fell apart. I could not stop crying. I kept thinking about my mom. It had been 1 week since she had died. And as I listened to the priest talk about the “indwelling of the Holy Spirit” I related to the Blessed Mother, Who carried the Trinity within Her. (Of course, as a mother, I related to Her pregnancy, not that my children are the Trinity. Far from it). But I thought about how it would have been to be that close to my mom. I was once inside of her, and she loved me deeply. Her disease took that relationship from me. And for that, I really hate Alzheimer’s. But my point is that simple words from a priest were “squirrel” for me. I was suddenly off into a world of grief. And all throughout Sunday, little squirrel moments kept happening. I would see something and think of my mom and cry. Sigh. Grief hits at the oddest times and it can be so very strong.

Seedlings under a grow light

There is something cathartic about helping plants grow from seeds to a meal on your plate. I laugh because my little plants get their greeting from me every morning and a goodnight every evening. It now takes about 45 minutes to water my starters. We have plans to move more of them out into our raised beds this evening. We have the blessing of daylight until rather late! Our sunrise was at 4:33 today and our sunset will be 11:23 this evening. It’s a long day and it will only get longer as summer wears on. Life is moving fast. My little seedlings went from seed to plant to having fruit on them in a matter of weeks. Harvest will be quite soon. The squirrel in that scenario would be a random storm or frost.

In my life, the squirrel, or off-setting moment, was mom’s death. I walk around all day and I am just fine. I hold something of hers and I just cry. It’s been only two weeks, and it seems like forever. This morning, I threw away some flowers that had been sent to me in recognition/sympathy for mom’s passing. I spent a few minutes washing the container, just crying at how quickly it passed. The time since she has been gone. Life moves so fast. I am getting all this Medicare stuff in the mail because of my upcoming birthday, and it is a reminder to me that I am not guaranteed my next breath. Life is gaining speed. My seedlings are ready to go out into the big world and live their little lifetimes in our raised beds. Mom was 91 years old and her Alzheimer’s too advanced for us to bring her over here. Once she moved out, she was never back here. I wish she could have seen my first, little Tom-Tom tomato. She would have liked that.

Micro Tom Tom