Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da (re-posting)

The second of three re-postings from blog entries earlier this year.

Jan 22 2013  ob la di, ob la da!

No, that's not some kind of magical incantation. Or is it?


Life goes on, that's all.


Here's a haiku to say where I've been and what I've been doing since last time I wrote.


The old wooden flute
Buried under papers
Hollow reed - my life.

The holidays were good times, for a change. Usually I dread them. Before the Christmas onslaught, I celebrated the first Winter Solstice in my new home, just a quiet evening by myself, candles burning, and listening, listening, listening, as I always do on the darkest night. I used to listen for Santa's reindeer bells, so I've had years of practice! Now I still listen,with all my heart, for tiny bells or distant carols or voices on the wind, audible omens for those with ears to hear. Secrets are told and mysteries unfold if you listen closely on the longest night. I am so thankful for my snug, warm, safe place. I will never forget what it felt like not to even have a roof over my head. Ample gratitudes were issued to the Powers That Blessed Be on Solstice Night.

Then Christmas. It was actually fun with my parents, as my sister and I donned silly reindeer antlers for the dinner and gift exchange, and there was a lot of laughter, smiles and even warm affection, rare for my family. I am finally, belatedly, understanding the dynamics of all this and seeing how it can work. A little sad, though, because there's probably not much time left, but this might have been our best Christmas yet.

Right after Christmas, as my parents' doctor said, "the bottom fell out." I saw it coming, didn't know it would happen so quickly though. It started when my dad fell. Then he fell again. My mother's dementia took a leap into oblivion. It's time for them to give up their house and move into an "independent living" village. This is by the order of their doctor. I think it's way past time.

Hence the haiku.

Been trying to be a hollow reed and let the breath of love be my voice. Sometimes it works, and other times no one hears or wants to hear. I keep trying because it's all I feel I can really do.

One bond that always stayed strong between me and my dad was music. When we couldn't find anything else to share or talk about, there was always music. Now he's almost deaf and his voice is only a whisper, due to an episode with cancer of the larynx years ago. Still, for Christmas I got him a collection of Tchaikovsky's symphonies on CD. He can hear them if he turns it up really loud, and if it's really loud he can't hear my mother screaming at him anymore. Just the music.

I used to have an old wooden flute, three tin whistles, pan pipes, a native American flute and a number of funny little ocarinas that I would play at odd moments, odd little tunes. I never played very well but I loved to play. Sometimes I miss it. I have a piano now, which was my first instrument, and although I love to plink and plunk and pound, according to mood, there's nothing like a hollow reed that takes your breath away.

My dad's voice sounds like an old wooden flute sometimes. He's had a stroke and sometimes hits a sour note or can't remember the tune, yet I can still hear the love breathing through his raspy pipes.

Midwinter ramblings.......