The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

I’ve already expressed my admiration for the soft days of a slow rain. Now, I’d like to add cool mornings of light fog to the list. There was such a thing this morning. Gray clouds held back the early morning light, while a thin fog drifts among the trees, wandering ever so slowly over the pasture and through the woods. It dulls sharp edges and mutes both color and sound.

I am remiss. I wanted to get ahead of my Christmas shopping this year. I started strong. But somewhere along the line the shopping bug disappeared. I see things I think people would like, but I fail to pull the trigger. Partly, I suspect, because I think something better might come along. And partly, because I suspect the site might be a scam internet shop and I’ll have no recourse if things go wrong. No matter the reason, I need to get busy.

It’s going to rain all day and never get out of the 60s. Sounds perfect, especially if you’re someone who still remembers summer, and I do. I’m all in for this sort of weather. For lack of a better term, things feel soft. Plus, all the plants are still green. Maybe they think it could be spring again, although it’s more likely the genetic code knows better.

On an early summer morning, as I make my coffee, I can look out the kitchen window at the garden of the big oaks. On an early winter morning, as I make my coffee, all I see in the kitchen window is the gnarly face of an old man. I prefer seeing the garden of the big oaks. But that’s for another year in another season. These are the short days. The days of darkness and cold.

Thanks to my physical therapist my achy back is no longer achy, and I feel as though I’m standing taller. She’s also teaching me how to move, which seems odd. You’d think, as an adult male, you’d already know how to move. But there are tricks and unseen muscles that can be called upon for lifting, standing, and even walking. It feels good to give them some action. I wish I had discovered this earlier, but better late than never.

It’s a fine chill morning in the Hill Country. The cool air feels good and if I were camping, I’d be drinking coffee around a fire. But I’m not camping, I’m just standing on my porch feeling good, drinking coffee from an insulated mug, while two cats nibble on their breakfast treats.

I know I fancy myself a gardener. But no one, seeing the wild growth beneath my big oaks, would take that seriously. Sure, I like to plant things, but after that they’re on their own. Take my scarlet sage. I dug up one plant fifteen years ago. Brought it home. Planted it. Babied it. And helped it thrive. Now. Its descendants are everywhere in the garden, and I have no say as to where. They just go where the wind blows.

I’ve been working on my next book since November of last year. It’s called Learning to Live. It’s a Caregiver’s Tale about grief. Once again, I’m collecting my writings into a book. The work, however, has gone in fits and spurts. The difficulties I’m having arise from the subject, grief. It’s not an oh-I-hurt-myself-but-I’ll-heal sort of wound. It’s the sort of wound that keeps on giving.