*twitch*

……I can’t help it. Watching people arrange their bookshelves by cover color makes me cringe. Sure, it looks pretty, but the Dewey decimal rolls through my mind and all I want to do is catalog O_o

Tacuba

It’s been one of those days.

Really, one of those weeks and months.

One of my great-grandmothers raised 8 boys and 1 girl. The other 11, more evenly distributed in gender. I’m chasing after one toddler while I bake a bun in the oven and I have no clue how these ladies did it.

Here, have a song. One of my favorites. I’ll be posting some favorite music videos on Wednesdays 🙂

Dismount……

A speech teacher back in South Dakota handed us the quoted text below during class. I don’t know who’s the original author of the list, but I’ve always found it amusing.

Lately, I’ve been thinking of all the “dead horses” I keep trying to revive and wondering when am I ever going to let them go and rest in peace.

Do you have “dead horses” in your life?

The tribal wisdom of the Dakota Indians, passed on from generation to generation, says that:

“When you discover that you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount”.

However, in modern business, education and government, a whole range of far more advanced strategies are often employed, such as: When you discover that you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to……

1. Buy a stronger whip.
2. Change riders.
3. Threaten the horse with termination.
4. Appoint a committee to study the horse.
5. Arrange to visit other countries to see how others ride dead horses.
6. Lower the standards so that dead horses can be included.
7. Reclassify the dead horse as “living impaired”.
8. Hire outside contractors to ride the dead horse.
9. Harness several dead horses together to increase the speed.
10. Provide additional funding and/or training to increase the dead horse’s performance.
11. Do a productivity study to see if lighter riders would improve the dead horse’s performance.
12. Declare that as the dead horse does not have to be fed, it is less costly,
carries lower overhead and therefore contributes substantially more to the
bottom line of the economy than do some other horses.
13. Rewrite the expected performance requirements for all horses.
14. Promote the dead horse to a supervisory position.

One or three or more….

Growing up, I played with dolls. But I was never big on the “playing house” element of dolls. I didn’t dream of having babies/being mommy. I’d arrange sets and put up theatricals instead, sometimes borrowing my brother’s action figures to beef up the cast, haha. 

As I moved from college to the rest of my life, I was pretty sure I’d become the single, crazy aunt that my siblings’ kids could send their kids to, with all my books and cats.
In a curious twist of fate while living in Colorado, in between job hunting and reading, I spent time on an online forum for geeks and nerds. Everything movies, comics, video games, etc. One of my forum friends became my best friend, years later my boyfriend and years later the Bear. 

It wasn’t until I found myself married to a great guy that I started thinking of Mommyhood. But six years and two miscarriages into our life together, it seemed that it just wasn’t going to happen. With PCOS and the doctors gently pointing out I was reaching the “mature mother” stage of the late 30s, things looked grim. We thought about adoption, but the ever-relocating nature of a military life made it hard to plan. 

A routine checkup a year after arriving to our current duty station told us that EB was on the way. While pregnant with him, someone shared this article with me: “Why miscarriage matters when you’re pro-life”

I have heard almost every single one of the things the author lists, often from those close to me and more than once concerning our loses. 

I have a toddler now and he’s the light of my days; everyday he amazes me with the strength of his life and determination to accomplish things, no matter how small. I live in a constant haze of exhaustion and caffeine fumes but I love him to bits. 

However, there is no doubt that I miss the other two as well. As my due date approached, more than one person said something to me along the lines of “NOW you’re gonna be a Mom”.
And I couldn’t help but start pondering about it. Am I the mother of one child or three? The other two babies might not have made it, but that doesn’t make them any less real to me.

And if I introduce myself as the mother of one, am I denying the other two? I know if I introduce myself as the mother of three and they only see one, they’ll ask about the other two and that will be a very uncomfortable conversation on both sides.

These thoughts keep me up at night sometimes.

Back in October I started feeling sick. My exhaustion was reaching worrysome levels and out of sheer curiosity and because I still had one in the cabinet, I took a pregnancy test. And then the lab at the hospital took another. And to make it a short story……..we found out this last week that we’re having another boy. 

The gentle “you’re getting older” from the doctors now officially reads “mature pregnancy” on my chart and I’ve had some interesting tests done to make sure things are going ok.
I am beyond exhausted now, but excited about the possibilities, with a side of “good grief we’ll be changing duty stations with a 2 year old, a 4 month old and two cats” hyperventilating thrown into the mix. 

After GB (as baby boy #2 will be referred to from now on) arrives, we’ll be done with having kids. It’s good to understand your limitations, haha. 

Am I now the mother of 4? 2? 1 with 1 on the way? Musings, musings. 

Have a good day. 

Feliz Navidad

It’s been a hectic time in our home with the holiday season, cleaning, plotting, planning and possibly scheming.

Wherever you are, I wish you a Merry Christmas. It is lightly snowing, both the Bear and EB are napping and I’m enjoying a rare quiet time, catching up on things.

If you have another name for this celebratory time of the year, I hope you’re having a great time as well 😀

God bless.

Color outside the lines

I was at the checkout line today and the guy in front of me was buying a stack of small coloring books. I made the comment that it’s great to see adults coloring too and a little sheepishly, he admitted that half of the books where for him and the other half for her daughter in grad school. Coloring books for grown ups have recently become a very popular option for people in need of a little “me” time. Call it meditation, call it zen, call it personal time. Some people think of it as a passing fad. And who knows? For some people it might be.

I find it lovely. One of the best pieces of advice I got when getting my Psychology license was: “Get a hobby. Your profession is a stressful one and you need a way to unwind or you’ll burn out too quickly”. So I did theatre, drawing, and writing. I may not be a practicing psychologist anymore, but the advice still stands.

You need to find a way to unwind. For some people it’s retail therapy. For some people it’s running a marathon. For some people it’s grabbing a handful of colored pencils or crayons and coloring a page.

These days, my ‘unwind’ moments are rare and far between, but for the most part, I try to write a little, draw a little and when time allows, I bake bread.

Do I do coloring books? I have one and haven’t had a chance to open it yet. Overall, although I’ve done it in the past, it’s rare for me to color what I draw. To me, the catharsis happens in the laying of the line work. I started using pencil a lot in past years, but ink will always be my favorite. Good ol’ fashioned ballpoint pens. I know there’s erasable pens in the market, but I really enjoy those that you can’t erase. I like drawing a couple of lines and knowing that I can’t erase it. I either have to make it work or turn it into something else. I start out with a basic shape (which became a game at some of my workplaces. Yelling accross a room: “I need a shape!” “Square!” “Thanks!”), then just keep adding lines and shapes at random. The resulting doodle can be big, small, pretty, ugly, and usually confusing to anyone but me. I’ve lost the practice of it, and definitely need to get back to it and unwind.
What do you do to relax?

Music to my ears….

I grew up watching and listening to my Abuelita make bread. The sounds and smells are embeded in my mind. I don’t get to do it often enough these days, but breadmaking is a form of meditation for me.

I haven’t tried this recipe yet, but the video alone is hipnotizing.

 

Through Eugene’s eyes….

I resisted joining Instagram for a long time, until I ran across the Veteran Vision Project.  It is a sad reality that 22 veterans kill themselves every day. The project highlights the lives of the people who have served their country and what their lives are today. Some have successful lives, some live with PTSD, some are on the verge of being one of the 22. If you have a chance to read through their archive, take your time and do so. The images and the tales are worth reading.

This one got posted today:

"When I went home, my draft call was in the mail. I was then sworn in on the 5th of October, and they said that anyone who has any unfinished business would be given 15 days. We went on to Okinawa, I was probably one of the first 50 men to step foot on the Island that morning. I told the fellas before we left 'now when we get into action, don't spread the horses on that gun, you use it and we will go from there when it's gone'. I was a machine gunner, it was pure hell. 134 days on the front line, 83 days in Okinawa, 83 days of not knowing if we would wake up the next day. Oh yes we lost a lot of men, we had 7,294 casualties in the one division and there was 1,506 of those were dead. They were buried there on Okinawa. I don't know, I always maintained the idea that somebody was going to get to go home, and I had hoped to be one of them, and I was." -John Mitchel, United States Army. World War II.

A post shared by Devin Mitchell (@veteranvisionproject) on

 

It made me remeber my Grandfather, Eugene and Okinawa. So, here’s a throwback Thursday. I wrote this on my old blog when we were still in overseas.

-O-

Before we moved to Okinawa, there weren’t many things I knew about the island. This pretty much sums it up, in no particular order:

  • It’s an island in Japan.
  • It’s ‘featured’ in the Karate Kid series (though really, it was Hawaii).
  • It was the stage for a very brutal battle during WWII.
  • ….that’s about it.

I have learned many things about Okinawa in the last four years. I have fallen in love with the island. But one thing that you cannot forget when you’re here (specially if you’re either Okinawan or American), is the fourth item on my list up there. It was the stage for a very brutal battle during WWII.

There is to this day a military presence on island and the relationship between both cultures is varied. Some love it, some hate it, some merely tolerate it, some learn about each other. My presence on this island alone, is the result of my husband being in the Air Force. I was born and raised in Mexico. My Mom, however, was born and raised in the U.S. Her entire family is from North Dakota.

I knew that none of my Grandma’s brothers fought in WWII due to their age (they were considered too old). But I also knew that at least four of the Beaton boys (my Grandpa and three of his brothers) fought in the war. My Grandpa was in the Navy and he spent the war in the Pacific. I think the closest he came to Japan was the island of Guam. I didn’t know of any other members of his family (or my Grandmother’s extended one) who had taken part in the conflict.

There are many parks and monuments in Okinawa and if you have the chance to come here, you need to take the time to visit as many as you can. One of these, is Peace Prayer Park. That’s how we military and dependents know it. Some know it as the “Cornerstone of Peace”, the “Okinawa Prefectural Peace Memorial Park”, the “Okinawan Prefectural Peace Memorial Museum”, etc. Names for it also vary a little on the road signs. It’s located on the southern part of the island and if you have a map and a good sense of direction, you’ll find it. It overlooks the sea and you can spend a lot of time sitting there and thinking.

Amongst the many things in the park, you’ll find a series of wave-like dark granite low walls (stelai/screens/etc). They are inscribed with the names of all who died during the 82 day-long Battle of Okinawa, military and civilian alike. We visited once, late in the day and with the dwindling sunlight, we didn’t have much time to explore it.

 

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The second time we visited the park, back in November 2011, we arrived with enough time to go through the Museum and take pictures.
Allow me to repeat myself here: if you’re ever in Okinawa, this has to be one of your stops. The museum alone is an impressive place to spend time reflecting on the history of this island and on the history of the world. There is one section of the museum, where you can sit and read first-hand witness accounts of those who survived the battle. Take your time. Read them.

As we walked out, we made it to the granite walls and for no reason other than sheer curiosity, I started looking at the names on the wall and…I found Eugene Charles Beaton. We took a picture of the name and went home, where I posed the question to my Mom’s side of the family. Had anyone heard of a Eugene Beaton? My cousin answered that yes, there was an Eugene. And yes, he had died during WWII. So I looked it up and sure enough…..Eugene was my Grandpa’s cousin. He was a Marine, who died on June 3rd, 1945. Eighteen days before the end of the Battle of Okinawa. He was 26.

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I’d never heard of him, but ever since I found his name on that wall, he has been on my mind. Every time we’ve visited a war memorial on this island, I have wondered……what did Eugene see? He was on this island during a very violent time. You cannot visit historical sites here without seeing pictures like these:

I cannot help but wonder, what life was like for Eugene here. Specially after being in the museum, looking at the models, the pictures, reading the accounts. We went back to Peace Prayer Park last week to visit Eugene and so we could make a rubbing of his name. On our way there, we stopped at another WWII Memorial: the Former Japanese Naval Underground Headquarters (the link’s in Japanese, sorry).
After going through a museum and then a rather long staircase, you find yourself in a series of tunnels dug during WWII and where near the end of the Battle of Okinawa, hundreds of Japanese soldiers committed suicide. If you’re claustrophobic, this might not be the place for you to visit. The main corridors are wide enough, but some of the minor ones can get narrow (I’m 5’3″ and I could feel my hair rubbing the top of some archways). If you don’t suffer from any confined space problems, then yes…you have to go there. There is more than one side to every episode in history. You should become acquainted with as many as possible. The place is eerily quiet, save for the shuffling of tourist’s feet and the sound of water running down the little channels cut on the ground of each tunnel.

Pictures and sketched dramatizations of life in the tunnels hang here and there, giving you an idea of the conditions soldiers lived in during the battle. The stone is cool to the touch, but the humidity and overall heat underground is stifling and you’ll feel sweat running down your back in no time. As a side note, there are free paper and plastic fans by the ticket counter. Take one. You’ll use it, trust me.

 

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There are few ‘rooms’ in the headquarters, and those either served a military purpose or where inhabited by high ranking officials. For everybody else, there were roughly carved smaller caves by the tunnels. One of these was the ‘Medical Room”, barely lit with a naked bulb. As a CNA, I cannot imagine what it must’ve been like trying to attend to your duties in such a place. But the room that shocked me the most, was this:

 

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The sign on the walls, in both English and Japanese, reads: “Wall riddled with a hand-grenade when committed suicide”.

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I cannot even begin to picture that moment. We left the headquarters and as we emerged form the tunnels, it started to sprinkle. The rain felt like a blessing after the suffocating heat, but nothing could dispel the heaviness in my heart. Then we got in our car and drove down to the Park and after gathering all of our materials, made our way back to the granite walls.

“Hello, Eugene” I mused as I ran my fingers over his name. I wanted to cry. The Bear proved better at getting the name rubbed onto paper and later, he went off in search of a place where we could watch the sunset and take pictures (something we’ve been doing a lot of in the last few months). I took a few pictures around the park and then sat, watching the sea. I could try to write something philosophical about the war and both sides of the battle. I could try to sound smart, but I won’t. I don’t have the brains nor the wisdom to do so.

Furthermore, I think it will be a long time before my heart comes up with a conclusion. So instead I’ll say this: There are very dark episodes in history. And they’re painful. But we need to know about them. We cannot change what has happened, but we can learn from them.

We’ll be leaving Okinawa in less than a month and I’ll take a lot of things with me. About food and fun and sun and sand and wonderful places. But I will also take Eugene’s memory. I never met him, but now he’s in my heart. And he will always be.

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Have a blessed day everyone.

Giving thanks. 

There’s a quote out there that reads:

“Do not regret growing older. It’s a privilege denied to many”
– author unknown.

During my first year of college a kid from my High School class was walking home with his girlfriend after a trip to the corner store when he said his head suddenly started hurting. Before he could say anything else, he dropped dead. At age 18, an aneurysm took his life. I didn’t know him well, but he played basketball with my brother and he remembers him. A few of my college friends had been in his class. He was by all accounts a great guy with a promising future.

There are too many people in today’s society who have a psychotic fear of grey hairs and wrinkles. I actually had a coworker who, the second she found a gray hair, she would run to the nearest mirror and pull it out.

To me, age is a gift.

Older people are very respected in Mexico, where I grew up. As an adult, I first took care of my Grandmother in the U.S., then worked as a nurse aide at a couple nursing homes.

Age is beautiful. Yes, there’s wrinkles, grey hairs (or no hair at all), canes, walkers and extra paraphernalia. But there’s history. And good grief, history……..

I had the chance of meeting a man who fought alongside Patton, a woman who worked with presidents, a 98 year-old female archeologist, men and women with wisdom beyond your wildest imagination, and often a mischievous mind to match. Learning about food from my Abuela was beautiful; learning about life at a time of war from my Grandmother was eye-opening.
Inevitably, I held the hands of people as they moved on from this world.

With Thanksgiving upon us, what am I grateful for?

Age.

I’m thankful for the grey hairs on my head. I’m grateful for having lived long enough to meet a great man, blessed with a son and had the chance to live and travel in different cultures. I hope to continue doing so for many more years, and collect more wrinkles and greys.

Out of 4 grandparents, one lived to his 70s, two lived to their 90s and one made it to her 100s. I’m not sure how long I’m destined to hang out in this world, but I hope it’s a while.

What are you thankful for?