It is still iffy ‘down there’. Except for the half and half I splurged on, no milk for a while still. Certainly no prune juice. My feelings, my love of the simple things has not yet seeped into my being. Fear dwells. Even my grand-children do not bring the magic.

I think I am to be grateful, but it feels like work and more effort than I have. It has been a job focusing on my own care. This pill then, brush this way without automatically picking up the electric brush. (which I put toothpaste on more than once wiping it off luckily before using it and disturbing the wound) The list of care went on. But most of that is over, the pills anyway, but the careful brushing routine goes on.

Samuel had to leave yesterday so it was Cindy and me. We took our ‘babies’ for a walk. As I sat in the sun by the shed I watched her play, blowing bubbles that she chased with abandon.

Fear. What will my body do next? Fear. A little girl. Why couldn’t they have had two boys? It is not safe in the world for females. Karate. Yes, her dance class is nice, the recital in two weeks, but how ‘bout Karate folks?

I tell her as she peddles her bike fast, “You’re a strong girl!” And she is, but little does she know how she will need it.

Her persistence and strong will are qualities I adore and give me some satisfaction for her safety. But her openness and loving scares me because so many take advantage.

“Nana, see those flowers?” as she points to the row of peonies along the drive.

“Yes!” I answer.

“Can we throw them?” she asks excitedly, because when her and her brother stayed over the weekend we went at Samuel’s roses, throwing confetti petals into the swirling breeze, exalted by laughter in joyous celebration of the simple things. Samuel stood nearby looking like he swallowed a bug. Roses are hard to grow and too finicky for my gardens. But he tends his with care and patience. Watching us grab off the buds without protesting must have taken great discipline.  

“Of course!” I exclaim, wondering why I didn’t think of that.

And we move our babies in the buggy over to the flowers. She scoops off a blossom that showed signs of withering and tosses it all with much ado up into the air. They spray down onto the blacktop making a delicate pretty contrast that delights her and me too!

More and more we toss until all the browned blossoms are spent.

She says, “Wait till Poppy sees the flowers,” as the driveway is now covered and he will drive right through so can’t miss them.

I know I must be happy but I don’t feel it. I know how lucky I am but I don’t feel that either. I do my best to be here for her. I tell her I need to sit for a while and she accepts it.

More than once I’ve asked her, “Are you sure you are three years old? Maybe you are 6?” And she laughs because even at three she gets my humor. But that kid just can’t be three! She has a wisdom and compassion well beyond her years.

After I feel more centered as she sits in the stroller next to me playing with the remote car race girl, she exclaims, “Nana, take me for a walk,” and I oblige feeling better after resting. And on we go.

“I will tell you when to turn around,” she orders as she shifts in her seat getting comfortable, arranging the little canopy overhead just right to keep the sun out.

I figure we’d make it to the pond and my feet would be OK since I only have on sandals. I thought she fell asleep because no orders to turn around were given, and on we went, a good half hour of walking. I pick her daisies which she kept until her mother picked up later. She found them to be so special they were going home with her.

Finally the command to turn and I sigh with relief, my feet beginning to chafe against the sandals, a nice bloody blister to form later on. I wonder if I’m able to make it and envision a passed out grandma in the grass by the stroller.

At home we take bathroom breaks and I make her the usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We ‘picnic’ on the front porch as she rocks on the glider, and I sit at her side on the chair sipping coffee.

Her delights are my delights. All the world before her makes her smile and dig in to the depths of whatever is there. Even her excitement over clover, a dandelion, a ladybug, or a tall piece of grass, whatever is there she loves. And my love of the simple things is easing back too. I am thankful for her guidance back into me, back to the simple things that I love.

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6 thoughts on “THE SIMPLE THINGS

  1. I laughed out loud — “how ‘bout Karate folks?” Right on! I love that even while you’re struggling you’re finding joy in the simple things and in each other. You are so lucky to have each other. I also liked reading how interwoven in your grand-mothering — there some periods of self care too, you take a rest, you notice your blister forming, you’re sitting and sipping your coffee. (This is good modeling for me!) You’re very much present and you see so much when you are with your granddaughter — a girl not a boy — and as I write this I’m thinking this actually is quite huge, you had son’s not daughters and now you are blessed with a granddaughter. I think your time with her is lovely and an opportunity for healing. Do you? Maybe you could take grandma and me karate together!? Or get a DVD! I’m chuckling with you on that one. 😉 This is beautiful. You are beautiful. Sending love to you.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Yes, raised with seven boys, then I had two boys. So to be blessed with a grand-daughter is new and delightful. And yes, an opportunity to heal as I see that a girl can grown up strong and whole and safe…
      Grandma and me karate. Now that would be something. I’d think she may actually like karate, a way to be beat up the boys if they gave her any grief…

      Liked by 1 person

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