Into the Lion's Den

Hubs and I had two peaceful lunches in public places this week. I even enjoyed his touch in yesterday's lunch. Our "Egg Shell Waltz" has aquired a new dance step. We are calling the new dance step, "Sweeping Away Eggshells." I am hopeful. Eggshells have many, many uses in my recycling ventures. Reducing friction on a dance floor is not the best use I have found for them. I like sawdust for that job.

I contracted this current hidey hole for a week. Contract ends this morning. I head East soon. When I drive East, I like to wait until the sun is over the windshield of the car before I begin driving. 9 or 10 a.m. I am headed into the proverbial Lion's Den. Current clan headquarters. The rat's nest of my estranged family. Girl howdy, I am terrified, but. . . Letting the healing mysteries guide. The sooner begun, the sooner done. Prayers in progress. Got my Rose rosary wrapped around my wrist to keep me reminded of my fragile emotional state. That dangly thing gets in the way of everything.

Both of my sons (33 and 37) have lamented the absence of extended family in their lives, especially when they know I have more cousins than I can count on both branches of my own family tree. My reasons for not knowing any of them are scarcely real to them. They havene been exposed to much of that. I still stand by my reasons for the estrangement, but they have very little personal exposure to any of it. I am proud of that fact, but the price was high. Not as high as the price of a Father Fuck, I believe. Proof unavailable. Try explaining that one clearly without traumatizing children, even middle aged ones.

Eldest son remains a bachelor worthy of a stereotype. Letting that one be. Not mine to sort. . .

Youngest son and his family very much want to visit the Lion's Den with me. They have partied with my most beloved sis and her twin granddaughters several times. YS even met her daughter when they were both still young and cute. The memory remains warm and vivid in his heart. He would love to introduce his son (3) and daughter (1) to a cousin. The cousins on hubs' family tree arenae very available. Even the catered family events donae look like they will find an effective family event planner in the current generations. The now dead mother-and-father-in-law were planners, not teachers, despite the MIL's teaching degree. The bottom line of the co-owner lunch hubs had with his brother and sister-in-law was: Business as Usual. Catered event chit chat. Keep it simple, Bubba. Call us after the packages are wrapped and flourished with pretty bows. We know a great gift shop who will do it for you.

Hubs is respecting the not-too-simple fact that pre-arranged funeral protocols don't work for my family grief. He is okay --prayers in progress-- with letting me point my windshield toward the rising sun and trust that the healing mysteries will lead me to where I need to be. We have yet to sweep away enough 37 year collection of domestic eggshells for me to accomplish that with him in the cab of the boy-toy. Persilly is my preferred back-up for the shotgun seat. A dog's tail never lies, but translating the tail wags can get tricky at times. This morning's tail wags seem to say, "I am worried about my human." Quit nagging me like a REAL bitch, would ya, Persilly? Yes, Ma'am. Saluting the tail.

Hubs accepted the job of helping YS and family find their way to most beloved sis's neighborhood. ES is invited, but. . . The SO he ousted to homelessness last week is invited too, but. . . I find myself confident --or at least hopeful-- that I really can leave all those details in beloved hands and focus on following the healing mysteries. Sorting. . .

Persilly's nagging has acquired a new tone. I think it says, "I gotta take a dump." Saluting all nag flags. Walk Time.