red-orange | pink | off-white | navy | grey
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Crochet
I brought out the crochet that's been sitting under my coffee table for months, and in between readings and musings and during phone conversations, finally managed to finish one of two bolster covers.
This used to be a XL men's cotton cable sweater that I thrifted something like six summers ago. If feels very gratifying to have:
Only one more to go! Let's hope it takes about six weeks rather than six months this time. And let's not even talk about years.
This used to be a XL men's cotton cable sweater that I thrifted something like six summers ago. If feels very gratifying to have:
- practiced crochet
reupcycled- finished!
Only one more to go! Let's hope it takes about six weeks rather than six months this time. And let's not even talk about years.
Monday, July 23, 2012
RIP Zip
Even though I hardly remember a time when there were no animals at my home growing up -- from dogs to cats to birds to fish. Including piranha! And snakes! -- I have never considered myself a pet person. Part of it is because ours were always outdoor pets, and outdoor duties went to my brothers (that's how it worked in my family). Beyond that, though, I've always been nervous about their sudden movements and start at fuzzy (or wet!) nuzzlings. And I'm not a huge fan of all the shedding.
Our dalmation, Zip (or Zipper, as I like to call him), didn't really have sudden movements. He was a beast and you could see -- and smell -- him coming a block away. When he got to you, he'd wag his tail so excitedly that you'd sometimes get a rather painful lashing. He was infinitely playful and cheerful, and never realized his own strength. I admit that I was scared of him in his early adulthood because he seemed so unpredictable.
As he got older, Zipper never lost his exuberance, never forgot about us. He would run to the gate whenever I came back to my parents' house, and whine until I reached over the fence to pet him. Then he'd sneeze -- always big, wet sneezes -- and get his slobber and fur all over my arms and pant legs. Yum.
He got older and older. And arthritic. It gradually became harder for him to get up and run to me when I came over to my dad's house. My brother moved back home and started taking better care of Zipper, and he got better. But he didn't get younger. After my brother got back from a trip recently, he sent a concerned email to the familiy to let us know that Zipper would barely move and could hardly control his bladder or bowels anymore. I came to see him a couple of days after that and saw that he had weakened considerably since the last time I saw him. Still, my little Zipper came to greet me. He leaned all his weight into my leg, like he always did -- but was so wobbly that he ended up rolling over and ended up on his side. I helped him to his stomach, cleaned him up a bit, and took this picture.
We said goodbye Zip last Saturday. It was so difficult to see him at the vet's -- my brother had to carry him into and out of the car -- his breathing had become so labored. He still hobbled around the room, sniffing at the different scents and chewing up pet treats. The veterinarian confirmed that there was nothing we could do that would restore him, and that the summer heat was probably making it more difficult for him...so we decided that it was time. I made sure to look into his face for a long, long while. So that I would remember him. So that he would know that he was loved. I think he knew.
I thought about what a luxury it is to be able to say goodbye to a loved one. I'm glad I got that opportunity with the Zipper. I'm glad I got to be there with my brother, that he didn't have to make the decision alone. We both agreed that Zip's quality of life wasn't very good at that point. That he had had a good -- no, great -- life, that he had brought us all a lot of happiness in all the ten or twelve years he was with us. That we were doing the right thing.
But it still sucked.
For the rest of the weekend I kept my mind and hands occupied with a lot of cleaning and ironing. The couple times I pulled up that picture on my phone, tears would well up and flow over. But I couldn't help it -- I mean, c'mon: that is one good looking doggy.
On Monday, I passed a woman walking her dog and mentally shook my head at the thought of her one day having to say goodbye to it, and that's why I could never have my own pet. But then it hit me: if I extended that thought to people, jobs, books, projects -- or anything, really -- I would never do anything. Or know anyone. Anything or anyone meaningful, that is. Just because something ends doesn't mean it's not worth having at all. Actually, it makes the time you have with that something even more precious.
I still don't see myself as a pet person, but I learned in that brief moment that memories are not lost; I can treasure them in my heart and mind. And, more importantly, I am not afraid of loving again, of loving more. And that's a very good thing.
Thanks for helping me realize that, little Zipper. I love you and miss you.
Our dalmation, Zip (or Zipper, as I like to call him), didn't really have sudden movements. He was a beast and you could see -- and smell -- him coming a block away. When he got to you, he'd wag his tail so excitedly that you'd sometimes get a rather painful lashing. He was infinitely playful and cheerful, and never realized his own strength. I admit that I was scared of him in his early adulthood because he seemed so unpredictable.
As he got older, Zipper never lost his exuberance, never forgot about us. He would run to the gate whenever I came back to my parents' house, and whine until I reached over the fence to pet him. Then he'd sneeze -- always big, wet sneezes -- and get his slobber and fur all over my arms and pant legs. Yum.
He got older and older. And arthritic. It gradually became harder for him to get up and run to me when I came over to my dad's house. My brother moved back home and started taking better care of Zipper, and he got better. But he didn't get younger. After my brother got back from a trip recently, he sent a concerned email to the familiy to let us know that Zipper would barely move and could hardly control his bladder or bowels anymore. I came to see him a couple of days after that and saw that he had weakened considerably since the last time I saw him. Still, my little Zipper came to greet me. He leaned all his weight into my leg, like he always did -- but was so wobbly that he ended up rolling over and ended up on his side. I helped him to his stomach, cleaned him up a bit, and took this picture.
We said goodbye Zip last Saturday. It was so difficult to see him at the vet's -- my brother had to carry him into and out of the car -- his breathing had become so labored. He still hobbled around the room, sniffing at the different scents and chewing up pet treats. The veterinarian confirmed that there was nothing we could do that would restore him, and that the summer heat was probably making it more difficult for him...so we decided that it was time. I made sure to look into his face for a long, long while. So that I would remember him. So that he would know that he was loved. I think he knew.
I thought about what a luxury it is to be able to say goodbye to a loved one. I'm glad I got that opportunity with the Zipper. I'm glad I got to be there with my brother, that he didn't have to make the decision alone. We both agreed that Zip's quality of life wasn't very good at that point. That he had had a good -- no, great -- life, that he had brought us all a lot of happiness in all the ten or twelve years he was with us. That we were doing the right thing.
But it still sucked.
For the rest of the weekend I kept my mind and hands occupied with a lot of cleaning and ironing. The couple times I pulled up that picture on my phone, tears would well up and flow over. But I couldn't help it -- I mean, c'mon: that is one good looking doggy.
On Monday, I passed a woman walking her dog and mentally shook my head at the thought of her one day having to say goodbye to it, and that's why I could never have my own pet. But then it hit me: if I extended that thought to people, jobs, books, projects -- or anything, really -- I would never do anything. Or know anyone. Anything or anyone meaningful, that is. Just because something ends doesn't mean it's not worth having at all. Actually, it makes the time you have with that something even more precious.
I still don't see myself as a pet person, but I learned in that brief moment that memories are not lost; I can treasure them in my heart and mind. And, more importantly, I am not afraid of loving again, of loving more. And that's a very good thing.
Thanks for helping me realize that, little Zipper. I love you and miss you.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Following mom's feet
Soon after my mom passed, I piled up all my red and brightly colored clothes, bundled them together in a furoshiki, and relegated that to a corner of my closet. I wouldn't be wearing them for three years: the culturally appropriate mourning period for a parent.
A couple weekends ago -- only about halfway into the prescribed period -- I painted my toenails red, a color I haven't used since I-don't-remember-when.
Why did I commit such a faux pas?!
For one thing, those "rules" only loosely apply to me because I wasn't born in the home country, and we aren't there now.
But the real reason -- the one that makes most sense to me -- is because rather than miss and mourn my mom, which I do all the time anyway without even thinking of it, I wanted to intentionally celebrate and be like her (which Ikind of am anyway thanks to genetics).
When I still lived with my parents, my Mom and I had a weekly Sunday night ritual: I'd give her a manicure and/or pedicure; she always had French manicured fingernails and red toenails. We'd chat a little about our day or week, and then mostly read or write -- or in my mom's case, household bookkeeping and such -- in our own little words, but right next to each other.
Last weekend, my dad and I went to the cemetery to visit Mom's grave. I hadn't been there since my birthday. And it felt especially right to be there with my red toenails. I think she would have been glad about them.
Someone I know would call this, "Saying 'yes' to life." I think that's why it felt so good. And I think my mom would have agreed.
A couple weekends ago -- only about halfway into the prescribed period -- I painted my toenails red, a color I haven't used since I-don't-remember-when.
Why did I commit such a faux pas?!
For one thing, those "rules" only loosely apply to me because I wasn't born in the home country, and we aren't there now.
But the real reason -- the one that makes most sense to me -- is because rather than miss and mourn my mom, which I do all the time anyway without even thinking of it, I wanted to intentionally celebrate and be like her (which Ikind of am anyway thanks to genetics).
When I still lived with my parents, my Mom and I had a weekly Sunday night ritual: I'd give her a manicure and/or pedicure; she always had French manicured fingernails and red toenails. We'd chat a little about our day or week, and then mostly read or write -- or in my mom's case, household bookkeeping and such -- in our own little words, but right next to each other.
Last weekend, my dad and I went to the cemetery to visit Mom's grave. I hadn't been there since my birthday. And it felt especially right to be there with my red toenails. I think she would have been glad about them.
Someone I know would call this, "Saying 'yes' to life." I think that's why it felt so good. And I think my mom would have agreed.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Summer, so far
Could it be that it's only three weeks into summer? Life's been going at breakneck speed, so much so that I'm consciously creating me-time, even if it involves backing out of events previously committed to. Here are some snippets of what's been keeping me occupied:
- Handmade tissue paper tassels for my BFF's birthday party
- Checking out: Shakespeare, American poets, craft books, Newbery Award winners
- Making pizza with my Italy friends
- Farmers Markets (I'm lucky to have access to four, from Tuesday to Friday!)
- Watermelon + feta salad (with sea salt, honey, and olive oil): this summer's staple
Much in between, and much more to go! A part of me feels like summer is entirely booked, but I am being intentional about finding making snippets of time for both big (being a bridesmaid in a month!) and little (calligraphy, coffee, conversations, crochet) things.
How are you spending your summer days?
Summer, so far
Could it be that it's only three weeks into summer? Life's been going at breakneck speed, so much so that I'm consciously creating me-time, even if it involves backing out of events previously committed to. Here are some snippets of what's been keeping me occupied:
- Handmade tissue paper tassels for my BFF's birthday party
- Checking out: Shakespeare, American poets, craft books, Newbery Award winners
- Making pizza with my Italy friends
- Farmers Markets (I'm lucky to have access to four, from Tuesday to Friday!)
- Watermelon + feta salad (with sea salt, honey, and olive oil): this summer's staple
Much in between, and much more to go! A part of me feels like summer is entirely booked, but I am being intentional about finding making snippets of time for both big (being a bridesmaid in a month!) and little (calligraphy, coffee, conversations, crochet) things.
How are you spending your summer days?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)