Not Wise Women, Wise Woman, and it ain’t me.

True story-

Back about a hundred… no I said true story, back about 20 years ago I knew a wise woman. Her name is Judy and she was lovely. Lovely in many ways; she taught me important life lessons about how to act like a woman of integrity and intelligence and kindness, and she deserves a chapter all to herself.

Judy became sick, and only through guidance from other folks was I able to even show up for part of her ordeal. My standard act was to run when pain was within 100 miles of my heart, it never occurred to me that I should’ve put her  above me. Selfish, silly Dee.

It was at a spiritual retreat that we attended when Judy left us to go free…

I fell on my knees and screamed to an unknown God I that hated, quite inconsolable. Exactly what the fuck did He think He was doing? If He loved me at all, how could He allow this to be? Judy was gone. She left me.

Nothing, not a thing, makes me more unwilling to love humans than their impending departures. Too much scar tissue where my heart is supposed to be, I guess. I’m kinda like the Grinch without a Whoville.

Many things still remind me of her. She really, really, really, wanted for me to go to college, but even now, I’m too afraid. She would tell me how much I would love it, and I believed her. She always left her truck door unlocked, if someone wanted something bad enough to break in, she said, then they should have it. She had little sparkles in her blue eyes and I valued every word she spoke to me. I miss her.

So let’s find our way back to present day. The retreat is still an annual event that I’ve not given two shits about since Judy died there. As if I’d ever go back to THAT place. Yeah right. God can piss off. (I have struggled my whole life with God-stuff, so if you’re offended by my language I do apologize, but really, I’ve said worse). Life is about what we do with the dash, right? Like it’ll go: Deedlebug Fortin 1966-????, and life is in the middle of the “born on” and “expiration” dates. This is a fact. Why then, don’t I ever get it right? Why do I need to be 50 years old and a shit-ton of time elapsed before I recognize my self-centeredness? Sometimes, like now, I picture a God in full white beard & robe, poking His head through the clouds and shouting “DUH!” at me. If my God doesn’t have a sense of humour, he’s not allowed over. Fact.

The other day, my conversation with a current mentor/wise woman went something like this;

Me: So is that the same Marywood retreat from 100 years ago?

She: Yeah, I think so.

Me: Well, I’d never go back THERE. My friend died there. Can you believe God had the audacity to take her away from me at a friggin’ spiritual retreat??!!!

A pause as I wait for her to concur…

She: Hmm. Did you ever think that maybe God chose to take Judy then and there because she was surrounded by women who loved her and in such a peaceful setting?

Mic drop.

I’ll leave it right there for you to figure out how puny I felt for never seeing it that way, the right way of course!

I signed up to go back to that retreat at the end of this month. I’m going by myself, without agenda other than to hit my knees and thank a God I don’t even know for the Wise Women, past & present, who continue to tolerate my complete and total foolishness.

And by weed I mean the smokable kind that’s propelled itself onto a ballot near you. Vote YES! to legalize medi-mary. Vote NO! to keep it off the counter at your neighborhood corner store! I’m not about to go into a long epistle (Heather, thanks for that), about whether or not I ever inhaled, let’s just say that me and the herb have been acquainted at various times in my life. The whole marijuana question has come up often enough for me to really decide how I feel and think about this- “little gift from Mother Nature.” Ah, but is it a gift? Mother Nature provided us with poison hemlock and oleander too, but I’m not about to go rolling around in it, or grow it hydroponically. Yes. Yes, I understand that’s not a fair comparison. Herbs have been used medicinally long before recorded history, so why has the pot subject irked me for almost as many years? I suppose it goes back to early recovery for me. I was in a relationship with someone who smoked and I felt afraid for my sobriety and truly a bit put off. It bugged me that my girlfriend would choose to alter her frame of mind around me. Didn’t I deserve to have her complete unadultered attention? How could I tell if she was responding to me, or the weed? I couldn’t. And damn if I didn’t want complete control over situations, and for much of my life, our relationship. We all know (don’t we?), that control is merely folly, but I digress.

The rudimentary facts are that I hate to see people f-ed up. Drunk, high, whatever. I spend (for the most part, nowadays) zero time with people who “party” or heavily (ab)use substances affecting them from the neck up. I don’t partake in those “recreational activities,” so unless someone wants to reach out for help, I hardly ever see that stuff going on. (But has anyone else felt like the only person left on Earth lately who doesn’t hit the bong?)

But Dee, you say, what about medical marijuana? Peeps, I reply, pain relief is necessary. The opioid crisis makes me sad that we’ve sunk so low as a society so as not to do our best to protect people from the risk of addiction. Don’t you just love it when I go off on a tangent? Me too. I’ve heard from a boatload of people who say that while they’re not recreational users of marijuana, they’d sure use it for relief from pain. I wouldn’t begrudge a soul the possibility of wresting some satisfying hiatus from chronic pain or nausea or etc., but why do I bristle at folks who smoke for fun? Not jealous or resentful (mainly because I never got a thrill from the stuff, and I find the smell of the smoke repugnant), so that’s not it. Hmm…maybe because it’s illegal? Nope, I do illegal things. Just yesterday I didn’t stop completely when the sign clearly instructed me to do so. I took it as more of a suggestion, really. Why just this morning I jaywalked on my foot commute to work, and don’t even get me started on those mattress tags I’ve removed before delivering to the consumer!

Kidding aside, it is MORE illegal by way of punishment, and federally it’s still a crime that if convicted, may keep you from acquiring things like a job, a home, a car, freedom. That shit scares me. I’m grateful I don’t have to worry about those kinds of shenanigans. I dont think I’d feel satisfied with my life while wearing an orange jumpsuit.

I do believe the answer then, is that I have pre-conceived ideas and longstanding judgement issues with pot users. I fall victim to thinking alongside a “group” or “entity” or the “self-righteous,” instead of thinking it out for myself. So I’ve done that now, through the construction of this post, come to a bit of resolution about it.

There are certain youngsters that I’m acquainted with who have shared the fact that they smoke pot. My first reaction is to lure them up a mountain and then lock them up in a monastery, but since the practicalities of that are slim, I have no choice but  to accept it. I must admit that it bugs me way more to see young folks smoke tobacco. Now there’s something that should be illegal.

I do believe that while for me, marijuana remains a weed that serves no useful purpose to promote my own well-being, I have to lay down my prejudices and simply say, you do you boo-boo. I’m gonna have to go with Willie on this one and live and let live.

Peace out peeps.✌🏽️

…I’ve learned a thing or two, so you little whipper-snappers listen up now. (Somebody called me that once when I was working in one of my stores. She wanted to return a pepper grinder because it didn’t work. I merely pointed out that it wasn’t meant to grind the nutmeg that was in it. She told me it was pepper and that she’d “been grinding pepper longer than you’ve been alive, you little whipper-snapper!” That was one of two times I had something thrown at me during my 21 year reign as know-it-all kitchen-ette). That reminded me of another story I’ll have to tell you about the guy who just had brain surgery…but first I should probably go through this musty ol’ blog to check and see if I’ve already told you that one, at 50 I’ve learned that I forget shit. Haha.

So where was I? Oh yes, the things I’ve learned and a few bonus and random morsels of wisdom. Keep in mind that when I say I have learned things, some may or may not have occured to me yesterday, last week, or last month perhaps. Hey, some lessons take me a long time to learn. Sheesh. Don’t judge.

You know that I took a break from effbook in October, and I haven’t felt the spirit move me back yet. It’s just too damned comfy in this angst-free zone. I felt my head spinning off its axis with all the political hubub and families and friends pitted against one another was making me sick. Soul sick. I miss my peeps though. Effbook truly has worked magic in my life in various stages. Once inauguration season is over, I hope to get back, but this hiatus (and finally getting my old laptop with the REAL keyboard fixed) has made the transition back to writing easier.

At 50 I’ve learned probably one of the most valuable lessons to date, and I poop you not when I tell you that this revelation and all its incarnations has been presented to me many times. I needed to use my own language during the perfect circumstance to have it finally permeate my thick skull. It goes like this: if a situation, event, person, action, or communication doesn’t alter or change the course of my direction, I shut the f— up about it. There have been too many occasions of late that have put my epiphany to the test. I can guarantee you that I will not be succesful every time, but what freedom I can achieve when I realize that my opinion about a situation does not make it factual. I could rail on endlessly at the crudfu–ery of your behaviour, thing, action, belief. How dare she, he, it, they, them! Don’t they know/care how this affects ME? How this makes ME feel? No, Deedle. No they don’t. But it’s ok, 90% of the times I’ve thought people should’ve altered their behaviour or words to protect my fragile ego, they didn’t even know I was breakable. We are all free to do and think and live and act how we please here in Americaland, and I have never asked your permission to do my life my way. Why on earth would I think you should have to ask permission to do the same thing? Exactly. Duh!

At 50 I’ve learned to listen with my whole heart to kids (and by kids I mean humans ages 2-30) who tell me their plans or intentions. Of course I know those plans will likely change (often in the next week or month), but their world is much more in the “now” than mine is these days. When I was 16, I thought that someone who was 20 was old and I don’t think I could even comprehend 40. I spent too much time telling kids not to do this or cautioning them about that, forgetting that I needn’t bother. Life teaches those lessons without my insistence or criticisms. I listen and I nod and I get excited because these are feelings that are happening right now for the kid who has selected me to hear them. My job is to share their enthusiasm, offer my experience (if asked), and be honored that anyone under 30 is willing to share their stuff with me. Seriously. If a young person talks to you, listen. They provide inspiration for me on the regular. The one caveat here is that lower back tattoo thing that I thought was a sound life choice in my 30’s. Sure would’ve appreciated a head’s up about that. Yes indeed.

At 50 I’ve learned that after age 48, topics including regularity and fiber are relevant in waaaaay more conversations than sex.

At 50 I’ve learned that he who has the most tools, has the most responsibility. It took me acquiring some tools before that made any sense to me. I am often compelled to use that as my dogmatic perspective in many familial relationships.

At 50 I’ve learned that there is a measure of peace that comes with financial security and there is a double measure of misery from doing miserable things to gain it.

At 50 I’ve learned that our whole planet is the home I’d like to visit, and my bucket will always have holes. I’m good with letting y’all go to the moon, though. I’ll stay on the ground and wave.

At 50 I’ve learned that when I’m sleepy, I can come back tomorrow and pick up where I left off…

At 50 I have not learned (it’s a battle I fight all the time) that people who don’t live up to my expectations is much of my problem in life. I made little drawings in my head about what human relationships were supposed to look like, and right out of the gate, my pictures often didn’t match up with the reality of any given connection or kinship. What wasn’t written down in my particular handbook was this; just because x y or z wasn’t capable, willing, adept, or even intended to match up to my ideals, didn’t (and still doesn’t) mean that the fault is mine. Some people suck at being who I thought/think they should be, and that isn’t their fault. It’s my fault for churning myself into butter at a futile attempt to be the right person who might transform them into my drawing of a friend/parent/brother/sister/on & on…I must keep reminding myself that some folks don’t have the capability nor the willingness to be what I needed, or need. And that my dears, will just have to do.

Did you know? Did you realize that ten years ago I began to tap out some letters and words and sentences on this bliggidy blog? Whoa, we’re gaining some mileage on us now, kiddies.

Time for a new category n’est pas? Yes, I think so too.