In the email, Andrea, you asked what we would bring to show and tell. On the shelf in my closet a shoebox rests (I'm not going to call it a casket because that would imply death, or maybe it is Bark's resurrection of him now to thrill my inner child, Littlbe). I would gently lift Bark out of his shoebox in front of all the other kindergarteners (which should really be spelled with a "d" , learning how to grow ourselves and each other with healthy boundaries)--he would be several years old by this time, and show them all what true love is--only they would have to see him as I do now--with all the fur loved off his neck because I held him securely in the crook of my arm taking him everywhere and explaining life. (Now I can take a breath from that very long worded pleasant memory.) Bark was not made of soft stuffing like the cuddly toys today, he was created sturdy to sit straight up on his haunches, stuffed with a mix of packed and pressed I don't know what but tiny woodchips are mixed in. His fur is rabbit fur and white; his ears are so rabbit soft, and the color of ripened wheat. All the other kindergardeners wanted to pet him but I protect him from their sticky grabbing claws. I love my Bark, my companion, and now his neck is down to his skin with no stuffing...so he knows how much Littlbe loved him and loves him still.
What plans can I reroute to keep some magic intact? Well, I am learning to reroute my ideas of what a relationship means in order to continue sharing love - the most magical thing I can think of. My spouse has a progressive neurodegenerative disease. It is gradually but steadily eating at his ability to remember, and to hold complex thoughts & plans, and to engage in sustained conversations. It affects his movements & facial expressions. He gets distressed when the lengthening shadows of his disease are pointed out or made apparent to him. So I am trying to learn how to inhabit his world and live in his present, suspending my disbelief in the simple illusions of his reality. We walk together through the neighborhood, and he admires the flower gardens and the birds in the park. I give him seeds to plant in a big pot on our deck, and a new watering can. A chipmunk digs holes among the seedlings, and we laugh.
In the email, Andrea, you asked what we would bring to show and tell. On the shelf in my closet a shoebox rests (I'm not going to call it a casket because that would imply death, or maybe it is Bark's resurrection of him now to thrill my inner child, Littlbe). I would gently lift Bark out of his shoebox in front of all the other kindergarteners (which should really be spelled with a "d" , learning how to grow ourselves and each other with healthy boundaries)--he would be several years old by this time, and show them all what true love is--only they would have to see him as I do now--with all the fur loved off his neck because I held him securely in the crook of my arm taking him everywhere and explaining life. (Now I can take a breath from that very long worded pleasant memory.) Bark was not made of soft stuffing like the cuddly toys today, he was created sturdy to sit straight up on his haunches, stuffed with a mix of packed and pressed I don't know what but tiny woodchips are mixed in. His fur is rabbit fur and white; his ears are so rabbit soft, and the color of ripened wheat. All the other kindergardeners wanted to pet him but I protect him from their sticky grabbing claws. I love my Bark, my companion, and now his neck is down to his skin with no stuffing...so he knows how much Littlbe loved him and loves him still.
I love your stories.
What plans can I reroute to keep some magic intact? Well, I am learning to reroute my ideas of what a relationship means in order to continue sharing love - the most magical thing I can think of. My spouse has a progressive neurodegenerative disease. It is gradually but steadily eating at his ability to remember, and to hold complex thoughts & plans, and to engage in sustained conversations. It affects his movements & facial expressions. He gets distressed when the lengthening shadows of his disease are pointed out or made apparent to him. So I am trying to learn how to inhabit his world and live in his present, suspending my disbelief in the simple illusions of his reality. We walk together through the neighborhood, and he admires the flower gardens and the birds in the park. I give him seeds to plant in a big pot on our deck, and a new watering can. A chipmunk digs holes among the seedlings, and we laugh.