I’ve noticed a common thread among many of us of us living on the dementia continuum. As our short-term memories decline, so do our skills at handling conflict and stress.
Small bumps in the road that we previously would have cruised right through or maybe not even noticed, now turn into mud pits with DANGER flags flapping wildly. One of my first signs of neurological trouble occurred early on in the renovation project two years ago when I happened to overhear two workers talking about their schedules, when they were available for the following week. For some completely unknown reason, I found this conversation threatening, and I made tracks out of there!
Monday, November 26, 2018
Monday, November 5, 2018
Sky: Baby
The other day, Jane and I were at the University of Vermont (UVM) as guest speakers for a class on Aging and Human Development. I was tickled to find out that the students’ assignment was to read the blog …Yes….THIS Blog …and create some questions for us.
The class was a seminar, small and intimate, with 8 undergraduate students. Perfect conditions for the emotional spillage that was to come..… It started when a young woman asked about the picture of the baby with a poem I had written called Soothing:
The hands take the very familiar protective position that I find myself in when the world threatens to overwhelm. I can’t take my eyes off this baby. There’s some meaning here that I’m almost, but not quite, getting. Fortunately, Jane is running the class at this point, so I don’t need to worry about my lapse, unless I take too long to return.
And then, suddenly, I get it. And I’m back. I’m mesmerized by this baby because…she is MY baby! Her brain still just partially developed, she is content (for a moment) to turn her gaze fully to mine and soak up her brand new world through my eyes.
Somehow, we were made for each other, though we are both so new to our worlds…vulnerable, open and not real smart yet.
Wow!!! What next?
The class was a seminar, small and intimate, with 8 undergraduate students. Perfect conditions for the emotional spillage that was to come..… It started when a young woman asked about the picture of the baby with a poem I had written called Soothing:
With my hands, I fashion
my own cradle
For a hurting brain.
For a hurting brain.
I included the photo simply because it was too powerful NOT to include it. Hands tenderly holding the ridiculously vulnerable newborn, all wrinkly skin and undeveloped brain.
The hands take the very familiar protective position that I find myself in when the world threatens to overwhelm. I can’t take my eyes off this baby. There’s some meaning here that I’m almost, but not quite, getting. Fortunately, Jane is running the class at this point, so I don’t need to worry about my lapse, unless I take too long to return.
And then, suddenly, I get it. And I’m back. I’m mesmerized by this baby because…she is MY baby! Her brain still just partially developed, she is content (for a moment) to turn her gaze fully to mine and soak up her brand new world through my eyes.
Somehow, we were made for each other, though we are both so new to our worlds…vulnerable, open and not real smart yet.
Wow!!! What next?
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