Tag: retinitis pigmentosia

The Honey-moon is over

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Not so serviceable

So after all that training-ha! This highly alert jumping bean tries to turn everyone into fainting goats with her not so delicate response to most noises. We decided the best dogs grow u.p around little kids. Or come from the rescue shelter with a second chance lease on life.

Today, I just carried my good girl down three steps to go potty. They I promised to dispose of the bad stuff just to get her to go in an area that she finally-after two years of yelling- has learned is off limits potty area. Well, she felt bad enough. So I did it. Carried her back up the three steps and let her in the house. Today we have a couch bum.

I know country living is the quiet life, but if I don’t respond with exuberant energy, why does she? Should have named her Kangaroo or springboard or trampoline. Recently met someone else that named their dog Honey an they had the same bee in the bonnet attitude in their dog. That would have been nice to know two years earlier. .

So we are trying the underwhelming approach. Never be excised at much of any thing. Ignoring her when company comes over. That really has not works either. She still annoys to the point of exasperation. Fixation on attention makes me wonder how she developed ADHD. Then I remember that she has never chewed anything up-ever. Hmmm.

No matter what excitement there might be, we are all dull drum when it comes to handling this pickle. Taking her with should be easier. But I think we will have to get another no tug harness. The band at the park outing the other day was difficult. We just have to mny memories if our perfect “Lady” – forgetting age as ten years old at perfection.

So we left her home the other night while we went for a quick ride to gas up the goldwing. She has never followed us before, so what happened in the 45 minutes timelapse,who knows? But when we got home she was obviously distressed. So the yearly trip to the vet for vaccines go moved up a week or two. This morning her paw needed some attention as the pad’s one inch gape needed fixed.

No one has ever pickled honey but some people do add apple aodar vinegar to their tea with honey. I have yet to figure out if this thing is jut the boiling hot water There is no taste to th tea if you burn your tongue first. And there are times, when I feel at my age, my tongue is just burned too frequently with the antics of a young puppy. This morning we met another doodle at 5 years old and they told us ours would get better soon.

Sweet and sour barbecue sauce usually has both those ingredients (Honey and vinegar). Honey, vinegar, ketchup and a whole lot of turmeric makes some really great rib sauce. But this girl does not even tickle the ribs funny. Calm down pickles! Well, today she is definitely down. Just look at her giving up on life with her injuries. Two pads have obvious woulds, and another she licks at, but I cannot sense the would with my probing. We are not being lazy… just resting through the healing process.

Words sweeter than honeycomb cannot be peppered with garlic and jalapeño dills. Yet this mutt gives the same effect when she greets strangers. Should have named her Cookies, like the hot spicey barbecue sauce!

While whispering to a hyped up dog does not always work, adding a cookie or cheese stick to the senses surely does. Not long ago she actually pleased us all day and we rewarded her with a McD’s burger. That’s when we found our that she was smart enough to spit the onion and pickle out. So now we know she’ll never get poisoned. She would not even take a treat from the vet this morning. It’s like she said. “Yeah, right, I did not see those two needles, and the scissor, and the iodine. You’re a stranger, I’m not pleasing you.”

Having a not so serviceable dog makes me wonder if this energy can ever be harnessed. Her idea of anything is full bore ahead. So getting her to walk the steps WITH me has been challenging. The service harness that I put on her is something she “puts up with.” It’s not a love, like Seymour considered it. But then maybe loving her through this injury and carrying her up and down these exact stairs will get her to love being with me.

Whatever was I thinking?

And how did she ever begin to choose Pickles for a nickname? I have taken up it’s use for when she is naughty. That way I never use her name “in vain”– the trainer said only use a happy tone of vice with the dog’s real name. So Pickles is the discipline name. So far, she does not care. Either one is good for her.

I haven’t decided yet what kind of pollen our bee used for making our Honey. I am thinking hay or alfalfa because they are my wort allergy. Sweet clover honey often gets too biter. So I prefer garden flower Honey. Just the other day upon arrival home, I was playing tug of war with her upon arrival home, and a bee stung me. That’s what got me thinking about all of this.

One last story about the starts before I carry her out again for another potty break. One time when she was just a wee puppy, we went to visit our daughter at the retreat center. The stairways are long, and at that time dark. Gavin was leading the way, followed by Honey and then me, and then our daughter. Two steps into the dark and this sound greeted us, “thud, thud, thud, thump, UFF!” Honey fell down the dark stairwell. So much for her being a sight dog to help me in the dark and down stairs.

Well, these next two weeks are dedicated to healing pads. We took this opportunity to put all of the frisbees into the deck box. She will not be playing for a while. I will get some muscles carrying up and down the stairs. At least the back deck only has three steps for us to fall down or trip over cats on.

Look square in the eye

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Facing the facts of blindness

Square eyes?

Realistically speaking, the pupil of the eye is round, not square. So considering the whole concep of looking something square in the eye does not really add up with the bulls eye itself is round. Whoever thought up such a thing does not seem to remember that David hit Goliath in the square right between the eyes. Locking horns with the bull-elk just might get you square in the bulls’ eye. The fact of the whole matter is that going blind “one day at a time” does not make that hymn become my themesong.

My challenge to myself lately is removing clutter. Some of the things are easy to do. Going through a container full of boxes and old picture frames for example. Other tasks are not quite as easy. In particular, tackling the greenhouse clutter left me nearly in stitches and brokenness. The pathway was getting so bad from the items left there, that tripping over things was a daily event. So I am trying to do one corner at a time.

The geraniums were in desperate need of deadheading and some plant nutrition. An earlier decision to raise them up in the greenhouse left them high and dry, literally! So that job finally god done last week. After my reaction to bug repellent required me to use Benadryl, I decided it was a good time to expose myself to more plant pollens. Rough morning. But if I already had the allergy monster on my side, more exposure to plants seemed natural.

Cleaning the geraniums up is no easy task. With my tunnel vision, I left unseen dead blooms many times and had to turn the pots two and three times around to get them all clean. Then after all nine pots were done, I took a step back to survey and realized I had completely missed one of the nine planters. Thank goodness I did not have to climb the ladder today to get any more down from the high perch. It was so hot in there. Even with all the vents open, the outside temperature is mirrored under the glazing of the timber frame.

Decluttering the yarn scraps gave me some new projects. Just when I think I have a new pile of yarn cleaned up, I find one little scrap on the floor, or remaining in the basket. I don’t curse myself or the object, but it is frustrating. I feel like it takes me three times as long to do anything.

Trying to use up some of the freezer stores, I decided to make a zucchini cake one day. Only to realize there was no cocoa in the house. Then the next day, it is found by my husband. Everything use to have such a well defined home when I was up to putting things away better. Now, unless we get one of those fancy label guns, my husband has decided not to use his memory and put things back where they came from. I have to use my memory to find things. My eyesight did not find the cocoa or cacao powder.

Going outside and down the stair steps of the front deck causes more anxiety than usual lately. The blinding mid-day sun makes it hard to find the steps with my eyes. Even finding the rail in the bright sun is hard. I don’t want to resort to using the mobility cane in my own home and yard. Yet the feeling that I am lost hits me so many times each day. Thankfully, Honey sometimes helps with the stairs. And if I an conscience of what I plan to do, I just have her guide me.

Cleaning the house does not happen as frequently as it should. The clutter makes it treacherous, so that’s why I am trying to clean up some. If the surfaces have less things, then the cleaning is easier. But even while putting things away, I still come back and find something that was out of my range of sight that got left behind. So time consuming, all this clean up.

While recovering from my reaction to absorbing junior (to keep off the bugs) I found more things to clean up and throw away. There was a stash of jars on the counter from the canned goods. There was a collection of spices not put away yet. And there was a stack of towels not sorted to their various homes.

While I soaked in the epsom salt to help the hives, I finally found my sunglasses. I had left them on the dry sink sometime last week. Memory did not serve me very well on that one. Being routine, and scheduled has taken vacation for the past week as I do such un-ordinary organizing routes around the place. So that’s why the sunglasses were set down in the wrong location in the first place. This de-clutter thing is tough.

Making decisions about toss or keep is easy when moth and rust eat up an object to nothingness. Other keepsakes are more difficult. But now I even look at once valuable to me things, as dust collectors and hazards to my health. For instance, the glassware that decorates the tops of the kitchen cabinets. Why did I like things just to clean? Pretty to look at should be in something less dust collecting. So now collectables make me thing only of dust, accidentally knocking something off the edge of the table, and climbing up and down on a ladder. Funny, what is no longer valued.

So, I value my toes, my nose, my head, and my eyes, more than things. I would say that’s pretty normal, right? Just like I use to enjoy some things, now the labor of it is too tedious. It has become easier to sit and crochet than to dust all those silly glass objects. Creating something new is better than removing old dirt.

Every day something finds me square between the eyes. Lately, it is the low hanging branches. Another hazard of the acreage. We took care of those one evening last week. Hubby got out the ladder, the saw, and the skid-loader to haul away the mess. He can do things so much quicker than I can. And even find my lost objects, if I just ask. I spent all day yesterday looking for my yarn bobbin winder. He found it five minutes after being home. Never mind that I hit my head on a wall during my searches. Suffered from the headeache all the rest of the day.

We got the dry sink and the little bench fixed up this last weekend. I am not happy about where to put that writing desk that is now smooth. The next item to clean and refresh is the bench that his dad made nearly twenty years ago. It never had a coat of poly on it, just tongue oil. Me and the smell of tongue oil does not get along. And poly is less dust collecting.

So I have looked at myself squarely, sized up the situation and attempted to clean up some of the clutter. My tunnel vision is not a square tube any more and at times it becomes a pin hole. I do not look forward to my visit to the eye doctor this week. It just feels like a failed attempt at hope to go. Oh, well.

God Above

God above, oh, God of love, be merciful to me.

Be merciful to me, a sinner.

Be merciful, be patient, a sinner, Your servant.

Show me, Lord, show me Thy word.

Be patient Lord with me.

Be patient Lord with me, Your servant.

Be merciful, be patient, a sinner, Your servant

-written song and tune by Yvonne Annette, approximately 1998

Morning Mist

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Fleeting faith

Hosea 6:4. “Oh (fill in with your name here) what shall I do to you. For your faithfulness is like the morning mist, And like the early dew it goes away quickly when the sun comes out.”

Who knew that the Bible has something to teach us about every thing that happens in our lives?

This morning while I did my morning chores, the fog rolled in and blurred my vision to return back to the house from the barn. Then my mind had to tell me “no silly that’s the fog, not your eyesight.” Sometimes this has to be clarified with my retinitis pigmentosia. There are times when the eyes dry out and that glass of water is one cup of coffee too late in keeping my eyes hydrated enough to see. Evening is the worst. So this verse about faithfulness and the morning mist is very real to me.

Another verse in Hebrews eleven tells us something similar. Faith is the substance of things hoped for. Faith is not what we see, rather it is the hope of things not yet seen. Hope and faith seem to go so hand and glove together. A glove does not keep me warm just lying there. I have to put it on. Faith does not become a working thing unless there is some hope involved. These concepts of spiritual and physical are very hard to grasp. It’s something like trying to squeeze the mist out of the air!

My lungs were just trying to get the air and not the water. I did have to come inside after a few frisbee tosses to my muddied up doggy. My “smoker’s lungs” told me it was time to leave the mist and opt for the dryer house.

So goes the clouds. So the mist evaporates in the sunshine.

This week my husbands plans to take a trip literally went south. His midnight vertigo turned into severe motion sickness and the plans were canceled. My plans for the week also ended up flipped upside down along with about a dozen other people that are close enough to be affected by his movements. Thanks to his sister for all the car rides as he got his stability back. A doctor visit, therapist, and chiropractor all had aid in helping him get back to upright. One ear can sure make the world go topsy turvy-literally.

So now with new plans, and another schedule in the future, we wait to see how that will all take place. Faith has to be both firm and flexible at the same time. How do we find hope amidst such feeble circumstances. Change in an instant can surprise or devastate. Faith cannot be placed in physical objects. Yet we place our faith in others hands all the time. We walk by faith not by sight. Once again this thing grips us and we must decide what carries us forward.

Hope that the sun will take away the fog. Belief that the morning mist is not a dim view of my Lord’s faithfulness to me. My God is sure. My God is steadfast. My God is here with me whether my eyes fail me, my ears give me vertigo, or my wits grow dim.

The substance of faith for me is the hope that God is here with me whether I can see the house through the morning mist or not. His Son is that ray of light that drives away the morning dew and allows my spiritual lungs to breathe once again. Ahh. Air. Fresh clean perfect air.

Book review “Thank Heaven”

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About listening to Leslie Caron’s memoir

So far I have avoided doing any book reviews because of all the copyright issues. But this actress so intrigued me that I spent hours on YouTube watching her film clips and listening to her many interviews. While most people get pepper books, mine come on a little floppy disc and I plug it in to my player. I am thankful for the technology today and the chance to still “read.”

The Title

Perhaps it might be fitting for her own thinking. But she gives no glory or credit to the the Creator. Rather it is to the “Stars” that helped build her career. She was discover by Gene Kelly and first performed in “An American in Paris.” Through the book she does five credit to the many film makers, directors, and actors and actresses whom she had the pleasure to work with. , be married to, or otherwise be engaged with during her life.

So the title is to her own belief that the “Stars of Hollywood ” are the Heaven that she is thanking. Perhaps her gracious mannerisms could be learned by a few people. We all have others who help to shape us and build our lives into the castles that we become. Perhaps we all could learn a few things about the thankful, grateful heart of Leslie Caron.

The Memoir

Writing a memoir has always been a dream of mine. So as listen to my talking book library it is the memoirs that I spend the most time on. Often to the point of going past due on my book returns! Sorry. Study yang the memoirs of others will be my next constant background work to writing my own.

Leslie Caron grew up in France and was old enough to understand the World War II traumatic effect on her family. Her references to both the past and the present and the lessons that she learned are refreshing. She gained wisdom through all of life’s events and writing the memoir late in life lends a grandmother’s knowledge to her many stories.

Being a teacher at heart (homeschool mom, said Bible school teacher, etc.) my listening catches the learning curve that people allow themselves. How did Leslie learn from her mistakes and her successes? If you get a chance to pick up the book, be assured she shares her expertise in light of her hands on experiences. Her drive to learn language, acting, and the other endeavors that she took on shows determination and grit.

The Writing

Her style as a writer was developed over the years that waited for an acting job. She has a present-tense style that lends to watching a film in action. Very fitting for both her life story. This too tempted me to to look up many of her her scenes and stop the book just to check out the movie. I enjoyed each one that I viewed.

The Language

The book was a good read. Recommended for those who can handle the lifestyles of the entertainment world. While I have no desire to learn their secrets and the way that people follow their”fashion,” Leslie Caron kept the book on the street in it’s language. There were a few bedroom and closet discussions that were not detailed to the point of listening ears embarrassment. Because my books are read to me, I prefer not to have bare floor bathroom talk in my books. This is just not my kind of reading material. So for a nod to the title thank heaven she kept it clean for the most part. Would I suggest this book for my mother? Probably not. Do I want to share it with my daughter? Well, as a learning tool perhaps. Would I listen while my husband was in the room? Yes. In fact I did a few times and then shared movie clips from YouTube with him also.

Final Notes

“Thank Heaven” by Leslie Caron was a good read. Worth the time if you enjoy films and movies with music, dancing, and depth of character. Her inner beauty as an actress did shine through the book as she gave credit to the many stars that invested in her life.

Sweet Sixteen

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Of pretty dresses

What blessings we have held,

What beauty we have seen

Today is a day of reflection once again.While the rest of the world rises early to begin their work week, I am vanquished to home and must find things to occupy my time.

First I shall clean up from the weekend.

Which for me really is the strong end. I spend my weekends being pulled about like the little red wagon. Places to go, things to do, people to see. I stick my hand out like the little black handle and someone pulls me up curbs on sidewalks, past cashiers in grocery stores, down aisles of auditoriums. The little red wagon spins her wheels and squeals in protest as she stumbles from one thing to the next. Then she sits empty all the day long as the people who were once on the other end go about their work week.

It was so enjoyable. All the goings on. Now I shall sit and ponder.

We went to several music events that my daughter played cello in. One of which she had a solo with a bass singer in a Requiem. It was beautiful. but I was a bit unprepared. Yes, she had complained about her sliced index finger and the string placement just under all that super glue and new skin polish. But she hadn’t said specifically that she had a solo! It was so moving. There was no new dress though.

The social media was alive with the young boys and sweet girls in their pretty prom dresses. My girls had recital dresses instead of banquet dresses. I remember when my daughter was born half my life ago. Her dad went right out and bought her a pink dress to wear at her baby dedication a month later. He has always loved buying dresses for his girls. I still hear him say “do you need a new dress for…” whenever their is some event ahead.

This year is especially significant as I turned 50, my first turns 25 and she will give birth soon to her first. My mother , great-grandma has also celebrated her 75th. Wow will that ever be a good four generations picture to take. Numbers while not being my forte, have suddenly become important this year.

When I was sixteen, I would never have thought what life would be like at 25, 50, or 65. Life was it’s own day to day existence. My first was recollecting that when she was 16, we had done a video questionnaire and considered those 5 and 10 year goals. Yes it would be interesting to see what they thought back then.

So this sixteenth blog is not about anything in particular, but just an update on the goings on in my life.

Yesterday was the baby shower for my new grand-baby-to-be. What an enjoyable day. My favorite memory is of all the little girls in their little dresses sitting cross legged on the floor. They were the honorary gift bearers for the day. It was their special duty to retrieve the gifts from the table and lay them at the momma-to-be’s feet. Teaching them to serve and be patient and to be joyful in another person’s joy. What fun! Their exclamations over the gifted dresses was lovely.

We had an overnight guest of the younger daughter’s in our home for the weekend. An adopted daughter is always a blessing to hug also. Even if she belongs to me only because she is a friend to my daughter, I sill spend much time in thought, in care, and in prayer for her well being. A friend of my child’s becomes a friend of mine in no time at all. Love those hugs and kisses of blessing also!

The baby shower was a bit overwhelming and my instinct to care for my own, makes me want to go put everything away and help prepare the nursery. but i am not the parent this time and cannot be over bearing. I’ll wait until I’m asked or offer and see if a time is suggested.

At sixteen, I would never had thought that by this time in my life I would be thinking about what my grandmother name would be. Am I a nana? How about Granmy? Or maybe Oma? Yes as a nod to the remembrance of our Jewish holocaust survivors, I will be an Oma. The little girls that wanted to keep their dresses pretty though the concentration camps, think so fondly of their grandmother’s who lost their lives. Those grandmother’s who loved them so . Oma. The adopted grandmother’s in the camps. Oma. The greatness of grandmother’s become it great grandmother’s. Oma.

I shall be Oma Von.

And when whis little girls is sweet sixteen, I shall buy her the prettiest dress ever.

Even if I cannot see it. She can describe it to me and what blessings we will hold, and what beauty we shall see.

While the dough rises

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First things first

This morning while I contemplated what the day should have in store for me, I remembered that someone in this house said that caramel rolls could be a daily occurrence at mealtime.  Seeings that it has been four days since the cotton-candy-like cinnamon roll melted across my tongue, I decided to get the dough going after the kitchen clean up.  So while the dough rises, I am thinking about all the quotes about bread.

While the earth’s voices can get you hooked on Panera bread, or sandwich shop commercials there is voice far more compelling.  Deuteronomy 8:3 comes in the middle of a narrative about the Israelites journey through the wilderness.  While I am not in a fourth year journey of desert land, there are days when I feel being blind and living in the country has given me a wilderness lifestyle that is akin to hermit living.  But if I really wanted to get the analogy correct I could say that I am stuck between the walls of a Sinai monastery.  But that’s pretty depressing.

Back to Deuteronomy.

When Jesus was in the wilderness for forty days, he was tempted three times.  The first temptation was food.  Issn’t that amazing? Most people find that it’s being alone that tempts them to eat the whole bag of chips.  Or the half-gallon of ice cream.  I’m not like that.  I’m one of those people that could easily forget to eat.  The day might stretch clear into the afternoon, before I realize that I haven’t had any lunch yet.  Food is not my driving motivator. Which is good, because I can’t drive, and I would probably going to every fast-food emergency food establishment at my hour of need.

“Man live by bread alone, but man lives by every word that proceeds form the mouth of the Lord.”  When bread is not the sustenance of the would, that what is?

This year at Christmas time, we were blessed to be ministered to by our daughter’s devotional from young adult retreat.  It was a three part letter that the Camp where she worlds sent out during the week leading up to the Christmas worship season.  While it was rather long, we did take the time to read each of the letter installments.  Her ability to lead us into the season in awe and worshipful reverence was such a blessing.  It’s that very thought provoking  devotion that made me think about my goals for the new year.

First things first.  Put first things first.

And the most important first thing in my life has been finding my sustenance in the words of our Lord.  Jesus is the bread of life .  He will be my everlasting manna during this journey into a visual wilderness that continues to make me feel lost.

When I look up to find a doorway or a wall instead of the way to where I thought I was going, I will remember that He is with me.  When the dog comes out of the darkness of my peripheral black hole, I will find solid in Jesus.  When my nose finally heels in its new crooked state, I will remember the brokenness that my Lord endured for me.  While Jesus set his eyes on the way before him, knowing that the cross lie in his path, this I will remember when my path is interrupted by an opened cupboard door.

Being visually impaired and on the journey to blindness, I will put first things first.  Though I refuse to use my walking cane in my own home, I will ask my Lord for grace to endure all the brokenness that comes from this journey.  This year the Bible verse that I chose to be our family’s theme verse is Luke 1:37.

“For nothing will be impossible with God.”

Brick walls

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When God slams a door

Everyone always said that when God shuts a door, somewhere He opens a window. That is really just a line from the film Sound of Music. It’s not a bible verse.  It is repeated by the Christian world so much we tend to believe it. 

Perhaps God slams the door in our face and there is no window in the room. There is only darkness. Then just for no reason He builds a brick wall outside the door so that if we try to open it, we find a concussion to greet us.   RP often makes me feel like I am all alone in a crowd that will not let the door be closed. 

Darkness that closes in and attempts to claim our soul. Inspire  of songs   like “there is sunshine in my soul today” ringing in our ears, this darkness lurks like a lone wolf ready to gobble up every bit of sunshine.  The pain that engulfs my heart at this hour is so overwhelming.  The door is shut on the days when my eyesight allowed me to read music and play piano at the same time.  

The death of this ability leads me into a very dark room. 

The last Sunday that I was asked and foolishly attempted to read the hymnal and play piano was a very dark day for me. The realization that what once had been a “piece of cake” was now completely impossible has given rise to a deep cavern of anguish and fear. 

What is it like to go blind?

What is it like to give up what was once loved?

What is it like for things once easy to die? Is this death or divorce? Have my eyes divorced themselves from my brain and my fingers? There are days this overwhelming death of past ability completely engulfs me and shuts down my whole factory of operations.  

The death of my ability to shop was far easier to give up. I always hated going shopping anyhow. The grocery store to a tunnel visioned blind person is a nightmare. I could look for items for hours only to be pointed to the item right in front of me. I never enjoyed shopping. It’s difficulty rendered that doslikable years before the grocery section just made me cold and feel helpless. Might as well put me in the child’s seat in the cart, for all the help I am. 

But giving up music?

I remember the last few times I played for church choir. The song was The Revelations Anthem. The piano writing on the piece is amazing. But trying to help the choir with their parts and read all four lines while plunking out their notes…  that was nightmarish and led me to tears numerous occasions I was only thankful that God had somehow given me the ability to begin memorizing music. I had wanted that ability back in college but failed miserably and even flunked my piano jury because of brick wall brain!  

I still love that choir anthem and do not attempt to play it. It would be to devastating to my memory of when I was able. 

The hymnal brick wall is so…  I just wish I had another word besides death to describe this horrible feeling that slams into my chest. The tunnel vision does not allow me to focus on more that one note at a time. Hymnals are written in chord progressions that are common to multiple voice choir pieces. Imagine switching from reading the bass line to the soprano in lightening speed. The good eye does this automatically. Now put a straight jacket on a prisoner and tell her to beat the best boxer in the ring.  Impossible. My hands have been put in a straight jacket and I am blindfolded and I don’t even see the other boxer!  My eyes that once read all the choir lines and the piano (something like a conductors score) now can barely make out the alto line. 

And then I get lost. 

Once as a child I was in a department store in Bismarck Noth Dakota and sat under a clothing rack only to discover that my mother had wandered away. I hadn’t wandered away, mind you-she had! I distinctly remember the department store’s “man-hand” leading me back to my mother. 

I am lost. Without my ability to read piano music the panic sets in and there is no gentle hand to lead me back to my mother  this time. My mother-love of music is dead. 

I have no choice.  My eyes are continuing to fail me. The door has been closed. The brick wall has been built. The panic is still there. The loss is deep and wrenching. 

I ache for my love of piano.  In my own home I may sit and attempt to read a melody line and learn an old song new again. But in the ears of all others. No. 

My eyes continue to steal my joy from my fingers. If I close my eyes and just play. The memory takes over. Sometimes. Not  often enough. 

Another one bites the dust. That’s not a cool song anymore. It is cruel. Painful reality. 

I miss my ability to read and play piano without fear, without that lost feeling, without struggle, without crashing through the notes, without thus painful brick wall that ever casts such a dark shadow through the very tiny crack that is left in the gap of the door.  When others look at a tunnel they see the light at the end. I don’t. I see the narrowing end of this tunnel-like view of the keyboard as it is. The end of the keyboard. My view comes from the narrow end and fuzzes out at the wide end into nothing. The end.

It’s hard to enjoy this black and white world of music while my ability slowly fades into a muddy grey.. The light grows dimmer. The shadow lengthens. The door creaks slowly but surely towards the frame for a final slam.  And on the other side the brick wall is being built.  

And don’t tell me I shouldn’t be depressed. Death is never easy. No matter what kind it is. The death of my gift of music isn’t blossoming into something beautiful. It is a train wreck at the end of a dark tunnel. 

This is RP.