I forgot myself, between the pillow fluffing, and the requisite deep sigh that follows turning off the lamp. I paused recalling notion of prayer, then rolled over on my side to count sheep as if nothing had ever happened.

I haven’t prayed of my own volition in a long time. (The Better Half and I take turns giving thanks at meals, but I don’t consider appreciation to food providers to be in the same ball park as say, god please help relieve my gout and watch over my children.”) I observe the niceties and respectfulness of belief one learns to survive in the bible belt to prevent drawing condemnation. It my not sound like it, but I sincerely attempt to be respectful of other’s beliefs. I’ve nothing to gain by destroying another’s faith.

I grew up shadowing my parent’s beliefs. I didn’t think I had a choice. Not in the “If you don’t beg Jesus for forgiveness, I’m gonna get you with a switch..” kind of way, but in the “your only choice is vanilla” kind of way. When I got older, I read more and eventually abandon the flock, and thankfully most of the flock failed to notice.

When I tossed the vestiges of religion, the last item to strike the floor was prayer. I think part of the reason was it was ingrained; not like habitually parking on the same row at the grocery store, but more like taking the pill the same time every day. Eventually it evolved into something cathartic, like writing in a journal. An opportunity to organize your thoughts and empty your head in preparation for a solid night’s sleep, until finally I began unceremoniously turning the light switch and rolling onto my side.

When my father-in-law was in the last throes of lucidity, trying to manage my mother-in-law’s dementia outbursts, I remember him asking us to pray for them. I suspected that his desired outcome from prayer was a very specific one. Something akin to putting spilt milk back in the heifer. I put a lot of thought into the request of an emotionally battered old man, and even based upon my pre-libris beliefs, I had difficulty convincing myself that even if I believed in his god with the same faith as he, I would have difficulty conceiving of a being who would be willing to turn back the hands of time and present my FIL with the pre-demencial woman he loved, who baked him pies, bore him children, and praised his fishing prowess. Even if I prayed to his god on his behalf, and his god accepted the sincerity of an atheist the desired outcome….

My willingness to conform to the prescribed desire to offer prayers on behalf of others who thought they were in need, provided me a vehicle to avoid confrontation. I didn’t have anything to lose because I don’t believe in anything. But, I began wondering if I was violating my own desires to be respectful of others, by the omission of personal truth in submitting to another’s respect for prayer. Was I being disrespectful to the beliefs of friends and family, by offering the comfort of prayer to a god I didn’t believe in?

I always thought the hardest part about not believing would be the persecution. Not from everyone, but some. For each person who is respectful of differences in beliefs, there are those who are not, and face it, the most dogmatic are the ones who receive the most attention. The hardest part is trying to offer comfort to the people in your life who do believe, and expect a very specific flavor of comfort; prayer. I want to offer my support, my “best wishes”, and my desire for I brighter tomorrow, but I can’t always because I don’t believe the world works that way. There are times when there are no answers because life carries on.

I hope they can detect, I want only the best for them, offering respect that will not diminish their beliefs, nor mine.

I usually don’t have reservations about making decisions. I will make a choice, even if it is a poor one, and accept the consequences. Refusing to put on my big girl panties and say I was wrong, only prolongs the inevitable, not to mention, few people believe plaintive cries that abstain me from any culpability anyway.

I’m feeling indecisive about this one though. Is it better to be one who recognizes the unintentional acts that contribute to hurt feelings and righteous indignation, or is it better to be the recipient of such acts and the bearer of hurt feelings?

In the end I don’t think it matters, because both positions lack the ability alter whatever incident has left left people sniffling. And empathy, though really useful, lacks any tangible ability to turn back the hands of time and make things right. Apologies can be a step in the right direction, but seem trifle at times because everyone knows it is easier to get forgiveness than permission

*****

So, basically I spent ten hours in the car, and four days gasping for air with a chain smoker because people communicate in code, because my mother always couches the way she feels when speaking with my brother, my brother always remembers my sister frozen in adolescence with her drama queen ways, my sister in law is still suffering from chemo brain even though she is finished with her treatment and my sister was on her period. Nice. At least I wasn’t on center stage.

The problem with reading between the lines regarding what others need, is guessing wrong. At that point, you risk wasting your time, and theirs. Even worse, is downplaying it in your mind to the extent that someone doesn’t receive care they need. Can you live with yourself? Can you indefinitely saddle society or siblings with your responsibilities?

There are occasions when you have no choice but to waste time in order to get to the truth. I hate wasting time.

*****

By day two, it was obvious I was wasting my time. As the saying goes, my mother was milking it. She could have managed without me, but she wasn’t going to allow me to leave. This is humorous, because the woman is not a born manipulator. She will tell you what to do, and she will imply what you should do, but she will not trick you into doing it. She will however pout about it. It must suck to have kids who are as hard-headed as you are

*****

It’s good for family to be okay, even if they can’t see the things I see. It’s good for them to slow down, and not spend time worrying. It’s good for them to be relieved temporarily of their responsibilities. But mostly, it’s good to be back home.

Sunlight has been a scarce commodity of late. Rain, however, not so much. I’m not using a kayak to reach my mailbox, so I’ve no reason to complain. But I am surprised. Sure, it was raining when we left for New York seven days ago, but I didn’t expect it to rain all five days we were gone. Whoa.

As it turns out birdseed doesn’t actually grow birds, it grows wild grass. And the grass, keeps on keeping on.

Enough about the weather.

I mentioned New York. My first trip. I’ll spare you the itinerary. If you watch television, or read, you already know. I was hoping to see Avenue Q, but it went on hiatus a few days prior to our arrival. We saw this instead.

I knew nothing about it, other than the cast members. With a name like God of Carnage it sounded exactly like the sort of thing my grandmother would forbid me to see, so naturally I insisted on seeing it AND getting a t-shirt. That and musicals aren’t really my thing. Why sing along in pre-meditated artificial joy when you can watch skilled thespians behave badly and point fingers.

What can else can I say about New York that you don’t already know? Little. I can show the way I saw it.

Thank You Notes I Neglected to Send…

Dear Sister’s Husband,
Thanks for showing me those awesome pistol grip clamps. Not only are they easy to use, but the reduced the amount of profanity used during our last DIY project. If it hadn’t been for that stroke of genius, the Better Half and I would still trying to hold spindles in place using arms, wrists, ankles, and toes; sort of like a Bob Villa version of Twister.
With much appreciation,
Jaded

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Dear Wikipedia,
Your seemingly infinite data base leaves me in awe. Without you I would have never realized that my current music taste is leaning toward post punk revival. Who knew a thirty-something housewife would be drawn into music following diligently in the steps of the Sex Pistols or the Clash. Thanks to your insight, I will be able to sleep easier at night, though maybe not with any of those songs playing on repeat in my head.
Yours truly,
Jaded

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Dear Dad,
Thank you for teaching me the joy is in the deed and not in receiving credit.
Love,
Jaded

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Dear Nate from My favorite pizza place,
Dude, you are a wealth of righteous info. Without your help, I would have never grasped the potential of fish tanks and fully appreciated the beauty of a self contained ecosystem, much less heard about this guy. Inspirational. Thanks for sharing.
Sincerely,
Jaded

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Dear Lapcat,
Thanks for showing me how to appreciate sunspots and belly rubs. We all need to stop and eat the houseplants every so often.
Your less than humble litter scooper,
Jaded

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Dear Friends,
Your fortitude is inspiring. Thank you for enduring.
to each I am a different beast,
Jaded