How old am I? I’m about to turn 70 on Groundhog Day.
How old am I? When I was a little girl, I saw a children’s encyclopedia with an illustration depicting the lifespans of different species, and the lifespan for humans was 70.
How old am I? As I mentioned in Thursday’s blog post, I’m older than expected to be, and it’s wonderful.
How old am I? I’m old enough to share these images with you.
How old am I? Old enough (1) to admit that I almost wrote about hugs today before I knew it was National Hugging Day and (2) to stick with my chosen topic without rewriting what I have so far.
How old am I? Old enough to do what I want without regret or fear.
Here’s what I find on YouTube when I search for “how old am I?”
How old am I? I’m old enough to be grateful for every day and for you!
Last night, I asked the question “What is your earliest memory?” in my Coping and Healing group. People said they found that very helpful. So, after the group, I asked the same question on Twitter.
My earliest memory is from before I was walking. I was outdoors and my sister was lying on the ground next to me. I remember wondering: “Why is she doing that? She can walk!” That memory stayed with me because my parents were posing us for a photo, and I kept seeing the photo of the two of us in the family album.
Even back then, I was asking questions.
Here are some of my not-so-early memories, captured in photos:
The Daily Bitch is very memorable.
One of my earliest memories of music is of my father listening — on a very old radio — to “Witchcraft” sung by Frank Sinatra.
Now I’m asking you: What is your earliest memory?
Thanks to all who have memories and to those who ask questions and answer them, including YOU!
Sometimes we need a break from thinking, worrying, and doing, to just BE. After all, we are human BEings (not human doings etc.), as difficult as it might BE to BElieve that and just BE.
Just BE, as you look at my images for today.
Just BE as you take a moment to celebrate as you choose.
In my mind, I’ve been turning around the pros and cons of euthanasia for our ailing and beloved cat, Oscar. Yesterday morning, Oscar seemed so sick that I scheduled a home euthanasia visit for this afternoon. This morning, I am turning around to cancel that visit, because Oscar took a turn for the better yesterday afternoon.
I notice Oscar has trouble turning around without staggering in the morning. In the afternoons, he is turning around before he settles in my lap. And no matter what he is doing, he is still turning around to eat some delicious chicken whenever we offer it to him.
My son is not turning around in his belief that we should not euthanize Oscar. My husband Michael is turning around what he believes is right, depending on Oscar’s behavior.
I’m used to turning around many perspectives in my mind while making decisions, especially difficult ones like this one. With so much turning around, everybody seems a little dizzy, including Oscar.
Turning around to today’s photos, here’s the inspiration for today’s title:
When I saw that sign yesterday, I thought there was probably no turning around from today being Oscar’s last day on earth. However, in my life, I’ve experienced and witnessed so much turning around that nothing seems written in stone.
Last week, I witnessed people in my Coping and Healing groups turning around low self esteem by discussing positive attributes. If anyone had trouble naming what they liked about themselves, the other group members had no trouble turning around to share what they appreciated about that person.
Every time I try to write my last letter from the President for the Northeastern Society for Group Psychotherapy, I keep turning around to other activities, like watching musicals on TV (including The Music Man, Bye Bye Birdie, and On The Town).
Here’s a thought that’s turning around in my mind: It’s difficult to say goodbye.
No matter where I am, I’m often turning around to take photos like these:
Yesterday, as I was in the process of leaving my home town of Boston and traveling to the great town of Chicago, I took these photos:
Ah ha! There I am in Chicago.
Here and here are today’s songs about leaving town:
Last night, I was feeling kind of shy in Chi-town when I was having dinner with some people I didn’t know,, but when the group organizer asked me to sing, I stood up, found my voice, and sang my latest song — “Everybody’s Somebody’s Asshole.”
People seemed to like my new song but even if they didn’t, I’ll be leaving town tomorrow.
No matter what town I’m in, I see gratitude everywhere. Thanks to all who helped me create this out-of-town post and — of course! — to YOU.
Yesterday, when I was being a little bit different than anybody else I know, I noticed this:
and I knew that “a little bit different” was a little bit different from any other blog title I’d used before in the past six-and-a-half years.
When I looked at all my other photos from yesterday …
…they were all a little bit different, so I knew I would use that title for today’s blog post.
This morning, I realized that this post might be a little bit different from most published today by not mentioning Father’s Day up front. And then, when I looked at my photos again with a little bit different perspective, I realized they all related to my father. I guess I see them that way because I’m related to my father and we are both a little bit different.
My late father was humble and kind.
He cared much more about other people than he did about money …
… but he worked very, very hard to be a good provider for his family.
He had a beautiful singing voice and was very musical. He bought us a piano when my sister and I were young.
My father paid for piano lessons for his little-bit-different daughters but never learned to play himself. That calendar photo of the dog playing piano (which is a little bit different) arrived yesterday in the mail from my wonderful cousin, Lani. Lani, like the rest of us, is a little bit different and she also loved my father.
Lani, and everybody else who knew my father, would say that my father was incredibly funny, although they might tell that story in a little bit different ways. My dad told me he wrote little-bit-different rhymes for his high school year book, including this memorable one (which is a little bit different from totally kind):
Jerry is a drummer rare.
If he didn’t play, we wouldn’t care.
Perhaps you can see his influence in this little-bit-different certificate I’ll be presenting later this week to an exiting board member of my group therapy professional organization:
When I was very young, my father moved us to a little-bit-different home which was a block away from the ocean, on the North Shore of Boston. I’m now living on the little-bit-different South Shore of Boston.
I think my father would have noticed the irony in that little-bit-different last photo in that sea-side montage.
My father was a life-long Democrat and so am I, although we were a little bit different in our politics.
That very different photo reminds me of my father in several little bit different ways. He brought home all the different magazines from the pharmacy he owned but never ridiculous rags like The Globe or the National Enquirer. Also, he would sometimes ask my different friends this little question, “Are your parents still together?” Leave it to my father to throw in little-bit-different conversation starters when talking to my friends.
Harley, pictured there, reminds me a lot of Tuffy, in looks and in temperament although, of course, they’re a little bit different. My dad and I used to play a little-bit-different game with Tuffy, where we would sit on the floor in the kitchen and roll back and forth little-bit-different balls made of Challah bread, with Tuffy trying to catch them. Tuffy, who was a little bit different in her taste in treats, would catch the bread balls and eat them.
My father was a married to a clean freak …
… who was a little bit different from most clean freaks by letting us sit on the floor and toss bread balls back and forth with our cat. My father had this little-bit-different joke he used to tell about my mother:
I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, and when I got back Weezie had made the bed.
Leave it my father to tell a joke that was a little-bit-different from the truth, even though he was impeccable with his word.
I took driver’s education in high school, but my memories of learning to drive are all of my father.
My father was one of Boston’s safest drivers (which believe me, is not saying much) and because of him, I am a safe driver, too.
After my father retired, he and my mother travelled abroad …
… but I don’t think they made it to Barcelona. My traveling has been a little bit different but I haven’t been to Barcelona, although I did travel to Spain with my beloved friend Jeanette. I have memories of Jeanette and my father getting along really well, although they were a little bit different from each other (but who isn’t?). Maybe someday I’ll make it to Barcelona, which I understand is a little bit different from the rest of Spain.
My father grew up in an Orthodox Jewish household and so did I, although our upbringings were a little bit different. Whenever we ate out, we only had fish or meatless dishes.
My father was sensitive to other people’s feelings and was pretty sensitive himself. We hurt each other a few times in our lives, but we always forgave each other, keeping the connection alive as long as he was.
I only heard my father swear once, and that was when he was very angry about a young man who had hurt me when I was in my early 20’s.
My father took care of much of what grew on our property when I was growing up, as my little-bit-different boyfriend Michael does today.
My father had a wonderful smile, which he did not keep to himself.
Actually, neither of those animals really evoke my father, but this one does:
I think my father and I were a little bit nuts, in a little bit different ways, but who isn’t?
Also, I have vivid memories of my father on Saturdays eating pistachio nuts, which he was nuuuuuuuttssss about.
My father had a wonderful zest for life, which I believe I’ve inherited. Yay!
I’ve tried to color in some details about my father in this little-bit-different post, which is not by the numbers and which attempts to capture the magic of my Dad. I hope it’s no mystery why I miss my father, every little-bit-different day.
Here‘s a song my father sang to my mother on a special anniversary (and he sounded a little bit different from Nat King Cole and Frank Sinatra):
I look forward to all your little-bit-different comments.
A little-bit-different thanks to all who helped me create today’s blog post and — of course! — to YOU!
As I’ve mentioned before, I have a fear of repeating myself.
Why? I’m wondering this morning.
What’s so bad about repeating things?
Especially since I talk to people, repetitively — in this blog and elsewhere — about how we humans tend to repeat and relearn important lessons, as we grow. (See my first post about that, here.)
Here’s an example of “good” repetitiveness:
When I really love a song, I want to play it, over and over again.
When I was a kid, I didn’t have the control to make that happen. When I loved a song, I would listen to the radio for days, wishing that it would play.
Yearning for that song. Waiting to hear it.
I first remember doing that, when I was very young, with this song:
I remember doing that, when I was about 13 years old, with this song:
Nowadays, if I want to listen to a song over and over again, I can! And yesterday, I did just that, with this tune:
At this point in this post, I wanted to tell you about another instance of helpful repetitiveness, but here’s what I’m thinking:
Geesh! “Repetitiveness” is such a difficult word to say and type. What’s another good word for that concept?
So, I just I looked for another word, and here’s something interesting, people! Most of the synonyms for “repetitiveness” are negative:
The Year(s) of Living Non-Judgmentally 