Wild-Heart.net

After my own music collection Rick Rolled me a little bit ago, it then surprised me with this song. Talk about immediate flashbacks of awkward High School dances with the dread slow dances. This was the slow song that never seemed to end. The song for the dance in which you realized you really did like the guy you were dancing with or that he was a right bore and you would rather be anywhere but there more than you had the whole night and started thinking of nice ways to break up with him without hurting his feelings.

My apologies for the lack of posting. It’s been quite hectic here. Keeping a sharp on Boy #1 while waiting for this coming Saturday to arrive when we deliver him to Ft. Gordon for his first day of classes at National Guard Youth Challenge whilst attempting to school Boy #2 and Baby Boy has been a challenge.

There are so many songs that pull at my Celtic heartstrings that I could share with you today. Songs that make my heart and soul long for home, that small Irish-Catholic farming community of one Church and one pub full of extended family where everyone is related to everyone in one way or another. Where they say our Great-great-grandfathers decided to settle because the land of gently rolling hills, valleys and streams reminded them of their homes they left behind in Ireland. But I couldn’t pick just one.

Since this week is so focused on Boy #1 taking a huge step to change his life for the better and will be ending with his departing from us for 22 weeks, the song that seems most fitting is Danny Boy. When Boy #1 was an infant and toddler and we happened to be at my parent’s house, if it was time him to have a nap or if he was simply fussy, my father loved to snatch him away from me, sit down with him in the rocking-recliner and very quietyly sing Danny Boy to him. It always quickly calmed him and now and then I would catch a tear falling down my fathers face as he watched his first-born grandchild slumber in his arms. They share a bond that at times has infuriated me beyond belief, one that I have tried desperately to comprehend over the last 16 years. Regardless, on this St. Patrick’s Day, my father’s second favorite holiday of the year, and this being the week that Boy #1 starts a new journey into manhood, I’m going to share Danny Boy.

Oh Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountainside.
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling.
‘Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow,
‘Tis I’ll be there in sunshine or in shadow.
Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy, I love you so.

But her soul remains bonded to the land. I’m in a bit of a melancholy mood. I miss home and the Places To Love. If only half of the people in any grocery store at any given time had half a clue. Especially those who have a misinformed perception of what subsidies really are and what the “real” farmers lose in exchange… What everyone has lost. We’re country of idiots. So here’s the song of the day. Blame the PMS.

I have one word for you: Xanax.

My youngest (nearly 9 yrs. old) has early onset schizo-effective disorder. It’s been a bit of a hell lately but is gradually getting better. The result of the stress of that situation sent me into a tail spin of anxiety, which of naturally triggered a bad fibro-flare. Went to see a neuropsychiatric specialist. I figured it was time to ask for help when my natural ability for parallel thought added paranoid connections between random things. Wouldn’t want crazy to get too out of hand, you know? So he started the process of a neurological work up and various other boring and dramatic things and he got me started on Xanax.

Let me tell you something first, my mom… she’s been taking Xanax like a fiend for about 13 years. Just the thought of having to take that stuff gave me yet another stomach cramp of anxiety. But I agreed to give it a try..

Wow!

I haven’t felt this clear headed and peaceful since I was maybe 17? Gosh that was a beautiful night. You would likely rather I skip that part but it was such a beautiful experience and the last time that I felt connected to life in such an peaceful manner. It was a mid-July evening in Iowa. One of those not to humid nights when the breeze is just right. Think of Meryl Streep on that farm house porch and she turns to face the wind and the look of pure contentment that is on her face. Oh, how I have grown to miss Iowa. But that’s getting off track and I’m sure you’re starting to get confused if you’ve managed to read this far.

I love my shrink and I love Xanax. I’ve still got the usual minor fibromyalgia things going on and the neuro quirks, but it’s as if I couldn’t be bothered to worry. And this is coming from me, the chick who just  spent 3 days awake and worrying herself into paranoia. And I’m remembering things today that used to give me joy and I’m excited about getting reacquainted with myself. I didn’t think I’d ever see that side of me again.

Hell. While fixing supper this evening, I felt as chipper as Barbara Streisand did while skipping across that college campus singing to the flowers to make them grow. (Bonus points to whomever can name that movie right off the top of their head. )

Which reminds me. I’ve been having this urge to NetFlix some Cary Grant movies, Giant in particular. And Doris Day movies. OH! And Elvis’ Hawaii movie which of course means I would also need to watch The Fabulous Baker Boys. I adore that movie. I know, it’s not the right time period but just has that nior feel to it and I love the soundtrack.

Sure, I still walk like an crippled old woman and twitch all over now and then and stink of Ben-Gay. But today, I didn’t care.

Sure my baby boy still was spouting prophecies of some other world known only to him and spent a lot of time yelling at me about horrible his day was and followed me around the kitchen telling me how to cook. But today, I smiled and sweetly was able to deal with that without constantly feeling like I was going to vomit.

I sat outside this afternoon, just enjoying the sun for the brief moment it was appearing from the clouds, and remembered being 4 years old on the first very warm day of Spring in a sun-dress and white strapy patten leather sandals with my sister dressed in matching clothes and shoes, playing Ring Around the Rosie with white clover crowns on our heads woven by our mother. Spinning ’round and ’round and smiling with the most perfect, innocent joy and collapsing dizzy and giggling into the grass and watching the clouds pass over. I think I need another moment like that. Do you suppose 34 is told old for Ring Around The Rosie?

So. Yes. Go Xanax!