Warm, windows open. Inside all day for me, another long day, but it's all income, and I can't complain too much. I was the runner, the opener, the turnoverer, the break giver, the clean upper. Got home by 1830, worn and welcomed.
That is the best part, that D always brings me home. Despite my fiddling with putting away my baggage and taking off shoes, and bitching about my day, he waits until I pause, then eagerly greets me and hugs me. It is a wonderful life, to be always wanted, embraced, welcomed. I am unspeakably grateful, to know where home is, always. I never forget it was not always so for me, that for long years I had no home. Twenty years on, and I still value this proof of being beloved.
I've been thinking about values, about what values matter. Certainly not family or religious values. I remember my mother talking about a new married couple choosing each other first. About how my brother didn't value family over friends. All about a vague kind of precedence. I never quite understood it. Loving one's father because he is one's father. Assuming love (should love ever be assumed?) due to genetic proximity. This very idea offends me. I've never been much motivated by money, only the security that sufficient money brings. I'm not a believer, not a joiner, not a fan of institutions as an ideal.
I value kindness, competence, serious attention to one's work, and great amusement at the vagaries of life. I value expressing love in any form as many ways as possible. I value art and wit and intelligence, as well as critical thought. I value care of the helpless, children, pets, the elderly. I value respect of those who have earned it, and gentleness for those who have not. I value discipline and self control, and those who know they have no control over anyone else. I value thoughtfulness and curiosity.This morning:
Thinking about a discussion on another blog years ago, commenters getting hot under the collar about using a dishpan, the consensus that everyone uses them and they are useless. Their reasoning mostly in the negative - that their mother had one, neighbors, and they could not see why.
I use one, my mother did not. I remember having to plunge my hand into the cooling, greasy water to pull the plug, and retching as I did so. The water in the large sink lost heat very quickly, and I've broken glasses on the porcelain - a treacherous accident. So, when I got on my own, I bought a plastic pan to put in the sink, like my aunts did. Uses less water - that stays hotter longer. I've never broken anything on the softer material, and when I'm done, the dregs get poured down the disposal cleanly.
I remember a story from the infamous Reader's Digest, of a woman who cut the ends off the roast. (Yes, this was a very long time ago.) When asked why, she can only say she thought it has something to do with the flavor, because her mother always did it this way. The mother simply says her
mother always did it. The grandmother is asked, and she replies "Because that was the only way to make it fit the pan I had."
I've never been any good at memorizing, it takes a huge amount of effort and time for me to get a short poem in my head, or a phone number. But if I know why something does what it does, why someone was given that name, why that number, it stays forever, clear and connected. It doesn't even have to be a big important why. Much of what I do at work is protocol, we do it that way because it works well enough, and simplifies complex tasks so as not to confuse others. The tourniquet has two hoses, one blue, one red. In this place, we always use the red one, unless both are needed for a bilateral surgery. Then we use Red Right, Blue Left. It really doesn't matter, as such, but prevents inflating the wrong one on both sided cases, and keeps the one not connected from being accidentally used - to no effect - on the rest.
Why do you do what you do?
Clouds gathering, proof that the mild day will be shoved aside for at least one more snowstorm. At least it doesn't stick around
down here on the valley floor.
Labels: custom, D, love story, surgery, weather, work