Whoa, whoa, whoa

I realized after posting yesterday that I use "busy-ness" as a way to avoid my feelings. And gardening, which once was my refuge for processing emotions, had become just another "to-do" thing on my very long list. But you can't be a "Type A" gardener. Well, you can, but it takes all the fun out of it. So, I wrote for a while and realized I'm feeling profoundly sad. About Granny, about my Dad, about having gotten myself into this Type A predicament in the first place. I feel hurt. And the person who hurt me is...me. My granny died last night at 8:30 or so. She was a wife, mother and granny. A Church Lady of the highest order, who once put a piece of spaghetti in her nose at church camp, mostly to shock an 8 year old boy and make him laugh (she had to do it, she said, because she'd never put spaghetti in her nose before). She was the brightest spot of mischief, creativity and pure fun in my childhood. She made everything into a wonderful bouquet of mirth and nonsense. And her relationship with Grandpa was the only joyful, playful and truly loving marriage I saw as a child. It gave me hope for my own future--that I could be a grownup and not forget how to play. That I could fall in love and stay that way for 60 years, without the bitterness, disdain and even contempt I saw between my parents. That I could have a relationship with God that was real and true and sustaining. And that I could keep right on singing silly songs until I was 84. Granny once got caught saying "Shit!" when a bunch of craft supplies fell out of her craft closet at the church. A little girl was behind her, and Granny hadn't seen that she was there. Granny looked at her and asked "Did you hear Mrs Crissman say that bad word?" The little girl nodded. And Granny said, "Well, that's what happens when you have bad thoughts in your heart. If you don't talk to somebody or pray about it, that stuff just sits in there and it has to come out somehow..." Shit, Granny. You were right. So, in honor of my Granny, here's my favorite one of her songs (To the tune of the ice-cream truck song, AKA "Turkey in the Straw"): "Well, I had a little chicken And he wouldn't lay an egg So I poured hot water up and down his leg Well my little chicken hollered And my little chicken begged My little chicken laid a hard-boiled egg." Indeed. God bless you, sweet Granny. Thank you for bubbling through my life with your love and joy. I love you.