Notes From A Bear's Journey

The End, The Beginning     For many in the world, today either marks or has already marked, the end of 2015.  Turn on virtually any media source and you will be able to witness everything from well-researched to hastily put-together summaries of what each outlet felt were the highlights of the past year, what had happened, who had passed away, what events had changed the world, who had been forgotten in the sprawl (an excellent excerpt of being forgotten comes from one person's tale of escape as a refugee as told to The New Yorker ).  Here in the U.S., it is also the final day to claim a tax deduction for whatever, a gift to charity, a contribution to your retirement fund, an added gifting of money to someone without penalty...but to me, as noteworthy as many of these stories were (for indeed, each year brings many changes as I can attest in dealing with my aging mother), the end is a beginning, a time to look forward instead of back.     One such story that caught my eye came

The Year Closes     The other night we met with a few friends; the dinner and gaiety being off the charts, the warm tidings and wassailing (by the way, as heard on NPR's show, to "carol" is to sing and to "wassail" is to toast, taken from an old Norse phrase to "be healthy") far greater than usual.  And it made me think of other friends whom we had yet to call or to have dinner with; as it was with us, so it seemed to be with them, our friendship shifted down (if that's a rude but possibly correct term) to a lower level simply out of priorities.  We were all too busy, too filled with other obligations around the holidays and now having to face the dreaded "scheduling" of our days, as if we were now cultural dignitaries with massive amounts of obligations and dinners and parties to attend out of necessity.  Uh, no, or at least not that we know of (an interesting take on this come's from the new book Photograph by former Beatle, Ring

Getting Out     Almost as if I had been ready to move on, this article appeared on today's National Geographic site; it's a place called Sunday Stills and is worth a peek, not only for the thought-provoking articles that appear each week, but for the photographs that accompany them...think of it as a different way to catch up with the week's news.  At any rate, this particular piece dealt with --ready-- stress and your brain (as if you haven't read enough about that during these recent posts).  But in this piece titled This is Your Brain on Nature , cognitive psychologist from the University of Utah, David Strayer, argues:... that being in nature allows the prefrontal cortex, the brain’s command center, to dial down and rest, like an overused muscle. Writer Florence Williams adds: Our brains, he says, aren’t tireless three-pound machines; they’re easily fatigued.  When we slow down, stop the busywork, and take in beautiful natural surroundings, not only do we feel

    One of my friend's said that she had a similar flu bug.  My wife said that I was simply drained and thus due to get sick.  But there was something different at work here.  And to be clear, when I use the term "breaking down," it is used as a far cry from those who suffer from truly traumatic incidents, the over-stressed single parent or caregiver, the returning soldier, the spouse of the at-home dementia victim, etc.  No, those people are to be given full credit for not breaking down, as much as they deserve to.  Somehow, their bodies have endured and continue to endure the onslaught, the daily, almost hourly pressure of the child wailing, the deadlines passing, the stove still being left on.  It doesn't end...or at least, doesn't seem as if it will end.  For some, their venting heads outward, anger or an unnatural emotional reaction to something, often resulting in a surprised partner's reaction at the least, or a violent intervention or worse when thi

Breaking Down     The other day, I was working away on the third segment of this series when this rebutting email arrived from places unknown.  Still, it proved interesting since, well, see what you think: Now wait just a minute, this talk's bringing me down.     'Tis life to be sure but there's smiles around. It's a time to look forward to peace as one knows     Though cold winds may blow, windows cover with snow. Doesn't matter the suit or the man or the child,     Of the high office tower or the girl in the wild. What matters is something a camera can't see,     Nor often one's eyes when blinded by greed Of things and of people and the passage of time,     Until soon reminded that nothing is thine's. For moments pass quickly in seconds and years,     And all that's immortal is memories or fears. Now which would you rather, the good or the bad?     The people all laughing or the people all sad? The gold and the trinkets all buryin

    To those of you just beginning, this will be another post of moaning; okay, that might be a bit harsh but it's an extension of the trials and tribulations of moving a parent into an independent living facility, and likely will sound familiar to some and quite boring to others, as if this is yet another woe-is-me story ready to dot another make-your-life-better magazine.  If that is how you might be  looking at it, and there's absolutely no judgement here for when everything was going well and the years were sailing by without incident, reading another version of such a story was way down on my own radar list, this is your fair warning.  But surprisingly (perhaps coincidentally), I've found many more people coming out of the woodwork like ghosts in a foggy forest, as if spirits of happenings past.  As I relate my frustration at clearing up the insurance angle or the reluctance to move until it is too late, I hear small mumbles in the background, the heads nodding in ag

Back     Admittedly, it's been awhile, and much of this has been my fault due to being gone at my mother's, not only visiting her while she somewhat healed (she fell and suffered a proximal femur fracture or close enough to the hip to be considered a hip fracture), but in clearing her house.  In this case, after seeing her condition and age, a decision was reached by all to have her move closer to me (due to the threat of blood clots post-surgery, she would be forced to choose the closer and unfortunately colder location near me) and also to independent living.  My brother took the first post at her home, clearing the old pans and glasses and towels, and in the process, donating some 40 large trash bags worth of clothing to charity, along with a seemingly equal amount of bags going to the trash.  I felt relieved, for what more could there be?, only to have him snicker and say, just wait until I got there and I would probably wonder what, if anything, was thrown out.  Surely n