Scattered Saturday Brain

"Neglected thoughts" by Starlight716n of Deviantart.

Today:  Saturday.  Another sunny day, for this region and this time of year.  Still a bit breezy, but not at all unpleasant.  All of yesterday evening’s turmoil with Nikko has slithered away to its cave.  On the related note: a thank you to a number of chums who’ve offered up {through comments and otherwise} a great collective show of support in response to that entry.

Nikko was astonishingly well behaved for most of today, with the exception of arguing about his breakfast.

“Eggs?”

“Not today.”

“Toast?”

“We don’t have any bread.”

“Can you give me money so I can go to McDonalds?”

“No.”

“But I’m f__kin’ tired of cereal!”

“If you don’t want cereal you can have that orange in the basket.”

“Errrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!”

Ultimately he surprised both my Beloved One and I by not only surrendering to cereal, but willingly preparing the bowlful for himself.

Today did not have a hurried pace, but it was quick to unfurl itself across the clock.  I was happy to stretch a bit this morning, start making peace with the “bow” pose, which I did not think I’d be ready to do, and get a few push ups in.

The three of us went to Laurelhurst park to feed the ducks.  It was an interesting moment to witness the circle of life.  Each time with tossed a piece of bread into the lake, a flock of seagulls would zoom in and snatch it nearly out of the duck’s mouth, a number of times.  A large white goose hooted its squawks on the little island, and we walked around the water in search of a vantage point for the sunshine.

Spaghetti for dinner, which was pleasant.  And now the boy is off to bed.

“Mom?  Mom?  Mom, can I talk to you real quick?”  Said Nikko.

“What do you need” came the question in response from a different room.

“Can I talk to you about my dreams?  I had scary dreams.”

“Tell me. . .”

“I, I, I had a dream I was falling in a parachute, and the parachute didn’t open.”

The age old response:  “It was just a dream, Buddy.” said his Mum.

“Is there such a thing as monsters?”

. . . . .

In the settling evening, when my Beloved One and I begin to feel space return to our brains, I reflect upon a few titles on my reading wish-list:

The Solomon Key — Dan Brown

The Winner Stands Alone —  Paulo Coelho

Autobiography Of A Yogi —  Paramhansa Yogananda

I’ve seen the third title floating around at dozens of bookshops throughout recent years, but have not yet picked it up.  I listened to the first few minutes sampling the audio-book, on Audible.com, and was amused.  The author describes his childhood and family, growing up.  There is a moment where he reflects on witnessing an exchange about money between his parents.  It struck a chord. . .  It is not similar to my own childhood.  Rather, it is ‘familiar’ in that I can see my Beloved One and I.  It leads me to want to pick up the book, and read it—or at least spend a few hours getting to know it at Barnes & Noble one afternoon.  For, in the course of our history together, my Beloved One and I have had similar little spats. . .  And, in my experiences reading, when I can see some small bit of myself in some small bit of a book, it makes it all the more of a unique challenge and journey.

I will quote it here:

. . .Even a gentle rebuke from her husband was grievous to Mother. She ordered a hackney carriage, not hinting to the children at any disagreement.

“Good-bye; I am going away to my mother’s home.” Ancient ultimatum!

We broke into astounded lamentations. Our maternal uncle arrived opportunely; he whispered to Father some sage counsel, garnered no doubt from the ages. After Father had made a few conciliatory remarks, Mother happily dismissed the cab. Thus ended the only trouble I ever noticed between my parents. But I recall a characteristic discussion.

“Please give me ten rupees for a hapless woman who has just arrived at the house.” Mother’s smile had its own persuasion.

{Editorial note:  In our life, the ‘hapless woman’ would be one of our neighbors, who my Beloved One has loaned small bits of money to on more than one occasion.}

“Why ten rupees? One is enough.” Father added a justification: “When my father and grandparents died suddenly, I had my first taste of poverty. My only breakfast, before walking miles to my school, was a small banana. Later, at the university, I was in such need that I applied to a wealthy judge for aid of one rupee per month. He declined, remarking that even a rupee is important.”

“How bitterly you recall the denial of that rupee!” Mother’s heart had an instant logic. “Do you want this woman also to remember painfully your refusal of ten rupees which she needs urgently?”

“You win!” With the immemorial gesture of vanquished husbands, he opened his wallet. “Here is a ten-rupee note. Give it to her with my good will.”. . .

I think it is that last line with which I most deeply identified.  The immemorial gesture of vanquished husbands.

I know that my Beloved One very wisely picks her battles with Nikko.  Sometimes she loses, which I am very sure is an experience that gnaws at her brain like a rabid wolverine.  Sometimes a truce is called.  A number of times, she wins: yet, I’m not certain it ever truly feels like a victory.  So, whenever feasible, I sometimes am happy she wins the little spats about why and how our limited money is spent.  Neither of us are too frivolous.  But it was always her idea to buy Christmas trees, holiday decorations, firecrackers, pumpkins, and all those other things I hadn’t even considered since the days when I was a child. . .  The things which—nonetheless—add a layer of richness and warmth to our family and little house.  So, in retrospect, I am happy to have said “you win”.  We turned out to be buying a layer I enjoy.  I am certain I could do much better at that, but luckily life is a work in progress.

And on. . .

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2010