Our messy world

Cultivating gratitude during difficult times

The camellias are blooming in my neighbor’s yard. I can see them from my perch in the kitchen nook, reaching above the barbed wire fence separating their house, and mine, from the auto glass dealer on Broadway. The new Roberts Sycamores I planted last year are leafing out in this early spring, tender green curls pushing forth from swollen buds. My California buckeye, known to be an early bloomer, sports tufts of deep green leaves busy with prominent veins. The hollyhock seeds I planted produced a single, huge hollyhock which is already taller than me, and full of buds. It looks like the flowers inside may be yellow. How charming! Like Timothy Chalamet’s wonderful lemon-drop suit.

Last night, I dreamed the Pacific madrone I planted was brutally cut in half. Every gorgeous, red arching limb had been halved by a chainsaw. It was my ex- who’d cut the tree, every part of her, in half. In the dream, I’d just been proposed to by Gene Hackman (go figure). I was in love and elated, but reluctant to tell anyone for fear of breaking the dream. The dream within a dream. My ex-, who’d attacked my tree, was bouncing all around the place.

As he is now.

But, I feel tender toward him today. And I have for the last couple days, ever since our son broke down and cried while trying to tell him why he was so angry.

Yes, we were angry. But, more, we are hurt, and scared.

Bo’s father suffers from bipolar disorder, and maybe lots of other things too. Bipolar doesn’t seem to cover everything we experience with him. He arrived for a visit after more than three years away. We were nervous, but hopeful.

Almost immediately, our alarm bells were ringing. B. got into all kinds of trouble, including getting caught for “fund-raising” for the local senior center and pocketing the money. He did it because we’d frozen his bank card. We did that because he began spending like there was no tomorrow, as he’s done before when in a manic state, buying heaps of non-sensical things—and many of them. Like four headlamps.

For the first few days, he wandered around the house wearing one of his headlamps at all times. For a few days, he had red flashing lights affixed to his shoulders like epaulets. He bought several pairs of scissors for no apparent reason, though I have many sets of scissors in the house, and strung them on a blue cord along with a roll of duct tape, which he wore around his neck while biking through Oakland and Berkeley.

He was lucky he didn’t get arrested, which would have led to a 5150, which would have landed him at John George Psychiatric Hospital again, which would have held him for at least four days. We know the drill.

Something has shifted. My son broke down in tears, and it was the first time I saw him cry since he was six years old, when he came to the dinner table the night his dad left for good and saw his dad’s empty chair. His face crumpled. His pain was so apparent. I will never forget it.

Bo told his dad why we were upset. The lying. Smoking pot, which is so contraindicated for him. He’s so much worse when he’s getting high on top of everything else. Getting involved with unsavory people again. Bringing trash into the house again. And on and on. Mostly, my son said, it was obvious B. didn’t care about us at all.

The next morning, B. was subdued—a remarkable development all by itself. It seemed something had gotten through. Later that day, I peeked in his room. The multi-colored post-its I’d removed had not been replaced. They’d been affixed all over the dresser, table, and wall, proclaiming the names of the planets and various stars. It was a hopeful sign that the furniture remained free of post-its.

He’s been a little better the past few days, as I’ve said. It softens my heart. He’s making an effort. And he’s leaving soon, in less than three weeks, (if he does indeed leave. We’re concerned about that too.)

Mostly, he’s quieted down, which helps so much. We didn’t think he was capable of it. It’s honestly surprising. He’s still loud at times, still emitting the occasional, Tourette’s-like outbursts of enthusiasm, but they are less frequent, and I think a little less loud.

He’s burning enormous amounts of calories daily. He leaves in the morning for the senior center. They didn’t bar him, miraculously. They realized he’s “neurodivergent,” as they say. They gave him a stern talking to, that my son recorded. It’s an incredible thing to listen to. The executive director was just incredulous. But, they were kind. They did not have B. arrested. They did not ban him.

He cycles there daily while we’re working and takes classes, supposedly, although I have trouble believing he’s really in the classes. It’s like the time I bought him a piano and piano lessons, and he’d pretend to go, but didn’t show up for a single lesson. He can’t sit still long enough, can’t focus. He also can’t be honest, so he pretends. He probably shows up for the class and then wanders in and out. They’re kind to allow it.

The other day, I visited him there. He was elated and excited to show me around, and to have me vouch for him merely by my presence. “The mother of my kids!” he kept proclaiming, pointing to me, steering me around. I noticed people giving him a wide berth. I understood, but it pained me.

Because you see we do love this bozo.

He is fundamentally kind and positive. His heart is good, even though his illness can make him vicious. Just now, he tried to interrupt me again. I said, in a bit, in a bit, I can talk with you. He muttered, “Go to hell.” I said, What did you just say? He said, I wasn’t talking to you. It was a thought in my head.

I heave a big sigh. My point is, we’ve softened. It’s hard to say why. He’s making an effort. He’s doing the dishes every day. He sort of tried to sweep the floor once. He’s cooking. One day, he ground up the beans he’d made in the blender with my expensive smoked salmon and a few expensive maraschino cherries, the real ones. Weird is right, but it didn’t taste so bad on rice, honestly. Thinking about it too much turned my stomach though.

There is much suffering about. Our B. who struggles to live in a world that doesn’t suit him. Of course, he is very lucky. Without us, he would definitely be one of the people you step over on the sidewalk. My sister who has Stage 4 cancer and is beginning to talk of death. My several other friends struggling with horrible cancer diagnoses. The political situation. Fear in the air. Money troubles.

And yet, every day there is much to grateful for. The morning sun is illuminating the Bigleaf maple I planted in the corner of the yard last year. There are no leaves on her at all yet. The sun picks out the cadence of branches, reflects her light on them. They radiate light back, like an illuminated skeleton.

I heard from my country manager in Tonga two days ago. We are still on. I and my cohort are still scheduled to leave for Tonga on June 16th, where I will serve with the Peace Corps for 27 months. I had resigned myself to the program being canceled by Trump-Musk, as USAID and the Foreign Service had. But, no. We are safe for now, and it’s only three months away.

That means I need to begin to clear the house of most of the things I’ve accumulated during a lifetime and store the things I feel I must keep. It’s exciting!

And the model is working—the real estate deal my son and I entered together. He’s been so stellar. He bought out the tenants in a way that actually benefited them. They are happier with their new lives.

I was horrified when he began offering them buyout deals. He said, I see it differently, Mom. They’re stuck here. They can’t move because it’s such a good deal. But maybe they want to do something different with their lives. I’m offering them a way to do that.

It turns out he was right. Both of the tenants he paid to leave are happier now. One bought her own condo and can’t believe she didn’t do it sooner. The other moved in with her boyfriend and loves her new community.

The model is starting to work. Now, for the first time, the rents cover the mortgage. We’re not cash-flowing yet, but we hope to be in coming years. And, actually, we will be when I leave with the Peace Corps and we rent the apartment I’m in.

Things are coming together.

We love our crazy B. We especially love that he’s calmed down a bit, and we can actually enjoy him a bit. We hope it holds.

We’re taking him to Stinson Beach for one night to celebrate his 63rd birthday. I can’t afford it, but who cares. I can’t afford not to do it. B.’s son from a former marriage Daniel will come with his fiance J. from Minneapolis. We’re seeing Jesus Christ Superstar, B.’s favorite musical, on the night of his birthday and spending the following night at a motel half a block from the beach.

We are a motley crew. There’s no doubt about it.

But, we love each other. And life continues apace.

The trick is to surf the waves, breathe, make coffee, admire the garden, and, yes—be grateful. There is much to love in this messy world of ours.