Here I sit with Shadow the cat atbthe Vet's. A plethora of animalia
has wandered in and out as we've waited. The last day before the Vet
takes off till the 2nd. A bulldog with cancer. A cat with worms and
one that "smells". And ours with eye goop. Does the Vet feel the
weight of all this love?
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Ms. Fixit Strikes Again
Yesterday the Starbucks Barista Machine stopped pulling shots. This led to blank, bleary stares of despair and confusion at 7 a.m. My husband and I blinked at each other in silent denial. Then he spoke the fateful words, "what do we do now?" For some reason, this clicked on a light in my brain, "fix it."
When your brain is trained to think in terms of desired outcome, sometimes it functions in a useful manner.
This morning, after the second day of pressed coffee (quite nice, actually) I went online to find solutions. There were even photos on one site, showing in detail how to clean a pump. I was pondering this attempt, when a line of text on another site got me thinking. Some portafilters (the handle-like gizmos that hold the ground coffee through which hot water is poured for a shot) are pressurized. These pressurized filters offset the pump pressure in the machine so that the machine can pull a shot from pre-ground coffee better than it would otherwise. The picture of a pressurized portafilter looked a lot like mine, if not exactly. These portafilters are typically found on basic home machines. That's what the Starbucks Barista is: basic.
The portafilter seemed an obvious problem since the machine seemed to pump fine till the portafilter was attached. In other words, if the portafilter were clogged the pressure of the whole system would be messed up as soon as the portafilter was put into use. So, I decided to unscrew the portafilter and see if it were clogged. If that didn't work, I'd consider attempting to clean the pump.
Here's what's what: You unscrew the 3 screws on the portafilter, placing them in a safe place all together so you don't lose the little sleeves on them. Then, carefully pull apart the portafilter (it kind of falls apart). I did this all over a mixing bowl, which was a good idea, as there are some small parts that can fall off (a couple of springs). If you need, take pictures at each step to make sure you remember how things go together. I found it pretty straight-forward, but everybody sees things differently.
Our portafilter was packed with gunk. It was frightening how disgusting it was. Were we drinking this? Yuk!
I soaked it all, screws, too, in vinegar with a little hot water, then scrubbed with a brush and used a pipe cleaner (aka chenille stem for you Martha Stewarts out there) for the small/tight areas.
When it was clean, I reassembled it and pulled a test shot.
Blessings on the internet and those fixit folks to whom I owe our dryer and barista machine and a great sense of accomplishment.
Have a happy and productive Friday!
When your brain is trained to think in terms of desired outcome, sometimes it functions in a useful manner.
This morning, after the second day of pressed coffee (quite nice, actually) I went online to find solutions. There were even photos on one site, showing in detail how to clean a pump. I was pondering this attempt, when a line of text on another site got me thinking. Some portafilters (the handle-like gizmos that hold the ground coffee through which hot water is poured for a shot) are pressurized. These pressurized filters offset the pump pressure in the machine so that the machine can pull a shot from pre-ground coffee better than it would otherwise. The picture of a pressurized portafilter looked a lot like mine, if not exactly. These portafilters are typically found on basic home machines. That's what the Starbucks Barista is: basic.
The portafilter seemed an obvious problem since the machine seemed to pump fine till the portafilter was attached. In other words, if the portafilter were clogged the pressure of the whole system would be messed up as soon as the portafilter was put into use. So, I decided to unscrew the portafilter and see if it were clogged. If that didn't work, I'd consider attempting to clean the pump.
Here's what's what: You unscrew the 3 screws on the portafilter, placing them in a safe place all together so you don't lose the little sleeves on them. Then, carefully pull apart the portafilter (it kind of falls apart). I did this all over a mixing bowl, which was a good idea, as there are some small parts that can fall off (a couple of springs). If you need, take pictures at each step to make sure you remember how things go together. I found it pretty straight-forward, but everybody sees things differently.
Our portafilter was packed with gunk. It was frightening how disgusting it was. Were we drinking this? Yuk!
I soaked it all, screws, too, in vinegar with a little hot water, then scrubbed with a brush and used a pipe cleaner (aka chenille stem for you Martha Stewarts out there) for the small/tight areas.
When it was clean, I reassembled it and pulled a test shot.
Blessings on the internet and those fixit folks to whom I owe our dryer and barista machine and a great sense of accomplishment.
Have a happy and productive Friday!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Grace, Partnership, and Family
This morning I read the following article by Larry Wilson in Ethics Daily, an online Baptist newsletter: http://www.ethicsdaily.com/article_detail.cfm?AID=9856. It speaks to many things that trouble me.
This line in particular struck me: "It is often taught that the man is the boss instead of a partner in the marriage, and this is said in the name of the Lord, which often makes God look bad. Grace is all that can save a marriage or any other relationship."
When Frank and I married, my father (an ordained minister) officiated (I am Catholic convert of Baptist background, so... a "Batholic"). He read the vows he and my mother spoke when they married in the 1950's. Part of those vows included a reference to God taking a rib from Adam's side, showing woman was to walk beside man, to be his partner. In other words, not his doormat.
Having grown up immersed in Baptist church culture, Southern culture, late 20th century culture, and a whole lot of Bible study, I have heard the verses recently adopted as creed of the Southern Baptist convention (which until the Fundamentalist coup rejected all forms of creed) that say that a wife is to SUBMIT to her husband. I have heard sermons, lectures, Bible Studies, and read books and articles on what this means. I've heard it put that because women are evil by nature, having sprung from Eve, and Adam's misdeeds flowed from Eve's (who was allegedly more susceptible to the serpent) and not of his own accord so men are not as inherently evil or easily duped into evil as women (strange logic indeed considering he is called a dupe of the so-called weak woman), that man must dominate woman or she will lead him, herself, their children, and society into nothing but evil. Perhaps this is the worst example of the interpretations of that scripture that I've heard, but it is amazing how prolific this interpretation is.
What is more amazing is how destructive it is. I tried to figure out what "submit" meant when I got married. Figuring myself a heathen by a lifetime of habit, I thought I'd gird myself in godly clothes and do this marriage right in the eyes of God and others. Understand, I've been a strong woman for most of my life with occasional bouts of weakness. Sometimes I forget who I am. Obviously, marriage was one of those moments.
Marriage turns everything upside down. I knew beforehand that I was walking Through the Looking Glass. I couldn't know until I'd done it what it was like Through the Looking Glass. It was hard. As my husband says, "the hardest thing I've ever done." When we say this (though I don't say it or think it often), usually we aren't saying that the other is the most difficult person in the world to live with. I'll let Frank say what he means by it exactly, if he wants, but when I say it, what I mean is that finding balance in the partnership, knowing how to be together every day, through thick and thin, better or worse, with such ferocious closeness requires breaking all records for diplomacy, patience, generosity, and thoughtfulness. You merge into one while remaining individual. You weigh in a little more on one count than the other on some days, and on shining, glimmering days, you sail through the balance gracefully.
How do you keep a sense of identity in all of this? In trying to understand "submit", in grappling with the intensity of marriage and then home ownership, pregnancy, and motherhood, I lost the firm hold on my identity. When I became a mother, I felt I had been reborn. Motherhood fit like a glove. (The glove loosens over time, but early on it was blissful.) But I still struggled with "wife".
It makes for an unwieldy relationship for one partner to resign herself to doormat, handing over all adult responsibility for decision-making, et al., to her husband. To question herself constantly. To make one person in the partnership the goal of all activity and joy is like trying to ride a teeter-totter by yourself. Or maybe it's like having one person sit on the teeter totter and the other use her/his hands to pump it up and down from the other side. It makes for abuse, but of which partner to the other? Perhaps the abuse is of the relationship and is conducted by both parties. it's just not a genuine way to be with someone. Or so it was for me. Add children into the mix, and they are as affected by the imbalance as everyone else.
I can't say I was a doormat, but something was askew. In all the soul-searching that came of figuring out who I was within our relationship and family, I came to realize that for our relationship, submit meant each standing on his/her own feet -- together. I had to take responsibility for my words and actions, to stand beside and help shoulder the load and acknowledge that I was shouldering the load. Where I wasn't pulling my weight, I had to confess and buck up. And I had to ask for help sometimes. Submit means I take Frank's interest to heart deeply, but without shirking my adulthood and needs. How manipulative is it for a woman or man not to set boundaries and state her/his needs? It is self-defeating and couple defeating.
You could say to submit honestly, you back up a verse and read that as Christians we are to submit to one another.
The Baptist Ethics article said that only Grace can save a marriage. Our first few years prove the truth of that. I'll show a little restraint and leave out the details, but it was Grace, nothing more or less, that made our marriage. Under the waterfall of Grace as it healed and reconstructed, I sat silent, in awe, with a gratitude I hope never to lose or to find swiftly whenever I misplace it.
I love you, Frank.
This line in particular struck me: "It is often taught that the man is the boss instead of a partner in the marriage, and this is said in the name of the Lord, which often makes God look bad. Grace is all that can save a marriage or any other relationship."
When Frank and I married, my father (an ordained minister) officiated (I am Catholic convert of Baptist background, so... a "Batholic"). He read the vows he and my mother spoke when they married in the 1950's. Part of those vows included a reference to God taking a rib from Adam's side, showing woman was to walk beside man, to be his partner. In other words, not his doormat.
Having grown up immersed in Baptist church culture, Southern culture, late 20th century culture, and a whole lot of Bible study, I have heard the verses recently adopted as creed of the Southern Baptist convention (which until the Fundamentalist coup rejected all forms of creed) that say that a wife is to SUBMIT to her husband. I have heard sermons, lectures, Bible Studies, and read books and articles on what this means. I've heard it put that because women are evil by nature, having sprung from Eve, and Adam's misdeeds flowed from Eve's (who was allegedly more susceptible to the serpent) and not of his own accord so men are not as inherently evil or easily duped into evil as women (strange logic indeed considering he is called a dupe of the so-called weak woman), that man must dominate woman or she will lead him, herself, their children, and society into nothing but evil. Perhaps this is the worst example of the interpretations of that scripture that I've heard, but it is amazing how prolific this interpretation is.
What is more amazing is how destructive it is. I tried to figure out what "submit" meant when I got married. Figuring myself a heathen by a lifetime of habit, I thought I'd gird myself in godly clothes and do this marriage right in the eyes of God and others. Understand, I've been a strong woman for most of my life with occasional bouts of weakness. Sometimes I forget who I am. Obviously, marriage was one of those moments.
Marriage turns everything upside down. I knew beforehand that I was walking Through the Looking Glass. I couldn't know until I'd done it what it was like Through the Looking Glass. It was hard. As my husband says, "the hardest thing I've ever done." When we say this (though I don't say it or think it often), usually we aren't saying that the other is the most difficult person in the world to live with. I'll let Frank say what he means by it exactly, if he wants, but when I say it, what I mean is that finding balance in the partnership, knowing how to be together every day, through thick and thin, better or worse, with such ferocious closeness requires breaking all records for diplomacy, patience, generosity, and thoughtfulness. You merge into one while remaining individual. You weigh in a little more on one count than the other on some days, and on shining, glimmering days, you sail through the balance gracefully.
How do you keep a sense of identity in all of this? In trying to understand "submit", in grappling with the intensity of marriage and then home ownership, pregnancy, and motherhood, I lost the firm hold on my identity. When I became a mother, I felt I had been reborn. Motherhood fit like a glove. (The glove loosens over time, but early on it was blissful.) But I still struggled with "wife".
It makes for an unwieldy relationship for one partner to resign herself to doormat, handing over all adult responsibility for decision-making, et al., to her husband. To question herself constantly. To make one person in the partnership the goal of all activity and joy is like trying to ride a teeter-totter by yourself. Or maybe it's like having one person sit on the teeter totter and the other use her/his hands to pump it up and down from the other side. It makes for abuse, but of which partner to the other? Perhaps the abuse is of the relationship and is conducted by both parties. it's just not a genuine way to be with someone. Or so it was for me. Add children into the mix, and they are as affected by the imbalance as everyone else.
I can't say I was a doormat, but something was askew. In all the soul-searching that came of figuring out who I was within our relationship and family, I came to realize that for our relationship, submit meant each standing on his/her own feet -- together. I had to take responsibility for my words and actions, to stand beside and help shoulder the load and acknowledge that I was shouldering the load. Where I wasn't pulling my weight, I had to confess and buck up. And I had to ask for help sometimes. Submit means I take Frank's interest to heart deeply, but without shirking my adulthood and needs. How manipulative is it for a woman or man not to set boundaries and state her/his needs? It is self-defeating and couple defeating.
You could say to submit honestly, you back up a verse and read that as Christians we are to submit to one another.
The Baptist Ethics article said that only Grace can save a marriage. Our first few years prove the truth of that. I'll show a little restraint and leave out the details, but it was Grace, nothing more or less, that made our marriage. Under the waterfall of Grace as it healed and reconstructed, I sat silent, in awe, with a gratitude I hope never to lose or to find swiftly whenever I misplace it.
I love you, Frank.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Test Results
Monday brought mixed news. My MRI showed a normal brain. How do you take that? Normal? it sounds a little insulting. Other than a few "bright spots", all looked well. Bright spots? Hmm.
In the evening, though, a friend gave me the news about mutual friend who was also having strange symptoms and went for an MRI and other tests. Her news was not so good, not so blissfully bland as "normal with a few bright spots". She has lymphoma of the brain.
In the evening, though, a friend gave me the news about mutual friend who was also having strange symptoms and went for an MRI and other tests. Her news was not so good, not so blissfully bland as "normal with a few bright spots". She has lymphoma of the brain.
Christmas wishes
Poor Little Bear invented a new level of vomiting this weekend. Saturday was a late night, all night Physics lesson: everything that went in came out. She mastered the lesson by Monday morning. I mastered laundry, taking temperature, and forcefully encouraging liquid intake. She's been home with me this week, as Frank has a product launch today and has been close to non-stop work for months.
She appeared to have the flu. The nurse on call said it sounded like flu and that Little Bear couldn't go anywhere for 7 days because she would be contagious.
At first, despair draped me like sackcloth and ashes: how would I finish the Christmas shopping when I couldn't leave the house? Frank couldn't do his shopping because of work, so he asked me. Suddenly I couldn't finish mine or his. Aaaa.
Then, I gave in to circumstances. She and I would make gifts, since we couldn't go shopping. When she felt well enough, we'd do craft projects, learn new skills, listen to Christmas music, learn French and do other lessons. So, we've knitted, glued, stamped, drawn, colored, cut, written, spelled, counted, added, subtracted, multiplied, divided, sung, studied weather, built a sandcastle out of pillows, bowls, toys, and blankets, given the cat a very loving medical examination, researched flu and the proper foods and vitamins for flu, napped, learned new French terms, and hung out.
What seemed to be a hinderance to Christmas (how blind could I be) has turned out to be the best Christmas gift. No, not her being sick. I'd give anything for her not to have suffered. But to have her home doing things we've both enjoyed.
Yesterday evening, the doctor told us Little Bear didn't have the flu, a nasty stomach virus indeed, but not "flu".
She's well now. She ought to return to school tomorrow. Ought. What an ugly word.
I want her home. I want to continue our festival of mess-making. But she ought to return to school. She will. She'll enjoy being with friends and sharing the season's spirit with other children. And she'll sing in the Christmas Program Thursday night, and we'll be there to enjoy every moment of it. And on Friday afternoon, early, I'll pick her up, and we'll continue our non-stop mess-making fiesta till the Feast of the Nativity.
She appeared to have the flu. The nurse on call said it sounded like flu and that Little Bear couldn't go anywhere for 7 days because she would be contagious.
At first, despair draped me like sackcloth and ashes: how would I finish the Christmas shopping when I couldn't leave the house? Frank couldn't do his shopping because of work, so he asked me. Suddenly I couldn't finish mine or his. Aaaa.
Then, I gave in to circumstances. She and I would make gifts, since we couldn't go shopping. When she felt well enough, we'd do craft projects, learn new skills, listen to Christmas music, learn French and do other lessons. So, we've knitted, glued, stamped, drawn, colored, cut, written, spelled, counted, added, subtracted, multiplied, divided, sung, studied weather, built a sandcastle out of pillows, bowls, toys, and blankets, given the cat a very loving medical examination, researched flu and the proper foods and vitamins for flu, napped, learned new French terms, and hung out.
What seemed to be a hinderance to Christmas (how blind could I be) has turned out to be the best Christmas gift. No, not her being sick. I'd give anything for her not to have suffered. But to have her home doing things we've both enjoyed.
Yesterday evening, the doctor told us Little Bear didn't have the flu, a nasty stomach virus indeed, but not "flu".
She's well now. She ought to return to school tomorrow. Ought. What an ugly word.
I want her home. I want to continue our festival of mess-making. But she ought to return to school. She will. She'll enjoy being with friends and sharing the season's spirit with other children. And she'll sing in the Christmas Program Thursday night, and we'll be there to enjoy every moment of it. And on Friday afternoon, early, I'll pick her up, and we'll continue our non-stop mess-making fiesta till the Feast of the Nativity.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Sausages and Shipping Tubes
Today I went for an MRI of my head. There is a certain irony to having an MRI in Advent: the intrinsic waiting and stillness demanded. And there are correlations to the pre-Christmas shopping season: lying in a shipping tube with a hockey mask strapped over your head and a hose up your arm like some demented Christmas present on a noisy Postal Service airplane. Will anyone be happy to open this present? Will I ever be able to ship a stuffed animal or a doll in a box again without wondering whether it finds the ordeal a living hell? Now I know what it feels like to be stuffed in a drum in a marching band.
It would have helped if they'd given me any information on how many tests they were going to run or how long I'd be jammed in the shipping tube while the Green Bay Packers ran back and forth over the machine. Do the techs sit around at break-time laughing at how they stuff ear plugs and noise reducing packs around people's heads and then whisper intermittent instructions to them, apparently asking on occasion, "can you hear me"? If a patient answers, "yes", do they whisper softer for a prank?
The visceral reaction of fleeing that overtook me when they plopped the hockey mask down over my face and slid me into the hole took me completely by surprise. Sure, I sometimes freak out in large, boisterous, pushy crowds and react like a snarling lion when loud noises won't stop. But I didn't realize just how bad this experience would be.
They started running the tests, and at first they told me how long a particular test would last. After the first three fairly short ones, however, they started running them all together, one after the other with no notice. I lay there for what seemed like forever with a fan blowing air in my face in a ring of cacophony wondering when it would end, if swallowing caused too much motion and disturbed the images, if I could move my arm because my elbow was falling asleep.
I began by reciting in my head a bedtime story that I read to my daughter about a little bear that won't go to sleep in the cave because he needs a snack, then a drink of water, then the moon, so that he can sleep. This was a mistake. I got horribly claustrophobic thinking about being stuck in a cave in the cold and dark for the rest of winter. I tried the Lord's Prayer. I tried singing in my head every Beatles' song and every Christmas song I could think of. Those things all worked for a time. I tried singing carols backwards. This didn't work at all. I counted to 100 over and over and over. I made up songs to the percussion of the machine and decided that someone should make an MRI soundtrack, adding in a few string instruments and woodwinds. Each test had a different tone and rhythm. On some there was an intriguing echo. This entertained me for some time. But not enough.
Perhaps you will understand the extent of the problem when I add that I had a horrible cough last night that lingered till today. One of the techs gave me a lozenge that got me most of the way through the tests. But on the last test, one that lasts 4 1/2 minutes, a tickle rose in my throat. I tried swallowing, repeatedly. I tried shallow breathing so as not to aggravate it with air. I tried thinking of something else. I tried willing it to stop. I tried just holding on, wondering how much longer, could I make it if I just held still? NO! A cough erupted, wracking my body. Fluid and goo cascaded down my throat. Water leaked from my eyes. I asked the techs to pull me out of the machine because I was choking.
Silence.
The test kept going. I screamed to let me out because I was gagging.
From a muffled microphone in another room someone said calmly, "Are you okay?"
"No! Get me out of here! I'm choking."
Nothing.
In desperation I began to kick my legs hard, screaming at the top of my lungs for them to get me out of the machine. Finally, FINALLY, they came and slid me out of the machine... but left the mask on. I told them to take it off. I needed to sit up. There was a pause. Then, they complied.
One of the two I shall refer to as The Miss Know-it-all Tech. She wasn't much of a listener. She knew everything about everything and everyone. Taking the mask off didn't seem to sit well with her. I realize it slowed things down and took a little extra care on their part, but I was choking and freaking out. She seemed to want me to be having an allergic reaction to the contrast. There may have been a gleam in her eye. She seemed quite focused on the contrast. Amazingly, if she'd paid attention to anything from the beginning, she'd have known I had a cold with a cough.
I asked the other tech, the one who seemed to understand the concept of conversation, listening, responding, to please get me some water. She did. The Know-it-all made me take the lozenge out, saying that was the problem. I said, "no, I have a cough. That's the problem." I asked if I had to do it again. At this point the tickle was pretty constant. They told me I had to take the test again, that it was a very important test. I got myself calmed down, the throat under as much control as possible, and went back in. I asked them to tell me how much longer the test would take every now and then so that I would be encouraged to hold on to it if the tickle started back in earnest. They told me nothing, or maybe they whispered it. There was some serious sound proofing on my ears. This time I made it through the test till 3 seconds to the end. If only they'd told me how much longer when I wiggled my foot at them as a sign of distress. They rolled me out for the coughing fit, left me caged in the mask, and gave me water through a straw. Then, they slid me back in to retake the last 16 seconds of the test, and said they got a full image putting the first and second runs of the test together, so we wouldn't have to go through it again.
Miss Know-it-all said to get dressed and go. I went back to the dressing room, dazed, and discovered they'd left the catheter in my arm. Miss Know-it-All assured me it was my fault for having such a distracting coughing fit.
I pray, sincerely and with intensity, that I never have to go through that again.
Next week I hope to get the results. We'll see.
It would have helped if they'd given me any information on how many tests they were going to run or how long I'd be jammed in the shipping tube while the Green Bay Packers ran back and forth over the machine. Do the techs sit around at break-time laughing at how they stuff ear plugs and noise reducing packs around people's heads and then whisper intermittent instructions to them, apparently asking on occasion, "can you hear me"? If a patient answers, "yes", do they whisper softer for a prank?
The visceral reaction of fleeing that overtook me when they plopped the hockey mask down over my face and slid me into the hole took me completely by surprise. Sure, I sometimes freak out in large, boisterous, pushy crowds and react like a snarling lion when loud noises won't stop. But I didn't realize just how bad this experience would be.
They started running the tests, and at first they told me how long a particular test would last. After the first three fairly short ones, however, they started running them all together, one after the other with no notice. I lay there for what seemed like forever with a fan blowing air in my face in a ring of cacophony wondering when it would end, if swallowing caused too much motion and disturbed the images, if I could move my arm because my elbow was falling asleep.
I began by reciting in my head a bedtime story that I read to my daughter about a little bear that won't go to sleep in the cave because he needs a snack, then a drink of water, then the moon, so that he can sleep. This was a mistake. I got horribly claustrophobic thinking about being stuck in a cave in the cold and dark for the rest of winter. I tried the Lord's Prayer. I tried singing in my head every Beatles' song and every Christmas song I could think of. Those things all worked for a time. I tried singing carols backwards. This didn't work at all. I counted to 100 over and over and over. I made up songs to the percussion of the machine and decided that someone should make an MRI soundtrack, adding in a few string instruments and woodwinds. Each test had a different tone and rhythm. On some there was an intriguing echo. This entertained me for some time. But not enough.
Perhaps you will understand the extent of the problem when I add that I had a horrible cough last night that lingered till today. One of the techs gave me a lozenge that got me most of the way through the tests. But on the last test, one that lasts 4 1/2 minutes, a tickle rose in my throat. I tried swallowing, repeatedly. I tried shallow breathing so as not to aggravate it with air. I tried thinking of something else. I tried willing it to stop. I tried just holding on, wondering how much longer, could I make it if I just held still? NO! A cough erupted, wracking my body. Fluid and goo cascaded down my throat. Water leaked from my eyes. I asked the techs to pull me out of the machine because I was choking.
Silence.
The test kept going. I screamed to let me out because I was gagging.
From a muffled microphone in another room someone said calmly, "Are you okay?"
"No! Get me out of here! I'm choking."
Nothing.
In desperation I began to kick my legs hard, screaming at the top of my lungs for them to get me out of the machine. Finally, FINALLY, they came and slid me out of the machine... but left the mask on. I told them to take it off. I needed to sit up. There was a pause. Then, they complied.
One of the two I shall refer to as The Miss Know-it-all Tech. She wasn't much of a listener. She knew everything about everything and everyone. Taking the mask off didn't seem to sit well with her. I realize it slowed things down and took a little extra care on their part, but I was choking and freaking out. She seemed to want me to be having an allergic reaction to the contrast. There may have been a gleam in her eye. She seemed quite focused on the contrast. Amazingly, if she'd paid attention to anything from the beginning, she'd have known I had a cold with a cough.
I asked the other tech, the one who seemed to understand the concept of conversation, listening, responding, to please get me some water. She did. The Know-it-all made me take the lozenge out, saying that was the problem. I said, "no, I have a cough. That's the problem." I asked if I had to do it again. At this point the tickle was pretty constant. They told me I had to take the test again, that it was a very important test. I got myself calmed down, the throat under as much control as possible, and went back in. I asked them to tell me how much longer the test would take every now and then so that I would be encouraged to hold on to it if the tickle started back in earnest. They told me nothing, or maybe they whispered it. There was some serious sound proofing on my ears. This time I made it through the test till 3 seconds to the end. If only they'd told me how much longer when I wiggled my foot at them as a sign of distress. They rolled me out for the coughing fit, left me caged in the mask, and gave me water through a straw. Then, they slid me back in to retake the last 16 seconds of the test, and said they got a full image putting the first and second runs of the test together, so we wouldn't have to go through it again.
Miss Know-it-all said to get dressed and go. I went back to the dressing room, dazed, and discovered they'd left the catheter in my arm. Miss Know-it-All assured me it was my fault for having such a distracting coughing fit.
I pray, sincerely and with intensity, that I never have to go through that again.
Next week I hope to get the results. We'll see.
Waiting
In Advent we wait. We wait for the Feast of Christmas, a 3-4 Sunday festival known reminiscently, musically as "The Twelve Days of Christmas. The feast ends on Epiphany or in some customs Three Kings Day.
We Americans are used to waiting. Not liking it, but doing it with varying degrees of grace. We wait in traffic, in checkout lines, for appointments, for test results, for email replies, for letters of acceptance or employment, for gifts to arrive, for babies to arrive, for cookies to come out of the oven. Some who want to wait with us in all those lines for all those things wait now in immigration detention centers.
I think I'll reflect on waiting today. More later.
We Americans are used to waiting. Not liking it, but doing it with varying degrees of grace. We wait in traffic, in checkout lines, for appointments, for test results, for email replies, for letters of acceptance or employment, for gifts to arrive, for babies to arrive, for cookies to come out of the oven. Some who want to wait with us in all those lines for all those things wait now in immigration detention centers.
I think I'll reflect on waiting today. More later.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Mexico
Every year for 4 years, we have gone to Mexico for Christmas. But this year we stay home.
Frank's grandmother turns 100. Presumably Mexico will be there in the months ahead, but the 100th birthday comes once for a person, and not for many of us. This opportunity won't be available other than the day it happens.
We attended the Guadalupe mass in Spanish on Sunday and discovered a vibrant Latino community we did not know before. We will return to St. Mary's for their posada and Christmas Eve mass to share in a tradition that has become our own. After all we go to Mexico at this time to immerse ourselves in Christmas connected to church and home, to God. To escape the Santa Shopping craziness.
I hadn't realized how much we'd separated from the consumer side till last week when I realized I didn't know what to do to prepare for an at home Christmas. It has required us to look at everything with deliberation. Who would have thought?
Frank's grandmother turns 100. Presumably Mexico will be there in the months ahead, but the 100th birthday comes once for a person, and not for many of us. This opportunity won't be available other than the day it happens.
We attended the Guadalupe mass in Spanish on Sunday and discovered a vibrant Latino community we did not know before. We will return to St. Mary's for their posada and Christmas Eve mass to share in a tradition that has become our own. After all we go to Mexico at this time to immerse ourselves in Christmas connected to church and home, to God. To escape the Santa Shopping craziness.
I hadn't realized how much we'd separated from the consumer side till last week when I realized I didn't know what to do to prepare for an at home Christmas. It has required us to look at everything with deliberation. Who would have thought?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Holiday Hunger
Food and holidays go hand-in-hand in my memory. Either Daddy was sending me to the kitchen to help Mama, or Mama was sending me back to the Living Room (or more likely "Outside") to get out from under her feet. The kitchen became a sacred hub of activity. Unfortunately in my family, this was Women's sacred space. Men's sacred space seemed to be parked in the living room in front of the t.v. or working somewhere other than the kitchen. This caused problems for me. It rankled.
Unless the food preparation had icing to squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces or colored sugar sprinkles or edible BB's, I wasn't interested. I would rather rake leaves, weave bird's nests from fallen pine needles, climb trees, draw, write, read, play hide and seek and freeze tag, explore the woods, glue paper together, rummage through the trash can for objects to meld into some semblance of something approaching art, play football, or deconstruct my room.
The problem was compounded by my innate sense of right and wrong, of inequality and justice. I was usually sent to the kitchen with a tone that spoke as loudly as the words. The statement or implication was that because I had a uterus, I existed to feed those with penises. Being sent to the kitchen because I was a girl, and possibly because I was a child annoying a parent who wanted me out of the room, did not sit well, because it did not make sense. Not that I've always been sensible. But making sense to me, even in an nonsensical way, seems paramount, at least at times when I want it to.
But this is all a huge detour along the path of my thoughts and one to which I hope to return.
This week I learned from the Family Services Coordinator at my daughter's school that she was getting lots of requests for food for the holidays, more than last year, and more from two-parent-working families than in her memory. These families depend upon the free breakfast and lunch our school provides to feed their children and make ends meet each week. When the children are home all week, the families have to provide these meals. Many are finding they do not have the means to do so.
My daughter's holiday will probably look a lot like mine growing up, only all of us will cook, decorate, make craft projects, work in the yard, and ride the carousel. We try hard to look at everything as a matter of curiosity, a task to be figured out and mastered and not divvied up by anatomy.
I'm looking forward to my daughter being home with me for two weeks, to baking Christmas cookies with icing you squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces, to hot cider and popcorn to eat and to string for decoration, to taking her outside to fill the bird feeder so that even the birds of the air have food when they come to our yard.
And some mother at my daughter's school is looking to her daughter's/son's holiday homecoming with bittersweet thoughts.
Sure, we can and do provide assistance to these families in many ways. But where's the root of this blackberry bush, this scotch broom, this running bamboo? How do we make the world more just, so that every parent can mark the days off the calendar with expectant joy of a child being home for a little while?
The Gospel resounds in my ears this Advent: In as much as you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me... Let's feed each other and let's change the world so that all have enough without having to beg, but even if -- when -- the world becomes completely equitable, let's still feed each other.
Unless the food preparation had icing to squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces or colored sugar sprinkles or edible BB's, I wasn't interested. I would rather rake leaves, weave bird's nests from fallen pine needles, climb trees, draw, write, read, play hide and seek and freeze tag, explore the woods, glue paper together, rummage through the trash can for objects to meld into some semblance of something approaching art, play football, or deconstruct my room.
The problem was compounded by my innate sense of right and wrong, of inequality and justice. I was usually sent to the kitchen with a tone that spoke as loudly as the words. The statement or implication was that because I had a uterus, I existed to feed those with penises. Being sent to the kitchen because I was a girl, and possibly because I was a child annoying a parent who wanted me out of the room, did not sit well, because it did not make sense. Not that I've always been sensible. But making sense to me, even in an nonsensical way, seems paramount, at least at times when I want it to.
But this is all a huge detour along the path of my thoughts and one to which I hope to return.
This week I learned from the Family Services Coordinator at my daughter's school that she was getting lots of requests for food for the holidays, more than last year, and more from two-parent-working families than in her memory. These families depend upon the free breakfast and lunch our school provides to feed their children and make ends meet each week. When the children are home all week, the families have to provide these meals. Many are finding they do not have the means to do so.
My daughter's holiday will probably look a lot like mine growing up, only all of us will cook, decorate, make craft projects, work in the yard, and ride the carousel. We try hard to look at everything as a matter of curiosity, a task to be figured out and mastered and not divvied up by anatomy.
I'm looking forward to my daughter being home with me for two weeks, to baking Christmas cookies with icing you squeeze through tubes into edible masterpieces, to hot cider and popcorn to eat and to string for decoration, to taking her outside to fill the bird feeder so that even the birds of the air have food when they come to our yard.
And some mother at my daughter's school is looking to her daughter's/son's holiday homecoming with bittersweet thoughts.
Sure, we can and do provide assistance to these families in many ways. But where's the root of this blackberry bush, this scotch broom, this running bamboo? How do we make the world more just, so that every parent can mark the days off the calendar with expectant joy of a child being home for a little while?
The Gospel resounds in my ears this Advent: In as much as you have done it to one of the least of these, you have done it to me... Let's feed each other and let's change the world so that all have enough without having to beg, but even if -- when -- the world becomes completely equitable, let's still feed each other.
Seeds
Anger self-sows freely. It falls between cracks, on sand or loam, in cold or warmth, and grows.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Snow vs. Rain
It's Seattle. The Rain won.
Yes, we woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow, enough to make everything around us white. Since I am the Saturday morning Catechist at our church, I put on hiking boots and ventured onto the street to see how difficult the commute would be. The street was fine. However, we bundled up for the trek in case the snow started up again. (Last winter we got caught in our car in the sudden, quick and thick snow fall. It took us 5 1/2 hours to make a 25 minute drive.) We decided this year to be prepared.
A mile from the house, the snow disappeared. Our neighborhood always seems to get hit with the snow more than others.
The morning's Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium sessions went well, both Level 1 and Level 2. The children were thoughtful, reflective, and engaged. And even though I had to go from the L1 and L2 rooms to do presentations and see how things were going, I had several moments of quiet reflection and observation, too.
Afterward, the snow started in earnest. Big, fat flakes. A woman got out of her car in front of us at a stoplight and danced as the snow fell around her. Then, she got in and rode away. Her glee permeating the cold. An older father with two small children on a bicycle crossed our path on their way to Volunteer Park. A woman in a long, plaid, wool coat walked her dog. A timeless snowglobe of images.
We attempted to attend a craft fair on the way home, but it hadn't really opened yet. Watching (briefly) the excited energy as they set up was as much holiday cheer as we needed, though. We continued our journey to home, warmth, food, and a snow ball fight. We probably got 2 inches accumulation. A couple of neighbor boys came over to play in our yard. They play too roughly for me, so I baked, made hot beverages for them, and prepared supper.
The snow stopped and started again as night fell. I was looking forward to going out again after the children were in for the night to enjoy the quiet, but it began raining. It rained hard all night and washed the snow away.
The snow, not to be outdone, started up again at daylight, working hard for its winter wonderland life. It began to accumulate. The water iced over on the streets. And then the rains came again, washing away the snow's headway, clearing streets for cars and trucks, returning kids to their video games and couches.
It's nice, the quiet of carless roads.
The sounds of my family chasing each other around with handfulls of snow, squealing, taunting, laughing is enough music to let me know I'm not alone.
Lying in bed and hearing the rain fall, knowing I would not get the opportunity to put snow down Frank's shirt or pop a snowball on Pooh's backside this morning, I wished I'd risked the painful, thoughtless hardballs of the neighbor boys last night, just to get a full winter's romp out of my system. My feet itch for the soft, schmoosh of fresh snow. Making rain angels just doesn't have the same effect.
Yes, we woke yesterday morning to a dusting of snow, enough to make everything around us white. Since I am the Saturday morning Catechist at our church, I put on hiking boots and ventured onto the street to see how difficult the commute would be. The street was fine. However, we bundled up for the trek in case the snow started up again. (Last winter we got caught in our car in the sudden, quick and thick snow fall. It took us 5 1/2 hours to make a 25 minute drive.) We decided this year to be prepared.
A mile from the house, the snow disappeared. Our neighborhood always seems to get hit with the snow more than others.
The morning's Catechesis of the Good Shepherd atrium sessions went well, both Level 1 and Level 2. The children were thoughtful, reflective, and engaged. And even though I had to go from the L1 and L2 rooms to do presentations and see how things were going, I had several moments of quiet reflection and observation, too.
Afterward, the snow started in earnest. Big, fat flakes. A woman got out of her car in front of us at a stoplight and danced as the snow fell around her. Then, she got in and rode away. Her glee permeating the cold. An older father with two small children on a bicycle crossed our path on their way to Volunteer Park. A woman in a long, plaid, wool coat walked her dog. A timeless snowglobe of images.
We attempted to attend a craft fair on the way home, but it hadn't really opened yet. Watching (briefly) the excited energy as they set up was as much holiday cheer as we needed, though. We continued our journey to home, warmth, food, and a snow ball fight. We probably got 2 inches accumulation. A couple of neighbor boys came over to play in our yard. They play too roughly for me, so I baked, made hot beverages for them, and prepared supper.
The snow stopped and started again as night fell. I was looking forward to going out again after the children were in for the night to enjoy the quiet, but it began raining. It rained hard all night and washed the snow away.
The snow, not to be outdone, started up again at daylight, working hard for its winter wonderland life. It began to accumulate. The water iced over on the streets. And then the rains came again, washing away the snow's headway, clearing streets for cars and trucks, returning kids to their video games and couches.
It's nice, the quiet of carless roads.
The sounds of my family chasing each other around with handfulls of snow, squealing, taunting, laughing is enough music to let me know I'm not alone.
Lying in bed and hearing the rain fall, knowing I would not get the opportunity to put snow down Frank's shirt or pop a snowball on Pooh's backside this morning, I wished I'd risked the painful, thoughtless hardballs of the neighbor boys last night, just to get a full winter's romp out of my system. My feet itch for the soft, schmoosh of fresh snow. Making rain angels just doesn't have the same effect.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Listening
Do we know when our children are listening to us?
Sometimes I wish I had different words for my daughter to hear and other times I wish she'd listen to the ones I've spoken. But only the one with the ears in question knows what she's heard unless she gives an outward sign of hearing.
Last Sunday our little church ordained (or celebrated the ordination of) its first deacon in, maybe, forever. I don't know him personally. But he shared a nice homily. Being "Christ the King" Sunday, the gospel reading retold the story of Christ addressing the 2 criminals on the crosses beside his. My daughter drew pictures on a piece of paper during most of the homily, other than the moment when she pulled all the coats on top of her, or asked me what a word was on the envelope. She was interested momentarily in who the new guy was and in why the priest wasn't wearing green during Ordinary Time. (I'd say she's a precocious 5 year old, but our Catechesis of the Good Shepherd program teaches the children so much.) I assumed, as others probably did of their children, that she had not heard a word of the homily ("sermon" for my more Protestant family members). Then, at the end of mass, she showed me the picture she'd been working on so diligently and explained it to me. It showed a cross with one man standing on either side and a smiling spirit-man leaving the cross and going up into the sky. She told me it was Jesus rising from the dead and the men beside the cross were the ones he'd been speaking to.
They do listen.
Sometimes I wish I had different words for my daughter to hear and other times I wish she'd listen to the ones I've spoken. But only the one with the ears in question knows what she's heard unless she gives an outward sign of hearing.
Last Sunday our little church ordained (or celebrated the ordination of) its first deacon in, maybe, forever. I don't know him personally. But he shared a nice homily. Being "Christ the King" Sunday, the gospel reading retold the story of Christ addressing the 2 criminals on the crosses beside his. My daughter drew pictures on a piece of paper during most of the homily, other than the moment when she pulled all the coats on top of her, or asked me what a word was on the envelope. She was interested momentarily in who the new guy was and in why the priest wasn't wearing green during Ordinary Time. (I'd say she's a precocious 5 year old, but our Catechesis of the Good Shepherd program teaches the children so much.) I assumed, as others probably did of their children, that she had not heard a word of the homily ("sermon" for my more Protestant family members). Then, at the end of mass, she showed me the picture she'd been working on so diligently and explained it to me. It showed a cross with one man standing on either side and a smiling spirit-man leaving the cross and going up into the sky. She told me it was Jesus rising from the dead and the men beside the cross were the ones he'd been speaking to.
They do listen.
When Words Fail
Sometimes silence is best. I tried to blog yesterday, but it felt forced, so I chose to be silent.
There are times my daughter asks me questions and instead of keeping it simple and then being quiet, I expound as if afraid someone else will fill the void if I stop. Sometimes she picks at me to get a response, and instead of ignoring the jibes and showing her how to be present to someone in quiet, I bite and the decibels climb.
Sometimes when it is too quiet, I become aware of the size of space. In this place sometimes I feel fear. Sometimes curiously observant. And sometimes I try to fill the space, even if only with a gasp.
There are times my daughter asks me questions and instead of keeping it simple and then being quiet, I expound as if afraid someone else will fill the void if I stop. Sometimes she picks at me to get a response, and instead of ignoring the jibes and showing her how to be present to someone in quiet, I bite and the decibels climb.
Sometimes when it is too quiet, I become aware of the size of space. In this place sometimes I feel fear. Sometimes curiously observant. And sometimes I try to fill the space, even if only with a gasp.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Handy Woman
Well, I fixed the dryer last night. Talk about satisfying. I've never done it before; never even seen the inside of one before. There's not much in a dryer. It's interesting to see what makes them tick. Kind of like pulling the curtain open on the Wizard of Oz. "Well, isn't that interesting. It's got a heater, a barrel, a motor, pulleys, and a belt." Kind of like the cartoons with squirrels on treadmills making cars run.
If I hadn't heard others say that dryers were fairly simple machines and if I hadn't been offended by the Sears service department's policy of charging $55 to show up and tell me what was wrong (when I already knew what was wrong) on top of charging for labor expended for actually doing something to fix it plus cost of parts, I wouldn't have tried to figure out whether I could do it myself. So I guess I owe them gratitude for the impetus.
The repair cost about $32 in parts, a bit of time to research the issue on the internet, drive to the store, and do the work. Not much time actually. Perhaps, if I figured my hourly rate the deal wouldn't be so great. However, I enjoyed the process and the success. And I would have had to sit home between the hours of 8 and 12 to wait on the repair person otherwise. Replacing irritation with enjoyment pays for itself.
If you've got a squeaky dryer or one in which the tub doesn't roll, check the idler pulley assembly and the belt. (Squeak = idler pulley and assembly on mine; belt = no tub rolling on mine.) Here are some links:
http://www.applianceaid.com/whirlpool-dryers.html#belt
http://www.applianceaid.com/images/inglisbeltchangehelp.JPG
http://www.applianceblog.com/mainforums/showthread.php?t=5604
The only problem I had was drying a load of towels after fixing the dryer. I kept going down to the basement to see if it were running. It was QUIET, and I'd grown used to the squeak.
If I hadn't heard others say that dryers were fairly simple machines and if I hadn't been offended by the Sears service department's policy of charging $55 to show up and tell me what was wrong (when I already knew what was wrong) on top of charging for labor expended for actually doing something to fix it plus cost of parts, I wouldn't have tried to figure out whether I could do it myself. So I guess I owe them gratitude for the impetus.
The repair cost about $32 in parts, a bit of time to research the issue on the internet, drive to the store, and do the work. Not much time actually. Perhaps, if I figured my hourly rate the deal wouldn't be so great. However, I enjoyed the process and the success. And I would have had to sit home between the hours of 8 and 12 to wait on the repair person otherwise. Replacing irritation with enjoyment pays for itself.
If you've got a squeaky dryer or one in which the tub doesn't roll, check the idler pulley assembly and the belt. (Squeak = idler pulley and assembly on mine; belt = no tub rolling on mine.) Here are some links:
http://www.applianceaid.com/whirlpool-dryers.html#belt
http://www.applianceaid.com/images/inglisbeltchangehelp.JPG
http://www.applianceblog.com/mainforums/showthread.php?t=5604
The only problem I had was drying a load of towels after fixing the dryer. I kept going down to the basement to see if it were running. It was QUIET, and I'd grown used to the squeak.
Monday, November 26, 2007
What I Did for Thanksgiving
We went to my parents' house in North Georgia for Thanksgiving. We left on Saturday the 17th and returned on Friday the 23rd. The Day After Thanksgiving turned out to be a good day to fly. Even though we flew in and out of Atlanta, the curb check in was a breeze, as was security. Mind you, they seemed to be checking everything. There just didn't seem to be many folks flying. The airplane was MAYBE half full -- for a direct flight to Seattle!
What's with the dearth of food on Delta nowadays? A 5 hour flight served up a 2 packs of (2) cookies, 2 packs of crackers with cheese spread, a mini box of raisins, and 2 drinks. "Snack" used to mean a sandwich, chips, and cookies. We learned on the way out (nearly starving, except for the last minute banana bread I threw into the backpack.) So we took sandwiches for the return flight and ate a big breakfast.
There was a surreal moment on the outbound flight when they were playing "Mr. Bean's Holiday" on the movie screen: the segment I watched was in French (not counting the incoherent mumbling of Mr. Bean) and subtitled in Spanish. It was absolutely brilliant. Not the movie. I mean, realizing the movie was in French and subtitled in Spanish for a primarily English speaking flight. The movie itself didn't interest me enough to crane my neck over the seat in front to watch, so I returned to my book, "The Golden Compass".
There are anecdotes from the trip. More later. Today's subject, for the moment, is the fun of helping our daughter put together a book and photos to present to her class of her week-long vacation to Georgia. Frank though it up this morning and got her started. Then I took over supervision, helping her spell the captions for each of the pictures she drew of whatever stood out in her mind from the trip. We folded printer paper down the middle booklet style with two pictures per spread. We took a long thin rubber band and looped it round the middle of the stack as a binding. The photo album we were going to use for the photographs we printed (she chose the ones to print) had too-small photo sleeves, so we labeled the photos on the backs and put them in a plastic bag to keep them together. She was so excited. It took a while to assemble it, but it was so much fun. I hope the class presentation went well. I'm sure I'll soon know. Time to get an idler assembly for the dryer and pick her up. She can tell me how it went while I fix the dryer.
What's with the dearth of food on Delta nowadays? A 5 hour flight served up a 2 packs of (2) cookies, 2 packs of crackers with cheese spread, a mini box of raisins, and 2 drinks. "Snack" used to mean a sandwich, chips, and cookies. We learned on the way out (nearly starving, except for the last minute banana bread I threw into the backpack.) So we took sandwiches for the return flight and ate a big breakfast.
There was a surreal moment on the outbound flight when they were playing "Mr. Bean's Holiday" on the movie screen: the segment I watched was in French (not counting the incoherent mumbling of Mr. Bean) and subtitled in Spanish. It was absolutely brilliant. Not the movie. I mean, realizing the movie was in French and subtitled in Spanish for a primarily English speaking flight. The movie itself didn't interest me enough to crane my neck over the seat in front to watch, so I returned to my book, "The Golden Compass".
There are anecdotes from the trip. More later. Today's subject, for the moment, is the fun of helping our daughter put together a book and photos to present to her class of her week-long vacation to Georgia. Frank though it up this morning and got her started. Then I took over supervision, helping her spell the captions for each of the pictures she drew of whatever stood out in her mind from the trip. We folded printer paper down the middle booklet style with two pictures per spread. We took a long thin rubber band and looped it round the middle of the stack as a binding. The photo album we were going to use for the photographs we printed (she chose the ones to print) had too-small photo sleeves, so we labeled the photos on the backs and put them in a plastic bag to keep them together. She was so excited. It took a while to assemble it, but it was so much fun. I hope the class presentation went well. I'm sure I'll soon know. Time to get an idler assembly for the dryer and pick her up. She can tell me how it went while I fix the dryer.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Dilated and Delusional
Today's visit to the eye doctor at Costco ended with dilating pupils. There is NOTHING like wandering Costco while your pupils slowly expand to saucers. Who wants to see MORE of the Costco SUPERSIZED product packages? It's terrifying.
To pass the time waiting for my eyes to bloom so that they could be examined with piercing bright lights at their most vulnerable, I went searching for a new uniform sweater for my daughter. As I fingered through piles of navy blue chenille sweaters trying to read sizes with glasses on, then off with the item held up to my nose, then on with the item held at arms length, I decided the experience was like being cast in a real life version of a 1970's tv movie in which the heroine has been unknowingly drugged and staggers through downtown ________-ville trying to find an antidote.
The new contacts have 100% UV protection, though, so after the doctor blasted her floodlight into my wide-open-pupils, I was able to put the lenses in and gain a little relief. The world's still a little disoriented, but last time I checked, it was disoriented for reasons other than dilated pupils. Maybe now I see straight.
To pass the time waiting for my eyes to bloom so that they could be examined with piercing bright lights at their most vulnerable, I went searching for a new uniform sweater for my daughter. As I fingered through piles of navy blue chenille sweaters trying to read sizes with glasses on, then off with the item held up to my nose, then on with the item held at arms length, I decided the experience was like being cast in a real life version of a 1970's tv movie in which the heroine has been unknowingly drugged and staggers through downtown ________-ville trying to find an antidote.
The new contacts have 100% UV protection, though, so after the doctor blasted her floodlight into my wide-open-pupils, I was able to put the lenses in and gain a little relief. The world's still a little disoriented, but last time I checked, it was disoriented for reasons other than dilated pupils. Maybe now I see straight.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Bullies
Do we live in a Bully Culture? What does that mean? Is it desirable?
In the government and political arena, we witness elected officials creating and enforcing policies, laws, systems of getting what we want, when we want, the way we want. The "we" being vaguely defined, if at all, sometimes. And even though sometimes we, as indidividuals, are sometimes hailed as the beneficiaries of these actions, we can as quickly and easily be condemened as the brunt of them. There are systems in place to deal with when you are on which side...
At school the school board makes rules which it passes down to families via administrators and teachers. It sends notes home that say, "if you/your child does/doesn't do X, your child will be..." trounced, essentially. There's this looming threat spelled out: expelled, suspended, written up in the "permanent record" which will be used against (they never how it is used "for", interestingly) your child. The idea is to instill fear to get order, which means minding all the rules exactly, without question, all of the time.
At home parents sometimes spank, ground, punish, discipline, redirect, scold, scream at, abuse, neglect, avoid, threaten, cajole, hover over their children. Sometimes to help the child avoid injury or danger. Sometimes to help the child learn manners. Sometimes to keep the child from hurting someone else. Sometimes because the parent is tired, angry with someone or something other than the child, drunk or drugged, being abused by the other adult in the house, at the end of her or his rope about who knows what. Sometimes because that's what their parents did and they don't know another way, are fearful someone will think they're a bad parent and may take their children away.
There is a top-down, the biggest wins, playground bully aspect to all of this. It keeps coming to mind day to day. I keep finding things I do or others do to be less pure than they seem on the surface (if they seem so at all).
I'll muse on this more later. It's not whole and present yet. But the thoughts are forming.
In the government and political arena, we witness elected officials creating and enforcing policies, laws, systems of getting what we want, when we want, the way we want. The "we" being vaguely defined, if at all, sometimes. And even though sometimes we, as indidividuals, are sometimes hailed as the beneficiaries of these actions, we can as quickly and easily be condemened as the brunt of them. There are systems in place to deal with when you are on which side...
At school the school board makes rules which it passes down to families via administrators and teachers. It sends notes home that say, "if you/your child does/doesn't do X, your child will be..." trounced, essentially. There's this looming threat spelled out: expelled, suspended, written up in the "permanent record" which will be used against (they never how it is used "for", interestingly) your child. The idea is to instill fear to get order, which means minding all the rules exactly, without question, all of the time.
At home parents sometimes spank, ground, punish, discipline, redirect, scold, scream at, abuse, neglect, avoid, threaten, cajole, hover over their children. Sometimes to help the child avoid injury or danger. Sometimes to help the child learn manners. Sometimes to keep the child from hurting someone else. Sometimes because the parent is tired, angry with someone or something other than the child, drunk or drugged, being abused by the other adult in the house, at the end of her or his rope about who knows what. Sometimes because that's what their parents did and they don't know another way, are fearful someone will think they're a bad parent and may take their children away.
There is a top-down, the biggest wins, playground bully aspect to all of this. It keeps coming to mind day to day. I keep finding things I do or others do to be less pure than they seem on the surface (if they seem so at all).
I'll muse on this more later. It's not whole and present yet. But the thoughts are forming.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Halloween
Oh, what an event! Our first BIG Halloween party. It took place on October 27, 2007, a Saturday night. The Theme was Hogwarts Halloween (Harry Potter). Adults and children. Families and individuals. Co-workers, friends, schoolmates, fellow church members, family. It was gloriously fun, way over the top, and worth every moment of preparation and hosting and cleanup.
Sure, we raised about $50 and got around 22 books for Page Ahead (a local literacy charity), but that was icing on the cake.
No scary costumes were allowed. People were welcome to come in all sorts of other costumes, and they did. Our little girl dressed as a Peacock. It was a creative challenge to make. She wore a peacock blue dance leotard, and at her waist, a sequined belt with peacock colored silk "streamers/feathers" and real peacock feathers attached to the back. Upon her head, a headband with peacock feathers and a bit of sparkling fabric at the back. Around her wrists and ankles, feathery bands of peacock blue trim. She was enchanting.
One little girl came as Hedwig the owl (precious -- I found yet another white feather from her costume yesterday), several as witches or princesses, one as a flamingo. A little boy came as a dragon or dinosaur (depending on your point of view). Adults came as: an explorer, an enchantress, Hagrid, a very silly ballerina with WWII flying goggles, wizards, an alchemist, and assorted "muggles".
We set the dining room table with a festival of homemade treats and candies (chocolate frogs, peppermint toads, licorice wands, pumpkin pasties, sugar quills, a cauldron of polyjuice potion...), the kitchen table with more savory and healthy fare, and the buffet with mixings for drinks. The living room was converted into the Great Hall of Hogwarts, complete with a night sky sparkling with stars, lit pumpkins floating just below. Several "classrooms" were set up: Transfiguration, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts...
As the children arrived, they were sorted into houses with the Sorting Hat. I played Professor McGonnagal and hosted the children for many activities: indoor quidditch, owl spotting, treasure hunt, dragon egg identification, witch bingo... Frank dressed as "The Alchemist" and led Potions class (a chemistry lesson). They craved more, especially the potions, and I had it ready, but there comes a time when it's time to stop and sleep.
The surprise to us all was how a simple paper mache egg lying in a nest of shrub vines could capture the chidlren's imaginations so thoroughly. I thought it would serve as a fun decoration on the way to the fire pit, but the children wanted to see it, touch it, ask questions about it, believe that a dragon had flown into our neighborhood and laid an egg in the backyard. They convinced themselves that it was going to hatch, and nothing I said would disuade them. They dragged the egg indoors, took it back outdoors, made several pilgrimages to study it. We took out the book "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" and read the description of each type of dragon's egg; then determined what kind of dragon must have laid the egg. Who says children don't love science? They RELISH it.
So many lessons. We could have done with much less. But I will say that everyone seemed to enjoy the over-the-topness of it all. Many of the decorations served to entertain the adults more than the children. For instance, for those few who really investigated the "books" set out in the various classrooms discovered that many were private jokes: e.g., potions books were cookbooks, one transfiguration book was a New Testament (is there any other transfiguration? Not to me. But I still enjoy the fantasy of fiction), the spell books were law texts, the History of Magic book was a History of Mexico book...
Why a big party? Why so much? Because the world has gone crazy with blood and antipathy. The children are showing signs of stress because their parents are feeling the stress of tighter budgets and the worldwide stench of fear and distrust, of "otherness" and alienation. I figured we all needed the release of pure fantasy, of a night of ridiculous frolicking, of community, of loving those we love in a big way, of reminding ourselves of fun and the light within our hearts. I wanted to hold close and love all these people. I wanted to entertain the children, to give them a great childhood memory because they only get to be children once.
At one point during the preparations, I thought to cut back and tone down, and then we got the news that our daughter might have some frightening illness involving her abdominal lymph nodes (further tests showed she is fine). We didn't know if this would be her last Halloween, her last one for a while, or one of decades upon decades of Halloweens. Suspended in that limbo, I knew I'd go over the top no matter what, because life is precious, and our time together sacred.
Sure, we raised about $50 and got around 22 books for Page Ahead (a local literacy charity), but that was icing on the cake.
No scary costumes were allowed. People were welcome to come in all sorts of other costumes, and they did. Our little girl dressed as a Peacock. It was a creative challenge to make. She wore a peacock blue dance leotard, and at her waist, a sequined belt with peacock colored silk "streamers/feathers" and real peacock feathers attached to the back. Upon her head, a headband with peacock feathers and a bit of sparkling fabric at the back. Around her wrists and ankles, feathery bands of peacock blue trim. She was enchanting.
One little girl came as Hedwig the owl (precious -- I found yet another white feather from her costume yesterday), several as witches or princesses, one as a flamingo. A little boy came as a dragon or dinosaur (depending on your point of view). Adults came as: an explorer, an enchantress, Hagrid, a very silly ballerina with WWII flying goggles, wizards, an alchemist, and assorted "muggles".
We set the dining room table with a festival of homemade treats and candies (chocolate frogs, peppermint toads, licorice wands, pumpkin pasties, sugar quills, a cauldron of polyjuice potion...), the kitchen table with more savory and healthy fare, and the buffet with mixings for drinks. The living room was converted into the Great Hall of Hogwarts, complete with a night sky sparkling with stars, lit pumpkins floating just below. Several "classrooms" were set up: Transfiguration, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts...
As the children arrived, they were sorted into houses with the Sorting Hat. I played Professor McGonnagal and hosted the children for many activities: indoor quidditch, owl spotting, treasure hunt, dragon egg identification, witch bingo... Frank dressed as "The Alchemist" and led Potions class (a chemistry lesson). They craved more, especially the potions, and I had it ready, but there comes a time when it's time to stop and sleep.
The surprise to us all was how a simple paper mache egg lying in a nest of shrub vines could capture the chidlren's imaginations so thoroughly. I thought it would serve as a fun decoration on the way to the fire pit, but the children wanted to see it, touch it, ask questions about it, believe that a dragon had flown into our neighborhood and laid an egg in the backyard. They convinced themselves that it was going to hatch, and nothing I said would disuade them. They dragged the egg indoors, took it back outdoors, made several pilgrimages to study it. We took out the book "Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them" and read the description of each type of dragon's egg; then determined what kind of dragon must have laid the egg. Who says children don't love science? They RELISH it.
So many lessons. We could have done with much less. But I will say that everyone seemed to enjoy the over-the-topness of it all. Many of the decorations served to entertain the adults more than the children. For instance, for those few who really investigated the "books" set out in the various classrooms discovered that many were private jokes: e.g., potions books were cookbooks, one transfiguration book was a New Testament (is there any other transfiguration? Not to me. But I still enjoy the fantasy of fiction), the spell books were law texts, the History of Magic book was a History of Mexico book...
Why a big party? Why so much? Because the world has gone crazy with blood and antipathy. The children are showing signs of stress because their parents are feeling the stress of tighter budgets and the worldwide stench of fear and distrust, of "otherness" and alienation. I figured we all needed the release of pure fantasy, of a night of ridiculous frolicking, of community, of loving those we love in a big way, of reminding ourselves of fun and the light within our hearts. I wanted to hold close and love all these people. I wanted to entertain the children, to give them a great childhood memory because they only get to be children once.
At one point during the preparations, I thought to cut back and tone down, and then we got the news that our daughter might have some frightening illness involving her abdominal lymph nodes (further tests showed she is fine). We didn't know if this would be her last Halloween, her last one for a while, or one of decades upon decades of Halloweens. Suspended in that limbo, I knew I'd go over the top no matter what, because life is precious, and our time together sacred.
Oh, so much
It has been too long since I've written here. The thoughts and ideas have come, but the will to set aside the time to write in lieu of other activities has not till now. Some days life seems like constant triage. A triage of constant emergencies, simple moments, or of inconsequential events; sometimes we can tell the difference. Other days seem pre-written, and we walk through them with stage directions, our places marked, well-trained actors, if not brilliant. Still others flow through us, and we through them, and at the end, we reflect that for one day we lived outside of time.
Days track with a calendar and a clock by which we've chosen to measure what we call Time. But I've walked through part of my life outside of the agreed upon precepts. Some days have more or less hours than others. Some weeks have more or fewer days. I remember a roadtrip taken with a friend to Maryland. She kept thinking we needed to get somewhere to meet someone, only to look at her watch (I did not own one) and find that very little time had lapsed despite how much we had done. She stayed bewildered by the suspension of time on that trip, until at last, she stopped looking at her watch.
Days track with a calendar and a clock by which we've chosen to measure what we call Time. But I've walked through part of my life outside of the agreed upon precepts. Some days have more or less hours than others. Some weeks have more or fewer days. I remember a roadtrip taken with a friend to Maryland. She kept thinking we needed to get somewhere to meet someone, only to look at her watch (I did not own one) and find that very little time had lapsed despite how much we had done. She stayed bewildered by the suspension of time on that trip, until at last, she stopped looking at her watch.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Wind
Days of eiderdown clouds packed into the hollow of the lake, soaking up fish and hydrofoil to shower down upon us. Is this a fish Ferris Wheel: up, down, up, down? Do they swim in line to ride?
"'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good." The wind blows here at gusts up to 50 mph. It was to end at 5:30 a.m., but the wind didn't get word. Last year we lost power for up to a week because of winds nearly twice as strong. This wind seems so kind in comparison. It spurred me to chop and haul wood and check the flashlight and lantern batteries, to think about what we need to prepare for the winter winds. This wind jostles hills of leaves to the ground and little boys to kick through them. Forces of nature. Forces of jubilation. Guess this wind isn't ill.
"'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody any good." The wind blows here at gusts up to 50 mph. It was to end at 5:30 a.m., but the wind didn't get word. Last year we lost power for up to a week because of winds nearly twice as strong. This wind seems so kind in comparison. It spurred me to chop and haul wood and check the flashlight and lantern batteries, to think about what we need to prepare for the winter winds. This wind jostles hills of leaves to the ground and little boys to kick through them. Forces of nature. Forces of jubilation. Guess this wind isn't ill.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Party plans
We've decided to throw a big Halloween party, sans the super-scary and brutal. The theme is Hogwarts. With that in mind I began a while back collecting ideas on the internet for Harry Potter Parties, as well as coming up with some of my own. So far, most of the online orders for party goods or tools have come in. (There's been a mixup with my costume hat. We'll see what the Warner Brothers Shop does to remedy the situation.)
Meanwhile, the living room ceiling has been covered with strings of white lights and landscape fabric and tiny pumpkins dangling from fishing line. The pumpkins will hold electric tea lights on party night. The idea is to recreate the image of floating pumpkins and the night sky on the ceiling of the Great Hall at Halloween. The Mirror of Erised has been recreated using foam board and gold foil (the kind used to line cake boards). All that's left there is to put the words along the top and mount this frame to our hall mirror.
There's much to do... including the last coat of stain and protective coat on the bathroom door (a leftover construction project) but the process has been creative and challenging, with many lessons learned. Hopefully, I won't forget the lessons before the next time they are needed.
Meanwhile, the living room ceiling has been covered with strings of white lights and landscape fabric and tiny pumpkins dangling from fishing line. The pumpkins will hold electric tea lights on party night. The idea is to recreate the image of floating pumpkins and the night sky on the ceiling of the Great Hall at Halloween. The Mirror of Erised has been recreated using foam board and gold foil (the kind used to line cake boards). All that's left there is to put the words along the top and mount this frame to our hall mirror.
There's much to do... including the last coat of stain and protective coat on the bathroom door (a leftover construction project) but the process has been creative and challenging, with many lessons learned. Hopefully, I won't forget the lessons before the next time they are needed.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Bat for Lashes Plays Seattle
Sunday night, our five year old daughter had her first spend the night at a friend's house. She's had them at her aunt's before, but this was different. And it was a school night. Frank picked her up yesterday morning and took her to school. The night was a success and a BIG adventure with many tales.
The reason for this experiment was simple: parents needed a date and Bat for Lashes, the British band, was playing the Crocodile Cafe downtown. Need date + Good Music + Limited chance to see particular band + Childcare = A Done Deal. We were ready at any moment to cancel the whole thing if the spend the night didn't work out for any reason, but apparently the girls played voraciously, went to bed at bedtime without any fuss, and zonked out completely. The only possible hinderance to the evening: parents falling asleep before the late night show or on the midnight drive home. The first disappointing. The second obviously more so. We held up quite nicely for older parents. The pole we found to lean on for the performance helped tremendously, as did the performance art style of the band.
It was an all-ages show. We held up the upper end of the spectrum along with a few others who appeared a bit farther along the Bell Curve. Management divided the room in half with orange, plastic netting: alcohol/no alcohol. Or as Miss Kahn of Bat for Lashes said, the "youngies" on one side. Well, we found ourselves on the youngies' side, kind of by accident, probably by tired brains. It was less crowded, and the kids (all of whom I am old enough to have birthed at a statistically normal birthing age) were incredibly well-behaved. I felt like poking one or two to see if they were stand-ins or real young people. Where were the bad manners I remember kids my age - at that age - having? Okay, I'll be thankful for it. There was a moment when a young woman stepped on my toes because she couldn't see in the dark, and she apologized. A far cry from a Dallas New Year's Party long ago when a young woman speared my foot with a 4 inch stilleto and proceeded to laugh drunkenly in my face wondering why I'd caught her heel with my foot.
But back to the present, curiously better mannered day...
Almost as much fun as watching the band, was watching the two young men in front of me and to either side (they had such good manners, they made all conscious efforts not to block my view.) One shouted out at a lull, "Thank you for making such beautiful music," and at another time, "We love you!" Each time he was overcome with embarassment at his outburst and pulled his hat down over his eyes, only to shove it back up so it would not obscure his view of the goddess before him. The other, non-verbal young man, craned this way and that to get as close as he could to Miss Kahn without looking as if he were and came close to being the one Miss Kahn handed her tamborine to during one song. I can't help but wonder how long the glory of that moment would have lingered with him: a lifetime? 24-hours? The young woman who ended up with the tamborine-holding duties did a fine job, possibly because she wasn't fantasizing about the artist.
Fantasies are lovely, no?
Bat for Lashes band members each play several traditional and non-traditional instruments: violin, keyboard, autoharp, guitar, tamborine, maraca, flute, temple bells, walking stick, electric xylophone, squeeze box, drums, and other things. They use hand claps and foot stomps in the music. On a video of them I saw one member play the saw and another a cello. So these are well-versed and creative musicians. The feminine power of the room Sunday night echoed off the walls. Seeing, hearing, and feeling vibrant, talented women play music and perform with such raw power and passion bursts the dams in your heart and downs the fences of your daring. My hands itched for my own violin and keyboard, my own guitar... Songs ranged through my head all day following the performance. I saw my daughter on that stage. I saw that drive and creative force that I see in her. I felt it.
It liberates and empowers to see women excell at their craft. How liberating to be old enough not to be jealous, but grateful and happy for and encouraged. Reinvigorated.
Time to sand and stain a door. Then finish hanging the night sky on the living room ceiling. Creativity takes many forms. Some quite practical. Others not a bit. Thank heaven for that.
The reason for this experiment was simple: parents needed a date and Bat for Lashes, the British band, was playing the Crocodile Cafe downtown. Need date + Good Music + Limited chance to see particular band + Childcare = A Done Deal. We were ready at any moment to cancel the whole thing if the spend the night didn't work out for any reason, but apparently the girls played voraciously, went to bed at bedtime without any fuss, and zonked out completely. The only possible hinderance to the evening: parents falling asleep before the late night show or on the midnight drive home. The first disappointing. The second obviously more so. We held up quite nicely for older parents. The pole we found to lean on for the performance helped tremendously, as did the performance art style of the band.
It was an all-ages show. We held up the upper end of the spectrum along with a few others who appeared a bit farther along the Bell Curve. Management divided the room in half with orange, plastic netting: alcohol/no alcohol. Or as Miss Kahn of Bat for Lashes said, the "youngies" on one side. Well, we found ourselves on the youngies' side, kind of by accident, probably by tired brains. It was less crowded, and the kids (all of whom I am old enough to have birthed at a statistically normal birthing age) were incredibly well-behaved. I felt like poking one or two to see if they were stand-ins or real young people. Where were the bad manners I remember kids my age - at that age - having? Okay, I'll be thankful for it. There was a moment when a young woman stepped on my toes because she couldn't see in the dark, and she apologized. A far cry from a Dallas New Year's Party long ago when a young woman speared my foot with a 4 inch stilleto and proceeded to laugh drunkenly in my face wondering why I'd caught her heel with my foot.
But back to the present, curiously better mannered day...
Almost as much fun as watching the band, was watching the two young men in front of me and to either side (they had such good manners, they made all conscious efforts not to block my view.) One shouted out at a lull, "Thank you for making such beautiful music," and at another time, "We love you!" Each time he was overcome with embarassment at his outburst and pulled his hat down over his eyes, only to shove it back up so it would not obscure his view of the goddess before him. The other, non-verbal young man, craned this way and that to get as close as he could to Miss Kahn without looking as if he were and came close to being the one Miss Kahn handed her tamborine to during one song. I can't help but wonder how long the glory of that moment would have lingered with him: a lifetime? 24-hours? The young woman who ended up with the tamborine-holding duties did a fine job, possibly because she wasn't fantasizing about the artist.
Fantasies are lovely, no?
Bat for Lashes band members each play several traditional and non-traditional instruments: violin, keyboard, autoharp, guitar, tamborine, maraca, flute, temple bells, walking stick, electric xylophone, squeeze box, drums, and other things. They use hand claps and foot stomps in the music. On a video of them I saw one member play the saw and another a cello. So these are well-versed and creative musicians. The feminine power of the room Sunday night echoed off the walls. Seeing, hearing, and feeling vibrant, talented women play music and perform with such raw power and passion bursts the dams in your heart and downs the fences of your daring. My hands itched for my own violin and keyboard, my own guitar... Songs ranged through my head all day following the performance. I saw my daughter on that stage. I saw that drive and creative force that I see in her. I felt it.
It liberates and empowers to see women excell at their craft. How liberating to be old enough not to be jealous, but grateful and happy for and encouraged. Reinvigorated.
Time to sand and stain a door. Then finish hanging the night sky on the living room ceiling. Creativity takes many forms. Some quite practical. Others not a bit. Thank heaven for that.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Life As We Know It
On Thursday, our 5 year old daughter discovered she had the courage to undergo a CT Scan without anaesthesia.
We woke early that morning so she could eat breakfast before the "no food" cut-off time. Later we headed to Childrens Hospital. After a strange little Abbott and Costello routine of winding the corridors with the nurse/tech trying to find Frank (my husband) who was trying to find us, we settled into a room -- all of us. We answered questions. We answered more questions. We asked questions. And our daughter drank the contrast liquid. The head nurse came in and questioned us again. They felt Little Bear could handle the Scan without sedation. We agreed, but our daughter had the final say. She decided to try it, and we were sent off to play in their play area.
If you have to be a sick child, and hopefully you do not, Childrens is a pretty cool place. They have an outdoor play area, including a lowered basketball hoop, walking trails, and many imagination play structures (for lack of a better word). I lost "HORSE" again, but only by one letter. This may be more to Frank's nerves than my improvement. And in any case is painfully pitiful on both our parts considering the height of the goal. Childrens also has an indoor play area, including a library of books, art tables, an air hockey game, and so on. Both areas were filled with enticing activities. We even ran into an older girl from our daughter's school. Considering the size of Seattle, this seemed more than a coincidence. That girl was at Childrens for her little brother. The two girls played air hockey together and bonded in school spirit.
When it came time for the test, Frank read us a children's book while the nurse put the IV straw into our little girl's hand. I held her, careful not to squeeze her back into my womb. She jumped at the initial Pffflllt and painful pop of the injector, but allowed the nurse to insert the rest of the mechanism without any struggle. She stared at the hand as if it had suddenly and spontaneously emerged from the end of her arm. It now sported a tube with a dangle on the end like a built-in cat toy.
There's an experience of maternal care that feels primal and predatory. You hear your own wolf's howl inside your head and feel the need to pace in front of the den to fend off whatever lurks in the darkness. The howl woke me that morning. It rose again in my throat when they inserted the IV line into my child. I bit it back with 2 inch fangs and pressed my lips together. I did not bite the technician.
We walked to "The Doughnut" as a family, as a pack. The tech showed us what the machine did: up - down - in - out. We told our daughter it goes up and down like the dentist's chair (which she enjoys) or Miss Kay's chair (our hairdresser - whom she adores). She didn't seem as fearful but still balked at getting on the table. She didn't want to disappoint, but she was scared, and said so. So Frank hopped up on it, and the tech put him in the machine and told us what the machine would do. She popped him back out and asked our girl what kind of filling she liked in her doughnuts. She couldn't think of one, so I suggested Lemon, and asked her if she wanted to be the lemon filling in the doughnut. She lit up. She hopped up on the table and said she was going to be the lemon filling in the doughnut.
She had the tell-tale tautness of worry in her face and the accusing look of faith in her eyes as she looked to us for reassurance. She had accepted her fate and called up the reserve of invincibility that dwells in the young.
Another experience of maternal care: breathlessness. When your child displays raw courage, faith, grace, humor in the face of fear... your heartbeat thrums in the silence of your lungs' collapse.
They sent me into the hall to watch from a window (to protect my body from radiation in case I were pregnant.) Frank donned the lead jacket and stayed by her side. Radiation. They were going to irradiate my child. We were all protected from it, and she was going to take it into her body. She and she alone. She had to do this herself. Tie my hands, lash on a boulder, and toss me into the river. She had done it all herself. We were there, but the strength to complete this task had to come from her.
Paul McCartney's song "My Brave Face" rang in my head. She was the brave face. I stood apart, watching, not hearing, my waning eyesight eagle sharp, my cross pendant in my fingers, prayers and songs on my lips.
Recently, I read a study about how the old teaching technique of memorization added nothing to the brain's functioning. Maybe so. But it adds immensely to your whole functioning. Having been immersed in scripture like Holy Water as a child, verses always come back to me in times of need, great or small. They wash me in comfort. Psalm 23. Psalm 56:3. John 10. Matthew 6:25-34. Pslam 139.
The tech injected the medicine that would make our daughter hot ("like the sun," she said). The tech pushed the button that sent her in and out of the machine, her hands over her head, her breath held, her body still. And then it was over. We went to lunch. We ate like ravenous wolves.
That night we slept.
Friday morning, I called our doctor for the results. The person who answered said she hadn't seen anything come in on the fax, but that they'd call when the results came in. It was 10 a.m. I asked her to please call Childrens and get the results, as we had waited and worried for two weeks and needed to know. "Oh," she said. "Okay." There are times when you have to advocate clearly because sometimes folks don't understand what you need. "We'll call when it comes in" isn't sufficient when you've hung in limbo with your child's life a question.
An hour later, the doctor called with the news: our daughter's belly was normal. The test showed no pathology.
I wanted the doctor to repeat the words over and over, as if that would engrave the message in stone or write it in permanent marker.
Writing this now my breath still catches. Do I continue to hold it? How long will I?
We drove to Frank's work and took him to lunch. We had hamburgers, possibly the modern day equivalent of animal sacrifice, the fatted calf. Our little girl was alive and well. Gratitude isn't enough.
We prayed for those families who would not receive the happy news we did, for the children we saw strapped to IV poles at the hospital, for the families parking in the Whale parking lot and following the inset fish along the floor to Check-In and then to the Glass Octopus of Radiology Reception and beyond. All the paint, glass, bright colors, toys, fish tanks, and tile in the world can't make that trek any shorter, and they surely can't make the return trek any easier when the news is not as joyous as ours. But I am grateful for the staff of Childrens, for a facility made with the sole care of children's needs in mind, for the kindness, gentleness, thoughtfulness, and sweetness we encountered along the way. There can be no way to make the serious sickness of a child easier for a parent, but they do their best to build a soft cocoon in which to take the blows. Thank you, Childrens. And thank you, dear God, for holding us every moment, for never letting us go.
We woke early that morning so she could eat breakfast before the "no food" cut-off time. Later we headed to Childrens Hospital. After a strange little Abbott and Costello routine of winding the corridors with the nurse/tech trying to find Frank (my husband) who was trying to find us, we settled into a room -- all of us. We answered questions. We answered more questions. We asked questions. And our daughter drank the contrast liquid. The head nurse came in and questioned us again. They felt Little Bear could handle the Scan without sedation. We agreed, but our daughter had the final say. She decided to try it, and we were sent off to play in their play area.
If you have to be a sick child, and hopefully you do not, Childrens is a pretty cool place. They have an outdoor play area, including a lowered basketball hoop, walking trails, and many imagination play structures (for lack of a better word). I lost "HORSE" again, but only by one letter. This may be more to Frank's nerves than my improvement. And in any case is painfully pitiful on both our parts considering the height of the goal. Childrens also has an indoor play area, including a library of books, art tables, an air hockey game, and so on. Both areas were filled with enticing activities. We even ran into an older girl from our daughter's school. Considering the size of Seattle, this seemed more than a coincidence. That girl was at Childrens for her little brother. The two girls played air hockey together and bonded in school spirit.
When it came time for the test, Frank read us a children's book while the nurse put the IV straw into our little girl's hand. I held her, careful not to squeeze her back into my womb. She jumped at the initial Pffflllt and painful pop of the injector, but allowed the nurse to insert the rest of the mechanism without any struggle. She stared at the hand as if it had suddenly and spontaneously emerged from the end of her arm. It now sported a tube with a dangle on the end like a built-in cat toy.
There's an experience of maternal care that feels primal and predatory. You hear your own wolf's howl inside your head and feel the need to pace in front of the den to fend off whatever lurks in the darkness. The howl woke me that morning. It rose again in my throat when they inserted the IV line into my child. I bit it back with 2 inch fangs and pressed my lips together. I did not bite the technician.
We walked to "The Doughnut" as a family, as a pack. The tech showed us what the machine did: up - down - in - out. We told our daughter it goes up and down like the dentist's chair (which she enjoys) or Miss Kay's chair (our hairdresser - whom she adores). She didn't seem as fearful but still balked at getting on the table. She didn't want to disappoint, but she was scared, and said so. So Frank hopped up on it, and the tech put him in the machine and told us what the machine would do. She popped him back out and asked our girl what kind of filling she liked in her doughnuts. She couldn't think of one, so I suggested Lemon, and asked her if she wanted to be the lemon filling in the doughnut. She lit up. She hopped up on the table and said she was going to be the lemon filling in the doughnut.
She had the tell-tale tautness of worry in her face and the accusing look of faith in her eyes as she looked to us for reassurance. She had accepted her fate and called up the reserve of invincibility that dwells in the young.
Another experience of maternal care: breathlessness. When your child displays raw courage, faith, grace, humor in the face of fear... your heartbeat thrums in the silence of your lungs' collapse.
They sent me into the hall to watch from a window (to protect my body from radiation in case I were pregnant.) Frank donned the lead jacket and stayed by her side. Radiation. They were going to irradiate my child. We were all protected from it, and she was going to take it into her body. She and she alone. She had to do this herself. Tie my hands, lash on a boulder, and toss me into the river. She had done it all herself. We were there, but the strength to complete this task had to come from her.
Paul McCartney's song "My Brave Face" rang in my head. She was the brave face. I stood apart, watching, not hearing, my waning eyesight eagle sharp, my cross pendant in my fingers, prayers and songs on my lips.
Recently, I read a study about how the old teaching technique of memorization added nothing to the brain's functioning. Maybe so. But it adds immensely to your whole functioning. Having been immersed in scripture like Holy Water as a child, verses always come back to me in times of need, great or small. They wash me in comfort. Psalm 23. Psalm 56:3. John 10. Matthew 6:25-34. Pslam 139.
The tech injected the medicine that would make our daughter hot ("like the sun," she said). The tech pushed the button that sent her in and out of the machine, her hands over her head, her breath held, her body still. And then it was over. We went to lunch. We ate like ravenous wolves.
That night we slept.
Friday morning, I called our doctor for the results. The person who answered said she hadn't seen anything come in on the fax, but that they'd call when the results came in. It was 10 a.m. I asked her to please call Childrens and get the results, as we had waited and worried for two weeks and needed to know. "Oh," she said. "Okay." There are times when you have to advocate clearly because sometimes folks don't understand what you need. "We'll call when it comes in" isn't sufficient when you've hung in limbo with your child's life a question.
An hour later, the doctor called with the news: our daughter's belly was normal. The test showed no pathology.
I wanted the doctor to repeat the words over and over, as if that would engrave the message in stone or write it in permanent marker.
Writing this now my breath still catches. Do I continue to hold it? How long will I?
We drove to Frank's work and took him to lunch. We had hamburgers, possibly the modern day equivalent of animal sacrifice, the fatted calf. Our little girl was alive and well. Gratitude isn't enough.
We prayed for those families who would not receive the happy news we did, for the children we saw strapped to IV poles at the hospital, for the families parking in the Whale parking lot and following the inset fish along the floor to Check-In and then to the Glass Octopus of Radiology Reception and beyond. All the paint, glass, bright colors, toys, fish tanks, and tile in the world can't make that trek any shorter, and they surely can't make the return trek any easier when the news is not as joyous as ours. But I am grateful for the staff of Childrens, for a facility made with the sole care of children's needs in mind, for the kindness, gentleness, thoughtfulness, and sweetness we encountered along the way. There can be no way to make the serious sickness of a child easier for a parent, but they do their best to build a soft cocoon in which to take the blows. Thank you, Childrens. And thank you, dear God, for holding us every moment, for never letting us go.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Weights and Measures
Lord have mercy, did a cold ever descend like a glacial waterfall over my body yesterday!
Have you ever lived where the weather occassionally whips up a Blue Northern? A blue-black wall of sky moves across the horizon plunging temperatures by decades instead of degrees. You can stand in one spot and feel it hit with its incongruously inevitable suddenness. When I was a younger woman, I thought my father (a Native Texan) had made up Blue Northerns. He is a teller of tall tales after all. Why should I believe his stories of how sudden and how cold? Then one day during my freshman year of college (in Texas), I walked to class wearing shorts and saw that blue-black sky. An hour later, I emerged from class and sprinted to the dorm for warm pants and a sweater.
This is how the cold hit yesterday. Like a mixed metaphor? Probably. Waterfall, Blue Northern. Pick one. It hit. It descended. It moved swiftly, inevitably, and with purpose. In the morning, I felt fine. I went places and saw people. Somewhere during the 20 minute journey home, I felt a tickling in the throat. I drank hot tea and figured to knock it out before it took hold. Within a few hours, I was laid out in bed feeling as if someone had moved the house on top of me with a vague wish that someone had. I emerged a while later and slid a foreign language film into the DVD player of my laptop. Who needs English with a head full of wool? It turned out to be a perversely satisfying experience (the film + brain malfunctioning sickness). Of course, it didn't last long. I was out again in short order.
Is there a moral to this tale? A lesson? No. I feel crummy and tired. That's about it.
Have you ever lived where the weather occassionally whips up a Blue Northern? A blue-black wall of sky moves across the horizon plunging temperatures by decades instead of degrees. You can stand in one spot and feel it hit with its incongruously inevitable suddenness. When I was a younger woman, I thought my father (a Native Texan) had made up Blue Northerns. He is a teller of tall tales after all. Why should I believe his stories of how sudden and how cold? Then one day during my freshman year of college (in Texas), I walked to class wearing shorts and saw that blue-black sky. An hour later, I emerged from class and sprinted to the dorm for warm pants and a sweater.
This is how the cold hit yesterday. Like a mixed metaphor? Probably. Waterfall, Blue Northern. Pick one. It hit. It descended. It moved swiftly, inevitably, and with purpose. In the morning, I felt fine. I went places and saw people. Somewhere during the 20 minute journey home, I felt a tickling in the throat. I drank hot tea and figured to knock it out before it took hold. Within a few hours, I was laid out in bed feeling as if someone had moved the house on top of me with a vague wish that someone had. I emerged a while later and slid a foreign language film into the DVD player of my laptop. Who needs English with a head full of wool? It turned out to be a perversely satisfying experience (the film + brain malfunctioning sickness). Of course, it didn't last long. I was out again in short order.
Is there a moral to this tale? A lesson? No. I feel crummy and tired. That's about it.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Handsprings
Today I watched my daughter flip through the air. I saw her spread her wings and try to fly. Someone spotted her, of course, but she tossed herself backward as if she has known how to do a back handspring since birth. She trusted the spotter. And indeed the spotter helped her over every time. My daughter doesn't have the technique down yet, but she understands the trust part and the try part, and she clearly believes that she and everyone else in her class can do these feats of physical daring by showing up and trying again and again. I also saw her try to ride a unicycle. She cannot ride her bicycle without training wheels yet, but there she stood by the wall climbing onto that tiny unicycle again and again and again. She reminded me of an ant carrying some object twice its size over a stair step sixty times its size. There is no impossible. There is no nonsequitor.
I have much to learn of faith from her.
Before heading down to the school to watch, I had to call Chidlrens Hospital to make the CT Scan appointment for next week. The scheduler asked a lot of questions and gave a lot of information. My child can't eat less than six hours before the test. She has to show up in the morning for part one of the process and come back in the afternoon for the actual scan... The image of my child lying on a gurney unconscious haunts me. When it first formed in my mind, it sucked the breath out of me. My lungs shriveled flat on the nothingness of mother fear.
I had to see her fly through the air and land on her feet. I had to see her strength and determination. I had to see her vitality.
She is alive, and we are alive, and we will probably all live long, healthy lives. The CT Scan is to rule out unmentionable possibilities that statistics say are not likely. But it is still there like those ghost clouds in yesterday's storm. And when the test comes and goes, I'll go back down to the school and watch her fly through the air again and again and again.
I have much to learn of faith from her.
Before heading down to the school to watch, I had to call Chidlrens Hospital to make the CT Scan appointment for next week. The scheduler asked a lot of questions and gave a lot of information. My child can't eat less than six hours before the test. She has to show up in the morning for part one of the process and come back in the afternoon for the actual scan... The image of my child lying on a gurney unconscious haunts me. When it first formed in my mind, it sucked the breath out of me. My lungs shriveled flat on the nothingness of mother fear.
I had to see her fly through the air and land on her feet. I had to see her strength and determination. I had to see her vitality.
She is alive, and we are alive, and we will probably all live long, healthy lives. The CT Scan is to rule out unmentionable possibilities that statistics say are not likely. But it is still there like those ghost clouds in yesterday's storm. And when the test comes and goes, I'll go back down to the school and watch her fly through the air again and again and again.
Clouds
Joni Mitchell sings a song called 'Clouds' that I like to listen to. We've had a lot of clouds recently. Yesterday it poured rain for a while. It usually sprinkles, drizzles, or patters. But yesterday, Seattle heard a roll of thunder, saw the sky light up, and felt buckets of rain pour down for a little while. It wasn't a Southern storm. It wasn't the tail of a hurricane thrashing two hundred miles inland. But the rain called attention to itself in a town where it usually goes unnoticed in its ubiquity. At one point I sat in a window and watched and listened and went silent. The sky lay draped in a veil of white-grey, foglike clouds, a lighted backdrop for the soft grey whisps of floating ghosts. Who can speak when nature performs parables? We must listen to hear God's voice.
Clouds and Soapboxes
In the spirit of living in the moment, our family wound its way north to the Fremont neighborhood in Seattle last Saturday to join friends for the Soapbox Derby. In my never-fail underestimation of things, we lounged around the pizza place till right before the race started; then headed out to find a spot to watch, only to find that the crowd had multiplied exponentially in the time we'd eaten our slices and told tales. Every tall person in the metro area (and there are a lot) seemed to have landed a spot along the front line of the race course -- and none was giving way to children or their parents. Our daughter sat on Frank's shoulders to watch the proceedings until a space opened up at the rail. Considering that Frank and I are not tall, this put her about even with some of the folks up front. Eventually, however, with potty breaks and the sprinkling of rain, the tree people weeded out, and we all got spots at the rail for watching the proceedings.
Understand, this isn't the Boy Scouts' soapbox derby. These are costumed grown-ups in the equivalent of un-motorized mini-floats launching themselves and their vehicles down a ramp, through a fairly steep curve, and down a hill on one of Seattle's city streets for several blocks, and into a pile of hay bales where a panel of judges score them ruthlessly.
The ever-flowing (and occassionally crashing) silliness fed our souls. One team's entry didn't make it out of the first curve, so the driver RAN to the finish line. There was a giant pickle, a rhino with wiggling feet, a sushi roll, a gorilla driving a banana, a dentist in a tube of toothpaste, and thirty plus other entries. We didn't make it for the entire race. The teams went one at a time, made little speeches, did little song and dance routines, and then rolled down the hill. It took a L-O-N-G time to get to #10 (or however many we saw).
Oh, how we need these moments of creative revelry. It's lovely to know this is normal for our daughter.
Understand, this isn't the Boy Scouts' soapbox derby. These are costumed grown-ups in the equivalent of un-motorized mini-floats launching themselves and their vehicles down a ramp, through a fairly steep curve, and down a hill on one of Seattle's city streets for several blocks, and into a pile of hay bales where a panel of judges score them ruthlessly.
The ever-flowing (and occassionally crashing) silliness fed our souls. One team's entry didn't make it out of the first curve, so the driver RAN to the finish line. There was a giant pickle, a rhino with wiggling feet, a sushi roll, a gorilla driving a banana, a dentist in a tube of toothpaste, and thirty plus other entries. We didn't make it for the entire race. The teams went one at a time, made little speeches, did little song and dance routines, and then rolled down the hill. It took a L-O-N-G time to get to #10 (or however many we saw).
Oh, how we need these moments of creative revelry. It's lovely to know this is normal for our daughter.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Day by day
Yesterday my daughter woke us, frantic and near tears.. She began to
pray; then asked me to pray for her. Today she tells me she asked me
because if she closed her eyes she'd have cried. She crawled between
us, burning hot, and said her tummy hurt. She flinched when I pressed
lightly on her abdomen. Her fever registered 102. A doctor visit,
and we were on our way to Childrens Hospital for an ultrasound. Not
appendicitis, after all. But they want to do a Cat Scan next week. A
cluster of lymph nodes was "enlarged". We are left with vague
inferences and gnawing worry.
pray; then asked me to pray for her. Today she tells me she asked me
because if she closed her eyes she'd have cried. She crawled between
us, burning hot, and said her tummy hurt. She flinched when I pressed
lightly on her abdomen. Her fever registered 102. A doctor visit,
and we were on our way to Childrens Hospital for an ultrasound. Not
appendicitis, after all. But they want to do a Cat Scan next week. A
cluster of lymph nodes was "enlarged". We are left with vague
inferences and gnawing worry.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Sunrise
This morning my daughter and I sat up in bed watching the sunrise. A
fire of rose, red, and orange, plumes of clouds in long streaks, dots,
mounds, puffs, blankets. The moonrise last night had us all
spellbound, kin to moths and candles. This morning the sun decided to
remind us who gives the moon her shine.
fire of rose, red, and orange, plumes of clouds in long streaks, dots,
mounds, puffs, blankets. The moonrise last night had us all
spellbound, kin to moths and candles. This morning the sun decided to
remind us who gives the moon her shine.
When we wandered downstairs to watch the sunrise in the dining room,
my daughter started crying, then weeping, chanting, "I don't want the
sunrise to go away. I don't want it to end." I held her in silence
until the sunrise defied her.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
To Dream of Honor Killing
Last night I had a series of nightmares, more nightmarish perhaps because each time I'd partially waken from the dreams I'd go right back into them. It was perhaps my brain's way of saying "I have to exorcise this. I have to resolve it and cannot let things stay as they are in this dream."
My dream? At first it didn't make sense, then after I woke up feeling emotionally beaten and let the images sink it, the subject became clear. It was a dream version of being the victim of an honor killing. Sure there were some old Bond Movie elements of international intrigue and diabolical groups of subversive scientists, but that's probably what made the dream manageable and kept me from waking up screaming. The truth of the dream was the horror of being unjustly accused of sexual infidelity, of being blamed for acts involving your sex organs that you did not willingly commit, of being labeled guilty and responsible for something so attrocious happening to you and against you and completely out of your control. Of your family shunning you when someone else perpetuated a horrific and brutal rape of your body, mind, and spirit, of your family looking at the evidence against you and failing to see beyond the surface, of seeing only what the perpetrators want them to see, how they want them to see. Of at first believing that indeed you are responsible, of the intense guilt that leads you to say "I'm sorry", and being condemned and rejected by those whom you love most and who have (you thought) loved you most. Of trying to kill yourself to end the pain of the hurt and rejection, to silence the confused images and thoughts in your head.
And then of having someone heretofor unknown to you, some advocate, someone dispassionate and logical looking at your case and saying, "I believe you," and then trying to help. Of the one person you love most, your husband, coming cold and disbelieving, full of rage and hate to the place your are being held and treated and listening with hardened heart and ears to the scientist who shows him how to look at the evidence in a different way. Of your husband finally seeing the attrocities you endured as true attrocities and then, awash in his own guilt of what his rejection of you has done to your sanity, his going to observe you through a window as you thrash about in a nightmare. Finally, his going into your room and holding you to calm you down so that you can sleep for the first time since the event. Of him watching as you endure surgeries, counseling, and physical rehabilitation, participating where he can. Of him wondering if he will ever have the woman he loved back again or if he will only have a vegetable or someone beyond his ability to care for. Of his steeling himself for a life of marriage to someone he never sees except on visitation days.
Thankfully, in my dream, there was a husband who came back, who loved. The family did not. And of those who tried to kill me, one was arrested and sentenced, one was killed, and one remained free and unfound.
The dream mixed stories I've read recently about women who've been drugged with rohypnol and raped, of others injected with various test drugs and diseases like lab rats to see their reactions.
Rape takes so many forms. Even in our so-called Western, modern society, victims are still accused of the crimes against them. In states that enacted laws to protect victims of domestic violence by requiring police to arrest someone in every DV case they show up to where a physical injury is apparent, the stats show that most of the time the true victim is the one arrested because the predator knows how to use the system and uses it to further abuse the victim.
It is time men stopped claiming to be powerful out one side of their mouths and to be the victims of women's sexuality (i.e., not responsible for their own male sexuality) out the other side. If you cannot control and discipline your desires, if you must scape-goat someone else into being guilty of all your misdeeds, then you are pathetically weak, evil, and offensive.
What is amazing to me about cultures that uphold (or at least do not work actively to abolish) dis-honor killings, if the men in these families were really strong (not just full of empty bravado and bullying at the expense of others with less power) then when a woman in their families was said to have misstepped sexually, they'd tell those who would question their family's integrity to get lost. They'd stand strong and firm with their family, including the women of the family. And no, rape of a woman by a man would NEVER be considered the woman's fault, because these men would have the honesty, integrity, responsiblity, and HONOR to accept that men are responsible for their own sexuality and evil, and that rape is not an act of sex, but of brutality and violence, it is an act against a woman. It would even be an improvement if they realized it was an act against the woman's family, and that the perpetrator, the MAN deserved their wrath and rejection.
My dream? At first it didn't make sense, then after I woke up feeling emotionally beaten and let the images sink it, the subject became clear. It was a dream version of being the victim of an honor killing. Sure there were some old Bond Movie elements of international intrigue and diabolical groups of subversive scientists, but that's probably what made the dream manageable and kept me from waking up screaming. The truth of the dream was the horror of being unjustly accused of sexual infidelity, of being blamed for acts involving your sex organs that you did not willingly commit, of being labeled guilty and responsible for something so attrocious happening to you and against you and completely out of your control. Of your family shunning you when someone else perpetuated a horrific and brutal rape of your body, mind, and spirit, of your family looking at the evidence against you and failing to see beyond the surface, of seeing only what the perpetrators want them to see, how they want them to see. Of at first believing that indeed you are responsible, of the intense guilt that leads you to say "I'm sorry", and being condemned and rejected by those whom you love most and who have (you thought) loved you most. Of trying to kill yourself to end the pain of the hurt and rejection, to silence the confused images and thoughts in your head.
And then of having someone heretofor unknown to you, some advocate, someone dispassionate and logical looking at your case and saying, "I believe you," and then trying to help. Of the one person you love most, your husband, coming cold and disbelieving, full of rage and hate to the place your are being held and treated and listening with hardened heart and ears to the scientist who shows him how to look at the evidence in a different way. Of your husband finally seeing the attrocities you endured as true attrocities and then, awash in his own guilt of what his rejection of you has done to your sanity, his going to observe you through a window as you thrash about in a nightmare. Finally, his going into your room and holding you to calm you down so that you can sleep for the first time since the event. Of him watching as you endure surgeries, counseling, and physical rehabilitation, participating where he can. Of him wondering if he will ever have the woman he loved back again or if he will only have a vegetable or someone beyond his ability to care for. Of his steeling himself for a life of marriage to someone he never sees except on visitation days.
Thankfully, in my dream, there was a husband who came back, who loved. The family did not. And of those who tried to kill me, one was arrested and sentenced, one was killed, and one remained free and unfound.
The dream mixed stories I've read recently about women who've been drugged with rohypnol and raped, of others injected with various test drugs and diseases like lab rats to see their reactions.
Rape takes so many forms. Even in our so-called Western, modern society, victims are still accused of the crimes against them. In states that enacted laws to protect victims of domestic violence by requiring police to arrest someone in every DV case they show up to where a physical injury is apparent, the stats show that most of the time the true victim is the one arrested because the predator knows how to use the system and uses it to further abuse the victim.
It is time men stopped claiming to be powerful out one side of their mouths and to be the victims of women's sexuality (i.e., not responsible for their own male sexuality) out the other side. If you cannot control and discipline your desires, if you must scape-goat someone else into being guilty of all your misdeeds, then you are pathetically weak, evil, and offensive.
What is amazing to me about cultures that uphold (or at least do not work actively to abolish) dis-honor killings, if the men in these families were really strong (not just full of empty bravado and bullying at the expense of others with less power) then when a woman in their families was said to have misstepped sexually, they'd tell those who would question their family's integrity to get lost. They'd stand strong and firm with their family, including the women of the family. And no, rape of a woman by a man would NEVER be considered the woman's fault, because these men would have the honesty, integrity, responsiblity, and HONOR to accept that men are responsible for their own sexuality and evil, and that rape is not an act of sex, but of brutality and violence, it is an act against a woman. It would even be an improvement if they realized it was an act against the woman's family, and that the perpetrator, the MAN deserved their wrath and rejection.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Sharing
Yesterday we got to clean and organize the attic of El Centro de la
Raza. Anthropology of sorts. An adventure that brought up memories
of Narnia. Seeing, asking, and filling another's need. How wonderful
to cover my pants in dirt helping another.
Raza. Anthropology of sorts. An adventure that brought up memories
of Narnia. Seeing, asking, and filling another's need. How wonderful
to cover my pants in dirt helping another.
Then last night an impromtu invite to visit a friend turned into an
evening of sharing stories and thoughts.
Today we got to celebrate a friend's buying his first house. What a
joy to share with him and meet new folks.
What blessings befall sharing.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Cold
Autumn cold has snapped Seattle. It seems so sudden this year. Like the Whomping Willow in HP3 dropping its leaves in one shake. The leaves are still on our trees, but the summer was so brief and cold and wet compared to other years and Indian Summer skipped us completely, so it seems as if all the leaves have changed color and dropped in one swoop. I'll take a walk later to remind myself that Winter doesn't begin tomorrow.
Fall brings up another season of thought: storing nuts for winter (getting chores done), going back to school, "activities". Sometimes I think we all think we grow up in the Fall. We put on serious faces and get to work. But inside I feel the flutter of butterfly wings, of childlike whistfulness and adventure. Wanderlust sticks a grappling hook in my gut and says, "GO!" Sentimentality tickles my feet and says, "rake a leaf house in the yard." We don't have enought deciduous trees to yield enough leaves for this feat. Perhaps I'll plant some.
I see hints of the same flutterings in other adult eyes and wonder if they, too, would like to rake leaves and leap into them.
In any event, I am determined to make it to October without turning on the furnace. Bundle up familia. Get cozy.
Fall brings up another season of thought: storing nuts for winter (getting chores done), going back to school, "activities". Sometimes I think we all think we grow up in the Fall. We put on serious faces and get to work. But inside I feel the flutter of butterfly wings, of childlike whistfulness and adventure. Wanderlust sticks a grappling hook in my gut and says, "GO!" Sentimentality tickles my feet and says, "rake a leaf house in the yard." We don't have enought deciduous trees to yield enough leaves for this feat. Perhaps I'll plant some.
I see hints of the same flutterings in other adult eyes and wonder if they, too, would like to rake leaves and leap into them.
In any event, I am determined to make it to October without turning on the furnace. Bundle up familia. Get cozy.
Venus or Mars
A bright planet hangs in a clear, black-blue sky this morning. The
mountains offset as pure blackness, sharp angles haloed by a scrim of
light.
mountains offset as pure blackness, sharp angles haloed by a scrim of
light.
Too early to rise, but worth it.
Sent from my iPhone
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
BEIGE
Please, please explain the phenomenon of new homes with BEIGE VINYL SIDING? Some seem like nice, reasonably-sized houses; others are McMonsters taking up every scrap of land from one set-back to another on a piece of property. Some have simple layouts; others loom box-like and ill on the road-side. The most fascinating (in the same sense as watching a train-wreck) of these new structures are those with interesting, even artistic design elements. You watch them rising from the ground with curved staircases, archways, nooks, high-end wooden doors, picture windows... and then, right as the builder finishes up this new architectural being, he suffocates it in BEIGE VINYL SIDING.
Is the government giving this stuff away as surplus? Is there some hope that the beige, vinyl siding manufacturers are all going out of business (and therefore will never ever make this stuff again) and are selling their inventories off at 10 cents a piece?
It's HIDEOUS! H-I-D-E-O-U-S!
If your architect does this to your home, report her. Surely there is a license revocation procedure for installing BEIGE VINYL SIDING.
I understand budgets (boy, do I). So I understand leaving the stuff on your house if it was already there when you bought your house (and you are therefore too broke to replace it). But these are NEW houses. Presumably if you're building a new house, you have money or outstanding credit (hint, loan agencies) and are interested in a solid housing investment? For those of you with style and fashion challenged senses, BEIGE VINYL SIDING is the equivalent of ill-fitting, low quality polyester pantsuits from about three decades ago in prison green stretched over a form three sizes too large.
For all you new home builders out there: Spare the eyesore. Raise your property values. Lift your spirits. Love your neighbors. Use a real color. Use a natural material.
For all of you already in a home with vinyl, beige or otherwise, well, be thankful for having a home, plant lots of trees and flowers, and paint the inside of your house in vivid, beautiful colors. (And resist the urge to spray paint those new beige things going up all around you.)
Okay, I feel better now.
Is the government giving this stuff away as surplus? Is there some hope that the beige, vinyl siding manufacturers are all going out of business (and therefore will never ever make this stuff again) and are selling their inventories off at 10 cents a piece?
It's HIDEOUS! H-I-D-E-O-U-S!
If your architect does this to your home, report her. Surely there is a license revocation procedure for installing BEIGE VINYL SIDING.
I understand budgets (boy, do I). So I understand leaving the stuff on your house if it was already there when you bought your house (and you are therefore too broke to replace it). But these are NEW houses. Presumably if you're building a new house, you have money or outstanding credit (hint, loan agencies) and are interested in a solid housing investment? For those of you with style and fashion challenged senses, BEIGE VINYL SIDING is the equivalent of ill-fitting, low quality polyester pantsuits from about three decades ago in prison green stretched over a form three sizes too large.
For all you new home builders out there: Spare the eyesore. Raise your property values. Lift your spirits. Love your neighbors. Use a real color. Use a natural material.
For all of you already in a home with vinyl, beige or otherwise, well, be thankful for having a home, plant lots of trees and flowers, and paint the inside of your house in vivid, beautiful colors. (And resist the urge to spray paint those new beige things going up all around you.)
Okay, I feel better now.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Techno-love
We celebrated 7 years on the 7th, a remarkable feat, not eclipsed by a recently celebrated 50 years in June of another couple we love. Different eras. Different worlds. Different people. Human commitment to companionship in a check-out line gee-gaw world confounds the senses and challenges the spirit. And rewards. Can I do this? I can do this. I will do this. I am doing this. This is. I am. You are. We are.
As we create sacred space in our houses or attend worship services in sacred places, commitment creates that sacred space in the soul. Not just marital commitment. Commitment. Maybe what commitment really is is discipline or stubborn willfulness. Admittedly, sometimes it takes both. But often it is neither. It is something else.
There's no guarantee with commitment. The stakes are higher, though, because the investment of self is greater. And the returns can rally and slump, climb and fall. The dividends come from mines deep in the earth where earthquakes tremble and lava threatens to burst. The ore would scratch diamonds.
Back on topic: Techno-love. On the 7th, my husband conveniently took us for coffee at a shopping district in which an Apple Store abides. Then, due to great shame at the state of my ancient Smartphone (I'd had it since the technology launched), talked me into an iPhone. I'd say it was love at first sight, but it was more like fear at first sight. Not fear of the features. Honestly, the thing works flawlessly and intuitively. Fear of beating it to a pulp, a la the much-loved Smartphone. Honestly, that Smartphone endured. No, it E-N-D-U-R-E-D. And there was the price. Despite the price drop, the phone's a luxury. One I am grateful for. I've used it like a workhorse since it came out of the box and signed a service contract.
Thanks, sweetie.
As we create sacred space in our houses or attend worship services in sacred places, commitment creates that sacred space in the soul. Not just marital commitment. Commitment. Maybe what commitment really is is discipline or stubborn willfulness. Admittedly, sometimes it takes both. But often it is neither. It is something else.
There's no guarantee with commitment. The stakes are higher, though, because the investment of self is greater. And the returns can rally and slump, climb and fall. The dividends come from mines deep in the earth where earthquakes tremble and lava threatens to burst. The ore would scratch diamonds.
Back on topic: Techno-love. On the 7th, my husband conveniently took us for coffee at a shopping district in which an Apple Store abides. Then, due to great shame at the state of my ancient Smartphone (I'd had it since the technology launched), talked me into an iPhone. I'd say it was love at first sight, but it was more like fear at first sight. Not fear of the features. Honestly, the thing works flawlessly and intuitively. Fear of beating it to a pulp, a la the much-loved Smartphone. Honestly, that Smartphone endured. No, it E-N-D-U-R-E-D. And there was the price. Despite the price drop, the phone's a luxury. One I am grateful for. I've used it like a workhorse since it came out of the box and signed a service contract.
Thanks, sweetie.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Talked into it
Talking comes naturally in our family. My first word (the only thing input into my baby book) was "cookie". Prophetic, to the point. My brother-in-law has commented more than once on our family's ability to carry on several conversations all at once, loudly, and with great animation of face, vocal inflection, and hand gestures. It is a verbal free-for-all. This does not translate well into normal society but as rudeness, disinterest, even arrogance. It isn't (well, it may be rude, but not the other two). It is instead word-fiesta, the pleasure of word flow. Admittedly, it needs damming most of the time. A word dam? Perhaps a renewable energy source.
Our daughter spoke her first word at 3 months. There were witnesses. Here's how it came about: I handed her to my mother and walked into another room for a short break. My daughter turned her head to see where I'd gone, stared at the room into which I'd departed, and said with apparently great intent, "Mama." I heard it from where I was. It so startled my mother she nearly dropped the baby.
All this to say, my husband's recommendation for a blog name - "debosays" - works pretty well. Now let's see where it goes.
Our daughter spoke her first word at 3 months. There were witnesses. Here's how it came about: I handed her to my mother and walked into another room for a short break. My daughter turned her head to see where I'd gone, stared at the room into which I'd departed, and said with apparently great intent, "Mama." I heard it from where I was. It so startled my mother she nearly dropped the baby.
All this to say, my husband's recommendation for a blog name - "debosays" - works pretty well. Now let's see where it goes.
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