To Whom Would We Go?

" And the angel of the LORD came again a second time, and touched him, and said, "Arise and eat, else the journey will be too great for you."  ~ today's Mass reading

I'm standing as the above scripture is read with tears streaming down my face. I've been crying since the opening song and the altar boys are looking my way with furrowed brows and then glancing over at their dad who is trying, via hand signals, to get them to stop staring at me. Their eyes dart between us like they're following a ping pong game while I bend down to grab another tissue and blow my nose. When you're barely a dozen people in total at church it's hard to blow one's nose discreetly.

An image of the bumper sticker "Honk if you love Jesus" flashes through my mind and I wish for a moment that I had one I could raise just high enough for the boys to see as an explanation for my behaviour.  The thought almost takes me into that panicky state where laughter and sobs do the same job.

You have no idea how relieved I am that my sense of humour is surfacing. I remember once going so long without laughter that it sounded like breaking shards of glass in my ears when I finally laughed.

I came to church extra early to sit in the quiet, to ready the altar, to go over the scripture readings. Normally I am the lector every Sunday. I slung my purse in the pew and reached for the missal. I didn't read very far when an involuntary sharp intake of breath escaped my lips. Tears sprang up as I read the above scripture and I knew I just couldn't read it out loud today. While I am comfortable with my own tears, especially in response to scripture, it would be unkind to others for me to stand there trying to proclaim God's word while weeping uncontrollably.

As a handful of women came into the sanctuary they stopped to talk with me and graciously stepped in to take my place.

 Eventually my tears subsided and I arose and ate.

Like A Galloping Runaway Horse

"That's the best news I've heard in a long time."

"I burst into tears when I read your news.

I feel numb as I hear and read the reaction of others to my news. Numb. They whoop and holler and tell me what a miracle it is. I feel blank. And then I feel guilty that I feel blank. The only thing I've been able to do today is cry. Feel numb. Cry. Wash. Repeat. All day long.

The last 24 hours is such a blur that when I call a friend tonight to tell her the news she tells me we talked about it last night. I have no memory of it. The last time I felt like this I was in the midst of a nervous  breakdown. That time I cried for six months straight.

Late this afternoon the surgeon calls to set up a time next week for us to meet in person. He wants to hear what I need to move forward. I'd like my emotions back please. I'd like to feel joy. I tell him I feel guilty that I feel so numb. He assures me that what I'm experiencing is normal and that my feelings will slowly surface again. He tells me to rest as much as possible this weekend.

After we'd left his office the other day, Dearest One told me  that he was sure the surgeon was a man of faith. He just had that feeling. Whatever was my inner reaction at the time (which is a whole other post in itself.)

Today I give the surgeon an opening to affirm Dearest One's assertion. He does.

In doing so our conversation shifts.

And  immediately I give myself enough rope to hang myself for in a nano second I hear myself doing what I told you I had no stomach to hear last night. I tell him what I think God revealed to him in the whole thing. How a conversation he had with my medical specialist earlier in the day yesterday now made him so aware and more knowledgeable about my particular health issues. That maybe he'll come across a patient that has the symptoms of it and you know - change their life!!  I hear myself as I say the words like I'm a bystander in my own conversation. I remind myself of a galloping runaway horse. Man, they're hard to rein in. I think to myself shut the fuck up already.

But I don't. I wanted to finish the thought - it was after all - so brilliant. Eventually my voice trails off like I've run out of steam and I lamely tell him I have no idea what will come of it for him. But it's too late. I've already vomited my ego all over his story. You know. The story only he gets to tell. From within himself. From that place no other person can enter. You can only listen to it - you can't write it for someone else. And whatever them I thought I was different from last night gets shot to pieces and once again I am reminded I am a part of not apart from.

And so the story continues.

And Yet

You know how I wrote about Dearest One just wanting our old life back?

Today he got his wish. Kind of. If this past week has not changed me for the better then God help me. I am feeling incredibly humbled tonight. There is no going back to our old life but.....

Late this afternoon my family doctor called to tell me that they had sent my biopsy samples to city far away to be tested for hormone receptors. The pathologist there looked at my slides and declared there are no cancer cells in them. None.

The pathologist here thinks she may have been looking at someone else's slides and marked down those results on my report by mistake.

I was scheduled for a mastectomy next Wednesday.

They are sending everything to a third pathologist to make sure there is no cancer. I am having a breast MRI on Monday to doubly make sure. I feel like I stepped off a merry go round and am still spinning.

Please offer up a prayer for that pathologist who got it so wrong. My doctor said when she talked to her that she was in near tears. Distraught. Some may snarkily say 'and well she should be'. But snarky is so far removed from where I want to live my life from. At this moment I can't even be angry with her. I don't have the energy and even if I did, what would that do? Be angry for me if you must but then look in the mirror at how human and flawed you are and remember the many who have been wounded by your humanity. Maybe another day I will be angry. Had I lost my breast I certainly would be. For a time. And yet. If I hold anyone's humanity against them then I must also hold my own against myself. And that has never increased my love and compassion for my fellow human being or for myself.

And for the woman who may think she is cancer free and is not. Please say a prayer for her, too. She will get the opposite shock that I received today. Her joy will turn to mourning. I cannot imagine being in her place.

We so like to make sense of things. Of wrapping life up in neat tidy boxes. Friends are already posting things on my social networking page about how prayer and faith work miracles. Please. I don't dispute what God can do - and I can totally believe those pathology slides of mine could have been changed by the hand of God in transit - but I tread so carefully when it comes to thinking I know what God did or did not do. Or what affect the prayers of many made. As if I could ever know just how the Great Mystery that I call God works and wills His way through my life. I feel so humbled that my journey is taking this turn. It increases my belief that I know nothing.

I've spent the past two days with one of my closest friends who had her own diagnosis of breast cancer recently. I went with her to a medical appointment and she came with me to my own. We've travelled 1000 miles in two days. She has a multitude of people praying for her. She has incredible faith. She still has cancer. She still is going to lose a breast. I felt guilty telling her my good news. Who wouldn't yearn for their own miracle in return?

The other day while I was sitting in the surgeon's office I watched the traffic going by below and when my shakes stopped so instantly I looked at a blue pick up truck winding its way down the street and asked God if the driver had anyone praying for them and I lifted that stranger up in prayer for whatever their needs may have been.

I want to jump for joy and cry deep gulping tears at the same time. I hope I never forget how I feel tonight.

Someone Somewhere

We're sitting in the surgeon's office waiting for him to come in and I'm shaking uncontrollably. Not unlike the shakes you get after giving birth, it happens to me when I am under extreme stress. Out of the blue the shaking stops. Completely. Dearest One looks at me and asks what made the difference. "Someone, somewhere, prayed for me," I tell him.  I am grateful.

What Comes Next

"What church do you go to?" she asks me as she's hanging up her clothes in my closet.

"We don't go to church."

"Oh."

What kind of question is that I wonder to myself, glad that I stifled the urge moments before to ask her if she had a boyfriend or if she thought Donny Osmond was cute. We'd picked her up at the airport less than half an hour ago, paired up as exchange students, and she is the first of us to dare fly across the country to be a guest in my home.

She furrows her brow at my answer and I worry that she'll want to go home immediately. Or that she'll cry. She bites her lip and we go out to the kitchen to get a snack. Soon we find out that we'd recently celebrated our 16th birthdays mere days apart and that gets us moving towards common ground. Relief. Before we know it,  it's my turn to get on a plane and travel eastward to her house.

On her turf I listen to her parents yelling at each in Italian as if they were across the hallway instead of across the table. It's the first time I've heard anyone raise their voice so matter of factly and without anger. I wonder what an argument would sound like. How many decibels would their voices rise? Her parents want to know if we have outhouses in our part of the country. Do we have running water? I laugh. Seriously? I think about telling them we have outhouses only in our churches but I don't.

One day we go to the neighbourhood restaurant and buy country chicken for supper. As we wait for her dad to come back to the car I notice the St. Christopher medal on the dash of the car. I ask my friend what it is and she tells me he is the Patron Saint of Travellers. She says it without apology and I think to myself that is some kind of weird shit to believe.

Sunday comes and that means it's time to go to church. The last time I was in a church I was 8 years old. We sit near the middle of the church but I sit at the end of the pew. I've always liked an exit route.  I look around the cavernous building. It's full of light and the roof is so far away I bet we'd look like ants if I was a fly on the ceiling.The priest starts to talk and I tune him out - daydreaming as I look around me at the stone walls and the stained glass windows. I'm not paying one iota of attention when suddenly the woman in front of me turns around, smiles, and extends her hand sayinig, "Peace of Christ be with you." I turn a bright shade of red and clumsily shake her hand. I look at my friend and raise my eyebrows. She thrusts her own hand towards me and I hastily shake it as if I'm afraid that whatever she has is catching.

For the next few minutes I am bombarded with people shaking my hand and smiling at me and I want to shrink down into nothingness. Weird shit all over again. Relief floods over me when everyone turns around and sits down. For the rest of the service I feel a little on edge because I don't know the way it works and I hate not knowing what comes next. I never again go into a Catholic Church without reminding myself that at some point a stranger is going to thrust their hand in my direction. I don't know why they will but I determine that I'll never get caught off guard again. It means I have to pay attention.

******

I come into the coolness of the church and go about setting up the altar, carefully placing the cloths in the right order on top of the chalice. The rituals soothe my nerves and I'm glad because I've  been feeling agitated all morning. Full of fear.  I've run to the starting line of 'this is going to kill me' and my  mind has raced around the track in that vein for much of the day. When the priest comes in I go to him and tell him the results of my biopsy. He grips my arm and whispers in my ear with an urgency in his voice, "God bless you." I hear echoes of "He will. He will" ring in my ears.

We gather around the altar for the Lord's prayer as is our custom in our tiny church in the boon docks. Nearly 35 years have passed since that day of embarrassing hand shakes. My friend has since left her faith and I find myself having embraced it fully. I am standing directly in  front of the altar and when the priest lifts his eyes and says "May the peace of the Lord be with you always." His eyes meet mine as he says it and I breathe deeply, soaking it in. As I extend my hand to those around me I want more than anything to feel Christ's peace.

*******
"I want our old life back." Dearest One is standing in the bathroom doorway, shirtless save for a St. Christopher medal hanging around his neck. I poke him gently on the tip of his nose and say, "There is no difference between this life and the other one." He looks at me and says, "You know, that other one. The one we had some control over. The one before last Thursday." I press the St. Christopher medal into his chest like I'm pushing a telephone number and smile at him. "That semblance of control , was an illusion."

As I say it I look at St. Christopher and think about the journey we are on and offer up a silent prayer for travelling mercies. Weird shit, indeed.

Dreaming Myself Awake

I wake with a start from a dream and it takes a few seconds to figure out where I am. It felt like it was a split second between dream and reality and once I realize I'm in reality, I think about the dream and laugh, so, so glad it was only a dream. In it I kept getting dressed for a banquet in fancy clothes and every single time I came out of the dressing room I had an immediate Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction. Oh, the looks of horror on people's faces! No matter how many times I tried to get ready the same side of my top disappeared.

*****

I'm getting dressed (and my clothing stays put) when Dearest One asks if I want him to come along with me to my doctor's appointment. I tell him that no, this is a routine appointment, taking no more than five minutes. If it was the one we are hoping never comes - the one that starts with a phone call telling us we need to come talk with the doctor about test results -  then absolutely, yes, I would want him there.  The possibility of that phone call is a week away at least so I head to town on my own.

******

I'm sitting in the doctor's office and chatting away with him about not getting answers to my weight loss. His beeper goes off and he presses a button to ignore it and we keep on talking. He is an attentive listener, he reveals his humanity to me and I appreciate that about him. His eyes have a kindness in them that seems to come from deep places. We agree on a game plan even though none of my lab work fits with the need for it, but hey, we'll give it a try.  He'll see me in three months and go from there. I get up and am satisfied with the visit. It's gone as I thought it would. I tuck the prescription in my purse and head out the door.

I am a few steps out of his office when I turn around and pop my head in the doorway and say to him, "I realize people are getting shitty news every day and I'm not one of them. As much as my curious mind hates not knowing the reason why I'm losing weight, considering the alternative, I can live with it." He tells me how many people get so angry with him when he tells them that he has no answers for why they are experiencing health issues. He seems relieved I'm not one of them.

I make my way to his receptionist's desk to make the follow up appointment. She's not there and I feel impatient. I hesitate, trying to decide if I'll wait for her or just phone later. She's really hard to get on the phone and I feel more impatient at the thought of going that route so I decide to wait.

We're in the middle of getting that appointment settled when the doctor comes out and says, "Can I see you for a minute?" I figure he's thought of some other solution, has had a brain wave and I eagerly pick up my purse and follow him back into his office.

He tells me the beeper had been from my family doctor and he had just gotten off the phone with her.

"Unfortunately I have to tell you the biopsy came back malignant."

I look out the window and say, "Fuck."

He turns his computer screen so I can see it and reads me the pathology report.

We talk. There are many good things in the report. Hopeful things. It's still not as shitty as it could be. Shitty, yes. But not shittier.

Although I really believe only the person going through it gets to say that. Last night someone told me very matter of factly how it could be so much worse and proceeded to tell me of her friend who had it so much worse than me. Something wilted inside me as I listened. Disappointed at how hard it is to stand with someone in their pain, for all of us, myself included. Reminded at how words can create walls or bring healing. And even though it was true, her friend does have it so much worse than me,  I still wanted to slam down the phone again and again as if I was beating her into silence with it. 

He walks me out to the exit asking if I need to call someone, if I am okay to drive. I tell him I will go home and have a good cry, that I will call someone if I can't drive home safely.

I get in my car and drive directly to my family doctor's office. Relieved to see each other, we talk and I remind her what I said last week - that if this lump turned out to be cancer then the weight loss would be a blessing because it wouldn't have been found without the diagnostic testing they'd done for the weight loss. We talk about the hopeful things in the report, about what to expect next. I stand to go and reach towards her and we hug.

I get to my car and look at my phone. My heart sinks when I see there is a message from Dearest One saying 'urgent, call me'. Seeing those words tells me he listened to the phone message from our family doctor saying exactly what I'd said earlier that morning - I need to talk to you about test results. It's not supposed to be like this. I'm not supposed to be confirming this news on the phone. We're supposed to be sitting side by side in the doctor's office. I remember a conversation I'd had with a close friend just last week where she reminded me that I was trying to control what I couldn't. Damn.

******

I'm driving home and remember my dream. I gasp as I realize the same side of my top disappeared in my dream as the side that has cancer in it. I knew before I knew.

I Get To

Sometimes I wonder where my oomph went for blogging. I just can't seem to find the ambition or interest to do it. (She said as she typed a blog post - the irony is not lost on me!)

The journey continues. Weight loss still happening. Closer to an answer. Tomorrow hopefully. Work has ended for the summer and I am relieved to be on holidays. Summer always feels like a miracle. I am soaking up its warmth like a cat.

Life feels like a privilege right now. A lot of "I get to" running through my head. Much happier place to operate from than "I have to".

Weighty Matters

"I need to go buy some smaller clothes. All the ones I own are hanging on me."

She stopped mid stride, mid parking lot to look at me. She didn't quite snort but almost, before she said she wanted whatever I had. I bit my lip before I said something I'd regret. I felt a surge of anger that caught me off guard. If I couldn't tell my best friend about needing new clothes who could I tell? If she couldn't hear the worry beneath my words, who then?

I hate that this is often the way it seems to be between women. Weight loss being the thing that matters. I've listened to co-workers the past several years exchange weight loss tips and diets and have seen them lose and gain the same 30, 40 or 50 pounds. Last week one of them yelled in the background as I was talking to another on the phone, "I'll have whatever she's got." and I thought, "Really?"

Did she forget that the doctors have been puzzling over what is causing my steady, unexpected weight loss? Did she forget the dreaded "C"word that has been bandied about for months now? Or is it really all about the number on the scale?

I think of an elderly woman I know who, at 83, talks about losing those last 10 pounds. I look at her frail body, the kind that looks like it would break if hugged too tight, and feel angry that this is her desire in old age. I wonder what she sees when she looks in the mirror or steps on the scale?

I have lost count of the number of women who have vocalized to me the past few months that they'd gladly have whatever it is that is going on with me if it meant they lost weight without effort like I am. They look concerned about the uncertainty of it and in the same breath tell me how great I am looking. How can it be bad when you look so great?

I've never felt twinges of guilt like I have these past few months for being concerned about weight loss. I feel like I have a dirty secret and there's an unwritten code of silence. It's made me question just how we, as women, relate to one another when it comes to body size and image. It's made me hesitant to tell someone, who has lost weight, that they look great. Who are we under all that? Surely we are more than the number on the scale.

I am closer to getting a confirmed answer about my unexplained weight loss. One, that if proved true, is far less sinister than what has lurked in the shadows all year. One that might mean the weight loss will go on and on with no ill effects, just the nuisance of having to buy ever smaller clothes. If so, it will feel like I dodged a bullet. And in the process stepped in front of one I never thought I'd face.

Mirror, Mirror

Oh, what the heck, might as well write a new post. Better than letting stuff stew in my head. I've heard people say they've never been to a bad recovery meeting. Don't believe it. Today's meeting did teach me something and had I not given a friend a ride I would have walked out in the middle of it. I truly wish this meeting had a no cross talk rule because it was all about cross talk today. The poor guy who bore the brunt of it had made himself vulnerable at the beginning. I don't recall him asking for advice. His wounded, broken, vulnerable self was written all over his face. I recognized that look. I've seen it in my own face. Advice never helped me while in that state. Ever. Which is probably what I was reacting to. What I really wanted to do was to tell them to leave him alone. I didn't. I do need to remember how easy it is for me, too, to think I know what someone else needs to hear, as if my words will perfect their life. Christ have mercy.

That Guy?

Just moments before he had been running a little car up and down the pew when he'd noticed the Stations of the Cross on the wall. He whispered to his mom  and gestured towards them. She leaned down and whispered in his ear and he turned towards the crucifix, with his tiny pointer finger raised and said, "That guy?"

Now, his little hands gripped the ciborium and his eyes focus on his destination as he made his way towards the priest. The priest who has explained to us that the procession of gifts is about our journey towards Christ.

As his two little hands reached out to meet the priest's the gap between the giver and receiver held something so earnest and innocent that tears welled up and pooled at the corners of my eyes. It was a blink your eyes and miss it moment.

Occasionally I get the impression from some people that they feel sorry for me stuck in the boon-docks in a tiny church with a handful of people showing up on a good Sunday. A church where someone needs to go early and turn up the heat so we can get through the Mass with our coats off. But no one can orchestrate moments like the one described above. They are pure gift and I receive them gratefully; the gap between the giver and receiver holds so much promise.

Scared

Yesterday as I drove to my home group meeting I prayed to be able to share with honesty and humility. Sometimes I care too much what others think. Sometimes I get so self absorbed that I forgot that it's not all about me. I had to think about this video and know it to be true. When someone looks like the poster child in AA I don't trust them. It doesn't stop me from wanting to be one. I know - so full of ego. And fear. And pride. There is someone in one of my meetings who comes across as a poster child. I don't trust them. Occasionally the person shares from the gut. Those times I think to myself, okay, I can trust you, now. The only way I can quiet what is going through my head at a meeting is to decide not to share. That frees me to listen to others. So when I was called on to share I talked from my gut. About waking up in the night and feeling scared and having a talk with God about that. That relatioship is where my hope comes from.

Quiet Bits of Simplicity

It's snowing to beat the band out there as I type. I'm disappointed to miss my home group meeting this morning because of the resulting wretched roads. The change in plans most likely means a quiet day with bits of housecleaning and cooking and the simple things that fill me with the most contentment. I am pretty grateful these days for those things. People keep telling me that getting older is the pits and I keep replying that getting older is a gift, a privilege that not everyone gets to experience.

The Rules Don't Apply

This morning as I'm on my way to see Fr. Charlie - going to confession about having a bad attitude amidst other things - I start belly aching to myself about the decreased speed limit ahead. Last summer there was road construction along this stretch of highway and the construction pretty much, but not quite, came to a stand still when winter arrived. For a little quarter mile stretch of construction they kept 15 miles of highway traffic slowed right down. Ridiculous, I tell, you, utterly ridiculous.

I tell myself that I'm going to ignore the posted speed limit. Screw the law. I'm not slowing down for anybody. I start boasting to myself about having a 35 year clean driving record. I wonder why I think I shouldn't slow down and the first thing that pops into my head is because the rules don't apply to me. As I think this the first decreased speed ahead warning sign appears complete with a red and white sunburst of stripes around it. They're making sure I am without excuse I tell ya.

I shake my head at my ridiculous conclusion that the rules don't apply. Of course they do. But still, I want to fudge them.

So I make a compromise within myself. I will only slow down if everyone else who is driving that stretch of highway slows down, too. As I mull this over the second red and white striped warning sign appears. I envision getting stopped for speeding and pointing to the vehicles ahead of me and protesting that they, they were speeding first.

And then I ask myself if I'm willing to take the consequences of believing the rules don't apply to me. Turns out I'm not. So I slow down and set the cruise control to the posted speed limit. I shake my head at myself. How quickly my thoughts can be not only illogical and self righteous but also how ready I am to defend them before putting any of it into action.

As I crest the hill I meet oncoming vehicles who are also going the speed limit. In fact all the way through this stretch of highway I see not one speeding vehicle. No one passes me. No one passes anyone.

Which might be explained by the cop car sitting in a wide turn out on the highway less than ten minutes after I entered the construction zone.

Thankful Thursday

I'm grateful to be done work for the week. This week has been a journey of accepting what is in front of me instead of railing against what isn't. The more I do it, the easier it gets or the sooner I recognize it's the only solution if I want inner peace.

An Utter Lack

It's been a long, full day. One of those that ended with another reminder for me to check my attitude and ego at the door. I've lost count of the number of times in the past few months when I have run ahead of myself with an utter lack of humility. I haven't had a train wreck because of it but pretty darn close. I've been so judgemental of people who have acted too big for their britches. One of those things I thought was behind me. Ha. Still capable.

This Lent I've been praying specifically about this. Have felt the check in my spirit and heeded it before I opened my mouth several times. I'd felt that check in my spirit many times before and chose to ignore it. The world wouldn't know of my greatness if I didn't open my mouth. Or so I thought. I'm learning that I'm capable of hearing and heeding the Spirit. I didn't know it could bruise my ego so to do so. The only kind of good bruising there is to be had.

Purple Striped Joy

She was just a bit of a thing - dressed in purple stripes from head to toe - yet she captivated the whole waiting room with her joy. She was the brightest spot in my day. I was disappointed when the nurse called her in for her appointment.

Between her and later going for a walk in the mud puddles I am one happy gal on my way to a good sleep tonight. I often pray that God will give me the eyes to see Him, the ears to hear Him and the heart to respond to Him. Today I think I did.

Of Impressions and Miracles

I attended the funeral today of a man with decades upon decades of sobriety. As I listened to his eulogy I was left with the impression that he not only knew what was important in the whole scope of life, he lived it thoroughly. Thoroughly enough that nearly a thousand people turned out for his funeral. He touched many, many lives.

Our paths crossed last year for the first and last time as we shared service commitments. Within minutes of meeting we realized we'd grown up in the same area and attended the same school. That we we came to this conclusion many hundreds of miles from our original homes left us shaking our heads at the miracle of sobriety, tears in both our eyes. He took me under his wing for the brief time we spent together, a big brother with a twinkle in his eye and goodness in his heart.

Hope has many disguises.

Sunshine On My Fingertips

There is a strip of sunshine running across my fingertips as I type. It makes me smile.

A year ago tomorrow I stepped away from blogging, unsure of whether I'd start again or not. It took months for me to stop looking at happenings in my life as bloggable moments. The break has been good.

But here I am, giving it another go.

I don't know what exactly I've learned in the past year. I do know I'm further down the road including the times when the road has seemed to circle around to the same stuff. My spiritual director would say that even though the view sometimes looks the same it's from a different place on the road.

Deeper awareness. Hopefully, deeper acceptance. The more layers that get peeled off, the deeper the hope. Funny how the more aware I've become of my humanity, the more I've been able to accept myself. And then when that happens, change not only becomes possible, it happens.

I spent so many years fighting to distance myself from my humanity, protesting that "no, I'm not like that", whatever that was in the moment. Whatever I see in others is in me, too. I'm much more the same as everyone else than different.

I'm embarrassed at how long it took me to accept that reality. I was never going to be human. I was aiming for super human, better than, better. These days I am content to be me.Yes, there are moments what seems like long stretches when my ego runs the show. Sometimes I recognize it in the now and sometimes after the fact.

Yesterday I jumped off a diving board. Water went straight up my nose and burned like hell. I coughed and sputtered when I surfaced and swam to the edge of the pool where I heaved myself up and rested. One of many who jumped. No need to be the only one, the best one. Just me. Being a kid in a middle aged woman's body.

It's Time

I've known for a while that it's time for me to step away from blogging, be it for a time or permanently. I haven't wanted to heed that nudge so I let it sit until I could feel peaceful about it. Peaceful and a bit sad. You have no idea how your comments and readership have influenced my life for the better these past six plus years.

I started blogging to prove to myself I could write. Blogging regularly has improved my writing, there's no doubt about that. I learned to delete whole sentences, paragraphs and posts. Before blogging I used to fall in love with every single sentence I wrote. Not so much anymore.

Today I celebrated with my home group 23 years of sobriety. Technically my sobriety date is another 5 days away but my home group celebrates birthdays on the last Saturday of the month so today was the day. The picture with this post is a reflection of some gifts I received today. I feel blessed to be loved so much. And not just because people buy me stuff! But because they continue to walk with me in the fullness of my humanity. Like you folk have. I am grateful.

For now, I have other writing that I want to focus on. Maybe in time that will bring me back here. Part of me wonders if I have it in me to shut my mouth or the ability to stop looking at the world around me outside the realm of whether or not it's bloggable. If I can't then I might reappear tomorrow. Or next week. Or next year.

Whatever it turns out to be I'll catch ya on the flip side.

Oh, Spring Where Art Thou?

You'd think that after seven and a half feet of snow we could be done with it now. Apparently not. Oh, Spring, where art thou?

I drove home in a blizzard yesterday. Thankfully there were stretches of no snow, no ice. It was a long 600 kms. For quite a ways a big truck followed me and I chose to see it as a big angel. Which made me chuckle at how we humans need to assign divine identities to inaminate objects. However, it made me feel better to do so especially when the trucker waited until the roads were bare and wet to pass me even though he had the chance to do it over the course of 100kms and didn't. I was gripping the steering wheel so tight there for a while that I thought I was going to get blisters.

Last week I was reminded, again, of the truth of the saying,

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

Reminded after the fact, of course. It's been haunting me ever since in a slapped up the side of the head kind of way. I realize not everyone has a God of their understanding who slaps up the side of the head but mine does. He hugs fiercely, too.

This past weekend I took my best self to some service work instead of my dragging my butt self and the difference in the experience was enormous in a humbling kind of way. And in a Godincidence happening I crossed paths with someone from a very long time ago. There we were 600 kms from our home that is 1000kms from our original home. It was pretty cool.

The way the tires sound when they are driving over ice? Not the most pleasant sound. I turned up my music a little loud yesterday on the drive home so I could pretend I was driving on anything else.

Tomorrow I'm not driving anywhere. I'm pretty pleased about that. There's this most pungent smell that wafts like a fart under blankets coming from my fridge every time I open the door so I'm guessing getting rid of that is on my to do list tomorrow.



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Fluff and Depth In One Package

Holding a baby is a very healing pastime. Dearest one and I took turns on Sunday doing just that. Couple that with good, deep conversation with our guests and it was a great way to spend our time. They were unexpected company to have. In God's good humourous way and timing because I'd just left Mass where I had bemoaned my self centeredness to God only to came home to a baby and her mom waiting to visit the day away. Later we were joined by another couple and the conversation went deep and there's nothing I quite like so much as deep conversation about the guts of life.

Even if we continue to get snow at least when the sun shines it is warm and comforting and a very hopeful thing. I lay on the couch the other day reading a book enjoying the sun tickling my feet with kisses as I lazed away the afternoon. I used to read 100+ books a year and since I've gone back to work that number has dwindled to a handful. I didn't realize how much I missed it until I requested a passel of books from the library and began devouring them. I do have time to read after all. I've read half a dozen books in the past 10 days. I have always been the type that really couldn't care less about the state of the house around me if there was a good book waiting to be read.

One of those books was this one. I ordered it in to read because a writing teacher had recommended it as a great example of writing. It is a purely fun read that left me with great admiration for the author and how she ramped it up all the way through and made me laugh, too. The kind of laughing that begs you to go find someone and read a little bit to so that they can enjoy a belly laugh,too.

A "fluff" book as I used to declare derisively to my kids when they were growing up. A stage I went through where fluff was the enemy. Now it is fun. Oh, Lordy - when I looked it up to give you a link I found there is a whole series of books about Miss Julia. I have my fluff reading in order for years to come now. I am thrilled! (Only daughter is alternately feeling vindicated and horrified I bet!) HA!

Another book I read was this one. I remember a friend sending me her essay in the New York Time the summer I was going through the very same marriage journey. Laura Munson and I handled it in the same way so reading her book was both painful and affirming. I guess the point is that I went through it and came out the other side with a much deeper and satisfying marriage. Enough said.

And here I thought I had nothing left to blog about, that it was time to close up shop and put my energy into other things. For today I'm content to write and read although the only fluff I will encounter are the growing piles of dust bunnies.



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Easy, Peasy. Not

This week I was given multiple opportunities to once again acknowledge that I am not God and don't know what's best for anyone else. How easy it is to think that I do! And how easy it is to forget that I can't see the whole picture. Even the most put together people can be fighting battles that are invisible to the casual observer or even friend. I got reminded of that this week. It was humbling.

And then I spent time with someone whose praise and applause I so desperately want and who I often feel judgement from. Someone that made me want to bang the table and shriek, "Change already, you thick headed fool."

I hashed it all out with my sponsor last night who knows everyone in the story and she gave me good direction in seeing my part in it. There's always a my part of it in any situation. I'd really be screwed wouldn't I if there wasn't? I mean trying to do something about someone else's part in it could be very frustrating. Just ask me. I know.


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Even When It's Frozen

It was -45C before factoring in windchill here the other day. Dearest One figures it was -55C with the wind. That's -67F for my American friends. We live in a bit of a valley and are often colder than other places. We were 10 degrees colder than town. At any rate too darn cold to be outside that's for sure. Today was snowy with -35C windchill. People are starting to make tongue in cheek comments on how warm it is because, hey, -35C is better than it was! At least we are driving to and from work in near total daylight now. That is a bonus. And, and, it can be too cold to be outside and yet the sun is high enough in the sky to melt snow while the air is cold enough to freeze pee at the same time. Just sayin'.

It's a luxury to be able to blog about the weather. Serious shit is happening to people every day and all I have to whine about is the cold and snow. This does not mean I am happy being cold and driving in blowing snow. I'm not. I am surrounded by people who are so totally sick of winter they want to boycott it. I do, too, some days. But in the whole scheme of life, it's not that big of deal. I can say that because I'm warm and dry and fed tonight. Which is a luxury, too.

Tonight when I got home from work there was a message on my phone from someone that got my blood boiling. You'd think in cold weather that would be a good thing. I spent some time stewing it over in my mind before I called them back. I toldl myself to keep an open mind while convicting them of such and such a thing before giving them a chance. And after a long while I picked up the phone and found out that all my blood boiling, convicting without proof was a total waste of time and energy. I picked up the phone again and called my sponsor to tell her the whole spiel. We laughed. Then I told her how I hadn't felt good today, nausea and not exactly dizziness, just well, you know, not quite feeling right in the head. She laughed long and loudly before telling me she wasn't touching that statement with a ten foot pole and if dearest one knew what was good for him he wouldn't either. And then we both laughed.

Yep, not quite right in the head sums up how sick we can get in our thinking. I'd blame it on the weather but I am perfectly capable of having a case sewn up against a person sun or rain or wind or snow. It's not a luxury to realize that, it's a life and death thing, really. My head is truly out to get my ass. Even if it's frozen.

A Whine And A Prayer

All I want to do is gripe about the weather. Wouldn't you if it was -50F at your house. That's what it was here last weekend and it's gone up and down all week. Bah Humbug.

Other than that not much is happening. Well, that's not entirely true but nothing bloggable. The brightest spot in my week has been the discovery on a bookshelf of a book I bought for Lent last year and never even opened its covers. I picked it up this week and have felt nourished by its contents. Here is a snippet:

A Blessing Prayer

What is a blessing but a rain of grace
falling generously into the lives of those in need;
and who among us is without need?

May the Spirit touch your spirit in this midmorning pause.
May this day be a pathway strewn with blessings.
May your work this day be your love made visible.
May you breathe upon the wounds of those with whom you work.
May you open yourself to God's breathing.
May you honor the flame of love that burns inside you.
May your voice this day be a voice of encouragement.
May your life be an answer to someone's prayer.
May you own a grateful heart.
May you have enough joy to give you hope,
enough pain to make you wise.
May there be no room in your heart for hatred.
May you be free from violent thoughts.

When you look into the window of your soul may you see the face of God.
May the lamp of your life shine upon all you meet this day.

At What Age?

"What age were they when they became so matter of fact about what their children were doing?

I used to wonder about that when I gathered with a group of elderly grandmas for Bible Study when my kids were all pre teens. I'd listen to them share the latest news about what this daughter or that son was doing and be unable to identify at all with their matter of factness. I know now they had the ability to see themselves as separate beings from their children and I could not. Every action of my kids was always about me in my mind. I really believed that. They were a reflection of me. It was a painful and thank God, necessary, process for me to learn to detach and see my kids as separate from me. I cannot imagine being in relationship with them today had I not been given that gift. They'd want nothing to do with me, I'm sure.

The other day I was observing my mother-in-law walk across her kitchen floor. Her movements seemed a little stiff like she was the Tin Man getting her joints oiled with every step. For the first time I realized she's frail. Not uncommon for someone who is over 80 years old.

So it seems like an oxymoron to be 80 something and still wishing you could lose those last 10 pounds. I've heard my MIL talk about it my whole married life. Dearest one heard her kvetching with one of her daughters about it not too long ago.

Later that day I wondered what age a woman has to get to before she stops talking about the need to lose weight, to reach that magical number in her head that will never be hers again except by default of getting an insidious disease.

There's a scene in one of Anne Lamott's books that has stuck with me:

When my best friend Pammy was dying, I asked her if I looked fat in a certain dress, and she—from a wheelchair—said, “Annie, you really don’t have that kind of time.” I live by that.

I look at pictures of me when I am the mother of a one year old and remember how proud I was to come home eight days after having gall bladder surgery and the number, THE NUMBER! on the scale, I hadn't seen since before pregnancy.

In those photos I dont' look like I have any extra skin on me at all. A few years and another baby later I went on a weight loss binge and in those pictures I look anorexic. I remember the powerful feeling of losing weight and telling dearest one to please keep an eye on me because I didn't think I could stop losing weight, it felt so good. THAT NUMBER on the scale I hadn't seen since 9th grade. I only came to my senses after I slipped on a pair of 28 inch waist jeans and realized that size of jeans and fat couldn`t belong in the same sentence. I`m embarrassed at how much of a jolt it was when that realization hit me.

Twenty five years later I`m about being at home in my skin. It's taken that long to reach this place. I could write reams about the journey to get here. Being at home in my skin has nothing to do with the number on a scale. My younger self would never have believed that. A few years ago my cardiologist was raggin on me to lose weight. She wanted 20 pounds gone before she saw me again in a few months.

I looked at her and the part of me that is competitive, that has the I'll show you mantra threw down a glove and said, "Game on." The other part of me, the side I've worked harder to nurture, looked at her and thought to myself, "I will never do that crazy making dance again. Not even for you."

The other day, as part of my job, I had to weigh someone and record their weight for a contest. She can't be any older than I was when I was in my near anorexic days. She was excited for the contest and was off to the gym to exercise. I encouraged her in her desire to be healthier but I felt a real sadness as I watched her walk away, pining for a number on the scale. Wondering what age she will be when that pining goes away.


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Gambling On The Life Span of A Motor

"Have you heard the expression the truth will set you free?" The elderly man thinks a bit and says, yes, it does sound familiar.
The mechanic wipes his hands clean and replies, "Well that's what we believe around here." He said this in response to the man's comment on his good work, not charging more than was necessary for mechanical work.

Dearest one overheard this conversation yesterday at our mechanic's shop. My car had lost its heater and there's no driving a car here without a heater. Last night it was -33C and I can't imagine trying to go anywhere without heat, let alone having to then scrape the windshield from the inside just to see where I'd be going!

Dearest one has always done all the mechanic work on our vehicles for the past nearly 30 years. From rebuilding motors and transmissions to changing tires and oil he's done it all. Last year we decided that the bigger stuff could be handed over to someone else now. We'd heard about this mechanic through word of mouth, from a single friend who told me the guy didn't try to take advantage of her lack of mechanical knowledge by charging her for stuff that didn't need fixing.

A quick phone call to the shop from the grocery store parking lot was answered with a "bring it right down and we'll take a look at it." And that sweet, honest, upright man who looked under the hood, diagnosed a broken heater motor. He pulled it out, thumped it a good one and oiled it then put it back in and it worked.

He ducked his head out from under the hood and told dearest one that it might last a month or a year, who knew. At least we could be on our way. Then he checked around for prices on a new motor and left the decision up to us. If we didn't live so far north we might have gambled on the life span of the heater motor.

When dearest one went to pay for the thump and oil trick, the man said there was no paperwork, it was free. Dearest one asked him to order in a new heater motor and told him to call when it came in so we could bring my car back and get it fixed. The guy doesn't know us from Adam. It's only the second time we've been to his shop. This was no reward for being long time customers, it was just his way.

Which gave me a lot to think about.



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Expanding

"I think these things happen as a way for God to prepare us to be willing to leave this world."

He sighs as he says it and turns his hands palms up in a "what are you going to do?" kind of way. He's referring to his loss of hearing, his unsteadiness on his feet, the headaches that sometimes last for days. Even though I'm sitting a few feet across from him his voice is so loud that the people in the next unit probably hear his commentary on life as well.

Bit by bit his faculties are dimming. It's a miracle he's still with us after 3 open heart surgeries and many mini strokes. As he talks I am reminded of his own father who longed to go "home" many years before he did. I feel a little taken aback by his statement though. I don't think I agree with his belief, almost certain it would take a punitive God to believe it.

The last time we were together he had uncharacteristically taken my face in both his hands as he said goodbye and dished out some good natured ribbing his eyes sparkling all the while. It was one of those moments I will treasure forever because it came from the heart.

I've long thought growing old was a privilege. Maybe that's easier to think because I'm not there yet. Sometimes I wonder if the litany of ill health that sometimes peppers the conversations of older folks is really a way of grieving what was and never will be again. I wonder what it would look like if we could honour that process instead of getting irritated by those in the midst of it. Dearest one's Pa has the same litany day in and day out. I wonder if he felt like he had been heard his conversation could expand to other things. Or if it's me who needs expanding.

The Colour of Humility

"I want a medal for today."
I'm standing at the photocopier trying to fix a paper jam
when I say this to someone waiting
to see one of my coworkers.
It's been one of those days.
Brutal. Well, not really.
It just feels that way.

The person looks at me and says,
"Just go home and have a drink."
When I tell her I don't drink she says,
"Then go home and have some chocolate."
I don't eat chocolate either but I don't tell her that.
Which is a funny commentary if you think about it.
It's easier to tell people you don't drink than
that you don't eat chocolate.
I could just imagine her face contorting as she says,
"You don't eat chocolate?!"

Instead I finish fixing the photocopier in silence,
wipe the black spots of ink off my finger and go back to my desk.
Where I turn up my Christian music a little louder.
If you only knew my motives for that some days
you would puke.

Funnily enough. Or not as it turns out, one of my bigger frustrations today concerned someone who I was absolutely convinced thought was pulling a get-me-to- the-front-of-the-line sob story. So convinced was I that I let someone higher up the food chain know that I was on to that person in a who does she think she is kind of way.

Which led me to a getting a proverbial smack up the side of the head by reality. Yep, that happened when higher up the food chain person shut my office door and told me little miss front of the line's rest of the story. The real one. Not the ego driven, motive certain one I had made up all in my own little mind. The story I would have bet money on. And lost. She told me the one I could have only known if I had been God.

Humility. I can always use more of it.

When my oldest son was a toddler I used to wake up to him sitting under the kitchen table with the ketchup bottle in one hand and an arc of little red splotches holding court around him. Today it felt like God made the beginning of yet another arc right where I could see it. The red matches the colour of my face rather well.

Pretty soon I'm going to be surrounded by a sea of ketchup as all those arcs of humility/slaps up the side of the head that have been given to me over the years become one big blob.


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No Matching Required

I was in bed by 8:30 last night. I was ready to drift off to sleep when dearest one came in to get his work clothes ready for today. I watched in the shadowy lamp light as he opened the drawer of his childhood dresser and pulled out socks and underwear and a clean white t shirt. I had one of those moments of overwhelming gratitude for the simple things in life. The stuff we take for granted. Like a drawer full of matching socks.

As I watched I was taken back to a moment when I was six years old. I remember swinging my feet under the breakfast table on the kind of warm June morning that called for a dress or shorts. I had on a pair of knee high mismatched socks because that's what had been in my sock drawer that morning. Who knows what other stresses my mother was under that morning. It must have been something because she got really mad when she noticed I had on two not so white socks with mismatched patterns. She angrily sent me back to my room to get a matched pair. I didn't feel safe to tell her there weren't any. So I obediently went back to my room and stayed there a while feeling utter panic.

And there my memory ends. Sometimes I think if I squint hard enough I can see in my mind what happened after that. I doubt I missed the bus. I doubt I had on a pair of matching socks.

My mom bought groceries every Thursday of my growing up years. When I was a teenager sometimes I'd come home on a Thursday after school to find a new pair of white tube socks on the stair railing for me along with a pack of gum.

Compassion runs both ways today for me. Most likely my mom felt shame at sending me to school in a pair of mismatched socks. She couldn't do anything about it, either. There probably wasn't any money for new socks. I wish she'd had the tools to handle the situation differently but she didn't. When we know better, we do better.


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That Mysterious Wedding

"Oh, good. If you're working from home, you'll clean your desk."

That was last week. The roads were too icy to travel so I'd brought data entry stuff to do from home just in case. Dearest one has a hard time reconciling my spotless desk at work with my messy one at home. I don't.

At work my desk is the first one the public sees when they walk into our building. I'm the first person they come in contact with. It's important to me to represent our company well. Plus I'd be very inefficient at work if I didn't keep track of paperwork in a timely manner. And most likely fired as well. Although I have to admit that last week, when I was doing data entry, the disappearing information, hidden in yet another screen, felt like looking under piles of paper on my desk, saying "It was here just a second ago!" Five hours of that made me realize I prefer going to the office to work.

The truth be told, I did have cleaning off my desk on my to do list last week.
Today I am finally making it happen.

Amid the three catalogues, 4 magazines, and 5 books I've unearthed so far there have been dozens of little pieces of paper, too. About half can be tossed. Christmas lists of things to do are behind me for another year. Every once in a while I scrunch up my face and wonder why I wrote down a name I can't recognize or some words that make absolutely no sense. And then there are the scraps of paper holding information I need transfer before I can let them go. The one in the photo above grabbed my attention as I was sorting. I have no idea where it came from. Most likely from somewhere on the web.

There was a time when I would have used that quote to measure myself, beat myself up, be discouraged with who I am. Told myself that I was not good enough, had to try harder.

Today I'm pondering it, wondering what it has to say to me, if anything.
If I can't accept that who I am in this minute is enough then there's a good chance that my striving to do better is ego driven.
I can do better, but not on my own strength.
Change is that mysterious wedding between my willingness and God's grace.
I really believe that even my willingness is a grace, too.

Cabin Fever Sunset

Late in the afternoon yesterday the sun came out and perspective was mine once again. Even though it started to set withing a few minutes of its arrival, for once it didn't fizz me a bit that it was setting at five in the afternoon. It was just glorious to see it after a week of grey. It's a rather beautiful sunset if I do say so myself.

Raking Snow

That's one of the Puglies outside before we got another dump of snow. We've had another foot of it since I last posted. Oh, joys. Dearest one and I are snowed in today. There sure is a difference between having the option of seeing other human beings and not. I'm tempted to go to work tomorrow for the human contact even though it's my regular day off.

A few days ago I was able to participate in a AA Phone Meeting due to the good fortune of the folks who provide such a service. There was something calming about hearing other people share their experience, strength and hope. It's a great resource if you are getting a little cabin fever like I am and can't get to a meeting.

I am grateful to have a warm house, whose roof I hope holds under the snow load until we can get it cleaned off. I had no idea until a few days ago there was such a thing as a snow rake. We just got up on the roof and shovelled. Physical limitations mean that's not an option for either of us so a snow rake it will be.

Today the temperature finally broke the -30C mark. Perspective. I tell you it's all about perspective. Rah, rah, rah. I think mine's buried beneath the snow. I wonder if there's a rake for that?

Through Gritted Teeth

Despite it being between minus 30C and minus 40C for days on end, plus snowing (over a foot and counting), well, I'll take that over flooding any day. When my spiritual director said that this afternoon I had to agree. So much for my planned communal whine fest on who in their right mind signs up for this after they've experienced it one winter, never mind decades of them.

But I restrained myself.

It was good, however, to touch base with him and get his feedback even if it had to be via phone due to the weather. And in the vein of my post the other day I was honest with him which meant my side of the conversation was peppered with a lot of "I don't give a shit" comments. It's been many, many weeks since I've been to church or a meeting and the longer it gets the harder it is to be motivated to care.

Part of me wants to remind you, especially if you've never experienced it, that it's January in the north, Spring feels like it is buried far beneath the horizon and we still get less than 8 hours of daylight (although it feels like the never appearing sun has to shine to get even that!) I haven't felt well physically. You get the drift. All that is code for don't rain on my pity party. Like a good friend used to tell me ~

"Enjoy that there pity pot while you're sitting on it because you won't sit there forever."

Then he'd throw his head back and laugh stopping only to take a drag on his smoke, when I'd shoot him a fuck you look, which only made him laugh all the harder. Because he was right, dammit. And we both knew it.

Some days I resist wanting to remember that no matter what, my attitude is mine to choose.

I told Fr. Charlie that I had decided that when my spoon supply, the weather or the road conditions were not a factor, my place was to be both at Mass and meetings because I have a responsibility to myself and to the communities I am a part of.

But I don't feel any joy about it; more a begrudgingly doing the right thing despite myself, knowing eventually I will care again. I have been surprised by what can happen when one simply shows up anyway. Many times I have told God, through gritted teeth, that I am here out of obligation, wherever here happens to be only to have that split moment happenstance where Grace reduces to me tears reminding me that I'm right where I'm meant to be.

There have been positive things I've been doing in the meantime including nearly daily contact with my sponsor and a regular period of meditation, but there really is no substitute for flesh and blood meetings on both fronts.

Where Are Your Feet?

At one point today with windchill, it was hovering around -40C. Too cold to go for a walk. It's been too cold since I last wrote. We're getting another dump of snow, too. I have been selectively using spoons the past two days, taking time off work because I haven't been feeling too good. Tomorrow it will be back to normal, snowfall and all.

I feel like whining and moaning but who wants to read that? Even I don't. Sure, I want to know someone is human, and I rarely trust someone who is happy, happy all the day; you know that false niceness that seems too good to be true? I guarantee there is a wack of anger buried beneath it. I speak that from personal experience of having people tell me I had so much patience with my kids when they were little only to go behind closed doors and fly into uncontrollable rages with bruises to show for it. (That haunt me still.)

Someone I admire said not too long ago that he'd rather be honest than positive. I will take honest over anything else any day. There's no guess work with honest. I love this story of honesty. Love it.

I don't know where this post is going, if anywhere, so you'll have to bear with me and see.

Last week the topic came up with a group of friends about times when God made a way clear or not for us. I used to think that the goal was a straight line from here to heaven called Doing God's Will. I spent some time thinking, Oh, this must be God's will, it's exactly what I would do! to thinking "this must be God's will because there's not a snowball's chance in hell I'd choose it for myself."

Today I just try to do my best to hear God and go about my day. I don't trust my own motives because I can make just about anything sound like God, or not, when I want it to. Or as my sponsor says, sometimes you have to call bullshit on yourself.

A friend gets a chuckle when people ask her how they can tell if they are on the right path. She tells them to look at their feet.

Yesterday I spent the day in solitude, in quiet, on purpose. Dearest one was gone for 24 hours and it was just me and the Puglies. They must have sensed I was sick because they stuck to me like glue and were a real comfort.

Having one day of intentional silence a week is something I'm experimenting with this year. I spent it reading and writing and puttering. I had bigger plans than that but when I woke up feeling wretched I had to gear down my plans. I am grateful to be comfortable with silence and my own company.

It hasn't always been that way.

Addiction is all about looking to be anywhere except where one's feet are. I have relatives who live every day with intentional silence, their homes devoid of radio, tv, computer. I thought about them this week and realized it's really that internal silence that I'm seeking. Although being where my feet are without external distractions, is a good place to start.



Photo Credit(taken by someone doing my dream trip)

Trade Offs

I traded my morning Internet time for meditation this week. Spending twenty minutes in centering prayer is one of the best things I can do for my overall health. I've been resisting it for a long while because my ego tends to take a shit kicking whenever I maintain it as a regular practice.

Getting back into a routine this week after several weeks off for the holidays has felt like a brutal adjustment. It doesn't escape me that it's also the luxury of having a job with paid vacation. I feel like I have a tenuous hold on my spoon supply at the moment so my bedtime this week was the same as it was 40 years ago. You know you're tired when the evening news comes on and you feel as tired as if it was the late night news.

I'm doing what I can these days to maintain my equilibrium. There was a bit there before Christmas when my spoon supply was so depleted I questioned whether I'd be able to keep working. All my energy at the moment is going into staying well.

I work with a bunch of keen eyed health professionals. One of which told me this week that before Christmas I looked dreadful. Another who said that even if I still looked tired at least I looked rested. Which is the same as saying yes, they are still deep circles under my eyes but the rest of my body doesn't appear to be dragging as well.

I've made a few small adjustments this week to help. As tired as I am it still is a real benefit to me to go for a walk every day. Doing so meant paying no heed to the whining and moaning going on in my head as we pulled into the yard every day after work about how tired I was. I can do a mean immitation of a tired, cranky six year old on demand.

Instead I changed into warmer clothes and headed out on my walking trail, flashlight in hand and walked. It did me good. Seeing all those tracks of moose, deer, mice and birds sharing my trail made me smile.

Once, seveal years ago, after my health had rebounded for the better, dearest one looked at me with a puzzled look on his face and asked, "Why are you doing this?" I was all bundled up on a -25C day to go for a walk and I looked at him and said, "because I can. I do it because I'm grateful I have the ability to go for a walk. I don't want to take it for granted."

I didn't have to say anymore. We both could remember, rather vividly, the days when lifting one foot off the ground took more energy than I could muster. I had a few scary days there before Christmas when it felt like I was headed right back to those days.

So today the trade off is a bit of a walk for a few spoons. I'm grateful it's even an option.




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