I used to title every blog post the name of the song I was listening to when I started it. So, in honor of nostalgia, it's Junip to receive that honor today. Junip is ridiculously wonderful. Watch this video. And only after, watch this video.
It's March 1st, and it's snowing, a blowing wash of flakes, again. A few months ago I heard that the day of the month on which the first snow falls is the number of snows we will have during the season. It was the 18th of November. I haven't counted, but I don't doubt that this is the 18th snow of winter. Welcome back, Kansas says. You love snow, Kansas reminds me. You wanted extremes, right?
Right.
It's snowing, and I'm watching it from my fifth floor office in the First National Bank downtown. I don't often spend my Saturday evenings in the office, but tomorrow is a grant awards ceremony, and there were programs to design and print. Have I mentioned how amazing my job is? Come back home, Kansas told me last year, your dreams will come true.
True.
Meanwhile, I'm dreaming of Australia, of our honeymoon this summer, of visiting my grandmother's hometown, of meeting Aussie family, of scubadiving in the Great Barrier Reef, of hugging koalas. I'm dreaming of a new stove so I can bake again, of a kitchen renovation, of a fenced-in backyard for Jack and Scooter to run and play. I'm dreaming of being debt free (by December 2014!), of saving for a family and retirement and renovations, of feeling caught up and even ahead for the first time since leaving home at twenty. You're building a beautiful life here, Kansas tells me in the wind, the snow, the sunset, surrounded by people you love.
So much love.
Saturday, March 01, 2014
Sunday, February 02, 2014
The big question
Today's accomplishment: finishing Brothers & Sisters on Netflix while having a good cry. Perhaps I can add to that cleaning the house before 8am or growing my nails out long enough that I can't stop pressing them against my palm.
I've had some great accomplishments lately, including an overflowing room for the first talk20 Hutch and helping nearly 400 people get inspired at the Hutchinson Community Foundations' 25th anniversary event. And my marriage, my husband, this beautiful life we're creating in a little cottage with Scooter and Snickers and Jack whenever we can.
But, internally, there are struggles. Since July, when the stress of the summer caught up with me, I've had digestive issues, a pressure that won't go away. I went to the doctor in September, they took a blood test, and they said I was fine, that I should just try cutting some things out of my diet that may be bothering me. But it was a suggestion with a shrug, with no definite road map forward. So a few months and a lot of confusion later I started with a chiropractor/acupuncturist. That was two months ago, and though my meridians and hips are more aligned, though we know through x-rays that there's no medical blockage, the pressure is still there.
Two weeks ago I got a food allergy test back. It tells me I'm sensitive to banana, cottage cheese, swiss cheese, coconut, crab, garlic, gluten, malt, peanut, and wheat. The doctor tells me I need to avoid all of those things for the next 6 weeks to clear out my system, and then I can reintroduce one food every four days. Turns out going gluten- and wheat-free is not the hard part--going garlic free is.
I appreciate the restrictions--specific rules are what I needed for changing my diet--but I don't think it's working. There's a part of me that still thinks it's psychological, psychosomatic. The the stress of 2013--though most of it good--balled itself up and found a home in my large intestine. It's highly possible that the behaviors that would fix me, relieve my pressure, are the behaviors that I'm most afraid to do: exercising and writing.
Exercising and writing. The two acts that I know calm me, strengthen me, make me feel alive. The two acts that are just for me, that require me setting aside other peoples' needs and focusing on my own. The two acts that I convinced myself I wasn't worthy of last summer when I didn't know what I was doing with my life. The two acts that I gave up on when I felt lost are the two acts that could bring me back.
I'm dedicated to everyone and everything I care about except myself. This isn't a new revelation.
But what's the road map forward for that?
The receptionist at the chiropractor hands me a new pamphlet to read nearly week. They are always laminated and bound by an O-ring. She never has a conversation with me about the content of the pamphlets; she just hands it to me when I sit down, and I hand it back before I go into the room. They talk about subluxation and patience and Dr. You. You have to fix yourself, they say, and you have to have the patience and discipline and determination to follow through.
All this has me thinking about sacrifice and pleasure and humanity and confusion and the ever-present question HOW IS ONE SUPPOSED TO LIVE? On a diet? On a rigorous routine? Alone in a room? With lots of social commitments? Without anxiety? With pain?
Perhaps one of my ways forward is back to this blog, if this is the way back to writing, if writing is a way back to health.
I've had some great accomplishments lately, including an overflowing room for the first talk20 Hutch and helping nearly 400 people get inspired at the Hutchinson Community Foundations' 25th anniversary event. And my marriage, my husband, this beautiful life we're creating in a little cottage with Scooter and Snickers and Jack whenever we can.
But, internally, there are struggles. Since July, when the stress of the summer caught up with me, I've had digestive issues, a pressure that won't go away. I went to the doctor in September, they took a blood test, and they said I was fine, that I should just try cutting some things out of my diet that may be bothering me. But it was a suggestion with a shrug, with no definite road map forward. So a few months and a lot of confusion later I started with a chiropractor/acupuncturist. That was two months ago, and though my meridians and hips are more aligned, though we know through x-rays that there's no medical blockage, the pressure is still there.
Two weeks ago I got a food allergy test back. It tells me I'm sensitive to banana, cottage cheese, swiss cheese, coconut, crab, garlic, gluten, malt, peanut, and wheat. The doctor tells me I need to avoid all of those things for the next 6 weeks to clear out my system, and then I can reintroduce one food every four days. Turns out going gluten- and wheat-free is not the hard part--going garlic free is.
I appreciate the restrictions--specific rules are what I needed for changing my diet--but I don't think it's working. There's a part of me that still thinks it's psychological, psychosomatic. The the stress of 2013--though most of it good--balled itself up and found a home in my large intestine. It's highly possible that the behaviors that would fix me, relieve my pressure, are the behaviors that I'm most afraid to do: exercising and writing.
Exercising and writing. The two acts that I know calm me, strengthen me, make me feel alive. The two acts that are just for me, that require me setting aside other peoples' needs and focusing on my own. The two acts that I convinced myself I wasn't worthy of last summer when I didn't know what I was doing with my life. The two acts that I gave up on when I felt lost are the two acts that could bring me back.
I'm dedicated to everyone and everything I care about except myself. This isn't a new revelation.
But what's the road map forward for that?
The receptionist at the chiropractor hands me a new pamphlet to read nearly week. They are always laminated and bound by an O-ring. She never has a conversation with me about the content of the pamphlets; she just hands it to me when I sit down, and I hand it back before I go into the room. They talk about subluxation and patience and Dr. You. You have to fix yourself, they say, and you have to have the patience and discipline and determination to follow through.
All this has me thinking about sacrifice and pleasure and humanity and confusion and the ever-present question HOW IS ONE SUPPOSED TO LIVE? On a diet? On a rigorous routine? Alone in a room? With lots of social commitments? Without anxiety? With pain?
Perhaps one of my ways forward is back to this blog, if this is the way back to writing, if writing is a way back to health.
Wednesday, January 01, 2014
There's my girl
Our last moment together, before I couldn't bear to watch her go farther, was a moment after the seizure that took her to the hospital, after she'd spoken or tried to speak her last words. I knelt by her bed at Hospice, caressed her delicate hand, and said I love you, Grandma. She nodded. Because of course she knew, our bond secured from the day I was born.
I've written about her in more ways than I remembered, in poems and essays trying to capture her story, her spirit, her home. These are a few poems that should speak for themselves, because I can't write anything new yet. I can't write as if she's gone.
Thank You
Lively embarkings
down your driveways,
flimsy grasps for fingers,
limitless: dry goods
displayed in the nook,
naughty flirtations drink
your savings and non-sins,
silly kittens with gum
for eyes, ceilings sag
rain and mold over taught
sheets, silkless drapes
conduct neighbor ramblings,
his winter shorts and orange
shaved legs, dangling
love--your pearlescent
beads, mis-shaped vases:
you could wear white
hair and I'll adore you no
less.
Mariposa, Once
And
now, with his Ford permanently
parked,
his Veteran flag framed
on
your dresser, his cats begging
milk
from some other front porch, you go
back
to Rockhampton. But not on The Mariposa.
You're
the only war-bride
sailing
not through seas but skies to find
the
white corner ranch, the lopsided
outhouse,
even to scream, feel
a
spotted toad slick
over
toes like it used to--
but
you’ve kept his name. You have forgotten
the
sound of your mother's goodnight under
his
whiskered licks of your ear. Queensland can’t
reclaim
you. Only select words lack R's
as
always. Absent R’s in a kitchen
stocked
with food of your choice alone. Absent
R
leather-stitched
on the belt he wore
when
he died and dropped
your
accent into your trunk of possessions and
locked
it.
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