Wobble

As a child, I wore this locket. It's actually a bit strange - having these photos of my brothers inside. I did idolize them, true enough, but the photos in the locket were not my idea, but my mother's. My prayers for them, maternally encouraged nightly ritual, blowing a kiss in their general direction, took on a sense of praying to them. Fantasies of them rescuing me, then simply coming to visit, eventually reaching out to me even, atrophied - didn't die, not quite dead. Until the father died, and they made no functional effort to contact me. So many reasons why not, none I would have excused myself with in the same situation. Not that I mind, it tells me what I need to know. Aha. Truth, I can handle that, it makes sense.



Still, it nestles among other no-longer-worn trinkets and single earrings, not because I've carefully kept it, but out of simple inertia. I held it today, as I packed the deep storage, nothing wanted for a month, or a year, and felt a momentary urge to cry, then started to laugh. Really laugh, satisfied joy. This overwhelming image I had of them, long forgotten, is now actively let to float away. The charm will stay, it takes up no room, and who knows what insights might be gleaned next year, next decade.


My mother often used the word grudge. She railed against those who held grudges for years, her sister, other relatives. I had to agree that holding a grudge was a bad thing, but I often thought that the word was loaded, and often wrong. Sometimes people just don't like each other. Sometimes we see a fault we cannot endure, a malice, a bigotry, or a long pattern of a shameful weakness or willful ignorance, and separate ourselves from the poison, made more difficult if there are family obligations. Anyone genuinely holding a petty grudge is probably the kind of person to use the word on someone else. Those who accuse everyone else of rudeness or lying, are often the ones most guilty of being rude and lying. Not always, but it is a word that judges, admits no kindness or compassion, no understanding, dismissive.

I sit tight with my still young sense of kindness & serenity. This has shaken it, I admit, but not badly, not fundamentally. Testing it, and it's holding. Wobbling, but not sliding.





I have no idea. I assume it's a "cat thing" and I wouldn't understand.

Conveying

Camel caravan,
Cars, carts, carrying cases.
Conveying the cat.

Betters

Buncha bullies,
Bothering, boasting bozos,
Bettering the blog.



(I'm just envious you did better on the A's than I did. You do know tis all in jest, right? But, I'm doing it with 17 syllables, so there.)

Amphora

In this run up to the Big Changes, I could easily whine daily. Instead, I think I'll do something alphabetical, and hit Z about when we are done it all. A formula for the distracted days. Done this before, and it's a kind of comfort.



Alphabetical.
Amorphous ghosts of several,
Amiable, aunts

Holland

We all draw close to those who live the Tao,
They shine with peace, exude joy, soothe us.

We run to the excitement of hot food and fast music.
The tao is the quiet work that creates that.
It seems dull, the dirt that grows the peppers, the scales that train the musician,
The invisible physics and electrochemical principles we so try to comprehend,
There is no end, no goal, no ultimate explanation, just tao.

The Dutch have taken Holland. A quiz when anyone tells what is well known as a piece of wonderful news. Similar to Queen Bess (or Queen Anne) is dead.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p 312.

Hegira

The corner of Chapel and Chapel, in Brookline, MA. Not a joke, or at least, not only a joke.

Once, when we lived in Boston, a friend was in town. He called, trying to get driving directions, since being lost in Massachusetts - where two wrongs don't make a right, and neither do two lefts - is endemic, mandatory even. Problem was, he was not sure where he was, and did not stop to properly locate himself. A long series of exasperating calls where he kept reading out street sign names, which wasn't going to help, because there are duplicated street names, and some intersect themselves (see above.) Other problem was that we never drove there. Turned out he was in Cambridge, across the Charles River entirely, at least so we suspect. We still have no idea how he got to the large hotel where he was staying, although once there, we met him, insisted he leave the car in their parking, and took him out via the T and our own good feet - in which by then we had a reliable muscle memory map.

Learning some (possible) truths about my biological sire and further paternal family of origin feels like I was building a theory based on bad data points. All the Here Be Dragons gaps, on my map of their lives, all the deceptions and evasions, even downright lies, means I may well have been on the other side of the world. I had enough to make some pretty shrewd guesses, but not enough to cope properly. As with my elementary Spanish, I could muddle along with Portuguese speaking patients, until they started answering with more than very simple, single words. Not so much wrong, as wholly inadequate.

Not that I would have thought more of my father. He lied reflexively, about trivial matters, no wonder he was so adrift, with no stars to steer by. But I maybe could have responded in a way that would have made more sense to him. Gods know he was never going to figure me out. He couldn't even remember my name most of the time. Well, ultimately not my job, never was.

	Elvis Costello - Lost in the Stars
	Found at Lost in the Stars on KOhit.net

Found my center, built my own moral compass, oriented myself in the universe. A few good folks as my examples, which is all it takes. I strive for truth and clarity constantly. How do I know? By the results, calm joy around me, stability, kindness. When the chaos and anger are washed away, I figure I'm doing it right. This is the tao.

I am here.

Iron

All the kin I need,
Provide me comfort and joy.
In a dark winter.



Not so sure about the rapprochement with the genetic kin. Wary, sensitive to manipulation and disregard. I will only accept it as a comfort and joy, if they take me whole, not out of entitlement on their part, and un-accepted obligation on mine. No, I don't need any of it, although I'm willing to unlock the door. Mostly on the principle of "you never know." But too much evidence of expectation, and intolerance, too many ignored promises, then I am perfectly happy with my Iron Curtain dropping again. They control little I want, nothing I need. No leverage to speak of - if they try to lean, they will find themselves with no resistance, because I've walked away. Which presents a comical image of them on their faces. Been there, done that.

Many people in my life have been surprized and offended, when they push me a little too far, that my earlier acquiescence turns in to a cold absolute negation. I'm not very good at graduated warnings. I try to give warnings earlier. My writing is pretty... blunt, excoriating, at times. I think I'm as hard on myself as others, but perhaps only you who read here have a real sense of this.

I cannot express how glad I am that D takes me entirely as I am, and has seen me at my worst, my most intense, many times, and admires me, likes me still. More so. Full disclosure, and we still like each other.

Hoping for sleep, good night.

Need

Needing only this,
Enough to love, to listen
Eloquent silence.


Deleted a post with this photo, had to include this comment from Crow,

I hope you will pardon this bit of irreverance, inspired by your photo: And, lo! The Light shone down and the Light became word, and the word was Moby. Amen.

Such a humble cat, yet so full of majesty when the moment calls for it.

Mops

Tao is everywhere, all around, above and below.
Every little one sprouts from it, and it gives out completely.
Tao does the job, then releases it all.

Everything grows from it,
Nothing is forced by it.
It doesn't try to do anything, it is easily missed.

Everything pours back into tao,
But it does not hold them,
It sends all where it needs to be.

It seems like nothing,
Tao is greatness.

All mops and brooms. Intoxicated.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963. p. 620.

Peek

From the Inspector's exceptionally thorough report. A winter view. Not going to get anything better until mid January. And I'm not going to stop whining about it until then, so you might as well go elsewhere.

Overtime week leaving me quite worn out. Had to keep reminding myself, on the way home (with stops for groceries and beer) to keep my eyes open when stopped at red lights. Beer not optional, not about to let the anxiety go wild, not this week. Holiday skipping me this year. We're getting each other a house for christmas. And the experience. We've always gone for experiences, and hoo-boy are we ever getting one. Well, no one else I'd rather go through hell with. Heaven is when I'm with D.

Eyes have stopped working properly. Must close them.

Hobby

Although our inspector used the word foranoldhouse repeatedly, it is, as we suspected, in pretty should shape for it's age. A solid 100 this year, and there are wrinkles, but nothing fundamental to break the deal for us. Very thorough, overwhelming. It is going to be a new hobby for us. Both exhausted and anxious, but standing together. Quite the list, only a few that need to be addressed quickly.

Odd thing was that, although we've seen it twice before on two open houses, and it was essentially empty, today it was not. Before, a bed in one room, a glass desk in the living room, a few bits of athletic equipment in the basement. Today, pictures up, ornaments, books in all the bookcases, sofa in the living room, fridge covered with the usual stuff one puts on the fridge. We'd sort of heard someone might have been living there, but it seemed more like camping, caretaking, before. All very weird. And we decided we wouldn't like the guy anyway, for a lot of little tells.

Still couldn't take photos I could really show, because of someone else's stuff all over.

Had to go in to work this afternoon, at least it was a good four hours, made it worth the trip. Not really up to it, but I was in no position to complain, given that I had to beg off a shift I'd agreed to cover long ago.

Closing date has been moved up, so we might be able to move in sooner over the long weekend of MLK day. That would help.

Coal

Woman at work doing the minimum possible to keep from being fired. Not really my business, except when it directly and measurably is. Always an excuse, always someone else to blame, always the most work to circulate for. Has not taken any definitive steps to actually solving the problems, only surface changes, stop-gap lip-service, which is where I lose my patience. I report (only) the clearly reportable to the supervisor, mostly to protect the other scrub techs who she dumps work on. I can deal with moderately inept scrubs, but add in the malicious, neglectful attitude, and how it affects those who prefer not to say anything, and I feel a responsibility to the techs who are so capable and attentive and hard working. Certainly she will consider me a tattle-tale and a crank. She has great "self esteem" based on what she wants to be, not how she actually is.

All in all, it's all very sad. She has no idea how incompetent she is, how inconsistent. I was rooting for her to sort it out, because she's not stupid, she's just assumptive and entitled. Maybe that's not as amenable to correction as I'd hoped. Poor woman, if only she opened her own eyes to herself. But that's her job, and no one can do it for her.
_______________________________________________________________________________________


Thinking about scripts a lot this week, people living according to shoulds, twisting around their realities according to expectations. About holidays, weddings, houses, jobs, money, siblings, children. And how D and I have resisted and waited and transformed the assumptions. We met and became completely attached, then lived together, eventually married, changed my name years later - even to finally taking a middle name. Worked, then went and got degrees. Getting our first house in our 40s. Never wanted children, either of us. Bless the good parents, but don't count us in. We've done it all backward, but it feels right. Who knows what might be next?

Burn the scrips, throw them on the fire.

A couple of people at work right before I left, made a point of telling me how much work a house was going to be. (Not that anyone commenting here would do that... Phil*. ) Well, duh. Both of us grew up in houses, I've painted and drywalled and mowed, and stoked a coal furnace, painted the garage myself one summer, and everything else. D has much the same experience, aside from the coal. We are both thoughtful adults who know (more or less ) what we are getting into. Work, but for ourselves, and the Cat. We've chosen carefully, we've thought about this over many years. Telling us, "houses are work" is the same as saying "you have not thought about this, you idiot" in the same way as all those who told us we should buy a house when we were renting. Make up their fucking minds.

Marriage is hard, so those same kind of people say. Well when it's good, it's not hard work. It's attention and care, effort - but not a chore. Having children (for us would be) - miserable, but not for those who love it, and have a good match in their children. How many people think they should tell others that they SHOULD have children, like it has never occurred to them? Well, we are not kid people, never have been, never will be, not going to change because someone says "Oh, you Should!"

Oh, well, we never thought about that very important and personal decision, I guess we should have kids! Silly us! And we should never own a house because it's too much work. We should never have moved to Boston because it's SO Expensive! Cats destroy everything, never have a cat! Never get married, it's so hard!


Long ago, worked with a woman in her 30's having her first child, convinced it would not change their lifestyle at all - anyone pulling her aside, holding on to her shirt, screaming, "NO, Everything is going to CHANGE!" would be forgiven.

We are not doing that. We have a list of Things We Need to Do, and Things We Would Like To Do (some long term. Including having a train track around the top edge of the room.† ) We have a pretty good handle on it, after so many years. We are buying at the Bottom of the market, at a great interest rate. Unlike if we'd bought when everyone was telling us we HAD to buy a house.


We are up for this. We can do this, we are not stupid or deluded. "Everyone" is wrong. Everything you know is wrong. Know why you are doing something, it's not work at all.

And what if we die before the mortgage is done? Once we've rented it from the bank, but had space enough? What heirs need we worry about? Thirty years from now, or forty, or fifty? What difference? Now, to have space, and wood to resonate my own voice, and D's guitar, bliss.

Hopefully photos tomorrow, from us and the inspector. A day later - if I have to stay at work. I go in to work after 3, because I promised to cover for another RN, for the day, long ago, and completely forgot. But they covered for me, because I have to meet the sewer and house inspector at 10 and noon, & they got staff from the Main - but not after eight hours. Fair enough, they could have insisted I cover the shift, rightfully so. Tis the season. Monday off. Boxing Day. Works for me, as I will indeed be boxing up stuff.


Christmas would have been nice. I'll be doing Packing instead. Party for Groundhog Day in February. It's becoming official. I want someone to say, "You've lived here how long? And it looks this good?" D hedged, "well, if we get it that good." I sneered at him. Really. He knows better. I has a talent, I has skillz. It will be impressive.

Not enough chairs, though.







*Just joshing, Phil‡.
†How cool would that be?

‡And you get your own footnote to boot.

Morrow

Tomorrow and to
morrow. Long days & short nights.
Solstice needs more light.

Rich

Understanding others is wise.
Understanding oneself is enlightenment.
Ruling others means using force.
Self discipline is all about fortitude and courage.

When you know you have all you need, you are rich.
When you take responsibility for all your own thoughts and actions,
Then you are thoroughly living your own life, not expecting anyone else to do it for you.
Eternity is now, always is.

Bibimbap

Stopped over at Language Hat, a marvelous site that often goes right over my head. I like being reminded of just how smart people can be, reading about subjects beyond my ken. I consider myself pretty bright, which means to me having a sense of how much I don't understand. Among very smart folks, I happily sit at their feet, and try to ask intelligent questions.


Hat noted the addition of bibimbap to the OED, a wonderful sounding word, for a dish that sounds rather lovely. I hope someday to taste it. Never could manage kimchee, can't get it anywhere near my nose. Bibimbap, though, a word that tastes good all by itself.


D's parents called to meet us for lunch for our anniversary yesterday, apologetic about being two days late, not that we minded. Especially since they got us flan. I've really come to love them both, over the years. But then, I always love those most that I take longest to appreciate and trust. FIL wondering how we could pack with no room to put boxes. Well, I've done it before.

Books into boxes, boxes into the bookshelves, with shelves removed. Over-organizing for a move is a kind of reflex at this point. Fifteenth move coming up. If the gods of annoyance are kind, it will be the last one. I may have to rattle some drawers in praise of the Goddess Anoia. Fifteen boxes so far, books, careful not to over pack and make them too heavy, filled in with lighter objects like shoes. We're going to need quite a few more, yet. But not as many as if I had to pack everything to be shipped off in one go, taped and padded for a long journey. Despite reminding myself of this, the ramping up seems to be happening anyway. Best to just flow with it.

Favorite

Been doing a lot of crosswords, a frequent going-to-bed routine with D these days. Plus the one in the paper at work, and online at the WP, unless it's a Bob Klahn. (I won't play with him. He cheats.)

I've been mentally working on what I call "crossword words." Or, Crossword compiler's favorite word list. Variation on this post. D has more or less gotten used to this convention, but he's not happy about it.


Favorite cookie, Oreo.
Favorite director, Elia Kazan.
Favorite plant/cosmetic ingredient, Aloe.
Favorite state, Ohio or Iowa.
Favorite lake, Erie.
Favorite emotional state, Eerie.
Favorite aircraft, SST.
Favorite spread, Oleo.
Favorite cereal, Oats.
Favorite color, Ecru.
Favorite animal, Ewe.


Not a comprehensive list. Not even close.

Tissues

Moby chasing the tissue paper.





Slept, full, restful, normal sleep. Still dark when I woke up, I feared it would be 0400, or 0300, maybe even earlier, and the clock had fallen on the floor. But I had to hit the bathroom no matter what. When I came back in pulled the clock up from behind the table, it read "0700." I felt like I'd found money in my coat pocket. I finally, actually, made it through the night, and came out rested.

I also thought about the clock. It's shaped like one of the original iMacs, purple - like the actual imac I had. The alarms haven't worked for a while, but the clock is otherwise in as good a shape as it was in 1997.

D sometimes makes us sausages for breakfast. Got irritated with how they roll, making it problematic to brown all around. So, I offered him the lemon juicing stone. Works a treat.


Found this over at TYWKIDBI,

Carl Sagan was Jewish by birth, but a nonbeliever in practice, although he denied being a frank atheist:

"An atheist has to know a lot more than I know. An atheist is someone who knows there is no god. By some definitions atheism is very stupid."
In reply to a question in 1996 about his religious beliefs, Sagan answered, "I'm agnostic."

Here is a very touching comment by his wife Ann Druyan:

"When my husband died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me - it still sometimes happens - and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don't ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous - not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance… That pure chance could be so generous and so kind… That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time… That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it's much more meaningful…

The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful."

Abrasives

Tis the season when whatever has been put off is best used to take advantage of one's deductible, and there are the holidays to take off for healing. ORs are often most busy this time of year. We have picked up remarkably, which is good and exhausting together. For a week with random sleep, and too much to think about, both of us overwhelmed, the extra hours are also abrasive. Last night up several times, woke and could not settle again, slept a while, up again. Not restful.



Dr. A wrote a scrip for a thumb splint, which I was able to get fitted for in a gap between cases. It does feel better this evening. It looks fluid, but it is quite stiff, and protected my joint from the work of the day. Yes, I did get to pick the color.

Every year, she brings in really lovely grapefruit for each of the staff at Christmas, making no secret of her appreciation for our work. This year, it got delivered incorrectly, and non-staff helped themselves, instead of our office manager making sure everyone got one. I got missed, when she found out, she brought one in for me especially. She really didn't have to, no one's fault, but I am very grateful. I'll eat it whole tomorrow, with gusto.



I kept up, laughed, paid attention. A wave of weight and vague illness hit about 1600, only subsiding after I was home a while, eating D's lovely goulash stew, spicy and flavorful. I find myself full on very little food, then ravenous a few hours later, wondering why I didn't just have more at mealtime.

Too much sugar at work, mostly resistible, if only for the glut that induces revulsion in me. Only that I was so hungry did I indulge at all, really.

Air reportedly improved, but so foggy. The light on the way home, just at sunset, pinks and oranges on the grey, through the murk, stained rather than pretty. Ruined light, muddied horizon. Supposed to be clearer soon.

The House Inspector poking around the house on Wednesday, and we meet with him once he's done. Says we'll have 100-200 photos of his work. Should be interesting. D had to deal with more requirements, paperwork, today. It's been a rough week on both of us. This evening, Moby staying close, very nearly sat on D's lap, stood on it for a while, then curled between us, getting up, as we got up, came back several times.



Shared my old Thank You joke several times today, half heard by one, encouraged to pray the whole litany again.

Grassy Ass, mercy buckets, and donkey shines.

Proverbs

Busy, busy day, and me the runner. I wrapped blankets to be sterilized, I rolled bias dressings because they were out, I turned over rooms - opening for the scrubs, making beds, shifting equipment. I gave breaks and lunches and cleaned and ran. I scrubbed in at 3, which was a bit of quiet relief in comparison. No wonder moving is not as daunting for me, it's no worse than a long day at work.

We have allowed ourselves a week to do the move. Closing on the 13th, which is a conference day for our surgeons, and we will likely only be running one room anyway, so getting it off was a piece of proverbial cake. Ta (ladi) dah! To move in on the 17th. Looks like we are going to have to have a Groundhog Day party, as I have been joking about doing for years, since there is no way I'm putting up and taking down a christmas tree as I pack up our stuff. Maybe I will put it up for the new place. Maybe. But we should be settled in sufficiently by then, knowing me. February 2 is a Thursday, so it'll have to be the Saturday after. Close enough.

It's kind of an ideal move, only a few stairs, two blocks away, from a small place into a larger one, not just one day. This, by the standards of a move, is going to be more, proverbial cake. It probably won't snow every day that week.

Thumb is much improved. But Dr. A, who I would have preferred to take care of this, but Dr. Tigger is hard to refuse, has told me I should have a hard splint, especially during the move. She was going to write a scrip for me to take up to the hand clinic, but I missed her before she left today. I'll catch her next week, and will follow her directions. Going to continue to baby it for a while, as it heals. Thumbs are best well cared for. Very important, opposable thumbs.

Going to bed early, to sleep, to recuperate. Inspection on Wednesday. Title being checked. Will start the packing process Saturday.

Moby still blissfully unaware, although we've told him. He'll know something is up when the boxes start stacking.

Down

Finally coming down. A very bad high. Awake now for 36 hours, and not yet bedtime, but I think sleep will be possible, possibly unavoidable. Not that I am at all inclined to avoid sleep. My motormouth was obnoxious to me, once started, shutting up was nearly impossible. This is not me, I don't just keep talking and talking and talking. Occasionally I write a bit obsessively, but I can normally control my voice. D is, to my eternal gratitude, both honest and tolerant and supportive.

All the tasks have been accomplished for today. Everything done that can be done. January is going to be quite a month. Moving from a small place into a large place, a few blocks away, over the course of a week, is an ideal situation. This is going to work. Which we always knew, deep down. Not good to admit it too soon, but, yes.

Down, down, down.

Wired

Had a teacher, high school, who spent part of a class on swearing and obscene language. Without using any, I must add. Very rational, normalized the words for me. Just words, but powerful ones to be used at the right times and places.

Tonight, though, I am thinking of the time he told us, "Some nights will be sleepless. Happens to everyone, don't let it worry you." Because I think I've gotten about an hour in so far, although I'm hoping for a few later this morning. A bruise in an inconvenient place on my hip, my aching thumb, sore throat from the terrible air, and my multiple hamster-wheeling thoughts, all conspiring to keep me more or less awake. Mr. Novak, yes, that was the name.

Later:
Around 0430, feeling like I'd taken several caffeine pills, and tea tasted awful and a bit tinny, it occurred to me to look up Depo-medrol, the corticosteriod in my thumb. Some spark of memory proved right. I checked. One of the side effects is sleep interruption. Whooo boy, did my sleep get lost. I wrote to my boss that I would not make it in for the meeting, but as I stay so utterly alert and awake and a bit wired, I've decided to just show up. D has made me promise to be exceptionally careful driving, which I have done, and will do.

Still later:
Icy roads, in patches. Tried to avoid the worst of it, and made it home safe and sound. Did not even try to work on the schedule. I'd have made a hash of it. I assured everyone it was the steroids, not meth. I don't think anyone there has ever seen me that talkative.

D remembered this morning that today is our legal wedding anniversary, 18 years. We both often forget it, since we always count the November activation date 21 years ago, when our relationship really started. We have been together every day since, or at least spoken - for a few of those days when one or the other of us was out of town. Still, the legal marriage has been damn useful.

Thumb is feeling a bit better, though. Shot ache, not the same as before. Still wearing the brace, will continue to baby it for another week. Give it time.

And finally:
Having some alcohol to get my brain to slow down. Trying to edit this a bit, sorry if I miss letters. Tea tastes better, which I take as a good sign.

Late

Sort of a theme song for us through the move to Boston. Came up again this week.

Faster!

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! *

We got our official Yes this evening, and some tight deadlines. Gah, and yikes, and huzzah. Will learn more tomorrow, details and commitments. D will start to bring home boxes from work. I'll get some packing tape. Going to be a tight year for cash. But we will have a house.

Exchanging letters with my younger elder brother. He's really trying, and I know the quality of his heart, if not the nature of his personality, after so many years. Writing all going there, careful words, expressive words, real words. Striving for compassion and honesty. It's going to be a long road, I will walk it for now. No destination, only the journey.

Dr. Tigger injected my sore thumb today, corticosteriods, for some inflammation that has persisted. He also did x-rays, the quick ones like we use in the OR. No arthritis, a tight joint space, but nothing extraordinary, just one of those overuse issues. Our core tech guy was right behind me, a kind of staff clinic this afternoon.

He kept apologizing for the needle, but I did nothing more than blink a bit. I'm a tough old broad, and I'm not about to let a little needle bother me. He'd broken scrub while his resident sewed the incision (standard practice) so I did the count with the scrub, and a bit of charting with one hand, as he poked the other. Told him if I could deal with a block in my sinuses so they could stitch up my lip, a little finger pressure was not about to phaze me. He warned me how much it would hurt, especially the next day. And I accepted this, I'd had a hip injected for bursitis when I was about 30. That hurt like mad, alarmingly so, but as that pain ebbed, so did the misery of the bursitis, and it never returned. I was up for thumb pain that would abate. Sorer all afternoon, but not so badly.

Extremely irritated that I have to go in at 0700 for a meeting tomorrow, my day off. Dammit. I'll do up the February staff schedule to make it worth the trip. I'll probably be awake at 0400 again anyway. Might as well get paid for being up too fucking early.

Fortune cookie message this evening, You will be coming into a fortune. Well, when we get the downpayment in one place, certainly. Perhaps the house is our fortune.


And, I can imagine the house. Soon to be our house. Very soon.

!

Bucko

Not so fast there, bub.
Elation mixed with terror,
A yes too soon jars.


We got word, then found out it was a bit premature. Still, a step in the right direction, but a wrong-footing one. Back to sitting tight, but with brightening in the east.

Unhatched

Went out to count our unhatched chickens. But we did keep reminding each other, "If... ."

A dull, murky Sunday, but with all our ideas of what we would need to do, would like to do, IF we get that house. We, (sigh, can't imagine doing this at any time before in our lives) went to Home Despot, for fun. Fact finding mission. One can only glean so much online, sometimes you just want to see it, touch it, to get a clearer idea of what is available. So, we looked. At motion sensor light switches, and lamps and convection heaters, rugs and rug pads and mixer faucets, dust abatement moppage, plug in flashlights, laundry equipment. Bought nothing, of course. This will be a series of projects for the ages. We rather enjoyed having plans, how to do it all cheaply, efficiently - but definitively. Like solving a puzzle, what needs to be done first, what can we do ourselves, how long will it all take?

Well, obviously, it could just not happen at all. Still, we imagine our trip to Moscow, and sit on our luggage and sigh.

Finally, because of U-tyube, able to share The Canadian Conspiracy with D. "Loren Greene, Green Card... coincidence?" Oh, my.

Good

Click to make legible.


Devil in the details. At the edges of the maps are the speculations, convenient lies, fiction, GPS malfunctions. Everything is broken.

Waiting continues.

Philosophy

Tao is indefinable,
Too small to be caught in a net of words,
Immeasurable enormity.

If we rule ourselves by it,
Everything flows along,
Rains fall, clouds form.
No need for external laws,
We live well though compassionate understanding.

Once we divorce the body from the soul from the mind,
Rewarding one for treating the other well, punishing if it does not,
All crumbles in senseless, effortful words.
Know when to silence the logic,
And simply watch and listen, observe.

Tao pours down, ignoring wordy philosophy, exposing truth.

Philosopher's Stone. The hypothetical substance which, according to the mediaeval alchemists, would convert all baser metals into gold. Its discovery was the prime object of all the alchemists; and to the wide and unremitting search that went on for it we are indebted for the birth of the science of Chemistry, as well as for many inventions. It was in searching for this treasure that Bötticher stumbled on the manufacture of Dresden porcelain; Roger Bacon on the composition of gunpowder; Geber on the properties of acids; Van Helmont on the nature of gas; and Dr. Glauber on the "salts" which bear his name. ... According to one legend, Noah was commanded to hang up the true and genuine philosophers' stone in the ark, to give light to every living creature therein; while another related the Deucalion (q.v.) had it in a bag over his shoulder, but threw it away and lost it*.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 699


*Threw it away AND lost it? Either/or, I would think.

Weather chill and dull, without real cold or storms, just mucky air. Anything could happen, but it won't.

Limbo

Floating in between.
Adrift in a salty sea
One shore here, one there.

Numbed

Brained, numbed, too many hours, a very late day, after waking at 0430 for the third day in a row. Sleep disturbed. Haunted by the living. Realized, not really for the first time, that I who have the least family feeling, but the strongest sense of duty, am the one who has made the most effort in making contact. Well, I have done. I will respond in kind, but never initiate again. I have lived up to my own sense of responsibility and more, which is enough. More than enough. Their deficits are their own karma. They are not my job.

Got home about 8, after a very hard day. Not bad, just, hard. Very, very tired.

Escapes

Everyone in their places, safe and well. I had to make the call, wound up with mother and both brothers on a kind of conference call. Weirdness ensued, much dissonance for me. Rolled out the jokes, and for the first time really, viscerally understood the theory of comedy as socially acceptable hostility. And I killed! Jokes rolled out unstoppably, slipping out on the beer. Oh, no, I really don't want to talk to them cold sober. Oh, how they laughed.

When they started talking about sending the ashes, I went silent. I did not mention The Big Labowski, I did not say I wanted to be left to a body farm, I did not say I was glad le bâtard est mort. Many things I will never say, not to them. No, I'll say all that here. Don't you feel special?

After way too much frustration and miscommunication, and some technical glitch on brother's end, I sent some photos via email.



"Why are you making such a face?" asks mom.

"Why not?" I say, not rising to the slight.

"Are you going grey?" says mom.

"Oh, gone, really gone."

"And your hair is so long" she adds.

"Yup."

"I keep mine so short because the color is so ugly," she adds. (Meaning red.)

The negativity sucks at me, but I stand back and it can't touch me. Second brother and I have each other's email, which could be good, but we are largely unknowns to each other. He was the gentler soul when I was a small girl, the listener, and when he left, he left thoroughly. His subsequent story is very sketchy. Older brother reminds me too much of his father, but I take the kid sister's privilege of bashing him with insults - as long as I keep it funny.

I will do my duty as long as I can. The option of disappearing again is in my hands. Knowing I have an escape from a social situation makes it doable. Just like parties, I can enjoy myself if I know I can leave* at any time. Means I have choices. Like any good OR nurse, I have, at core, a bit of control freak. Lots of niceness over a steel armature - necessary for standing up for patients, and not being run over by surgeons. I can only be pushed so far.




*D and I have a deal at social events, both of us have a veto, one wants to leave, we leave, no questions, no more than very short delays. It's worked very well over the years.

Houses

Our home is here. We would just like to have a house to put it in. One of those linguistic anomalies, a short sale takes a lot longer. Not as long as they used to, as banks are glutted with these.

My mother is at a hotel near the Detroit airport with her niece - widow of her beloved nephew. B is flying with her in the morning to Oklahoma City, then flying back. Her son, my eldest brother, will meet them, and take her on to his home in Texas. The keys to the house I grew up in have been handed over to the new owner. I'd vowed over a decade ago to never set foot in it again. Interesting coincidence, that we are finally looking at getting our own house, just as my original has passed out of her hands. I'm glad it's gone, I hope it has a happier life.

I expect a call from her sometime tomorrow, when she reaches her new home. She is worried about the flight, the last time she was in a plane, it was an eight hour flight in a prop from Detroit to Florida, circa 1958 (?). She was so sick the whole way down, they took a bus back. I was still non-existant. So, I sent her a sick bag, the good ones we give to patients after surgery, and some of the ginger gum that kept me going after my bout of (presumed) food poisoning last month. Honestly, I think she'll be fine, but it's a huge change for her. She never expected to leave that house, it's probably means something that she seems to be abandoning it so quickly and cleanly. I know better than sending a non-functional gift to anyone in the midst of moving, having received a few myself. It's always such a wrench, to be so grateful at the kindness, and so annoyed at the extra burden.

Weapons

Instruments of war rely on fear, all life avoids them.
The tao doesn't need them.
The wise prefer to walk around,
Warriors want to blow up the rock.

Using weapons means a failure of imagination and compassion.
The wise will never use them, save to protect the threatened.
Peace and kindness heal minds,
Destroying an opponent is cause for grief.
If you rejoice in hurting others, enjoy the thought of killing,
You kill your own spirit, empty out your own humanity.

In joy, we are glad to be kind.
When sad, we want to indulge in violence.
Military leaders on the battlefield prefer peace,
The politicians safe at home cry for war.
War should be seen as a mass funeral.
The maimed and dead have no side,
All should be mourned as a failure of all of us.
Every victory is a solemn disaster.


This was a very strange one to interpret, and terribly sad. Anyone who resorts to violence, even in thought, has failed to find a real solution.

Shock

For a long moment, I remembered, as clearly as if I were standing there, my father, in the midst of a long raging rant, asking, accusing me "Do you think I want to rape you?" I am not sure if I nodded or stayed silent, because he'd articulated my precise fear. But he then shouted, "If I was going to rape anyone she'd be prettier than you." My mother came in shortly after, and he told her "She thinks I want to rape her!" And my mother turned on me, "How could you think that?" I knew then how utterly alone I was, how completely I had to defend myself from then on. I was 13. I would never have thought, or used the word, "rape." Not at that age, it was so far out of my experience, unimaginable. I didn't make that up, it came from him. It still seems like the deepest, darkest place in my life.

This is not normal.

I tried to find this story here, but it didn't show up. Only hints and other stories. It seems odd that I had not written about it before. Maybe it's just not showing up on my searches. I could have sworn I'd written about it ad nauseum.

To think, he thought he was treating me "like a princess." Maybe an abused goddess' princess... . Well, you know how those old gods loved their incest.

Any wonder I couldn't grieve him? Only react with a kind of weird shock at his long awaited death? And my ambivalence toward my ineffectual mother? It all just gets too fucking weird, even after decades.

Potential

Walked in the cold air yesterday, dry and biting. Took a second, harder look at Potential House, and are still positive, waiting. Agent seems to think we could hear by christmas, and that we have a good chance. Trying not to get too carried away, but deciding to hope - just for today. We are feeling very cramped. D gashed his head on the corner of a shelf trying to clean up, nothing like a stun from a head bonk and bleeding to make one want just a little more space to move. He put away all but one guitar because he's exasperated at worrying about damaging them in such tight quarters.

Our agent, who is not the one who has listed the house, met us there, and was impressed. Complimented us on having good eyes. Well, after so many apartments, especially looking at rentals in Boston, we are pretty clear on what we can and can't live with. We know ourselves pretty well. A (wo)man's just got to know h(er)is limitations. To paraphrase.

The not-selling-points for us include, single paned windows - lots of irregular sizes that would not be readily converted. Honeycomb blinds are probably the best solution. The fireplace is real, not gas or electric, so we would have to cap it and put in an electric insert. I am not dealing with smoke and ash and cleaning the creosote out of a chimney, risking fire for the sake of romance and a nice smell. When I was 20, sure, not now. Forced air heating in this climate is expensive and very drying, we plan on adding radiant heat to warm individual rooms. And some fans to avoid the cost of central cooling all through the hot summer. The ceiling fans in two rooms are simply dust catchers, since the flickering induces migraines and nausea in me - no matter how effective the concept is. We will need tools, like a snow shovel, step ladder, garden hose, and whathaveyous. We will want first a washer/dryer, since I really don't want to schlep all our clothes to a laundromat - again. The driveway is narrow, and shared with the house next door. There is no on street parking in front of the house. No screens on any of the windows. I'll need to invest in netting, so we can open them without letting the cat out.

None of the above are deal breakers. They are consolation sour grapes if the deal is not accepted. Because I walked around the place with a silly grin at the space, and the wooden floors and closets and light and flow, and the bathroom better finished than I'd remembered. It's a process, with no guarantees. All I can see is how well it would work, so I force myself to notice the problems.

We are doing this ourselves. With advice, but no one to help in any material way, no one who would help is in any position to do more than cheer us on from the sidelines. Scary as that is, there is a wonderful sense of accomplishment and satisfaction to be found. Our decisions, our work, ours to claim utterly, mistakes and all. No one to apologize to for our losses. Sink or swim, to either enter of blissful tranquility of drowning, or the elation of success. More likely the relief of treading water, long term. Honestly, I think I would be a lot more worried if it all seemed perfect. I am deeply suspicious of apparent perfection.

Yes, I have learned to be very detail oriented. It's the job.

Scarlet

Red tissue paper, strong sun, and a human with a hand mirror. Cat bliss.

Hips

D's brother N. sent lovely almond christmas cookies, and red tissue paper, which Moby knew was just for him.

Winter whoooshed in, although it didn't feel as cold without the wind.

Weird day, obvious from the schedule, and it got worse. One nurse called in late, due to problems from the wind damage the day before. By then, I'd already set up the room, and assumed I'd be there, which I was. She got there as the first case finished, and a bugger of a case it was too. The next room along call it #2, had a surgery that went to hell on a greased slide with a handbag full of lead. Poor B had a difficult day. And room #1 - and it's surgeon- had to wait four hours for the surgeon in room two to finish, because surgeon #1 needed surgeon #2, as it was an unfamiliar procedure to surgeon #1. Surgeon #1 is not known for his patience, his catchphrase is "I feel myself Waaaiiiiting....." But he held it together pretty well, for him.

Room #3 was just three straightforward hip arthroscopies, but that surgeon had a much simpler knee scope to wedge in somewhere. Hip scopes are complicated set ups, takes a bit of time and a few hands to turn a room over to a knee, so we try to set up a different room instead. Given the delays, that looked unlikely. By 1500, I was scrubbed into the hip scope, and delighted when the knee scope went to .... room 2. So, once we were cleaned up, I went in and offered B relief. She accepted with near-glee. She certainly had the worst day, at least the other room had a gap. And it seemed good karma to kick her out. Surgeon #3 is very quick with these, so I figured it wouldn't be long. The other circulator and the charge nurse also stayed to get everything put away before we even left the room with the patient. One of those days that ends with good feelings and gratitude.

Terrific

Terrific winds since early morning, still bitter by the time I left work. Canyon winds, channeled and powerful, and selective. Trees down, branches, leaves making a mad, panicked dance. On my way up to work, a school bus in the lane next to me put on a turn signal to move left. I let it in, and then saw that the right lane was blocked with two garbage bins. The higher I drove, the worse the wind gusted, a massive force against the car, at stops shoving me from side to side. Had I been flipped over, it would not have particularly surprized me. I braced myself for the walk to the door, a breathtaking stretch. The woman ahead of me struggled to get the door pulled open, grateful when I added to her efforts.

North of us, a gust of 102 PMH was clocked. Right here, one of over 60 MPH was measured. Semis knocked off the highway, signs thrown all over. Even the commuter train got blocked by debris on the tracks. Hurricane moments in the middle of a continent. Very odd, unsettling. We do get these winds once in a while, but this one is a doozy. That it blew through during the day I think makes it worse.

And it is very dry. A dew point of 12˚F (-11 C) is not comfortable, my hands are cracked, my eyes scratchy.


Despite it being Thursday, it was Windsday, Pooh.


I don't know why this struck me so funny, but here it is.

Reflective

Napping in the sun.



Chasing a reflection.



Waiting for the sun to come back out to he can chase again.

Yourself

Be yourself. One of those awful instructions given to the young. Parents, teachers, adults in general, tell them from the beginning how to be, to be good, dress them, correct them in every detail. Hard for a child to know how much of it is necessary teaching and how much the personal preference of the teacher, how much their own self. Very few parents are good at bringing out their offspring's own best character, without imposing their own, and I expect they never say, "be yourself."

Surgeons who are consistent, reliable, and communicate clearly with their staff, and welcome questions are so easy to work for, and with. The difficult surgeons who don't have a routine, are always using different equipment and supplies, ignore question and anger easily, are the ones who always say, "I do this the same way every time!" The good ones who actually are pretty much the same every time, never say that.

People who apologize saying, "I'm not usually like this," frequently are. When I find myself using that phrase, I look very closely at how I've been behaving recently.


~~~~~~~~Grossness alert ~~~~~~~~~~



Had to get on the floor, and reach under the blankets under the sterile field to attach the hose to the bair hugger warmer for a patient. S. laughed, and I said "Dignity. Always, Dignity." Yup, I got the degree, means I'm the one wiping up the floor, crawling in and under and through. For laparoscopic inguinal hernia repairs, I commonly had to get down, reach under, and make sure the testicle was in the scrotum - as opposed to anywhere else. Dignity, I'm telling you. The worst experience was going under a prone patient in a spine contraption, my head sideways, and drool went in my ear. Ugggghhh... . To this day, it still makes me shudder a little. Worse than shit, piss blood, crotch cheese, or bubbles of mucous in any other configuration.

Dignity. Part of the job.

Sitting

Funny, really, how much easier the bumps of life are to take since I have shifted my attitude over the last couple of years. It's taken a lot of practice. I genuinely see the humor in it all now, let it roll off, never try to trap it, refuse to indulge in anger. I feel the irritation, the frustration, the annoyance, turn it slightly in the light, and grin. I chose my reaction, a gentle smoothing, a kind laugh.


I believe I can handle a visit with my mother, by the time it could happen. I've rehearsed the conversations in my head, as I have always done, a habit from childhood. And I've come up with honest, non-aggressive answers, or bemused silence, for most of them. Deflections for the judgement. I don't care if she sees my tattoos, or slights the length of my hair, or even questions the validity of a second marriage. Neither challenging nor taking it on the chin, but splashing away and draining back, I have plunged through the dark torrent, and found myself in calm water.

My cousin told me life begins at 50. So, I'm starting a few months early. I never doubted that she was right.

So many of the blogs I read today left me not wanting to comment. But where once I might have been bothered, today, I just decided to be silent. Not just to refrain from commenting, but to stop any judgement even in my thoughts. We are all different, with a unique view of eternity, each one valuable. Mine is just mine, the one that makes the most sense to me, but only from where I'm standing. Or, actually, sitting, at the moment.

Indelible

Reading about PTSD in children. They thought I was depressed, more than once in my life. My father thought I was "turning on the waterworks." Later, when I was on the emotional yoyo that was my first "marriage" I actually got on medication. Hyper-vigilence, bouts of crying, distrust and over-trust, anger, violent thoughts, physical distress, gas and cramps, sore throats and vague pains. I have come to believe I was never primarily depressed, only traumatized, with a dash of anxiety.

I remember drying dishes while my mother washed, and my father sat in the dining room. The phone rang. I was ordered to answer it. Walking past him. I had the paring knife in my hand, wooden handle, and on the way back, I stopped behind him for an eternity, knife in my fist, contemplating jabbing it into the back of his neck. And the whole thought process, not having any idea where to cut, if it was long enough, sharp enough to kill, or just enough to piss him off. I walked back and finished my task, but the thought stayed. I used to console myself while being raged at for hours, his red, greasy face a foot from mine, by reciting prayers in my head, Hail Mary, Our Father. From then on, I began to replace that with fantasies of terrible ways to kill my tormentor, and learned to focus on the bridge of his nose when he insisted "Look at me!" At least I didn't have to stare into those mad, stupid eyes again. Instead, I imagined shooting him in the mouth with a crossbow bolt - which would shut him up.

When both my brother and mother assured me (unprompted) that he'd died peacefully, I listened. He died of obstructive lung disease, one of my nightmare ways to die*. I've cared for patients dying while gasping for their every breath. I have a very clear image how he died, no doubt fighting and blaming every moment. I would not have wished it on anyone, even him. But I will not lie by saying I mind terribly that he was chained to that fate. Whatever they were told by kind nurses, I will hold to my own knowledge of how people die, and how nurses offer comfort to the living, and take my own comfort thereby. He did not die peacefully, he could not have, he would not have had any idea how.

They thought I had something wrong with my gut, for all the pain I had. I had a GI series as a kid, very distressing. I remember when they asked me what I would have for dinner, every one of my favorite foods† started with the word "fry." I did not mention how most meals were fraught with my father screaming, angry, hostile. They asked my mother if I was "nervous." A bad word, one of those my father bandied about, and my mother decried, so would not use to describe me, however accurate. Yes, I was terrified and anxious, traumatized and malnourished.

For the last twenty years, I have recovered, stabilized. My father's death, reestablishing contact with my mother, has aroused these sensations and memories. It'll never be gone because it is what I am made of. I can make something new of them, I have, like junkyard art. No fine porcelain for me. Different, neither better nor worse. Taking it out and reassessing it all, like cleaning out the deepest closets in preparation for moving.

Everything leaves it's mark. I see the scars, with a mild wonderment, that I survived, and have come out the other side. Content, happy, loved.



*Pancreatitis is the other horrible way I'd rather not die. Drowning, any immediate traumatic event, heart attack, all fine. Just not COPD or a sick pancreas.

†My mother did not believe in fresh, green, vegetables‡. Potatoes, canned corn, canned lima beans (blech) - that was it. I remember when Aunt Alma gave me spinach for the first time, I was in heaven. I ate cherry tomatoes out of the yard, as well as sweet clover and rhubarb, and sour green grapes from Mrs. Rizzardi's grape arbor all summer.

‡Not to mention fiber.

Betwixt

Nuts

Poking around over at Mental Floss, came across some good questions. Changed them a bit, still want to give credit.


~ Who’s your famous doppelganger?

I have not been compared to anyone in many years. I really don't look much like anyone famous, although I was told I looked like Barbara Streisand when I was much younger. I put that down to the size of my nose more than anything, perhaps a kind of intensity. A friend in high school alerted me that I was in a painting at the Detroit Institute of Arts. Certainly a genetic kin,

William-Adolphe Bouguereau The Nut Gatherers.



~ What’s the weirdest item marketed at you?

There were people in Germ costumes at the T stations in Boston passing out Airborne samples. Later, we saw a couple of them resting, nearly collapsed, looking very sad on a bench. One had the head of the costume off and looked a bit ill. I so wished I'd had my camera.

I was only in high school, at a public event, and scantily clad women were passing out cigarette samples. When they approached me, I declined, claiming youth, they suggested I could have some anyway, which appalled me on so many levels.


~ What’s something you’d really like to be good at, but know you’ll never put in the necessary time/effort?

Playing any musical instrument. Drawing. I could be barely competent in either, if I really, really worked at it, but I know I'd never be really good no matter what. I do pick up the ukulele, and I can make pleasant enough sounds.

~ What’s the crappiest car you’ve ever owned?

I can't quite remember the year make or model, '72 Plymouth Fury, maybe? An old boat, green, that my uncle sold me for a few bucks. One of those 70's Detroit monstrosities. It got stolen eventually, taken for a joy ride and abandoned - totaled. The '66 Beetle - candy apple red, was the cutest crappiest car I ever owned. The gas pedal needed a paperclip to keep working, the wheel fell off on a turn once. I got it up to 60 MPH once, going downhill.


That's it. Enjoy your weekend.

Nice

All went very nicely. Moby his usual social host self. He even allowed D's parents to sit on the sofa either side of him for a while, then prowled, then climbed up to his Fortress of Solitude. Given he'd been up since we got up at 5, active for about seven hours straight, he needed some good catsleep. He's still there.

I'm no natural cook, but I am a well trained nurse, so I know to start here, and do everything in front of me until done. I can be frighteningly organized, this time I used the whiteboard on the fridge to make sure I cooked and served everything I planned. Well, in a small kitchen, it's a requirement. Mostly all turned out pretty good, although the turkey was a bit tough, as turkey often is no matter what. And the broiled pineapple did not cook through as I'd hoped - but not expected. Yams were tasty, cranberry sauce as good as always. D's dad very happy with artichoke hearts - gotten especially for him. D's mom seemed to relish the pumpkin scones, D ate a lot of olives, I felt better after chips and con queso from Red Iguana (picked up yesterday.) Green beans got over cooked, but still edible.

We walked over to the Potential House, yes we live that close to it, and it still looks good. A mild day, a chance to stretch our legs. We can see all the flaws, and they are all minor. Enough, though, that if it doesn't work out, we can focus on the drawbacks to console ourselves. Either way, we wait patiently. We are craving space so deeply, though. One way or another, this is going to be a hard year, waiting or moving.

I cleaned up after we got back, which is the good part of this kitchen, I can stay in the conversation while putting stuff away. Used every single container for leftovers we have. I just really did not want to have to scrub crud later. Neither did I want to abandon guests for the sake of a clean kitchen, I'm no Martha*. I tried to balance the two. MIL of course offered to help, and I welcomed her, but with a tiny kitchen, there was nothing she could do. Funny, how none of it seemed like work, just things to do. I wonder how much of that is just the change in my attitude over the past couple of years. Simply not letting routine bother me. Or anything else, really.

The other great part about this holiday? I get two days off, then the weekend, standard. Even when I worked call and holidays, this was usually a good long weekend, with maybe a few hours of call on a day when the surgeons were reluctant to schedule anything non-life threatening during the football. A good weekend to have an anniversary, as well. We get very squishy. We get enough rest.




*Luke 10:38-42. Yes, I do know my bible stories. I just don't take them literally. Nor particularly seriously.

Appreciation

Thanksgiving is such an atypical, even Un-American holiday in so many ways. Oh, yes, the religious under- and overtones, the excessive eating, paired with football and parades, all that fits. Its manipulation by commercial interests to stimulate consumer spending, yes, essential to this culture. But it's largely hoopla that can be ignored, evidenced by Buy Nothing Day.

Beneath it, stripped of the stereotypes and media screed, it's about being grateful. Right at the core, it's about gathering with people one loves and appreciating what one has. At heart, it isn't religious, needs no gods, only a decent meal of fowl and mostly vegetables, traditionally. There are no flags to fly, no presents to buy, no decorations necessary - a simple harvest festival. Anyone can join in, there are no songs, no rituals. None aside from those unique to each family.

Every day I strive to be thankful. Especially today, every thought, every breath, and with my whole heart I walk in thankfulness. How'd I ever get so lucky?

To all of you who read here, leaving me friendly notes -- thank you for necessary balance, a voice back from the ether, friendship and kindness. I would not be the same without you.

Schedule

Early this morning, my hands on my abdomen, cat standing on the backs of my hands, I was aware it was very early, and I did not have to get up. Called off, but asked to cover my usual day off tomorrow, an easy swap. Went in at 10, though, to do the schedule for the next month or so. Took me an hour. Better than having to ever be in charge. I'd be no good at that, I get up noses when I fill authorities shoes, and that's fine. So, I agreed a while back to do the vacation schedule, to varying results. Re-templated it, so it's easier to read, put it in a nice binder, with the holiday schedule attached. But I have to be more than careful to not screw up the numbers. One of the charge nurses has given me crap over my mistakes, some trivial, some larger. Something like this needs a second set of eyes, without harassment, but I do what I can. Everything is a trade off.

Not eager to get to the necessary cleaning for having the holiday dinner here, but I got there eventually. More or less. Thankfully, my MIL's sense of what is clean was probably worn down having five boys, so I don't feel self conscious as long as it's pretty good. For our friend Dave, I work to a higher standard, because although he'd never say anything, I know how clean he keeps his house. Dave is busy with his own kin this holiday. We'll see him later.

I've been pondering Thanksgiving, as I often do this time of year. It's a holiday without baggage for me, no family tradition, no religious significance. My mother declared it the day she did NOT cook, everyone took care of their own food that day, I usually had PB&J - no sacrifice. Watched the parade on TV in the morning, probably read the rest of the day, or watched whatever was on the CBC (anything not football, my father for all his faults, was no sports fan - I have some recollection of him asleep on the sofa.) The ex expected me to give him a traditional meal, which never quite happened, but that was only six years, and never stuck.

Twenty-one years ago, I spent Thanksgiving with friends, knowing I was shipping out the weekend following, and D with his parents. From that day on, we have been together, with much to be thankful for. The holiday became entwined with us, our beginnings and continuations, and hopefully our endings. We had our reception the Friday after Thanksgiving, a day when friends in town could beg off from the family they came to visit.

Cleaned the fridge, the kitchen, ready to cook in. Yams ready to be mashed, they can sit in their skins a day. Turkey to start thawing in the morning.

As for the house, I do not have my heart set on it, and I'm not in love. But it's all I have to focus on. I have, with reluctance, vetoed D's preference for a condo, in favor of my need for a garden. I dream of growing cayenne and ginger, roma tomatoes and rhubarb, peas and green beans, long grass for Moby, rosemary and parsley, red peppers and sun flowers. A mulch pile. And space to hang clothes to dry. And D smiles and says he knows.

Enough reason to make a day for gratitude. Hell, a whole week is insufficient.



After so long, he knows me pretty well, but never assumes he does.

Twenty-one

Today, as I wrote the date, I looked at the sort-of familiar number. Finally occurred to me that yesterday was the 21st anniversary of our deployment, and the beginning of our relationship. We'd gone out to meet with our real estate agent, and a mortgage guy at an unrelated open house. Because the house we saw Saturday fit us rather well. We wound up chatting with both of them for a long time, since no one showed up to see the house they were actually showing. So we learned about how the real estate thingmabob works a bit more, and told stories, all casual but to a purpose. And, gods help us, we put in a bid for that short sale* house. Earnest money and everything. Got pre-approved for the loan. Apparently, we are a good risk.

We are both a bit terrified, expecting to be screwed over, cynical. But telling our story helped put it in perspective. Starting with our first date - Gulf War I. Moving out to Boston precipitously, our friends sending our stuff along later because our mover didn't even show up. On the way home, I thought about how much easier it is to be a good nurse to reasonable people. I have to think it's the same in every profession. We do our side of the work, listen carefully, pay attention, try not to be stupid. Make other's jobs easier. Sometimes their response to us is just salesmanship, but often, it is genuine affection.

Our impression is that our agent , L is a pro, and a decent human being, and we are most likely right. We could be wrong, but she has a good reputation, as we have heard going to other open houses from other agents. "Oh, her! Oh, she's the best!" "Oh, my L!" Fortune favors the prepared. I think it also favors the generally kind, by and large, on the balance. Not in any way a guarantee, of course. But nothing in life is.

L was very excited, to the point of exclamation mark abuse in her email to us to tell us we got in the first bid. I'm holding back on excitement, because of my Pooh experience. But I am quietly glad that we have a chance here.

The rest of the day, we simply stayed close to each other, talking a lot, holding hands, keeping each other calm, planning our holiday dinner with D's parents. Whatever happens, we'll make it work. This house, or another later.

And today, we remembered, and realized we'd celebrated appropriately, even if we'd forgotten.




*Mis-named, since they take a long time to work through.

Walking

When you are the leader, walk in the tao.
Never use force, nor try to conquer.
Because every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
Resentments and fury appear when coercion is used.
Deprivation takes over after military victory.
Better to just do what is needed,
Instead of overpowering.

Do what needs doing,
Without expecting glory.
Without boasting
Or excessive pride.

Do what needs doing,
This is the job at hand.
Never using violence.

Force and torture show a weak person in a hopeless position.
This is not the way of balance and life.
Anger and force will crumble what it purports to protect.

Walk. This is a remarkable word. It comes from the O.E. wealcan, to roll; whence we get wealcere, a fuller of cloth. In Percy's Reliques we read:--

She cursed the weaver and the walker,
The cloth that they had wrought.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963 p. 940.

Company

Company.