Turkey

Another full day, but doing hands, and with a surgeon I enjoy working with. So, I wanted to draw a turkey. Then I thought, no, I want to draw a handprint turkey.




This was on the whiteboard with the count and everyone's names.

Cheered me up.

Going in to cover breaks and lunches tomorrow, voluntarily. Taking care of each other. Then start earnest cleaning when I get home.

Spoon!

A spoonful of welcome.

I was at work, and Dylan sent a message that a package had arrived. I was baffled. I asked him to open it. The bafflement continued. When I got home, although the spoon delighted me, the note with it would not get through to my tired eyes. Not until the next day, with a strong light, was I able to read the writing, and remember.

Flask had mentioned sending me something. Well, much as I resist general gifts, I love real gifts. When someone has just the right thing for you. Or when I have found something that clearly belongs with someone I know, which is best of all.

So with gratitude, delayed a few days as I struggled to extricate myself from the thick tar of the past week, please meet the spoon. Hand carved from an apple tree, with a story to tell.

Thank you. It's perfectly wonderful, arrived at just the right time.

Madonna

Friday evening the traffic thick from some stadium event at the U, a stunning sky, and plenty of time to safely capture the moment.

Game night, which is really just an excuse to chat. Through a circuitous route through the MEETUP site, we now have a twice monthly gathering of a few interesting people, and sometimes an RPG.

The HRT has taken the edge off the hotflashes and night sweats already, enough that I've been getting significantly improved sleep. The worst of the fatigue eroding.

Had a work/army dream last night. In sort of barracks, in BDUs, lost my cap, but woken by the core tech, because he wanted me to wake up the other scrub tech - an involved process involving rubbing spoons on her hands, exacerbated by not knowing where she slept and needing a large C-arm and the rest of the barracks, to find her. Had to get permission from one of my tall surgeons, who was much taller in the dream (he gave me a weird fist bump) to go to the PX to buy a new hat. Instead of a typical store lay-out as is usual for a PX, it was very much a flea market, and I couldn't find anyone selling the proper hat to match my old style camo pattern of the rest of my uniform, one guy had only a couple of hats - obviously used, with names marked on them. He finally found me one that was similar enough, but had huge earflaps/face swaddling, that he showed me how to fold up so that it would look right. Then I had to find proper insignia.

Lots of cleaning this week, Dylan's work colleagues coming over for Thanksgiving Friday. I've not been up to any sincere cleaning the past two weeks.

There is a petition to the Electoral College to elect Hillary Clinton. Given current showing, it's got a chance. I've signed. If you have a vote here, please read it and see if you can sign it. Of course, they are the persecuted ones, poor rich white men, not getting all the power they think is their birthright. Dylan remembered a quote from a few years ago, "The last living Republican will claim his children are spiting him by getting stuck in his teeth."

Which of course brought this Goya to mind.




Time for a few black madonnas.

Haile

Haile Selassi* is a curious sort of saint, god, reincarnation of Jesus. As least among Rasta. But I want to pointedly put forward a saint of darker skin. Whatever he was, how he was seen is the important bit.

I've been thinking a lot about being white. Not any way I've ever identified myself. Although clearly, my pale skin is how I'm identified. But I'm also shanty Irish. My father was dubbed "Frenchy" among his factory co-workers. My cousin assures me that we have at least one, recent, Iroquois ancestor. Likely more, the French who settled there, routinely took native 'wives.' I never felt one of the privileged, nor any claim to that. Really don't understand where that attitude comes from.

I actually resent being lumped in with those who think light skin is special, entitled. I want to make a point of being among the hated groups. I don't want to have to be brave or self-sacrificing, but I want to be prepared to do so.

Once, long ago in another life, I did not fight back, but whimpered and begged, afraid of being hit again. That moment is seared into my mind, when I was not brave nor bold. Perhaps it was the right decision at the time, for myself.

If ever asked to decide between my own safety and someone else's, I hope I will act to protect. I hope we all will.

Friends in town for a conference came by for breakfast this morning. My idea, to cook bacon and eggs, muffins, tea and fruit, here at home. Lovely to talk with people. Eleanor visiting everyone. Nice people, very old friends, so welcome.

Went to see a college student production matinee of Arcadia, Tom Stoppard. More than a bit uneven, but some of the actors were quite good.

“We shed as we pick up, like travellers who must carry everything in their arms, and what we let fall will be picked up by those behind. The procession is very long and life is very short. We die on the march. But there is nothing outside the march so nothing can be lost to it. The missing plays of Sophocles will turn up piece by piece, or be written again in another language. Ancient cures for diseases will reveal themselves once more. Mathematical discoveries glimpsed and lost to view will have their time again. You do not suppose, my lady, that if all of Archimedes had been hiding in the great library of Alexandria, we would be at a loss for a corkscrew?”
― Tom Stoppard, Arcadia

*Haven't read this entirely, I'll get to it sometime soon.

Rita

The last week at various times.

The sense of viral incursion is waning, but my fatigue remains. The hot flashes have gotten me to a breaking point, with no physical, mental or emotional reserves. Dylan got me an appointment today, and I'm taking Susan's advice to try HRT patch. I really thought I could ride it out. Also going to try to see my old therrapist for a touch-up visit. Basta.

Going for St. Rita today.

Glow

Moonglow, lamp low
All I need is a rainbow
And true love
Just like sugar in my coffee

Moonbeam sleeping
All I need is a sweet dream
And true love
Just like honey in my tea

The sky says goodbye
With the wink of an eye
Bright blue yawning to the west
Windows are shining
As the sun goes down fighting
And the houses on the hill
Are getting undressed

Moonshine dreamtime
All I need is a goldmine
And true love
Just like sugar in my coffee

The sky says goodbye
With the wink of an eye
Bright blue yawning to the west
Windows are shining
As the sun goes down fighting
And the houses on the hill
Are getting undressed

Moonglow, lamp low
All I need is a rainbow
And true love
Just like sugar
True love
Just like honey
True love
Just like sugar
In my coffee
Coffee
Coffee

Agatha

St. Agatha and St. Lucy both carry their bits with them. Exemplifying how society cuts women up into parts and serves them up.

Let us pray to them, to make them whole, and ourselves.



Yet, it is the male* stare that threatens and condemns.


Light it up, show it for all the world. All us humans are more than just the sum of our parts. Let us all be whole. Let us all be one existence.

Or, perhaps, let us not get fixated on our attributes. We are all only part of the whole, as we are each everything.

There was a woman in Basic, very young, obviously had some sort of brain damage. We all theorized she might have had fetal alcohol syndrome. She once left dirty underwear on the floor right before inspection, thankfully someone caught that before the officers arrived. She never could manage to make her bed, was forever being dropped for push-ups. Much as she annoyed us all, we did what we could to keep her going. And not just because we'd have all been punished for her errors.

Protecting the vulnerable, this is what saints at their best inspire us to do. Sacrifice our comfort to keep them safe. Stand up against violence, even when it means losing our eyes or our breasts.

Let's keep our wits about us.




*Aggressive, entitled males, mind. An obnoxious minority.

Gertrude

Cats sticking close. Still feeling crappy. Had Moby outside for a short while, neighbor asked after me. A few minutes later, brought me out a mug of hot tea. Very sweet and kind of him.

St Gertrude has only recently taken over as patron saint of cats, but I can't think she'd mind.


Addendum. They stayed by me all day.

Francis

My favorite childhood saint, Francis of Assisi, beloved of animals. I loved animals, and wanted them to like me, they mostly didn't, save for Gigi, my aunt's poodle. He seemed to be a kind souled saint, human scale. A man loved by animals would welcome small shy children as well, I'd think. Something we all need.

Our cats have kept me company today, the threatening virus took over, abetted no doubt by the world worry of this grieving week. First time I've called in sick for a long time. I've listened to Graceland and Rhythm of the Saints*, all the 3Mustaphas3 I have, and now De Temps Antan. Reading Mary Beard's SPQR. Mostly resting and staying hydrated. I think every lymph node in my upper regions is swollen.






*Not an intentional theme choice, mind.

Jude

Saint Jude, Patron of lost causes.

Thinking of this event as chemotherapy. It will kill us, or cure us, but we are going to be mightily ill for a long stretch.

Blaise

Since I am struck dumb.

Feeling sucker-punched and betrayed.

42

Pterry is an unlikely saint, but I take him as a personal one. He often wrote about human frailty, gods and death, all with a pitch black sense of humor. Call him Patron Saint of Puns and Brick Jokes. He shone lights in dark corners, providing comfort for me. His DEATH filled a gap in my mind, personifying my own thoughts. His books continue to inspire and amuse me.

A difficult and angry person, who rooted for the wild spaces and the marginalized, in his own way. Against Gonnes and all but one Tyrant.

I wouldn't pray to him, but then I wouldn't anyway. His skeptical and cynical testimony speaks directly to my doubting soul. I don't think I've have liked to have dinner with him either, well not just the two of us. Maybe among a large group, me sitting off to the side listening. But as Neil Gaiman recounts, Pterry was not a jolly elf, but an angry man. His stories lead me on and give me immense comfort.

Not everyone's guru, but in an odd way, he was mine.

Him, and Douglas Adams.

Far

Dylan takes Moby for a walk. They don't go far.

We have a stool by the sideboard.


Which gets used.


By an old cat.



"I'm not old."



Cairns from above. Flowers that bloom in the Autumn.

Muerte

Feeling dark and a little ill, so let's prey to Santa Muerte, saint death. Patron of drug dealers, and likely murderers as well, at least according to the officialdom of the Catholic Church who disavow this one. Saint Death listens to the poor and dis-enfranchised.

Saints and gods pop up for everyone, maybe especially for sinners. Forgiving them, justifying them, expressing their anxieties, offering comforts. Harkening back to earlier gods, seeking vengeance, retribution for the lost. Angry saints, hungry ghosts, discomfiting the comfortable.

Make people desperate, and they'll grow their own hope. It may not take the form of a pretty and obedient martyr.

Mary

https://www.brainpickings.org/2016/11/02/mary-oliver-upstream-staying-alive-reading/

Mary Oliver


Pema Chodron


Terry Pratchett

Christopher

Lao Tsu

Muerte

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Muerte

hindu saints

Paw

I love how she puts out a paw to touch me.

No official St. Eleanor. Pfft. What do they know?

Consider this an extra post. With a link to a list of strange patron saints.

Perpetua

In the recitative of the Litany of the Saints, sung on Holy Saturday, and All Saint's Day were the pair of St. Perpetua and Felicity. I was told they were probably also apocryphal. With those names, I figured that sounded right. But apparently they are better than usually attested, however mangled their story has become.

But wow, what a different world view. Pregnant women, noble and slave, martyred, bucking a madly patriarchal model for... well, what did they believe? Surely not the even more woman-hating religion that the christian church would become. Maybe it seemed like it would offer more freedom when new formed. And did later editing change the tone of their stance, or did they even think in those terms? Or were these the actual words written by a Roman woman who converted fervently to a new cult that offered eternal life?

Something is clearly missing, or altered beyond modern comprehension. But their names scan so beautifully, perpetually and joyfully.

Saint Perpetua and Felicity, (pray for us.)


The church I grew up attending was All Saints. It's changed a bit, but not that much.

Christopher

My mother always had a St. Christopher medal in the car. I was given one of my own when I was sent out to visit my brother in Phoenix when I was ten. The original sort of tchotchke or souvenir, with vague magical powers.



He's likely apocryphal, or at least a folk tale. Still, it would be nice to have a strongman on your side when traveling.

I rather like the older saints and the fantastic fables told of them. When you carry your god on your back, they get very heavy, maybe leave you with a spiritual gift, and eternal life. Metaphor and allegory, saints are all into that. So I understand.

Teresa

"I'll just go with the sunbeam."


Saints can be problematic. Difficult. Wrong and distracting. They can lead away, even as they are heroic and inspiring and self sacrificing.

If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him/her.

This is how I feel about today's saint, since I can't avoid her. St. Teresa of Calcutta, Mother Teresa. Who served the poorest of the poor, campaigned for money for them, got her hands dirty in the most graphic way, touching the untouchables.

And yet.


She was not sure in her own faith. She was not brave enough, or maybe imaginative enough, to buck her church authority and agitate for acceptance of real women's health care reforms, real societal changes.

Instead of getting these poor people systemic birth control and safe abortions, women's financial emancipation, education, job training. Real legal improvements that would last and continue through generations. Instead, she put on band-aids. Real ones, but, it all supported cultural inequalities and injustices.

Give a man a fish. She gave out a lot of fish, to her credit. To commit so deeply, and not feel it? Rather like a really bad marriage.

Give a man a fire, and he'll be warm for an hour. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm the rest of his life.

-T. Pratchett.

Sometimes the worst we can do is make someone comfortable in hell, just enough so they won't do anything to get out. When what we really needed to do was give them a ladder and prod them more. Maybe that is what she needed, since she was certainly capable of immense courage and fortitude.

Sometimes, we need to ignore saints, and do it ourselves. Or take their direction, and go the opposite way with as much energy.

Terry

And when I mention saints, I'm certainly not hewing to the official Catholic definition*. No miracles required, save the one of living genuinely and kindly. Bodhisattvas certainly count, the ones who point toward enlightenment. Or maybe endarkenment, where we are not dazzled. So tzadik, walī, rishi, guru, or arhat.

Which leads me, as Dr. Ramirez's twitter last night, to Terry Waite. Heard him at a lecture at our library years ago, when his book Travels with a Primate came out. His presence, kindness, humanity and humility settled over us. Such warmth, intelligence, so genuine. He has a new book out, which we have on order. Out of the Silence.

This is the part of his lecture I remember, or a very similar quote.

I was fortunate, firstly, because through life I had been an avid reader and therefore I had built up a store of books, poetry and prose in my memory. Secondly, I’d been brought up as an Anglican—I’m an Anglican Christian—and had been brought up with the Book of Common Prayer. The language of that was very, very helpful. I had unconsciously memorised it as a choir boy. If I can just give you an example of what I mean from one of the great old collects of the prayer book:

Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night . . .

That is very, very meaningful when you’re sitting in darkness. That collect not only has meaning but it also has poetry and rhythm. There is a relationship between identity, language and prayer; somehow they help you hold together at your centre.

Some people may find this strange, but I never engaged in what is called extemporary prayer during that time. I felt that if I did I would be begin to, sort of, go down a one-way track, reveal my own psychological vulnerability and just get into the business of saying, ‘Oh God, get me out of here’—which isn’t prayer at all. That’s just being like a child. So by falling back on that which I knew, the Prayer Book and the balance of that, I was able to keep a bit more balance in my mind and also maintain some degree of inner balance.

-T. Waite


*Catholics believe that both types of saints (canonized and acclaimed) are already in Heaven, which is why one of the requirements for the canonization process is proof of miracles performed by the deceased Christian after his death. (Such miracles, the Church teaches, are the result of the saint's intercession with God in heaven.) Canonized saints can be venerated anywhere and prayed to publicly, and their lives are held up to Christians still struggling here on earth as examples to be imitated.

Julian

Leftovers from former evil manager's final goodbye, thankfully held well upstairs. I never even considered going up to say bye. Very few people signed her card, although a few of the scrubs who barely knew her scribbled their names. I considered just putting a smiley face and my initials, but that seemed hostile, even though she wouldn't have gotten it. So I simply abstained.

I've also been abstaining from work treats, especially until after New Year, when the onslaught starts easing up. I've slipped a little, a few Hersey kisses last week, today had a half spoonful of this, and only because I was so hungry. But it tasted awful, so I had a few corn chips and called it good. I have a treat at home, so that I'm not overly tempted, biscotti.

Did my penance, had to work with Dr. Chaos, who drives me nuts. There is no preparing for him, and I am only comfortable at work if I have a reasonable chance to prepare, even if it all falls apart after. Still, I endured with a light heart.

Today is All Saint's Day. Maybe this will be my November writing plan here, a Saint A Day.

Which means Julian of Norwich, obviously. Thanks to Dr. Janina Ramirez.