Things That I Read III

Now, here it is… the moment all of my bookwormy friends have been waiting for… the annual Fire Season Book Revue III!

This season started out a little wobbly in the reading department. I have been with a partner the entire season, which always cramps my reading style, and then to add insult to injury, I was also stuck in camp for a week, where reading was nigh unto impossible, although I did skim my way through a couple of books about back pain, and how to fix it, 8 Steps to a Pain Free Back and The Egoscue Method of Healing Through Movement. Both have interesting but almost contradicting recommendations. I decided to take bits and pieces from both to heal myself. I would like to assume that this is the reason that my back has gotten a whole lot better – but I think it might have something to do with certain weights being lifted off of my shoulders, some careful exercise and also some inactivity.

When I finally just decided to give my partner the cold shoulder and delve into my books, my first priority was a book that my brother Gabe gave me for Christmas that I had been anticipating reading for over six months. And by anticipating, I mean feeling guilty for not having yet read…

The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch was one of the longest reads that I have waded through since high school, with the exception of Atlas Shrugged. This is a book that nearly defies genre, although I think it technically falls inside of the fantasy/sci–fi-ish realm. It is the long and winding story of an orphan named Locke and the misfortunes that befalls him as he makes his way through life riding the successes of thievery and confidence schemes. Told in a voice reminiscent of an enlightenment era author, the story rings of Dickens, Shakespeare, and Tolkien, with a splash of modern humor and language thrown in. The book was long. And not a merrily-skipping-through read. If I was able to tune out the clamoring radio (having a partner helped with this) and avoid distractions (having a partner did not help with this) I was easily sucked in and transported to the Italianesque homeland of the anti-hero and his comrades. The author delivers descriptions in enough detail to create an intimate imagining of his medieval world. It was a good story. A great twisting plot that went on and on… almost enough to make a series of books, which I understand the author has produced as well. The characters, unsavory as they may have been, drew me in, and I am curious enough to look up the next book and make sure that they survive. This book is NOT for the faint of heart reader, and isn’t conducive to superficial and distractible reading. But it is worth the chewing through if one has time, imagination and inclination.

Born To Run by Chris McDougall – This book was actually a surprising delight. I only started to read it because I had forgotten to grab my other books before I left camp and I happened to have the digital copy on my iPad. I was just bored enough to read a book about one of my least favorite subjects: running. MacDougall is a writer for Men’s Health Magazine, and a good one. I thoroughly enjoyed his quest to find out why he was not able to run without falling victim to one or more of the many common afflictions that plague a vast majority of modern runners. He follows a winding path through the anthropological evolution of man into the runner (or non runner?) that he is. Through a series of interconnected rabbit trails, Born to Run outlines the lifestyle of the Tarahumara, an ancient Mexican tribe of trail runners, as well as chronicling several colorful real life characters who have made a lifestyle of running ridiculously long distances. In the book you are also acquainted with a condensed version of the history of long distance running in the US, and all of the big names associated with the sport for the last several decades. Being a non-runner, myself, but also being a wanna-be anthropologist, the book actually inspired me to look at running in a different light, and maybe try it someday. MacDougall even goes briefly over the history and evolution of the modern running shoe, and all of the ailments that go along with it. Without making any proclamation in defense of a specific approach to running, or for that matter, life, the author does a great job asking question, posing several plausible answers, but mostly, inspiring the reader with his sense of humor and aptitude for great storytelling. If somebody can make running sound appealing to me, you know he must be good.

Still Life With Crows by Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child was a scary murder mystery. It was all of the creepy things rolled into one. Like Goonies meets True Detective and a little bit of Sherlock Holmes. Bouncing from one character to the next, it took me awhile to figure out who the bad guys actually were. Of course, being an excellent self-proclaimed-plot-discerner, I was on to the answer well before the last chapters. OK, maybe towards the end, but still… Pendergast is an eccentric-to-the-point-of-creepy FBI agent who lands in town to investigate serial murders that haven’t even happened yet. He recruits a high school reject goth to help him, and they trip over local bungling, if well intentioned, law enforcement as the bodies start to drop. Gruesome detail and suspenseful scenes play like a movie in the book. And I am somewhat surprised the 2003 novel hasn’t been filmed yet. It’s good, and original enough that I am sure Matthew McCaughnay could do something magical with it. In the end, a lot of people die. But not the “real” bad guy, which is interesting, and also politically correct I suppose. I liked it. I read it in one day straight through. My partner was fairly certain I hated her since I didn’t utter a word from 8 AM until 3 PM.

Murder in Caney Fork  by Wally Avett - Obviously I ordered and read this book because it was written by an Avett. The boy’s uncle, to be exact. But even so, it was a good read, entertaining, and short. What Mr. Avett lacked in fluid fiction (he’s a newspaperman by trade), he made up for in interesting detail. The plot was predictable but told from a different point of view than one would expect. The story was rich with World War II era southern culture. Highlighting carefully the racial issues still plaguing the area as well as the clash of modern and historical lifestyles that struggle against each other to survive, and the necessary balance of legal integrity and vigilante justice that it took to get by back then. The characters were believable and well developed for the most part. And the food descriptions made me want to run home and fry up a chicken right quick. I liked the story, of course, that it was set in North Carolina, around what I would like to imagine are the roots of my favorite boy band. If you want to read it, I’ll loan it to you. Or order your own copy to support a newspaperman who finally got his story printed.

The cool thing (as if there’s only one) about my book reviews every summer is the sure bet that nothing I have read has ever even blipped your radar before. Totally random weirdness that I pulled off of a shelf. Or a 15 year old buddy gave to me. Or whatever. Your life might never have been enriched by these books if I hadn’t thrown them in your face without rhyme or reason. You’re welcome. And I am sure you’ll want to run right out and get them. Or not. But at least it’s not the 37^th review for the Maze Runner or something. At least I am original.

Things About Hopelessness

All of this stuff about Robin Williams. About how sad. How impossible. How one of the funniest people alive could be overtaken with the darkest shadow of despair. The disease. The selfishness. The question that we won’t be able to answer until the other side of time about whether depression is a fatal disease or a mortal sin. It makes me sad. All of it.

I have struggled with depression for years. Even as a young child I remember feeling like whatever Thing was overtaking me was more than I could bear. I remember crying hot tears into my pillow and wishing there was a way out. Thinking I could just stop breathing and holding my breath until I nearly burst. When life got real, as I got older, it got worse. I tried different medications. I went through different highs and lows. I do know, without a doubt that my depression was linked to my hormones. And now that I have begun to tame that Ugly Beast, I haven’t been sinking as low. But I can taste it like it was yesterday. The moments in time when going on seemed like the worst possible idea. When everyone around me could only benefit from my absence. I can feel the pain in my chest of just KNOWING that I didn’t want to take one more breath.  I made more than one plan. Succinct and efficient. To have the least dramatic repercussions on my family. Disappear into the woods, an “accidental death” of hypothermia or drowning or maybe even a car wreck. I considered everything. Who I didn’t want to find me dead.  The cleanest way to go. What I didn’t want anyone to deal with. I worked it all out. I remember chanting to myself, over and over again: “it’s a lie. It’s a lie. It’s a lie. Wake up one more day. Just one more.” Somehow, every time, I did. Sometimes I fought the fight with myself for days at a time. Sometimes, I reached out for help. Sometimes, I was told to deal with myself. Or that I was crazy. Or to take more drugs. Sometimes, I got a hug. Or a look in the eyes that said “stop it. we need you.” Somehow, I always found my way out of the shadow. I know how powerless I felt to get away from the lies and the weight of the impossibility of moving ahead. The senselessness. The uselessness. The utter hopelessness.

Every day isn’t sunlight and roses now, but every day I find things to be thankful for. I am not in pain. A debilitating pain that ruled my life for more than 2 years is gone. And the shadow is gone. Maybe only for now, but God willing, for the rest of time. I am thankful to be here. For the second and third and sixteenth chances that I get. I am thankful I can tell my kids “stop it. we need you.” If they ever need to hear it. Or hold their hand if the shadow overtakes them. But most of all, to UNDERSTAND. I get it. I know those last thoughts. I know that desperation. And some Grace Unseen has stayed my hand every time. Even against my will..

Maybe it is a disease, or maybe it is a sin, but either way, it is real, and either way, I know how much I needed help. Someone. A rock. Some words in my head. “stop it. we need you.” Christians and atheists and Buddhists and Muslims all commit suicide. No demographic is entirely exempt. No age category or gender. We are all susceptible to this shadow. Wherever it comes from.

There is something as human beings that compels us in life – all different expressions and directions, but it moves us to be something. Looking at the life of my great grandmother, and thinking about the intense desire to Be Important that almost suffocates me, I start wondering if she had that. Really, in the big picture, she wasn’t that important. She didn’t change the course of history or birth the future president. But she is important to me, two generations later. To my cousin. To my kids, she is a legend. I wondered what more she could have done to be “globally important”, and really, who, after all, is “globally important”. I thought about great writers, and the impact they have on generation after generation, but I wonder if some of our greatest pens are big nobodies on the other side of the world? So even great writers have a limited effect. Which is overwhelmingly disappointing for me. I mean, I get pretty stoked when I see that I have readers in Canada and for some reason, China. But to write words that would be repeated around the globe for several generations? There’s a lofty aspiration. It’s a lot for a girl who wasn’t sure three months ago if she could face another day. But planning to write for an Entire World is much more exciting than being dead. It just is. And I would rather be overwhelmed with that objective than by a shadow that I cannot control. And getting words out has worked better for me than any drug I have tried. So I will keep spouting my answerless questions. You can read them or not. But every word that I type takes me a few letters closer to where I am supposed to be. Out of the shadow and into the Bright Sunlight of Hope, off to impact the world, even if it is only my own little one.

Things That I Should Explain - FAQs

OK folks, here it is:

Josh and I are separated. As in, living separately, in different places. Not together. No longer a family unit.

To avoid as many awkward conversations and inquisitions and reprimands as possible, I now present for you, the …

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS ABOUT THE SEPERATION OF LIV AND JOSH

1)   But, WHY? You are so perfect for each other! You love each other so much!

Yes. We do love each other. Or at least I would like to think so, in our own imperfect ways. And if you really believed that we were perfect together, and blissfully happy, and so much in love, then: GOOD JOB US! We worked hard to contain our drama and keep it from slopping out all over everybody. But it was messy, and it was ugly. And for every public proclamation there were a thousand fights. All of our perfect fits were also our potential competitions. Our mutual brokenness left us unable to heal each other. But considering we made it three years together, and considering that we’re both highly opinionated, highly intelligent and unbelievably stubborn, and considering that three years is a long time to live with anybody, I’d say we gave it a good go. There aren’t too many people in this world that I could live with for three years and not kill or be killed. But three years seems to be enough.

2)   But you can work through it, right? Get help! Get Counseling!

We did. We’ve been to a couple different counselors, along with family and friends helping us sort through some of our issues, and guys, there are a LOT of issues. All of the big ones. Money, Kids, Jobs, Moving, On and On and On. And we never ever seemed to find ourselves on the same side of any issue.

After several months, or maybe years, of failed and increasingly contentious dialogue, it’s time to call it.

3)   Whose fault is it?

Both of ours. We both messed up. We both failed. Lord willing, we will both grow and learn from this.  

For all of our good intentions, neither of us could fix this one.

4)   Who’s idea was it?

I guess I will have to take credit for that one. I just couldn’t see going on any further, wasting any more years, hurting and destroying each other. All six of us were suffering. It was unhealthy, and it was getting worse every day.

5)   Is there no hope? Is there anything we can do?

As long as there is breath, there is hope. Right now, my hope is for us to learn to communicate kindly with each other, married or unmarried. And if you want to do something, we are always welcoming prayers. Pray for the Best Thing for all six of us. Pray for grace and kindness between us.

6)   What did you do wrong?

I guess this is the question I ask myself every day. And I did a lot of things wrong. I didn’t give Josh the respect that he so desperately needed. I was defensive. I was selfish. I was independent and stubborn.  And if I quit doing, or start doing, all of those things, I think we are past the point of it helping. And it has to be a two way street. Because nothing says DANGER like a one-way street and a semi-truck of emotion careening recklessly out of control.

7)   Will you still be friends? Do you talk?

YES. It is my fervent hope that we will be friends always. It is my belief that we have given each other years of our lives and if at all possible we should remain in contact. I understand this isn’t always a reality, but I would like for it to be, eventually. Plus he’s kind of a big deal to the kids. And they would miss him a lot if he just disappeared.

Of course, all of this is one sided, and please don’t hesitate to get his two cents on the situation. I care deeply about Josh. He has been a big part of us. But we can’t go on like we have. So here we are, and it sucks. For all 6 of us. I had a heart to heart with my kids and I saw how much it hurts them. And I don’t have the words to say how sorry I am for that hurt. To them, To him. To me. I am sorry that we couldn’t fix it, and that we couldn’t fake it anymore.

Things About Getting Lost

I would assume that growing up, the idea crossed every kid's mind at least once that they must be adopted. For me, it was usually once a day. Even though my walk is unmistakably my dad's, and my mouth is without question my mother's, but still... something about me just didn't fit. Lately it's been occurring to me that maybe I wasn't adopted, but maybe I wasn't actually SUPPOSED to be here at all. Maybe I snuck my way into the universe like some cosmic accidental joke that God played on my parents. And then all three of them were like "well, Jeez. What are we gonna do with this one?" Nothing has ever quite worked out the way it "should have" for me. I have been coming to terms with the fact that I won't ever have a 60th wedding anniversary, or a burial plot next to someone. And that's ok I guess, since I really want my ashes scattered somewhere really fun, so people can remember me every time they hang out there. But I still think that maybe I just don't fit into this life quite right. I am a square peg in a round universe. Maybe, just maybe, I am SO accident prone that I have unintentionally missed every rendezvous with death that has been appointed to me. I showed up late, true to form, for all of the stellar alignments that would return me to my rightful place in the Order of Things.

All of this crossed my mind as I was leaving Walla Walla yesterday. Walla Walla is the epicenter of my existence. The place that destined me to birth, if such a destiny was in the first place. The beginning of it all. I was there for the memorial service of a great Uncle/Cousin named Solomon Frank, whom I remember meeting as a little girl, probably between Easter Egg Hunts and visits from The Real Santa Claus, who apparently lived across the street from Grandma Schiffman in 1983. Solomon Frank was triple related to me, since at least three Schiffmans married at least three Franks, and both lines crisscrossed repeatedly in a somewhat Appalachian fashion. Volga Germans, the Franks immigrated INTO Russia (I know, right?) under the reign of Catherine The Great and set up German colonies along the Volga river, and then crossed over to the US when Russia started thinking maybe German-Russians shouldn't be a thing after all. Staunch Lutheran Reformationists, this family, getting all mixed up with the ever-imbibing Schiffmans, hard drinking Germans with a penchant for all sorts of vices. I was there with my parents and my Aunt and Uncle and clone-cousin, and we had some interesting conversations about what made us the person(s) that we are, which is quite nearly the same, and a repetition for all intents and purposes of our great grandmother Francis Hawk. Who was neither Frank nor Schiffman, but threw in her own dash of awesome for the perfect mix. Francis was a woman ahead of her time. She was on stage with Adam West, the actor who first portrayed Batman on the big screen. She helped excavate and curate the historical site of the Whitman Mission, an amateur archaeologist after my own heart. She was a photographer, an artist, a mountaineer, a mother, an a journalist for the Associated Press back when they were worth their mettle in World War II. My cousin Hannah and I have (often unintentionally) pursued almost the exact same exploits. It's a little bit eery.

Anyway, I left Walla Walla and foolishly followed SIRI's directions off into the wheat covered hills of the lower Palouse. I was lost in thought as I travelled a couple of different two lane, winding highways dutifully, disregarding a curious note that they were oddly named roads, but trusting the painted double yellow to not be destination-less. After about 45 minutes SIRI told me to turn on to a gravel road. Sensing immediately that this was it, her final play to do me in, I disobeyed. As far as I knew, I didn't need to take a gravel road ANYWHERE between Walla Walla and Northport, and it was obviously nothing more than an attempt to shake me. Nice try, SIRI. I continued on the two lane for another 20 minutes or so and then it ended. Well really, it turned into a gravel road. Which was disconcerting. The gravel road was well maintained and pointed int the general direction of the Columbia River which gave me some peace. I reassured myself that I wasn't in a hurry, and since I was already looking at backtracking at least 20 miles I might as well try it. SIRI started sputtering about having no service and Proceeding To the Route, which apparently now was off in the middle of a wheat field somewhere. I followed the gravel for 18 miles and at last there was a tiny little farm town. I knew a highway had to be nearby. Until I got close and realized that the tiny farm town was actually just a huge farm. With lots of campers. and no highway. I tried taking the road through the farm and it was fenced off  in the direction that SIRI insisted was the way to Northport. South facing, interestingly. She's vicious. I took the only road out and started thinking about that family that got lost on the forest road in Oregon and the dad starved to death. I figured my odds were slightly better because there was lots of wheat around, plus all the fire snacks I brought home, and if I ever overcame my pride and the hint of terror that the farmhouse might be the den of a serial killer, I could always ask for directions. Fortunately, after another 20 minutes of driving too fast on a gravel road, with no cell service and no radio reception, so basically, running for my life, I ran into WA State HWY 261, which I didn't even know existed. For the record, it is my personal belief that HWY 261 is actually a roller coaster. hiding in a witness protection program after a few too many suspicious theme park deaths. I survived that road/ride with only a touch of carsickness and then raced my gas light to the nearest gas station, which it turns out was NOT in Washtucna. I met a nice family of healthy black widow spiders living in a public restroom provided by the Washtucna Lions Club. (Note to Lion's Club - get in there with some big boots and a shop-vac STAT!) Once again, narrowly escaping the death that has been pursuing me since my unintentional inception. Somehow I got to Ritzville alive, and remarkably, ahead of schedule.

All of that near-death-defying experience made me think about accidents, the unfortunate ones, and the serendipitous ones, and how a wrong turn can be the thing that makes your life what it is. The extra bends and turns and the little bit of uncertainty that makes your heart beat a little bit faster. Knowing for certain that there are a LOT of wheat fields out there that you can't see from the highway. A lot of stuff to see and know, that you can't reach from a direct route. It's ok sometimes to get off course, both to see the sights, and to know that you won't die. Not at the hands of a serial killer or a black widow or starvation. And that it's ok to go with your gut - sometimes you wind up on a questionable gravel road, but in the end, it all works out.

Things About Failing

A wise woman recently sent me this: 

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. 

If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 

If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 

It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 

Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails."

Granted, the words weren't hers originally, but given that she gave birth to me and raised to adulthood (I won't attempt to use the word maturity here) without killing me, she can definitely take credit for mastering them. 

The last line was kind of a slap in the face. Because you guys, LOVE DOES FAIL. I am living proof. Either that, or I have to own that I have never truly loved, because I've failed a heck of a lot. 

Unless... Maybe... Perhaps... The "failures" weren't actually that. Maybe love didn't fail, if we learned. If we grew. If we CHANGED. 

Because really, That's what it's about. Learning. And more importantly, changing. 

"If I speak in the tongues of men and angels...fathom all mysteries and all knowledge..." All that knowledge. All that Rosetta Stone. And for nothing, if it doesn't CHANGE YOU. 

"If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing..." All of the hard work. The sacrifice. If it doesn't transform us, it means squat. 

Us humans are good at DOING. But I think sometimes we suck at BEING. I know I do. I am professional sayer of The Right Things. And performer of The Correct Actions. But do I love as well as I can? Do I have the motivation in my performance that changes me and touches the people around me? Or am I a one dimensional screen of reflected images? A resounding gong? A hollow echo with no substance? 

I don't even know for sure. But I know, like the original author of those words, that one way or the other, my life will bear the fruit. I can't help but feeling like the richness in my life of true friends as well as chosen and unchosen family is far more than I deserve. Really I doubt anybody could be good enough to earn what I have. And I certainly am not. But I'm thankful. And I will continue to seek a love that changes me. A three dimensional, earth shattering love. Otherwise I really have failed, and I'm not ok with that. 

Things About Love. And/Or Trails.

Back before Every Human Being became a vandal, they used to put really cool signs along forest trails, carved out of wood, saying politically incorrect things like "Dead Indian Highway" and stuff. Now, since we've all realized how cool those signs look in our cabin-themed dining rooms and shot full of bullet holes, they have been replaced with carsonite posts dug into the ground, covered with cheap designation stickers, directing and delineating and defining. 

Today, day 9 on this really boring and fire-less fire, we got to go running out into the woods after another non-fire around a section of the Pacific Crest Trail, criss-crossed by various other local trails, with new carsonite signs and some remnants of the throwbacks. 

I stood staring down one of the trails, imagining what places it might lead to. What adventures and waterfalls and caves and pristine mountain lakes it might know. What bears and chipmunks have crossed it. 

Trails are funny things. Until you've been down them, you don't know where they go. And if you ask Some People, once you've been down one, you've been down them all. Kind of like most of life. Some of us have the curiosity to chase down one more trail because it MIGHT end differently than the last three. Or we might decide that one trail was more than enough and we've had our fill of adventures and waterfalls and caves and lakes and bee stings and blisters and poison oak and ingrown toenails and slivers. And we might never hike again. Or maybe we'll steal the signs and hang them in our dining rooms as a momento of That One Trail. Or a reminder of our poor choice of terrain. 

I think love is like a trail. And every love is different. But maybe has some of the same scenery. Or maybe it feels the same because we aren't looking hard enough. We're staring at our scuffed up boots and thinking about our blisters. And we're missing the laughing creek next to us. And the Tallest Sugar Pine Ever. And the skunk watching us from under the huckleberry bush. 

Maybe some trails are so harsh that we can't ever endure another one. Maybe some trails kill us. Kill our joy. Kill our curiosity. Kill our love. 

Because really love isn't a thing that we get from somebody. It's something we carry with us. It the thing WE give to somebody else, or withhold. It's the arrow that points us down the trail. It's the curiosity that keeps us hiking. That keeps our mind off the blisters and the sunburn. Love is the energy that motivates us. No body, no trail can take it from us, unless we let them. Because the adventure is ours. Maybe we choose to share it with the wrong person, maybe it gets a little beat up. But if you dig deep enough you can always uncover it again. Very few people who have the opportunity to hike forest trails for recreation have endured enough real trauma to paralyze them completely. Most of us have scars. But almost all of us have everything we need built in to us to stare down the next trail and WANT to go. Because our love, our passion, our ARROW is ours. Not the ones we share it with - they can twist it, try to break it, but we can fix it. Put the sign back where it goes and lace up the boots one more time. Hike off the muscle cramps. Push through the fatigue. Follow your arrow wherever it goes. 

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=kQ8xqyoZXCc

Things That Shift - like priorities.

Sometimes all of the things you thought were important, really aren't. I had a list of 37 billion things to do this morning. I had an hour and a half of waiting on a certain Irish dancer to compile my lists and get organized. 

But then I saw it. And at this point, it's gone beyond "I should do this." And even past "I NEED to do this." Right up to the point of "I'm doing it. Now." With the last $30 I borrowed (before my big juicy fire check), with hands covered in green paint and a smashed finger. With the list of things I need to do squished back in my brain behind the Importance Of Remembering. 

Next December is 20 years from when a sweet and innocent 16 year old left us. For no other reason than it was Her Time. Through no act of malice. No drunken foolishness. No thoughtless risk. Just... Accidentally.  Like Junha. It just happened. In spite of all of our protests and anger and sadness and debilitating grief - Erin Christine Hoops, 16 and beautiful, giggly, intelligent... She left us. 

I was pregnant with Halle when the accident happened. The next year, I had a little red headed blue eyed girl and I named her MacKenzie Erin, because it was beautiful, like her. And to remember how short life is. How fleeting. 

Almost 20 years later and every time I come to that intersection I remember. And it makes me think. My MacKenzie Erin is 17 now. I have been able to have her for a year more than Chris and Gail had their Erin. Things aren't perfect. She's not perfect. But she's here. And she's beautiful. And we can sort through the imperfect, as long as she is here. Which is more than enough reason to stop. To set aside my list. To get my hands green and smash my finger. To remember. 

We only have the days that god gives us. And all we can do is our best. And when our best sucks, or wears down, we get to get up and do it again. Put on a fresh coat of paint. Green and alive and reminding. 

And when it's all done, suddenly the things that seemed So Important, and big enough to sink me, are really not. Not the list of things for the marriage counselor. Or groceries for the kids when I leave for my next fire. Or Radar's long overdue puppy shots. It's all easy cheese, really. Compared to Forever. And No More. And The End. 

 I drive through Kettle Falls a couple times a week, and every time I think of her. I'm sure I'm not the only one. And it seemed important that Someone Knew that that Green Cross on the corner still matters. It still teaches and reminds, just like Erin Christine does, that we have A Whole Lot to be thankful for, and we'd better quit wasting time. 

PS - my haphazard (as per usual) paint job is not enough to salvage the brittle plywood for long. I'd like to find somebody with better resources than me to help me with a more long term fix... If anyone has ideas? 

Things That Are Relaxing

It's always so good to come home from 14 days of being dirty and sweaty and tired to a clean house, well behaved children and a big, welcoming bed, and just unwind.

I can imagine.

This time, coming home from an assignment, I was pleasantly surprised by a semi-picked up house. It's been worse, and some days, that's all you can ask for. For instance, compared to the bathroom, the rest of the house was immaculate. I am not sure how they got in, but I am fairly certain there were at least three ogres using my bathroom while I was gone. It was truly shudder-worthy. Instead of a shower-beer when I got home, I had a shower-softscrub with bleach. It was about 37% as gratifying.

I was also UNpleasantly surprised with some news that filtered in, oh, you know, Straight From The Source, that certain ones of my offspring where up to unsavory, illicit and even illegal activities during my absence. As soon as I got done blaming their father, God and half of the world for these grievous lapses in character, I decided to just avoid dealing with them and pamper myself with a homestyle spa day.

I started out my homemade relaxation routine with a sweat lodge/sauna type experience, as I peacefully laundered Every Towel I Ever Imagined Owning, the blankets from my bed that my dog peed on in her excitement to see me, and a few smoke-laced odds and ends from my fire bag. I performed meditative tai-chi while I washed, switched, dried, hung, folded and delivered all of these items to their rightful places. It was invigorating and refreshing. Like a rush-hour commute in LA.

Next I did some deep bending and stretching yoga, vacuuming at least 60 lbs of dog hair dust bunnies from various and assorted corners of the house, as well as rearranging my bedroom which had been artfully decimated by four lonely dogs and the same amount of visiting teenagers. This was a good preparatory work out for the upcoming procedures, since the Deep Stretching activated Massive Back Spasms, which I channeled into muscle strengthening work in my head. I am hypnotic like that.

After these purging activities, I loaded my four angelic daughters and two volunteer canines into the car for a joy ride out to my buddy Christy's beach, where the cathartic and cosmetic aspects of my spa day came into play. I started with  a therapeutic Heavy Metal Black Sand micro-derm abrasion facial, right on the beach, which Dagny helped with by digging her rocks into the sand near my face. After several exfoliatory sessions, I performed Swedish Hot Stone massage on myself, by laying on the smoldering river rocks that make up "the beach". Feeling my spasms give way to Total Agonizing Pain, I countered the intensive treatment with some frigid water muscle confusion, which seemed to numb the pain. Literally.

After a productive therapeutic outing to the beach, we came home, where I delved right into some serious acupressure work - wherein each one of my four children and five dogs found EXACTLY the right button to push to make me just lose it. After successfully BBQing Blackened Chicken (secret gourmet recipe that is extra fun for kids because they can feed the charred outside of their chicken breast to eagerly waiting dogs) and broccoli-rice-a-roni pilaf for my consortium of therapists, I decided to finish off my day of ecstasy with a nice long shower. For most of the 7 minutes I was in there I was treated to a temperature fluctuation massage, competing with the clothes washer and the kid doing dishes for hot and/or cold water. I recapped the exfoliation and moisturized with my homemade coffee scrub, which both made the shower look like someone had murdered a tar baby AND nearly clogged the drain when all of the coconut oil began to coagulate in the freezing water. I also indulged in a citronella paraffin hand dip, when I had to save the drowned wick of a mosquito repellent candle from the bottom of the completely melted can that had been sitting outside in direct sunlight. I brought it into the air conditioning and pulled it out so that it could float on top of the rapidly hardening wax, which at that point was also all over my fingers, the counter and the top of Emmy's head. Refreshing citrus aromatherapy, and my fingers feel like a baby's hind end. It might be because I scalded all of the nerve endings.

All in all I couldn't have asked for a more zen-filled day of total relaxation and overall therapy. I capped it off with half a bottle of chilled Trader Joe's Sav Blanc, which may have had floating fruit flies in it. I wrote that off as an addition to my high-protien diet (which I am starting tomorrow), thereby redeeming the caloric intake of the glorious liquid. Plus, as I rationalized to myself, given the statistical amount of spiders a human being consumes in a given year, what are a couple of fruit flies? I know tonight I will go to bed, thankful for the not-dog pee covered blankets, still smelling like coffee and tinted a little brown, and a twinge or two of Total Muscle Tension in my lower back. Nothing a little BioFreeze won't fix. But for the record I did not kill any of my children or dogs. No one went to jail. And I didn't even call the clinic to find out about voluntary self-admissions to psychiatric facilities. Ok, maybe that last one happened A LITTLE.

Things that I complain about.

I just realized that it's been a few posts since I really whined, and before you start thinking that I have elevated to a new level of superhuman gratefulness and piety, I thought I should do some public complaining. 

I probably didn't tell you that I had an MRI a couple weeks ago - actually two, in the same day, which was kind of cool because it gave me twice as much opportunity to have a near death House-esque MRI tube experience wherein I begin to spontaneously bleed out of my eyes, seize uncontrollably, and/or go into full blown anaphylactic shock. The technician named David who stuffed me in the tube asked me a lot of questions like "are you claustrophobic", which I considered answering yes to, just because I'm not sure that I'm NOT claustrophobic, and the idea of small spaces makes me very uncomfortable and also I hear you get Valium if you are claustrophobic. But I decided to be brave and go drug free, even though it killed my back to lay flat for that long. David did give me a wedge pillow for under my knees, which I envisioned mostly as an impediment to my rapid escape in the event of a massive power outage that left me trapped in the windowless fuselage-like tunnel. He also asked if I had ever had an MRI and I answered that I had not, but I've watched enough episodes of House to know exactly what goes on in there. He chuckled nervously and asked me not to get any eye-blood on his pillowcase and pushed me into the tomb-like machine. 

It really wasn't too bad. My BFF's recent warning to not fall asleep and do the dream-twitching thing because the technician would yell at me, helped me remember not to breathe or make any other perceptible movement. Do I visualized zombies invading the imaging rooms of the hospital and clawing at my feet, dragging me out of the only access portal inch by inch. It kept me awake.  I was beginning to wonder if eye-bleeding is merely a side effect of hypoxia from not breathing during the procedure. 

David pulled me out of the tube just as I was fighting off dream-twitch land, which was somewhat disapponting, but he rolled me right back in after he affixed a white plastic terminator like armor apparatus to my left shoulder, so I settled in for a little twitchless sleep, and no more zombies. 

All in all the MRI was an enjoyable experience. Mostly because I couldn't feel guilty for not moving a muscle, and there was nobody asking what was for dinner or swearing at me about anything. Plus I got new hospital socks and a gown that didn't show my underwear. 

I was surprised two days later when the doctors office called to tell me there was nothing at all wrong with me and all of this pain is just in my head - because they didn't. Actually, they called to tell me I did indeed have a partial tear to my left rotator cuff (HA! I knew it!) AND then a bunch of words like "advanced degeneration" and "stenosis" and "nerve displacement" all referring bitterly to the L5-S1 region of my back. Then they told me I needed an orthopedist and a neurosurgeon. I knew it. Just like on House. You go in for a simple MRI and suddenly you find out you need brain surgery, a prosthetic hip and your spouse cheated on you during his last business trip to Guam. At least it wasn't a rare flesh-eating bacteria. Or a tape worm in my brain that had worked it's way up through my bloodstream. 

Anyway, I'm saying all of that so that I can complain justifiably about how bad my back hurts, and you can pat me on the back, or head, if you wish, and tell me how tough I am for being totally weaned off of painkillers since my last surgery, in spite of all of my exotic and apparently even REAL injuries. In fact, I have taken three doses of ibuprofen on this fire. That's it. I'm off all pharmaceuticals except my thyroid medicine. And a really mild muscle relaxer when I go to bed. No hydro codone (ok, I forgot to pack them), no sleeping pills. No anti-depressants. That's probably why certain people close to me are questioning ALL of my behavior - because Lord knows how I act with no personality altering substances CAN'T be legitimate. Or is it? This is me, messing with your head!! 

I feel good. Except my back hurts. (Enter whine) But even my back isn't bad every day. All day. And when I compare that to what it was like a year ago... Holy Moses. I'm like a new person. Can't complain about that! 

Things About Guilt

I have to say that feeling guilty is in the top 3 of the list of Things That I Am Really Good At. I have mastered the art of feeling guilty, acting like I feel guilty, performing to appease said guilt and taking on inappropriate guilt. So much so that I make a pretty easy target if you're looking for someone to make feel bad. Some of the people in my "inner circle" over time have figured this out, even without me telling them, and have used it to their advantage. I can imagine how nice it would be to live with someone who is willing to take responsibility for anything. And everything. You wouldn't even have to try hard with me. I jump at the chance to feel guilty and find a way to recompense whatever perceived perpetration. 

A long time ago I heard a sermon or read a book about two types of people in this world: the Adams and the Eves. In the Garden of Eden, when the serpent offered up the fruit of knowledge of good and evil, and the Primary Couple take it and eat, they are confronted by God. When pressed, Adam's response is "it's not my fault. The woman YOU gave me gave it to me, and MADE me do it." Adam is especially awesome because he has TWO layers of blame shifting in his historic first excuse making speech. Eve, on the other hand, responds with: "Yes. The serpent made me an offer I couldn't refuse. I took it. In your face. I disobeyed and ignored your warnings. And I gave it to that pansy over there who is a sucker for me 'cause I'm naked. I am guilty." The polar opposite of Adam's response. Eve is a self admitted rebel. And as god hands down the Curse on All Mankind, I can't help but feel like Eve got the flipping short end of the stick for her blatant honesty. I mean, I haven't seen any men doubled over with menstrual cramps or shoving small humans out of their entirely too small pelvic openings. So, really? What. The. Hell (literally)? After I heard this whole Adam/Eve distinction of response to sin, I knew right away I always have been and will always be an Eve. Not that I haven't cranked out a pretty awesome justifications from time to time, or an excuse or two for my frequently bad behavior, but as a rule, I'm an almost unapologetic line-crosser who takes more than my share of responsibility for the Bad Things in life. 

Apparently I've been doing it wrong. If I couldn't glean that from how easy Adam got off (i.e. You have to be a farmer now?), shame on me. But after 37 years of trying to own my own crap, I think maybe it's time to take a different approach. So here goes:

Mom and Dad: It's all your fault. If you hadn't homeschooled me. If you hadn't been so strict. If you hadn't spanked me or kept me from dating or kept me from marrying The Handsome Prince with the Heart of Stone, if you had only told me about things and exposed me to more and let me "find myself"... By now I'd probably be... In jail. With 6 kids and 8 baby daddies. I'd probably have set a world record for food stamp consumption and welfare fraud. I'd probably never have even gotten a GED and definitely wouldn't have gone to college, let alone finishing it. Or maybe I'd just be living in your basement knitting doilies and dating onljne, if you would have just taken it easy on me.  So thanks a lot. It's all your fault. 

Ex Husband: I blame you. If you hadn't shown me bitter disappointment and dysfunctional love, if you hadn't broken my soul into a thousand pieces. If you had just been a good man with integrity and self control, I would definitely be living in an unfinished shack, barely scraping by with 6 kids and no money and no hope and no adventures. I would be continually attempting to toe the line of acceptable, submissive wife behavior. If only you hadn't been such a jerk. 

To The Church: you know who you are. If it weren't for you I'd have a healthy perspective of God's Holiness. If you hadn't controlled me and worked me over I would still be able to believe that One Pasty White Guy with a beard is the only hope for billions of human beings that God created in thousands of different variations, and I would probably be campaigning on the Bearded Dude's behalf, telling the wretched world what is wrong with them. If you hadn't manipulated and condemned me I could still be a submitted woman. I could be modest. And silent. As Women in The Church ought to be. If you had just embraced me with the love of Jesus like all Christians should, I could be a shining light of useless piety, damning the beautiful and unique hoardes that rebel against a judeo-Christian value system that will surely save us all. 

And my kids: why did you have to ruin my life. Get in my way. Slow me down. If it wasn't for you I could have nice, peaceful holidays at a pristine resort. I could have a clean, quiet, anti-septic house and life. I could have no pictures cluttering my walls and refrigerator. No boring band concerts, track meets, dance recitals, volleyball games. No tears of pride to stain my cheeks. No panic attacks when I feel like I can't protect you. All would be calm. Serene. Dead. Why did you have to make my life, life? 

Best Friends: (you also know who you are) If you hadn't continually reminded me how strong I am. How brave. How capable. How WORTHY I am, I could still be in a soul crushing marriage. A mind bending church. I could be painfully unaware of Everything I am Missing. If you hadn't held me together when I fell apart, or stopped my hand when it was bent on destruction. I could be resting in peace by now. If you hadn't awakened the parts of my soul that had been bled to unconsciousness with a steady infusion of unconditional love and support, I could be numb by now. And not know the difference. 

I don't think this is working, y'all. Everybody that screwed me over actually helped me out. And everybody that helped me out helped me out too. Maybe because I chose to take responsibility for my choices, all of the things that "happened" to me were actually ABLE to be for a purpose. Maybe Adam got a better deal, but I'm pretty sure I'd take menstrual cramps over not being able to live with myself. Or anybody else. But who knows. It takes Adams and Eves to make the world turn, doesn't it? Victims and perpetrators. Guilty and justified. Rebels and pacifists. With any luck we can find a balance in the accountability that we bring to each other. Because really, in the end, it's everybody's fault and everybody's purpose, the things that happen. And hey - we're all in this together. 

http://youtu.be/j37xdQFJ-Ng