Puffed Up and Pouty Like a Swollen Creek

I can't talk about Fight Club yet. I am sour on things; bratty and really don't have a lot nice to say. Everything is off, out of place and just plain not copacetic in my little corner of the universe. Yes, I am hiding--throwing sticks and tossing stones and just not ready to come out. Maybe when it is sunny here again I will.

I do feel guilty for neglecting the blog. I haven't written because I am so negative lately. I can hardly stand to be around myself; much less spend time, thought, and words giving it a name, labeling and cataloging it here for you. I can't even find humor at it--at myself and well, that almost never happens. The yuckiness that I feel lately is thick and chewy and I want nothing to do with it and trust me, neither do you.

Yesterday though, when the sun peaked out a tiny bit, I did go for a little run in the morning and while not fantastic it was okay because it didn't hurt, I could breathe and of course, I was getting to run. But I didn't feel great and it was totally disgusting down by the river where I ran: sewer smell, gray and red mud slicks, twisted and broken trees, mushy gravel and occasionally, an impassable flood pool. All that on a mostly paved path.


In the afternoon I was feeling even better and really wanted to get another workout in. But Tuesdays Beau has his theater class . Typically, while Beau is in class, Carmella and I go shopping or go down by the river and she rides her bike and I run along side her. However, having seen the condition of the trail that morning and knowing Carmella's sensibilities I knew that wasn't going to work out. And because of the general lack of resources, as discussed in the previous post, shopping was out too.

So I convinced Carmella to go on a hike.

I convinced her by telling her we didn't have to run and that we could bring Lola.

Beau's theater class is in the historic section of Roswell and right near the old mill.
The mill area has been completely transformed in the last 10 or so years. When I was younger I thought of the area as a bit sketchy but now I am not even sure if I can afford to breathe the air over there it is so fancy and cute in it's pretentious small town quaint. (Hmm, that sounded a bit snarky. See, I told you I am not nice lately.)

I have heard that there are hiking trails over there and I have been wanting to check them out as I am always looking for new places with new sights to put the miles in. I have no idea how long they have been there but as far as I know they were not there when I lived over in that area during grad school. (I lived a block over on the street with all the churches. A huge 2 bedroom for $500 a month with hardwood floors that I had all to my little lonesome. It was cheap and wonderful and that is where I lived when I very first started running. Ah, nostalgia. . . )

At any rate, for those who have not been there and are also in need of a new place to run it looks like there are quite a few trails and they go all the way down to the cliffs at Allenbrook . How long the trails are I don't know-- the maps I saw didn't say but I am really really bad at reading maps. You go and figure it out and report back to me.

The trails are a little technical, probably most like the ones at Sope Creek. I don't know if you can mountain bike on the mill trails or not. I did not see signs saying one way or the other and I did not see any mountain bikers or really anyone else on the trails.

I brought my camera and we took pictures along the way.

This is the waterfall at Vickery Creek.
I am not totally clear on the names since I saw that it was called Big Creek in a few places. All I know is that I use to hang out a lot down at the waterfall off Sloan Street in high school and we called it Vickery Creek and we could walk straight across the top. And sometimes, never me, people jumped off the waterfall.

This is how it looked yesterday. I was kind of scared just to stand near it. Betting no one is jumping off it or walking across the falls this week.
There are mill ruins all over. Most people hate kudzu but one of the things I love about the landscape of the South is seeing the battles between the vines and the architecture. It is a war in slow motion.


Even though she made me promise we didn't have to run. She ran most of the time. Seriously. She is so silly. Running? It is what kids do. That walking crap is for old people.

I have never seen so many mushrooms in the area as I have this summer/fall. In fact, I have been wanting to make cut outs of Smurfs and put them under the mushrooms on the trails I run on. I think people would like that.

In my not so scientific study of local trails in the area and mushroom life the ones at the Lieta trail are the most interesting: bright pink, red or the spotted variety. At Kennesaw Mountain and at the mill trails all I've seen are the brown and white kinds and toadstools.

We walked down Sloan Street to check out the Founder's Cemetery.
I could stand it only long enough to take few pictures. I got chewed to pieces by mosquitoes if I didn't keep moving. I can't believe how bad the mosquitoes are and here it is mid fall.Aren't they usually gone by now? It it terrible. My legs look like I have the pox!

Do you see it? In this picture?

The ray of light? The sun? It is what I am hoping for these days. Trying not to read too much into it that I saw it, however briefly, in a cemetery. However, it is October so I suppose that makes sense. . . somehow.

Maybe?

Releasing the Clamp

Now, in Vienna there's ten pretty women
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows
There's a tree where the doves go to die
There's a piece that was torn from the morning
And it hangs in the gallery of frost
Ay, ay, ay, ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws
--from Take this Waltz by Leonard Cohen

If nothing else I have learned of tragedy is that one never knows what is the right thing to say. Or for that matter what is the right thing to do. So we walk around with clamps on our jaws. Some of us-- and I am talking about me-- puts a clamp on our hearts too.

Of course, generally speaking, I have a lot say. But I have been overwhelmed by it lately. Mostly what I have wanted is for it to go away. It isn't going to go away. I know that. It will just dim but I think it is going to pull at my insides until I unclamp my jaw, my heart.

Last Saturday I did my regular 3 hour run. This is my favorite run of the week usually. I get to spend 3 hours doing what I love to do and listening to my favorite music. Certainly being tired or something hurting or crappy weather can put a kink in my good times but generally if I can find my rhythm and get my head in the right place it all works out. On Saturday, the song Take This Waltz by Leonard Cohen found it's way in my 400 song shuffle. I love this song. It is one of my favorites. Here listen, if you like:
What I love most about the song is the amazing poetry. The song is actually Cohen's very liberal translation of Lorca'spoem Little Viennese Waltz. Straight translations from Spanish to English rarely work so it is hard for me to compare fairly but I actually prefer Cohen's song to the straight English translation of Lorca's poem.

I have long puzzled over the precise meaning of Cohen's lyrics but have mostly assumed it a love song about a passionate and tormented love affair. Basically I have long thought it was just a "smarter" version of this song by James. I like that song a lot too.

But on my run the other day I kept listening to Cohen's song over and over several times, compelled by the complex imagery and metaphor-- wanting to figure its meaning out. I'm a Lit nerd; poetry in particular. I like to do stuff like that. Besides, it certainly made the miles fly by having something to occupy my mind and distract me from how tired and sore my legs were after all my runs earlier in the week. It began to occur to me that perhaps it wasn't a love affair with another person but maybe it was just about life and the struggles we all face there--passion, despair. Certainly, as is the case with many great poems, there can be multiple meanings and only Cohen-- and I guess, ultimately Lorca-- know the true meaning. I just get to have fun trying to figure out the metaphor puzzle but never really get to know the true answer. Huh, just like everything else in life. . .

On Sunday afternoon I came home from a happy afternoon with my family to learn some very tragic news about an old classmate from high school. And ever since then I have grappled with the death of my old friend Spanky. I haven't seen Spanky since high school and had no idea of his struggles. The more I heard from friends who were close to him the more saddened and more horrific the news became. Emails and phone calls have flown back and forth all week. Everyone who knew Spanky is heartbroken for his family. My good friend Dogwood Girl blogged about it too. I will direct you there for specific details as I don't want to repeat what she has already said better than I could.

This morning I woke up, shuffled my kids to school and went straight out to run in the wonderful misty gloom on this eight year anniversary forever and always sad day of September 11th. Today's weather is my favorite kind of weather to run in and you would have thought my heart would be singing with every footfall.

My heart, my mind though were heavy; bereft even and mostly I was just trying to keep it together. I've been running with this despair all week. I've been methodical about it though. Keeping it locked down. I will feel the urge to cry rising and I will think: I will go run 20 miles and that will make me feel better. You know: just shake it off my shoulders; right out of my head. I'll leave it in the sweat; I'll liter it on the side of the road; toss it in the woods and wring it right out of my clothes afterward. However, whatever-- I will rid myself of it.

(I guess I just like to think that I have a better handle on my emotions than other people. And you know, if you've read anything on this blog, that I tend to think that a little running can solve just about every problem. Hence: because I run I've got it all figured out. Completely laughable. Not the running part--the part that I would have anything figured out.)

I didn't want my run to end. I wanted to keep running until I ran myself out and left once and for all this heaviness on the shining wet road. Leave it for the rain and the mist to carry and dissipate. I wanted most of all to find myself a few hours later sweaty, spent and hot in the sun. I wanted to be so exhausted, so bodily wasted that I could no longer cry, be sad or held in this tragedy's embrace. I know. That sounds like a lot to ask from an act as simple as running but sometimes the miles they can do it. It is rare that they have let me down. It is, after all, the thing that I do. Unfortunately I couldn't run myself out of the darkness today. Instead, I had to cut my run short and quickly dress myself for Spanky's funeral.

And I was so grateful that Leigh sat with me at the funeral. I had thought it didn't matter if I didn't have anyone to sit with. I would be okay. Let me just say this--if you go to funerals alone you are an insanely brave person.

I don't get to see Leigh much but she is always a comforting and calm person to be around. Pretty much the antithesis of me. Leigh and I managed to find some of the last seats at Roswell First Presbyterian in the balcony. Below and above it quickly became a standing room only funeral. And to that I can only say that when death finds me I hope the community will rally together for my family as it came together for Spanky's. Roswell has become such a big town but it is nice when you find those small town roots triumphing over the sprawl.

Since Spanky and I were not close and I had thought I had gotten my self purged of tears on my runs this week I thought I would hold it together. Also, admittedly, I do have a hard time keeping my mind focused in church; no matter the occasion. But as soon as the family filed in my stomach started knotting up and I began tying to think of other things to keep it together. It sometimes is easier to put and keep that clamp on when you just read words in an article or think of the tragedy in removed terms.I was no longer removed.

As soon as the readings began I began sniffling. I fanned my eyes with the program. And suddenly, Cohen's song was in my head. I have listened to it so much this week-- trying to divine the precise meaning-- that I am constantly hearing it, even seeing the lyrics. That first stanza in particular read like the scene I was looking at: Except instead of Vienna it was Roswell. And instead of 10 pretty women there was over a hundred women weeping, dotting tissues on the corners of their eyes--leaning on shoulder's, pews. And not quite a lobby with nine hundred windows but a church with many giant windows. And not a tree but a cross. But clearly to me was the piece that was torn from the morning; Spanky and his father. A family torn in half, not just a piece. And there I was with that damn clamp.

Too much. Too much. Understanding suddenly and not understanding it at all. How is that possible? It knocks the breath out of you.

Bless Leigh for passing me that tissue when the jaw, the heart came unclamped. You'd think that I could have at least brought my own tissues with me to a funeral but again, I had thought I would be okay.

Yes. I know I will be okay but I am forever heartbroken that Spanky was so consumed by an addiction and that addiction has irrevocably taken and damaged the lives of the people I know he loved. I am just sad. So sad and I feel terrible that I couldn't stay long after the funeral to say hello to all my old classmates or give proper sympathies to Spanky's family or even really say goodbye. It was just too hard. It was too hard to see so many people I have not seen in a decade or two and smile when I was so crushed; so undone by it all.

I can say no more about this. Cohen is right; it is all that there is.

It is because I have an underactive prefrontal cortex

At least that is what I have read is one of the supposed physiological roots of ADHD. I don't know for sure because I just don't have the attention span to read all that medical and psychological mumbo-jumbo to really find out.

But see, unlike most of you slack asses, I actually have a doctor's note for my inherent procrastination.

I really can't help it.

It is a symptom of a disorder.

What can I say?

I's got a free pass.

But really, I am thinking I won't need my free pass.

Sure I just got the book last night--A Thousand Splendid Suns and the book club meeting is Friday but I am already 130 pages in; only 280 some odd pages to go!

At this rate I should be done by Thursday at lunch at the latest. Plenty of time to still write a paper comparing the novel with Milan Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being. I will title it something like The Unbearable Suffering of a Thousand Soviet Oppressions. Of course I will cite examples of existentialism and quote Nietzsche and have a short paragraph on Mikhail Bakhtim's theory of dialogism to tie the discourse between the novels together.

Ah, I knew all those semesters of reading 5 novels a week and endless research papers would come to fruition at some point.

And you see, this is why, for the most part, I stick to only reading Comso and Glamour these days. Nothing like a degree in literature to ruin you on the pleasure of reading.

Sigh, off to use my brain. Feel sorry for me. No good ever comes of that.

Doctor Office Observed: An Introspective

So I have NOT been running.

I am sick AGAIN as of Wednesday.

This time a soul sucking sinus infection is to blame. Its drippings make me cough like an oxygen tank toting octogenarian with a 3 pack a day habit. But my lungs are clear. Small favors for sure.

Antibiotics are kicking the sinus infection to the curb and I could probably run but I am looped out on cough syrup and some other drug that makes me feel all floaty. The cough drugs are preventing me from coughing which in turn keep my airways from spasming and allow me breathe A OK. Again, small favor since I can't run. All this breathing is just for waste if not spent running (or swimming or cycling), right?

So I may be breathing better but other than that I am a complete waste of flesh. Is this why the lives of people who are addicted to pain killers and other drugs go to pot? Cause I'm kinda in a whatever, that's cool state and I can tell you that I am NEVER like that. I am never chill. But I don't even think I could have an angry thought right now if I tried and it is freaking me out a little. I am almost comfortable just sitting here doing nothing, staring out the window, letting the kids have at their bags of Valentine goodies . . .

I have been questioning this line of treatment the doctor I saw prescribed: Azithromycin 3 day pack, Robitussin DM 2 TABLESPOONS every 4 hrs (triple dose), Tessalon, and Albuterol inhaler. He also prescribed a steroid inhaler but I passed on it since it cost $100. Figured if I really needed it I would go back and get it.

Sinus infections and I have been well acquainted since I was in high school and my allergies took a nasty turn. Of course the severity of infections have varied and sometimes require stronger medication but there is always the usual arsenal (usually antibiotics for 10-14 days, Flonase) and this treatment is decidedly a little different.

I saw a new doctor.

But that really isn't unusual.

I don't have a regular doctor. And that is because as small business owners we pay for our insurance out of pocket. Those of you that work for companies who pay for your insurance should count yourselves extremely lucky. Our monthly premium for insurance rivals (and sometimes has exceeded) our monthly mortgage payment. Never mind co-pays and stuff not covered. And because we own our business and pay out of pocket for insurance the insurance company, after the first year with them, can raise our premiums every 6 months. I continually have to shop other insurance companies for the best rate-- which often means whatever doctor I have been seeing is not covered. Generally speaking we swap about every other year between being covered by Kaiser Permanente and some other insurance company like Coventry (who we currently have). I have regular doctors for myself and the kids at Kaiser that I see when our insurance is under Kaiser. And my stipulation when having to choose an alternative insurance company is that they cover the pediatrician we see when we do not have Kaiser insurance. If they cover other doctors I have seen outside of Kaiser? Great. If not? Doesn't matter. I will find a new doctor. So at the very least I only have to swap medical records between two different sets of doctors for the kids. I have had to do this three times so far since Carmella was born. That is 3 times with Kaiser and 3 times with different insurance companies in 8 years.

(But Obama is going to save me from all this hassle, right?)

For this reason, I have been privy to the insides of many doctor's waiting rooms and offices. Certainly they all have some similar characteristics: reception area, examine rooms, nurses' station, triage/lab area, the doctor's office etc. What differs is the decor. For the most part I think doctor offices strive to have decor that you do not notice. At least that is what I have to think because most of it begs: Do not look at or remember me. I am bland and the same as the next doctor office. Completely uninspiring.

Wait.

That part is not true of offices that cater to children or of psychiatrist offices (not that I know anything about that). Those are usually fairly well decorated and at the very least not bland. Generally they have better art. Sometimes original instead of framed prints of floral arrangements bought probably by the receptionist at one of the side of the road art sales. Oh, and I suppose I will concede that in-town doctor offices do tend to have better decor but really it is all, for the most part, pretty uninspiring, completely forgettable.

And that is what I figured about this last doctor I saw. At first. Ryan had warned me that it was "weird"there but I just kind of ignored him. Ryan is the one who gave me this cold. He has been sick with it for 2 weeks and I finally insisted he go to the doctor. He had seen this doctor over the summer when he had a tick bite and was convinced he had Lyme disease. (He didn't.)

As I mentioned before I was sick a few weeks ago with a nasty chest infection. I had found a doctor I really liked. Now if there was ever an uninspiring waiting room theirs was it. The chairs? The worst. I had to push them together and lay across several when my fever was spiking. I did fall asleep so they weren't totally uncomfortable but then again, I was in no position to be picky that day. It was actually pretty funny. You could have drawn a line down the room. Me on one half and all the other people in the waiting room on the other half. No one wanted to be near me.

They also had a tile floor and a flat screen TV that showed some repeating clip about flu precautions. All that money on a fancy mounted flat screen and you aren't going to put CNN on? Their magazines were crap also. I think they spent all their money on the TV and had nothing left for furniture or decor. BUT the office was new and clean. Huge pluses in my book.

And I would have gone back but I knew they didn't have an x-ray machine and I wanted to get a chest x-ray. Otherwise, what would have happened is that I would have spent $20 to see them and then they would have sent me somewhere to get a chest x-ray for which I would have paid $60 dollars to get and then I would have to bring the films back and pay another $20 copay to have them read the films to me.

I may not be be fabulous at math but after how much I pay per month for insurance I like to try to get the most bang for my $20 copay. When Ryan returned home from his doctor visit he told me that they had taken an x-ray of his sinuses. Prefect, I thought. So I tried to get in Wednesday with his doctor after spending all night coughing but they couldn't fit me in until Thursday. Boo.

Going to the doctor on Thursday was the main event of my day. And it did not disappoint.

Truth told I like to go to the doctor. Exhibit A-- for those that may have missed this from a previous post-- at 23, having not been sick for several years I went to the doctor and demanded a series of tests because I was convinced I had a disease that was killing all the other diseases. Really, I think I just missed seeing a doctor.

I like the attention and usually they say nice things to me since I tend to take fairly good care of myself. Also, when I am sick I tend to illicit lots of sympathy from strangers. They feel really sorry for me and are extra kind to me. This is absolutely not true of people who know me. People who know me are slightly annoyed by a sick Nat. That's okay because I am annoyed by sick people too.

So of course, on Thursday, I arrive early for my appointment prepared to fill out lots of paper work. This is one of my favorite parts of visiting a new doctor-- besides getting to see their office decor. I love that I am given pages that ask questions about ME! In a test like form no less! The only thing that would make this experience even more fabulous for me would be getting to fill out a bubble sheet with a number 2 pencil and write a 4 page essay about my health.

I checked in with the receptionist and handed over my driver's license, insurance card and credit card before she even asked for them and anxiously awaited to be handed the paperwork. All the while I am doing my cough that Carmella says sounds like a car that won't start. The receptionist, who hands me my clip board says "You poor baby. We are going to fix you right up!" A man and his wife who are waiting to be seen echo additional sympathies and further that their grandchildren have similar coughs. It is going around they all chorus. The nurse pops in the waiting room and tells me she will be with as soon as possible. Everyone is so nice! So happy to be at the doctors!

As I go to sit down and fill out my paperwork the receptionist tells me the silver lining to being sick is that my husband will cook dinner tonight. I tell her, between hacks, that isn't going to happen. Audible draws of breath and if they all had feathers they would have certainly be ruffled by this admission.

The receptionist says "Chinese food then. He will pick up Chinese food."

Nothing could sound more terrible to me at the moment, well except eggs and fish which always sound vile. The mention of Chinese food begins a lengthy conversation about where the best Chinese food in Atlanta can be found. Buford Highway. And ends being punctuated that Dim Sum? Is to die for. I participate in this conversation with hacks and failed engine coughs and occasionally by blowing my nose to make my point.

Generally, if I am lucky, there is usually another person filling out new patient paperwork and I can race them. I am a very fast test taker and I think it is pretty clear from this blog that I treat all of life's tiny endeavors as a competition if I can at all make it one. Sadly though I was the only new patient and as a result I was able to be a bit more thoughtful in my answers. And by thoughtful I mean excessively long winded.

The new patient paperwork was rather run of the mill until I got to these questions:

Do you like to have a good time?
What do you do for fun?
When was the last time you had fun and what did you do?

I started to rattle off my responses and then paused.

Perhaps this was a trick question? One designed to trip me up and contradict a previous answer I had made--you know like in those personality tests that will ask the same question phrased six different ways.

At that moment the music that had been playing stopped. I can't say what the music was exactly only that I noticed once it was gone. And I sat there another minute trying to remember what had been playing a second before. Funny how I don't notice the noise but rather the absence of noise.

So I answer my questions:
Of course, always.
Run, ride my bike, be outside, go to parties.
Saturday, had a party. Sunday, rode my bike. Tuesday, ran 12 miles.

Happy with my answers I turn in my paperwork and the receptionist asks me if she can get me some water and I tell her it won't matter. The gentleman whose wife is now being seen tries to engage me in a conversation. I notice the music is back but I can't focus on it since the gentleman and I are talking. Something vague, uptempo and without lyrics. Like elevator techno music, maybe.

Finally I am called back and told to go to "The Big Room". I look around puzzled and the nurse, who is humming along to the music, points to the room she wants me to go to. On the door is a label. It says, "The Big Room."

I sit on the examining table which is of the newer type. I say newer type to differentiate between the older type. The older type examining tables are like what my children's pediatrician has in their office. The pediatrician office is the same office I went to as a child. Well, and as an adult until my pediatrician complimented me on my bra. I was 25. He was a great doctor! I loved him!

My pediatrician died a few years ago but the new pediatrician kept all of his decor: the examination tables-- which are just plain wood tables with a thin mattress and sheet and shelf beneath for books and magazines, paintings (Rockefeller prints), waiting room furniture (brown plaid couch, blue floral chair, wood backed uncomfortable chair), end tables (chests), monkey lamps (left over from when he had a circus theme, later a zoo theme.)

The nurse flits about the examine room getting my bp, asking me questions and humming along to the music. She looks over my paper work and says, "So you like to run." I confirm that is true and then she leaves. I am sad that I didn't get to tell her more about just how much I love to run. It was like she didn't really care.

I wait for the doctor and look at the room. Pretty boring and typical. Definitely not updated but nothing too out of the ordinary. After a few moments the doctor arrives and introduces himself. I tell him my litany of symptoms and remind him that he just saw my husband. I tell him about my chest infection a few weeks ago and I am worried it might be back and that most of all I just want the coughing to stop. So after a quick listen at my lungs and a check at my nose and ears he orders a sinus and chest x-ray. He seems thrilled about it. Which makes me happy that I am not the only one excited about x-rays. I love getting to see my bones!

He leaves and the nurse comes back and directs me to the x-ray room. I notice as I walk down the hallway that someone has had a good time with a label maker. I don't really notice what the labels say except that there seems to be quite a bit of labeling going on. I am also trying to note the other decor. Decidedly ugly; a bizarre mix of tschotsky and old lady taste. Instantly I wonder if maybe he had his grandmother decorate his office. Then I decide he must have inherited them from her when she died and she left him the contents of her West Palm condo. The tea set I noticed set out in his office just didn't seem like something a man would choose, gay or not.I am not saying this doctor was gay because I don't think he was I am just saying that I don't think even a gay man would want this particular tea set. It just wasn't fantastic; more Pier One than Tiffany's.

Once in the X ray room, which I failed to note what this room was actually labeled, I had to first do a breathing test. I have had to do many of these and I was familiar with the machine they had. Because it was the exact model that I used when first diagnosed with asthma at 18. So it was pretty old school. In fact, so was the x-ray machine. I imagined that he must have obtained the equipment in some sort of doctor office state liquidation auction. Either that or he also got them out of his grandma's West Palm condo. She must have willed breathing machine and x-ray equipment to him on the stipulation he could have them but he must also display her prized tea set.

The best part of the whole breathing test and x-ray was that the nurse cheered me on the whole time. Go go go go! Yes! Score! Okay one more time.Sweetie you can do it! Okay, third time's a charm! And when she wasn't cheering she was humming.

And then as she measured me she cheered at each and every measurement and then told me where to stand for my x-rays. I then noticed more of the label maker at work. Remove your Jewelry. Said one label above the x-ray machine. And then when I got in position-- right at eye level, an inch from my eyes-- another label: Did you remember to remove your jewelry?

After the x-rays I was told to go back to my room. Which she asked if I remembered which one it is. I think maybe she was being funny because I think it was the only one but she reminded me it was "The Big Room."

So I went back to The Big Room to wait and as I walked in I noticed another door in the room that I didn't see before. It said "The Chamber of Secrets".

Yes! I was very tempted to open the door and sat there contemplating it for several long minutes. I am certain this is exactly how Adam and Eve felt about that tree of knowledge in the garden of Eden. Okay kids, I imagine God having said; you can have anything you want in this here garden but you need to leave that fruit on that there tree alone.

The Chamber of Secrets was just begging for me to open it; just like the fruit on that tree was begging to be eaten.

But I guess unlike Eve I am obedient,  because I didn't open the door. Though I did think quite a bit about what was in The Chamber of Secrets. . .

And then the Doctor came back and told me my lungs were clear and that I had a soul sucking sinus infection that would last all the days of my life unless I took the medicine.

And as I left and I walked out of the office to my car I swear I saw Cherubim with a flaming sword guarding the door.

Heaven's Proximity and Thanksgiving Day

As many of you know, if you've been reading this blog for awhile,November 24th is the 2nd anniversary of my nephew Evan's death. For those that haven't been following along for a few years, my nephew Evan died the day after Thanksgiving in 2006 from complications from bacterial meningitis. He was a few months shy of his third birthday and his loss has caused my family inexplicable pain and we still miss having him in our life every single day.

My sister in law Pam, my brother, family and friends gathered at a park to release balloons to remember Evan yesterday. My kids and Ryan and I couldn't make it out to their park but we also released balloons to remember Evan at a park near us. To explain to the kids what we were doing we told them we were sending notes to Evan in heaven.

Carmella had no problem with this and wrote a very sweet note telling him that she missed him everyday and hoped that he was having fun in heaven and she loved him always.

Beau, ever my little scientist, commented as we watched the balloons disappear from sight that he just "didn't think it was going to work." He explained that surely a plane or lightening would take the balloons out before they and our notes could reach Evan in heaven. Heaven, he explained, was very far away. There was even mention of Mars and Pluto.

Carmella told him that of course the balloons would make it. Heaven was closer to us than planes and planets, she explained, somehow, to Beau. And then there was much running a muck and it was starting to rain harder and then Beau face planted in the mud and we took that as our cue to leave.

Two weeks ago, when I did my final longish run I found myself remembering Evan and Thanksgiving morning--the day before he died. Evan sometimes has a way of sneaking into my thoughts when I do those long runs. It is okay, most times welcomed even. Not sure why but it can be motivating somehow; the anger and that overwhelming emotion of loss. At the very least, it is a diversion-- something else to focus on, unspool in my head and get me through the miles. And since I am in the taper for Atlanta marathon I can't help but think of my past Atlanta half marathons/marathon races. Especially the one I ran on November 23rd 2006.

I never wrote a post about the race and just had a blurb in one of my posts that I ran it and it was my best time for the course. At the time, the race was such a small, insignificant part of that terrible Thanksgiving day because it was about 2 hours after finishing that race that we found out we would lose Evan forever. But since then, I have found, my memory of that day is entangled in running, or rather more specifically the Atlanta half marathon-- and by default the Atlanta Marathon since the last 13.1 miles of the full course is the half marathon course.

And anyone who has ever run a marathon will tell you the real running doesn't even begin until that second 13.1 miles. Or sure there are those that argue even about it being the last 10k but regardless I think of the first half as just a warm up. (Right I warm up that run wayyy tooo fast. Neither here nor there.) I personally don't even consider that I am running 26.2 miles until I hit the half point. Up until then I am just thinking about getting to 13.1 miles. That is all I am doing. Not at all worried about what might happen after that point. Which, right, might be why I have such a tough time in the last half. What can I say, I am often guilty of not seeing the big picture.


Anyway . . . my point is that I can't help but think about Evan now on that course and so I have wondered how that will play out for me in what can be the valley of darkness already in a marathon. Ever since I signed up for the full marathon I've been riddled with this question.

And on my last long run two weeks ago and throughout this taper this is how I have answered it for myself: I have lit upon the notion that I will tell myself I got through those 13.1 miles two years ago on an impossible day under such impossible duress and ridiculous obstacles that surely I can get through it easily having only run 13.1 miles. Which of course, I'll be the first to admit, that everything sounds possible in theory.

Allow me to further explain where I am coming from on this. Keep in mind my thinking process also has to do with how crappy my races have been this year. I feel like I haven't been able to "suck it up" where as I use to consider myself queen of sucking it up and getting it done in a race. I have not had the best of luck in races in general: bad weather, race disorganization, lack of sleep, injury, sickness, bad weather etc. But really, I've come to realize the Atlanta half marathon 2006 really stands out as a triumph over adversity in terms of a race. (I know. One might be inclined to wonder why I keep doing these things. I sure do. And I don't really have an answer other than I seem to think they are fun.)

Race day here is how I found myself: Even taking out the equation of what was happening with Evan the odds were not in my favor to have a good race that day anyway. I had raced the Silver Comet half marathon less than a month before and nailed a pr at that time of 1:41--an almost 15 minute improvement of my fastest half marathon at the time. Two weeks later and 12 days before the Atlanta half I had ran the Outer Banks Marathon in pouring rain and cold and set a new 23 minute marathon PR of 3:42. Then a few days after the marathon I came down with bronchitis and a sinus infection. So Thanksgiving morning I was on day eight of a two week course of antibiotics. I was definitely better --able to smell again and breathe without hitting the inhaler every 15--but the doctor had instructed me not run or if I did to "take it easy." (It is funny, but I just recalled--upon writing this-- that I actually passed that doctor in the first mile of the race.)

So those facts alone were points indicating that I probably wouldn't have a great race. But of course I still wanted to run-- no matter how ridiculous of an idea it was to run. I love this race. Why? Seriously, I don't know. But I do!

But add to those strikes of why not race that I had a family crisis going on and well, most rational people would have bagged the race. However, we had been given hopeful news of Evan on Wed afternoon, so ever the optimist I went through my regular pre race rituals and laid out my clothes--number pinned to my outfit and ready to go. Though I admit that when I climbed into bed at 11 pm that night that I knew I might not be running.

At midnight my mom called and asked me to come down to Children's-- the latest news was not good. I didn't ask questions or really think but grabbed my clothes on the way out the door and drove down to the hospital. My sister, who was also signed up for the race was there too. From about 1 am until 4 am we just sat and stared at each other and had those inane conversations that seem to only occur in ICU waiting rooms. Finally we were told that we would not be able to find anything out until the neurologist came on duty at 11 am and that Evan was stable.

So since we were up my sister and I decided we would go run. The choice, at the time, seem logical: sit in ICU waiting room or run 13.1 miles. I mean, sleep wasn't even on the table so really, those were our only choices.

Oddly it was the most perfect weather for racing as I have ever had running the Thanksgiving race not that, at the time, I thought it was going to make any difference. I was just looking for a little distraction, alone time with my music, thoughts and doing the thing that makes me feel good: running.

I remember trying to convince my sister to come closer to the front but she wouldn't go any closer than the middle of the 8 minute milers. I wished her luck and walked up closer to the 7's. We were off and as we rolled down Peachtree Industrial towards day light the heaviness of the day hit me. By the end of the first mile I was a heaving, crying mess. I wanted to be done. I couldn't do it. Sometime around mile 3 I pulled myself together and began my mantra that got me through the race: I can't quit cause Evan can't quit. Funny the deals we will make. Like we really have that sort of control and bartering power.

I was so tired and sad and worried and wanted nothing more than to quit. But I didn't and ran as hard as I could that day because getting done would get me back to the hospital where I decided, after starting the race, was actually where I was suppose to be.

I vaguely remember crossing the finish line and knowing that I had a run a great race but didn't care at all. There was no elation or joy in finishing as there usually is; only relief to be done with it.

I found my brother in law and waited for my sister to finish. She had also ran her best time and had a similar race experience to mine. There was nothing to be said and we went to her house showered and back to the hospital where the day further unraveled in its horror and despair.

As I have gotten closer to the marathon, which is now only two short days away, this memory gets clearer. Every run I have done it has edged its way in. At first I have that knot of sadness in my stomach that makes me want to throw up but then it turns into this crazy anger that is like a fire. I find myself breaking my promise to take it easy in the taper and it is like it was that day-- wanting to get it done and over and move past it-- and I just run as hard as I can.

So see, here I am two years later and I still have that same emotion: pain-despair-frustration-thing-that-I-don't-have-a-name-for- and nor do I know how to get past it-- over it, beyond it. But what I do know and have been thinking is that maybe, maybe I can manage it. Maybe even harness it. . .

And so here is what I am hoping: that the thing that gets me through those last dark and painful miles of the marathon will be the understanding that nothing ever hurts worse than the pain of losing someone forever. So this, this little thing, this thing that I do called running? Is infinitely easier. Suck. It. Up.

And with that (assuming I keep this cold at bay that I feel is brewing) know that I--marathon runner 794-- will be going for broke on Thanksgiving morning.

Thanks for listening.

Small Town, Sunday

Two weekends ago kids and I went to the family stomping grounds: Bainbridge, GA. Oh, to be clear that's my family's stomping grounds.
Not Ryan's.
His family?
They're from Long Island. And Ryan, the damn Yankee, wasn't with us because he was out doing his that very un-Yankee thing that he does--deer shooting.

Kids didn't want to ride with me for most of the trip. Carmella changed her mind after lunch. So for most of the ride I was solo. I tried "listening" to a book on tape. Some Patricia Cromwell novel. After about 3 hours of listening I realized that I had actually read the novel and that it made it that much easier to follow along. It was really hard for me. Maybe it is an ADD thing but I kept having to rewind because I couldn't keep my mind engaged.

Later, I entertained myself by taking pictures of me driving:


And pictures of my parents in their car:

That's Itty Bitty. Mom's new mini cooper. She does have a regular size car-- a small SUV in fact-- but their dumb asses wanted to ride 5 hours to South Georgia in a clown car.

My dad then complained the rest of the weekend about how much his back hurt. Carmella wizened up and got in my spacious Ford Explorer. I should also add the Ford Explorer that carried all their crap. As you can see from the picture Beau loved riding in Itty Bitty even if it meant he couldn't eat or drink anything in Itty Bitty.

When we rolled into town we went straight to the Boo Barbie Surprise party where you can see from the previous post much fun was had by all.

The next morning I pawned my kids off on my mom and dad and took a solo ride out around town. I first rode out to my cousin's on the outskirts of town to try to convince her to come ride with me. Apparently preparing brunch for 20 people means you can't spare the time for a 2 hour bike ride. What ev's . . .

Here is the picture I took riding out Lake Douglas road to her house: Yes, I took it while pedaling. In fact, most of these were taken while moving so that accounts for their some what poor quality. I was trying very hard to both not wreck and break yet another digital camera.

My cousin had directed me to ride out Lake Douglas road towards Climax (yes that really is the name of the town). So I headed out on the now two lane country road towards then fine town of Climax. My cousin said the second stop sign would get me to 10 miles. I never made it to even the first stop sign. After passing the speed limit sign that advertised 55 mph I started to think about things. Mostly I thought, Wow, I've never ridden on road with a speed limit over 45 mph. And then when that car passed me going at least 65 I turned around and high tailed it back to town.

The first place I decided to go was my great grandmother Ebie's house. I wasn't sure actually how to get there but when I saw Broughton St and saw this vantage point I knew how to get there.
This is her house, or rather was:

In my undergrad I wrote a poem about it, about this scene, this view. It is called Rescue. You can read the poem here if you want.

Some of the things I wrote about in the poem are gone: the flea market that was once a church, my great grandmother, my grandmother, the porch swing . . . but some things are still there and are still the same:

BrownLee Glass Company:


The tinted glass windows:


One of the houses I imagine no one lives in:


The Southern Bell building that makes me believe Florida is one street over:

The hanging Spanish moss:


The always empty street:


I rode further down the street and took a picture of my favorite church in town. The Episcopal:
And yes, it is my favorite because it has a red door.

Though I am not a religious person I do love that in this town you are never a 1/4 mile away from a church. Seems there is one on every street.

I rode over and took a picture of the church my parents got married in. The Presbyterian:

This is the Methodist Church.
I think this was Lala's church but she got married in the Presbyterian-- that was Daddy's church-- because she thought it was prettier. At least that is the story that I remember but I may have it all backwards because the Methodist church looked grander to me.

I decided my next stop was the cemetery. I knew the direction but wasn't exactly sure of the way. I found it though.

I love that the cemetery is called 'Oak City'. It's the epitome of Southern Gothic: a city populated by century old oaks and tombs. Does it get any more romantic and macabre than that? All that Spanish moss and marble. Sigh. My heart gets all a flutter. I had wanted to walk around and find all my family's markers but I was in my cleated bike shoes. With the exception of the main drag the roads in Oak City are dirt. Not the Georgia red clay that you see up here above the gnat line but that gray sandy dirt that is fine like powdered sugar and is all over the coastal plain of south Georgia.

Okay. Truth. What really happened and why there are not pretty pictures of the marble markers and tombs is that I got scared.

I realized after about two minutes that I was the only living person in Oak City. So even though it was a bright Sunday afternoon and the cemetery was quiet and serene and beautiful it was still a whole city filled with dead people-- and yeah, it was a little creepy. What can I say? I was all by myself in the middle of cemetery on my bike with no cell service. People, I had to ride across the tracks to get there.

So my chicken-ass hightailed it out of there.

As it was I didn't have time to ride over the my grandmother's Adelaide's house or the house my grandmother Anne lived in with her second husband Lee Roy or any of the other places. I had to get back to my cousin's and get my kids and come home.

It was a very nice Sunday ride. Sometimes, just like when I was little, I still wish I could live there.

Sitting Still. Wasting Time . . .

Right outside my window it is dark and rainy.

The cold dreary wetness lends itself to lethargy, sometimes.

A day like today draws you to your window. To sit. To stare. At puddles, pools being made by small rivers rushing down the window pane.

I am fighting off the lethargy.

It is hard. It is a gym day. A treadmill day. A pool day.

The lethargy is appealing.

I am unmotivated for the gym, the pool. Those fluorescent lights, that sour old sweat smell, dark cave like building. This idea of being inside. It is somewhat terrible for me. It is hard to get excited about it-- the machines and drawn, dull faces at the gym. There is no brightness, no cheer. It is uninspiring.

I will have to look in, not out.

It will be hard.

I am mostly a dissociative runner. I don't like looking in.

Not because I think I am dull.

(Obviously this blog speaks quite the contrary.)

But I do not like to think about running unless racing or when not actually running.

At the gym, on the treadmill I have to be an associative runner.

Associative runners are hardcore. They have focus.

I am soft at the core. Focus is hard. It is uncomfortable.

I am handicapped. Excuses! I am ADHD.

Really.

I can't focus.

Sheesh. What am I saying? That I need some Ritalin to go to the gym?

Who cares.


Two days ago-- Wednesday, in case you are unsure that today is Friday and can't remember what day comes 2 days before Friday--I ran my 3rd 21 miler for this training cycle. It wasn't great but it was better than last week's 19 miler and better than the first 21 miler I did back at the beginning of January. I think the course is just stale. I'll shake it up next week. Run somewhere new. . .

Yesterday was cold and rainy but I still ran an easy 6. I ran in the rain because I just can't do my recovery runs on the treadmill. I mean, of course, I can. But I always run them too fast and then I have to spend the next day recovering from my recovery run. I do not like running a nine minute mile on the treadmill. It makes it even more boring not to mention 6 miles on the treadmill at a 9 or slower pace means a long time on the treadmill. So yesterday I ran in the rain. I knew if I made myself run in the rain I would run the whole time. There is no walking in the rain. I had a good run.

But today I can't gear myself up for running in the rain. I used the romance of the rain run yesterday. Today it will just feel miserable. So I am sitting here, wasting time wallowing and whining about running at the gym searching for a spark of motivation.

Yesterday afternoon I rode the bike for an hour. I was entertained by all the high school girls. Probably all on some mad diet or new fitness regime to perfect their perfect bodies for spring break, prom or some other teen pageantry. They moved in clusters, little packs of girls flitting from stair stepper, to elliptical, to treadmill, to bike while they giggled, gossipped, flipped their hair and never removed their zipped up jackets or broke a sweat. It was cute and I remember when I too would go to the gym and not workout.


Oh my. This is a waste of time. I am done with it. This rambling.

I am going. I will get it done.

And later today I will be happy that I did it.

So I will think about that.

That it is done.

PS. Sorry for the boring post.

Resurrection

I.
We are folding boxes.
Empty, white chambers,
spiraling like steeples.
It is so simple,
says Jezebel,
holding an unfolded box in her hand.
Just close your eyes and ask your heart,
she says,
folding another box.

II.
I close my eyes
and dream your lips on my face
rounded in a sighing wet O.
You step out of me--
beguiled by bright fruit
in painted hands.
I ask,
how can you leave
my heart a closed dark place?
It is so simple, you say.

III.
Last night Judas came home
in your place. He sat next to me
at our table. He kissed me,
turning and spilling more than wine.
Just forget the heart, he said.
It is so simple,
to let things in and out,
come and go.

IV.
I close my eyes and imagine Him
stepping down from his cross,
pulling open my chest with split hands
and climbing inside of me
to let bright light shine
from my stigmata-ed heart.
It is that simple.

Today we went to church and the minister called today "Resurrection Day" and I thought of this poem I wrote many years ago. Funny, but to me it means different things now than when I wrote it.

I have pictures from my beach trip, from my Easter. I will post later. Last week's running was dismal-- only 4 days of running and about 25 miles. Oh well, on to next week. Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

PS. April is poetry month.

Pretty Things on a Shelf

I.
A Faberge egg—
More than itself, an opalescent hidden life that never begs.
Then maybe a geode--split and revealing millions of dazzling crystals--
A hidden mystery of complex and beautiful design
Juxtaposed in a menagerie of frivolity.

Scattered in shapes and sizes
Photographs of smiling family, friends, and
Laughing children framed in glided wood and shining glass.
Happy waltzing families, as Tolstoy once told,
Really are not all happy in the same way.

Left off center a delicate flower
Cut down in full glory bloom.
Maybe a lily in an heirloom vase
Or perhaps an exotic orchid
Set upon the shelf, equally doomed.

Spined out flat
A tattered antique diary of Anais Nin.
Confessions fictionalized in a misbehaved, romantic and eroticised life.
Or maybe some darker tale of reveling sadness, lost dreams, wasted ambition--
The Bell Jar or The Sun Also Rises.
Whichever, whatever--confessions or roman a clef—
It is bound and forgotten in old leather
With water stains on the cover,
Flaking title on weathered spine.

II.
On a dark shelf in a secret corridor
With buried echoes of mourning,
The divided chambers of my heart implode.
Breathless now and out of miles and broken walks
Comes the sadness; splintering out of despair,
From the weight and this pain of loving you.

Like Isis in the underworld
Trying to find the pieces to make Osiris whole again,
Or as Artemis running over punishing hill chasing not deer or wild boar
But to save Horus and Iphigenia
From the fragments of tomorrow, yesterday and today--
I go on and on and on, running.

The cherry blossoms cut the brilliance of the morning that rushes past me.
I watch as a hawk swoops down to catch its prey--
An unaware mouse shuttled off to its doom.
On and on and on I run.
Pounding out the miles and broken walks until
the salt I taste is no longer sweat but tears.

On and on and on I run and the miles fall away.
I put my dark things back on the secret shelf and lock them
In the furthermost quarter of my heart.
I run until I come home happy,
Loving you all again, and place myself
Like pretty things on a shelf.


* The photograph is a self portrait and is old. It was my very freshman attempt in the darkroom trying to do an Ulesman. The poem is new, I wrote it this morning after my run. I am sure it could use a million edits and paring down but I doubt I'll ever get around to it.

Rescue

Two Tuesdays ago
I went into my mother's studio
to ask her where she kept the light bulbs.
The closet light had gone out.
She said,
--I am going to call this painting Rescue.
I couldn't see who,
what
needed rescuing.
Nothing seemed threatened.

I am standing on the side walk
in front of my great-grandmother's house
under hanging Spanish moss
that clings to century old oaks
lining the always empty street.

I survey the houses
that I imagine
no one lives in anymore.
I watch my reflection
twist
transform
in the tinted windows
across the street
of Brown Glass Co.

It is a brick brown building
that stands next to a flea market
that was once a church.
Before we leave we will buy pecans there.

I drop a light bulb.

It shatters
and a million glass slivers
pop the rays of the sun
that hangs high
in the brilliant blue summer sky
scattered with heavy puffs.
Later, the heat will turn these to rain.

Light filters through the oak branches
forming strange shadows on the sidewalk.
I see myself splintered
in the broken shards of glass.
I see the tangled moss
reflected in the glass.
And I imagine
I can see the red bugs
reflected in the glass
that my mother says lives in the moss
--so I won't play with it.

They get under your skin,
she says.
They make you crazy,
--with itches,
she tells me.

I stop thinking about bugs
and I pick up the broken bulb.
I study the filament,
remembering,
something from Mrs. Fitzgerald's science class.
I turn.
Holding up the bulb,
I look
through the space that was once a vacuum
at the Southern Bell Building
surrounded by palm trees
that make me believe that Florida is one street over.

Suddenly,
I remember the ruby ring
my mother said she lost
as a child
playing in Ebie's yard.

I abandon the filament
and broken vacuum
to search for other lost treasures.

I look again at the painting.
In the background,
faintly,
I see Ebie's house
her porch
her swing,
her yard.
I stare further,
remembering.

I stop looking at the painting
and go in the kitchen,
forgetting.

Instead,
I call my sister
and ask her
when is she coming home.

Some days you need more than just water . . .

Relativity

if two systems move uniformly relative to each other, then all the laws of mechanics are the same in both systems.
--from the theory of special relativity set forth by Albert Einstein

I am dreaming about time again.
It pours in smooth waterfalls over
the darkened graves of my ancestors.
I try to step,
unchanged into myself, over decaying bones.
Not to slip. Not to fall,
but to arc the distance between my life and my mother's.

Scientists, like my father, measure time
by decay. Calculating slow changes
and the half life of our elements.
Recognizing, under strange circumstances
time might flow backwards,
caving into itself.

In memory I am digging
in hot baked clay. A hopeful archeologist,
with Mother's fine silver spoons.
Breaking open the dried cast patterns of Georgia
I bend the antique pattern back.



***I suppose that must seem a bit random. I've been kind of busy and felt bad for not posting much in awhile. Shrug, forgive me the poetic filler. Just consider it the blogging equivalent to elevator music.***

I took the night train to Epiphany and missed the stop

I feel like there are two of me lately.
There is the me who is out there doing the usual things; running, being wife and mom. She is out there doing wife and mom stuff: volunteering, kissing boo boos, work for husband, hanging with friends, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, shuttling kids around and doing errands.

But there is this other me that is wondering where all the time I use to have went. I feel like everything is taking me so much longer to accomplish and I am just not getting stuff done at the speed and efficiency I use to. I am thinking that the me who gets shit done is distracted by this new me that zones out on thinking about time, wondering where her missing hours went.
She is a wasteful thinker; she is a putzer.
I hate putzing.

I couldn't sleep last night.
I sometimes have this problem. It is nothing new. Eventually I get so tired-- because I can't take naps-- that I will inevitably get a good night's sleep by default just from being so damn tired. Then I fall back into my regular getting eight hours of shut eye and will be blissfully well-rested for months at a time. But the not sleeping--when it is happening-- really sucks.
I will lie awake for hours worrying and thinking about random things. I will try to think up things that do not cause me panic but inevitably all thoughts will fall to anxious things. And I will worry and my heart will race and sleep will edge further off into the distance. I will get up, give up and come downstairs and jump from hyperlinks to hyperlinks--a stream of consciousness for the technological age, I guess. James Joyce would have a field day.

So that is what I did last night-- along with designing and ordering my Christmas cards from Shutterfly. But even with that being crossed off my list I couldn't fall back asleep.

I tried though:

I lie there in the quiet; listening to the house sounds and passing cars and watching shadows change on the wall.
My thoughts inevitably fall to Evan.
I think about how awful it was when he was in the hospital and my mind relives those sad days and I have to see everyone crying and experience it all again in my head.
This makes me realize how fragile life is.
How precious Carmella and Beau are and I am overwhelmed that it is up to me to keep them safe.
I am reminded of those races we use to have in elementary school.
I make the metaphorical leap that the egg race was to prepare me for raising children.
I am carrying two spoons, balancing an egg in each one. My arms are outstretched to keep my balance. I want to hold the eggs--the spoons-- close to my body, cradle them but this is impossible with two eggs and two spoons.
I manage what I can.
I find that I can run with outstretched arms balancing eggs on spoons.
But I see that I am not only in the egg race but the three-legged race and the potato sack race.
It is ridiculous but I find that I am also trying to pin the tail on the donkey and all the while I am blindfolded.
I race out of the school yard and I am remembering James Dickey's poem The Eye-Beaters.
It is about blind children who beat at their eyes.
Dickey thinks it is because they are seeing cave images in their heads.
While I was in graduate school I spent a good bit of time in the Emory library in the special papers room looking at the Dickey papers. I found some notes on The Eye-Beaters and I wrote a paper about Jungian archetypes , cave art and The Eye-beaters based on my research and my own ideas. It was a pretty good paper and I got a good mark for it and was even invited to present it a literary panel.
I declined.
I don't really like James Dickey.
I think he is a great artist, writer, poet, whatever but I also think he was a failure at being a human being. I never knew that an artist could do great art but be terrible at empathy, kindness, humanity. That still seems so antithetical to me. So sad and just wrong. He didn't get it.
But at times it seemed he did.
So, yeah, it was neat to delve into another writer's notes and see how they work but even then I thought: this isn't important.
I knew then that neither James Dickey-- nor I studying James Dickey-- was going to change or impact the world in any important way.
And that brought me back to thinking about Evan.
And really, here is what I think about a lot:
At Evan's funeral the minister, Davis Chappel, said something along these lines: Three years is not long enough.
But it is enough to change the world.
Jesus, was in Galilee for less than 3 years preaching his ministry and he did change the world.
The world was changed by one man
and what he said
and what he did.
In less than three years.

So, yeah, maybe three years is enough.

And I have been thinking about that ever since.
The complexity of it boggles me:
How can three years be enough?
It riddles me like it does for Beau that Parker eats turkey.
Beau tells me everyday that Parker eats turkey.
He is amazed, baffled by it.
In awe of it.
That Parker eats turkey is some sort of fantastic, brilliant mystery for him.
Me too; because Beau tells me so often that Parker eats turkey that I am wondering if it is a code.
I have begun to think that if I can crack it I will solve not only why my little boy doesn't speak well but maybe even how three years is enough and how to change the world.
I know, that is a huge, ridiculous leap.
But still I circle around the thought daily-- not Parker and his turkey--but about Evan and how much he has changed my world and how I want to do more to honor that, respect that.
Show that.
It is maddening and I just can't quite get to the answer, the how, the Tao.
It needles me.
I know there is something I am missing, not doing, not seeing.
And I wonder, endlessly, what. I. Can. Do.
No. No, I'm not looking to save the world or really even change it but maybe be a little Ghetto fabulous and change my little corner, you know make it better, brighter, nicer. Find a way to reconcile the senseless loss and that three is enough.
This idea though--it is big-- and the feeling that I am getting is that not only am I missing the point but worse, that I might be being wasteful of this here gift.
And that is what is keeping me up at night.