tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-277932952024-03-06T23:44:39.480-08:00edge of my universe...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-43219994369662827132013-02-15T10:02:00.000-08:002013-02-15T10:02:11.091-08:00Old Surf Injury and the Mother of All Stingrays!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I grew up around endless orange groves with the taste of salt water on my lips. In fact, I often stayed in that salt water until my lips were swollen and my hair bleached nearly white.</div>
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I loved to ride the waves. As a kid, we did not have surfboards. They were not that available in California yet, unless you were into redwood. Surfing was mostly taking place in Hawaii at that time. But not for long. </div>
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In the fifties we made do with air mattresses, inner tubes, and our own bodies. We became quite adept at body surfing, and we had the best teachers: our parents! </div>
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They had us in the water at infancy. I have no recollection of a time when I was introduced to waves and salt water, because my first experience was probably at a few weeks of age, in my parents' arms.</div>
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In the 60s, we had surfboards. Or at least, my cousin had one! I got on that board as often as I could. It was undoubtedly too big for me. But I had a great and tremendous passion for getting on and falling off that board. </div>
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I recall that one time, it was late afternoon, and he was finished surfing and offered me the board. I had been body surfing all morning and was lazing around in a muu-muu, but an opportunity is an opportunity, so I jumped on it, literally, and surfed in a wet muu-muu, that was clinging to my legs. I must have been quite a spectacle.</div>
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In the 60s there was a renaissance of surfing. Beach Boys, Pendleton plaid flannel, sun-bleached hair, the surfers' stomp, woodies. I was in my element. We spent June to September in a place at the beach, my parents, my sibs, and myself. </div>
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I would go into the ocean with my dad and my brothers, and they are to be credited with teaching me to face my fears, in the form of any wave that was taller than my dad. When I wanted to make haste back to shore, they all yelled at me to run toward the towering, dark wall of water! I learned to ignore my instincts for preservation.</div>
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The taste of the salt, the wet hair in the eyes, the smell of neoprene and board wax was in my blood as surely as if it had been injected. </div>
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In the winter, it took us 30 minutes to get to the sand. (It is now a nearly two hour drive from that same location!) But I had my own board by then. I loved that board and loved to wax it with a bit more build-up at certain strategic spots. I had bumps on the tops of my feet, a red nose, and a rash on my neck.</div>
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I would go with friends when my brothers were unavailable. I would go almost daily. Sometimes a friend and I would get an early morning ride to a bus stop that would take us directly to PCH. In the summers, I was only a block away. </div>
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I lived, breathed, salt water, fog, and beach glass. I should insert in here that despite this passion, I did have a life outside of the ocean. I was a good student, went to a good university, dated, had boyfriends, got married, and had children.</div>
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Let's fast forward to the children.</div>
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They took to the waves like baby seals. Suddenly I had a new avocation, that of a life guard to my kids. I stood in the shallow water because sometimes I had to pull a toddler out of a spin cycle. I would still go out and ride a wave, on occasion, when I had someone to keep an eye on the kids. But for the most part, I had become beached. </div>
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I didn't mind so much. I just figured that it was their turn, and I was enjoying watching them as they became acquainted with the many moods of the sea. I saw them get slapped down and ground into the sand, and I saw their triumphant faces as they were lifted by a wave for a ride not to be forgotten, ever. "Did you see that? Did you see me?"</div>
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One day, as I sat on the beach, it occurred to me that all four of my children were swimming like dolphins. They were zipping up the face of waves, spinning, shredding. Half of them, half the time, were on surfboards, but a lot of the time they were on bodyboards. They were getting really skilled with those bodyboards. It looked like fun.</div>
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I was in my 40s then, and I went and got myself a bodyboard. It cost about as much as my earlier surfboard! But, I was thinking that I could be with my kids, no matter the conditions, on a bodyboard. Soon I was bodyboarding every day that I could. It was so fun, and I got in such great shape. I found it to be nearly as much fun as surfing and often, even more fun. There were so many more kinds of turns and movements that one could make on a little board like that, albeit, in a prone position.</div>
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It was during this time that I got my first stingray injury. Holey moley, who hit me with a staple gun? I stayed sitting on the beach watching my foot bleed and my kids enjoying the surf. When the pain was unbearable, we headed home and I soaked.</div>
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The second time, I was doing the stingray shuffle, but there were hundreds of them in the water. We floated above them, looking at them. </div>
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Earlier in the day, the OC REGISTER had come out to photograph and interview us, because we were an entire family of wave riders. I guess in the 80s that was seen as newsworthy. They should have stuck around. This time, knowing how painful that sting can be if one delays the hot water and epsom salts treatment, we went straight home to soak it.</div>
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I hardly recall the third sting's circumstances. After a while it all becomes a big blur. I think that I had already gotten in a good day's worth of waves with the family and was coming in. I was dutifully doing the stingray shuffle, when the top of my foot was whacked, anyway, by the mother of all stingrays. I was instantly stumbling. I was bleeding as if I had been attacked by a shark, and judging by the looks of the faces of the tourists, they must have thought that was exactly what happened. "See that, THAT is why I don't let you go in the water. There are GREAT WHITES out there!"</div>
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This time I was carried home, and sat, in my wet wetsuit and all, in tub after tub of salt water and epsom salt mixtures. The pain made me tremble, and I had no ability to move my toes or even my leg at all. I was paralyzed and engulfed in pain for 5.34 hours, and then, suddenly the pain was gone. I limped about for about two weeks, unable to drive myself or do all that much. </div>
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(I was in a writing class and my professor actually came and picked me up!)</div>
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I showed my injury to a lifeguard and he said, "Holy Mammacita of all things marine and nautical, that was a biggie! That was the MOTHER OF ALL STINGRAYS!"</div>
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About a month and a half later, still limping somewhat, I went to a doctor to make sure that the barb was not under the skin. It wasn't, thank goodness. But, I didn't even think about my tendons or ligaments.</div>
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I should have.</div>
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Fast forward twenty years.</div>
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Last November, I thought I might have broken two toes. Two toes on my right foot were kind of black and blueish, and painful. I was limping a bit. After a month or two of that, I made an appointment for a podiatrist. To cut to the chase, apparently I had developed a neuroma (like a callous) on a nerve between the third and 4th toes on just the right foot. It was painful, and I was x-rayed and given cortisone injections right into that neuroma. Kind of felt like a stingray zap, except much slower.</div>
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The podiatrist was puzzled. The location was not typical, and just the right foot, not both feet? How had I injured that foot? I mentioned everything I could think of, including the Mother of all Stingrays.</div>
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That made his face light up as if his face could say, "BINGO!" That could be what happened, he told me. Apparently the slash of the stingray severed an tendon or ligament or two or three. Indeed, I had two toes there that had lost their flexibility. And with further observation, it was apparent that those toes were pathetically limp and lackluster when compared to their twins on the other foot.</div>
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Those toes appeared to be robust braggarts in comparison. They had been working out.</div>
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It is true that, as a former long distance runner, that a coach of mine, observing changes to my foot post stingray injury, had recommended some changes in my running gait, as suddenly my right knee was tending to blow out at 8 miles. So, that should have been my clue.</div>
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But, in any case, it was too late. If I had had any severed tendons or ligaments repaired at the time of the injury, maybe those two slacker toes would be more functional today. But I didn't know and no one told me. It's not as if these kinds of injuries are commonplace. But I wish I had known.</div>
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And so, in my sorry state of needing injections in my foot, and pads under my lengthy metatarsals, and needing to get rid of half my shoe wardrobe, and to never again be able to wear a high heel on my right foot (and my left foot sulks since it didn't do anything wrong!), or anything else that causes pain, and that means nearly anything...I feel a need to write this sad story.</div>
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This is partially to explain why I had to try on every shoe that I own and make a pile of the ones that will no longer work. Why I recently had to buy a large selection of shoes to try on to find, I hope, one or two pairs that will work. </div>
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It is partially to explain why I am in sensible shoes, sometimes limping or wincing in pain a bit.</div>
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And because, as it is clearly apparent at this point, it is a long story.</div>
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I was thinking the other day about how some older men with limps will explain that it is an old war injury.</div>
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I will be saying, if anyone asks, that it is an old surfing injury. That is much more glamorous, (and absolutely true!) than saying that I have a neuroma on a nerve in my foot, due to irritation of that nerve, due to severed tendons and/or ligaments that changed my gait and made my toes limp and useless appendages.</div>
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Now I just need to find a bodyboarding buddy. I will teach her how to do the stingray shuffle. If she has the same shoe size as me, she may also inherit a lot of shoes! </div>
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...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-59282766340451305172012-09-02T19:50:00.000-07:002012-09-02T19:50:55.260-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">How Was the Wedding?</span><br />
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I am being asked that often since I got back. And so, I have decided that I need to write it down. </div>
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First of all, San Francisco is one of my favorite cities. I spent a lot of time there as a baby and a kid, and I spent a lot of time there in my late teens during the 60s. A bunch of us all lived there from early spring until school started in the fall, every summer for about five years. We had the best time! </div>
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I go there whenever I can, tagging along when my husband has to spend a week there for work, for instance. While he works, I head out the door each morning and explore, and there is always so much to explore. I love cities with art galleries, museums, and great public transportation. </div>
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I came of age in San Francisco, so it has a special place in my heart and soul. And if you're going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair!</div>
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So, my son-in-law, Robert, proposed in Europe, and then the plan was in place. Only it was a very quiet plan. It was, in essence, pretty much an elopement in many ways. Except I knew about it as I was invited to fly up to be a witness and to photograph the entire thing. How fortunate for me.</div>
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So, on a Wednesday afternoon, I few up to San Francisco, and spent the first 20 minutes or so, just trying to find Robert and Kiera. We were talking on our cells, "Did I walk right past you?" "Didn't you come from gate 11?" Eventually I heard, "Is there an escalator near you?" "Yes, there is." "Can you come up it?" I went to look up at the escalator, and there they were, at the top, the beaming bride and groom!</div>
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There was much rejoicing and many hugs and then we got onto Bart, rode it to the mission district area, and then walked to our bed and breakfast. We walked for a pretty long time, but none of were complaining, we were just talking away. </div>
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At our B&B, the Inn San Francisco, we made friends quickly with the inn keepers, who showed us around and told us to let them know if we needed anything at all. (They went out and bought Kiera a shower cap!) The Inn is three stories with a deck on top, a side yard with a patio and cast iron dining sets, and a wooden hot tub (remember those?). It's Victorian and cozy.</div>
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After our tour, we took our bags up to the third floor. The plan was to get settled a bit and then go get something to eat. But then we were all feeling kind of tired, and the inviting parlors downstairs supplied all manner of refreshment, so we opted to just go downstairs and enjoy the ambiance. We dined on some organic fruit (very juicy and sweet!), and other treats, and sat and talked, took photos, and then went up to the deck, up a narrow, iron, spiral staircase. There we took some night photos of the bride and groom on the eve of their nuptials. </div>
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Then we settled down in our separate rooms. Mine had a square, screenless window that opened up to a cool breeze and a view of the city. The window was level with my bed. If I lived there, I would have slept with my head at that window, gazing out, instead of having my feet there.</div>
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The next morning, I went into the room where all the action was. There was wedding attire hanging about, and a make-up artist came to do Kiera's make-up and hair. I took photos of that as it was happening, and the wedding attire hanging up, and whatever else seemed significant, or worthy of future memories. </div>
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By the time the young lady was finished making Kiera glamorous, we all knew each other pretty well, and so photos were taken of everyone, and the hugs and well wishes were abundant and then it was time to finish getting spiffed up with cufflinks, shoe buckles, etc. </div>
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We went upstairs to take a few daytime photos from the top deck, and then went down for a few in the patio & yard, and then, the cab was there, and we hopped into the cab to go to the flower shop.</div>
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On the way, Kiera made good friends with the cab driver and learned all about how long he had been married, how many kids, etc. And, again, we were all good friends and he offered his wedding advice before he dropped us on the block where the flower shop was located.</div>
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As we walked to the flower shop, passing drivers gave gentle, congratulatory beeps on their horns, seeing a couple in wedding attire, and the flower lady was expecting us. She was sweet and we got to know her and from where she came, and she designed the wedding bouquet and the boutonniere on the spot with input from the bride and groom, and yes, I took more photos of this process. </div>
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Then it was time to depart and there were hugs and well wishes again, and if they looked like a bride and groom before, they did even more so now with their bright orange flowers. We walked to city hall from the flower shop and again, gentle honks, voices calling out congratulations, etc.</div>
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Then there was the beautiful San Francisco city hall with its old and graceful architecture. Up the steps we went with pauses for photos on the way in.</div>
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While in there, there were several stops at an office to fill out forms, etc. a couple of stops in the restroom, one in a lobby for snacks, but a tremendous amount of our time was spent exploring the building and taking photos. I would like to know how many times I went up and down that vast, central staircase. In any case, I didn't feel a need for exercise for about three days after that. </div>
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Finally, it was time. We met with the judge and she was sweet and personable, and had some words to say of marriage advice, and then she told us to meet her up at the rotunda where she would perform the ceremony.</div>
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So up those vast, marble steps again, all the way to the rotunda. There we took some more photos, and waited. When the judge appeared, she was, again, sweet and she offered a bit of instruction about how it would go, (Kiera had noted that she thought she must love her job) and then had the couple stand before her, holding hands while she performed the ceremony. I was allowed to move around at will and photograph the entire thing. When saying his vows, Robert was beaming tenderly. When Kiera said her vows, she teared up, which of course, made me tear up, but I kept shooting. </div>
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There were others on lower steps in that vast hallway, watching the ceremony and I saw others also tear up when Kiera did. Once again, she makes emotional connections with others, wherever she goes. Those watching were wiping away tears and smiling sweetly.</div>
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They exchanged rings, were pronounced husband and wife and then kissed and kissed. A few things were signed, and then we went down to the second level, and took many more photos. </div>
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Then down to the ground level, and yes, more photos, and photos of them coming out of city hall, beaming and leaping with joy.</div>
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Next on the agenda? A walk to where the cake would be served. We walked to a bakery that sold cupcakes, and along the way, more gentle beeps and words of congratulations. In the bakery, I wondered why Robert kept looking at his watch. But their wedding cupcake awaited them. It was put into a small, white box. As we were stepping out the door, I asked Robert where he thought they would have it, in that little park right there, across the street? Yes, that's a good idea.</div>
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Oh, he's a sly one. We walked over to a bench where a musician sat with his guitar and his music on a stand, and we learned that he had been arranged in advance, to serenade the new couple. He began with the Beatles,' <i>In My Life</i>. So sweet. Kiera had no idea and was joyfully stunned. He played many songs while they ate their cupcake, smooched, smiled, laughed, sang along in harmony, and danced. </div>
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Little children came and sat at their feet, or came to stare in a kind of reverent awe at the bride and groom. They danced some more, and smiled and laughed, and soon it was time for the next leg of this wedding adventure. By now, I was convinced that this was a cool way to have a wedding, complete with flowers on the way, cake, music, dancing, and well wishers on the sidewalks, in the parks, on the cable cars, and in their cars as they drove by gently honking.</div>
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We met out pedi-cab guys on the other side of the park. Kiera and Robert sat on the seat of one of the pedi-cabs, and I sat on the other one. Pedi-cabs are comfortable seats in a trailer behind a bicycle being pedaled by some very fit guys. We took off and rode like that for three hours all over San Francisco. We went up hills (slowly) and down hills (speedily), we went onto sidewalks, through neighborhoods, through heavy traffic, alongside cable cars, through a craft fair, along the wharf, near China Town, through the arches of the Fine Arts Palace, over and under bridges, and well, really, pretty much everywhere.</div>
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And all along the way, people were smiling, offering their congratulations, honking (gently), staring, pointing. I think some of the people went home and said, "You won't believe what I saw today! A bride and groom being pulled along in a pedi-cab!" </div>
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I took lots of photos, until my hand was cramping and the fog had rolled in and a wind came with it and soon we were really, really cold. We had blankets to wrap up in, but they were no longer enough. </div>
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Then we stopped at the park by the Painted Ladies, said our thanks and goodbyes to our pedi-cyclists, who we also got to know pretty well, but they didn't offer wedding advice. We squeezed out a few more pix then flagged down a cab to meet up with our dinner reservation. Our cab driver was a friendly guy and Kiera started the conversation by saying, "Guess what we did today!" And soon, we knew how long he had been married and how many kids, and he had his marriage advice to contribute, too.</div>
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We dined on a quality wedding dinner at The House, and so, the wedding day was complete. When we got back to the Inn, there was an Inn keeper there that we hadn't met yet. We sat around his office while I printed my boarding pass for the next day, and got to know this personable man, and he, too, offered some sage marriage advice. I have to say, that all of the advice given to the couple, all day long, was wise and sound.</div>
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I think there was a bit of everything, that wedding day, that is found in traditional weddings. The dress, the veil, the rings, the tux, the bouquet, the guests (albeit, in this case they were spontaneous guests along the way), the boutonniere, the cake, the music, the dancing, the advice from spontaneous fatherly figures that we met throughout the day. And there were a few things that were not traditional, such as the pedi-cab ride all over San Francisco. But then, some might even equate that to the bride and groom getting away in their carriage.</div>
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It was a magical day full of spontaneity, smiles, and lots of love. If I could add anything to the mix, it would only be this one thing: forever.</div>
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...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-31778970421069048992012-05-14T11:58:00.001-07:002012-06-09T20:17:25.066-07:00Exploring My Heritage- In Person<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/7197528508/" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7216/7197528508_4ef3d20d01_m.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/7197528508/">wilkinsonkeyfob</a> <br />Originally uploaded by<span style="background-color: #38761d;"> <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/"><span style="color: blue;">katzeye</span></a></span></span><br />
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I just got back from two weeks in the UK.<br />
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My dad is Scottish. My mother is Scottish-Dutch-Danish.<br />
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My Dad’s Scottish parents/ancestors are named Wilkinson (or at least, that is his closest Scottish relative, there are many, many other Scottish names because they have all come from there, and some of them during my lifetime). My mother’s Scottish names are Barnes, and Beveridge, and Moffat, and her Dutch name is Van Schoonhoven. Her Danish name is Nelson (her grandmother direct from Denmark).<br />
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So, there are some names. But what’s in a name?<br />
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Apparently a lot if you’re in Scotland. Before going there, I knew that the name Wilkinson is the result of marriage between the Scotts and the Norse, way back in those Viking invasion days. Having talked to various Scottish ancestry experts from time to time, I understood that the Wilkinson line came out of that kind of intermarriage, and that they were part of another clan, which may have been part of yet another clan. Apparently there were so few of them that they had to be adopted in or something.<br />
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But while exploring the Highlands, and the Isle of Skye, I learned a few more things. But let’s begin in Edinburgh, where I spoke to a gentleman in a shop there that sold clan stuff.<br />
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I asked him if he had anything Wilkinson. He nearly became angry, declaring that Wilkinson was not a Scottish name, with the “son” on the end indicating Scandinavian.<br />
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I found that interesting since my son and I had gone to the Scottish Heritage shop in Old World in Huntington Beach the night before my dad’s funeral. My son wanted to wear a tie in the family tartan to the funeral, and the store’s owner was kind enough to let us in after hours. He pointed out to us that the Wilkinson line had, as I had been told before, been kind of adopted into another clan. He told me MacDonald, and so we chose a tartan from that clan for the funeral.<br />
<br />
So, there I was in Edinburgh being told that a name with “son” at the end was Scandinavian and not Scottish, even though I was seeing, on his rack of tartans, “Wilson,” for example.<br />
<br />
He was tellling me that whoever told me that was just trying to sell me something, and so therefore was lying to me. I was pretty jetlagged and found that I was near tears at his harsh way of addressing me. When I told him of other Scottish names, Beveridge, Barnes, Moffat, and Wallace, he completely changed his attitude. Especially with the mention of the name Wallace, which seems to be pretty sacred in those parts. I almost wished I had thrown the Wallace name around a bit more, as many more doors might have opened and maybe a free dinner or two! But I left his store after laying those names on him, and did not buy a thing!<br />
<br />
As Mark was witnessing our exchange, he said not a word. And he had already secretly purchased for me the keyfob pictured above, which has not only the Wilkinson crest, but the tartan on the back. So he knew that the guy was just being rude.<br />
<br />
But it made me start to wonder. Were the Wilkinsons black sheep in the family of Scots?<br />
<br />
So, we continued on, into the Highlands, and the Isle of Skye. From time to time, I would look into records, such as war records in the Edinburgh castle where I found many of my family’s names, except Wilkinson.<br />
<br />
In an information shop, I found Wilkinson in a list of clans. It said that the name was originally MacQuilkan. MacQuilkan! I recorded it in my book for future reference.<br />
<br />
Then, at an old, beautiful church, on the bank of a loch, in the highlands, there was an older gentleman in a kilt sweeping the stone floors inside the church. I asked him about MacQuilkan and his eyes lit up.<br />
<br />
He told me about how Quilk is the origin of Wilk, and that Quilkan was the same as Wilkin, or Wilkan, or Wilken. Quilkan is the original spelling from way back. So, that would make me a Quilkinson, essentially.<br />
<br />
He said that many clans lost the Mac, or Mc from the beginnings of the names. He also said that there are not many MacQuilkans left in the world. He thought there was one in the film industry in California! He said that some of the MacQuilkans were asked to change their name to Cameron.<br />
<br />
I wish that I could remember the stories as to why this was, wish I had recorded him. It was something political as I recall. Some of the MacQuilkans/Wilkinsons did change their names to Cameron, which means that I might be related to more than one clan member in the film industry. Some refused to change their names, and some went back to their original names after changing them under pressure.<br />
<br />
(Sounds like a nightmare for future genealogy that I do on this line.)<br />
<br />
And he confirmed my earlier knowledge that the MacQuilkans had been taken into the MacDonald clan.<br />
<br />
While doing all of this, I was emailing back and forth with my son who was very interested in all of this. I would send him some names to look into and he would email back with some new info, etc. I found it amusing to read about his research about why the MacQuilkans married Vikings. They were tired of being attacked by them so decided that intermarriage might bring about the end of warfare.<br />
<br />
Some of these ancestors worked, generation after generation in the coal mines. I found myself a little sad/offended that there is a jolly, amusing coal mine tourist attraction in Edinburgh.<br />
<br />
There was another Scottish line that I forgot to bring with me, and that is one of Scottish Royalty. My sister had sent me information on this one guy, a benevolent king. I wish I had brought that with me, because we went to so many castles that I can’t remember which was which now, and will need to sort out my notes. I may have found evidence of him, too, somewhere. Perhaps a royal name would have opened some doors for us, too.<br />
<br />
But it’s just as well. Even if he was benevolent and promoted literacy, as I have heard, I think it may have made for a different kind of trip.<br />
<br />
This trip was about immersing ourselves in the culture and people, and even picking up some expressions and a wee bit of an accent in the doing so (I still hear it; all those Scottish conversations in my head). And we did immerse ourselves. And it was rich, indeed. <br />
<br />
Except for that one shop owner, we found the Scots to be kind, courteous, warm, and generous. We stayed in their B&Bs all across the Highlands and it was like being in their homes.<br />
<br />
And Mark even tried haggis!!!...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-4690927408277890372012-04-24T11:47:00.001-07:002012-04-24T11:50:09.871-07:00Blueberries<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/7110181569/" title="photo sharing"><img alt="" src="http://farm9.staticflickr.com/8017/7110181569_4f8a47f7cd_m.jpg" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/7110181569/">blueberries</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br />
I think I love blueberries as much as I love life. I love my failing eyesight, too. It makes it possible for me to see the blueberries in the sunny morning and capture them in the image above. And blueberries are good for my eyes. It’s a good thing I love blueberries.<br />
<br />When I go to restock the pantry, I always check to see if there are any fresh blueberries in stock. They are almost always not in season, and so, once again, I get a bag of frozen ones.<br />
<br />I was doing just that when I approached the frozen section recently at my local Spouts. I should add that I am not one of those people who loves to go grocery shopping. I enter the store, and it is as if from the moment I enter, I am lost in some kind of wicked maze and my job is to find my way out again with an adequate amount of groceries to keep us going for another week.<br />
<br />My plan, this time, was to get the really big bag of blueberries, hoping they might last for a while. I went straight to the frozen fruit and found an apparently frozen woman, just standing there, her chin in her hand, sighing and staring at the bags of frozen blueberries.<br />
<br />I had to kind of contort to look around her and when she noticed me, she sighed, without moving at all, “I know, the other ones were a better deal.”<br />
<br />I gave her a polite smile, not really comprehending her plight, and wanting to just get my blueberries before the crumbs I left to lead me back to the exit were gone. It was then that I noticed she had a grocery flyer crumpled in her slightly blue fist. She never did move, and I reached around her and grabbed the huge bag, and I thought that I saw her eyes dart about nervously as I did so.<br />
<br />I then made my way along the rest of the frozen foods, and back to the deli for the cheese I forgot, and back to the cereal aisle for whatever else it was I forgot, and then I got stuck in the toothpaste aisle for some reason. Maybe there was something shiny there.<br />
<br />I think my blueberries were starting to thaw as I made it to the check-out line.<br />
<br />I was behind about four other people, so, I occupied my time observing their purchases. Vegetables I had never seen before in my life, and some kind of animal body part, and a jar of green sauce. I resisted going back to the sauce aisle to examine the green sauce more closely. Green spaghetti sauce? Well, maybe a pesto sauce but in a giant glass jar? That could be interesting.<br />
<br />Oh, my turn. As I was uploading my groceries there was a clerk on a telephone of some kind, standing inside my checker’s space. He was trying to get someone to find some of the blueberries that the frozen blueberry lady was looking for. I heard him say, “Yeah, she is still there, in the frozen aisle.”<br />Probably pretty much a blueberry, herself, by then. She had a coupon for a particular bag of blueberries and none of the others would do, and she would wait.<br />
<br />I walked out into the sunshine and thought about the blueberry lady. I love blueberries. I really do. But I love life even more. I think we sometimes get stuck in the frozen food aisle or whatever other aisle in our lives that seems to be of most import at a particular time and we miss out on something else. Like walking out into the sunshine, the grocery chore done until next week, and ready to do something else like talk to a little kid, smell the ocean, write a letter to a friend, soak in the gratitude of a beautiful day....http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-65786810354653211782012-03-12T11:22:00.001-07:002012-03-12T11:22:15.260-07:00Denim!<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/6976735833/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7037/6976735833_a9b260a85d_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/6976735833/">denim</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>The word denim comes from the phrase "de nime" because that is where they first began to create and indigo-dye denim fabric, which was then made into jeans in SF by Levi Strauss as a pant that miners' could wear comfortably, and that didn't wear out as fast as whatever else they were wearing.<br /><br /><br />I have loved denim since I was a little girl, and jeans were called "dungarees." And I also love that they were created by the people of France and San Francisco, along with sourdough baquettes! And indigo is my favorite color, and not just because it matches my eyes!<br /><br />I remember coming home from Kindergarten, where I was required to wear a dress or jumper, and socks and maryjane shoes, or tights, and changing immediately into a pair of jeans.<br /><br />In fact, I recall being in HS and coming home and changing from my dress or skirt into jeans. (Just imagine, my entire educational career from K-college required that i wear dresses and skirts to class albeit, on many a frigid winter morning, I wore a pair of jeans under a long skirt that I whipped up the night before on the apartment sewing machine, and a wool maxi coat over that!)<br /><br />So, it is not at all surprising that jeans are still my uniform of choice. I have been wearing jeans for at least 60 years!<br /><br />I find that they are comfortable, durable, and that if I wear a darker wash, I can dress them up, even! I can wear skinny ones tucked into boots, I can wear bootcut ones over boots, and I can wear wide ones over platform sandals, and I can wear any kind with ballet flats, toms, converse, or flat sandals. And they don't get stained as easily as other pants, and the older ones are like old friends.<br /><br />So, it shouldn't be surprising that they are my favorite travel pants as well. I like to wear a fairly bulky, comfortable pair of boot cuts on the plane, train, bus, or in the car because i find that comfortable. But having discovered the newly reformulated knit jeans, I am in heaven! I used my ll bean bonus coupons on a pair of knit boot cuts that feel like jammies but look like jeans. I will wear those to travel in FOR SURE!!<br /><br />But, a while back I began a search for jeans that don't take 48 hours to dry. I want jeans in my suitcase, but with our being on the move as much as we will be on this trip, they need to pack well and dry well if I feel a need to rinse them in a sink! I recall, when we were in Swtizerland, that I did wash a couple of pairs of jeans, but they did take 48 hours to dry. Fortunately, we were staying in one place for the most part. Unfortunately, those jeans were hanging around on the radiator for two full days!<br /><br />So, I found some places that have jeans that pack up light and dry overnight. OVERNIGHT?? That would mean I would wear one pair of jammie-like knit jeans for flying, and pack a pair that I could wash once or twice. But, alas, these jeans were costly. One pair costs about 125.00. My favorite ones (because they look the most like jeans) are about 100.00 but they would be 135. with shipping because they are made and sold by a company in, wait for it, wait for it, Scotland! They have a store in Edinburgh that I would love to visit! (they have stuff for adventure travel, rugged looking, but nice, stuff that is durable and dries overnight, etc.)<br /><br />Some would argue that regular jeans, if they are any good, cost that much or much, much more, so what is the big deal? Yeah, I've seen jeans that cost 800.00 and up. But I am on a budget. I don't want to pay over 100. for a pair of jeans unless they are the only jeans I will need for the rest of my life! (or pretty close to that.)<br /><br />So, in my DIY spirit of experimentation, I have been hand washing various jeans that I own to see how long it takes for them to dry. 48 hours for most of them.<br /><br />I went back to see what the quick dry ones were made of. They were cotton denim, but only about half or less. The rest of the content was made up of other things, usually synthetics similar to polyester. The ones in Scotland are made up of mostly a high-tech fabric of their own creation. And they have a secret zipper pocket, too!<br /><br />So, that is the secret to jeans that dry overnight then. The content needs to include a large enough portion of a fast drying high-tech synthetic. I began to read the labels on the jeans that I own. The ones that I always reach for the most are all cotton. Some have a touch of spandex and other synthetics. <br /><br />The ones at the other end, the ones that I haven't worn as much had a higher content of synthetics. I rinsed a couple of them in the sink yesterday and they are almost dry now, already wearable, but they have a couple of hours to go before it is 24 hours.<br /><br />EUREKA!! There's the secret! Get a jean with a higher content of synthetic and they dry faster! So, of course, I will try on the ones that are nearly dry now. One pair I will not take because they are very dressy looking denim trousers with no pockets. I do not travel with any kind of pants with NO POCKETS! <br /><br />I went online to look at the fabric content of various jeans, but, the percentages are not given online. I will have to read labels and try on a variety to find the perfect travel jeans that can dry in 24 hours or less!<br /><br />And that makes me want to just order the ones made in Scotland and be done with it. Maybe.<br /><br />Oh the irony. It is because of my Scottish blood that I am thrifty, right? That is what makes me think that I may be able to find some jeans with the right content to travel with, and at a sale price of say 20-40.00!! I am confident that if I put in the time and effort, I may succeed! But the ones that are tempting me the most are from Scotland. How dare the Scots tempt me to toss aside my thrifty heritage!<br /><br />(I ignore the fact that jean fitting is nearly a science, especially if one is petite, but needing an inseam around 31-32", nearly impossible to find! Petite jeans tend to be around 29-30" and the rest tend to be 33-34"!!!)<br /><br />I notice that the jeans in Scotland come in a 31" inseam as their regular size!! Do women in the UK have shorter legs than women in the USA? Their petites are around 27"!!! <br /><br />So, bottom line, I will definitely get out there and look for the jeans in the right fabric content to make them dry overnight. When I find them I will be in jean nirvana!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-40403781259154445092011-06-30T17:26:00.001-07:002011-06-30T17:26:01.497-07:00Pool or Ocean?<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/279477749/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/108/279477749_3631ff9edc_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/279477749/">Curvature</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Swimming<br /><br />Do you prefer to swim in the ocean, or in a swimming pool? I think most people will say, “swimming pool!” and list many reasons to support that choice.<br /><br />I prefer to swim in the ocean. And I have many reasons why that is the case. <br /><br />Yesterday, I spent more time in a swimming pool than I generally spend in one in years. There were the grandkids who needed to get wet. So, there was a lot of bobbing and floating and splashing mixed in with some whining, etc. <br /><br />Then, last night, I thought it might be a good idea for Mark and I to take a swim, because he recently had knee surgery, and needs to exercise.<br /><br />So, we dressed for a swim and wrapped up in towels and such to make our way to the pool in the rather cool breeze. The water in the pool was probably warmer than the air, but still, there was something difficult about fully plunging. I was cold and my every instinct told me, in every cell of my body, that to be wet would be colder. <br /><br />While some might say, “I want my mommy!” I was saying, “I want my wetsuit!”<br /><br />But no one wears a wetsuit in the pool. It was probably freakish enough that I was wearing a tank top and board shorts. Hey, if guys can do that, who says that I am required to wear the female equivalent of a speedo anyway? Especially after 60. I just want to be comfortable. And in any case, the tomboy in me totally favors the comfort of a pair of board shorts.<br /><br />Mark simply jumped in feet first, which is usually the best choice. But it’s a shallow pool. It only goes as deep as 5 feet. I can stand in the deep end and my hair can remain dry on top, which makes me feel absurdly tall, as if at a pool at Legoland.<br /><br />So, Mark’s feet hit the bottom, hard, when he jumps in and that sets his knee rehabilitation back about six weeks. So he goes and gets into the Jacuzzi.<br /><br />Meanwhile, I am still getting used to feeling cold, and still determined that I will swim laps. Or something.<br /><br />While Mark is saying, “Ahhhh….” I am doing a sidestroke across the pool. Then I do a backstroke. Then I do a dog paddle. I am feeling strangely winded, and that is quickly followed by intense boredom.<br /><br />I try getting across the pool in any kinds of strokes that I can invent. I would like to just do a deadman’s float and lightly kick my feet until I reach the other side, but I don’t want that much chlorine in my soft contacts. Then I realize that it is the chlorine that is making me feel winded. I am allergic to chlorine. Duh. I try to limit my exposure to it. We have filters on our showers to eliminate it so that I can go all year long without a breathing treatment. As a kid, I would get asthma after a swim in someone’s pool, every time. <br /><br />Okay, so now what? I float on my back. I try to see stars in spite of the intensely bright pool lights.<br /><br />I finally get out, feeling like a popsicle and sink into the Jacuzzi with Mark. In the Jacuzzi, I continue to swim, albeit, with much less room, because, unless I am reading, I am not that good at just sitting there. Soon another couple joins us, and then another, so it’s rub-a-tub-tub, three couples in the tub. And I am no longer even remotely swimming, but just sitting and trying to act like a grownup and stop playing with the bubbles.<br /><br />Not exactly my idea of getting exercise: doing a slow roast in a Jacuzzi while talking for hours about the HOA, and politics, etc.<br /><br />So, here are the reasons why I prefer to swim in the ocean:<br /><br />I can wear a wetsuit and not look like a dork, unless the water temp is 75 and the air is 113, but in that case, I would probably be lying on the kitchen floor with a wet towel placed over my head and shoulders. The wetsuit, after the initial plunge which is usually taken care of at the first powerful wave, keeps my body temp better regulated. And the wetsuit helps keep me from getting sunburned.<br /><br />I am a native of Cali, and have lived in Huntington Beach for about 35 years (and Newport Beach before that, and Seal Beach in between), but my ancestors come from places not known for getting tans. <br /><br />My dad’s Scottish ancestors intermarried with the Norse invaders, and so that line is Scandinavian/Scottish from way back. Add to that that an Irish woman married one of these norse/scots and you get pale skin that freckles for all who come from this line. <br /><br />My mother’s ancestry is Dutch, Danish, Scottish. I got my blondish/light brownish hair from her, but my skin from my dad. I can tan, if I am willing to make it a full time job. It takes at least three months of daily hours holding still on the beach to get one. And in two days of not doing that, it fades in a hurry. And for the first month, it will mostly be peeling and increasing the freckle count.<br /><br />When I swim in a pool, I am dressed differently and parts of me that are not used to sun instantly burn, sunblock or not. And I think all that reflection there just increases the entire effect. So, in order to swim in a pool, I either need to wear a wetsuit, put on prescription strength sunblock that looks like clown white face, all over exposed skin. Or work on getting a protective tan.<br /><br />None of those are all that enticing, so, board shorts, rash guard, etc. Anyway, what do you do in a pool? Especially one that is only 5 feet deep? Back stroke, side stroke, dead man’s float? <br /><br />I prefer to swim in the ocean because there are always things you can do there. You can swim, paddle, or, run like mad toward a fresh set that is coming in. You can dive under a wave. You can float on your back up the slope of a slick wave, and down the other side. You can be pummeled to the point that you are eating sand and telling yourself that you WILL find the surface again if you just relax. <br /><br />You can watch dolphin swim by. You can dodge a surfer. You can catch a wave that takes you on a long and exciting, or long and pleasant ride. You can share a wave with your buddy, or a seal, or both. <br /><br />You can stay out as long as you are not turning blue, and you don’t get winded from breathing chlorine fumes. You can burn a lot more calories than you will doing a half-hearted sidestroke in still water. <br /><br />My parents loved to swim in the ocean, and we did it often. I can’t recall the first time they took me into the Pacific. And I do recall my infancy (see a previous blog). It had to be when I was just a baby. I do have some memories of being held in their arms while they rose up over waves and down the other side, and their responses to these experiences were positive, so, I am certain that I began to love being in the ocean as a baby.<br /><br />As children, we would often stay in the water for 8 hours at a time. We were blue prunes! As a teen, I would borrow surfboards, until I had my own, and ride waves for as long as I could.<br /><br />So, what can you do in a pool anyway? To me, with my expansive experience in the vast pacific, a pool seems like a bathtub. <br /><br />I guess I’ll just take a good book the next time I go to the pool. That is what I do in a bathtub. <br /><br />Either that, or I will wear a wetsuit to the pool, bring a body board, and yell KOWABUNGA as I throw myself into the water. Acting like a grown-up is so overrated, anyway.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-66802488638988199622011-05-22T17:43:00.001-07:002011-05-22T17:43:23.200-07:00Mocassins<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/419626687/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/131/419626687_26295d5066_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/419626687/">Gather 'round</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Moccasins<br /><br />We’ve all heard the saying about not judging another human being until we have walked a mile in his or her moccasins. It is so very true.<br /><br />Recently I was at a social event where a group of people were labeling a woman as being crazy. I patiently heard them out, and they all got a good laugh out of it, but inside I was experiencing turmoil.<br /><br />You see, I have known this woman for quite some time. So, on the one hand, I was experiencing some pain because I know what is good about her and hated to hear her being judged so harshly. <br /><br />And on the other hand, I also wondered how many times I have been with a group of people who were dissing someone that I did not know, or barely knew and I accepted what they were saying as being unbiased truth.<br /><br />All too often, we judge people on the most superficial things, such as appearance, mannerisms, etc. And we also judge too quickly based upon gossip, rumor, and distortion. <br /><br />Don’t we also harshly judge those who wrong us? The ultimate in compassion is to strive to understand those who are unkind to us, and to forgive them. <br /><br />As a photographer, I do a lot of editing. I look at a lot of faces up close. Sometimes I edit a photo wherein a smiling, seemingly happy person, is not looking that happy up close. Sometimes I see the sadness, rough experiences, disappointments in people’s faces, when I see them much closer.<br /><br />My daughter and I, from as far back as I can remember, have shared heart pangs with each other. For us, heart pangs are when we see a human being, usually a stranger, who is experiencing loss, confusion, humiliation, pain, or any of the human emotions and plights that make us feel vulnerable: the experiences and situations that we usually keep to ourselves.<br /><br />When we see something like this, we call it a heart pang. Our hearts are tugged. We experience compassion and the pathos of being a human being. <br /><br />Every human being has had, or will have some really rough experiences, things that will bring us to our knees, things that will test us, make us sob, make us feel abandoned, alone, hurt. We all experience harshness, adversity, troubles. We are all vulnerable. <br /><br />Every human being has a story to tell. Stories that break our hearts. We need to pay more attention. We need to look more closely. Behind every smile there is a sad face. We pick ourselves up, and we move on, and we keep trying. We smile ‘though our hearts are breaking.”<br /><br />As for that conversation about the woman deemed to be crazy. Sure, she might be a little bit. But I stuck my neck out and told them what I knew about her. About her triumphs and her sorrows. And afterward, there was a quiet moment. The laughter ceased. I think and I hope that they understood her a bit more, and have some compassion for her now.<br /><br />I know that I am determined to withhold judgment more often and to have compassion more often, and to want to hear others’ stories more readily. Knowing people’s stories is a way to walk in their moccasins. And once we have, we will have compassion and love for them.<br /><br />And isn’t that what it is all about?</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-36651858330715146002011-01-28T16:56:00.001-08:002011-01-28T16:56:20.857-08:00The Joys of Being Sick!<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/5395953693/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4127/5395953693_400dc82584_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/5395953693/">Leah2</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Mark's son came down with something evil about a week ago. It may be a flu, but he is sick, sick, sick, and coughing non-stop.<br /><br />I was down to only getting sick twice a year. It would happen in the fall-winter, and in the spring. That was it. Twice a year. It would be just a minor cold, a lot of the time, but sometimes as much as pneumonia, occasionally. Rarely.<br /><br />But since Mark's son moved in a bit over three years ago, I have gotten sick about every other month. It's not all that surprising. Kids are often carriers of germs, and I need to wash my hands more often, clearly.<br /><br />But, I have only been getting colds. They just slow me down for a day or two, more or less, and then I get over them. Knock on wood. But, I do have to be careful, because I am allergic to antibiotics, and due to other respiratory allergies, I am at risk for lung infections with any cold. If it gets worse, it can turn into bronchitis or pneumonia.<br /><br />Also, I have no medical insurance.<br /><br />So, any cold, even a mild one, has to be treated as if it is a bad, BAD case of the flu.<br /><br />Which means that if my cold is not making me terribly miserable, just tired, a bit achy, a bit stuffy, I get the bonus of found time.<br /><br />I love found time. It gives me a chance to catch up on emails, figure out how to do techno things that I might be in too much of a hurry to figure out during regular kinds of days, and work on my photos.<br /><br />Also been creating some new promos for my business and thinking about ways to retool my business model to make it work better for my clients some areas.<br /><br />Mark says that is when I find the time to think, ponder, write, and be creative. He is right. <br /><br />If I were coughing as much as his son is even as I write this, I would not be able to do any of that so much. But being mildly sick makes it possible.<br /><br />(Don't worry, he has been taken to the doctor, has meds, and I even went out and bought him orange and apple juice, so he is taken care of.)<br /><br />And in a couple of days, when I have my sea legs again, I can dive into the fray once more (was that a kind of mixed metaphor oxymoron?), refreshed and ready to take it all on.<br /><br />Well, maybe not all of it. My downtime often makes me rethink the quantity of things that I always seem to try to do, and revise that, too.<br /><br />Less is more.<br /><br />Time for another nap.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-90222574597223007782010-09-12T18:04:00.001-07:002010-09-12T18:04:55.098-07:00I have to learn all of THIS?<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/4984344527/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4147/4984344527_88b3fafd64_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/4984344527/"></a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>It’s been a while since I went back to school.<br /><br />I started college in the fall of 1967. Yes, this was before computers (well, at least the personal kind, before cell phones, before ipods, before mp3s and digital cameras.<br /><br />I had two majors: Art and Psychology. There were some who, when they heard that I was an art student, chided me by saying that I must just be there to get my “MRS.” Luckily, I was able to throw out my other major at times like that. Yes, two majors, one is considered to be the more academic of the two. But which?<br /><br />To most, it was the Psych major. Perhaps that was technically true. But the reality is that my art studio classes took a lot out of me. They were two hours long, every time. Many a day I was in art studio classes for 4-6 hours at a stretch. Art professors are very exacting. If your work is not up to their expectations, you suffer the wrath of the critique. Those classes were grueling. And it wasn’t just studio, it was lots and lots of art history classes, too. And theory, and all kinds of painting, every kind, and sculpting, and, well, I would come out of those studios with paint on my clothes, and under my nails, and stumble into a psych class, actually feel relieved to be in a class where I could take in information, ponder and formulate it, and reproduce it. It was so simple. It was a relief to have academic stuff, so cut and dried.<br /><br />Since graduating from college, I have continued college on and off in many ways and forms. I’ve been in grad school a few times. I’ve taken classes here and there. I’ve continued studies in psychology, humanities, literature, etc. I love to learn.<br /><br />And so, I decided that I had reached a point, artistically, where I might be stagnating. Since I was an art student, last, we hand painted, hand lettered, hand-everything, laboriously, tediously, critically. In a sense, I have jumped back in to my starting point, as an art student. Only look how much it has changed!<br /><br />And look at how much technical experience I need to put in and learn. The learning curve is astounding.<br /><br />But I have to say, that with all of the many changes, there are things that have not changed.<br /><br />The desire to be artistic, to be creative, has never faded. Immersion in art sharpens one’s eye, so that all that is seen is seen with all of the glories of color, light, composition. <br /><br />For my clients (those who hire me to do photography for them, draw and paint for them, etc.), be prepared for a fresh infusion of new light in my work. <br /><br />I just looked out the window and was amazed at the colors and the way the late afternoon light is warming up the contours of all that I am seeing.<br /><br />It totally reminds me of when I was 18, and would step out of an interpretive drawing class, or an oils class, and would nearly be overwhelmed by the colors, patterns and light outside, on campus. <br /><br />And I remember what my parents said, “Do what you love.”<br /><br />And I will, as soon as I figure out how to do all this stuff! Again.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-48474471000677650222009-12-27T13:04:00.001-08:002009-12-27T13:04:02.797-08:00Christmas Wish<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/4220011592/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2553/4220011592_ca34114a6c_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/4220011592/">Christmas Wish</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Christmas Wish: Pneumonia for Christmas<br /><br />What did you get for Christmas? Warm and fragrant gingerbread men? New Toys? Sweaters? <br /><br /> I got pneumonia for Christmas.<br /><br />It’s not the first time. The first time I got pneumonia for Christmas, it was so bad that I was unable to do ANYTHING. I was sucked into feverish delirium each day around 3 PM, and before that, it was feverish coughing and lying around like a pale rag doll with half the stuffing missing.<br /><br />When I was not delirious, I worried that there would be no Christmas without me. I had four kids and needed to get busy creating Christmas for them. That Christmas, my daughter, who was just a girl at the time, pretty much took over and did all my wrapping and quite a few other Christmas chores. <br /><br />Somehow Christmas happened even with my minimal feeble attempts. I was amazed at my daughter and amazed that it happened and on schedule, and no one was disappointed.<br /><br />That was about 18 years ago. Since then, I have enjoyed many Christmases without pneumonia. I’ve had some occasional colds, but nothing to knock me off track entirely. Up until this Christmas, that is.<br /><br />Let me begin with here I am and go back in time a bit. Where I am presently is mostly stopped. Mostly coughing as if my lungs themselves have gone bad and must be eradicated. Not much else. I sit around and cough, that seems to be what I am good for these days. Last week was even worse. I did attend some family events and sat like a lump, just trying to survive and breathe.<br /><br />The week before that, I knew it was coming, so I was mostly slowed down.<br /><br />The week before that, I started to feel like I was coming down with something, so I ran around even faster to try to get stuff done before I was no longer able to.<br /><br />The weeks before that I was burning the candle at both ends, working a lot, too much. I knew I was working too much. Six days a week until midnight or 1 AM sometimes. But I felt impervious. I had had a run of many years of pretty good health, so, perhaps I could just keep meeting deadlines and catch up on sleep when I could.<br /><br />So, I was running around, working long hours, not getting enough sleep, not getting enough exercise, and thinking of myself as practically infallible and strong like some kind of super hero.<br /><br />Pride goeth before the fall. And the bigger the pride, the more one is so involved in doing and doing, the greater the fall.<br /><br /><br />So, all Christmas preparations on my part, came to a halt, along with dishes and laundry. My focus became just getting through another night with, hopefully, a few little naps in between coughing-up-a-lung episodes.<br /><br />I had a Christmas Grid that I had made for my desktop. It was so fantastic because, at a glance, I could see what still needed to be done. And there were still a lot of things that needed to be done. <br /><br />Sigh.<br /><br />I thought that I was strong enough, if I just do a lot of vitamin C, and fluids, and stuff, that in a couple of days, I could be off and running again, and to the store to get ingredients for Christmas cookies. YES! I would be back in action in no time, just you watch and see.<br /><br />But I was wrong. And I was still being prideful, and committing hubris. I needed to let go and surrender to pneumonia. I had to pry my fingers, one by one, from their tight grip on my Christmas Grid.<br /><br />I had to surrender and watch Christmas happen all around me. <br /><br />Ordinarily, I have a pretty good idea about what I am getting for Christmas, but this time, I had no clue. And really, there was only one thing that I wanted for Christmas, and that was to breathe through the night, and during the day, and, if it were possible for one more thing, to be able to have my health restored.<br /><br />That’s all.<br /><br />Pneumonia for Christmas was very humbling for me some 18 years ago. I must have remembered that lesson for 17 years. I guess it was time for a strong reminder of a few things. For instance, Christmas, and life, is not about running around and doing so many things that there is no time to breathe. It’s not about being perpetually busy. <br /><br />If one gets too busy to breathe, one might get pneumonia and suddenly not be so busy and not be able to breathe.<br /><br />Christmas, and life, is about giving the best gifts, time with loved ones, savoring moments that will become memories, listening to one another, caring for one another. <br /><br />Hurriedness will squeeze the life out of, well, life.<br /><br />I knew that.<br /><br />I guess I just forgot.<br /><br />I will admit, that in my stage of being slowed down, I found some peace in what I could do. I broke out the watercolors and did a painting as a Christmas gift. I knitted some scarves for people. One can still be useful, even when holding still. And there is a great deal of peace to be found in such quiet activities.<br /><br />So, for next Christmas, who wants a scarf? Who wants a watercolor? I will be building in time for quiet things even if I am fully capable of running about like a crazed creator-of-Christmas, a title that I cannot assume in any case. Whatsoever.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-12708251044254267282009-07-02T12:19:00.001-07:002009-07-02T12:45:08.213-07:00Reading IS Fundamental<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3681736023/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2462/3681736023_c5608f3af9_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style=" margin-top: 0px;font-size:0.9em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3681736023/"></a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span> <p>Reading IS Fundamental<br /><br />We had company the other night, and my sister-in-law was telling me about a school district with which she is familiar (I think she said that one of her kids are in this district, and I am hoping that my memory is inaccurate on this detail), that has decided to eliminate all literature classes because the kids need to be taught the basic skills of spelling and grammar instead.<br /><br />Now, I would be the first to agree that such basics as spelling and grammar have totally slid into a black hole and that it appears that illiteracy is experiencing a revival. I suspect that TV was the first hit on literacy. Some people began to watch more and read less. Computers took a hit, as they provided additional entertainment and encouraged less reading. Instant messaging and text messaging seem to have delivered grave blows to literacy.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong, I have a passion for technology, and don’t know where I’d be without texting, but I am concerned that we are losing something.<br /><br />All around me, even in professionally printed signs, and professionally designed websites, I see the following:<br /><br />“Your really gonna love this.” I am somewhat okay with “gonna” because it is just slang, and as long as it doesn’t start to appear in scholarly essays, I will just accept that. But “Your” is a possessive so it means, “your dog,” “your hat,” “your husband”, “your illiteracy.” It can never mean, “Your invited,” or “your so funny!” Your so funny what? Your so funny dog, hat, husband, or illiteracy?<br /><br />It’s YOU’RE invited, which means, YOU ARE invited!! You are likely to appreciate this (your really gonna love this)!<br /><br />Also, “each other” are two words, not “eachother,” and “a lot” are two words and not “alot,” and it’s “we were supposed to…” and not “suppose to,” and it’s we went “across the street,” not “acrossed the street,” or “acrosst,” It’s “I’m not used to this,” not<br />I’m not use to this,” and, “this just makes things worse,” not “worst,” etc.<br /><br />Oh, and these ones really get me, “Me and him went to the park,” “Her and I had an argument,” “His and I’s website.” What the hey? What’s with that? I am starting to think that there is a new, emerging sub language of illiteracy.<br /><br />And while I am at it, an apostrophe is not required before every “s” and quotation marks are only used for quotations or for “supposedlies.” Yes, it is okay, rarely, to make up words, and I just made that one up to describe itself. I was a teenager in the 1960s. Notice, there is no apostrophe. I buy a lot of blank CDs and DVDs. NO APROSTROPHE!!! Are these Sheila’s CDs? Notice where the apostrophe goes. It is used for possessives, contractions, and, in pairs, for a quote within a quote.<br /><br />So, yes, illiteracy is on the rise. And yes, something has to be done about it. I have gone to forums online to learn how to do some technical thing, or to get some kind of information and found people writing as if they are adults who stopped learning to write in the 1st grade. I do not have the patience to try to decipher someone’s inability to write a clear sentence.<br /><br />I used to work for an English professor at CSULB. He was working with seniors in the teacher ed. program, and gave me their essays to evaluate and grade. It was the most depressing job I ever had. These were students about to graduate, get their teaching credentials, and teach our children how to write. 80% of these students had trouble constructing a clear sentence. Terrifying!<br /><br />So, it is true that students need to learn the basics of writing clearly and intelligibly. But do we go about that by eliminating lit classes?<br /><br />As a very young child, I was surrounded by a plethora of endless books. There were floor to ceiling bookshelves, but, in addition, there were bookshelves in every room of the house, and I do not exaggerate. I grew up with the idea that books were important, that they lined the walls of homes, and that they were worth reading, regularly. My parents read daily, and they read to us daily. My dad read us Shakespeare, Milton, Carroll and The Wind in the Willows from the time we could sit on his lap. Those are among my favorite memories.<br /><br />I recall longing to learn to read, and before long, I was. Fortunately, my reading habit was fairly well established prior to first grade, when suddenly I was confronted with Dick and Jane. Such a contrast to Shakespeare!<br /><br />When I got to HS, I was fortunate to attend a savvy school that had majors. They saw that while my math skills might be lacking (largely due to a lack of interest), (no pun intended), that my literary skills were big and wide, and so, I was able to skip the basic English classes where they studied grammar, punctuation, and sentence diagramming (remember that?). I was declared an English Lit major and I was put into all the best, most interesting literature classes and so, throughout HS, I was able to learn Middle English, analyze poetry, write all kinds of stuff, and read a very amazingly wide gamut of literature from around the world and from many centuries.<br /><br />So, one might ask. How did I learn enough basic grammar skills to be able to be a freelance editor today?<br /><br />I learned it from reading. I can skim a work of text and my head and my eye, instantly spot the punctuation error, the sentence that is poorly constructed, the descriptive word that, due to its position in a sentence, is describing the wrong word, and the ungrammatical usage. It’s not because I am some kind of idiot savant, it is not because I use my computer’s spell check or grammar check (and those can be inaccurate) and it is definitely not because I have studied these basics. It is because I have been read to since birth, and because of that, learned to read at age 4, and because of that, have had a passion for books, and because of that, I have an inherent knowledge of how things are to be written.<br /><br />I have never had a basic English class. Never.<br /><br />I have a friend who has taught them, though, at the college level. She is very smart and has written books on Shakespeare for kids. She wrote her dissertation on how language skills affect thinking skills. Often, people think that the words that we use are a result of our thoughts. This is true at a simplistic level. But her theory is that the better our literary skills; the better we can think.<br /><br />Anyone who has learned another language knows how it opens you up to the nuances of the human experience. There are words in French, for instance, for feelings, that do not translate into English. So, if you only know English, you could even be limiting your emotional experiences!<br /><br />So, I wish to declare that the way to increase literacy is not through memorizing rules of grammar, it is through loving to read, continuing to love to read, and in reading as much as possible, always! It’s just that simple! And that, wonderfully complex!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-66763350475685257892009-06-18T16:10:00.001-07:002009-06-18T16:10:45.318-07:00what a nut!<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3618711262/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3389/3618711262_c5d7479375_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3618711262/">what a nut!</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>I wrote about this photo on my blog at www.kcpetersen.com.<br /><br />It's about how a child in a photo shoot is a fleeting thing, and, in real life, too.<br /><br />Soak up your kids, immerse yourself in them, while you've got them.<br /><br />In a sigh, they are grown up and moving all over the world!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-43043167069895224292009-05-25T11:49:00.001-07:002009-05-25T11:49:14.148-07:00iMac or Macbook Pro?<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/380144212/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/130/380144212_d8ac60606e_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/380144212/">Kiera in my office</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Time for a new computer, looking at iMac or Macbook Pro. Any suggestions?</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-51858839454668175702009-04-08T22:56:00.001-07:002009-04-08T22:56:29.514-07:00Altruism<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3425230009/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3664/3425230009_f783944eb8_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3425230009/"></a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Altruism<br /><br />Someone used to argue to me that there is no such thing as altruism. Every good deed has some kind of selfish motivation, whether overt or covert, subtle or transparent, large or small.<br /><br />Perhaps he was right, although I am not ready to let go of the idea that altruism can exist, does exist, and has existed.<br /><br />Nevertheless, we must examine our motivations for good deeds, service, charity, etc. I did just that recently. I participated in “Project Easter Basket.” It’s a service project wherein an individual or an organization shops for and creates an Easter Basket for a needy kid.<br /><br />When the project was presented to me, I only had a moment to consider and to indicate the gender and age of the recipient, among several choices ranging from age 2 to age 14. I chose a girl around age 10.<br /><br />The day before the Easter basket was due, I did the shopping. I hadn’t had time to look at what was on the list until I was on my way to the store. It was much more involved than I had anticipated, as it included such things as “4 hygiene items,” “4 school supplies,” “4 items of essential clothing,” etc. and there were listed suggestions for the several categories. Also included were toy and candy categories, of course.<br /><br />It wasn’t until I began to shop that it started to become evident why I had chosen that category. I’d had three sons and then a daughter. The sons were adventurous, challenging, exhausting, loving, and a lot of fun. I’d enjoyed adventures with my brothers, while growing up, so I was prepared to be the mother of equally adventurous sons. <br /><br />My daughter was also adventurous, and was able to fit right in with her brothers, but we had a special mother-daughter bond that was emphasized by our being the only girls in the family. <br /><br />And when she was 10 years of age, that bond was even more important, in ways that she could not have realized. <br /><br />It was around then that doctors found an angioma in my brain. They said that it was about ten years old, and probably occurred during childbirth. It was a cluster of abnormal blood vessels in the brain, that may have happened due to a birthing injury, such as possibly pushing too hard during childbirth ten years earlier. They weren’t sure what degree of angioma it was, but they felt certain that it was causing some serious problems, and that I would probably die of a brain hemorrhage in about two weeks.<br /><br />I’d tuck my daughter into bed at night, and I was unable to avoid remembering that I had her in my mid-thirties, which, at that time in medical history, made me an older, at-risk mom, and, yes, well, it was a natural childbirth and it was difficult to get me to temper the consuming desire to push. <br /><br />The complexities of loving my daughter and considering that my birth experience with her might make it impossible to raise her were nearly overwhelming. But, eventually, I was able to find a calm and peaceful place that was not only delicious to the soul, but it made every second of my life precious and expanded with vitality.<br /><br />It was probably three weeks later that a special team of doctors researching my case came back with a revised prognosis that extended my life span.<br /><br />But during that time, when my daughter was ten, my relationships were extra special, and more important than much else. <br /><br />So, I went into the store to shop for a ten-year-old girl, and it was so easy, because I picked out the things that my daughter would have loved. And as I did this, it felt cathartic in some way. It was a time of revisiting that bittersweet time, that time when time stood still and became so expanded and so precious.<br /><br />I picked out special and precious things. And they were not over budget. It was if the universe was assisting as I found wonderful things that a ten-year-old girl would love, and each item was marked down. I couldn’t believe it. I never do that well when shopping for myself!<br /><br />I brought the items home and showed them to Mark as I prepared them and wrapped them up in an Easter basket lined with cellophane.<br /><br />It sat in our living room all the next day, and as I passed it, I remembered the experience of shopping for the unknown girl, and my experience with my own daughter at that pivotal time, and I thought of each item and how the unknown girl might like them. <br /><br />I wished that I could give it to her myself, and see her expressions when she took out each item. I wondered if her eyes would grow large when she saw the pretty summer dress I put in the basket, or the glowing flower pen. I wondered if she would immediately eat the jelly beans or save them to savor later.<br /><br />The more I thought about it, the more I thought about how we receive pleasure in seeing someone’s response to our gifts. So perhaps it is more altruistic to give blindly like this. I won’t know the girl who will receive my basket. I won’t see her receive it. <br /><br />As it turned out, my husband even delivered the basket to the collection location, so I never even got to see my basket join the others.<br /><br />I just had to let go. I just had to simply send my good deed out into the universe, anonymously.<br /><br />I think that there is a certain degree of altruism to that. <br /><br />But, when I think about it, my contentious debater was right to a degree. No matter how altruistic we may be, we can not even get close to being as altruistic as He for whom Easter is celebrated.<br /><br />But the example is there for us, and we can at least attempt to follow it.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-89106231469645270422009-03-19T20:18:00.001-07:002009-03-19T20:18:05.708-07:00soar<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3297913249/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3575/3297913249_41d88d8fa1_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3297913249/">soar</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Is it time to soar yet?<br /><br />Sometimes I think I am so tied down with so many things that I can’t get off the ground. But a lot of it is stuff that I want to do/choose to do.<br /><br />But as I approach my “golden years,” not sure if this is referring to the sunset time of our lives or if it means jaundice, or that we should now, suddenly wear a lot of golden jewelry, I find myself in a quandary:<br /><br />I don’t like to waste time. I like to waste time.<br /><br />Okay, so I don’t like meetings, I get restless in them, and if they are not accomplishing something really superb then they are a waste of time. I wonder to how many hours of meetings have I been subjected in this lifetime so far? Can’t I get a pass on them from now on?<br /><br />I like to dilly dally and lolly gag and think and ponder, and explore.<br /><br />But, uh, there is still so much I want to do and who knows how many years are left. Granted, when I was young there were no guarantees there, but at least then, I could consider that I had 50 or 60 very likely. Now I have to consider that I have between six months and twenty years. 20, that’s not much. Especially if you consider that the possibility of disability (ew, that rhymes) is pretty high and getting higher.<br /><br />That makes time precious and so, the people who mess up an order and I have to call them daily to either get what was ordered or my money back, and the person who corners me to tell me all about his or her ill-fated love life, or the traffic jam because about 150 cars must drive into the school parking lot to deliver their kids and so they back up traffic off campus for two long blocks, or a movie that is so lame, so predictable, so boring; out with them! <br /><br />Our beloved computers, meant to save us time, can be like traffic jams, too. I am finding myself starting to eliminate internet “friends,” “contacts,” etc. who are more inclined to detract than to enhance. Same with clothes, products, books and mags, and situations.<br /><br />I want to write in my journals/family and personal histories, do genealogy, help people, write a collection of short stories, write a novel, take the perfect photograph, get my business running smoothly (as if), lose weight, see the lands of my ancestors, learn to use photoshop, organize all my photos (like about a trillion of them, okay, a billion, but for sure no fewer), spend time with family and friends, but life gets in the way, always, daily.<br /><br />Life has to be more than doing laundry, loading/unloading the dishwasher, cooking, cleaning, errand running, appointments and meetings, right? What do you say?</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-74021148917924334012008-12-22T10:28:00.001-08:002008-12-22T10:35:14.536-08:00Traditional and Crazy Christmas Traditions<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3123387406/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3087/3123387406_e7967ebe17_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a><br /><span style="margin-top: 0px;font-size:0;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3123387406/"></a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span> <p><br />homemade tamales. my dad worked downtown, near the music center, and on Christmas Eve, he had more time off, and he would go to the music center and listen to music and go to the local places he knew so well for authentic, homemade tamales. He'd get a bunch of them. I don't remember if we had them on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. Maybe that depended. But we had them.<br /><br />wooden shoes and clogs. Dutch tradition. Sinter Klas would appear in the area starting December 6th. I think his sidekick was Black Pete, but there was a Dutch name for him, that translated to something like that. So, sometimes on that date, we'd line up wooden shoes (they had a dutch name too, trying to remember that, z something), or clogs, or any roomy shoe if one did not possess a wooden one (I had wooden clogs up until recently, actually). We'd put carrots and straw in the shoes for the reindeer. In the morning (the 7th or the 25th, depending), there would be a small surprise in each shoe to replace the carrot or straw.<br /><br />Cookies and Milk for Santa. We'd leave notes for Santa, usually notes of thanks and instruction and information about his cookies and milk. In the morning, the milk would be half gone and there'd be at least one half-eaten cookie left on the plate.<br /><br />Angel hair pasta (usually on Christmas eve)<br /><br />Crackers. British Isles tradition, usually in the morning at Christmas breakfast, which would include such things as hot, spicy cider, egg nog, croissants, eggs, bagels, home made cinnamon rolls, hot chocolate.<br /><br />Stockings (these were usually filled with oranges, walnuts, candy canes, and a few little surprises)<br /><br />Frosted cookies. We'd make them ourselves from scratch. I can do without this one, as they are very buttery rich.<br /><br />Pajamas. On Christmas eve, Santa would sneak into each of our rooms to place a soft, wrapped gift at the end of each of our beds. In the morning, we'd wake up, rub our eyes, and put on the new pajamas that we found in those packages.<br /><br />Christmas morning. We'd usually wake before our parents, and we learned to not go into the living room yet. We'd put on our new pajamas and find much of our breakfast on the table, ready for us. When our parents got up, they'd make the eggs, the hot chocolate, the spiced cider, etc. We'd wait for our Grandma to arrive. Then, we'd line up in order of age, the youngest first, and file into the living room that was brightly lit by my dad's bank of lights so he could film us. Our films show us blinking, squinting and shielding our eyes!<br /><br />Gift Opening. We'd start with the stockings. We'd all dig into those at the same time. Then, we'd take our seats in the living room and one gift at a time would be handed to us. One person at a time would open. It took most of the day! After that, we'd play with our toys while the Christmas feast was prepared (Tamales if they weren't enjoyed on Christmas Eve).<br /><br />Thank you notes. My mom would spread newspaper on the dining room table, usually on NY's day, and we'd gather around the paper, paints, and pens and create Thank You cards and art to send to relatives and even brothers and sisters who gave us gifts. There'd be music playing and we'd immerse ourselves in the creativity of it.<br /><br />Later "traditions." When we were all teenagers, we added a few new traditions such as the Tree Decorating: Our parents would leave the room to watch TV while we threw tinsel all over the tree. We loved the randomness of how it fell.<br /></p><p>Also, we would sneak things out of each others' rooms to put on the tree, for instance, I remember that a wallet-sized photo of a girl none of us had ever seen before had appeared on the tree. On the back, it said, "To Mike, love Cindy xxxoo." That was a real find since Mike, our youngest brother, had never mentioned this Cindy to any of us. That HAD to go on the tree, along with someone's hidden report card, or a really garish necklace that someone had given our mother and she was too polite to give it away, and someone's speeding ticket, and the Barbie doll that my sister still kept in her underwear drawer, the one that had lost most of its hair.<br /></p><p>Gift Wrapping: If it was too big to fit on the tree, it was wrapped and put UNDER the tree. Jeff's old stuffed animal that he had when he was four, and the fur was all rubbed off? Wrapped and put under the tree with his name on the tag. Mike's car keys? Wrapped and put under the tree! My favorite record album? Wrapped and put under the tree! The object was to fill up that space with as many shiny gifts as we could! But we tried not to be too cruel about it, so, for instance, my brother was only looking for his car keys for two days, and was borrowing his brother's car in the meantime, the brother who had put his keys under the tree, of course. However, one year, a week before Christmas, I took my sister's electric razor, the one she counted on daily for smooth legs, wrapped it in a shoebox-sized box and put it under the tree. We'd be wandering around all week, wondering where we'd misplaced our stuff, all the while looking for more things to wrap.<br /><br />I'm not sure how my parents survived all of us, but they seemed to manage by telling each other that one day this would all pass.<br /><br />But I will never forget the look of relief on my sister's face when she opened that gift and found her beloved, long-lost electric razor, which she immediately hid under her long lost sweater.<br /><br />It was a great tradition, as it made us appreciate what we had. (Each other!)<br /><br />What about you?</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-39120853353993364192008-11-28T09:47:00.001-08:002008-11-28T09:47:03.948-08:00There Are Times When I Am Ashamed to be a Member of Humanity<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3065449627/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3207/3065449627_6e908404c6_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/3065449627/">There Are Times When I Am Ashamed to be a Member of Humanity</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Mankind does so many evils against its own kind. This just makes me sick. I can't help but imagine that this young man, with, perhaps, a young family, sat at Thanksgiving dinner the day before with parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, etc. Perhaps he mentioned that he had to go to work very early the next morning. Perhaps they joked about it. Someone may have even said something about the craziness of Black Friday.<br /><br />And he died, first thing the next morning.<br /><br />Not due to natural causes, not while protecting or defending. He died from being stampeded by greedy shoppers wanting to be the first into the cavernous temple of discount shopping.<br /><br />So, we all pause for a day to reflect and give thanks for all of our blessings. And the moment the next day breaks, we stampede a store employee to death in our reckless need to get more.<br /><br />I am sickened.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-6449757933477636772008-10-30T19:27:00.001-07:002008-10-30T19:27:09.983-07:00Surfs with Seals<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2552310556/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3027/2552310556_d368d15d8b_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2552310556/"></a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>While this is a photo of a young seal that washed up on the beach, there was a very lively one on the beach this morning.<br /><br />Leslie and I went out this morning to ride some waves. When we arrived, there was a seal body surfing and having a good time riding the waves.<br /><br />We went into the water and paddled out and started to catch waves right away. The waves were gentle but yet strong enough to give us some good rides.<br /><br />But the highlight of the day for me was this:<br /><br />I had just caught a wave and was turning around. I looked just in time to see a beautiful, green, translucent wave rising. Leslie was at the south end of it where it was starting to break, and she was just catching it when I saw a beautiful sight. The seal had also caught the wave and was inside it, beautiful and brown, sliding down sleekly alongside Leslie. My jaw dropped and I pointed, hoping she would see the beautiful creature sharing her wave.<br /><br />A lifeguard pulled up just then and saw the same thing I was seeing. Somehow that made it more real to me that a lifeguard also watched the dual ride. It wasn't just my imagination!<br /><br />When the wave broke, the seal shot out from behind and was gone in a nano-second. <br /><br />I will never forget that sight of green wave, shining and transparent with two riders: Leslie and the sleek, brown seal, sharing an experience together.</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-15610927505560077632008-09-07T16:35:00.001-07:002008-09-07T16:35:09.903-07:00We Have New Neighbors<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2837156957/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3002/2837156957_b2151fa7a2_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2837156957/">neighbors.jpg</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>We have new neighbors. The lady friends moved out and Malibu Ken and Barbie moved in. This wouldn’t be a problem, really, except that their deck is directly alongside Mark’s office slider and my office window. Here, at the beach, we really mean it when we say their deck is right directly alongside, as in, we could reach out and touch the railing of their deck from the edge of our miniscule balcony. <br /><br />So, by now you are probably thinking, “Oh, and they like to party, right?”<br /><br />Well, yeah. But we’re not talking about every Friday and/or Saturday night there is a raucous and noisy party right there by our offices. They’ve actually, so far, been pretty considerate about not doing partying late into the night.<br /><br />How do I explain this? It’s as if they are on permanent vacation and wanting to make every moment vacation worthy.<br /><br />So, they wander out onto their deck, (which, by the way, IS their living room, dining room and rec room all rolled into one), in the late mornings, stretching and yawning and emptying the coolers of water and clearing out the beer and wine bottles from the day/night before. And it is this deck that is so prominent in our lives these days. It is our view from all south facing windows (all but one of our windows!). Then they go shopping, or to the beach, or to get more food and beer, or, most likely, they stretch out in their various deck furniture in her bikini and his swim shorts, and read their mags, or play some game where they lean over and make little clicking sounds for hours on end (Backgammon? Checkers?)<br /><br />She has high-maintenance chunky blonde highlights, always artfully arranged, and he just sits around with his hair slicked back like it’s Miami. He may have a diamond pinky ring, but I haven’t looked that closely. I don’t think I have ever seen him in anything but a swimsuit. I see her in her bikini all day long, day after day. She slips on a little shift to go get food and beer. I don’t think I would recognize them clothed.<br /><br />So, they mostly just hang out there on the deck, ALL THE TIME. From the time they wake up, until the sun is long gone, and sometimes later. <br /><br />I am pretty sure that they are Malibu Ken and Barbie. I think there may be a pink convertible down on the street somewhere.<br /><br />I don’t think either of them has a job. <br /><br />Maybe they are on a two-week vacation. I know they are not honeymooning because we heard the downstairs neighbor telling us that a guy in his thirties rented the place. She didn’t say a couple rented it. Maybe in another few days they will both go back to jobs. <br /><br />I sure hope so, because so far, it has been nothing but lounging around in swim attire, wine glasses in hand. They have outfitted the deck with a rattan bar, and various drinking stations. There are tropical plant and skulls leaning menacingly toward Mark’s office window. There are many red candle lanterns and every night, seriously, every night , around 5 PM, those get lit and start to flicker just to make the evening lounging around more special than the daily lounging around. <br /><br />As I pass a window, I see them there. Her hair upswept, her bikini accenting her tan, daintily holding a wine glass. I see him leaning over and wolfing down food, that seems to mysteriously appear.<br /><br />Friends come to see them at all hours of the day and night, and they come up the stairs and say, “wassup?” and “washappenin, man?” And they always, each, are carrying a 12 pack. <br /><br />Their music is generic rock, and so close to what one might hear in an elevator that my ears nearly bleed, and I have to turn on my itunes to drown out their sounds before that happens. They are considerate in that they don’t play it loud, but sometimes what really makes you insane is hearing a constant buzz of low volume generic rock. Background music. Save me.<br /><br />Then there are their conversations which seem to be limited to what do you want to do today, or, “you can’t do that!” when there is an illegal board game move. I did hear one friend talk about how her boyfriend had to start paying the rent for someone in their apartment who was being a slacker. <br /><br />As the evening approaches, I see them sitting again, leaning into the candlelight. They don’t talk much, unless friends visit. Left alone, she mostly looks at him and poses. Yes, poses. I see her lean this way and that, and one night, when the candles were flickering, I saw her arrange a kind of shawl wrap about her bare shoulders, and make the kind of expression that one might make if it was the end of the movie when the protagonist is remembering what she learned from her bad experience with the guy who wasn’t right for her. <br /><br />I am hoping with all my heart that eventually they will have jobs to go to, and that they will eventually begin to lead more normal kinds of lives; lives that require actual attire.<br /><br />If that doesn’t ever happen, I will have to find a way to cope:<br /><br />1-I could just pretend that it really is Malibu Barbie and Ken, and just try to deal with having that show going on at my window when I am trying to work.<br /><br />2-I could move.<br /><br />3-I could decide that maybe Mark and I could be more like Malibu Barbie and Ken, take some time off, and sit around all day in swim attire, sipping cold beverages and playing board games while posing by flickering candlelight.<br /><br />4-I could pretend that I am in a Twilight Zone episode, and as soon as I figure out what the theme is, maybe everything will return to normal.<br /><br />5- I could hope that they will start to fight and throw things at each other. Hey, if they are going to seem like they are in the next room couldn’t they at least be entertaining? And besides, if they break up, they may move.<br /><br />It would totally be another thing, entirely, if they just got into their swimsuits once a day, and sat on their deck for an hour or so, per day, while leading normal lives. But it’s that they are ALWAYS on their deck. LIVING on their deck. And their deck is a resort and bar and they are on vacation, ALWAYS. <br /><br />It’s just that this is in our faces, 24x7.<br /><br />I know it may sound like I am making too big of a deal out of this, but their voices and their “music” fills my office, daily, all day long, and the window, right there, in my office nearly fills the entire wall. This is as if I have Ken and Barbie and their friends (Skipper? Tad?) right here, in my office, where I am trying to work, laughing and sipping beer and wine in bikinis and shorts, in my office. <br /><br />Mark says that eventually it will get cold and they will have to go inside. I suspect that they will still be out there, being Ken and Barbie, every day, they will just put some stylish cover-ups on over their swim attire. They’ll add a palm frond cover to the deck to keep the rain from putting out the candles.<br /><br />But, I may not notice since I will have been admitted to the asylum by then!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-8334759006992013482008-07-10T20:01:00.001-07:002008-07-10T20:01:09.358-07:00Bring on the Cherries!<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2647951945/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3016/2647951945_f1568d382f_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2647951945/"></a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>It's the middle of the summer, right? Have I had a summer yet? <br /><br />I did go to the fireworks display in HB on the 4th, that felt like summer. <br /><br />I did have some cherries from the HB farmer's market, that tasted like summer.<br /><br />One day, Mark and I went for a swim in the ocean, that was summer.<br /><br />But really, that has been about it.<br /><br />Here we are living in Seal Beach and we've been in the ocean once in 10 months!!!<br /><br />What is wrong with us?<br /><br />Okay, we've been working a lot. We have many obligations. We support a lot of people. <br /><br />But really, I think we would for sure, spend more time at the beach in a year if we lived in the midwest. We'd save up, get tix to the coast, find a nice place to stay at the beach for a week or two, and then we would spend every day on the beach, in the water, eating cherries and watermelon, and putting aloe vera on our sunburns.<br /><br />What is wrong with this picture?<br /><br />Anyone want to come visit us at the beach and distract us from working and invite us into the water or onto a towel?</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-36793586824193889642008-04-06T21:25:00.001-07:002008-04-07T08:52:51.284-07:00weeds<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2395122442/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3001/2395122442_27074a4dfe_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: 2px solid rgb(0, 0, 0);" /></a><br /><span style="margin-top: 0px;font-size:0;" ><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2395122442/">weeds</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span> <p>Recently, my daughter Kiera came out for a visit. It’s always fun to have her because she is a person who is nearly larger than life. By that, I mean she is full of personality and energy, and she is colorful, and sweet, and well, she fills up a room (no, Kiera, I am not saying you are fat!).<br /><br />She has been a force to be dealt with since birth. Actually, even at birth. Once she was ready to enter the world, she was coming in a hurry. (I am talking about the delivery stage, here, she was one of my quickest deliveries, arriving after about 13- hours of labor, but once the delivery stage began, she was in a huge hurry to get out and see the world!!! I was in an alternative birth center, and I remember the staff running around trying to prepare for her once they realized she wasn’t going to wait any longer.<br /><br />Then, she surprised me at how she could be so content, and so motivated, and so loving, even as an infant. I could put her to bed at night, wide awake, and she didn’t cry! (after the three boys, this was a very strange, new experience!). In the mornings, she would wake up and begin to sing to herself until I came to get her. And everyone got love from her, from infancy on.<br /><br />As a toddler, she liked to go into her room, and change her clothes a few times a day. She’d come out in some truly creative get-ups, often borrowing from my closet!<br /><br />She would sing, dance, coo, all day long. She took ballet as a pudgy pre-schooler, and danced on stage. She liked to create stories and draw pictures all day long.<br /><br />When she was four, she asked me to teach her to read. I got out some books with repetitive patterns, and in a little while, she was reading everything she could get her hands on. <br /><br />She liked to take the dog and pretend she was her baby. She’d bathe her and wrap her in a towel and rock her. I am pretty sure the dog really believed that was her mother.<br /><br />Anyway, this is about our visit. When she is here, I notice the ways that we are different. She likes to be very busy, and always fills up her time with many activities, and talks to a lot of people, and is very extroverted. I, on the other hand, like to be not busy, not fill up my time, and not talk so much, and I am more introverted. <br /><br />But I also noticed the ways in which we are the same. As we took a walk on the beach, over the sand dunes, we were talking, but we both kind of stopped talking and I realized that we were both being distracted by the weeds.<br /><br />Yes, weeds. <br /><br />We both had our cameras and soon we were photographing the weeds.<br /><br />Now, keep in mind, at first glance, these were just ordinary weeds. At first glance, they seemed to all be a kind of dull shade of brown. Most people would have just passed them by. But not us.<br /><br />I was really enjoying that there was someone else in the world who would find beauty in the weeds, and to know that it was my own daughter.<br /><br />What a precious gift to have in common the ability to see beauty in the world around us.<br /><br />I love you, Kiera!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-56097632881801693192008-04-04T22:04:00.001-07:002008-04-04T22:04:43.056-07:00At Six Weeks<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2388386605/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2332/2388386605_cb368dbe50_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2388386605/">At Six Weeks</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>Today I walked a little bit, wearing just a neoprene support on the ankle/foot, and, imagine this, a pair of matching hiking sandals! <br /><br />Healing is a miraculous thing! It's not just that over the past six weeks the foot went through all those stages starting out as a big, purple box, and gradually, very gradually, changing ever so slightly. I went from having to crawl, to walking with crutches, to limping and then finally, to being able to bear weight. <br /><br />It's not just that torn ligaments and tendons began to slowly, and carefully, heal and grow every so slightly stronger a little bit at a time. <br /><br />It's a whole lot more than that.<br /><br />I know it was just a sprained ankle, and even if it's a third degree one, the worst kind, in the whole scheme of things, I realize it's just a minor and temporary injury.<br /><br />But it has been six weeks of my not being able to do what I am used to doing. It has been six weeks of often feeling frustrated, and sometimes depressed, and feeling as if for the rest of my life I will be limping in unmatched footwear.<br /><br />It was six weeks to slow down, be humble, be teachable, and to think about what I could learn from this enforced period of such.<br /><br />It was people praying for me, including random surfers on the beach, kind people checking on me and my progress, people with experience with such things giving me much appreciated advice, and it was kind of amazing.<br /><br />Faith, our connections to each other, love, and all those good things were the silver lining.<br /><br />One neighbor has seen me walk to the beach nearly each day, at first, in a giant boot, and then in a little white inflatable one, and then my hinged sports model, and he has acknowledged my progress each time I have passed his house and been greeted by his dog.<br /><br />I am grateful for all of those kinds of things. I probably have a few more weeks before I actually move "normally" again, and a few months before things are totally healed, but for now, I am just so very grateful for the things I have learned and experienced while being the "gimp."<br /><br />Thank you people,<br />kc</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-1752298958358280042008-03-16T22:35:00.001-07:002008-03-16T22:35:24.016-07:00beach walk<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2339959362/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3022/2339959362_424fd464e9_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2339959362/">beach walk</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>So, I was walking along the beach one morning, and three surfers were coming out of the water near the pier. <br /><br />Yeah, I was limping along, doing my sand physical therapy which consists of walking up and down the slopes to strengthen my sprained ankle, while wearing one of my ankle supports.<br /><br />They were asking me what happened and how. Mark says I should have said, "You should have seen it! There were these monster sets a few weeks ago, and...."<br /><br />I told the truth, I said I was rock hopping on the jetty when it started to rain, and well, anyway. Some say I should start to act my age, and then maybe I wouldn't get hurt so often. But, it's not easy. I grew up with so many opportunities to be a tomboy. Yeah, I may be pushing 60, but I really don't want to become an old lady any time soon.<br /><br />So, anyway, back to the surfers.<br /><br />After they talked to me a while about the ankle, they asked if I would be okay with them praying for me.<br /><br />I responded that they were welcome to do so, I wouldn't mind at all.<br /><br />I didn't realize that they meant right then and there, on the spot. They meant right then and there. On the spot.<br /><br />They gathered around me, still dripping with sea water, holding their boards in one arm (I was as if enclosed inside a flower petal), and with their free arms, they joined hands and one placed his hand on my ankle and one held my hand, and they prayed, aloud, on the beach, near the SB pier, that my ankle would heal, and be stronger than ever, and they prayed about how much Jesus loves KC, etc.<br /><br />I thought many things:<br /><br />1-I am standing near the pier surrounded by three random surfers who have decided to pray for my sprained ankle!<br /><br />2-How random is this?<br /><br />3-How sweet is this?<br /><br />After our amens, they began to head for the shower, but they continued to converse with me as they walked up the shore, and as I began to head back in the other direction.<br /><br />How random was that? How sweet was that?</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-36155844441955390472008-02-29T10:57:00.001-08:002008-02-29T10:57:47.715-08:00my (stupid) left foot<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2298728676/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3160/2298728676_aa7de7f2a6_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2298728676/">my (stupid) left foot</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>I have had an intimate relationship with this foot now, for about five days. Prior to that, this foot was simply one of a pair that I occasionally treated with new shoes or socks, but mostly it was meant to work in tandem with it's twin to get me wherever I wanted to go, which was a lot of places.<br /><br />If you saw them both at the same time, you would notice that the right twin looks nothing at all like its sister. First of all, the right twin has a pretty little silver toe ring. (which probably would have had to be cut off, if it had been on this left foot). Also, the right twin, in comparison, looks totally skinny and bony when next to her puffy and colorful sister.<br /><br />I have noticed that I have gone through some stages in this healing process.<br /><br />stage one-SHOCK<br /><br />Omigosh, did my trail runners grip the rock so well that when I went to slide down my ankle totally bent like folded paper, and then got wedged against an adjoining rock, while I sit here in shock and can't feel my foot, ankle or leg? Did I just break my ankle in two?<br /><br />stage two-CODDLING<br /><br />Poor ankle, here, have some more ice, have another epsom salt soak, here rest on this pillow while I watch another silly, insipid movie.<br /><br />stage three-CABIN FEVER<br /><br />Arrrgggghhh, it's a beautiful day outside and I am lucky to be able to go from this room to the bathroom. I will never walk again. I will make people crazy asking them to describe what it looks like, just outside my door and down the stairs! I long to see the ocean.<br /><br />stage four-FOOT ANGER<br /><br />stupid extremity! why'd you have to go and do this? Were you jealous because you had no toe ring??? Now I can hardly do anything at all and it's all YOUR fault! Hah, no epsom salt soaks for you today!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27793295.post-50849919324158338062008-01-21T21:45:00.001-08:002008-01-21T21:45:07.449-08:00Thank goodness for sunglasses, quiet moments, and quilts<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2207579435/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2399/2207579435_543d6cfb7e_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sleepykat/2207579435/">the much-requested quilt portrait</a> <br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/sleepykat/">katzeye</a></span><br clear="all" /><p>It seems like life is never really smooth, or even all that peaceful. Between us we have ten kids, four grandkids, and several jobs. <br /><br />There are certain aspects of our lives that are especially stressful, things that I have not mentioned thus far, and probably won't. Hardly a day goes by without some kind of extreme stuff going on in the corners of our world.<br /><br />And we have a great many financial obligations (definitely related to the first two paragraphs) and so we are often left to do without.<br /><br />Mark gets up well before the sun rises to take care of business, and is exhausted after working a long, long day, usually until 10 or 11 each night, Monday-Saturday. <br /><br />I juggle many things, too, work-wise and otherwise.<br /><br />But the thing is that here, in the center of our little apartment, there is peace. In the center of this relationship, there is peace.<br /><br />And that makes all the difference!</p>...http://www.blogger.com/profile/06048401874652457198noreply@blogger.com2