Denim!

denim
Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.


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!

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.

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!)

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!

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.

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!!

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!

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.)

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.)

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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!

And that makes me want to just order the ones made in Scotland and be done with it. Maybe.

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!

(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"!!!)

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"!!!

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!

Pool or Ocean?

Curvature
Originally uploaded by katzeye

Swimming

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.

I prefer to swim in the ocean. And I have many reasons why that is the case.

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.

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.

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.

While some might say, “I want my mommy!” I was saying, “I want my wetsuit!”

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.

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.

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.

Meanwhile, I am still getting used to feeling cold, and still determined that I will swim laps. Or something.

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.

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.

Okay, so now what? I float on my back. I try to see stars in spite of the intensely bright pool lights.

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.

Not exactly my idea of getting exercise: doing a slow roast in a Jacuzzi while talking for hours about the HOA, and politics, etc.

So, here are the reasons why I prefer to swim in the ocean:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Mocassins

Gather 'round
Originally uploaded by katzeye

Moccasins

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

And isn’t that what it is all about?

The Joys of Being Sick!

Leah2
Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.

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.

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.

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.

Also, I have no medical insurance.

So, any cold, even a mild one, has to be treated as if it is a bad, BAD case of the flu.

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.

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.

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.

Mark says that is when I find the time to think, ponder, write, and be creative. He is right.

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.

(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.)

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.

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.

Less is more.

Time for another nap.

I have to learn all of THIS?

Originally uploaded by katzeye

It’s been a while since I went back to school.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!

And look at how much technical experience I need to put in and learn. The learning curve is astounding.

But I have to say, that with all of the many changes, there are things that have not changed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And I remember what my parents said, “Do what you love.”

And I will, as soon as I figure out how to do all this stuff! Again.

Christmas Wish

Christmas Wish
Originally uploaded by katzeye

Christmas Wish: Pneumonia for Christmas

What did you get for Christmas? Warm and fragrant gingerbread men? New Toys? Sweaters?

I got pneumonia for Christmas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The week before that, I knew it was coming, so I was mostly slowed down.

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.

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.

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.

Pride goeth before the fall. And the bigger the pride, the more one is so involved in doing and doing, the greater the fall.


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.

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.

Sigh.

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.

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.

I had to surrender and watch Christmas happen all around me.

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.

That’s all.

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.

If one gets too busy to breathe, one might get pneumonia and suddenly not be so busy and not be able to breathe.

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.

Hurriedness will squeeze the life out of, well, life.

I knew that.

I guess I just forgot.

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.

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.

Reading IS Fundamental

Originally uploaded by katzeye

Reading IS Fundamental

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.

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.

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.

All around me, even in professionally printed signs, and professionally designed websites, I see the following:

“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?

It’s YOU’RE invited, which means, YOU ARE invited!! You are likely to appreciate this (your really gonna love this)!

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
I’m not use to this,” and, “this just makes things worse,” not “worst,” etc.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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.

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!

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.

So, one might ask. How did I learn enough basic grammar skills to be able to be a freelance editor today?

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.

I have never had a basic English class. Never.

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.

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!

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!

what a nut!

what a nut!
Originally uploaded by katzeye

I wrote about this photo on my blog at www.kcpetersen.com.

It's about how a child in a photo shoot is a fleeting thing, and, in real life, too.

Soak up your kids, immerse yourself in them, while you've got them.

In a sigh, they are grown up and moving all over the world!

iMac or Macbook Pro?

Kiera in my office
Originally uploaded by katzeye

Time for a new computer, looking at iMac or Macbook Pro. Any suggestions?

Altruism

Originally uploaded by katzeye

Altruism

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.

Perhaps he was right, although I am not ready to let go of the idea that altruism can exist, does exist, and has existed.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And when she was 10 years of age, that bond was even more important, in ways that she could not have realized.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But during that time, when my daughter was ten, my relationships were extra special, and more important than much else.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I just had to let go. I just had to simply send my good deed out into the universe, anonymously.

I think that there is a certain degree of altruism to that.

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.

But the example is there for us, and we can at least attempt to follow it.

soar

soar
Originally uploaded by katzeye

Is it time to soar yet?

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.

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:

I don’t like to waste time. I like to waste time.

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?

I like to dilly dally and lolly gag and think and ponder, and explore.

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.

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!

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.

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.

Life has to be more than doing laundry, loading/unloading the dishwasher, cooking, cleaning, errand running, appointments and meetings, right? What do you say?

Traditional and Crazy Christmas Traditions

Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.

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.

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.

Angel hair pasta (usually on Christmas eve)

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.

Stockings (these were usually filled with oranges, walnuts, candy canes, and a few little surprises)

Frosted cookies. We'd make them ourselves from scratch. I can do without this one, as they are very buttery rich.

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.

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!

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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was a great tradition, as it made us appreciate what we had. (Each other!)

What about you?

There Are Times When I Am Ashamed to be a Member of Humanity

There Are Times When I Am Ashamed to be a Member of Humanity
Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.

And he died, first thing the next morning.

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.

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.

I am sickened.

Surfs with Seals

Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.

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.

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.

But the highlight of the day for me was this:

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.

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!

When the wave broke, the seal shot out from behind and was gone in a nano-second.

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.

We Have New Neighbors

neighbors.jpg
Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.

So, by now you are probably thinking, “Oh, and they like to party, right?”

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.

How do I explain this? It’s as if they are on permanent vacation and wanting to make every moment vacation worthy.

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?)

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.

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.

I am pretty sure that they are Malibu Ken and Barbie. I think there may be a pink convertible down on the street somewhere.

I don’t think either of them has a job.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If that doesn’t ever happen, I will have to find a way to cope:

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.

2-I could move.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It’s just that this is in our faces, 24x7.

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.

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.

But, I may not notice since I will have been admitted to the asylum by then!

Bring on the Cherries!

Originally uploaded by katzeye

It's the middle of the summer, right? Have I had a summer yet?

I did go to the fireworks display in HB on the 4th, that felt like summer.

I did have some cherries from the HB farmer's market, that tasted like summer.

One day, Mark and I went for a swim in the ocean, that was summer.

But really, that has been about it.

Here we are living in Seal Beach and we've been in the ocean once in 10 months!!!

What is wrong with us?

Okay, we've been working a lot. We have many obligations. We support a lot of people.

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.

What is wrong with this picture?

Anyone want to come visit us at the beach and distract us from working and invite us into the water or onto a towel?

weeds

weeds
Originally uploaded by katzeye

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!).

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Yes, weeds.

We both had our cameras and soon we were photographing the weeds.

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.

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.

What a precious gift to have in common the ability to see beauty in the world around us.

I love you, Kiera!

At Six Weeks

At Six Weeks
Originally uploaded by katzeye

Today I walked a little bit, wearing just a neoprene support on the ankle/foot, and, imagine this, a pair of matching hiking sandals!

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.

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.

It's a whole lot more than that.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Faith, our connections to each other, love, and all those good things were the silver lining.

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.

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."

Thank you people,
kc

beach walk

beach walk
Originally uploaded by katzeye

So, I was walking along the beach one morning, and three surfers were coming out of the water near the pier.

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.

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...."

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.

So, anyway, back to the surfers.

After they talked to me a while about the ankle, they asked if I would be okay with them praying for me.

I responded that they were welcome to do so, I wouldn't mind at all.

I didn't realize that they meant right then and there, on the spot. They meant right then and there. On the spot.

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.

I thought many things:

1-I am standing near the pier surrounded by three random surfers who have decided to pray for my sprained ankle!

2-How random is this?

3-How sweet is this?

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.

How random was that? How sweet was that?

my (stupid) left foot

my (stupid) left foot
Originally uploaded by katzeye

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.

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.

I have noticed that I have gone through some stages in this healing process.

stage one-SHOCK

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?

stage two-CODDLING

Poor ankle, here, have some more ice, have another epsom salt soak, here rest on this pillow while I watch another silly, insipid movie.

stage three-CABIN FEVER

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.

stage four-FOOT ANGER

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!