Medicating Myself With Love

Little Cuter and I had the most marvelously mundane conversation this afternoon.  We talked about everything and nothing and mostly we just heard each other's voices.  It only served to amplify the good feeling I'd carried around all day.  Home from San Francisco, with love from my boy surrounding my heart, I awoke to find the irrigation system had sprung only one leak.  I admired the patches I'd applied last week, and went inside before 8am; it's summer in the desert and no one is doing anything (unpaid) outdoors after that.

I had the mail held until today's delivery, so there were no unpaid, unopened, annoying envelopes on the counter.  I connected an old friend with a new friend and felt renewed hope that things may really change for the better. I sent a contribution to Mayors Against Illegal Guns and laughed about me sending money to Michael Bloomberg.  Pilates was strengthening and the vibration machine at PT had me just-about-gliding across the gym floor.  

Life was good.

The phone rang. We didn't recognize the number on caller id, but it was local and I thought it might be a friend.  It wasn't.

It was a man who identified himself as an on-line reporter for a local television station.  He wondered if I'd seen the photos.  

Like a fool, I said, "What photos?"

"The new one's the sheriff's department has just released," led my brain to wonder why the Pima County Sheriff was releasing photos of the devastation in Oklahoma.  I began to prepare a statement of hope and love and encouragement for those whose houses and loved ones are no more.  I seem to get these calls after every tragedy; I usually decline to comment.  But this voice sounded young and I'm all about encouragement and I had a smile on my face right up until he finished his sentence with, "from January 8th."

"NO ! ! ! !"

No, I hadn't seen them.  No, I didn't want him to bring them up when he arrived to interview me.  No. No. No.  "I'm hanging up now."

My head is exploding.  He intruded upon my beautiful day and brought up images I have no wish to revisit.  I miss Christina-Taylor every day; I don't need a photograph to remind me of the most awful part of our relationship.  The actual memory is seared on my brain.  

And what in the world did he hope to gain from having me relive it again?  Why would he think that I would travel there with him, a total stranger, uninterested in me as anything but the next "big get"?  

I know.  He was just doing his job.  His job ruined my day.

I'm getting pretty good at recovering from these little PTSD moments.  I'll swim for a long time and get my heart pumping and feel the sun on my back and my body buoyed and able to lunge with impunity.  I'll see Shannon's magic fingers for a massage and come home to the dinner TBG will put in the oven after his massage.  I'm not going to let it win.  

Even after letting the venom seep out my fingertips and onto the keyboard, I'm still battling with unwanted thoughts. Before I do anything, I'm going to finish cropping the pictures which were going to be today's post... before the phone rang and I ended up here in the middle of Peeved Street.  Here's a teaser for you.

As I've said before, as I'll say again:

It is impossible to be sad when little ones are smiling at you.

I feel better already!

My Little Girl

The plan was to have boys.  Only boys.  Girls and I did not get along.  I didn't understand them.  

Then, I got the flu.  I also got pregnant.  I got morning sickness, congested nasal passages, and insomnia.  

I also got my little girl.

If there were two items of clothing which matched, up the stairs she ran to change one of them. Tender-headed, she refused to put a brush or a comb through her hair... which she also refused to cut.  Hair in her eyes made Daddy nutty, so she agreed to headbands and colorful clips. Bangs were never an option; they take too long to grow out.  I chose my battles in those days. She went happily uncombed to pre-school and I didn't care. It's not that I was all that talented in the tonsorial department, anyway. She really wasn't missing very much.

She learned to accept a compliment with grace when she was three.  It was a means of protecting herself from unwanted attention to just how cute she was.  She knew it.  She didn't want to hear it. I promised her that if she smiled and said "Thank You," the grown-up's attention would turn elsewhere.  I count that as a major parenting triumph.   

She is the glue that holds the group together.  There is nothing artificial about my daughter... or the people closest to her.  She's open and accepting and glad to make new friends, but the people she cherishes are the ones who cherish themselves. Her circle is diverse and marvelous and makes her smile.  What more could a mother want?

She's faced joys and she's faced sorrows. She's picked herself up, brushed herself off, and done her best to move on with her life.  It's a resiliency that inspires me; she is determined not to let the bad guys win. She faces the truth squarely... with the knowledge that she has a husband and parents and a brother who've got her back.

She's loved and she knows it and she lets us know that she does.  She has a happy soul, a soul she is willing to share.  I am so glad to be able to give you glimpses of her here, in The Burrow.  Trust me, the reality .... in person...  when you're around her..... it makes your heart sing.

Happy Birthday, Little Cuter.    

Melting the Ice in the Rillito

It comes upon us all of a sudden.

One day you're wearing short sleeves and crew socks with your sneakers.  You roll down your car window and listen to the beat of the bass from the Jeep beside you.  The breeze blows your hair into your eyes as you stroll down the driveway to retrieve the morning paper. The air feels warm and smells of spring.

The ground squirrels are out in full force, the babies frolicking on the paddles of the prickly pear cacti. Up and over they go, three of them, faster than the larger one (Mom, perhaps?) watching from the edge of their den.  Carefully, one jumps onto a low lying branch of a palo verde.  There are sharp thorns on those branches, but he doesn't seem to mind.  He's creeping, belly low to the wood, nibbling on the teeny leaves trying to bloom.  I can't stop staring.

The quail have hatched, and Mom and Dad are walking the little ones across the street. It's a residential neighborhood, with no access to anywhere but the neighborhood itself.  Cars are few and far between.  Still, Mom leads the way as Dad patrols the rear.  Back and forth, head twitching, he doesn't leave the far side until the last chick is safe in my yard on the other side.  The babies are three inches tall and their feet move so fast they are nothing but a blur. It's like watching Looney Tunes in real life.

The pool is warm enough to be inviting and the air is cool enough to encourage me to keep moving.  I swim-kick-walk for an hour.  It's not too hot and not too cold.  It's just right.

It lasts about three weeks.

Then, one morning, you wake up to a new world.  There's a blanket of heat weighing down your walk to the paper.  The wind is blowing the air around, but it's not  balmy nor refreshing. Rather, it's more opening-the-oven-to-see-how-the-turkey-is-doing.  You can feel all the degrees on every inch of exposed skin.

Atop the saguaro, the doves are louder and the flowers are beginning to bud.  The cacti don't grow arms until they've lived seventy or eighty or one hundred years; the flowers don't bloom until it's really really hot.

The snakes are out and about, too. The gym and the grocery store and the diner are full of people with stories, though.  The dog, the gardener, the meter reader, the husband and son and babysitter have each had encounters which included shrieks, gasps and shovels.  Rather than face the moral dilemma of killing a being who was on the land well before I ever thought of leaving Marin and joining him in the desert, I choose to avoid the situation entirely. I stay out of the yard in the middle of the day, leaving it to the cold blooded types to enjoy.

I sit inside, iced tea and Kindle close at hand, listening to the weatherman predict when we'll break into triple digits. That's when the ice melts in the dry river bed which passes for the Rillito, the river at the north edge of Tucson.

It's a desert thing.

A Sunny San Francisco Saturday

That's almost an oxymoron.  We awoke in Tiburon, and there was no fog.  We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and there was no fog.  We picked up Big Cuter and drove to the Marina and there was no fog.  I began to wonder if I was really in Baghdad by the Bay.  Remember Mark Twain's "the coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco"?  Saturday put the lie to that.  Big time.  

We sat at the Marina,

on a bench looking out 

 at Marin in the distance

and the Yacht Club

  and the Golden Gate Bridge.

 The old light house is a reminder that we are not the first people to watch ships enter the Bay.

 They might have seen this building,

 or this building, built after the Great Fire, 

but probably not this 1950's modern.

 It's a ritzy neighborhood, with golden doors

but it is San Francisco, so politics is everywhere.

These signs were in all the windows facing the view.

I guess they don't want it spoiled by diners. 

It's hard to argue with that logic, when this is what they see.

There were runners and strollers and puppies and parents and bicyclist, including this kid who won the award for best helmet, ever.

I wanted to see the sculpture exhibit at Crissy Field, so we sent Big Cuter back to retrieve the car.

I'm walking better these days, but not that much better.

We drove under the construction for the new approach to the Golden Gate Bridge

 and drove past the Mark di Suvero masterpieces.

 

There were eight of them, one more ginormous and intricate than the rest.

We ended our adventure at Smitten Ice Cream, made in a Kelvin with liquid nitrogen and presented in a repurposed storage container.

It was a perfect San Francisco day.

Healing

It comes in waves.  The change is not steady, it is not predictable, it is uncertain.  Just when I think that I've made a break-through, that I will be pain-free and fluid-of-gait, I wake up the next morning to find my muscles locked and my hip laughing at my plans.

It makes keeping a smile on my face more of a challenge some days than others.

Between the pool and the vibration platform and the tender ministrations of my PT and my pilates instructors, I had a great day yesterday.  I was able to distribute my weight evenly on my feet, left to right, front to back.  After being reassured that the first few steps were less important than the overall quality of the walk itself, I gave up my disgust at the hitch-in-my-gitty-up as I rose from the couch.  Concentrating on getting the synovial fluid moving in and around my joint, I circled my hip in the socket, rocket back and forth, and strode out.

It felt great.  I pushed off my right foot as my leg found itself further behind my body than it had been in years. Years.... I try not to think about how long it's been and most of the time I am successful.  Every once in a while, though, the reality hits me like a brick.  Yesterday, the weight was not that heavy.

I found my hips on an even plane, centered above my ankles.  My right hip was not hiked up.  My right shoulder was neither in my ear nor reaching for my waist.  I could feel the long vertical muscles in my back engaging as I admired my posture in the window I passed.  I haven't admired my posture in a very long time.  It was a lovely moment.

Curled on the couch as TBG watched Kevin Durant fail to rescue his Oklahoma City teammates from elimination, I finished the Merle Reagle crossword puzzle from last Thursday's paper.  As I rose to recycle the page, I realized that my legs really had been curled up on the couch.  My knees were fully bent and my hips were creased.... folded.... bent.... in a way they had not been for years.  Years.... only this time it made me smile.  I've come a long way.

I've been working on my endurance, on stretching out the length of time I can walk-with-good-form.  I've been able to put together five or six steps for a while; crossing a wide avenue with that gait before the light changes has been something else entirely.  Yesterday, I didn't have to think about it at all.  It was just there.

I summer-ized the irrigation system the way I used to winterize Annabelle, my first car.  I checked for leaks.  Annabelle was a '67 Chevy Impala; she was large, but her parts were all in one place and she required minimal walking for a full assessment.  My irrigation system covers 1.3 acres and cannot be fully seen from any one spot.  I had to walk, and walk I did.

I bent, I sat, I knelt.  I carried the box of goof plugs and scissors from the garage-cum-potting-shed to the leak beneath the lantana, to the spray under the mesquite tree, to the middle of the long length of tubing.  I needed my kneeling pad and I walked back to the shelf to retrieve it.  I crouched beneath the desert willow and moved the emitters out to the edge of the expanding canopy.  I was up and down and leaning forward and sitting backward and notice my hip at all.

It took me a mite longer to stand up than it might have before I was perforated, but that was perfectly okay with me.  I was down there, on the ground, doing the work.  Eighteen months ago that was merely a dream.  Yesterday, I had the dirty hands and sweaty brow to prove that it was real.

This business of retrieving the self which was lost is full of twists and turns.  Though I woke up today with muscle soreness and bone weary tiredness, I have yesterday tucked firmly away for those moments when it all becomes too much.  I've proven to myself that there is hope, that I will get better.

I know I will heal.

Eating Veggies, Prince-Style

Almost everyone at Prince Elementary School eats the lunch that's provided by the cafeteria.

 As the construction on campus proceeds, the offerings become less creative, although the uses to which they are put continue to amaze.  Yes, that is apple sauce being eaten -???- through a straw.  

                                      There are quasi-healthy alternatives, of course.

Mostly, the boxed lunches involve packaging.

 I heard my mother's voice emerging from my lips as I admonished this poor child.  

"Don't use your teeth!!" sounded much harsher than I'd intended, I'm afraid.

I never realized that a small, peeled, baby carrot 

would be frightening 

even when your friend is right by your side. 

 She tried it.... with attitude... but she tried it 

and she kept her eyes open. 

Some were tentative.

Some were not sure what all the fuss was about.

There was generosity,

 and a certain savoir faire alongside a valiant effort to eat just one,

 but mostly there was silliness.

 There was lots

 and lots

 of silliness.

Was it a cigarette (I hope not) or are they sticking out their tongues at me? 

 Who cares?  It was silliness.

 Shyness and silliness and lots of Grandma love,

 even for those who are just about too cool for school.

Of course, there were those who ate the whole thing

 and were proud to share their accomplishment.

Lest you think that I was encouraging play at the expense of nutrition, 

let me assure you that every carrot which went into a mouth was swallowed.

Sometimes, this was followed by a surprised look and a nod of satisfaction.

Another carrot lover was born.

Being the Official Adopted Grandmother of Prince Elementary School has many perks.

Encouraging kids to eat their veggies is just one of them.

Random Thoughts - The Almost Interesting Items Edition

There are so many of these around, I just don't know where to start.  It's not that they are silly.  It's not that they don't reveal pieces of our character, our governance, our way of life.  They are not and they do.  It's just that I don't think they are worthy of discussion.

And yet, here I am.
*****
Who is Jodi Arias?  Why should I care?  Was she abducted by aliens?  Beyond that, what made her murder trial any more heinous than any other murder trial?  What made it so interesting?

No, don't tell me.  I didn't follow it then, and I don't want to follow it now.
*****
The IRS seems to have taken an unhealthy interest in the tax status of groups identifying themselves with the Tea Party edge of the political spectrum.  There is a great deal of moral outrage running around, and it is warranted.

On the other hand, it's not the first time that politics has played a part in the administration of rules and regulations and it won't be the last.  It should be investigated and punishment should be meted out appropriately but it is ultimately not that interesting.
*****
Darryl Issa is on a witch hunt. Today it's Benghazi.  Yesterday it was Eric Holder.  Tomorrow it will be something else.  Facebook is full of Democrats didn't try to overturn No Child Left Behind a zillion times the way the Republicans keep going at Obama-care and it's true and it's annoying and I don't find it compelling.

We are screaming at each other across an ever widening divide.  Then, again, so were my father and I during Vietnam; he with his American flag waving from the Austin America's antenna and I with the American flag patch on my jeans.  That seemed un-breachable just as today's state of affairs seems un-breachable.  It's nothing new.
*****
Angelina Jolie is talking about her prophylactic double mastectomy.  She's raising awareness and creating the opportunity for conversation and that's wonderful.  A Google search for her image is a sea of breasts and pouts and provocative glances; her message is powerful  because of how she is defined.

If she saves one life by making her story public, I am glad.  But the meta-story, the lurking-behind-the-medical-piece story, the focus on those marvelous breasts which no longer exist... that's just not that much fun for me.
*****
Tiger Woods exhibited bad behavior and Sergio Garcia's bogeys were all Tiger's fault and character is being called into question on all sides.  Watching Stephen A Smith try to justify it was one of those train-wrecks-you-just-can't-ignore but beyond that, who cares?

Two men who make enough money in an afternoon to send a kid to college for four years behaving badly is no surprise to me.
*****
The NBA playoffs are happening and TBG and Big Cuter are loving the Bulls-who-have-no-bench-and-are-exhausted and Kobe's not around and I've read several mysteries and done many crossword puzzles while it's been going on.  I just can't seem to muster any interest in the subject.
*****
I think I need a vacation.... from the news, at least.

Do Not Engage

It was a lovely, sunny, Saturday morning at Ft. Lowell Park.  Daniel Hernandez and I were together two and a half years ago on a similar morning, he taking names at the registration table, Christina-Taylor Green and I chatting him up as she filled in the form.  I don't think there's been a cloudy Saturday since then.  I know that because I find myself saying "a day just like this one" more often than you'd imagine.

This past Saturday, we were creating paper flowers as a reminder of that other Saturday, the one that took Christina from us and catapulted Daniel to national prominence.  It's easy to forget that he's only 23 years old; everyone from Mayors Against Illegal Guns to AIPAC has him on their short list of favored participants as he manages a position on a contentious school board here in town.  Mostly, he's a gentle giant of a man, who's always willing to hold a crying baby, or help a child fold and cut a paper flower.

It was a "kid and mom friendly event."  There were name tags and bottles of water and snacks under Ramada #1.  There were, inevitably, some spills, but the flowers didn't mind.

The issue attracts all sorts of helpers, including this young man who admitted to seeing Daniel as a man to be emulated.  He's interested in politics and government and making the world a better place, just like Daniel.  Don't tell me there is no hope in this world.  I sat across from some of it on Saturday morning.

It didn't matter how old or how young you were; making the flowers was seriously hard work. taping the rolled up scrolls of fringed paper to the straws was no easier than unfurling it to resemble something vaguely reminiscent of a flower.

There was no reason to take pictures of the finished products; they were not photo-worthy.  Megan was right, when she commented last week.  This was not an easy project.

Still, we persevered.  We accordion folded and cut fringes and wrapped, often even remembering to put the bended piece of the straw inside the paper.  We taped and we unfurled and we laughed at our efforts.  It was a lovely, sunny, Saturday morning.

And then a man came by and wondered if we were "protesting gun violence."  Yes, we were.  I was about to ask him if he wanted to join us when he continued, wondering "if any of you have been shot by a gun."  Yes, I have, said I as I showed him the exit wound on my back, clearly exposed by the sleeveless blouse I wore.  "By a gun?" he inquired.  "Yes, three times," I replied.

By that time I was up from the table and standing across the sidewalk from him, and his two young boys.  I didn't notice the event organizer, but she noticed us.  She'd made her way to my side as my interlocutor went on, surprising me with the intensity of his next comment.  "No, not a gun.  Guns don't shoot people, people shoot people."

That's true, just as flames don't burn people, fools who put their hands in the fire burn themselves. But not all people should have guns, and our system is not set up to weed them out.  I was prepared to continue the conversation, albeit with my heart pounding in my chest, when the organizer stepped between us.

"This is a family friendly space.  We are working on a project.  Please, leave us in peace."

That may not be it exactly, but it covers her intention.  She wrapped her arm around me as, quaking, I returned to my bench next to Daniel.  "The police advised us not to engage in conversation outside our group," she said.

I'd skipped most of the local Moms Demand Action events here in town because I was worried about the security surrounding them.  This one, set in the middle of a busy park, with Little Leaguer's and swing swingers in every direction, under a covered ramada far from the main street, felt safe enough to entice me to join the fun.  And then, as the organizer noted, I engaged in conversation and the whole atmosphere turned.

The man and his two boys walked away and I went back to folding and cutting and wrapping. My soul was hurting.  I shouldn't argue ... I should stick to the task ... I should stay safe.  I can't find fault with any of that, but the missed opportunity rankled.

Not that I would have changed his mind.  He was spouting platitudes, not asking questions.  I have some answers (lunatics and terrorists should be precluded from owning weaponry, our laws exist but are broken, do you really need a gun to buy a burger?) .  It probably wouldn't have gone anywhere.  But still....

When the police tell you to call if ignoring the outside world still makes you feel vulnerable, is that a good thing?  They didn't send an officer to keep us safe. They told us to keep our mouths shut and not make waves and we'd be okay.  The organizers wanted a family friendly event.  They were not seeking tumult or immediate change.  They are looking to grow the organization, and that requires much preaching to the choir, it seems.  Getting people involved and keeping them involved is not an easy task. Fierce argumentation is not a part of that plan.

And yet, we were out in public, making a statement that we exist.  Would it have been better to do it at my house, and avoid the issue of interacting with strangers entirely?  Was there a way to communicate our goals without endangering our safety or the sanctity of the event itself?  Was there something else I could have said or done?

I'm not sure.  I am learning as I go, bringing my scarred psyche along with me. That which used to leave me nonplussed now sends me spiraling, my head exploding.  I have to figure out a way to meld the activist with the shootee.  It's an interesting challenge.

The Desert in Bloom

We went to the Tucson Botanical Garden on Saturday, my elementary school friend and I.

She was in town for the UofA's graduation, featuring Brooke, god-daughter extra-ordinaire.

There was a lot of sitting and clapping and eating; I took her around town for some fresh air and sunshine. 

The Botanical Garden is right around the corner from waffles-and-chicken where they'd had brunch; it was an easy destination. Standing under this tree, looking up, relaxing into the earth... 

it was a tonic for each of us.

We've been achy and surgerized and less able and out of sorts for about the same amount of time.

We weren't whining, we were sharing a common thread.

We weren't wallowing, we were in the company of a kindred spirit.

 It was nice to relax into the moment.

 We walked past these blossoms, very much in the present,

yet, for me at least, very much in the past.  

We caught up on family and friends and then all conversation stopped.

We'd stumbled into the birdhouse exhibit.

 These are obviously practical appliances, as the nest in the bottom circle attests.

Repurposed saguaro ribs with a nifty chapeau made me smile.

Am I the only one who sees a face?

 Some were not immediately understandabl.e

 This glass one would make me smile even if there were never a bird perched behind the butterfly.

 Boots with license plates on top

 looked like a one season wonder to me.

There is absolutely no cleaning that out.  

Nope.  

 This reminded me of the cabin in Yosemite's Curry Village, 

when the kids were just the right age to enjoy it.

 Ceramic flowers in a flower garden always seem a little creepy to me.

 There were benches in the shade for resting my body, which ventured through the whole park without benefit of assistive device.  It never crossed my mind to bring my hiking pole. 

I seem to be getting better without noticing it.

 Is this over-the-top or really pretty?  

I like ambivalent art, I think.

 And then, because every botanic garden needs one, 

there was a dinosaur.

Don't ask me why.

I have no idea.

Kind of like rehab - you think you have it figured out

 and then there's an allosaur in the middle of the road.

Being out among what passes for greenery in the desert Southwest does feed my soul, and lead me to flights of fancy...... and that's a good thing.  

Thanks for listening.