Yesterday I woke up with a weird hacking cough. I've been off-and-on sick since the 12th of December with the cold that won't die, so I just thought this new cough was a slooooowly-fading-away form of the old cough, in a new form. And I was determined to start this SIBO Journey. So I did.
Today I have a fever and chills, the cough is definitely established in this new intense iteration, and I'm blowing my nose like crazy.
Is this an antibiotic side effect? Is this my body rebelling against the removal of anything resembling a traditional 'carb'? Is this just another cold? Is it the flu? (And I got a flu shot, dammit!) All I know is, I am basically miserable. (And I have a hellish week of work ahead where physical presence is required. Of course.)
But once you start an antibiotic, you have to stay the course. And if I'm taking these big-guns-drugs, I might as well keep on with the intense food restriction. And neither of those things are going to make me break this fever any faster. So that's where we are today - if yesterday was Tender, then today is Broken. And yet oddly committed to riding this out.
The menu is not an exciting one… more of all the same foods, plus a chicken stew with zucchini coins (cooked to mush). John told me it "smelled like death" but luckily I am so congested I couldn't even taste it! Small blessings?
Tomorrow and the next day I am due to add raw egg yolks and ghee to the menu. In the final piece of honesty, I learned this weekend that I can't give up coffee. I drink one or two cups every single morning, and apparently, have an addiction to it. I went without it twice in the last ten days (including yesterday) and by 3 PM, had a brutal headache that lasted until I had coffee the following morning. The lesson here is that from the get-go I'm not perfect on this process (though I am drinking it watered down, as suggested).
I excitedly found a couple SIBO Journey blogs… only to discover most of them were one or two intro posts, and then they stopped writing. So I hope to keep this SIBO one up, and begin adding more of my usual writing once again - it can't be all poop talk, all the time.
Can it?
(I'm kidding. It won't be.)
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
English is a hard language.
I now present to you the three best lines so far, from men who speak beautiful and accented English, but who struggle with the difficulty of our complex language and idioms (and it is a crazy language)...
First, shouted across the mission house yard by Edward to the man who only semi-committed to provide the night's lecture, "Pastor Bennett! Come here! I must screw you for tonight!"
We later learned he meant "nail you down" and admittedly, both are tool metaphors - but we did explain kindly that one is sexual and one is not.
Second, when asked how old Mamatony's children are now, he replies, "Big! Big, big, big. But not so very big." (This turned out to mean about 16 and 18 years old.)
Third, when asked how often they see warthog mamas with babies, Emmanuel confidently replies, "Yes, a lot. But also, often not too much."
First, shouted across the mission house yard by Edward to the man who only semi-committed to provide the night's lecture, "Pastor Bennett! Come here! I must screw you for tonight!"
We later learned he meant "nail you down" and admittedly, both are tool metaphors - but we did explain kindly that one is sexual and one is not.
Second, when asked how old Mamatony's children are now, he replies, "Big! Big, big, big. But not so very big." (This turned out to mean about 16 and 18 years old.)
Third, when asked how often they see warthog mamas with babies, Emmanuel confidently replies, "Yes, a lot. But also, often not too much."
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
July 25: The Best Laid Plans
(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)
Before Edward excused himself last night to go home, he warned Meggie and I that tomorrow, the headmaster would be gone from the secondary school.
"Things may not be as well there tomorrow. When he is gone, Madame Sbarra is in charge, and she can like to hide. She pretends not to see things, her head in the sand, like the ostrich bird. So just be aware of this. And when teatime comes, do not have tea with the teachers. Come back here to the mission house. It won't be good there, and you shouldn't be there at that time. Have some tea and toast here, and then you go back for your next assignments with Onalina in the secretary's office and Adrian for planning the physical exercise."
We walk down early, for a 7:30 AM class of different English students (one 50-minute period, not a double period this time!).
And? Mr. Msugu is out - but his substitute sure is ready for us to take over. And this is in fact the same class of students as yesterday (we were assured it would not be).
!!!
I freak out - inside. I get wide eyed and silent; the sub does not know what lesson we taught yesterday or where this English class is in their curriculum. I think he said he's been teaching for about five months?
But Meggie steps up. She sets the expectation - no, sorry, our plan is to observe and observe only, and here is what we taught in the Standard 3 book yesterday. He says, "Oh, ok, yeah, and then you'll teach the next lesson?" She is firm and says we'll be sitting by, but we can mark the papers - if the homework was indeed done.
It was extremely unclear at the end of yesterday's class whether any homework was assigned. The pat little lesson about Mr. Tortoise included a homework assignment. If you recall, the tale of Mr. Tortoise was a fable about how he ended up with a bumpy and cracked-looking shell. The homework assignment was to write a creative and original story that ends, "And that's why the snake has no ears."
No small task in your first language, if you ask me - much less your third! However, homework was a vague concept to us - sometimes done at home, sometimes done in class, but always corrected/marked during class time. The sub wanted to know if homework was assigned and we shrugged. It was explained (sort of) while the bell was ringing yesterday; did the students take that to be an assignment due today, or a suggestion? I guess we'll find out - and the sub doesn't seem overly worried about it.
Teachers are dressed down. The bell rings. Students are slipping in, late to class.
"Good morning teachers!" That rigamarole.
And of yesterday's two star pupils (the two that understood), just one, the boy, has done the homework. The rest of the class just blinks back at us. And his story is wonderful - the Frog convinced the Snake to trade over his ears so that all animals could see and hear equally well, but then took the ears and hopped away quick - not trading in his own eyes to the pile of senses. (Never mind that frogs don't have ears either; the basic concept of his story is there and has enough logic to stand.)
The sub asks who understood the story (it was read by the boy in English, of course). No hands go up. No nods. No eye contact.
The sub has been switching between Swahili and English and now says to the students, "I want to understand why the assignment was not done - what part did you misunderstand? Is it not understanding what creative writing IS or did you not understand what this one assignment was asking, about the snake and the ears?"
So at the sub's direction, our start pupil reads his story again in English, and then paraphrases it in Swahili. I'm soaring, watching eyes light up around the room with comprehension of this specific story and what the assignment was - and perhaps even the very basic concept of creative writing - making up a story from your own mind! - and I'm thinking, oh my gosh, we can explain the 5 W's now, using HIS story! This could be a tiny piece of helpfulness; heck, even writers and journalists in America can use a brush up on the 5 W's from time to time.
And literally as he finishes the Swahili recap, and heads for his seat in the back row among the tallest boys, two young women come in, with tall bamboo sticks. With a swagger. Swinging the sticks. I realize they're teachers, and though dressed very informally they're impressive and intimidating, and I say later to Meggie I thought right away, "They do a very good SS officer impression."
Then they ask all the boys in the back to stand up, shouting at them. Meggie and I are seated in the front and between us is a woman teacher who had a prep period, and rather than work in an office, asked to observe this class so she could, as she whispered to me at the start of the class, "get all the wisdom from you." She whispers to us what they yelling is about.
"The headmaster is gone, and they did not clean their rooms, you know, their dorm areas, this morning, so they have to be punished."
The women begin beating the kids with bamboo sticks. It's not fair to call them sticks; but neither are they quite bamboo poles. Somewhere in between.
They hit them - hard. Full, lean-back and put your back into it, get-a-good-grip and a fulcrum point hitting. Go-all-out beating. A beating that breaks the bamboo sticks eventually - in a few pieces, leaving shards behind and leaving students crying in their wake.
I look away pretty quickly and take in only the sounds - sticks hitting, kids screaming, other kids laughing, some gasping. The women teachers yelling. Ostensibly, it looks like corporal punishment is normally doled out on the palms - but those who don't volunteer their palms up at about head height are beat about the shoulders, back, head.
I look up as the women leave the room, sticks fairly demolished, and many of the children are pointing at each other and laughing, even with tear-stained faces of their own. A couple are quietly crying; many are blowing on their palms to take the sting out. I had to look down as the beating worked toward the crescendo - to not cry, and also because I didn't want to appear to condone it. I ask the teacher sitting with us, "Is this common, is this a regular thing?" and she says it is, but these women are wrong to do it without asking the presiding teacher's permission.
I think I can make it through the rest of class. I haven't looked at Meggie yet.
But then the sub asks us to go. "The students... the students they have a fever now. From this. They cannot learn well now. You go, and you come back another time." I'm a little confused and affirm with him - we should leave? Now? I point outside. Out the front door of the classroom? I point at our own chests. Us? Now? He nods.
We don't make it down the four stone steps before Meggie's losing it; it'll be a little later for me. Instead, you might have guessed, I'm angry at these women - these backwards, gleeful, power-hungry teachers. So ror a second day in a row, we walk up the long red-dust path from the secondary school to the mission house, my arm tightly around Meggie as she sobs and I clench my teeth in anger so hard it hurts.
Before Edward excused himself last night to go home, he warned Meggie and I that tomorrow, the headmaster would be gone from the secondary school.
"Things may not be as well there tomorrow. When he is gone, Madame Sbarra is in charge, and she can like to hide. She pretends not to see things, her head in the sand, like the ostrich bird. So just be aware of this. And when teatime comes, do not have tea with the teachers. Come back here to the mission house. It won't be good there, and you shouldn't be there at that time. Have some tea and toast here, and then you go back for your next assignments with Onalina in the secretary's office and Adrian for planning the physical exercise."
We walk down early, for a 7:30 AM class of different English students (one 50-minute period, not a double period this time!).
And? Mr. Msugu is out - but his substitute sure is ready for us to take over. And this is in fact the same class of students as yesterday (we were assured it would not be).
!!!
I freak out - inside. I get wide eyed and silent; the sub does not know what lesson we taught yesterday or where this English class is in their curriculum. I think he said he's been teaching for about five months?
But Meggie steps up. She sets the expectation - no, sorry, our plan is to observe and observe only, and here is what we taught in the Standard 3 book yesterday. He says, "Oh, ok, yeah, and then you'll teach the next lesson?" She is firm and says we'll be sitting by, but we can mark the papers - if the homework was indeed done.
It was extremely unclear at the end of yesterday's class whether any homework was assigned. The pat little lesson about Mr. Tortoise included a homework assignment. If you recall, the tale of Mr. Tortoise was a fable about how he ended up with a bumpy and cracked-looking shell. The homework assignment was to write a creative and original story that ends, "And that's why the snake has no ears."
No small task in your first language, if you ask me - much less your third! However, homework was a vague concept to us - sometimes done at home, sometimes done in class, but always corrected/marked during class time. The sub wanted to know if homework was assigned and we shrugged. It was explained (sort of) while the bell was ringing yesterday; did the students take that to be an assignment due today, or a suggestion? I guess we'll find out - and the sub doesn't seem overly worried about it.
Teachers are dressed down. The bell rings. Students are slipping in, late to class.
"Good morning teachers!" That rigamarole.
And of yesterday's two star pupils (the two that understood), just one, the boy, has done the homework. The rest of the class just blinks back at us. And his story is wonderful - the Frog convinced the Snake to trade over his ears so that all animals could see and hear equally well, but then took the ears and hopped away quick - not trading in his own eyes to the pile of senses. (Never mind that frogs don't have ears either; the basic concept of his story is there and has enough logic to stand.)
The sub asks who understood the story (it was read by the boy in English, of course). No hands go up. No nods. No eye contact.
The sub has been switching between Swahili and English and now says to the students, "I want to understand why the assignment was not done - what part did you misunderstand? Is it not understanding what creative writing IS or did you not understand what this one assignment was asking, about the snake and the ears?"
So at the sub's direction, our start pupil reads his story again in English, and then paraphrases it in Swahili. I'm soaring, watching eyes light up around the room with comprehension of this specific story and what the assignment was - and perhaps even the very basic concept of creative writing - making up a story from your own mind! - and I'm thinking, oh my gosh, we can explain the 5 W's now, using HIS story! This could be a tiny piece of helpfulness; heck, even writers and journalists in America can use a brush up on the 5 W's from time to time.
And literally as he finishes the Swahili recap, and heads for his seat in the back row among the tallest boys, two young women come in, with tall bamboo sticks. With a swagger. Swinging the sticks. I realize they're teachers, and though dressed very informally they're impressive and intimidating, and I say later to Meggie I thought right away, "They do a very good SS officer impression."
Then they ask all the boys in the back to stand up, shouting at them. Meggie and I are seated in the front and between us is a woman teacher who had a prep period, and rather than work in an office, asked to observe this class so she could, as she whispered to me at the start of the class, "get all the wisdom from you." She whispers to us what they yelling is about.
"The headmaster is gone, and they did not clean their rooms, you know, their dorm areas, this morning, so they have to be punished."
The women begin beating the kids with bamboo sticks. It's not fair to call them sticks; but neither are they quite bamboo poles. Somewhere in between.
They hit them - hard. Full, lean-back and put your back into it, get-a-good-grip and a fulcrum point hitting. Go-all-out beating. A beating that breaks the bamboo sticks eventually - in a few pieces, leaving shards behind and leaving students crying in their wake.
I look away pretty quickly and take in only the sounds - sticks hitting, kids screaming, other kids laughing, some gasping. The women teachers yelling. Ostensibly, it looks like corporal punishment is normally doled out on the palms - but those who don't volunteer their palms up at about head height are beat about the shoulders, back, head.
I look up as the women leave the room, sticks fairly demolished, and many of the children are pointing at each other and laughing, even with tear-stained faces of their own. A couple are quietly crying; many are blowing on their palms to take the sting out. I had to look down as the beating worked toward the crescendo - to not cry, and also because I didn't want to appear to condone it. I ask the teacher sitting with us, "Is this common, is this a regular thing?" and she says it is, but these women are wrong to do it without asking the presiding teacher's permission.
I think I can make it through the rest of class. I haven't looked at Meggie yet.
But then the sub asks us to go. "The students... the students they have a fever now. From this. They cannot learn well now. You go, and you come back another time." I'm a little confused and affirm with him - we should leave? Now? I point outside. Out the front door of the classroom? I point at our own chests. Us? Now? He nods.
We don't make it down the four stone steps before Meggie's losing it; it'll be a little later for me. Instead, you might have guessed, I'm angry at these women - these backwards, gleeful, power-hungry teachers. So ror a second day in a row, we walk up the long red-dust path from the secondary school to the mission house, my arm tightly around Meggie as she sobs and I clench my teeth in anger so hard it hurts.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
July 24, Pommern: Preview Post.
(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)
Today is the day I don't want to write about. So before I start, a couple notes...
I started calling the toilets "magic toilets" after the first morning. The water comes from a gravity-flow system, so it works best when the big black tanks, high up on a tower outside the house, are very full. But I don't really know when this happens. All I know is: the magic toilets are thus named because a flush gets rid of the water, but nothing else. Everything in the bowl stays there, and the water just drains away slowly, and then refills. Magic! Right?! Replace the water but keep the contents! Within minutes of walking in the door on the first day, I had to put away my inner clean freak. The toilets have dried chunks of... stuff... on the outside, and each has a couple brutally strong developing-world mothballs behind them (probably made by the XX SOAP COMPANY). We're cryptically told these help "with the smell". What smell? I don't want to know. I only smell mothball.
And if you've never used TP in the developing world, well, suffice to say the world's great paper processing IS great - and it is saved for the Western world, most especially for America. This stuff is far closer to cardboard and it flakes onto your pant leg and the ground around you just unwinding it off the roll.
When it comes to the two slightly spongy-floored showers, with random nails for hanging your items, they do indeed turn on - with cold water. And here I would point out again how cold we've all been each night and well into the morning, just to say this isn't tropical "cold" water; this is truly cold! The lone male volunteer tried to shower the first morning, and he made us laugh with an imitation of trying to force his body under the water. He couldn't do it. He got a slight shampoo but that was it; no other body part would endure the discomfort. I'll spoil the shower surprise to say that our fantastic family of volunteers brought FIVE sun showers! (Six actually, but one broke.)
We put them out on the cement block each morning and by about 4 PM, they are anywhere from 90 to 110 degrees - amazing. We end up sharing a bag with a friend about every other day - for example, I hang a bag in the shower stall (and by the end of next week, we've broken a few nails with the weight) and go first for about 3 minutes with a "navy shower" and then Meggie goes next, with the final 3 minutes of water. It's a weak spray, and it's navy style - and I have hands-down never been so refreshed by running, splashing water in my entire life as I am on the days I take one here. We take them in the afternoon and I feel like a new person. Meggie takes one in the morning one day - by adding cups of boiling tea water to the now-cool bag to get tepid water. And you guessed it. She runs out of water with a head full of shampoo! I, on the other hand, don't waste water on my hair, sheesh! So this is six days of no hair-washing, just before I get back to Dar and a real shower and wash it twice:
Pictured are the blessed sun shower bags in the backyard on the left side of the frame. Useless solar power machine is center/rear, behind the pole.
Today is the day I don't want to write about. So before I start, a couple notes...
- When Mamatony cooks us a chicken for dinner, it is a plucked, chopped-up and complete hen. Lungs? Still shriveled in a little duo, inside the tiny skeleton chicken ribcage, sitting in the pot, staring at the last person or two in line, too late to get decent meat. How happy I was tonight to be in the line a bit earlier and have a dark meat leg available! Unlike 11-year-old Michael, I could find the meat. And it was wonderful. Protein, my friend.
- In case you remember, and are wondering about, the solar repairman who rode all day with us from Dar... well, he fixed it! But no one knew that while he may be a solar expert, he is not also a plumber. So the heater part works - but it can't be hooked up to the house, and alas, no hot water will be flowing from our faucets any time soon. We're told it could be next week, but that's our last week, and I find the optimism amusing. It must be to keep us quiet?
I started calling the toilets "magic toilets" after the first morning. The water comes from a gravity-flow system, so it works best when the big black tanks, high up on a tower outside the house, are very full. But I don't really know when this happens. All I know is: the magic toilets are thus named because a flush gets rid of the water, but nothing else. Everything in the bowl stays there, and the water just drains away slowly, and then refills. Magic! Right?! Replace the water but keep the contents! Within minutes of walking in the door on the first day, I had to put away my inner clean freak. The toilets have dried chunks of... stuff... on the outside, and each has a couple brutally strong developing-world mothballs behind them (probably made by the XX SOAP COMPANY). We're cryptically told these help "with the smell". What smell? I don't want to know. I only smell mothball.
And if you've never used TP in the developing world, well, suffice to say the world's great paper processing IS great - and it is saved for the Western world, most especially for America. This stuff is far closer to cardboard and it flakes onto your pant leg and the ground around you just unwinding it off the roll.
When it comes to the two slightly spongy-floored showers, with random nails for hanging your items, they do indeed turn on - with cold water. And here I would point out again how cold we've all been each night and well into the morning, just to say this isn't tropical "cold" water; this is truly cold! The lone male volunteer tried to shower the first morning, and he made us laugh with an imitation of trying to force his body under the water. He couldn't do it. He got a slight shampoo but that was it; no other body part would endure the discomfort. I'll spoil the shower surprise to say that our fantastic family of volunteers brought FIVE sun showers! (Six actually, but one broke.)
We put them out on the cement block each morning and by about 4 PM, they are anywhere from 90 to 110 degrees - amazing. We end up sharing a bag with a friend about every other day - for example, I hang a bag in the shower stall (and by the end of next week, we've broken a few nails with the weight) and go first for about 3 minutes with a "navy shower" and then Meggie goes next, with the final 3 minutes of water. It's a weak spray, and it's navy style - and I have hands-down never been so refreshed by running, splashing water in my entire life as I am on the days I take one here. We take them in the afternoon and I feel like a new person. Meggie takes one in the morning one day - by adding cups of boiling tea water to the now-cool bag to get tepid water. And you guessed it. She runs out of water with a head full of shampoo! I, on the other hand, don't waste water on my hair, sheesh! So this is six days of no hair-washing, just before I get back to Dar and a real shower and wash it twice:
Pictured are the blessed sun shower bags in the backyard on the left side of the frame. Useless solar power machine is center/rear, behind the pole.
- You know how you always think of a thing to say in response... too late? This time I got it in real time! The adult helping our teenage volunteers and young villagers on the brick project today (water tower base to add gravity flow and water storage tanks to the secondary school kitchen, pictured below, completed brickwork) said that the village young men were so slow - and our Global Volunteers kids were faster. "This is why things here take so long! This is why they don't get done, or done on time. I mean, we were working much harder than they were." I replied, "Well, you did have a warm shower and a hot meal, with more than enough to eat. I don't think those other guys did." And I'll say this - she took it with total grace and kindness. She was truly thoughtful and said back to me, "Huh, yeah. I hadn't thought of that," as she wandered away.
And now, rather than go two days without posting to the blog, I'm leaving this as a cliffhanger.
As I wrote in my journal in the first line - and it's there, you can ask John, he saw it - this really was the first day I didn't want to write about. It was too hard, and I made too many mistakes. So I'm going to wait until tomorrow to post the real journal entry, and hope you enjoyed this Preview Post.
Thursday, June 27, 2013
Too Busy
Not to join the chorus of "I'm so important that's why I am so busy" jerkwads that we all know... but look, pals, I'm busy. I'm overwhelmed these days in a way I never have been. But too busy to write? What is too busy to write - really?
My friend Kelly said to me last month, "Ten minutes is still ten minutes. And ten minutes usually turns into more than that." I'll admit that it does sometimes - and sometimes that ten minutes is an absolute grind. The plank workout move of creative output. Every second a burn.
But. She's right. Ten minutes is indeed ten minutes. And that's over an hour a week even when it's ground out one painful second at a time, which is more than I can say for the last three months. So here's to a week back in the saddle again; the saddle I'll fall out of again of course, (I'm no optimistic fool) - but a saddle happy to find a little, teeny, tiny groove in once more.
My friend Kelly said to me last month, "Ten minutes is still ten minutes. And ten minutes usually turns into more than that." I'll admit that it does sometimes - and sometimes that ten minutes is an absolute grind. The plank workout move of creative output. Every second a burn.
But. She's right. Ten minutes is indeed ten minutes. And that's over an hour a week even when it's ground out one painful second at a time, which is more than I can say for the last three months. So here's to a week back in the saddle again; the saddle I'll fall out of again of course, (I'm no optimistic fool) - but a saddle happy to find a little, teeny, tiny groove in once more.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Book Report
It is March 1 - and I even had an extra day in February! - but I failed in my goal of finishing the 1,004 page book loaned to me by a dear friend, Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. Alas, it was a self-set goal (not required by the loaner), which makes failure even worse!
But it's hard to compete with the two books I did start - and finish - while the giant red behemoth of a paperback languished bedside. I like it, I truly do - but it meanders, it lingers, it takes time with an old-fashioned style of narration. And it is HEAVY! Sometimes it annoys me, resting too heavily on my stomach in bed at night. It really should be on a Kindle!
So first up, I cannot recommend enough Room by Emma Donaghue. It's a "run-don't-walk" to your library/friends/bookshop/Kindle store kind of book. I literally intended to read for 20 minutes one night, to dip my toes in, to only slightly cheat on Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell... and 3 hours and 20 minutes later, at 2 AM, I was within 45 pages of the end. It is that good. It made my heart race, there were sections where I could not read fast enough and was holding my breath. If you have an ounce of trust in me, you won't even go read about Room - you'll just go read Room.
And second, I joined the bandwagon and read Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games. It's pure YA fun and the writing is not nearly as skilled as Donaghue's, and the plot is not QUITE as compelling as hers either, but I read it in an afternoon/evening, and book two in the series was loaned to me today. Yay for friends, and yay for borrowing!
So that's this month's Book Report. You?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Oops!
I missed my little blog's 3rd birthday this past Sunday! So, here we are, in year 4 - in what started out as a public journal for friends during my time in Costa Rica, and grew into a little place on the internet that mainly keeps me on task.
I have a to-do list eight miles long - the Extra-G-Rated version of Storm Large's eight miles, ahem - and each day, I tick off (give or take) writing in the pre-dawn, making breakfast, packing lunch, going to work, working out, doing laundry, making dinner, cleaning up, catching up, sending a compliment or writing a thank-you note, flossing my teeth (!) and reading some part of a book.
And... I blog. Or, I try to.
This is so if some, or most, of things on the to-do list remain undone on a given day, or get skipped, or get guiltily ignored, at least I can churn out a blog post, big or small. And that's one accomplishment I can point to for the day, one that exists on "paper".
And as a bonus, I am ever so lucky to have a few loyal readers! Your ephemeral, digital and quiet presence helps me stay on task, here, as The Pig, so that I might continue to be productive and strict, in all the other ways I aim to be, and to keep the hearth clean and warm for the Muses.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Oh, JK?
John bought me the 8 BluRay collection of Harry Potter movies for Christmas, and I am reveling in watching these cute kids grow up, night after night. I plan to re-read the series next, to revel in all the things that can't fit into a screen adaptation.
However, now that I'm 4 movies in, I am afraid to say... not a one passes the Bechdel Test! Do we blame J.K., or do we blame the directors? I'll report back when the series re-read commences.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Resolution
Year after year, birthday after birthday, I announce the same resolution: floss my teeth every day. I've said before that I have a sneaking suspicion my entire life would fall into line - complete with deep, profound meaning in each moment and success in all endeavors - if only I could manage to floss every single day. (If you DO floss every single day, I don't want to hear about it. I don't want to hear about how easy it is. I probably am already jealous of your meaning-laden life and wild success as an artist.)
What's the resolution you make, over and over?
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Advent
In church this week, Reverend Bill talked about the season of Advent that the Christian calendar is now starting. Four Sundays, four weeks of waiting, four weeks of joy and light and decor and shopping (ha!, he laughed too) before the birthday celebration of Christmas.
But, he pointed out, Advent was not always a joyous time. In other traditions especially it was, and still is, a season of deep darkness. A season of waiting and of wanting, of hunger. A season of wondering if the light, the abundance, the spring, will ever return - when each morning dawns later and each night comes sooner, and we feel so, so tired.
Having three pregnant friends around me, I thought, it's also a season of not-knowing. (Yes, every season is one of not-knowing in this life, but especially when you're waiting for a baby to come and you can't say, oh, "three more weeks," or "one more Friday!" and instead you just have to wait. And wait. And wait. Or sometimes, it comes too soon, and that's anxiety-inducing as well.)
The waiting season is not always joyous. It's not always easy.
I find that I am bringing more lights and more holiday decoration and even sneaking a few more cookies into my home, as talismans against the dark; as hopeful offerings to the one who I hope will tip us back the other way on the night of the Solstice.
It's not easy to remain motivated at work, or energetic in Zumba class, or to get up and write at 6:30 AM each morning (guess which thing has been canceled until the Solstice takes place...)
So taking the wise council of Reverend B, I'm trying hard to embrace the dark season. This means I'm sleeping a little later, and heading to bed a little earlier. I'm making a little tea and toast (right now, in fact). I'm letting a few responsibilities slide, and I'm scheduling a little more time with friends - I'm pushing myself away from the solitude of my own little hearth (which is blazing with gas-powered fire every chilly, dark night!).
And while I hope, and believe, that the light will return soon, I'm letting myself be a little afraid, too, that it won't. For that's the real darkness, and I'm letting in a little, as part of a rounded, full year of this life.
But, he pointed out, Advent was not always a joyous time. In other traditions especially it was, and still is, a season of deep darkness. A season of waiting and of wanting, of hunger. A season of wondering if the light, the abundance, the spring, will ever return - when each morning dawns later and each night comes sooner, and we feel so, so tired.
Having three pregnant friends around me, I thought, it's also a season of not-knowing. (Yes, every season is one of not-knowing in this life, but especially when you're waiting for a baby to come and you can't say, oh, "three more weeks," or "one more Friday!" and instead you just have to wait. And wait. And wait. Or sometimes, it comes too soon, and that's anxiety-inducing as well.)
The waiting season is not always joyous. It's not always easy.
I find that I am bringing more lights and more holiday decoration and even sneaking a few more cookies into my home, as talismans against the dark; as hopeful offerings to the one who I hope will tip us back the other way on the night of the Solstice.
It's not easy to remain motivated at work, or energetic in Zumba class, or to get up and write at 6:30 AM each morning (guess which thing has been canceled until the Solstice takes place...)
So taking the wise council of Reverend B, I'm trying hard to embrace the dark season. This means I'm sleeping a little later, and heading to bed a little earlier. I'm making a little tea and toast (right now, in fact). I'm letting a few responsibilities slide, and I'm scheduling a little more time with friends - I'm pushing myself away from the solitude of my own little hearth (which is blazing with gas-powered fire every chilly, dark night!).
And while I hope, and believe, that the light will return soon, I'm letting myself be a little afraid, too, that it won't. For that's the real darkness, and I'm letting in a little, as part of a rounded, full year of this life.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
A warning
John, the other night, to me, with a very grave face: "Baby, I have to warn you."
Me, thinking, oh shit. "What??"
"I think I may be developing into an Oxfordian."
Well, NOW WHAT?!
I kid, I kid. This is just a peek into the excitement of marriage. And heck, he would be in the company of such gentlemen and scholars as Keanu Reeves, John Paul Stevens, David McCullough, Jeremy Irons and good ol' Freud.
Me, thinking, oh shit. "What??"
"I think I may be developing into an Oxfordian."
Well, NOW WHAT?!
I kid, I kid. This is just a peek into the excitement of marriage. And heck, he would be in the company of such gentlemen and scholars as Keanu Reeves, John Paul Stevens, David McCullough, Jeremy Irons and good ol' Freud.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Do you like bird hunting?
No? Whether you do, or you don't, I invite you to read this article, in the New York Times, by my friend, the excellent writer and photographer Dave Sherwood. Even if you have never hunted birds, even if you've never watched a dog work the fields, and even if you have never been to Maine... I bet dollars to doughnuts that he's a good enough writer for you to finish the article and enjoy it. He's that talented. And his dog Bailey is awesome!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
It feels like this.
When I was a nanny... four separate times, for four separate infants... I was awed by every tiny developmental step. I could tell the difference between starting to roll over and moments from rolling over. I could tell the difference between a first pincer-grasp and a second pincer-grasp on a Cheerio. And of all the wonderful things nannying brought to my life, the glimpse into how fascinating a baby can be each day, each moment, was one of the most wonderful.
So I've made a second blog friend and she lives in Costa Rica at the moment, working as an au pair, where she made a video of "her" baby, the very one that I knew when *I* lived and worked in Costa Rica (when said baby was in utero and then a blinky, sleepy little newborn). Her blog is a light, bright and friendly exploration of food (no better blog topic!) and you can check the whole thing out here... but it was a recent post with a video of the not-really-a-baby-but-now-a-toddler that got me remembering...
The video (in this post here) captures exactly how it feels to take care of someone's child many hours a week. It's not that you feel the love of a parent, because that love is unique and encompassing, and was/is out of my league to comprehend. But it is a powerful, powerful love that combines pride in your work with pride in a growing little person, bursting with personality, with pride in knowing you are making an impact, no matter how unconscious. The video captures just what it feels like to do this noble work, and reminds me how people used to ask, "Oh, are you babysitting again today?" and I would - mood depending - laugh, snicker, snort, scoff or tsk in great offense, and say, "Babysitting? No. I'm going to work, as a nanny, today. Yes, I'm doing that." This was usually followed by an attempt to explain that no, I was not raising someone's child for them, and yes, it was a job that required real skills and experience. So thanks, L, for reminding me what that -- ALL of that -- feels like. It's important.
So I've made a second blog friend and she lives in Costa Rica at the moment, working as an au pair, where she made a video of "her" baby, the very one that I knew when *I* lived and worked in Costa Rica (when said baby was in utero and then a blinky, sleepy little newborn). Her blog is a light, bright and friendly exploration of food (no better blog topic!) and you can check the whole thing out here... but it was a recent post with a video of the not-really-a-baby-but-now-a-toddler that got me remembering...
The video (in this post here) captures exactly how it feels to take care of someone's child many hours a week. It's not that you feel the love of a parent, because that love is unique and encompassing, and was/is out of my league to comprehend. But it is a powerful, powerful love that combines pride in your work with pride in a growing little person, bursting with personality, with pride in knowing you are making an impact, no matter how unconscious. The video captures just what it feels like to do this noble work, and reminds me how people used to ask, "Oh, are you babysitting again today?" and I would - mood depending - laugh, snicker, snort, scoff or tsk in great offense, and say, "Babysitting? No. I'm going to work, as a nanny, today. Yes, I'm doing that." This was usually followed by an attempt to explain that no, I was not raising someone's child for them, and yes, it was a job that required real skills and experience. So thanks, L, for reminding me what that -- ALL of that -- feels like. It's important.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
The muse.
If you're looking to support a truly hard-working artist, someone who has fought to continue pursuing her passion of writing - despite financial setbacks that would send most of us running for Mommy, despite treatment by employers that would send most of running for a lawyer - then I recommend you come to this. I'll be there, and it should be fun! It'll be your good deed for the day, and you can say you gave to a local artist, a working writer.
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