Lost Language

From an emotional standpoint, I'm washed up. To quote Mana, "bien tostada" ("completely toasted"). I was listening to a very interesting segment on NPR yesterday about metaphor and cliche. A discussion on how much metaphor we use unconsciously ("I see what you mean!") and how the great metaphors are quickly reduced to cliche (the Iron Curtain) The speaker's premise was that the re-use of metaphors shows lack of originality and that we should seek the new metaphor in our writing. What a very lovely sentiment. I'll get started with that. Tomorrow, OK? In the meantime, I plan to wander lonely as a cloud; to kick my can a little farther down the road; to keep my nose to the grindstone.

This weekend, I have lost my language; well, at least the better bits of it. I am so drained that I can feel the way each one of my joints is strung. My tummy has freaky red splotches on it. It's sadness again, but a different kind. February has been a long month. An endless month. How many more days of February do we have? OK, I remember the plan: work, service, fun, friends, change your life.

I think that, for today, I"ll give "change your life" a rest. It has been well-served this weekend.

Friends? I wanna talk, but I don't wanna talk. I would love it if one of my friends would call me with a problem. I'm tired of my problems.

Fun? Service? Work? Play is over for a while. Work is going to have to be my solace today. Nothing like conquering a hefty to-do list when life is a bummer:

1. Housework;
2. Guadalupe paperwork;
3. Finish painting Sara's room, replace all the curtain rods, etc... and get her moved back in.
4. Nate needs to fashion a "time capsule" shaped like an old wooden bucket, for a school book report;
5. Need to run 5 miles;
6. Menu for this week, grocery shopping;
7. Supervise birthday thank you notes;
8. One last laundry load, since Nate got a massive nose-bleed last night.
9. Find my language. Huh. Maybe it's in my purse?

The Gyno Got it in One (Day 14)

Today SUCKED! Easily one of the worst days I have had. That is SO not fair! I wonder if Fridays are worse because they are so quiet at the office. Trying to drink from a fire hose is pretty distracting.

I went to a new gyno today. All the usual stuff: peed in the cup; got my finger stuck; donned the gown; asked if she routinely refrigerated her lube....

Why is it that doctors seem to have no way to share medical records? I had to fill out a massive new set of history forms for the scrutiny of the new doc. She raised her eyebrows at my uh, "impressive" medical history. Oy! I prefer to impress in other ways. I am super-healthy, actually. My entire health history can be neatly encapsulated within the year 2009.

Who is my oncologist? (I refrained from rolling my eyes. Well, there may have been a mini-roll in there, before I got control of it.) No oncologist. No oncologist? [Omygawd!] Am I not being treated? I told her that I was refusing what I know to be over-treatment and that I felt confident about that decision. My prognosis is fabulous: I am cancer-free. She was a rather school-marmish looking lady, and she has perfected the purse-lipped look of disapproval.

She did like my heart though. Again, the eyebrows while listening. "Are you an athlete?" "Well, just a runner." She nodded. "You sure are! Your heart is barely awake!"

I thought, "How right you are."

After the appointment, I paused on the stairwell landing and leaned against the wall for a moment. Have you ever noticed that stairwells are excellent places to pause and think? No one ever uses them. Sometimes a door slams above or below; but it's always remote. I have a couple of students who like to meet with me on the stairs at Guadalupe. Today I tipped my head back and looked at the ceiling.

This witch of doom and gloom is not who I am. Here's my theory, for which I expect an honorary doctorate in dime-psychology: waiting for the abatement of sadness is a passive thing. Like waiting to heal from an injury. And I'm on the "sad" treadmill 'cause I'm passively avoiding the larger issue: there are things I need to change about myself and my life; and I have been procrastinating. It's time to go in pursuit of my better, stronger self. Which way... Which way...

Heartache and pain? Soooo.... I should takethe route that addresses the loss of confidence in my capacity to love and be loved. In fact, allowing that capacity to become diminished by circumstance is chicken-shit. Under it all, there is a lovable and loving girl. I think I'll go retrieve her.

How? Through service. Through friends. Through fun. Also through a bit of reflection and an injection of extra courage.

For a few days last week, I had another blog, which I deleted; and then another with a very similar name, also deleted. The language was just flowing out of me. I was shocked at my virtuosity. But it was so...what? Revealing. Tender. I was disgusted and deleted the damn blog entirely. Twice! I have been getting a lot of mileage for the last year or so by channeling my inner hedgehog. I think I will try again and overlay a little privacy; I need to write difficult shit in a way that my cousins, my colleagues or my mother-in-law wouldn't appreciate. Then I'll retire it when it has served its purpose.

And I'm done counting the days.

I Think Too Much

A friend told me today that I think too much. Hold on while I just cut THAT out.

......

......

Ah! That's better. I'm all empty, now. Whoops. Shit. I'm thinking AGAIN!

Well, this is a long-bemoaned Kate-design flaw. First observed by V., my best friend in college, who asked me if I could just please live in the moment for a moment? Then by a co-worker, who said, "You fret." (I thought that was a little mean.) And most frequently and famously by my darling and now departed Edie, who summed it up as, "Quit mind-fucking yourself." Followed by, "Go get a gin and tonic."

Here's the deal. I like to solve problems. Quickly, even. I am a fully posable action figure. When it's something like an injury, a broken zipper, a swamped rowboat, a broken cake, I'm good! When it's people and no action is currently required...I think too much. [Look out! Here comes the self-justification... comin' at ya.... NOW!] Well, hell, yeah! Because my actions cause reactions; because I want to be wise! Sensitive! Live a considered life! Ergo, I ponder.

[Another self-justification...three..two...one...] It's bad to speak ill of the dead, but Edie could be...a little...abrasive.... Any of our mutual friends out there care to weigh in? To love Edie, her friends had to accept an occasional (or frequent) bludgeoning. And now we all miss it, of course.

[Oh, no. Here come the little-voice-that-dares-to-speak-the-truth. Bitch! I HATE her.]

I ponder for the same reason I used to stand on the high-dive while my friends called, "JUMP, for Chrissakes!" But if I tell her I'm pissed off, will she say... If I accept one iota more than I have a right to, will I... And furthermore, will jumping off this metaphorical high-dive make my butt look big?!?

I will keep working on this (hopefully while NOT giving it a moment's thought).

Running Into Rain

Miserable weather in Salt Lake today. Two of the five words I still remember from German paced back and forth in my mind all day:

Schlechtes wetter.
Schlechtes wetter.

It lends itself so much better than the English equivalent: This weather sucks!

Still, I went for a run. I don't like being cold, so I put on my long-john shirt under my usual stink-bomb running shirt and dug out a little pair of knitted gloves. When I first climbed out of the warm truck and started stretching, I was not thrilled. My neck is particularly fussy about being kept warm. The rain slipped down my back.

But about three minutes after I started, I was suddenly transformed by one of those crazy moments of grace, in which you feel as if you are in exactly the right place at the right time. I ran to meet the rain as it fell - collided with it. My face slicked with moisture, I ran fast, without tiring. I stepped on a rock that rolled out from under my foot and sent me skittering. My ankle did not care. I jumped puddles with a flourish, just because I wanted to.

The last half-mile is all downhill and I stretched my stride just a little, trying to get another inch or two out of each step. I spread my arms out to the side and flew down the hill - I'm a bird! I'm a plane! I grinned at the guy walking his dog and stuck out my tongue. The rain pattered on my skull and my body steamed.

So, there it is. For a few minutes, my happiness was perfect. I keep promising myself that this is who I will be all the time. After I recovered from the mastectomy, I said I would remember to be grateful for the gifts of strength and motion. (That's one problem with a blog - I believe I committed myself in writing...) After Edie died, I promised myself that I would live in the moment more - she was always bugging me about it: ponder less. And especially, now that Dad is gone, I keep swearing to myself that I would try to remember to find a little more fun, a little more human connection in every day. Uh... Hmmmm.....

Pretty much, I suck at self-transformation. Particularly at the pondering stuff. Edie would be exasperated if she knew. But I had twenty solid minutes today when I was everything I have been wanting to be. Not bad for a lousy day.

Back From Another Journey

Gosh! According to my Neopod, I have some very persistent buddies out there who kept checking to see if I was ever going to come back. Here I am! XX

OK, a pattern is emerging. Every time I have a mid-life crisis, I disappear. Why not vent right here in my little vent-o-sphere? Beats me! So this time, if you check out my picture, you can see that I cut off my hair; and the scissors slipped and cut off my smile, too. Oh, whoops. I'm happy about the hair. The smile has already grown back. I get tired from these little trips outside myself. They come from a need to go further and do more. Like there isn't plenty to do right here in Cottonwood? Hell, today I played a rollicking game of Simon Says (the traditional version, not the marital version), and engaged in a gender perception analysis of horse movies. Who could ask for more?

I was at home today with Nate and Sara and two other kiddos - their version of Simon Says was driving me nuts:
"OK! OK! Simon Says! Are you ready? Simon - no hold on a sec. Uh... Simon says........[really long pause] Touch your toes!"
"Wait, did you say, Simon Says?"
"Hah! You lose!" Etc...Etc...

Oh, for Pete's sake. I looked up from my work. There are ways to make this game entertaining for [sadistic] grownups.

"All right. Let's get real about this game. Simon says, put our hand on your butt. Simon says, put your other hand on your butt. Simon says, stand on your left foot. Simon says, wiggle your bum. Wait! Did I tell you you could put your foot down? You're out. Simon says, put your finger in your ear. Simon says, put your other finger in your other ear." After, that, I just move my lips, while they go,"Huh? Huh?"

We also went to see Secretariat at the matinee. A leeeeetle bit schmaltzy. OK, REALLY schmaltzy. Complete with scenes of fathers dying of strokes (comforted by daughters who actually manage to reach the fathers' bedsides in time), which made me gouge my nails into my palm. But, I got to sit with the boys on one side of me and the girls on the other, which gave me an interesting perspective. And Sara had Junior Mints. She would insert one of these into my mouth whenever I opened it, baby bird-style. At any rate, from the girls' side, I could hear [sniff, sniff, muffled sob] at the more sentimental bits. From the boys' side, just the sound of fidgeting. Nate told me afterwards that he did not dig that girl movie. I pointed out that it was actually a horse movie. Same thing. Wow. Who knew?

*****
So, back to the issue of getting my groove back. I need to do a few things. I'm compiling a list in my head. It's already well past midnight, so I think I'll commit the list to the eternity of the Web tomorrow.

It's Gonna Be Spain vs. Holland

I love watching World Cup soccer. When it's exciting, well...then I'm excited. And when it's boring, I have a little nap. Either way, I win! This year's tournament is not as thrilling as 2006, when (in my opinion) there was more style to the play, more dramatic goals, more fights, more jersey-kissing and praying, and...the famous head-butt.

This year, I am not sure which team I prefer. True, the Spaniards are major hotties; but I have a soft spot for the Dutch team, because I know that somewhere out there Willem van Santen is watching them.

When my dad went to the Boy Scout World Jamboree in...1983 or so, I asked him to bring me back some pen-pals, and he did. I exchanged letters with several boys a few times, but the correspondence with Willem stuck. We wrote tons of letters to each other over the next eight years or so. The year that I lived in England, I went to the Netherlands, met him and stayed with his family. After that visit, the letters between us became a little more revealing and emotional. I wondered if we might...what? Have a relationship? It was the same problem I had in my relationship with Simon: how can you know when you can't spend any time together? The Atlantic Ocean is big. And in those days there was no e-mail. When I went to live in Poland, he said he would come to see me there. His letters became warmer than before. I thought that would be the opportunity to see if there was anything there. We made plans to meet, but at the last minute, he wrote to say that he had met a girl and was in a relationship with her. According to him, he was not very serious about her, but she had problems in her life and needed him.

Well, that was that. In the letter, he said that, when the time was right, he knew he would end this relationship because he didn't see it leading to anything permanent.

By the time I get the letter saying that he had left that relationship honorably and wondered if I still had feelings for him, I was back in the USA and had been married to Simon for about three weeks.

I suppose it turned out the way it was supposed to. But Simon has sharp edges; and whenever he hurts me, I think about Willem, who was a much kinder person. Maybe it would not have come to anything, but I wish I had had the chance to know for sure. As it is, the lost potential of that friendship tantalizes me, even 20 years later. I especially wish that we were still in touch. We have both moved numerous times and I don't have a good address for him anymore. There are five Willem van Santens on Facebook, but some of them don't have pictures. I'm too embarrassed to contact each one and ask if he is the right one. He could find me if he looked; since he hasn't contacted me, I guess he does not want to go there.

Of course, he was crazy about football. Every time the Netherlands plays, I think, "Well, Willem, for just a couple of hours, I at least know what you're doing, even if I don't know where you are."

Sometimes I Do Sweat the Small Stuff

But I hate myself for it. Hey, who moved my Zen?

So, someone said something today that could be construed, if I were in the right mood, as insulting. And it was said in front of rather a lot of people. Plus it doesn't help that Simon heard it and later said, "Did you hear that comment? Did you think it was appropriate? I thought it was unnecessarily aggessive."

Of course, my response was bland - vanilla with vanilla sauce. Why create a confrontation? Probably the other person meant nothing by it and for them, it's forgotten.

So, OK. finished. But it is still bugging me. I run my fingers through it over and over, trying to figure out why it bothers me.

What do you do when something is bothering you and you cannot figure out why you are wasting energy on disturbance?

Disgraceful Levels of Navel Gazing

Hoo-Nelly!

I've hit a bit of a writer's block, due to the very deep and persistent questions that have been plaguing me lately. Then I think, "Well, I can't write such self-centered blog entries." (as if blogging, by its very nature, isn't totally self-centered)

I have a brainful going on at the moment. Here's the nutshell version. Maybe, if I'm lucky, the nutshell version will suffice; I will write them here quickly, and here they will stay.

1. Why is it that, every time I spend time with my family (I mean the one I grew up with), I leave Wisconsin feeling like a total waste of space? I set foot on the ground in the Midwest and I am twelve again in the minds of everyone there. Am I stuck with that?

2. Since I am convinced that there is no eternal life, how do I reconcile myself to my dad's death?

3. If I believe that we live on in the values we impart to others, what do I already have from Dad? What's my spiritual inheritance?

4. Are there other things I should be trying to take on board? Things he would have liked me to do better? What can I reasonably expect to adopt at my semi-advanced age?

5. (I pondered this all day today while I was skiing.) At what point is it OK to turn away from challenges and take the easier way? If I choose the slope that I know I can ski well over the one that will scare/challenge/improve me, is that bad? Or good? What does either choice say about how I live my life?

6. Once you lose the parent to whom you were closer, do you develop a new kind of relationship with the remaining parent?

7. How many kids are going to RSVP for Sara's birthday party next weekend? WHEN will they RSVP? Will it be soon enough that I know how much food to buy?

In Dickens' A Christmas Carol, Jacob Marley is condemned to roam the world after his death, trailing chains made of all the earthly concerns that held him back from being a better man during his life. Is that me? Why wait until I'm a ghost? The chains are here already. I suspect that a Scotch and a hot shower will not release me, but it's the best I can do just a the moment.