Tender

A belly full of fire.

A throat torn asunder.

A back knotted in pain.

All my emotions so close to the surface I laugh exuberantly and then tear up and cry.

I’m so tender and tired and worn out from the reflux.

I’m tired of writing about it, but not as tired as I am of experiencing it.

This constant pain and soft torture.

I called the GI’s office today that I was referred to and to my dismay I was told to have my doctor fax over my referral and then the doctor would get back to me in 24 hours.

I told the woman on the phone that my doctor did that yesterday and the person at her office I had spoken to had told me I would be contacted today.

And I wasn’t.

Not by three p.m. so I called.

Fortunately this woman who I spoke with got all my information down and promised I would hear back within the next 24 hours.

I am so ready to be seen, fixed, cured, helped.

Whatever it takes.

Until that time though I am trying to be gentle with myself.

I find that I am ok then something slight will set me off emotionally, and I don’t have as much patience with the kids and I want to check out and not be present.

I have not allowed myself to wander off too much internally and I have stayed pretty present and helpful for the mom and the family.

I’m getting by chewing gum and taking shots of vinegar.

I took one about an hour ago and it’s not working, but I did it anyway.

I took the new reflux medicine the new doctor prescribed a second time today and it’s not working either, but I did it anyway.

I don’t want to write my blog, but I’m doing it anyway.

I had both my clients cancel tonight and I thought I was going to go do the deal but I got so overwhelmed looking for parking I just cut and ran.

I drove home, parked, got to my house, got the mail, realized I had forgotten I had groceries in the boot until I was inside, went back, out, retrieved my groceries, came back home, and put them on the counter.

I was on a phone call and trying to be emotionally even keeled, but that wasn’t working either.

The sun had not set yet and I sat down on the chaise by the back door and soaked up some of the setting rays, got warm and cried soft slow wet tears talking to my friend.

I’m running a fever again.

I got off the phone put away the groceries, heated up some dinner.

I got a text from my person asking me where I was, was I going to the 7:15p.m.?

That had been my original plan, but I told him that I had come home, was feeling really sick, was eating dinner and crying and was trying to rally to go back out and hit an 8p.m. in the neighborhood.

Which.

Well.

I did not do.

I did not rally much.

I rallied enough to wash my dinner dishes.

And to open this page and write.

The writing helps, but it doesn’t stop the pain, it just gives me something to focus on for a while until I notice it again.

I’m being eaten from the inside out.

I feel like I’m aging.

I feel like I’m getting more gray hairs and definitely more wrinkles.

I feel old and depleted and tired and rotten inside.

What is wrong with me?

Oh God.

And now I just sound pitiful.

I hate feeling powerless and this is definitely me being powerless.

I just have to keep pushing through until I can be seen by the specialist and I will take whatever I can get as soon as I can get it.

He calls and says come in today I will leave work, cancel clients, and fucking go.

He says endoscopy tomorrow, I’ll fast the night away and cancel it all.

I have just got to get some relief.

“I could just kill myself,” a little voice said in my head as I got off the phone with my friend.

Great.

Suicide because of reflux.

What a pitiful way to go.

“How’d she die?”

Heartburn.

Nothing romantic there.

No.

I’m not going to kill myself because of this, but I am going to go to bed early tonight and I’m going to harass the hell out of doctor’s office to make an appointment.

I was asked to come in early to work tomorrow, so an early bed time isn’t a bad thing.

I’ll just wrap up some emails and call it a day.

Drink some hot tea and curl up in my bed.

Tuck my pink stuffy bunny under my arm.

And prop my pillows up high.

I’ve become a five-year old in my illness.

And I don’t fucking care.

Not one fucking bit.

Ok.

Maybe not a five-year old.

But

A seven-year old with a profanity problem.

Or rather.

A forty-five yearl old who just really needs to be babied for awhile.

Sigh.

 

 

First Payment!

And I made it a double.

Just because.

I just did my first payment on my car loan for my new car.

There was some confusion regarding what I needed to do and I was a bit perturbed today that I had to make a lot of time to email back and forth with the sales person at the dealership to figure out what to do.

For some reason, and I don’t believe it’s because they wanted me to have a free car, I was never sent the bank information regarding my car loan repayment.

I knew from reading over the paperwork that my first payment was due tomorrow, 1/4/18.

I sent the dealership a message on 12/3/17 to make sure that I was ready to go and it being the holidays and all, which is why I’m assuming things slipped through the cracks, that I should have it set up before the new year.

I was assured the paperwork was being sent out to me, but I never received anything and right around New Year’s Eve I realized that hmm, I still haven’t gotten my loan paperwork.

Three e-mails later and it’s now the 3rd and the payment’s due tomorrow and what the fuck?

I was getting snippy and I ended up taking a big deep breath at work and resending an e-mail apologizing for being short, saying that I felt a little dropped and was concerned that I was not going to get the information needed to pay the loan payment and I had to laugh at myself, really laugh.

Because.

There was a time when this would have not been a concern, not a worry, not a blip on my radar.

A. I would never have bought a new car, I would have been doing too much blow to be able to afford a new car.

B. If I had somehow finagled a new car, it would be their fault that I didn’t pay the payment on time and I would have played the victim card.

Nope.

Instead.

I just made my last e-mail a simple one of, hey, forgive my shortness in my prior e-mail, I’m concerned and want to make sure the payment is made, please advise.

And.

That worked.

The salesperson apparently, which of course, makes total sense, has nothing to do with the loan company and it was the dealership itself that dropped the ball getting me the paperwork.

Which is odd, as I did get my plates and registration.

And so she, my salesperson, found out where the loan was being held and got a hold of the number for the bank and forwarded that on to me and as of a few minutes ago I made my first payment.

It felt very nice.

I made a double payment and I am going to try to do that as often as possible.

I want to always pay more on the loan than I need to.

I would love to pay it off faster than the financing on it.

Less interest and I just like taking care of my bills in a timely manner.

I could have actually put a little bit more on it, but I also have been advised to have a year’s worth of payments in my prudent reserve, so I have that and if anything should happen, I’m ok.

I’m not too worried though.

I just got a nice raise at work, 5% thank you very much.

And I should get a good tax return.

Plus.

I won’t have to start paying back my student loans if I transition right into the PhD program at school.

I’ll take the summer off from school, but as it’s just three months, I won’t have to start payments on my loans for school.

If I took off more than six months I would.

So it’s important for me to apply for this fall to get into the PhD program.

I want to anyway, I want to keep my momentum going, I want to be in the habit of school and classes and keeping one foot steady in front of the other.

I see a lot of folks take time off from school and it just gets drawn out further and further.

I prefer to get it all in now, line up my ducks, knock ’em down, getter done.

I’d like to pay off my car by the time I get my PhD.

I think that’s entirely possible.

Paying off the car within three years.

At the rate I’m supposed to pay it off it would be done in 2023.

But if I make double payments, well, that’s half the time and it would put me around 2020, same time I’d be graduating with my PhD.

It will helpful as well to have the car loan paid off before I have to start paying off the student loans.

Anyway.

Numbers and money and time.

I’m just really grateful I didn’t have to ride my scooter in the rain today.

I’m super grateful I got to listen to music going to work and coming home.

I’m über grateful that I found good parking in my neighborhood.

And very, very, very happy I made my first payment a double payment and that I got it in on time and I was nice to the salesperson.

Patience, tolerance, kindliness, and love.

That’s what I want this year to be about.

Oh, yes.

It’s definitely.

All.

About.

The.

Love.

A Little Here

A little there.

I got some more reading done today for school, which I find funny as it was the opening salvo in my therapy session this morning.

I’m behind on my reading, and school hasn’t started yet, and for the first time in the history of my grad school career I don’t give any of the fucks.

I mean.

A little.

Sort of.

But mostly.

Fuck no.

I have spent so much time now seeing clients and getting into the mix and showing up to be a therapist that school stuff seems to have lost a lot of its luster.

Oh sure.

I know I have so much to learn, there is always going to be learning, I will and have years of it to go.

Getting done with my third year of my Masters program is sort of the tip on the iceberg, I will still have to intern for years before I have enough hours accrued to get licensed.

That being said.

School seems to hold less gravitas for me.

I am excited to see my cohort, I have had a lot of them reach out to me in the last few days and it feels good to be getting reconnected.

Third year!

I am a third year.

This is the big push.

One more year of this program and then.

Well.

Probably more school.

Although I’m not 100% sure.

I have, at least it seems very likely, unless I win the lottery which would allow me to not work, about two and a half years of work to do before I have all my hours.

Give or take.

I might as well go for my PhD.

I will still have to work full time or damn close.

Although.

I’ll be dropping down my hours when I get back from Burning Man.

38 hours a week from 41.

This doesn’t count my supervision, therapy, or client hours.

Just plain work hours will go down three hours a week.

Which doesn’t seem like much, but will be a great big help.

I can get a lot read in three hours.

I can.

I ended up getting in four chapters of reading this evening, as a matter of fact, at the internship when my first client cancelled.

If only they would’ve coordinated!

My clients that is, so that I didn’t have to sit for an hour in the office waiting for my end of day client, but hey, I read for school and that was great.

I finished the reading for another one of my classes.

I don’t know that I have much more time to get anything else read.

Especially since most of it is online material and I’m loathe to bring my laptop with me to work to read.

On the off-chance that I might have some down time.

It’s generally not worth the risk of me taking it.

I’ll still bring one of my textbooks with me, get a little further ahead in the reading as the case may be, if there’s time.

Like I said, at this point in the game, there’s not much and my life priorities being what they are, I am completely fine with this.

“I’m sure you have much more read than most of your cohort,” my therapist said to me as I explained my school stuff, “I suspect, you have always been a bit more prepared than most of your cohort,” she concluded.

And.

Well.

Yes.

She’s right.

I am a horrid perfectionist.

But that has eased as I have gotten used to the program and having seen the few times when I wasn’t completely caught up with my reading that I still held my own.

I am smart, I know how to listen, and I know how to contribute.

The one class that I haven’t really touched into yet for the reading was the last class to post its syllabus.

But.

Heh.

Um.

It’s a Transpersonal Psychology class.

So.

Spirituality and spiritual practices.

Yeah.

I think I might have that one bagged.

We have to keep a journal.

Pardon me while I laugh into my sleeve.

That shouldn’t be hard.

Ahem.

And talk about our spiritual experiences.

That will be interesting.

Like.

I put a prayer in my God box today.

God box?

Yes.

I have this hot pink, magenta really, pylon bunny rabbit from Paris that is a piggy bank, and I use it as a “God Box” a sort of repository for “problems” or things that I need to let go of and that I want God to have, I write down what I need to give to God, on a post it note, this one was pink, and then I fold it up, and say a few prayers.

I believe in prayer.

And I have a God of my understanding.

It doesn’t much matter to me what you think of me writing that God notes to help alleviate my issues, whatever they may be.

It’s the action that counts.

I don’t have to know the end results, in fact, it’s generally better if I don’t, I just have to take actions and something happens.

The writing it down and giving it up is an action of humility.

I don’t know how to deal with this, I am not God, I need help, I asking for guidance.

I can’t really do anything alone or in isolation.

I am not built like that.

Oh.

Fuck.

I have so tried.

I so want to figure it out on my own, I don’t want help, or so I say, I want to be strong and mighty and fierce and get it done without your help.

But.

Then.

When I don’t ask for help or I eschew what is being offered out of a false sense of pride, I ultimately lose.

I isolate.

I am alone.

And lonely.

That is never a good place for me to be.

So, yeah.

Just taking the time to write a little note and pop it in the God box, it does wonders.

I suppose my practice may seem strange or funny and I don’t really care.

I also pray in the morning, on my knees, another act of humility, a supplication, please help me, help me be of service, help me be kind, compassionate, tolerant, loving and forgiving.

Help me forgive myself, love myself, be the best possible version of me I can be.

Which I am not always.

I can get caught up in all sorts of scattered thinking or being maudlin, or distracted.

But.

To circle back.

I can forgive myself.

I haven’t finished the reading.

I won’t finish it.

It’s ok.

All I really have to do is show up on time.

Participate.

And be myself.

The rest will follow.

It always.

Always.

Always.

Does.

Almost Home

But not quite.

Sitting on the floor charging the laptop, downloading an episode of OITNB and waiting for the next plane to land at LAX.

I’m so close I can taste San Francisco.

But not close enough.

I understand now why the fares were cheaper by hundreds of dollars and I get it, I accept the consequences of saving a few bucks, and really, considering the fabulous loot, for me, I’m bringing back from New Orleans, I’m ok with the delay.

That being said.

I won’t be doing it again.

Next time I travel, direct flight please.

No more trying to figure out what terminal and no worry about making connecting flights or waiting at a gate for the next flight.

I feel like I have lifted and loaded my carry on many more times than I typically do and I am a little weary of it.

I have 52 minutes until the next boarding.

I’m almost there.

I have patience.

And I am grateful for the experience, the people watching in airports is extraordinary.

First.

I hate to say it.

But, folks are heavy.

I mean, having been a heavier person all my life, although not so much now, I was stunned by the heft of folks.

Also.

I love me some fashion.

But money does not necessarily supply style.

Next.

Please, attend your children, especially when they are under two years old, my God, I have seen some wandering children.

Perhaps I am just hyper sensitive being a nanny, I always seem to have my nanny goggles on, but seriously folks, corral those kids.

And nobody seems to care about anybody else.

I have seen some utterly strange and rude things, cutting lines, loud voices, demands for things and privileges that shocked me.

All in all, however, I am grateful, again, and again, that I get the opportunity to travel.

I want to live in a big house one day.

And have a large map and pin cushion the fuck out of it, I want to trace all the flights from city to city in red and blue thread and I want to put little pushpins in all the cities I have gotten to visit.

I have not traveled as much as some, I am not a touring musician, I don’t have bags of money, but I get about pretty well, and much more than I ever believed I would.

It is an extraordinary gift.

I remember dreaming about it and thinking it would never happen.

And really, I have traveled a great deal just in the last year–Paris, New York, New Orleans, LA–in fact I was reflecting on the last time I was at LAX.

It was last August, before my school retreat, my friend who flew me down, first class from SFO to LAX for a weekend of museums and walk about.

I don’t see that friend anymore.

Strange how fast things change, even when you can’t imagine that they will, they do.

I am also extraordinarily grateful to him as well, despite not talking to him or engaging with him, no facecrack, no texts, no doing the deal in the same church basement.

There is a softness there in the memory, in the heart, in the touch of nostalgia for the intense experience of the relationship and also a  vast amount of perspective in the reviewing of how the relationship coalesced and then collapsed.

I cannot change what happened and I wouldn’t if I could.

I got what God wanted me to have and I don’t look gifts in the mouth.

The experience the heart opening and the love I learned I am capable of.

So much.

Or thinking about being a solo traveler.

I travel well on my own, I have my system down, I get it done.

But yes, sometimes I do wonder, what would it be like.

“You can have anything you want,” a lover told me.

Why, just now, that made me tear up, I am not sure, so tired of trying to figure it all out.

“Oh honey, you are so smart and so strong, and you need a match, there aren’t going to be a lot of men that can match you, you’re bigger than life,” my new friend in New Orleans said as we wound our way through the French Quarter on the way to Magazine Street.

Yeah.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I hear that all the time.

But the thing is, I’m not so sure I believe that.

Anyway.

I’m tired, I’m sure that’s the gist of this and where I am going with this blog, oh tender hormonal heart, I don’t know.

Yeah.

Got the period a week early.

A week!

Fuck.

I had sex on the mind, happy 4th let me celebrate with the day off to sleep in and get down.

Nope.

Grr.

Oh well, so it goes, everything happens the way it’s supposed to happen.

And perhaps the travel anxiety brought it on, happens sometimes, a little anxiety, making the connecting flights, getting through security, etc, happens, I tend to ignore it mentally, but I suspect my body has its own way of working, with or without my brains permission or acknowledgement.

Or perhaps it was the heat and humidity in New Orleans.

Who knows.

I just looked up around the terminal and thought to myself, “my people!”

I recognize San Francisco people.

Not necessarily anyone I know, but the look, well, there’s a look, and I see it.

I may have been temporarily seduced by the warm sultry nights in New Orleans and the lush flora and fauna, the lilting Southern twang and the gentility, but San Francisco still has my heart.

I’m going to get in close to midnight and I don’t think I’ll be BARTing or taking MUNI.

One more car ride and then home.

Home to my sweet little studio by the sea.

It is not filled with magnolia scent and orange spray water in a mister or paddle fans or twelve foot ceilings.

There are not clawfoot tubs and verandas.

But there is my bed, heavenly and warm, and heaped with pillows and my duvet, a duvet I shall burrow into, I’m sure I’m going to have a moment of shock at the cold and the fog, but that will pass

And besides.

I brought my sweatshirt.

I’m not inexperienced with the prodigal daughter return home with out enough layers.

I’m ready.

Yes.

I am.

Boarding in 32 minutes.

See you soon San Francisco.

I have missed you.

Even the fog.

Shh.

Don’t tell.

xoxoxo

 

Made It!

I got through the last day of my three day weekend of classes.

With a little help from my friends.

I got a ride in this morning again.

And a ride after school, although I did not go straight home, no, I headed to the Castro instead and did something that I may rue at a later hour.

I had an Americano at 5p.m. while I was waiting for my friend to join me and go to dinner.

I probably should not have but I was trying to get out of the rain and the mindless milling about the Castro.

It’s fun to window shop, but not when it’s pouring out and the wind is blowing your umbrella inside out.

I ducked into Revielle and the coffee was delicious and I may be awake a little longer than I suspected I will, or.

I may not.

The Day Light Savings Spring forward made for a short night of sleep and I am pretty sure I’ll be able to find my way to sleep.

The question I’m actually debating is whether or not I have the chutzpah to go to yoga class tomorrow before work.

I would like to, especially since I was unable to make any yoga classes this weekend.

But.

Sleep may really be the answer.

Not like I have some challenging week ahead of me, but running three days straight on a slight sleep deficit does tend to add up.

I was joking with a member of my cohort about being sleepy and how that must mean someone in my class was a pathological narcissist as one of the transference characteristics is extreme sleepiness in response to the defensive structures that the narcissist has built up.

If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry, I don’t exactly either.

But.

I am beginning to see that I may, that is, I may be getting it.

The material is really starting to ooze in everywhere and also I see parts of myself that are beginning to have more cohesion with the program and with my cohort, with the process of doing the work and the work, well, working on me.

I joked around a little yesterday about realizing that I had dated a closet narcissist, a melancholic and depressive, and a probable borderline personality.

That’s so sexy.

Not.

I have, however, not dated them for as long or I have avoided going out with them again and really, hey, hey, look at that, it’s not them who are the problem.

“So I realized,” I said to my dinner companion as we swapped stories and caught up and loved on each other, I am so happy to have this new friend in my life, “I needed to let him go and walk away.”

No texting.

No reaching out.

No waiting for the phone to ring.

Because all the people that I have dated have one thing in common, aside from mental illness, ha, just kidding.

They have all dated me.

I am the one with the issues.

As I shared with my new “therapist” today in our first dyad session.

I was a bit challenged by being the client, and it’s just me, being me, but I worked my way through it, and realized, even if the therapist didn’t, that I have done a lot of work.

Oh so much work.

On myself.

And the work, well, it can ease off, I could use a break.

I don’t feel like working on myself right now.

I feel like taking a break.

I feel like.

Perhaps.

Yes, perhaps.

This is a good time to not self-improve and just be delighted with who I am and the work I have done, to acknowledge, if just for a moment the work and I then accept it and let it sit for a while.

That feeling of acknowledgement.

Not that I’m going to sit too long.

I am like a shark.

I must keep on moving or I will die.

I joked with my “therapist” that a moving target was harder to hit than a still one.

And that’s really it in a tidy little package.

(Nutshell)

I get to sit with my results, not for too long, I don’t want to rest on my laurels, but I do want to take a moment and just notice for myself that I showed up every day on time with the readings done and the papers written.

I showed up and I participated.

I showed up and I connected with people.

“I just want you to know how much I appreciate the service you do, just by being here, just by being you,” she said today at lunch out of the blue.

I was not expecting that.

I was also told by someone in my cohort that my colorful outfits and flowers in my hair and my authenticity of self was a really refreshing thing, he called it, in fact, “a breath of fresh air.”

Grateful that I get to be of service just by being my authentic self.

Such a gift.

I had a really good day today and maybe that’s the coffee talking, but I really felt connected to my friends at school and then this evening up in the Castro, a roast chicken dinner with my new friend and an hour or so in a church basement to set me up just so for the rest of the week.

It’s just a work week.

Just.

Heh.

I will probably give myself the day off tomorrow from school work.

At least a day of grace period before I dive back into the reading and the next round of papers that will need to get written.

But I am officially half way through second semester, first year, of graduate school.

Midterm.

Crazy.

Crazy good.

I made it through March.

I have two more months left.

Then New York.

And a summer off.

I am more than certain I will be busy with other things between here and there, more adventures in dating, in letting go, in soft surrender, in acceptance, in lightening up.

And yes.

Having fun.

Yes please.

More fun.

Please.

Just as I am certain that I may not rest on my laurels, but I will take a moment to appreciate, with kind eyes, the work I have done.

Good job kid.

Good freaking job.

Close

But no cigar.

Or.

No reader.

I should say.

Frustrated.

Yes.

Anything I can do about it?

No.

Er.

Wait!

Practice acceptance, patience, tolerance, kindliness, and love.

Well.

I did my best.

I was nice to the woman on the phone and I could tell that I was not the only impatient student wondering where the fuck their reader was and why was it not already ready and don’t you know how important I am and how valuable my time is?

Well?

Except.

I didn’t.

I just laughed.

And I got grateful that I once again, called before I took action.

One of my readers is actually supposed to be done tonight, as of 10p.m., that was the report from the woman I spoke to.

The other?

Early next week.

I was about to say, “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” but I restrained.

Ah.

Restraint of pen and tongue (and occasionally e-mail) how you save me all the time.

I laughed instead, was sympathetic to the woman on the phone, said, I might come down tomorrow and grab one of the readers.

Or not.

I’m indecisive,to tell you the truth.

My time is valuable and it feels like a waste to go down to that neighborhood twice to pick up readers.

Especially since I have been down once already.

I have been doing the reading online, which is not preferable, not at all, I’m such a better reader when it’s paper and in front of me and I can underline and highlight and stick post-it notes to things and star things, and yeah, hard to do that online.

I do spend considerably more screen time on my computer than I ever thought I would, but I am not to the point where I feel comfortable doing that much reading on it and I’m certainly not the type of person who takes notes on it during class.

Aside.

I see to many of my classmates not paying attention in class, on their laptops or phones or whatever device they have that they are taking notes on and it’s a text or it’s facecrack or social media or youtube and I find it distracting, and I’m not even doing it.

I can’t imagine how I would not succumb to the lure of being online.

Sit at my desk, typing happily away, taking “notes” when in actuality I’m surfing the web.

Nope.

I just have a notebook and a lot of pens.

I suppose I am a little old fashioned.

But that’s just how it works for me.

So.

To go downtown tomorrow and get the one reader that is available or wait until next week and get both the readers I need.

My time is precious so I’ll probably wait until they both are available and focus on being patient and continuing to read what I can online.

I also have received three of my text books for this next semester of classes.

I will be spending some time looking over my syllabi and seeing what I can read for the class with the texts, the syllabus wasn’t posted the last time I checked, but I heard a rumor that it was up.

I haven’t gone to my files to look at it yet.

I have gotten lots of e-mails and updates and this, that, the other in regards to the upcoming semester.

All sorts of fun stuff, from here’s more to read, to hey, guess what, even though the semester is starting next week, you don’t get your financial aid until February 10th!

Hello.

I might re-think my hair geographic.

Although I think I can pull it off.

January does have five weeks in it, that’s an extra pay period.

I shall see.

I don’t want to cancel and when I did my spending plan I had not included the monies that I was expecting to receive from financial aid disbursement, although it was definitely in the back of my head.

I am not going to fret.

There really is nothing to fret about.

I’ll have the cash.

Or.

I won’t.

If I don’t do my hair this month, I will next.

But.

I believe it’s there.

I’ll just be clever and re-locating money from one category to another in my spending plan.

The nice thing, that, knowing, to the penny, how much I spend on things helps me to know what kind of money I actually have to spend.

If I want something that is more than the amount budgeted in that category, I can relegate funds from another area.

My overhead is pretty low and I’m creative.

I have abundance and I am well aware of it.

The fact that I have clean, somewhat dry clothes (it started to rain on my way home) on my back, a sweet, clean, well lit, cozy home to come home and dry off in, food in my fridge, a phone that works, a scooter in front of the house, a bicycle in the garage, I have so much.

I am super grateful.

I have enough.

I am enough.

It’s awesome.

Sort of like the dinner I had tonight at work.

Swordfish sashimi; kimchi, black salt cod, chicken yakatori, and trumpet mushroom yakatori.

Amazing.

I went with the family to Rintaro on Folsom at 15th.

So tasty.

Plus lots of soba tea.

The family took me out for a late birthday dinner, which was very sweet of them to do.

And it’s nice to be so well thought of and so cherished and taken care of at my job.

I suppose because I cherish and take care 0f them.

It’s a two way street of lovely reciprocity.

Yup.

Life is good.

Even when I’m not getting it when I want it, my readers, or the weather dumps some rain, on my bicycle parade, I am so loved and taken care of, I can’t really fathom complaining about a thing.

I am.

A.

Very.

Lucky girl.

Are You Riding Around On It?

Uh.

No.

He apologized a few minutes later and explained he had not noticed my walking boot.

Of course I wasn’t riding around on it.

I won’t be for a while yet either.

He was not the only person who did not notice the walking boot.

The great thing about walking with crutches is that people see the crutches, especially my bling bling gold get around sticks.

Which are just used exclusively to get me up and to the bathroom now in the morning before I put on the walking boot.  Or in the evening when I have retired the boot for the day.

I have graduated from the crutches to solo walking in the boot.

And it actually looks like I am walking now.

Not so much the wobble, hobble, roll.

I just walk very slowly.

And folks are in their own bubble, just like I am, not paying attention, having my own agenda, doing my own thing, get out of my way please.

Oh.

Wait.

Ah.

I see it now.

I probably run over just as many people on my bicycle, in my job, walking about, as do people me.

I am self-involved.

Just another quiet kick in the pants bit of perspective I had today while taking public transport after my appointment at Kaiser Geary this afternoon.

Transit that took so long.

Not necessarily because it takes MUNI a long time, sometimes MUNI is pretty fast and reliable, no, it was user failure, I suppose you could say, not system failure.

I have the MUNI app on my phone, so I know when the next bus is coming and where to get off and where to transfer.

Except that app doesn’t tell me how much time I need to add in to compensate for how slowly I perambulate.

I missed two connections because I was not moving fast enough.

I also swore a bit more than usual after missing the second bus and realizing that I had fifteen minutes until I was to get picked up by the next bus coming down the line.

I could get mad.

Or I could realize I was in HALT.

Hungry.

Yup, doctors appointment navigation led to me not having lunch before hand, it was too late, but by the time I was done at Kaiser, it was way past my lunch time.

Angry.

Gods yes.

Did I not just write that I missed not one, but two buses.

The first one I missed was the Geary 38 and unfortunately for me the bus stop was under construction so there was nowhere to sit and rest my foot for the fifteen minutes it was going to be for the next bus to poke along.

I was only going up the hill to Masonic, but that walk would have laid me flat in the boot.  Too much hill.

Lonely.

Not so much.

Thankfully, I had met with a wonderful lady before my appointment and we had tea and talked all things humility, love, tolerance, patience, and service.

Proper way to get my day started.

Plus she gave me a lift to the appointment.

I couldn’t be upset about that.

I think I might have lost my marbles if I had to take MUNI in and then out from Kaiser.

Tired.

I wasn’t.

Then I was.

I was tired of standing.

The 38 Geary finally arrived.

I got on.

Gaggle of teenagers oblivious to their surroundings all up in the handicap and elderly seating.

I actually did it.

I leaned in and asked a fifteen year old girl to move.

I was nice about it, but firm.

She hopped right up.

Then I got glared at by passengers getting on the bus when some elderly got on.

I thought, well, I don’t need to explain my situation or my condition, and what you think of me is none of my business, but fuck off you know.

Again, I am self-involved, my agenda the only agenda out there.

After the brief and tortuous ride up to Masonic I transferred off the 38 and crossed the street, oh so slowly, to the other side, I decided to pop into Target before I transferred to the 43 headed toward the Inner Sunset where I had a commitment to get to by 6:30 p.m.

I knew how much time I had.

That app thing.

And I only had a few things to pick up at Target, which is not a place I normally choose to shop at, but I was there, I had twenty minutes, and I needed a couple of travel size toiletries for my imminent trip to the land of Cheese Curds.

Wisconsin.

I got the few little things I needed and got stuck at a register that was malfunctioning.

By the time I exited the store, yes, you guessed correct.

There was the 43 pulling across the intersection at the stop I had to be at to catch it.

Damn it man.

I was not about to run across the intersection.

I wobbled across.

I had a moment of thinking I would make it.

I saw that the bus was still sitting with its flashers blinking.

“Hold the bus.”

Nope.

Women turned, looked at me, stepped up, doors closed, bus departed.

Motherfucker.

I sat.

At least this stop had benches.

Next bus?

Fifteen minutes.

ARGH.

I was very much in HALT.

However, I was also taken care of.

I had grabbed a bottle of water at the store and drank it.

Sometimes I think there should be another “T” at the end of the acronym–hungry, angry, lonely, tired, thirsty.

I felt better.

Then a friend called me back.

We chatted until the next bus came.

Gone was the lonely.

I got to where I needed to go.

I got some food in me.

I got some humility.

And I got a ride home afterward.

Lovely.

And now, I am cozied up, with Karl the Fog doing his romantic it’s summer in San Francisco routine, in my studio.

I am grateful today for the experience if only from the standpoint that when I get back on my feet, whether it’s walking or riding my bicycle, or yes, eventually, my scooter, that I will have this to look back to and know how amazing it is to be mobile.

I have a depth of appreciation for this beautiful body I have been given to walk around in.

And a deep gratitude.

Now the only thing I need to do is continue to be gentle and nurturing to it.

To not listen to myself when I get into HALT.

To do the best I can to avoid it.

To love myself all the way to full recovery.

Kindness.

Tolerance.

Patience.

Love.

Check.

Check.

Check.

Double check.

You Look So Much Better

I mean, wow.

She was the first person to tell me that today.

But not the last.

“Oh, you look like your normal self!”

My friend exclaimed as I got us situated and made a cup of tea.

That could be because I took a shower this morning and I am getting the knack of getting in and out of the shower and using the stool.  It still takes a bit of balancing and maneuvering, and the stool isn’t exactly designed to be sat on, but it works and I showered.

Oh the feeling of a hot shower.

So good.

I also put on cheery clothes today and bright colors and I know that adds to the whole thing, that feeling of being on the upswing.

I am still using the crutches in the morning and the evenings when I have taken off the walking boot, though, the great gold goodness has yet to be retired.

That is now my goal, a more realistic goal than being out of the boot by the time I travel to Wisconsin, next Monday, rather, I will be in the boot, but I won’t have the crutches with me.

I should be able to hobble to and fro a bit without boot and crutch in the evenings when I am there, bathroom trips, etc.

I really cannot fathom having to get on an airplane with the crutches.

I have, however, conceded to use the wheel chair.

It just makes more sense and I will be more comfortable and it’s a courtesy thing, a not charged thing, a way to ease my transition from here to there, my ego can get the hell out-of-the-way, thank you for you thoughts, thank you for sharing, now get out of my way.

I’ll be rolling through SFO next Monday morning.

I will also be bringing all my ace bandages with me and when I do transition out of the walking boot, next Tuesday, I will be extra careful and wrap my ankle as I transition to shoes.

Slow it down.

That seems to be the message, again, and again, and again.

Let my body heal while my mind runs itself on a one way track of, “there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong,” ad infinitum.

There’s nothing wrong at all.

I believe that at my basest level, my brain just is that kind of scared, besides, when something’s wrong maybe I will go back to old habits and drink or pick up some drugs, or smoke, or eat some donuts, or I don’t know go crazy and rob a bank.

Or jump off the Golden Gate Bridge before they install the suicide barriers.

That frantic thought of “something’s wrong” keeps me out of the present, out of the gift of the moment, that is so perfect that I cannot handle it, I have to be moving rapidly forward trying to solve all future problems before they even arise so that I know what to do when that day comes.

That day ain’t never coming.

I shared this evening that this whole situation continues to be a gift that I was not expecting, that has allowed me to realize how much I need my community and how easily I can isolate by keeping myself too busy to see what’s happening in my heart.

My heart wants me to slow down.

My heart wants me to breathe and be present.

My heart wants to hear the gulls and the ocean and the robins singing when I sit quietly in the morning with the back door to studio open.

There is such peace there.

My brain wants to know what I plan on wearing to Burning Man.

ARGH.

Brain.

Give it a rest.

You’ll wear the same things you wore last year, like you always do, what ever happens to be in your closet.

My rule of thumb is I only buy something that I will wear here and there.

I haven’t a huge clothing allowance and to just spend money on something that I will only wear two weeks out of the year, is not a wise way for me to spend my clothing dollar.

“I love your polka dots!”

A girl friend said to me this evening.

I am covered, head to toe.

Literally.

Polka dot leggings.

Polka dot sock.

Polka dot shirt.

Polk dot earrings.

Heh.

All stuff I wear at Burning Man.

All stuff I wear here.

But at sometime, and it happens every fucking year, my brain latches on to what will I wear at Burning Man and how to go about collecting said socks, tights, dresses, hats, etc.

Can I just get to Wisconsin before I fixate on that?

Please.

I can fixate on Wisconsin too.

It’s going to be hot and humid.

But really, I don’t see that it’ll be any different from what I wear now.

I may pare it down a bit, the colorful stuff, but then again, I probably won’t.

I am who I am.

And I look more myself than I have in weeks.

Which is a relief.

It means I am getting better.

The ankle is still needing to be elevated more often than not and I am icing it still, but rather than five, six, seven, eight, times a day, it’s becoming twice a day.

Once in the morning when I am sitting and doing my meditation.

Once in the evening after I have finished writing my blog and I am enjoying a little evening snack and having a cup of tea.

There is definite improvement.

I put a little weight on it this morning, just a tiny bit, to test the waters, and knew immediately that today was not the day to push any further.

Don’t wreck the healing that has been happening out of impatience.

Patience.

Kindness.

Tolerance.

Love.

Those are my watch words and my principles.

I can use them to engage with the world.

I can use them to navigate the bad neighborhood in my head.

I get to use them to allow myself the time to continue on the path to recovery.

I am glad that I look better.

But really.

I am glad that I am allowing myself the process of healing more than anything else.

Inside and out.

That’s probably what shows the most anyhow.

I like to think that I reflect my interior state.

Right now it’s all polka dots.

And sunshine.

 

 

I Passed!

I failed.

Huh?

I passed!

I got my motorcycle licence today, but man it was a confusing sort of experience, courtesy of the DMV and a weird little stipulation for the licence which stated that if you haven’t renewed your regular drivers licence within the last year, you also have to take the written test for a car.

What?

No!

I did not know that.

Fuck.

I did not study that booklet.

I got to the DMV with plenty of time to spare and re-read a few things that I figured were going to be on the exam.  I waited patiently for my appointment time to be hollered out by the security cop on premise.

And whoa, there needs to be security cops roving about, there was some serious feelings happening, a few of them were my own by the end of the two hours I was there, a man and a clerk hollering at each other right in front of me, a nosy busybody woman who kept trying to engage with me, until I moved, more than one person getting yelled at in the test area to turn off their phone, not talk, and put away the booklet.

I actually watched one woman get booted from taking the exam as she was consulting her phone, whether or not she was looking for test answers I don’t know, in fact, I don’t think she was.

She was doing what everyone else in line wanted to be doing, checking their phone, because the line for the test was super long.

Not to take it.

Not to take the photograph either.

But to have the test corrected.

I get a head of myself here, just a bit.

Let’s reel back to the sweet gentleman who was helping me, expediting everything really quite quickly, I had hopes of not only getting out in time for work, but getting there maybe even a half hour or so earlier than I had told my employers.

But no, those hopes, dashed.

Before said dashing of hopes I was able to pay all my fees–$33 for the licence itself then another $169 for the registration and taxes on the scooter–I got the sticker, I am the registered owner of a 1965 Vespa, it’s all mine, the title is being transferred from my friend to me and I have the receipt all tucked away in the scooter’s little side compartment should I be stopped before I get the real one in the mail.

First thing I did when I got back to the house was slap that sticker on the license plate of my scooter.

My scooter.

Oh my God.

I have a scooter.

It’s not just some fantasy imagination in my brain, this is all really happening.

The motorcycle safety course, the putting the deposit on it, all of it has felt unreal, surreal, fantasy like, the reality is not reality yet.

But it’s getting there.

After I got the sticker I was routed to take a photograph.

WORST photo ever.

I mean bad, bad, bad, how did I get a double chin in this photo?

How?

I was horrified.

But ultimately, I don’t care.

I know what I look like and it ain’t that bad awful photo on my licence.

No.

I cringed when I got the picture back, but I carried all my paperwork and my receipts and my form from the safety course over to the next contestant on the Price is Right.

Er.

I mean.

The next window of harried DMV worker who really could give a fuck.

She was slow, but had a number of tasks that she was doing, including monitoring the test area–she was the one who kicked the girl out of line for using her phone (she had to turn over all paperwork and was told that she couldn’t come back and take the test for six weeks as a penalty. Damn.) as well as processing the test paperwork and correcting the test.

There were two lines just for her.

And she took her time with it.

Oh yes she did.

When I got to the front of the first line she flipped through my paperwork and handed me the tests I had to take.

I was still miffed to have to take them both, but I shut up about it.

I got two wrong on the motorcycle test.

And four wrong on the automobile test.

One too many.

Fuck me.

I of course did not find this out right away.

I had to wait 45 minutes in the test correcting line to find that out.

By the time I finally got to the front of the line it was almost noon, ie, when I was supposed to be at work and I had not been able to take out my phone and send off a text to let the families know I was still at the DMV.

I did not want to get kicked out for “cheating” with my phone.

I was super upset to find out that I had to retake the test.

At first I was just disconcerted.

She handed me back the automobile test and asked me to answer four more questions on the test.

I apparently did not get them right.

Then she said I could take the test again right then and there, but I would have to get back in line.

I could study over the tests with the correct answers and get another test (they have three different versions of it) and try again.

Should I not answer that one within the limits I would have to have a four-week wait to retake, or something like that, I was too mad to hear exactly what she was saying, it also was made clear, I would have to make an appointment to retake the test on another day, versus just staying put.

But I couldn’t stay put.

I had to go to work.

I was in tears and pissed and it was raining and I texted the families and said I was on my way and on my way I went.

Wet and mad as a doused cat.

Not exactly the best way to show up to work.

I eventually got myself together.

Eating a hot bowl of homemade soup for lunch really helped.

Then I realized I did not have the booklet for the automobile test and I would want it to go back and take the test.

Ugh.

Then in rapid succession things happened.

Fell into place and within a half hour of leaving the house with the boys tucked up into the stroller in rain jackets, I had passed the written for the automobile test at the DMV.

Huh?

The heavens parted, the sun came out, I wheeled the stroller over to Fell Street, the baby fell asleep on the way, I got to the office, grabbed the booklet and saw that there was no line.

NO LINE!

There was also a new woman at the desk for the tests.

I walked over and took out my paperwork and asked and she said, go to it, park the stroller next to you and keep them quiet, she handed me a new test and shooed me off.

A snack cracker for the older boy, confirmation the baby was still asleep, and voila, in five minutes I re-took the test, 100% and was out the door with my paper receipt saying I had passed and my new license with my motorcycle upgrade and horrible photo will be arriving in the mail in the next seven to ten days.

Holy crow.

I was amazed.

Did that just happen?

It did.

I have the paperwork to prove it.

And I took my scooter out for her inaugural run in the park with my friend.

I have a bit of practising to do before I am able to run it around town–it’s not an automatic–and I need to get used to using the clutch, but I am on my way.

Scooter Town USA.

Here I come.

I am still in awe that I actually was able to go back, re-take the test, get 100% and be out the doors of the DMV a half hour after I left the house in Cole Valley pushing a double stroller with two little boys in it.

But I am not going to question it anymore.

It really happened.

I have my license.

It’s on.

Open The Door To Your Heart

To slam it shut again.

I just had something happen that made me realize that no matter how much work I have done and how “good” I understand my own peculiar mental twists and traits, that sometimes instinct, ie fear, takes over, and I turn the other cheek.

I am an idiot.

If I think what just happened was happening and it was, then I got scared and like a bunny dashed off into the night.

How I want something to happen and when it does I flee.

Instinct.

Habit.

Fear.

Working through it again and again and again.

If I could go back I would.

Instead I sent an inept text after shooting a question out into space.

“Please remove my fear and direct my attention to what you would have me do and be?”

If you weren’t afraid what would you do.

I would send the stupid text.

Which was worded poorly, but my ears and my head and I can’t say my heart, my heart knew exactly what was happening, but I was a fool instead.

My head gets carried away.

It believes my heart still needs some saving.

You know, for a fucking rainy day or something.

Get out there, get wet, get in the water.

You might be tumbled upside down for a full minute, but you will pop back up, into the air and sunlight and realize that you were drowning in two and a half feet of water.

That you can always put your feet down on the bottom, it hasn’t fallen out from underneath you, the panic will pass.

The panic is passing.

Both that I did something wrong and did not do the “right” thing as well.

Oh, I know, you all are being very coy here, she’s says to herself.

I was out with a friend having a marvelous day, a surprise day, in a way, I had other plans, plans that I very much was looking forward to and had cancelled on other things to have the time to do it.

But as happens, things change, and my dress shopping with my best girl went out the window and I was suddenly up in arms, but it was so beautiful out and my other friend is at the beach and go, you live out there, see if you can connect.

And we did.

Tea on the terrace, as I like to say.

Talk, tender, funny, sweet, goofy.

Joking about starting another blog because I just don’t have enough time on my hands.

Standing on the back porch to my house I suddenly looked in his eyes and I thought, he’s going to kiss me.

My whole brain went frizzle and my heart sped up, his eyes so blue.

Had I ever noticed how blue his eyes are?

Good Lord.

Then I said something asinine and even while I was saying it, I was thinking, stop it, what are you doing, don’t you want this?

I do.

I mean I am not shitting on any friendship I have by romantically pursuing it.

That is a great fear of mine, fall for friend, possess feelings, oh tender feeling, feelings you damn idiot, grr, and then have them not reciprocated.

I actually asked this friend out years ago, but he said, no, actually, he said yes, then said no after some thought, and stated he wanted to just be friends.

And I was way cool with that.

I adore him.

Grateful to not have lost a friend over an infatuation.

But there it was that moment on the porch.

Did I misread that?

We hung out, got dinner, Thai Cottage, so good.

Saw my housemate and her amazing daughter all dressed up for a Halloween surprise and I decided to go do a Dharma talk and a meditation with my friend who was meeting up with another friend there.

Who I happened to randomly know.

Funny how small the world is.

I actually saw a few folks that I used to know.

And the meditation, a half hour, actually felt like it went by so fast, I could have sat for another stretch and was longing for it, but the talk was good too, so I am not remiss at having missed anything.

Although, I have to say the way my brain just tried to eat itself after having such an endearing space presented to me was powerful to witness.

Feelings.

Whoa man.

I got to that secret sauce, special, warm fuzzy space.

“It sounds like snuggling a bunny,” my friend said to me when I described it.

And it rather is.

I was also able to have some tears drift down my face as I sat in the chair between the meditation and the talk, tears I could not pinpoint directly what they were about, something my new/old acquaintance said about my time in Paris and there they were.

Tears, bright shiny and new.

I recalled that struggling to hold off the tears would only stifle and prolong the pain, so after a brief struggle, that I walked through, the tears, slid down my face, along my chin, down my neck and into the little bowl of my clavicle.

A necklace of tears.

The only true jewels I have.

The pain sloughs away and left me bright, softened, and vulnerable.

Apparently too vulnerable though as I turned away in the car.

I did not mean to.

Damn it.

Compassion.

Have compassion right now, for myself, for the asinine way I was raised and learned and grew, have compassion, for your bright beating heart that gallops so hard to be open and free and so hard to not be alone.

Yet turns, unconsciously at that last-minute, the kiss falling on my cheek, and not where I think the intention was.

I don’t even want to be writing this, but it is my way of making sense.

“I am going to kiss you now,” he said to me.

He said that.

It was like a delayed noise in my head, I thought, what, no you’re not, you’re lying, you don’t want to kiss me, you mean, like a friend, right, like, here’s a nice hug and kiss.

No.

I think what he meant was “I am going to kiss you now,” and kiss me romantically.

A friend does not tell you that they are going to kiss you, they just do.

I turned away and my whole body is lit with wretchedness.

Practice, now, in this moment, being patient with yourself, doll, you are learning.

Ease into the feelings.

Shit.

I guess it’s best that I went to a Dharma talk.

And funny too.

Can I pull myself in and up, like I would one of my little charges, hug myself and say, “hey, you’re ok, there just feelings, have them, they will change,” and then turn my face to the sound of the ocean crescendo and let it lullaby me in my heart.

Maybe he will want to kiss me again.

Maybe the text I sent was not as stupid as I thought, texting.

I should have just called him on my phone and said, turn around, kiss me, I won’t turn away.

Can we try that again?

Please.

Kiss me.