#Winning

We are halfway through the summer and the pandemic continues. Still mostly confined to home, wearing masks, ordering takeout twice a week to support small local businesses. Am I winning the pandemic? Time to take stock.

Sun ripened organic figs are a joy each summer

I am extraordinarily fortunate to have a job that lets me work from home and acutely aware that not everyone has that. So I practice gratitude for the petty annoyances via email and chat. I roll my neck as I boot up a program that I’ll use for the next hour to download data for a project. I bite my tongue when the team comes back and changes the parameters and I have to redo that work. Job? Definitely in the positive column.

I’m also fortunate to live in a nice home with multiple places to isolate. We are getting through some home tasks that have been put off for years – cleaning out closets, shredding papers, re-stucco-ing the outside. My bed is comfy and I have a few places to stretch out and read or watch TV. Home situation? Positive.

I’m not by myself – I’m married and still interacting with my spouse (I’ve heard STORIES). Tempers are a bit short and patience is something we have to dig for. But we’re civil and of like mind. He’s been heroic in taking on the job of getting supplies and interacting with the public. I’ve prepared nutritious and usually delicious meals for us and planned 3 meals a day, every day, since the quarantine began. Marriage? Positive

But there are things that haven’t happened and they overtake me in random moments making me want to rage or stomp or tantrum. Like, where is the #justiceforbreonnataylor? Why haven’t I lost 10 pounds? Why is my bicycle still lost amid clutter in the garage? Where is our vegetable garden? Why am I not meditating/stretching/excercising/praying/learning/sewing/writing in my newly found free hours that used to be spent on the 405? Where are my new crafting skills? That nuno felting kit is still unopened. I should have finished double the number of scarves for soldiers in this time. Why, oh why am I still getting migraines when I should be feeling amazing now that I am getting sufficient sleep and time to rest?

As my best friend says – there are days when we are “digging deep” to get out of the funk. And we are angry that we still need to dig deep when we should be grateful for our blessings.

I miss my friends. I miss the scent of suntan lotion mixed with grainy sand and an ocean breeze. I miss hanging on a patio drinking craft cocktails. I miss chicken wings and garlic toast.

I have a physician who gently questioned me about my mental state and asked me what I missed. I appreciate his concern and I get what he was trying to do. But there are no substitutes for lunch with my 90 year old mom. Zoom calls are difficult when one of you is mostly blind and partially deaf. We sort of expected this to be her last year, but what a way to live your last year – under lock and key with very little interaction.

Digging – My cat is a joy and entertainment all in one. He is thriving with the extra attention and the freedom to roam the house. The corgis snooze nearby, generating fur drifts that gather in the corners.

Deep – The fig tree is loaded, and figs are ripening a few at a time. Cherry tomatoes are coming in and zucchini blossoms are bright yellow accents against green leaves. My church has amazing livestream services and small group sessions (#hopeshouse). Our neighbors have posted Black Lives Matter signs and drawn rainbows and hopscotch grids on the sidewalk. It’s summer and I’ve got boozy grapefruit popsicles in the freezer made with our own organic fruit.

I am indeed “digging deep.” Fortunately there is a flinty vein of positive gold in my character. And it shines.

7/29/20

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Be Aware, Prepare!

I took the bus to work this morning.

There is just something about public transportation that I find so freeing.

Once I’ve boarded and gotten settled, all decisions are out of my hands. Heavy traffic? I’m on the bus. Road closed? I’m on the bus. I’ll get to my destination when I get there. My only job is to get to the stop early or on time and then if something happens, it’s not my problem. I get comfortable, close my eyes and let someone else worry about the traffic. I’m good.

And then getting home – I can’t stay late because I have to catch my bus. Whoops, gotta go – don’t want to miss my bus.

The bus helps me manage my stress and relieves me of decisions for just that period of time. I am grateful for the option to take the bus and let go.

Faith can be like the bus. For me, having faith is not optional. I absolutely believe in God and require His presence in my life. I have free will and can choose to follow His precepts (or not) – but my life is so much better when I do. My faith is foundational. When it is strong, the bumps and hurdles in life don’t affect me as much. I can deal with them more easily and I don’t need to worry about every little thing because I know that I am in His hands.

When I take the bus, I have to prepare – carefully pack my bag, ensure that I have adequate funds or a valid ticket, bring the good travel mug that doesn’t leak, wear shoes that will let me walk the last quarter mile. I question my faith preparations – am I reading my bible app, going to church regularly, praying and seeking His guidance? Did I leave myself enough time to make the journey and am I carefully listening and studying to ensure that my armor is on and I’m ready to meet the day? If not, I tell myself I will do better tomorrow. The consequences of ignoring God are not as immediate as a 90 minute drive to work.

But they are far more dire.

I guess it’s trite, comparing my bus ride to my walk of faith.

Both make my days and nights easier and provide space to think, to breathe, to be intentional. My life is blessed and I am truly grateful to be aware of my options. I choose what makes me better. It’s past time to put God above the rest.

Be still

I am in SUCH a state! My mind is traveling a million miles an hour, my body has numerous aches and pains, and my breath is rapid and shallow. I’ve been like this for a few weeks and it’s making me crazy.

What am I doing to alleviate it?

I am LEANING INTO it, opening new web pages, playing video games, scarfing chocolate, gossiping with coworkers, snapping at my husband and dogs and wishing I could firebomb the office that just asked me, AGAIN to triple check that their data is not in a particular database.

I know better.

I work at home on Thursdays and that Thursday I was fully into the craziness – I had a spam call from the energy department that they were shutting off our power because we didn’t pay the bill. The bank called about a different issue with our checking account. My manager told me to “hold off” on some projects that she specifically assigned on Tuesday so they would be done by Friday. My blood was boiling and my brain was shooting flames. How to handle this? I could not lean in any farther without falling over. So I let myself fall.

I slipped slowly off my chair and sank to the floor. Took some deep calming breaths all the way into my belly. Felt the brush of soft fur against my left foot as a corgi moved in on me. Put a quiet palm on her shoulder when she started pawing at my shin.

Thoughts: Why are you acting like this? What is triggering you to be so reactive? Why do you think you need to get out ahead of things and control everyone’s actions? Where is your good sense not to mention your faith?

My faith. Because I am a Christian. And I do believe that God has plans for my life. And that everything will be okay. Every day I try to step out on faith (my challenge is to step slowly and make sure it’s right before leaping into the fray). And yet here I am being tossed and turned, body battered, brain exhausted, sleep a distant memory.

The refrain begins: I am a failure….stop that right now. I am human.

And it’s really really easy to get sucked into the outside world. Elections and Impeachment and homeless people in our neighborhood and traffic and corruption whatcanido? Howcanihelp?

A thought drifted into my mind: “Be still and know that I am God” Psalm 46:10 (had to look it up). Be still —

When I lean into the stress, when I get high on the cortisone, when I stuff down my feelings – that’s when my body and mind break down. Be still. Observe. Let the frenzy happen around you and wait for direction. Listen to your heart and soul. Know that I am God. There’s some faith right there.

I can’t control the world, but I can help myself. Deep breath release tension soft corgi fur.

Lean into THAT.

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Let there be light

The distress call was clear – “Mom needs a new lamp”

and the followup – “her lamp broke I will replace it”

then – “they don’t make it any more”

finally – “can you bring out your old lamp on Saturday”

And mom herself “I think I need both of you”

I shifted into Fix for Mom mode. That’s my primary role these days. I’m not just a daughter, I’m second in command of her quality of life.

Saturday was clear and sunny. I found my “old lamp” in the garage – it was missing a shade and a lightbulb, but it could be rehabbed. Loaded it into the SUV and set out. It was a clear November morning – the best season of all in Los Angeles. The San Gabriel Mountains rose to north and the road was clear. Got up to a steady 70 mph and hit cruise control. Looked like this was gonna be an easy run. I should have curbed my thoughts – the traffic gremlins were put on alert.

I sailed along the 134–>210 freeway and as I approached Glendora well ahead of schedule I felt an itch. There was time so I took a detour and stopped at Tuesday Morning to see if I could find a new replacement lamp. I enjoyed a pleasant 20 minutes browsing and buying things I didn’t need but did not find the item in question. As I paid for my purchases I asked….they showed me a small stash…and I triumphantly carried out a brand spanking new floor lamp with the “natural daylight” bulb.

I felt good. I felt GREAT. Loaded that baby into the vehicle, snapped a victory photo and shared it on social media. I was the bomb.

Fate never hesitates to pop your balloon when it’s riding high on pride. I decided not to retrace my steps to the freeway but to forge a new path. Without a map. I passed “Compromise Lane” (has to be a story there) and found a freeway on ramp but it was in the middle of an interchange and headed in the wrong direction. I exited, reversed course, drove by instinct….and missed it again. Pulled a U-turn and tried to find the right road. Turned around in a parking lot and 20 minutes later made it onto the 57 south. My balloon trailed sadly in my wake.

My time advantage had vanished and I called to change my ETA. Exited the 71 at the wrong place. Got back on the freeway and back on track. My mood was flattening out.
A brief return of good fortune when I located parking. Hauled the lamp to the third floor, pulled it out of the box and started assembly. I did not read the directions because I didn’t have my specs and the apartment was dim. I inserted part A into part B and moved right along.

There were two working floor lamps in the room, and Mom was in her usual chair, reading, so I wondered why a new light was needed. But I was committed to my Fix for Mom mission so I tamped down my doubts as I connected the components.

I made light conversation while I tried to get the base attached to the pole. Mom was fretting about her ability to use the lamp because her favorite on/off device wouldn’t work with it. I demonstrated the rocker switch (no twisting, no pulling) and she insisted she only wanted a light with an on/off cord. Feeling like Anne Sullivan, I placed her hand on the switch and showed her that a gentle press would turn it on. Another would turn it off. On. Off. I was confident she could manage this. She was not.

Time was wasting and I knew her blood sugars were dropping. It looked like I would need those directions after all so I put everything down and announced that we would finish it after lunch.

We collected reinforcements on the way to the restaurant. The city was having a parade, which hosed the traffic but we made it. The blood sugar crisis was avoided. Things seemed to be back on track.

But, delays. We had to swing back to my sister’s house for a forgotten item. Then back to base to finish the mission. Parking was difficult so I had them go ahead. I caught up at the elevator in time to hear Mom asking if she could just use the light she had and keep the new light as a backup. My sister asked her why we were doing this exercise if she had a lamp that already worked. Silence.

My sister sees better than I do, so she did the heavy mechanics and we wrestled the new lamp into place. It has a long flexible neck so mom can adjust the height and angle. Lo and behold, she was able to reach the on/off switch. Operation New Lamp was completed. In summary:

–The reading lamp was broken at the base and was wobbly but still worked

–It’s not made any more

–The new lamp was bright but didn’t work with the light switch for the old lamp which was perceived as a problem

–The perfectly good floor lamp across the room would not do for reading

–It was designated for the housekeeper

–The reading lamp with the wobbly base and preferred on/off switch took its place and put on a timer so it would turn on automatically

–The timer was suspect because it wasn’t going on/off at the correct time despite the end of DST

–Meanwhile a different lamp was delivered to my sister’s house as a backup for Mom

–My old lamp is still in my vehicle

–We now have three superfluous floor lamps and I have two extra light timers

But there were other problems.

The timer for the old lamp wasn’t working correctly – the light went on mid-afternoon and turned off before bedtime. No one could figure out the digital timer. We dug out an analog timer and set it for standard time since the clocks would be switching back. I stuffed the new timer into my purse to get it off the premises. “Take the old one too!” my mom urged. I added it to my pile.

Meanwhile my sister started clearing out the kitchen – stale food, empty plastic water bottles, empty shopping bags. We opened a new 12-pack of water and twisted off the lids for easy access. I set out the fall holiday decorations and put the Halloween items away. My sister found an unopened 12 pack of water and shook her head.

We prepared to take our leave, but first:

“You need to call the eye doctor about your eye” my sister said.

“I will, but I have an appointment in February and it can wait.”

“No, your vision is changing so you need to let him know and see if he wants you to come in”

“Did you know that my new insurance pays for glasses and frames which is great!”

“So you’ll call him tomorrow?”

Oh I can’t call him tomorrow. I see the chiropractor in the morning”

(me) “What about the afternoon?”

“I have things to do in the afternoon”

“like what?”

“Things.”

“Call him Tuesday?” my sister coaxed

“I’m not sure….”

“I don’t want excuses, I want you to say you’ll call him”

(me, sotto voce) “can’t you call him?”

“I’ll call him.”

“On Tuesday?”

“Yes, on Tuesday”

I returned my sister to her home and we applied alcohol to our nerves. As I hit the road home I congratulated myself on mission accomplished. We had two new action items: the failing eyesight and how to pay for a new medication which is not generic and is hella expensive. But the lamp was installed.

On Sunday she thanked us and told us the new timer wasn’t working correctly.
On Monday she said the new lamp was wonderful and she could see really well.
No word on the Tuesday phone call.

Thursday update – doctor has been called but the light timer is still a problem. There have been daily reports. Not my mission, thank goodness!

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Swish, swoosh

The modern Hula Hoop was introduced in 1958 and for a while the country was obsessed with it. It was still popular when I was in grade school and my parents bought one for us kids. I quickly monopolized it. I could spend hours hooping in the backyard. The swish swoosh of the beads inside the plastic tube. The rhythm of my hips as I swayed back and forth. The gentle sensation as it started on my right hip, passed over my belly, then hit the left hip for a final push back to the beginning. It was mesmerizing and I was good at it. (There was so little physical mastery in my life that I embraced this wholeheartedly).

Swish swoosh. Swish some more. If it started sliding down I sped up the movement. Some geniuses were able to let it go to the knees and back up their bodies. The really good ones let the hoop travel to their upheld wrists. On TV you could see athletes working multiple hoops to massive applause and admiration. Did my sister strive for that perfection? I think her ambitions were loftier than mine. I was content to stand in place, rocking gently back and forth, self hypnotized by a spinning toy.

My parents both worked so we kids went to a summer program at our elementary school. I remember painting plaster of paris turtles, gluing pom poms to construction paper, dodgeball, tetherball, Koolaid in Dixie cups. I don’t remember the people (I was quite introverted). And then one day they announced a Hula Hoop contest. My sister assumed I would enter; after all, I could hoop like nobody’s business. It seemed harmless.

On the appointed day we gathered on the blacktop in the hot smoggy air with our equipment. A whistle blew and hips began moving. I found my rhythm and stayed in my own world. There was a little anxiety when the unfamiliar equipment began to drift south of my waist, but I was able to stop the trajectory and reseat it around my hips.

One by one the hoops fell. I sort of noticed that the field was getting smaller, but kept my attention on my own hoop. Finally there were two of us, locked in rhythm. The crowd got bored. The teachers were ready to go back inside and serve Koolaid. A shout went up.

“WAR! War! HULA HOOP WAR!”

I had no idea what this meant. Hula Hoop war? With whom? With what?

My opponent knew this game. She purposefully started moving toward me and someone shouted to me that the object was to use my hoop to knock hers to the ground. I had no idea how to do this. “Debbie! MOVE” someone shouted. I took a few tentative steps, still rocking my hips. I made her come to me. She thrust her hips viciously in an attempt to knock me off my rhythm. I still didn’t understand the concept. As a solitary, lonely child, I had no knowledge of playground dynamics. I held my ground, she advanced, there was an awkward wobble…

I won. My naivete kept me focused on myself and since I wasn’t trying to do anything – no offense, defense, avoidance…I won.

I was not the crowd favorite. The contest ended with a thud and a whimper as everyone picked up discarded hoops and trailed back to the classroom. My sister and some of her friends congratulated me and cast triumphant looks at the crowd. A teacher patted my shoulder. I was excited, nervous, awkward…I wanted to be invisible again.

A few weeks later our group boarded buses for a summer field trip. I was on the curb waiting for a full bus to pull forward so I could get on the next one. I heard jeering above my head and looked up to see the person I beat at Hula Hoop with her gang of friends – boys and girls. They were mocking me from the bus and suddenly one of the boys hawked and shot a loogie in my direction.

He missed my face, but scored a direct hit on my shirt. Snot and saliva mingled on the cotton and I stared at it in horror and embarrassment. The bus pulled away and I got on the next one.

I didn’t tell anyone. I must have borrowed a kleenex from a teacher to wipe it off. My brain was blank and my mind was buzzing. Who does that? Who spits out a window at a child standing on the curb? I was fearful and shocked.

All those years ago. My mastery of a silly childhood game led to my first instance of bullying. I had walked in a bubble, unnoticed, unseen, unaware. In an instant that changed. Not everyone was like me, not everyone was my friend, and bleagh. Loogies. Ick.

Introduction

I am compelled to write, always have been and hope I always will be. Writing connects me to myself, tunes me into a different space and surfaces things that I can’t articulate verbally. The process of transferring thoughts to words enlightens me. It comforts me. Grounds me. It is a statement that I exist

I self published my first book before the age of ten. One copy remains in existance and I think I could find it if pressed. It is titled “The Horse Book” by Deborah Jean Swift. It is not about horses. But I was a horse crazy girl and I could draw a pretty good horse head so that’s what I named my first book of poetry. Hand printed and bound with brass colored brads – not that anyone who reads this will know what is.

Writing sustained me through a difficult and lonely childhood, a challenging adolescence, the first taste of freedom and six years of college. I married, started a new life, and slowly the urge to write, to wrestle, to acknowledge my self became less important. I never stopped but it became less vital as I leaped into my relationship, my career and my challenges.

But now I am called again. Called to make sense of my world through my fingertips. Called to that kinectic learning that doesn’t happen through the spoken word. Called to be seen.

Which is why now. This blog. This leap of faith. To reveal my self that has so seldom won me friends or allies. I am too big to be contained and I have too much to learn in the last third of my life. So here we are. Welcome.