Speaking in tongues

 The theory of palate is an interesting thing. I have a friend who is a picky eater supposedly because he's a "super taster" - tastes every single nuance in food, and so is easily overwhelmed by anything flavorful. My husband's pickiness has nothing to do with flavor. He's picky more on principle than palate, as is evident by the way he won't eat white cheese, even if it's cheddar, and only eats it when it's orange. 

This morning I did a Google search to figure out why it is that I can't find a specialty coffee that I actually like. It boils down to my taste buds not being trained on the new style of coffee which often has a "bright" taste to it, that comes across as sour to my unrefined taste buds. It may come as a surprise to you then, to hear I also don't like IPAs. Go ahead, tell me I just haven't tried the right IPA, and I will tell you that I don't like "hoppiness". If you don't like hoppiness, you're probably not going to enjoy an IPA, whose main goal is to bring out the hoppiness. 

Spring has sprung in the vineyard, and all vines are showing signs of life. The Cabernet is developing flowers, and the straggling Merlot vine has several new leaves. Since we've made it this far, I'm now beginning to read up on how I'm supposed to care for these grapes, then perform some sort of miracle to turn them into wine. My new wine bible says I need to "educate" my palate first so that I will know what a truly high quality wine should taste like, and that the author finds it a shame when people wrinkle their noses at some of the best wines, when in actuality they just need to educate their palates. This brings me pause.

I guess at some point, I developed a taste for black coffee (when it's not sour or "bright"). I probably wouldn't have liked it when I was 5 years old, drinking out of my mom's abandoned cups that were thick with cream and sugar. I must have had to "educate" my taste buds on wine and beer and whiskey. So maybe there's something to this "refined taste buds" thing......

But I'm not so sure. If I drink a wine that tastes good (I do like the taste of wine, so there are plenty of wines whose taste I do enjoy), then it's a good wine. If I don't like the taste, then does it make sense that I should educate my taste buds until I do? That reminds me of a coworker who said "We don't have to agree with me, but if you don't, let's talk about it until you do."

Taste buds: "Blech! This is awful!"

Brain: "No, no, it's good. Try again. This time with the thought of how old a vine the fruit came from, how perfect the soil, the climate, the aging process. Try it again."

Taste buds: "Blech! It's still awful! It's sour! It's pungent! Yuck!"

Brain: "No, it's bright and rich."

Taste buds: "Sour and pungent."

Brain: "I'm telling you, you're just young and ignorant. It's bright and rich."

Taste buds: "Oh, bright and rich you say? Oh yes, I see it now, this tastes fantastic!"

No, I don't think it works that way. Or well, I guess it does, however, I'm not sure I support that type of thinking. If the first sip of wine makes you pucker....maybe wait a minute or so and try again. If you're gagging by the third gulp, I would say forget your taste buds and go for that two buck chuck that you like so much. Why does it matter that you like the thing that all the cool kids like?

Because that's what it is (in my humble, unrefined taste buds' opinion). IPAs are taking the beer world by storm, and the people drinking them are convinced that everyone should love them, and if they don't, they aren't drinking the right one. In my opinion, we should all love thick chocolate stouts, and I can't understand why anyone wouldn't. IPAs are disgusting. "Bright" (sour) coffee is disgusting. I need a cup of comfort in the morning, not a kick in the mouth. Same thing with wine. I like wine that tastes good. Why would I pay money for wine that doesn't? Especially if I have to take a wine appreciation course for someone else to tell me that a gross wine tastes good. Now, if my wine tastes kinda gross, I'll drink it, because I made it and there's something special about that. If it tastes really gross, I'll dump it and figure out where I went wrong. If it tastes good but wouldn't pass by any connoisseur standards - well then hell yes, I made a good wine! 

I would like, rather, for my taste buds to educate me. My taste buds are made for informing me of what I like and what I do not like. They are wild things, not meant to be tamed. I say let them be!

2020

You already know what this is about, if you live anywhere on Earth.

There is something about submerging yourself underwater that feels much like surrender, something we could probably all do a little more of. Myself, I have somehow gone through life kicking and screaming and have failed to realize that sometimes that might not be the best approach. But sinking below the surface of the water has always felt let letting go of an immense weight that I carry with me on land. The ocean is best for this, as it will swallow you whole without mercy and couldn't care less about any punches you'd like to throw. A swimming pool works well too...though having been a lifeguard, I can tell you that they are not incredibly keen on people dropping into the deep end, sinking to the bottom, and sitting there. Makes them nervous.

Every single body of water around here is off-limits, closed until we can corral the coronavirus. Swimming pools, beaches, bays, rivers (you would not swim in the San Diego River anyway), etc. People have been arrested trying to get around it. That may very well be the only thing I miss. I don't have anything else to surrender to now- expect maybe my living room floor.

I started out the year with good intentions, as most of us do. I went for a run on the first day of the year, like usual. I have been trying to eat well, lower my stress level, get plenty of sleep, and just be a good person. I ran a marathon the first weekend in March. I took off to Kauai, just as the coronavirus was gaining traction. I made it home shortly after the Governor shut down California.

Let me tell you right off. I do not miss being around people. At all. That it is now appropriate (and encouraged) that I stay the hell away from people, is the biggest blessing I have received in a long time. Being around people stresses me out. It drains me. Now I work from the confines of my own home, alone. I run early in the morning when the streets are completely empty. But for all the grace bestowed upon me by mandatory isolation, there is possibly equal amounts cruelty in the form of judgement, perceived or actual, whenever I do leave the house. I am doing the wrong thing, all the time.

I do not cover my face when I run or ride my bike. Judging eyes are visible above the masks of anyone out and about, but I cannot restrict my breathing to appease those who are not educated about why and when the masks should be worn in the first place. But I too, am judging them. When they sit at a traffic light, alone in their cars, with windows rolled up, wearing a mask and gloves, I wonder- who do they think they're protecting?

When I came back from Hawaii, I sent my husband to the store for groceries, because he had the flexibility to go during work hours, when there wasn't a large line out the door. Now that things have quieted down and the panic is down to a low rumble, I am back to doing the shopping. Every weekend there are new rules that I am unprepared for, and every weekend I feel scorned and ashamed, and for the most part, I would admit that I have projected those feelings onto others and they probably don't think much about what I am doing.

I decided to picture myself as a post-apocalyptic warrior. I am, after all, a survivor. And what is this all to me anyway, except a bit of an inconvenience? It could certainly be worse. My hours and pay did not change, I have food (and toilet paper!) and everything I need. After last weekend's anxiety attack while grocery shopping, I decided I would adapt. I would meet the challenge and make the best of it. I would be resilient, compassionate, and brave. And I thought I was. Until I was publicly chided by an older man today for not knowing the grocery store hours had been changed to accommodate seniors.

After doing the walk of shame past the line of seniors waiting to get in the store, I steadied my warrior persona and drove up the rode to a different store. I put on my cute yellow mask with ladybugs and daisies, looked over my shopping list, and headed into the store. New store, new one-way aisles. I planned my route, then forged on- only to figure out my route did not work well with the flow diagram the store had glued to the floor.

In the checkout line, a lady directed me to a cashier.

"You can push your cart forward, but stand here. He will tell you when it's ok to put your groceries on the belt."

I waited. I watched the checker ring up the groceries of the couple in front of me. I waited for his cue. I am socially awkward. I felt a lot of pressure to get this right. The groceries in front of me dwindled until there were none. Now? He hadn't even acknowledged my presence yet. He rung them up. I waited. Did he forget? Was I doing this wrong? I turned to ask the lady who had given me the direction in the first place. She was busy talking to a coworker. The cashier finally looked over at me and turned the belt on, and said hello. Caught off guard, I said hello and frantically tried to unload my groceries to keep up with his pace. He asked if I needed bags, and I said I did, as I glanced at the sign in front of me that declared reusable bags not allowed. It's a funny question then, isn't it? I cringed as the bagger loaded my groceries into plastic bags.

As I drove home, I felt stunned. I thought I was prepared. I thought I had pulled myself together and figured this out. I thought I should be so resilient that I should be unaffected by the guy who scolded me at the first store, and unfazed by the one-way aisles that don't go the way I want them to go. Through this whole thing I have been convinced that I should be unaffected by all that is going on- because I kept my job, I don't like being around people anyway, I'm a homebody, I'm tough, I'm resourceful, and above all else, I have toilet paper. But I realized that no matter what stayed constant in my life, so much has changed, and continues to change, minute by minute. I've been informed that change causes anxiety, and I have to say I agree. I'm not a person who turns to alcohol to solve my problems, but I had already done my workout for the day, I had gone grocery shopping and had nowhere else to be for the rest of the day. It wasn't even 9 am. But I decided that in a situation like this, it is never too early for alcohol on grocery day, and I don't need to judge myself harshly for having a tough time. So I dumped a mini bottle of salted caramel liqueur into my coffee, sat on the couch, and stared out the window.

Maybe the lesson here is this: we shouldn't try so hard to make life normal when it absolutely is not.

Lessons From Plants

I don't speak plant. I never have. That being said, I've got over 70 plants living in my house and on my balcony. I love how it feels to see them grow and thrive. Seeing them suffer causes me grief and anxiety. But my plants are teaching me a lot about life, and about myself...also about plants.

Not sure where to start, so I'll start with this guy who brings me great joy.

This is my Monstera Deliciosa. Also known as a split leaf philodendron... it is apparently not really related to the philodendron. In any case, he is a juvenile, so his leaves are not split yet. Supposedly, each leaf has its own genetic makeup that determines whether or not it will be split. So it doesn't split later. The leaf is what it is, and eventually, "split" leaves will start to emerge. He changes daily, which satisfies the impatient side of me. He has three new leaves unfurled, and another on the way. With each leaf, I look carefully to see if this one will be the first one with a split. So far, he's not old enough to get splits...but he is absolutely beautiful nonetheless. His leaves are so green and bright and glossy. I put a moss pole in there for him, which he hasn't taken advantage of yet, but he likely will as he gets older. This guy tells me I'm bad-ass and can grow beautiful plants.

This guy tells me I'm full of shit.

In a sense, he keeps me humble. In reality, several of my plants do that. This is a desert rose plant. He has looked like this for at least a month. He arrived bare root and bare leaf. Just like this basically. Exactly like this. I don't know how you tell one of these things is dead or alive. Apparently, when stressed, they drop all their leaves. Then magically come back to life. So.... I don't know. He just hangs out and occasionally gets watered. He's basically a soft stick.

This guy has been through so much. It wants a lot of light. And not a lot of room around its roots. It was doing so well before I moved down here- before I stopped giving it lots of light, and when it floundered, I decided it needed more room around its roots.

This is a China Doll plant, and it is teaching me that I don't get to decide what a plant wants. It wants to be in this little pot (for now) and it wants to be in this spot. I can't argue. It's been so resilient over the last 9 months. Now it's sprouting all sorts of new growth, so I just need to leave it be.

This guy. I don't even know what to do about this guy.

This is a variegated rubber plant. And he is not dead. I know this because when he's happy, his leaves point up (according to the internet). See those two top leaves? They're pointing up. Good. Great. So what's the problem? Since I've gotten him, he's lost a leaf, and developed brown spots on several others. And strangely, he has not grown since I got him. Months ago. I keep checking the little pink tip in the middle that should, in theory, start to grow. Nothing. In months. Nothing. Just up and down movement of the leaves. I obviously do not have this thing figured out.

His cousin (also quite new, so I just haven't had the chance to ruin it yet) a Cabernet rubber plant, is doing marvelously and is quite stunning. The picture does not do it justice.

Beautiful, glossy, healthy new leaves popping up left and right. It seems unconcerned that it is now left in my hands. It just does its beautiful thing. Which leads me to believe there is something going on with his variegated friend. Where have I gone wrong?

Because of my impatience, I love plants that change every day. That's why I love this guy. He's an alocasia calidora.... and he's supposed to get huge. Here he is on February 23rd:

Just a wee little guy. I put him in a big pot for a reason. A little over a month later (March 29th), he's sprouted a much larger leaf and has another on the way.

His old leaves are falling to the side, for comparison. I'm learning that too. With a lot of these, the leaves don't grow much after they emerge. You just keep getting bigger and bigger leaves emerging.

Then there's the Calathea. Calatheas are notoriously difficult to grow. As a beginner gardener, I didn't even know what it was when I got it. Most plants from Home Depot are labeled vaguely. This guy was labeled "Assorted Tropical Plant".

I don't know. I don't know what it wants. It refuses to tell me. You can see some yellowing (and browning) there. That's a hint at an issue. But the thing is, it tends to get droopy leaves when it's upset with me. Then the leaves perk up when it's doing well. The leaves have perked up, two new leaves have arrived (showing some sort of health, no?).... except one of those new leaves arrived with browning on it. What the heck? This plant has a wonderful velvety texture, which I absolutely love. But it is neither thriving, nor dying. I'm just not sure how to make it happy. Maybe it just needs time? Maybe I expect too much? Maybe I expect it to be perfect like the monstera in my living room.

So. I do a lot of research. I read tons of web pages, which unfortunately all say different things. I can tell you that a monstera is NOT a low light plant as some sites want you to believe. There's also no such thing as a plant that does not need any light at all. The whole thing about plants is that they do the photosynthesis thing. Photo=light. Sunlight to be exact. I do have a few low light plants, and they're doing ok.

After finishing an avocado, I decided to try my hand at growing a tree from the pit. Just for fun. I planted 5 acorns back in December and they've all sprouted into healthy seedlings. How much more difficult can an avocado be?

Well for one, they're a little slower. But here he is!

I read that when he reaches 6 inches tall, I should cut him back 3 inches (or to 3 inches... depending on the website..which if he's 6 inches, that's the same thing....if you wait until he's 8 inches...what do you do?). There he is. Tall and proud.

And yet.... I was supposed to slice him in half. Oh the agony. The faith required to do such a thing (I read about faith with my dwarf umbrella bonsai, which I'll get to next) is pretty tough. The thing that makes this one less tough is that I just ordered a few more avocados to be delivered in my veggie box on Thursday, so if this thing dies, I've got backup. So I snipped him.

Not as far as I was supposed to, but I felt really bad. According to my research, avocado trees are apical dominant. So they get really tall and leggy. If you clip him, he's forced to spread out laterally and become more bushy. We'll see. In the meantime, I'll work on sprouting the next couple of avocados.

Oh the dwarf umbrella bonsai. Such a beautiful specimen. Reminds me of a palm tree in the tropics.

But he's tall and leggy. I found a forum that suggested a website that says I should just totally stump the thing. Several people swore by it. And apparently propagating the thing is fairly easily, so the top you lob off just becomes another plant. Oh how I doubt all that. But the website also talked about risk, and having faith that it's going to work out.  I can sympathize with that. I have taken a lot of risk in my life, and so far so good. So I brought him down to a semi-stump.

And now I wait.

That's lesson number one with all of these plants. Over winter, they really didn't do much. Turns out even indoor plants go dormant in winter. Big lesson there. But now that it's spring and they're starting to become much more active...I just expect them all to branch out into huge healthy plants. Turns out it's not that easy. A plant will find its way the best it knows how. I don't get to decide that. I can only pay close attention to how it responds to every change, and hope for the best.

Today I helped my Coastal Redwood seeds (and other seeds) chase the sun around my apartment as I waited for the painters to no-show.

Giant redwoods take time apparently....even to sprout. I watched how the sun moved across the room throughout the day. With the changing season, it's different than it was a couple months ago, and I haven't been home all day to see the changes. It was nice to spend the day chasing the sun and hanging out with my plants. Maybe that makes me weird. That's ok. I like my plants better than people anyway.

Morning Rain

Today I'm supposed to be breathing. Moving slowly. But habit builds itself a home and can't be broken down overnight just because it's a weekend. It's a house, not an easy-up tent. Besides, there is too much restlessness in these bones to sleep past 3:30 am. So I've instead been staring out the window at the rain, illuminated by a street light that is, in my opinion, far too bright and bears too much likeness to a sunny day.

I have recruited an army of plants as living souls to keep me company. They do not demand my conversation (although science suggest words of encouragement may actually help them grow). We're learning to communicate through drooped leaves, the reaching of a stem towards the light, and unexpected color changes. We're still learning.

This morning, like every morning, I crept around quietly, peering at each plant, looking for changes. Several have joints that move their leaves up and down and I have decided that movement is good. When they're still for too long, I wonder what's wrong. What have I messed up this time?

This morning, the calathea's leaves are slightly lifted (it's about time!), the prayer plant's new leaf is beginning to unfold, and the monstera's shoots are still rolled tightly but appear longer. It's the beginning of spring, and I wonder if those new leaves will be the first to have the coveted splits.

The night is fading to a lighter grey and the street lamp has finally turned off. Rain falls softly on the pavement and coaxes me "Find your slippers, pour another cup of coffee, bring your blanket out on to the balcony. You can breathe here."

My Brown Thumb

I kill plants. Not on purpose. I have recently concluded that I have a tendency to over-water my plants. I should've learned that a long time ago when a plant I was killing at my station suddenly thrived when the snow kept us away from the station for a couple months. Despite what my resume says, I can sometimes be a slow learner.

Because I'm deeply saddened by the current state of my Nerve Plant (fittonia), we won't talk about that yet. Instead, let's talk about my leggy China Doll Plant. Apparently legginess is not a positive characteristic in plants, regardless of how it's viewed in humans. My China Doll Plant was not looking super spunky, so I did some Googling and decided it may be slightly "leggy" and needed a little more light. I positioned it near the balcony window, got it a bigger pot, and gave it some water (more water). I went to Home Depot to purchase more plants and more pots. I came across a China Doll Plant. I now get what leggy means. My plant has what my dad would call chicken legs (he always called me that). The plant in Home Depot was full and bushy. Hmm. My plant currently has leaves curling under.... a symptom of over-watering. Go figure.

My friend Carrie, who has an amazing green thumb, gifted me with a couple pots for my balcony railing. She wasn't able to put drainage holes in them since it would only drain to my neighbor's balcony below me. As she handed them over, she assured me it was fine if I killed them. I detected a resigned sadness in her voice. I did my best.

The Great Flood of December 6th, 2018 annihilated those plants... and others that were on my balcony. Pots filled to the brim under hours of deluge. Days passed before I realized they were drowning. I could put a goldfish in a few of the pots and it would probably thrive. I drilled drainage holes in the pots from Carrie and winced as putrid smelling water drained out for an hour.

By some strange miracle, there is still a little green in those pots. I have no idea how long they'll last.

Ok, let's talk about the Nerve Plant. Not only was it one of the flood victims... it is also apparently a tropical plant (also a gift from Carrie). I know this now that it has been subjected to near freezing temperatures (post flood). I have brought it indoors and pruned it. It does not seem impressed.

My Christmas Cactus that Mike got me about a year and a half ago (which turns out is actually a Thanksgiving Cactus), is my longest living plant ever. I decided to Google the care for this guy who continues to thrive despite my inadequacies. Turns out he doesn't like cold temperatures either. I pulled him inside for the night. We'll be down near freezing again tonight, and I'll be damned if I kill another plant.

I have invested in more succulents and a couple indoor "trees". I'm also attempting to grow oak trees from the sprouted acorns I collected in Mike's mom's yard. Every day I check them for movement. That's my issue... I expect more action from my plants. They aren't doing much. Having an actual pet is not for me (for various reasons) and my plants are not active enough for me to feel like I can leave them alone. I poke and prod them daily to inspire new growth. I'm not sure they like that. The baby Chinese Money Plant that I detached from its mother and put in a tiny pot is looking like it's not going to make it. Too much water, I've concluded. It's mother has received too much water as well, but she may be hardy enough to survive.

So I'm now working on training myself to leave my plants alone. I bought a coffee plant when I was at Mike's house (its name is Mr. Coffee, although Mike insists on calling it Sanka), and so now Mike is in charge of keeping the plant alive until he moves down here with it. At first I was apprehensive and told him several times not to kill it. The thing is, Mike neglects plants. He leaves them alone. He lets them be. Mr. Coffee is probably a lot safer with him than he'll ever be with me.

As I sit in my living room and stare at all my plants, I hear my friend Debbie's voice, scolding her golden retriever. "Leave it!"

"Leave it!" I tell myself as I'm tempted to prune or adjust or (god forbid) water my plants. I'm just going to not touch them for awhile and see how they do. They're just not very interactive and I may have to learn to accept that.

Holidays and Other Intrusions

I'm a weird duck.

I suppose it's a lot like when you sit back and start to contemplate your own mortality. When I consider my list of quirks, I realize it borders on psychosis.

This morning as I was sipping my coffee and staring out the window into the blurry morning that comes with hating my glasses but not being ready to put my contacts in, I started categorizing holidays by which was the most stressful. This started last night as I realized I have yet to make New Year's plans, which needs to be approached with care, as New Year's plans for me means finding the best way to sleep through New Year's Eve without being woken up at midnight. Top most stressful holidays (in order):

1. New Year's Eve
2. Halloween
3. Christmas

For the record, my favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. Nothing wrong with eating food all day in a low stress environment. But here's a brief explanation for the ranking above, which prompted me to explore my neurotic tendencies further.

New Year's Eve: By far the most atrocious holiday ever. I do not hate any holiday like I do New Year's Eve. That's right, I hate it. Probably the only holiday I actually hate, instead of "don't care for". First- it arrives well beyond my bedtime. I hate how people suggest that staying up until midnight one night of the year shouldn't be such a big deal for me. Why would you want to start the New Year feeling tired and sick? Isn't New Year's about starting your year off right? A clean slate? Why would I muddy my clean slate with exhaustion, a possible hangover, and the decreased immunity that follows? And the pressure. Oh my god, the social pressure that comes with New Year's Eve gives me a panicked feeling much like when that camera crew from the Chamber of Commerce stopped by a few weeks ago and everyone started pressuring me to do an impromptu interview. Everyone thinks I should do something for New Year's Eve, and my biggest pet peeve is when people think I should do something I don't want to do. I could go on... but just the thought of New Year's Eve makes me angry.

Halloween: While I don't necessarily hate Halloween (see above), I'm not a big fan. And there's a very simple explanation for this: I don't want random people knocking on my door. That's it. It stresses me out. There's a social anxiety component to this, that I'm completely aware of, but don't feel like it's something I, nor my therapist, need to address.

Christmas: I bet a lot of people would put this first, but Christmas in itself is actually a fairly pleasant holiday. One thing that gets me worked up a little is that I always want to find "the perfect gift" for my loved ones. Some people are easy to shop for, others aren't. So I get frustrated when I can't come up with something good. But here's the thing. Immediately after Thanksgiving, one of the local radio stations starts playing 24/7 Christmas music like it's an acceptable thing. All the stores get super packed. If I have to go to Target for coffee filters, I have to navigate the Christmas crowds. Maybe I should go to Vons for coffee filters. Avoid it altogether. I almost want to just order them from Amazon, that way the only person I potentially have to face is the delivery guy, but Amazon gives me a tracking number that sometimes lets me know how many more stops the guy has to make before he gets to my place, which gives me a heads up that someone may be knocking on the door soon and I should probably not be sitting in the bathtub or otherwise indisposed.

This thinking led me to start thinking about the 1 year birthday party for my friend's son that I was invited to. Super nice people. But the party is a pancake-Christmas music-pajama party... with bonus points for rocking out in holiday pajamas.

Umm....I love pancakes.

I just don't know how to approach this kindly. So here it is: I don't love kids. I don't love Christmas music. I don't love being around a bunch of people (67 families invited.... 28 have confirmed they are going). I really don't want to be around a bunch of people in my pajamas (I mean, would I have to wear a bra?).

My coworker (who has 4 kids) tells me that parents don't even like birthday parties for their kids. Like big ones, where you invite the entire school. So he's steered his kids into more meaningful celebrations like camping or Lego Land or something like that. Kudos.

For a couple months I fretted about how I was going to come up with an excuse not to go. Finally, I figured I would just politely decline, sans excuse. I went on to the Facebook page for the event, clicked "Not going" and guess what? It didn't even give me a space to explain why. I'll leave it at that.

Then the other day, I received a group text about a "mellow/relaxed" bridal shower/bachelorette  lunch and/or spa. 7 people on the text. Instant anxiety. This is where I start to realize (I know, even after all the above paragraphs) that I've got issues. And here's where my brain goes: first of all, 7 girls, all together in one location. (OMG!!!). High energy, happy, cheerful girls. (What is my problem?) Spa: this one is tricky. I don't like my fingernails painted, and I like them trimmed to stubs. Nails are out. Pedicures are out as well. My feet are so incredibly sensitive, that during my last pedicure, the lady finally gave up touching them and just let them soak. Also- because I run, my toenails need to be kept at a certain length as well as certain angles. I know what angle each toenail needs to be at in order to not become ingrown and to not cut into the one next to it. I also don't like my toenails painted. I used to. That stopped after nearly losing a few toenails after the Boston Marathon and having to monitor their progress closely over the period of a few weeks.

I wouldn't mind a facial.... by a licensed dermatologist. There are so many things that can go wrong with a facial, that is not easily hid under a hat or a long sleeve shirt. I also am not prepared to spend a few hundred dollars on a facial. I also think it's weird to get group massages. Isn't that like a group orgy? Do you hear the other girls murmuring about how good it feels? Um...?

Which made me suddenly think about how incredibly picky and rigid I am. I like what I like and I don't like what I don't like. This is probably why I don't fight Mike (much) about being so picky about food and microbes and shoes in the house. I get it. I get what it's like to want things a certain way and have people push and prod for you to do something differently. But I know how this makes me come across. I can read everything I just wrote. Not liking all these things others enjoy. It makes me seem difficult and stubborn. Maybe I am.

And this is where it's difficult to ascertain whether it's my anxiety holding me back from these things or if it's that I just don't like doing these things. In response to me not wanting to go to some sort of party, Jen said "I thought your anxiety was getting better." It threw me a bit. I was thinking I just didn't want to go to the party. Jen was thinking it was a great thing to do, but maybe I was just having too much anxiety about it to feel like I would enjoy it. I don't even know how to properly think about that. Big get-togethers sound like a horrible thing to me. Is that because I'm anxious around groups of people or is that because I just don't enjoy big get-togethers. Or do I not enjoy big groups because I'm anxious around big groups?

When I start contemplating that, it feels a lot like trying to grasp dark matter in the book I'm reading about astrophysics by Neal DeGrasse Tyson.

Ativan and Whiskey

I don't normally order beverages on the plane as it's usually a time devoted to my thesis, and you can't fit both a laptop and a drink on the small trays that fold out from the seats. Today I am breathing, because I can feel myself holding my breath intermittently, followed by the need to hyperventilate to replenish the oxygen. So I order a tomato juice and think about how when all this thesis madness is done, I'd like to go back to being the type of person who sips beverages on the plane.

When you take an anxiety class, they teach you how to breathe. As I stood in line on the jet-way, I practiced my breathing. In to the count of 4, hold for 7, out for 8. We were told not to do it more than 4 times as it can make you dizzy. I decide I'm going to do it more than 4 times, just for fun. Just to see what happens. But as I start number 4 I'm already light-headed. So I finish number 4 and turn my attention to the "no food" sign on the jet-way controls. I wondered what malfunction prompted that sign, and I picture a spilled milkshake that causes the jet-way to retract prematurely.

With Santa Anas over the service territory last week, we all worked overtime over the weekend and the first half of the week. After a few 12-14 hour shifts, I had completely pushed my thesis aside, and felt zero guilt. At 2 am on Wednesday, I rolled over in bed and glanced at the wind speed and humidity in our backcountry, felt satisfied that we were okay, and lay my phone back on the nightstand. I closed my eyes to try to get in a little more sleep before my 3 am alarm.

Thesis.

My eyes opened and I stared into the darkness as I realized tomorrow is the day I defend my thesis and I haven't even practiced my presentation. And I'm up. I shower and head off to work. I scan my badge at the entrance to the parking lot, and as the security arm lowers behind me, I glance at my watch. 3:45 am. Geez. It's still the middle of the night.

My nerves escalate throughout the day, and I decide it's okay to take my medication to keep them under control. I know my doctor would agree. I picture not passing my defense, and I'm holding my breath again. During our afternoon Skype meeting, I watch my leg tap rapidly on the screens in front of us and I wonder if anyone else notices. As I excuse myself to catch my flight, the director smiles and gives me a fist bump, my manager gives me the thumbs up, and I wonder how they'll react if I come back with news that I failed my defense.

I take another anti-anxiety pill as I wait at the airport, and anyone watching would think I'm afraid to fly. Somehow, crashing is the least of my worries. I work on my presentation as I wait for my flight.

I have a plan, and put it into action the next day. I take an Ativan two hours before my presentation- to make up for my lack of preparation. I don't remember the logic behind that idea, but it works. It's mostly a blur now, but I managed to make it through a 45 minute presentation with some difficult questions from the audience in the 15 minutes that followed.

Then I retreated to a conference room with my thesis committee to get the real scoop on the status of my thesis. Two committee members would sign me off right then. My advisor would like me to put off graduating for another semester so I can add more content. Again, I forget to breathe. Read Why Zebras Don't Get Ulcers. In an instant, I am panicked. I see myself trying to maintain the workload I've been carrying for the past year and despite the Ativan, my heart pounds in my chest and my stomach turns in knots and part of me says to relax: "Don't drink the poison". The other part of me says to fight. To squash the idea before it has a chance to bloom. I keep my expression blank as I've been trained to never show weakness. The 4th committee member agrees that it's not a big deal to defer graduation for another semester. My advisor chimes in "Is it the 300 dollars? If so, I'll pay the $300."

I do not tell him how I've forgotten how to breathe. I do not tell him how this has landed me back in the psychiatry department, and how this is the second time in my life I have needed to be medicated in order to make it through the day and the only other time was due to a traumatic experience. I cannot do this for another 6 months.

I calmly tell him it's not the $300. It's having this thing hanging over my head constantly. Knowing that when I leave work, I have to go home and start work again... on my thesis. It's spending all my time off working. It's affecting my health and well being, and I need to graduate.

He tries keywords, but I catch them for what they are: sharp hooks. And I'm not biting. "Thesis-lite" but I know it's bullshit. He can't believe I put in all that work and it only came out to 55 pages- he expected more. But I know better. I know it's sufficient. "And you really don't have very many references", but I am unfazed and stand my ground. My reference section is over two pages long.

He tries telling me how important this work is. How tons of people are going to be downloading my work and he wants it to be as complete as possible. I maintain eye contact and blink, saying nothing. Normally, this would work on me. I'm driven by guilt. But I've got a year's worth of painful anxiety sitting on my chest, and Ativan and Zoloft pumping through my bloodstream. I will not budge. I reiterate that I need to be done. The two committee members I respect the most are behind me. They think I've done a great job and just need to add a couple more things that I can get done before the November 2nd due date. My advisor finally agrees that if I can get those additions in by the due date, he'll approve my thesis.

We go up to the lab for shots of whiskey. Later at dinner he tells me he's being an asshole because of how important this work is. It's just that so many people are looking forward to reading this. The Ativan and whiskey has gifted me with enough apathy to let him drone on without much of an emotional stir from me.

The next day, Mike and I drive to Paso Robles so I can have a much needed break from everything. I leave my laptop at his place, but see I've got 4 emails from my thesis committee. I leave them for the end of the weekend. Bits of anxiety pop up like a whack-a-mole game, and I hit them each time. One week to get my thesis to my advisor's approval (whack), the formatting that I know grad studies will take issue with (whack), what if he doesn't approve it (whack), how can you take time off like this without working on your thesis (whack). I keep pushing them down all weekend.

As I board my flight back to San Diego, it's all back. The churning in my stomach, the gasping for air. I've been swallowing mouthfuls of salt-water to keep my airway clear and here I go again. One more week. Hammer down for one more week. Exactly what I've been saying for a year now. I'm no longer fooled by the light at the end of the tunnel. One day I'll find myself out in the daylight and wonder how I got there. One day I'll breathe without having to check it off my to-do list. One day I won't need reminding. And I'll be the person who drinks tomato juice on the plane and stares out the window at the clouds. Who comes home from work and stops working. Who breathes without needing to be told how.

Self Care

I'm not a fan of solicitors or salesmen, people who want me to sign petitions, or really anyone who wants to get me to do something I didn't first seek out myself. (Sidetrack- did you know in Ireland, solicitors are like lawyers or something? Imagine when they come to the US and signs are everywhere saying No Solicitors.)

When people try to hand me a flier out on the street, I just keep my hands in my pockets so that they actually cannot hand it to me. I realize this is viewed as rude. But 99.9% of the time, I don't want what they're handing me. So they're just handing me trash to throw away for them. To me, that's rude.

Where am I going with this? Well I'm going to take the long way around this one. A couple weeks ago, a lady at work (we'll call her Lucy to protect her identity) asked us if Katie and I could come talk to a group of high school girls for a science workshop. Just an hour, then someone else would talk, then they'd do a tour, etc. So we agreed. Then a week later, she emailed and asked if we could each talk for an hour, totaling 2 hours. We agreed to try to stretch it to an hour and a half, but now we're pushing it. We were agreeing to come in for free on a Saturday, when we've been stretched pretty thin as it is. Then, a few days later, she threw us under the bus to come up with hands-on activities, and cc'd the person in charge of the science workshop. So that it was all on us to come up with something when that was never part of the agreement.

Combine that will all the pressure from my advisor to add more analysis and plots to my thesis. And what keeps coming back to me, is how he told me Sunday night that for the next few months, I'll be working on papers for him to publish.... for free. I was cut off from the funding when I came down here, but apparently I can still do the work.

After a near catastrophe with my email shutting down Thursday night and me being up late with help desk trying to get it fixed, I woke up Friday morning exhausted. I rolled out of bed and tried to make sense of weather data for the briefing. We've got a potential storm coming, which meant I had to get it right. I barely got it out on time at 6 am. I looked at the clock and figured I probably should get ready for work and skip my run. But then I thought about the meetings I had scheduled for that day, and having to come in on my Saturday to do more than I agreed to, and being pressured to do more writing and data analysis with my thesis and research papers than I feel is reasonable. I decided I should probably be good to myself and actually go for a run, make breakfast, and roll in late for work.

I'm glad I did. It was the first step in making myself a priority. After the workshop today (another near catastrophe), I came home, ate a bag of donut holes, drank a cup of coffee, and passed out on the couch. When I woke up an hour later, I drank another cup of coffee. I thought about my thesis and how I've got so much to add to it. I thought about the vegetables going bad in the fridge and how lately, I haven't had the energy or motivation to cook meals. I had carne asada nachos two nights in a row. Before that, I had bread and cheese for dinner a couple nights in a row. I looked out at my balcony that needed to be swept and straightened up. I thought about my bathroom that needed to be cleaned and laundry that needed to be done. And the routine is to push all of those things aside (again) and finish my thesis plots. My mind shifted back to the second night of carne asada nachos. What about me? What about my needs? What about my limits? Multiple therapists now have recommended that I be nicer to myself. After several months of struggling with that, today I finally realized what it means.

I got up from the couch and made dinner out of the farm fresh vegetables that are delivered to my door every two weeks, and the pork I bought at the farmer's market that came from the ranch about an hour or so north of here. While it cooked, I cleaned my bathroom and balcony, and swept, vacuumed, and mopped all the floors. I decided I was going to put aside my thesis to care for myself and my needs and wants.

Back to the people handing out fliers. If I don't put out my hands- they can't hand me one. My advisor has already said that my thesis is good enough for it to pass through graduate studies, but that he thinks I should add more analysis and more plots. And he thinks I need to spend the next several months writing papers for free (after graduating). And there's a fine line between obligation and my own personal limits, and sometimes it's really hard to know where that line is. But outside of getting my thesis approved and submitted to grad studies, he can't put more work on top of me than I'm willing to accept. I don't have to take my hands out of my pockets.

I'm slowly working out what it means to be nice to myself.

Stand up eight

I think back to 2013, as I made my plans to head back to school and decided getting my master's wouldn't be too difficult. Closing up my computer for the night, I have to chuckle. For the past 10 or 11 months, I've been slowly deteriorating. There's a great Japanese proverb:

Fall down seven times, stand up eight.

And I try. I've been getting knocked down my entire life, and eventually you just get used to getting back up. It becomes habit. 

Last weekend I worked 12 hours on Saturday and 8 on Sunday to get my thesis done and turned in to my advisor. Let me backtrack. Over the summer I had an emotional collapse. Too much pressure over too much time. I reached out and got help and am slowly trying to pull myself together, or at least keep from drowning. On Wednesday I graduated from anxiety coping skills school. At least I graduated from something. 

Back to last weekend. I was exhausted. I converted my thesis document to PDF and sent them both over to my advisor, 20 minutes before bedtime on Sunday night. As I scrolled through the PDF document, a feeling of calm passed over me like I hadn't felt in at least 6 months (medications excluded). I sent the email, got up from my desk, and began getting ready for bed. I started thinking about how on Monday after work, I could just come home and relax, instead of my usual routine of picking up my thesis and beginning work again. It was a soothing thought. My phone signaled a text message. It was my advisor. 

"Can you chat?"

I looked at the time. No. No I cannot chat. It's nearly 7:30 pm and I have to be up at 3:45 am to prepare the weather briefing. 

"Yep."

 I started to prepare the coffee pot while he skimmed my thesis and listed things that needed to be changed. Then he started adding more data analysis and more writing, and more papers, and more plots. An hour later I was barely able to mutter "Ok" to each of his demands. I felt myself slipping underwater. I didn't even struggle. (Turns out in the distraction I also neglected to put coffee grounds in the coffee maker.)

I hung up the phone and slowly sat down at my desk, and stared at the screen. Then promptly lost my shit. 

It's now been 5 days and it's been tough getting back up from that one. Maybe I'm halfway up. I feel like I'm dragging a 200 lb weight around. With no end in sight. I've learned something from all of those "light at the end of the tunnel" speeches. It's the same thing I learned when I was on a hotshot crew hiking to the top of the mountain. Every peak before the last one was a false peak. It looked like you were reaching the top because you could only see sky beyond the hill.... until you crested the hill and it was just a step leading to a steeper hill. And so on. The light is an illusion. Sometimes I say it's from an oncoming train. In any case, it's not really there. Throughout my career as a grad student, I have seen that light at the end of the tunnel at least a dozen times- then quickly everything goes black. At this point, an oncoming train would be a blessing. 

So. I'm getting back up. I think. I don't know exactly why, although self-preservation rings a bell. 

Fire

You eventually get tired of hearing about fires. At least I did anyway. My last season in fire, 19 firefighters burned alive. We had already submitted paperwork with our dentists' contact information, in case our bodies were ever burned so badly that dental records were our only means of identification.

I read through the article Mike's mom sent me about the fires in wine country, just in case she ever asked me about it. But I already knew enough, and didn't care to know anymore. We parked our research truck in the ashes of Fountain Grove and scanned the atmosphere through the night, and watched the Nun's Fire burn in the distance. Mansions reduced to ash and melted metal, whole neighborhoods burned to the ground. And the people. The people who couldn't get out in time. An officer showed me a picture of one he found- nothing but a few vertebrae to differentiate concrete from human. 

But you never do leave fire behind. For 14 years I have made a living off the tendency for California to burn. People from out of state will tell you they'd be terrified to live in a place where the ground shakes occasionally. Maybe because we all want to believe that the ground beneath our feet is solid, and won't one day fall out from underneath us. But I don't suspect my home will ever be lifted off the ground and deposited a few miles away in a pile of wooden shards by an unpredictable vortex of spinning air.

Yet everything burns. The article is from Alta- Journal of Alta California. I was going to read through it, then send it to the recycling bin so I didn't have to think about it anymore. Instead, it sits face up on my coffee table, flames illuminating the face of a male firefighter. I hate that my thesis involves this fire. I don't want to be part of the "everyone" who is talking about, researching, that fire. But I am. So I hold on to the journal, in case I need it.

During your emergency response training, they teach you that you will get called on the worst day of someone's life. You get called because something goes horribly wrong. You don't get called because someone is having a wonderful birthday party. You don't get called to the neighborhood where all is quiet and all is well. I thought I would become a meteorologist and learn to predict rainfall, and leave my fire days behind. But it's what I know. It's what I understand. And that understanding propelled me into years of research, and then into my new job.... still studying fire, and making a good living off of it. Fire is a parasite. It gets into your blood and becomes permanent. People want to talk to you about it, ask you about it, show you articles and ask if you've seen the movie.

I've lived it. I live it. I am not a moth drawn to the flames. I have walked through those fires and will never shake the embers from my shirt, or the smoke from my hair.

Some of my indoor plants are on a field trip to the great outdoors. There have been a lot of plant deaths lately (my fault) and since I'm trying to pull myself together, I thought caring for the living beings in my house would be a good start. Some of the plants needed to be replaced (because they were dead), but some just needed new homes. Others have been inhibited by location and needed a field trip to expose them to light on all sides.

The guy in the middle behind Sharky McSharkface lives outside, so he's not on a field trip like his buddies he's surrounded by.

I just moved back to San Diego after being gone about ten years, and am still working on my thesis. All the uncertainty and stress before moving, as well as the moving, getting settled, and trying to find my new routine, has led to a massive increase in anxiety. After getting my care interrupted by the move, I've found my way back to the same psychiatry department as when my dad died. They're renovating the outside, but the waiting room looks the same. Addictions on the first floor, psychiatry on the second. When I find myself feeling embarrassed, I'm reminded we're all visiting the same department and no one really has room to judge. Second therapist in a row to tell me I need to have more compassion for myself. I can't figure out what that's supposed to look like.

Sometimes it helps to care for another living being. I don't know, maybe I'm cheating. Maybe I'm using my plants to practice compassion on something else....besides myself. But I can't expect to pull myself together when I've got crispy dead plants lying all over my house.

A huge issue was the death of Stuart and his housemates. Stuart was a venus flytrap that I've had for about a year. That's quite a bit longer than I can keep most plants alive, so that and the fact that we both eat meat created a bonding experience between us. He lived in a terrarium with two air plants. He's tropical, so he's supposed to get a lot of sun and water. I only have two windows in my apartment and he didn't work real well near either of them, so he was placed on the counter near the kitchen where he only got indirect light. One day in July, I decided I'd take him outside to get some sun. I forgot about him..... and it was during a pretty extreme heat wave. When I got home and saw his withered brown limbs, I panicked. I had killed him for sure. Mike and Carrie tried to make me feel better, like maybe he'd make it. Long story short, he didn't. And neither did his roommates. Finally, over a month later, I have replaced Stuart and his roommates with as-of-yet unnamed plants, and added a little sand castle.

They are currently sunning themselves on my coffee table.

And then there's this guy. This guy deserves another shot at life.

He used to live on top of my bookcase. I'm guessing the reason he ended up under-watered is because I'm short and either had to bring him down to water him, or stand on the chaise lounge and squirt him with my water bottle. He used to be a pretty big, full, plant with lots of bright green vines. All of those vines died except this one. I decided I wanted to try to save him, but having a scrawny looking plant on top of a big bookcase was depressing. I dug him out of the pot he was living in (see the white pot behind him with little orange flowers that now houses a bright philodendron), managed to save some of the roots attached to him, and gently set him in this little pot with loosely packed soil. I feel like his demise is inevitable, but I really hope he makes it. From my experience in emergency medicine, I understand what it takes to keep a human alive, but plants are a different story. If he lives through being parched to the brink of death, dug from his home and plunged into a smaller pot, I'm going to give him a name. Something heroic and courageous. I don't know why it causes me so much despair to lose a plant.

This guy lives on the second shelf down on my bookcase. I have no idea why he's doing so well. I've had him maybe 6 to 8 months.

But you can see that he's got one arm sticking way out.... because it's the only one that really gets any light. This is why he's outside right now. I'd like the rest of him to get some sun and even out a bit. Maybe I should be rotating him occasionally? If only plants could talk.

This is one of the new guys. Poor thing was root-bound, and you can see how he's only had one side exposed to the sun as well. He's going to end up on top of the bookcase. Let's hope I give him a little better treatment than I did his predecessor.

This guy replaced another one I killed.... by over-watering. He at least appears a little heartier than the last one.

And lastly, this little guy got a new home. He's been in a plastic pot, living in the bathroom since Carrie brought him over. Carrie has an amazing green thumb. He's not dead yet, so that's something. He comes out every once in awhile to sit on the coffee table and get some sun. Not a lot of light in the bathroom.

As I was re-potting the philodendron, there was a root hanging off one of the vines. Just hanging out in the air. I don't know if the plant was purposely doing that or not, so as I put him in the pot, I tucked his little root into the soil and hoped I was doing the right thing. I suddenly felt like I was caring for a small child, and it struck me as somewhat odd. But maybe plants just need some love and respect, and they'll decide to be friends with you forever.

White Flag

I've been on the verge of throwing up a white flag since my alarm went off this morning. I contemplated going back to sleep, but instead got up and poured coffee for Mike and I. I placed his on his bedside table, and took mine back to bed as well, and sipped it in the dark. I watched red numbers change on the alarm clock on the dresser.

I made it to the gym, but since I'm tapering for my marathon this Sunday, I just did an easy half hour of weights. It rained on my way home and while I showered. I had no desire to go teach my class. Early in the semester I have high hopes for my class, thinking if I just do something differently, they will care. They will come to class (on time), listen to my lecture, do their homework, and study for quizzes and exams. I realize you can't control other people's actions, but I also realize you can inspire them to take action.

I don't know what it takes to inspire an 18 year old to be responsible. I don't know how responsible I was as an 18 year old. I have a hint though... I recently read one of my diary entries from around that time, where I complained that my dad was being unreasonable for getting angry at me that he had been telling me for a week to do the dishes. A week. We rotated through chores at my house, and one week my chore was the dishes. Apparently that week, the dishes just continued piling up until my dad finally did them and left me a detailed bill. How unfair! He didn't realize how busy and stressed I was. How dare he!

Today is not only Monday, but it's also the first day back to the real world since Thanksgiving break. And I gave my class a quiz. I know, I'm a jerk. But they had fair warning, they knew it was coming. As we all stood out in the hallway waiting for the previous class to exit, I spotted a student that doesn't normally come to class. I figured he was there because we had a quiz. That's when most students decide to show up. When I was handing back homework, I noticed he wasn't there. That was odd. With the way our nation is going, I figure a university is a prime location for an active shooter. Last semester I would habitually bring up the contact info for the University Police, have it set so that all I had to do was open the phone and push a button, and set it on my table in front of me. Should something happen, I had the number ready. I haven't done that in awhile as I've been fairly comfortable with my students this semester. When that student showed up in the hallway, but never entered the classroom, I set up my phone again- ready to dial University Police in a second. While the students were taking their quiz, I searched through the homework they all turned in for his name, and found it. That explained it. He had dropped off his homework, didn't know there was a quiz because he rarely comes to class, and went home.

With two minutes left of the quiz, another student walked in. I handed him his quiz and told him he had two minutes. Three minutes later, I told everyone to hand their quizzes up. While students passed their quizzes to the front of the class, the late student came up to me with his quiz and tried to explain why he was late and why I should let him do the quiz after class. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other students watching the exchange. He said he just got back (from being on vacation). I told him there were a few other students who were traveling back today and I told them they'd be unable to make up the quiz- it wouldn't be fair to allow him to. He said "Well yesterday I just had a bunch of things to do...and if I had known there was going to be a quiz, I probably could've made it on time."

It's amazing the miracles that could've happened if you had just known.

I told him there was no reason to be late to my class, and that the other students had known about the quiz, so why didn't he? Had he not been to the last several classes? He thought for a moment, then said he had been there (I doubt it).

"But this is a lot of points..." he argued.

"It is a lot of points. But I can't let you make it up and not let the other students make it up."

He tried a few more times while the rest of the class watched. Then he handed me his quiz, with one answer scribbled in, and sat down. I started to pull up the power point lecture, and he grabbed his stuff and walked out. I continued with what I was saying for a second, and then stopped. The class had watched the entire exchange. The student had been there all of five minutes. Two of them he had spent arguing with me. Sometimes I think it's more appropriate to pretend nothing happened. This wasn't one of those times. Maybe it was. Maybe I was just tired. I didn't want to be there either, but there I was.

I faced the class. Wide eyes looking back at me told me they all wondered how I was going to handle this. It wasn't that big of a deal as I get that sort of thing often, just usually after class or in an email. But it was Monday for all these students, the Monday after vacation.

"I know it's Monday. What's worse is that we're all coming back from being on vacation. And some students were not able to make it back in time for the quiz. I know you guys don't want to be here right now, and I know you didn't want to take a quiz this morning. But you guys made it here, and it's a good thing that you did. Because sometimes in life we have to do things we don't want to do. I'm sorry it's Monday, and I'm sorry you had a quiz. But you did it. And you all know you can't make up a quiz without a doctor's note, and I need to keep it fair for everyone."

There were some nods in the group. I moved on to our projected schedule for the remaining couple of weeks of class. We went over the Finals schedule and I made sure everyone (who was there) understood that the Finals schedule is made by the university and not me.... and therefore cannot be changed by me.

As I went into the lecture, the student who had been late and argued with me, came back into class, stuffing things into his backpack. He seems like a nice enough student and didn't seem threatening at all to me, even as he argued. He was not tense or angry, just embarrassed and desperate. I went on with the lecture and the remainder of the class period went peacefully.

When I got home, I ate lunch and sat down to grade the quizzes. Three quizzes in, I just couldn't keep going. I'm all out of drive. I want to curl under the blankets in the darkness of my room, and shut the world out.

But I want time to stop too, so that I don't fall (further) behind. I'm supposed to be writing a paper... but not until I figure out what to do with my new data. I'm supposed to be grading quizzes and homework, but it's zapping my will to go on.

I've decided to take a different approach to my class next semester... as I always do. New Year's resolutions of a sort. New Semester's resolutions. They are definitely getting quizzed on the syllabus. They will also get a more in depth introduction of myself. I usually don't give them very much background, but I think most of them believe I'm only a couple years older than them and don't really have any life experiences. Maybe I can be a little more inspirational next semester. It's too late for this class.... there is no hope.

Midterm

Today my bones hurt. I stand in front of my class watching them take a midterm exam. I handed out crisp, clean, white exams. One by one, they drop them off at my desk in the front of the room, covered in ink (the brave) or pencil scratch, stacked on top of their cheat sheets. One girl turns in more than one cheat sheet, and now I’m faced with an issue I didn’t anticipate. Do I subtract points from her exam? My ankle bone hurts. Which is interesting because to my knowledge, I have never injured the bone in my ankle. Maybe it’s the cyst that’s apparently growing out of my joint.

I sip cold coffee as the room slowly empties. Three students remain. The construction outside provides a constant loud hum that I’ve managed to tune out. The stack of exams on my desk grows larger and I wonder who does more work for these things- myself or my students?

Rubble

After returning home from the Northern California wildfires, I dropped all my gear on the floor, ate a sandwich from the sack lunch provided by the fire, and peeled off my clothes. My feet had been in my old fire boots for 26 hours. I crawled in to bed to tack on a third hour to the two broken hours of sleep I had gotten out on the fire the night before. When I woke up, I was cranky and felt helpless. I took a hot bath. Mike texted and asked what I needed. "Dinner" I replied. I managed to put all my gear away before he made it over.

After eating, I crawled into the soft down comforter of my own bed. As I closed my eyes, I found myself surrounded by the rubble and char of Fountain Grove, the leveled community I had spent the night in, conducting LiDAR scans from our mobile research truck. I let the images play in my head. Dispatch informed Night Ops of another fire, and that the caller had said "People are running". Night Ops responded with an order to get on RedCom and order up anyone and everyone who might have resources available. They were going to lose another town.

I sank into a deep sleep.

This morning, as my mind raced with all my uncompleted tasks, the horrors of the last 24 hours, and my own insignificance, Mike tells me to save all those thoughts for my run. I wondered how far I'd have to run to escape the images of all the wreckage, and evacuees holding hands, comforting each other. I wonder how long I will need to press my feet to the pavement to out run the thought of an ocean of fire rolling over people as they desperately tried to escape. And people wonder why so many are still missing. But people, like animals, look exactly like everything else when all that's left is char.

I told Mike I felt worthless. I wasn't out saving people, or saving their homes. I had stood and stared at the rubble, over coffee heated in a JetBoil on the bed of the pickup truck, hoping that morning was not the day they'd let survivors back in to see if their homes still stood. When I was fighting fires in San Diego, we had driven past homes completely destroyed. Families sifted through the burned remains, looking for any token of their lives before the fire. Those days, fighting fire wasn't fun. Fighting fire was fun when it didn't kill anyone or destroy anyone's home. It hurts to watch others come to realize their grief. I've inherited my father's empathy.

"You paid your dues" Mike responded. I don't know. When is it really enough? Some people spend their whole lives fighting fire. Me, just a small fraction. But you can't keep pushing yourself to do something you no longer love. It takes the life out of it.

I put on my shoes and went out into the brisk morning. I started to jog and the impact jostled my bones. I was exhausted. I thought about the neighborhood we were advised not to go in, because they were still searching. For people. Or what was left of them. I had a 16 mile run scheduled for yesterday and made a plan to make that up on this run. 16 miles should make all this go away.

I needed to write the midterm for my class, analyze the computer simulation of the winds driving the fires, go shopping. My breath started to even out and my legs strode forward on their own. I'm not sure what it is about cars that melts into a bright silver liquid when they burn. Maybe the rims? It looks like mercury, shining in the sun. Complete ruins, surrounding an untouched playground. Buildings crumbled to the ground next to a broken pot for a plant. Two cars parked, presumably, in what used to be the garage, next to what looks like was once a lawn mower.

I ran down onto the entrance to the paved creek trail and turned left under the bridge. I came upon a homeless man sitting on a bench, going through his backpack. I wondered "What's the difference?" Thousands of people are now homeless, but this man has probably been homeless for a good portion of his life. My GPS beeped. 1 mile. 7 more to go before I turn around and head home.

I stopped at the park to pee, then continued on. My stomach hurt. I wondered if it was smart to push so hard after having so little sleep in the past couple of days. I just wanted to do whatever it took to make myself feel better. Another beep. 2 miles. I wasn't helping anyone. I wasn't doing anything to make the world a better place, or to save people. I gave up responding to other people's emergencies and embraced the peaceful life, where choices aren't a matter of life and death.

I choked up and held back tears, tried to even my breath again. 16 miles were not going to make this feel better. And maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not supposed to feel ok. Maybe I'm just supposed to feel. I stopped running. I walked for a few more minutes before turning off my GPS.

Buddha taught that we suffer because of our expectations, our view that the world should be a certain way. We fail to see that things just are. People die, houses burn, we're all just ants building our own troubles. I made myself keep walking, trying to look at the fall leaves around me. I crossed over the bridge and looked at the ducks standing on the ledge before the waterfall. I took a few deep breaths and decided to just enjoy the day.

I pushed aside my thoughts about not being ready for the December marathon, not being where I should with my thesis, not saving the world, not being enough. "Be here now". I decided to find a turtle. I walked closer to the creek, glancing around as I did. I smiled and said good morning to others out on the trail. An old couple sat together on a bench. I found my turtle. He sat on a log, still as a statue. His neck stretched toward the sky, soaking up the sun. I stared for a couple minutes and he still didn't move. I walked home.

I had a snack and took a nap. When I awoke, I made the mistake of Googling the "Diablo Winds". My thesis. I wanted to see if my advisor had given me credit for the statistics on the winds that he had desperately asked for, as he was preparing for a radio interview. Because of the wildfires going on just north of here, the most catastrophic in California's history, the entire world was talking about Diablo winds, what they are and the science behind them. There goes my thesis. There goes any self worth I had mustered during my walk home.

Getting back up was tough. I suppose it always is. Hundreds of papers exist on Santa Ana winds, so my one among a few on the Diablos will be fine. I don't know where I read it, but it stuck with me: "You're always okay until you're not". With the memories and emotions of the last couple days draped over my shoulder, I went out to get groceries, grabbing a couple chocolate bars just in case.

Creature Week

The other day as I drove to the gym in the darkness, I started thinking about a weekend swim in the cove. I haven't done an ocean swim since September, so my mental comfort level has dropped a bit. As I walked into the women's locker room, a local news station was playing silently on one of the televisions. The headline along the bottom read "Up next: shark advisory". It went to a commercial.

I locked my things in a locker and tried to locate a tv with that station on as I prepared to warm up on the stationary bike. I saw the story pop up, but it was too far away to see the closed captioning. I had to wait until I got to work to look it up.

Sure enough, the shark advisory was for San Diego. A juvenile great white shark, about 8 feet long, was spotted by a couple of surfers.... last seen headed north. The advisory doesn't affect the cove, which is further north than the shark sighting, but I decided to cancel my open water swim anyway.

It's been Creature Week on The Weather Channel that plays on one of the many tv's in our meteorology office at work. We've been watching sharks, spiders, and snakes.

San Diego has also been having a bee issue lately, with traveling swarms (apparently not Africanized). My roommate told me about a swarm that came around before I got here and she nearly smacked into it. It reminded me to locate my epi-pen and be sure I always know where it is.

So last night, spurred on by all the creature talk of the week, and my upcoming triathlon (in the harbor), I had the craziest dream. I was doing a triathlon, but in a weird order. I ran first, then biked, and then had to attend to someone with an injury. About a half hour or so later, I was done and considered finishing the race. But I was worried because of my ankle injury that I've been rehabbing and wasn't sure I should even do the run. Then I realized I had already made it through the run just fine and only had the swim left. I decided to do it. My transition time would be horrible (like a half hour), but my swim split could still be good.

I quickly pulled on my wetsuit, tearing the ankle cuff in the process. I entered the water near the officials who directed me into a shallow, rocky area. I carefully waded through the rocks. As I came upon larger rocks that forced me to rise up out of the water, I was swarmed by bees. I crawled over the rocks and in front of me lay a deep, dry canyon. On the other side of the canyon, rocks piled up in the form of a wave. As I looked on, a huge wave crashed over the lip of the rocks and flooded the canyon. I was terrified. That kind of power was more than I was trained for. The wave subsided. As  waited for the next one, a giant killer whale flung itself over the rock wall and landed in the canyon in front of me, awaiting the next wave. I would have to swim through the powerful wave.... with a killer whale.

I woke up.

I have a feeling I'm going to have to get my nerves in check before the triathlon. Even in the harbor, I'm going to worry about the creatures of the deep. But being in the water with a hundred other people at least statistically decreases my chance of getting eaten.

Homo sapiens

We are anxious creatures.
Full of expectations of ourselves
and of others.

No one tells you
that for every day you weave flowers into your hair
there will be one you draw the bath
extra hot
to scorch the day from your skin.

The knots in your stomach
and in your shoulders
will compete for dominance
even as your feet glide freely over cool morning concrete
and your lungs expand into the sacred space
of your chest.
Your courageous wings will flap angrily against the weight
of your own insecurities
and you will be stretched thin
between the earth
and the sky.

And you will breathe.
And you will crumble.

And you will breathe.
And you will rise.

No one tells you
the most heinous battles are not fought between countries
or religions,
but rather inside of yourself.
Every part of you will be a rogue soldier
fighting for his own cause
and you will burn down whole villages
built from your bones.

And your skin
will cover it all.

You will carry that skin
with every ounce of bravery you can muster
and for every day that it is a crushing stone,
there will be one in which it is a cape
with super powers.

And you will breathe.

No one tells you

that breathing is enough.

Floor

I knew today was a floor day shortly after 6 am. That early notice was made possible by a 4:30 am wake-up.

I put my foot in a hole while running in December. It seemed ok, nothing seemed injured. I kept running. I had been running since then, with intermittent swelling and pain that I attributed to achilles tendinitis. After a hilly half marathon in March, my ankle swelled substantially. The swelling was all in the front, the pain was all in the back. I made a doctor's appointment. Several appointments, an x-ray, an MRI, two doctors, and one physical therapist later, I have posterior ankle impingement due to os trigonum syndrome, and capsulitis thanks to the hole in the snow. I am in the middle of ten weeks of physical therapy, making a shoe switch, having orthotics modified by a sports medicine podiatrist, and following a "return to run" program. I am trying my best to stay positive. In my opinion, an athlete's strength can be measured by his or her ability to endure in the face of adversity. All athletes get injured.

I can cycle, as long as I don't stand on the pedals much. I can swim, as long as I don't kick. I can do weight training as long as it doesn't bother my ankle. I can now run 30 minutes at time, at a moderate pace, on flat ground. All doctor-approved.

Last week my physical therapist scolded me for wearing flip flops (it was 91 degrees outside) because it encourages my big toe to curl, and she's trying to get it to go in the opposite direction. I talked about going barefoot, but then I'd burn my feet, and then what?

"Well then you'd be forced to take a break!" she exclaimed.

I kept quiet and focused on my exercises. But it made me wonder if she didn't approve of the return to run program that my podiatrist had outlined for me. I didn't ask. Later that day she told me how impressed she was with my foot strength. "Good job!" Ok, I guess I'm doing alright.

Sometimes kicking happens while swimming. Actually, my podiatrist said not to kick, my therapist said to try to start kicking so that we can improve my functional range of motion. I'm trying to pick a happy medium. I try to do a little light kicking. After my swim, I run. I'm always stiff and heavy after swimming, as if my body has forgotten what to do with gravity. After my post-swim runs, my ankle is generally a little sore. I don't remember if I'm allowed soreness. When I run on Saturdays, there is no soreness, and I decide I must be doing ok. I am constantly in doubt of my progression.

Last week's meeting with the podiatrist, she told me I was coming along real well. I guess so.

Tuesday's post-swim run left me stiff and sore. And I wonder again, if I'm doing too much. Add onto that my sore wrist from helping Mike move and I can't help but be frustrated with my body as a whole. My wrist hurts more than my ankle, which is either a good sign for my ankle or a bad sign for my wrist. I can't tell.

At the gym this morning, a friend asked about my running. I gave him the spiel.

"Why don't you just take 6 months off?"

"I'm doing what my doctor has cleared me to do."

"Yeah, but are you listening to your body?"

In all honesty, my body told me I wasn't injured after putting my foot in a hole, so I trust an MRI and a couple of doctors more than I trust what my body is telling me. If my body tells me something hurts and my doctor says that's normal, then why would I stop doing what I love? Should I just sit on the couch for a few months and see how that goes?

I told the podiatrist that the back of my ankle hurts sometimes when I kick.

"That may take awhile to go away" she said. Alright, then this is ok.

I stood on the table while my therapist manipulated my ankle bone to sit further back. The pain was horrific.

"What hurts?" she asked, in an impatient tone.

"My ankle bone! Where your thumb is."

"Oh, that's okay then." she said and continued pushing.

Later, she assessed her tape job's ability to hold my ankle bone back and commented on my "drama" I unleashed while she was messing with it.

"Well you were dislodging my bone!" I argued.

"I was mobilizing your joint." She corrected me.

"A joint is made up of bones" I said as I looked at her in the mirror while balancing on my left foot.

She was quiet.

"Alright, I'll give you that."

My therapist is brutal, but she got me healed for Boston. So I take her abuse.

I digress. The point is, some pain is normal. I just don't always know what is. My friend put even more doubt in my head, and a whole lot of anger. I'm tired of people telling me to stop. Three doctors later, not one has suggested I stop running (ok, I didn't run for an entire month during the time they were trying to figure out what was wrong). I have good doctors.

I left the gym in a foul mood and thought about riding up Hick's Road. I have come to the conclusion that Hick's Road is not my demon, but I certainly meet all of them on the way up. I mulled it over in my head. There would definitely be standing on the pedals, Hick's is too steep not to. I knew my anger would be replaced by fear the closer I got to the base of the mountain.

I ate a banana and a piece of bread with peanut butter, adjusted my rear brakes, and headed out the door. Even on flat ground I was running out of gears. Is my tire flat? What's happening?

Maybe you should just go home and lay on the floor. 

I thought about the last time Mike found me on the floor.

"Uh oh" I heard him say as he entered the room. He knows what it means if I'm laying on the floor. The floor is the last resort. The floor is where I go when I have exhausted all of my coping mechanisms. I lay on the floor where there is no further down to go, and I take a break. I let tears run down my cheeks. I let the anger and the frustrations and the fears come and go in my mind. I am not allowed to get up until my time down there is up. I usually give myself a time limit. "Time out" if you will.

I pushed away on my pedals and fought back tears. I would lose myself in the breeze and the ride, then my mind would come back to everything that was bothering me and I'd get all upset again. You're going to stay out here until you change your attitude. I dropped my head. Hick's Road it is.

I came up on a 12 year old riding a fixed gear on his way to school. The light turned green. He took off with apparent ease, even with his backpack on. You're getting your ass kicked by a 12 year old on a fixie. I caught him though...and passed him.

8 miles later, I turned right on Hick's Road. Trees on either side of the narrow two lane road covered the path with shade. A small incline to get up and over a bridge nearly bowled me over. Pull over, you're not ready for this. Maybe your tire is flat.

I pulled onto a side road and pushed down on the saddle. The back tire gave a little. I wasn't sure. I looked at my Garmin. 8.60 miles. Just go home, you're not up for this today. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. Yes, my legs were tired from the gym, but I had squatted more today than I have in months. My legs are strong. I pedaled home.

As I pulled into the driveway, I tested the back tire again. It's not soft, your legs are. 

That's probably true, I thought as I hoisted the bike up onto my shoulder and climbed the stairs. I set it down on the floor inside and leaned it against the wall. I took off my gear and glanced over my bike. Hmmm.

I inspected the back brake pads. They were sitting snug against the rim.

Well that is not helpful. I rode 16 miles with my rear brakes applied. I sighed and started in on all of my other responsibilities. I took a hot bath and ate a hamburger. I called the insurance company and had a 30 minute discussion on why one bill wasn't paid, one was, and are orthotics covered? Meanwhile, Shelly texted me: Read your email. I got dressed while the insurance lady went on about coverage. I got off the phone with her, jumped in the car and drove to school. I parked and checked my email. Admin stuff for the fire lab.

There's an oral quiz on Friday in Japanese. I still haven't written tomorrow's lecture. Can I get all this paperwork done in time for the lab members to get fireline qualified? I'll talk to the physical therapist on Friday to get her take on any soreness I have in my ankle. What is she going to say? Next week is finals week. I need to pay bills. I need to get work done for my other job. There's another email from a student. Forget my thesis. What am I making for dinner tonight? Hold your shit together!

Floor. Floor later, I thought as I made my way to class.

You aren't even going to make it to the floor.

I texted my advisor while walking. I texted Shelly. Class started. Class ended. Texted my advisor back, texted Shelly back, drove home and sent out a couple emails.

Floor. 20 minutes of staring at the ceiling. The floor is for when breathing is not enough. I picture the conversation with my therapist and I cry. I will probably cry when I talk to her. I picture Mike's kind reaction when I tell him it was another floor day, and I cry again. I imagine swimming in the ocean, during a triathlon. Salt and sun, and a little adrenaline. I wonder about the half Ironman in September. I think about the marathon I missed last weekend, that I had a chance of placing in the top three. I think about tomorrow's lecture, how I can't wait for this semester to be over. I glance up at the door where my motivational collage is taped. I made it when I tore my hamstring 2 months before the Boston Marathon. "You are a force to be reckoned with." I put my head back down and stared at the ceiling again. I should make one of those for my upcoming triathlon.

Before or after you write your lecture?

Yeesh.