Category Archives: love

by

The introverted thinker walks away

We go to our first parent teacher conference for our daughter. Kindergarten.

“Your daughter is unusual.” says the teacher.

“Mmmm.” I say.

“She is unusual on the playground. At recess. She will play with the other girls. But not if they are mean to someone. Not if they start ganging up. And it doesn’t matter who it is. She will walk away and play by herself.”

“Good.” I say.

“The other kids are realizing that she won’t tolerate any mean talk or ganging up.”

We make appropriate appreciative parental noises.

“She is influencing them. She doesn’t argue, she doesn’t say anything, she just walks away.”

by

ShelterBox

ShelterBox is a disaster relief organization that delivers a box with a family size tent, solar lights, water storage and purification equipment, thermal blankets and cooking utensils, and some things for children. The goal is immediate shelter and to help start the process of creating a home. The boxes are delivered to people world wide that have been hit by a disaster, man made or natural. They prepare and adjust them for local conditions.

ShelterBox started in 2000 in Helston, Cornwall, UK. That year, the Rotary Club of Helston-Lizard adopted it as its millennium project. The first shipment of 143 boxes went to was sent to victims of the 2001 Gujarat earthquake. ShelterBox ramped up during the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami. ShelterBox provided shelter for 28,000 families after the 7.0 magnitude earthquake in Haiti in 2010, about 25% of the tents sent by charities.

In the US, a ShelterBox costs $1000.00 to sponsor. Our small Sunrise Rotary Club buys at least one each year. We are notified that our box from last year went to Syrian refugees. I am so glad to be part of an organization that is doing something that is specific and positive in the world. Also, we are in a serious earthquake and tsunami zone: I hope someone sends us ShelterBoxes when we get hit. I prepare, but I keep wondering where to store things. If the house falls down, it seems unlikely that I could get to my stores….

ShelterBox gets a very high rating from Charity Navigator. Rotary International chose ShelterBox as their first Project Partner in 2012 and has renewed the partnership with ShelterBox in 2016 for another three year term.

ShelterBox: https://www.shelterbox.org/
Rotary and ShelterBox: http://www.shelterboxusa.org/about.php?page=16
wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ShelterBox
Charity Navigator: https://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?keyword_list=ShelterBox&Submit2=Search&bay=search.results
Music: Would you harbor me?
http://ptsunriserotary.org/

I was going to work at clinic one day last week and I was feeling down and tired. I saw this rainbow and stopped in a parking lot to photograph it. And the brighter one is leading directly to my clinic and my work.

by

Light leaves

I took a long walk yesterday and tried to walk very slowly. I was trying to do an outdoor version of walking meditation. Once I slowed down enough, feelings caught up with me. Mostly grief. I wanted to hurry and walk fast again, but then I thought, no, I can go slowly and let these feelings rise. Overwhelming, like grief risen to engulf me.

I wonder if that is why our culture is so hurried and so full of angst and so worried about performing and being the best.

And yet there is beauty, even in grief.

by

Heart call

I am lying in bed and missing my heart.

I prayed to the Beloved to fall in love and I do. I happen to be terribly sick because the Beloved is teaching me to take time off and not just work harder and longer to avoid grieving. This is the second lesson. Or the fifth, depending on how I count it. The previous one was two months, this will be ten.

But early on, before I realize that death is standing in my doorway, I am at a picnic. A sports picnic with parents and teens and some younger children. I see a man who has been flirting with me be nice to a tween girl. My heart falls out of my chest and attaches itself to him. It follows him home.

He is quite spectacularly wrong for me. I know it but my heart doesn’t care. And he is a liar, manipulator and a slut. Familiar ground, just like my family. I go to his place and try to catch my heart, but it is stubborn and skitters away from me. It is covered with sawdust, cat hair and motor oil. Also rabbit fur. He raises bunnies for meat and kills them. I cuddle the babies and then he does too.

My heart is brutally stubborn. I tell it it is stupid, it will get hurt, he doesn’t want it, all the usual stuff. I think the Beloved is laughing at me. By January I revise my prayers. Ok, Beloved, you win AGAIN, I am STUPID, now I want NOT ONLY to fall in love but to fall in love with someone who loves me back. I am so stupid I can’t believe it.

The Beloved ignores me, since my heart is already gone. Damn it.

The man tells me a dream. He dreams that his son is stuffed inside a giant teddy bear to keep him safe. He is fighting a war alone, being shot at and shooting a multitude of enemies. He tells me that his son is trained. If he needs to come out of the bear, he will be angry and he is trained to kill. Another dream is of zombies coming up from the shop and attacking the door. He and a teen or two are trying to hold them off.

There are no women in his dreams. At least the ones he tells me.

Uh, Beloved? Shit. I dream of angels, as many angels as there are stars. I meet with my minister to challenge his ideas. “The people in dreams are aspects of ourselves, ok, but not angels right? I can’t have that many angels. I was raised atheist, damn it.”

“The angels are aspects of yourself.”

And zombies…well, we’re well matched on a psychic level, right? I have enough angels to handle any number of zombies and more.

I connect with his small child self, because our small child selves are so alike. Abandoned at the same age and afraid and with desperate courage.

His pattern is obvious from the start. Mapped out like a constellation. I tell my heart, but it scurries up ladders, into boats, down the metal stands, under cars. It plays among the tools. I tell it to be careful of the saws and tools and it ignores me.

He lies and ignores emails and lies again and avoids me when he’s done something that will hurt me and like, obvious, duh. I get angry, but my angels map a new path to his small child each time. Boundary after boundary after boundary.

And now I am in contact only by text. Only by distant virtual message. He is showing up again, of course, because that’s the pattern. He has tried so hard to make me angry and make me abandon him in rage. I don’t really care. He fixes the leak on my boat that I asked him about over a year ago. He texts about installing the bilge pump. He offers to bag up the cushions and put them in his loft.

No, I reply. I have room in my house.

The only things left at his shop are a broken outboard, pipe clamps that I inherited from my father and my heart. I will go to get them.

I lie in bed, thinking of getting the motor and clamps. I think of asking for my heart too. But he has never noticed that he had it. I didn’t tell him. It was obvious. And he didn’t want it. So why would I tell him now?

And then I think, I can just call my heart. I don’t need to go in person.

I call my heart. Come home, I say. He never noticed you. You could stay, but we have done everything we can. He is still fighting the zombies, he doesn’t know he is fighting himself. He is fighting his own feelings. Come home.

My heart comes home.

It is in my chest. Filthy, sawdust, bruised, motor oil, banged up, with old tears that I mended with ribbon and dental floss and sewing thread and artificial cat gut.

Welcome home, my heart. Welcome home.

This is for the Music Prompt #63: Daniel Powter Bad Day. I took the photograph on the train from Chicago, in the evening in a storm. Prayers for those hit by the hurricane and other disasters.

by

Loved

It’s ok

I just want you to know

even if I never see you again
even if I never touch your hand
even if I never hug you again
even if you don’t answer
even if you don’t let me in
even if you are deaf to anything I say
even if you forget the moment you stop reading
even

I just want you to know

you are loved you are loved you are loved

always

even if

for my lost ones, living and dead 9/15/16

The photograph is from 2004, in the Hoh Rain Forest.

I am submitting this to the Friday Night Music Prompt #62 : Never too late for love & Keep me in your heart

 

by

Playing Poker with Putin

People keep saying, “I don’t TRUST Hilary Clinton.”

And they say, “Her smile is not sincere.”

I am confused and dumbfounded. Uh, I thought that is the POINT of politics. NAME A POLITICIAN YOU TRUST.

I DON’T TRUST ANY POLITICIAN.

So here is a game: Playing Poker with Putin.

This requires three people, of any sex.

Player 1 is Hilary Clinton.
Player 2 is Donald Trump.
Player 3 is the moderator who in this case happens to be Mr. Putin.

NOW. The moderator begins to ask questions. Every time the moderator asks Hilary a question, Donald interrupts. Donald, you can be as foul and rude as you want, though you should not swear, because you are on national television. You can talk about “lady parts” and the size of your hands. And all the rest of it.

Putin: go for the jugular on everyone.

Hilary: you have to smile. The entire time. You cannot object to being interrupted, because that is bitchy if you are a girl and manly if you are a man. You cannot show anger. You cannot show any emotion at all except a totally sincere smile no matter what the two men say and no matter how many times you are interrupted.

If the person playing Hilary loses her temper she (or he if a guy is playing the part) loses. Then Donald and Putin have to stage a mock battle throwing pillows at each other and insulting each other’s wives. At the top of their lungs. Be as mean as possible. Then Donald will turn the country into a dictatorship because “I have to be equal to Putin.”

So….my definition of politician is someone who can keep their head no matter how nasty the conversation gets. No matter how many lies are told. No matter how many insults are given. And you do the best you can in office to represent the entire country and for the good of the world.

Play on, Hilary. You win Best Politician Ever in my book.

by

Deer yard

I took this at my aunt and uncle’s, in Covington, Virginia. The deer are adapting quite well to their neighborhood even with new and more houses and people.

I didn’t get a photograph, but they also have a metal cage bird feeder on their porch. Various birds visited, but it is the first time I have seen a pileated woodpecker at a birdfeeder, right on the other side of the glass. Looking like a pteradactyl, really.

by

Slow medicine

I am practicing slow medicine, just like the slow food movement.

It took a year to set up my clinic, because I wanted time with people more than anything. And how could I do that?

Low overhead, of course. The lower the expenses, the more time I would have with patients.

I did math and based it on medicare. I estimated what medicare would pay. I dropped obstetrics, can’t afford the malpractice and anyhow, the hospital was hostile by then. That cuts malpractice by two thirds. And I chose not to have a nurse, because people are the most expensive thing. Just me and a receptionist. And a biller once a week and a computer expert who rescues us when we kill another printer or need new and bigger computer brains for ICD 10.

My estimates were on target except that it took three times as long to build up patient numbers as I thought. Ah. Oops. I was advised to borrow twice what I thought I needed and that was good advice, because I had not counted on my sister dying or my father dying or me getting sick for a while…. but so far the clinic remains open.

Slow medicine. I schedule an hour with a new medicare patient or anyone new and complicated. People who say they aren’t complicated are lying, but we schedule 45 minutes for them. And for the really complicated, we have 45 minutes for follow ups. Most visits are 25 minutes: the only visit that is less is to take out stitches.

What does slow medicine allow? In the end it allows people to speak about things that they don’t know they need to talk about. A friend dying. Fears about a grandchild. Family fighting. The dying polar bears. The environment. This difficult election. And sometimes I think that freedom to speak about anything is the most theraputic part of the visit.

I had one woman last year who established care. Complicated. I think she was in her 70s. And the medical system had made mistakes and hurt her. Delayed diagnosis, delayed care. But she was laughing by the end of the visit. She stood in the hall and said, “This is the first time I can remember laughing in a doctor’s office. This is the first time in years that I can remember leaving with hope. And you haven’t DONE anything!”

….anything, except give time and listen.