I am not sick, I am not sick, I am not sick.
And maybe, just maybe, someday I will be a star…
Both CatGirl and GameBoy are feverish today. Given that I have nowhere else to be besides home with them, I’ve decided we will all stay in our jammies today.
We are sipping tea with honey, reading books (me, I suspect I will finally finish _Mr. Norrell and Jonathan Strange_ today–hoooray!), napping with kitties at our side, and looking forward to everyone feeling better. I am convinced that I will not get sick myself–I’m pumping myself full of healthy food. vitamins and lots of fluids. Getting plenty of rest. Doing yoga and concentrating my energy on healing the kiddoes.
I did notice that my bike ride to campus yesterday was more laborious than usual. I’m sure my body is fighting off the virus that’s affecting my little ones. So I’m doing my best to insure that I can stay as healthy as possible!
Been spending most of today with CatGirl nesting on the couch with pillows and cozy blankies. She’s been intermittently running a high fever (102-104) for the past 24 hours.
With her head leaning on my shoulder and her lanky body curled into mine, I remember her baby days when she rarely wanted to lose touch. She was my little monkey, arms wrapped tightly around my neck. When I sat in a chair she would stand behind me, running her fingers through my hair (when she got a bit older she loved to give me ‘pretty hairdos’ with her rainbow-colored barrettes).
Now, with the flush of fever showing red on her cheeks and lips, my instinct is to hold her tight, to absorb the heat. Remembering a time when our bodies were joined–mine feeding hers, nurturing the small ball of tissue that would eventually grow into my bright and graceful girl.
Today I ache to add my strength to hers again. Because she feels so small and fragile in my arms.
Originally posted 2/26/07:
If you have just finished shopping and you are trying to balance all six bags of groceries along with your purse, half an eggplant brie sandwich, a bag of sour gummies from Sweet Tooth, and your bike lock in your back basket. And as you are stretching the bungies across your taller-than-usual load, you pause for a minute and enjoy the incense wafting from the yoga studio next door. And if this is you, then the moment will be beyond perfect when you discover that someone you love has left a petite bouquet of pink poesies in your gearshift knob.
Given the lovely spring weather of late, I’ve been spending late afternoons weeding my garden. Because of all the rain, the weeds this year are nearly as tall as I am. Fortunately the soil is soft and the weeds and their roots pull easily.
If you were around my garden today, every few minutes you would have heard a faint pinging sound. Like a bell ringing somewhere in the distance.
But it wasn’t a bell. It was my snail eradication strategy. I don’t have the heart to squoosh the little fellas, so I gather then up by the handful and lob them over my fence. Most of them end up hitting the chainlink fence just beyond mine, causing the hollow metallic ping.
I suppose it’s not much more humane than the squoosh. But I do feel a bit less guilty.
Note: the snail above is one of the few that didn’t end his life sailing through the air and out of my garden. He lived on the iris stems in my flowerbed for a good long time last spring. :)
Originally posted on 3/1/2007:
Sometimes I make jokes about being a “bionic woman” or a “cyborg.” Having a prosthetic leg with a computer-controlled knee joint lends itself to such comparisons. Truth be told, the first thing I’d reach for if there was a house fire in the middle of the night and we needed to exit quickly, wouldn’t be the family photo albums. I’d reach for my robotic leg. It would make sense, given that the leg cost as much as a luxury car. And, of course, because it’s essential for my mobility.
I’ve been robotic for about three years. When I first heard that my insurance would pay for a computerized knee joint, I was thrilled to adopt the technology. I knew that it meant more stability, fewer falls, and a more natural gait. My prosthetist duly warned me not to get it wet, to charge the battery every night for at least three hours, and to notify him at the first sign of any malfunction.
My kids were thrilled with my leg and its robotic possibilities. We wondered what might happen if an evil genius reprogrammed my leg and forced me to rob banks or steal diamonds? We giggled long and hard about that scenario. The first time my battery started running low, I was standing in a grocery checkout line with my son and daughter. We heard the telltale beeps and I felt the vibrating sensation like a cellphone ringer, notifying me that I had 10 minutes to get my leg plugged in or I’d lose power altogether. We raced home and made it just in time. The adventure was more thrilling than a car chase scene in a spy movie.
Some days, however, I feel guilty about owning a leg that cost more than fifty thousand dollars. I think of my limbless sisters and brothers in other circumstances and I realize that dozens—if not hundreds—of low-tech limbs could be purchased for the price of my computerized leg. And I contemplate the thousands of new amputees returning home from Iraq, and those people throughout the world who live in daily fear of loss of life and limb.
Last year my leg malfunctioned while I was traveling in Asia, perhaps a result of using a faulty power adapter for charging my leg. Though there was no way to get the computer repaired during my trip, I was able to continue my travels with my knee stiff–walking as if wearing a cast. Despite the impairment, I carried on with typical tourist activities: scaling the Great Wall, strolling through the markets, touring gardens, and do forth. Nearly every place we visited there were beggars, many of them amputees. I knew I needed to avoid giving handouts or I would be besieged by dozens of people asking for the same. So I kept my hands in my pockets and looked into their eyes and felt heartsick and smug. Contemplating the price that bought my mobility. Feeling my own betrayal.
I rarely do things half-heartedly. I tend to be committed, intense, focused, passionate. When I attend church I sing the hymns with vim and vigor. I don’t sit in the back acting apathetic or embarrassed. I’m a front-row person.
Which may speak volumes for why I no longer regularly attend LDS services. Because if I can’t wholeheartedly participate, there seems little value in being there. At least for me. Those who knew me as a Mormon can attest to the fact that I was gung-ho and actively involved until I stopped attending. Even when I occasionally return to Mormon events, it is with some fervor–the shared vision of a service activity, the opportunity to support a friend, engaging in the academic study of Mormonism, etc. For me, I was either “drinking the Kool-Aid”, carrying the card, and wearing the garments or not. I saw no middle way of ‘sort of’ being active or ‘sometimes’ keeping the rules. I’m not saying that my way is right for everyone, but it’s just how I am…
However, with Quakerism I have purposefully cultivated a kind of detached involvement. I love worshiping in Meeting, relish time spent with Friends, and support my Quaker community in a wide variety of ways. But I haven’t stepped up to any position of responsibility. Not for lack of desire, but because I felt it important to, for a season, let myself not become too intense and dogmatic about my new faith community. I didn’t want to replace one type of dogma (LDS) with another that would be just as rigid. Rather, I wanted my Quaker participation to unfold more gradually, so that I could experience and test each facet of the tradition as I weighed my own adherence to its traditions and tenets.
This experiment has not been without some level of friction for me. At times I have felt guilty for not committing completely. At times I have felt that I’ve disappointed others. At times I have berated myself for not investing more, for not using more of my abilities to further Quakerism.
But on the other hand…as a Mormon I covenanted all of my time, talents, and resources to building God’s kingdom. I took that oath seriously and continually struggled with any failure to fully serve God and the church. As a Quaker I no longer hold to such binding oaths. I am more in the mode of taking each new day on its own terms. Of not sacrificing so much self at the expense of higher ideals. I focus more on individuals and less on institutional programs. I am still my intense self, but I have a variety of professional and personal outlets for my passions instead of directing them all towards a religion.
This may change over time. I may eventually find myself led to take a greater role in my Quaker community. But for now I enjoy spending more time focused on John and my children. More time in silence. More time writing and contemplating. More time laughing and even playing. I may, perhaps, be enjoying my life just too much–which seems a guilty pleasure, indeed.
But life is such a fleeting gift–it begs such enjoyment! I no longer have the expectation of eternal reward and glory. I only have today and now. And that means that my passion is invested in this moment. This one, right now. There will never be another one just the same, and I don’t want to let it pass me by unremarked or unspent.