Addiction

I'm an addict. But then, I think most everyone else is as well.

It's 5:00 in the morning and I've been up since three. I think 3:00 AM is the darkest hour, the dark of night coupled with a darkness of spirit. The world is quiet and it seems you're the only one awake in it. (Which was scary as hell when I was a little girl of six or seven - suffering insomnia even then.)

Most of my addictions are benign, thankfully - work, computer, work, television, work, books, work. (Being a workaholic does have benefits - you get a lot done and you make your boss happy.)

I first realized my addictive nature during a lengthy and stressful period of unemployment. I spent 22 months on the dole during three years in the early '90's. (Fired twice by the same guy. To follow through on the adage - shame on me.)

To get away from the knot of fear in my stomach, I read books. I didn't just read them, I consumed them in giant gulps. (I read Jane Eyre one day and Wuthering Heights the next and wondered why I got eyestrain.) I'd finish one book and, as I closed it, would panic if there wasn't another to immediately pick up.

I much preferred being in 1800's England to 1990's Kansas City. The librarian got to know me by name.

Once I got a job, the desperation to read abated. I once again had my favorite addiction - work! There was always plenty to do - and it was so much better to skate on the surface than to drop into reality.

I find myself skating on the surface again, spending hours playing stupid computer games, watching mindless television, and smoking too much.

And THAT is my non-benign addiction. The one I really know is bad for me, but I do it anyway.

Dammit.

Courage

We took my youngest sister to the airport yesterday and now she's back at home in Fort Worth, Texas. We'd spent the last 10 days or so together - the longest stretch of time since I don't know when.

My sister is epileptic and her seizures aren't controlled. Her memory is virtually non-existent, she wears two hearing aids but often doesn't seem to be tracking. She has emphysema and got quickly winded as we walked together. She's lived in an assisted living center for the past 12 years. As one of the youngest residents, her friends continue to die on her.

The hand life has dealt her sucks big-time.

She makes the best of it, or tries to.

She's been befriended by the staff, and helps the activities director by making copies and other simple tasks. She gets a $10 per month deduction on her rent in return, and is very proud of her contribution to both the facility and to the cost of her care. She calls bingo twice a week and was president of the Residents Council for five years. She's recently started seeing a therapist.

And this week she rode a horse. While I was at work downtown, my good friend and neighbor took my sister to visit her horse. Beforehand, my sister told me, "Maybe I'll get to ride it! I mean, why not? I'm 53. I've never ridden a horse and when am I going to get the chance again?"

She loved it, though the horse was big and scary. An abused show horse who is known to be temperamental. She was scared, but she told me, "What the heck?" And it went beautifully.

I wish I'd been there, but Mr. D captured it on camera.

Oh, Just Grow Up...

Disgust is the best way to describe my feelings about this fading political summer. At least the health care reform debate is moving back into the halls of Congress and away from the frenzy of various town hall meetings.

Not that I expect much better from our representatives in Congress. Prime example: the performance of South Carolina Congressman Joe Wilson. His apopletic shout of "You're a liar" during the President's address showed how much civility we can expect in the coming weeks.

All this sound and fury - signifying nothing.

Meanwhile, 47 million Americans are without health insurance. Other millions with pre-existing conditions are afraid of losing their jobs - or moving on - because of the fear of losing their health insurance. And then there are those who suddenly find themselves without insurance, their policy cancelled because of some fine print.

That's what happened with my mother. At the age of 60, her insurance was suddenly cancelled. The insurance company said the benign breast cyst she'd had in her 30's was too much of a risk. If she wanted insurance - and she did, desperately, widowed, alone, and scared to death of catastrophic expenses eating into her savings - she had to pay $1500 a month. In 1989 dollars. Luckily, she was able to afford it - but was greatly relieved when she hit 65 and Medicare kicked in.


Meanwhile, we've got the most expensive health care system in the world - but don't have the results to show for it. The system is broken and it's (literally) killing us.


Meanwhile, our politicians and pundits bloviate - and nothing happens. Sound and fury.

We need a national mother. (Sorry, mine's no longer available - but she would've been great.) We need someone to tell the politicians - and the rest of us - to be quiet, go to our respective corners, and to sit and think about what all this incivility - on both sides - is doing to our national culture and character.

Can't we all just shut up? Quit the ad hominem attacks, stop demonizing those with whom we disagree, and try to figure this out?

I'm sick of all the yelling. Sound and fury...

Good Morning, Government!

I stole the following from a comment on the Huffington Post; the comment was in reaction to the Republican jeering of the President during his health care reform speech:

This morning I was awakened by my alarm clock powered by electricity generated by the public power utility regulated by the U.S. Department of Energy.

I then took a shower in the clean water provided by a municipal water utility.

After that, I turned on the TV to one of the FCC-regulated channels to see what the National Weather Service of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration determined the weather was going to be, using satellites designed, built, and launched by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.

I watched this while eating my breakfast of U.S. Department of Agriculture-inspected food and taking the drugs which have been determined as safe by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.

At the appropriate time, as regulated by the U.S. Congress and kept accurate by the National Institute of Standards and Technology and the U.S. Naval Observatory, I get into my National Highway Traffic Safety Administration-approved automobile and set out to work on the roads build by the local, state, and federal Departments of Transportation, possibly stopping to purchase additional fuel of a quality level determined by the Environmental Protection Agency, using legal tender issued by the Federal Reserve Bank.


Have a great day.

I'm HOW old???

The dawn of my 60th birthday has yet to break, but it's already been eventful. Had to break up a cat fight in the dark of 5 a.m. (The senior cat escaped indoors, but the junior cat took up a guardian perch on the railing of the back porch. He's a tough little shit - he was the one doing the fighting.)

Then I had a good cry, missing my longtime friend. She would have been all over this occasion, and I would have returned the favor next year.

She died in March and I guess I'm still not over it.

The tear fest was immediately followed by a 'happy birthday' call from my Dallas sister. From sadness to joy in three seconds flat.

I'm taking the day off.

Thank You!

At my brother's house, when my nieces were little, the dinnertime prayer/blessing was a round of 'thank you's' to anybody and anything that had something to do with the meal before us.

"Thank you, farmer." "Thank you, truck who took the food." "Thank you, grocery store." All stated sincerely in sweet little girl voices.

It did sometimes seem like a contest as to who could come up with the newest - and most creative - subject for gratitude. "Thank you, checkout lady...." "Thank you, company that made the bags..."

"Thank you, sunshine, for helping the plants grow." "Thank you, rain, for giving them water to drink."

A lovely anecdote to remember as this morning's sunlight touches the tops of the trees.

So thank you...for another day. (Even though there's a heat advisory and I plan to spend it looking at the world through glass today.)

Thank you, person who came up with air conditioning!

Slugs Need Love, Too

This grossed me out. I hate slugs - but I guess it's as the title suggests:



The act of slug love requires the two to swing suspended on some kind of filament - you see a glimpse of it at the top of the photo.

Then that blue stuff is secreted...and then sucked back in.

Like I said...kinda gross.

Every Bug Has Its Day

We didn't have fireworks on the Fourth of July - we had fireflies.




It's been a good year for lightning bugs. For some reason - the wet weather perhaps? - there were a lot of them. I say 'were,' because the bloom is over. Just a few stragglers blinking in the night.


Fireflies aren't flies - they're actually a type of beetle. Kansas is the western edge of their habitat. They're an eastern bug - lightning bugs are a rarity on the west coast.


Their glow comes from a chemical reaction in light-producing organs in the firefly's abdomen. They're quite efficient at producing light: nearly 100 percent of their light is given off as light. An electric light bulb, by contrast, gives off 10 percent light while the other 90 percent is heat.


Each species of firefly has a specific flash pattern. Males use it to catch the fancy of females in the area and a quick flash communication between the two ensues as they prepare to get it on. The bioluminescence is also thought to be a warning to other predators: "don't eat me, I taste really bad."

Their life span is about two months. Which made me wonder: if, as Einstein said, time is relative, does time slow down for a firefly? Do they cram a lot of living in that short period? There was certainly a lot of sex happening out in the woods on the Fourth of July.....


Nature's light show.

Moon Suit

As the photo below indicates, the bugs are out in full force now. I hold my walking stick in front of me as I hike the trails; if I don't, I get a faceful of spiderweb.

The chiggers and ticks, however, are the worst.

Funny how one's idealized image of something often bumps up against cold, hard reality. When my husband and I first puchased the acreage for our house, I loved the idea of living in the middle of a forest.

On the morning of our wedding anniversary, a month or so after we'd bought the land, we decided to take some lawn chairs, croissants, and the makings for mimosas and watch the sun come up. We spent the morning in a little clearing and it was lovely - even though neither of us had realized it's a little hard to see the sunrise when you're surrounded by trees.



I started to itch a little later in the day. Upon investigation, I discovered I had approximately 250 chigger bites; Mr. D had 3. We counted.

I spent the next two weeks trying everything: bleach baths, nail polish, calomine lotion, anything that promised relief from the itching. Nothing helped, until a pharmacist recommended Benadryl (duh!) and the topical application of Absorbine Jr. Muscle Liniment in the roll-on bottle. Had to be the roll-on, she said, though it wasn't indicated on the label as an itch reliever. (It is now.)

That was the first breakthrough. The second is what Mr. D calls my 'moon suit": pants, socks, shirt, bandanna, and hat - all treated with some anti-bug chemical that lasts through 25 washings. And it works. I no longer have to spray myself with Deep Woods Off (the best, but made me want to shower as soon as I could.) The moon suit hangs on a peg by the back door, ready for me whenever I feel the urge.

It's hot, though that's a small price to pay to be chigger- and tick-free.

Putting it in context

I'm sitting inside feeling whiny about the heat...and the rain. Hard week at work. Cruising the Web 'cuz I don't have anything better to do, and then I come across this post on the BBC:

Today is a different day. I and my friends may never return home. We want the world to at least picture our being killed on streets to help democracy in iran and save the world. Pray for us.
Farshid, Tehran, Iran

Meanwhile, from the live Iran blog on Huffington Post:

12:26 PM ET -- Mousavi martyrdom. A message on Mousavi's official Facebook page "confirms he is on the streets and has 'washed in readiness to be martyred,'" a Persian speaker emails.

Suddenly, my alleged problems seem a little puny...

'Scuse me. I gotta go watch CNN now.

Annie Lennox is singing in my head

It's raining this morning....again.

Sports?

I hate to sit in the heat and just sweat. It's infinitely worse when you're sitting, packed like a proverbial sardine, amongst other overheated, sweaty bodies. Plus, one of my meds warns to 'avoid prolonged exposure to the sun.' I've learned the truth of that warning - once a lifeguard who never used sunscreen, I can now feel my skin burning within 5 minutes of being in the sun.

So why in God's name am I going to spend three hours sitting in 90 degree heat - probably receiving the aforementioned 'prolonged exposure' - crammed into the uncomfortable bleachers at the 3 + 2 field at Shawnee Mission Park?

Because young DW - my adopted nephew - is playing in the state baseball finals.

And he's good. Scored two runs, a couple RBIs, and played a wicked first base in last night's first round game.

I've gotten to know some of his teammates, too, so their victory last night felt more personal. I've watched those boys rally around DW, providing him great support in the months since his mother - my friend MJ - died.

His teammates loved her, too, you see. She opened her house - and her heart - to all of them. She was the person they'd talk to when they couldn't (or wouldn't) talk to their own parents. A sympathetic and funny woman, she was the adult friend who could help them see things more clearly.

Those boys grieved, too, lined up in a pew at her funeral.

And when the Shawnee Mission West Vikings take the field at 12:30 this afternoon, each of the boys will be taking MJ with them. Her initials are on their wristbands and their helmets. Fans in the stands will be wearing "All the Way with MJ" T-shirts. I've got mine on now. (The sunscreen will come later.)

I was never particularly athletic, and I went to school pre-Title 9, so there was never an opportunity to be part of a high school team. I'd never understood - or even thought about - what that experience brings to a young athlete: discipline, focus, working together for something larger than yourself.

Most of all, the camaraderie. And the love.

A love that has helped sustain a grieving teenager during his time of loss and pain.

So I'll be in the bleachers this afternoon, sweating like a pig and cheering the team on. Rooting for MJ's Team.

From the Ground Up

The wildflowers continue - each one taller than the next. As spring arrives, the mosses green up, violets and May apples appear, and life begins again. From the ground up.


Wild Sweet William and Squaw Weed are blooming in the woods now. They're both about a foot and a half tall. The Squaw Weed has the yellow flowers; the Sweet William is blue. As the season progresses, new and taller plants will come into bloom.





Missouri wildflowers, though some label it "Texas" Squaw Weed.


If you're interested in wildflowers, a really delightful site is the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center at UT Austin. For wildflowers specific to our area, visit the Missouri Wildflower Guide.


Wild Sweet William is also called blue phlox, and grows in woodlands and along creeks. Squaw weed is also called ragwort or golden ragwort.


Please note proper wildflower behavior: no picking. Let the flowers go to seed so there will be more next year.

A Sound of Spring

He's back. No, not the invading raccoon that kept sneaking in through the cat door. (That guy's been relocated to a new home somewhere along the Blue River...) It's the summer tanager - a shy red bird that I usually only hear, not see.

His song is quite distinctive (he's a warbler) and I heard him for the first time last night. He comes back every spring and spends his summers in one of our oak trees. From a distance, he looks like a cardinal but doesn't have the crest.





Like many in the animal kingdom, the male of the species is the one decked out in color. The female summer tanager is more subdued in her appearance.

It makes me happy to know they're back, to have this little bit of normalcy in the middle of the chaos that seems to be my life right now. Welcome back, you guys!

Transformation

The new green of the woods is taking my breath away. Every morning this week, there's been a point when the light is returning and I suddenly look up from my computer surprised once again by the color outside my window.

For months, the trees have been skeletal against the sky. Brown and gray have been the order of the day, the only color an occasional flash of red from one of the cardinals stalking the feeders.

But now the green is filling in the blanks. The oaks and the hickories are sporting small leaves of that intense yellow-green you only see this time of year.

In a few weeks, the color will deepen into the rich green of summer. Mr. D and I call it "the green wall." In the wintertime, you can see deep into the forest; you can easily see the contours of the land as it rises behind us. Not so once the fullness of summer comes.

The first green of spring is almost imperceptible. Walking the late winter landscape several weeks ago, I kept seeing green out of the corner of my eye, but when I looked in that direction - nothing.

I finally realized I had to look closer: the green in my peripheral vision was lichen on the trunks of the trees. So subtle I almost missed it.

Nothing subtle about Mother Nature now. The physical transformation of the landscape is well underway as she blatantly displays her beauty.

No wonder our ancestors celebrated this time of year for its promise of new life.

May Day, May Apples

The first day of May - and it's a soggy one. Feels like it's been raining for weeks.

But the May Apples are out in force - standing like beach umbrellas in colonies all over the forest. Their life is short - in a week or two, one small and lovely white flower will appear underneath the parasol of leaves. That flower morphs into a pulpy, yellow berry (the 'apple') and then they fade and die back for another year.


The May Apple is also known as the Devil's apple, hog apple, Indian apple, umbrella plant, wild lemon, or American mandrake. Native Americans would gather the plant's rhizomes, dry them, grind them to a powder, and then use the powder as a laxative or to get rid of intestinal worms, or as a poultice for skin problems. Don't try this remedy at home, though - the rhizome is the most poisonous part of the plant and you really need to know what you're doing with it. (The FDA rates the use of this plant as "unsafe.")

No wonder all those deer out there leave them alone.

In modern times, the plant is used as a base in some anti-cancer drugs. The berries are the only non-poisonous part of the plant, but I've never even once considered a May apple pie...we just look at them.

The May Apple (or Mayapple) is an Eastern plant - Kansas City is about as far west as they grow. They colonize big areas of the forest through those long, underground rhizomes. There will be a big patch one year, gone the next, but then another colony will have popped up somewhere else.

A nice surprise as you're walking in the woods.

Glimmers of Stage 5

It's 6:30 on a Saturday morning. I've been up for two hours and have spent that time mostly laughing.

Laughter is good (an obvious statement). I've heard it referred to as "internal jogging," but my favorite description is enclosed in this quote: "Laughter is God's hand on the shoulder of a troubled world."

Waking up at 4:30 isn't unusual for me - I spent years jumping out of bed to get to work by 5 am and my biological clock is still stuck in that sleep pattern. Now, however, I get to savor the early mornings. No more hitting the snooze button till the last possible minute and then hauling ass into my clothes and out the door.

So what have I been doing this morning? Watching funny videos on YouTube; giggling at despair.com; and laughing at captioned pictures of cats and dogs.

God, I needed that.

My world view has been bleak since the death of my best friend, now just a month ago. I've grieved for her and worried over her two teenagers - legally adults but so lost right now. Two motherless children living alone in a suburban house, angry, defiant, and, unfortunately, self-medicating. The house has become Party Central, full of underage drinkers and smokers (and I'm not referring to tobacco).

And here I stand, helpless and unable to control anything about this situation, a reality that slams right into the 'high dominance' I score on all those behavioral tests. I'm also angry at their mother - my friend - for some of her parenting skills, which makes me even more pissed off because she's dead and I want to grieve for her, not be angry.

A couple weeks ago, I printed off a copy of something called "The 7 Stages of Grief."
Stage 1 - Shock and denial
Stage 2 - Pain and guilt
Stage 3 - Anger and bargaining
Stage 4 - Depression, reflection, loneliness
Stage 5 - The Upward Turn
Stage 6 - Reconstruction and working through
Stage 7 - Acceptance and hope

I've been deep into Stage 4 these last few weeks, with occasional dips into shock and anger. In Stage 4, "you finally realize the true magnitude of your loss, and it depresses you." It's described as a time of isolation and despair.

No kidding...


Daylight's come now. The world outside my windows is that beautiful shade of springtime green, dotted with daffodils, violets, and grape hyacinth. After the late snowfall in March and the cold, blustery days of April, spring has finally taken hold.

I've been getting glimpses of Stage 5 - the Upward Turn - these last few days, when life becomes calmer and more organized; when depression finally begins to lift a little.

A reflection of what's happening on the other side of the glass. This morning's laughter felt healing.

Meanwhile, I realize the Universe has been slapping me upside the head, once again, trying to drive home the lesson that, when it comes right down to it, I have absolutely no control. Over anything, really.

My very wise sister-in-law, who has dealt with her own teenagers, told me to "just pour love on them."

That I can do. But letting go of the worry I have for them isn't so easy.

Especially when they're being stupid.

She Had a Dream

I found, along with about 9 million other people, a video that I've watched now...oh, maybe a half dozen times, something I rarely do. Perhaps it's because I'm a little raw from grieving, but watching this clip from Britain's (original) version of American Idol was really moving.

If this video doesn't affect you, you have a heart of stone.

Enjoy.


Yeah, I know I'm probably being manipulated by cynical TV producers - but I don't care.

Out of Pocket, Out of Sorts

As my Texas family says, I've been "out of pocket" for a while. Missing in action. Gone.

My best friend of 36 years died a little over two weeks ago. Came home from a trip to Mexico and was dead in 24 hours of a virulent strain of bacterial meningitis.

I suddenly find myself the de facto guardian of her two teenage children. They're both over 18, so the fact that my friend had appointed me guardian in case of just this such eventuality means diddly-squat. But that doesn't remove the sense of responsibility. An 18 and 19 year old living alone in a house in the 'burbs doesn't leave me feeling comfortable. The 18 year old is a senior in high school and doesn't even know how to do his own laundry, though insists he's an adult now and will be making his own decisions thank you very much.

The 19 year old spent 2 years in rehab - which, from her condition during the week between her mother's death and funeral service, hasn't worked. She's turning it around, thank God, stepping up to the plate, keeping the house going, meeting with lawyers and bankers as they try to figure out her mom's estate and the trust set up for them. The decisions are theirs; I can't tell them what to do, I can only (hopefully) influence and guide. I fear for both of them.

In the meantime, I have a hole in my heart, missing my friend.

I think I have it together, but the evidence belies it: I've lost my cell phone a half dozen times in the last two weeks; lost my car keys twice; even lost my damn car in a parking lot; made a gigantically stupid error at work; got lost going to my friend's house (where I've visited a gazillion times); lost my train of thought at inopportune moments; in short, I'm a mess.

The universe is telling me to take some time off.



My friend Mary Jo, at a campground outside Jackson Hole. We sure had us some fun...

This made me laugh. I have a black cat and I can relate.

But there's fear underneath the laughter - fear of the darkness, fear of uncertainty, fear of the unexpected and of things that go bump in the night.