It's a Bitch

It was so hot you
could have fried an
egg on the pavement!

I use the word as it might relate to the dog days of summer, as that season has officially arrived. And today was hotter than one of those - 108-degrees on the blacktop when I arrived at AA at nearly 5:00 p.m. I'd been somewhat asleep at the wheel, only vaguely registering its imminent arrival, when my Tao Daily Meditation hit me between the eyes and said, "Hey, solstice is here!" Oh, yeah! Thanks, Tao. The "fun" time of year, though difficult to love in the Mojave Desert. And I'd like to be on record as one who rarely uses that "b" word about another person.

So, a brief quotation from Tao Meditation No. 172 and how it resonates with what I've currently got going on, which is also a bitch. By the way, I do not claim to be a practiced Taoist. When I am that good, I will claim to be so. I read Tao and try to harmonize its teachings with other daily devotionals that are important to me. The best days are the ones when each of my three testaments expresses the same (or a similar) idea in a different voice.  It happens, randomly, on more days than one might expect. In one language or another, sometimes my simple mind can comprehend and integrate more complex truths.

When the true light appears,
The entire planet turns to face it.

The summer solstice is the time of greatest light. It is a day of enormous power . . .

This great culmination is not static or permanent. Indeed, solstice as a time of culmination is only a barely perceptible point. The sun appears to stand still. Its diurnal motions seems to nearly cease. Yesterday it was still reaching this point; tomorrow, it will begin a new phase of its cycle.

Those who follow Tao celebrate this day to remind themselves of the cycles of existence . . . left and right, up and down, zenith and nadir . . . All of life is cycles. All of life is balance.

Ah, OK then, a powerful zenith in the sun's strongest light, maybe all the world pulled up to a visible projection just briefly, and a reminder to seek balance, to recognize nothing will be permanent, that ebb and flow are the only certain things. A message to alcoholics and other addicts: this constant motion thing is OK. It's the way of the world. In our language, this is "accepting life on life's terms."

I've been a member of AA for quite awhile now. I am encouraged to lead meetings and when the right person feels I am a woman who talks the talk and walks the walk and we agree I should be her sponsor, then that will happen. I own and voraciously read many of the recommended books, attempting to incorporate certain principles into my little life. I am progressing through my 12-steps at a slower pace than some because I have to argue about everything. I am made that way. It is not a footrace, luckily for me. But after I've argued something to death, if I ultimately accept it, I am a true believer because I've tried to deflate it and found it can't be mitigated. For myself only. I don't try to tell anyone else what is and isn't right for them. I'm not that good. By every benchmark, I should have bombed out by now for my first time. Those are the odds. That information and $1 will get you a cup of coffee at a really cheap place.

It's that balance thing that threatens my happy summer sunshine, that accepting life on life's terms and making my way forward. I am a person knows how to learn, and once I learn something, I have confidence in it and myself. Why can't I learn this balance deal? Am I an alcoholic because I lack balance or do I lack balance because I am an alcoholic? Regardless, it is the hardest thing I have ever struggled to reach. Most of "us" have a lot of human wreckage to repair once we become sober. I am no different and it is daunting. We are not obliged to undertake this in any particular way. We must not attempt to make direct amends to someone if to do so would further harm them. We are even allowed to not make direct amends to someone if to do so would be harmful to our own sobriety. That is a powerful freedom that must be tempered with "at what point does that become a cop-out?" If necessary, we are even encouraged to write a letter of amends we never intend to mail or send a letter to a dead man or to conduct a ritual of our own design. We may make an amends looking into and speaking to a mirror or a doorknob or we may make a "living amends" which means to let our present and future behavior say all there is to be said. In every case, we must somehow make amends to those we have harmed or whom we have lost in some way, expecting nothing from the other person, but only sweeping our own side of the street. Now we are sober, we hope we are so approachable we may reach some form of resolution with those who have harmed us, even though we may not owe them amends and we have no ability to design any detente. Yow. It is a tall order. But until we do this step properly and thoroughly, we will not have completed our 12 steps or know peace. And we must design our current and future behaviors to minimize resentments which are what cause our alcoholic breakdowns in human relationships. Ugh. Balance. Assertion in place of passivity or aggression. Responsibility for self and no one else and being OK with whatever happens. Wait a minute! It's my inability to do that which got me into trouble in the first place. No, I am not being funny.

Recently my friend and I discussed how we each were so misaligned that, as children, we failed to scream "pervert" in real personal crises, for fear of appearing impolite. Really. I have a long history of failing to holler for the CIA, the SSA, the FBI, a parent, someone's parole officer or a policeman on my own behalf when at least that needed to occur. On the other hand, I have some history of committing reprehensible, unfathomable, aggressive human crimes, of holding grudges, of being very difficult to love or forgive. Yes, I do want to find the sweet spot between the extremes. I think I see it, right there on the razor's edge. Without the assistance of alcohol, here are some things I've been working on. I think I'm doing halfway all right, though in some cases I am not making others very happy. And that's OK, too. I was in the people-pleasing business much too long.

So, would I really expose the shortcomings of an upstanding-looking blighter by publishing essays and badly written poetry (it exists, a suitcase full of it)? Unlikely. How does harming another person help me? Good logic, eh? Or write a letter to one parent on each coast of the U.S. to apologize for being such a difficult, colicky infant? Not going to happen. To my dear friend for whom I always pay and my friend who never, ever thinks of inviting me first: you may expect different behavior from me. Regarding the man who pressed his luck when I said, "I've told you this repeatedly for years." and he replied, "Well, you know, sometimes you don't pay attention to someone.": I was not loud, profane or difficult to understand. It was recommended I send official anger notification to those who "assisted" me in nearly killing myself with booze: already done. "You treated me terribly." Now I can begin my amends to each of them for I certainly have responsibility, too. [This should not be misconstrued as me saying ____ made me drink. This only refers to undeserved bad treatment by others. I dealt with it by choosing to drink.] Can I tell my friend and business associate I can't support the program as it stands? Done, well received and discussion to ensue. And for the friend who tells me what to do with my life before saying hello: get ready, dear!

Those things and similar ones can, did and could make me drink. That's not how I choose to do it today. What do you think? Progress? Old dogs/new tricks? In May and in June I attempted amends, expecting nothing. In both cases that is precisely what I got. These were not the giant roaring monsters like parents or ex-spouses. In one case, I do not believe I harmed the person directly, but I apologized if I had done that and said I'd love to have him/her in my life. In the other case, I had harmed the person but felt our bond had been deep enough for us to find some common ground. I did not get what I hoped for. I did not drink.

Something that charmed me:  It charmed me just now to type "I did not drink". It charmed me to find Ms. Janis singing "Summertime". It charms me to go out 4 feet from the French doors and slide into the pool nekkid under the moon. It charms me that tomorrow is expected to be 110-degrees. It charms me to keep trying as hard as I can try, apologizing when I have been clumsy. I wish everyone a joyful summer.

This does not charm me: I'm invited to a BBQ, a big bing-bang bash hosted by a friend of a friend. "What can I bring?," is always my first utterance. I love to make melon ball baskets and really good potato salad by the bathtubfull and 80 dozen deviled eggs, or whatever the host wants. "Oh, how about a big old bottle of tequila?" Really! "Um, that would be really difficult for me. Terribly difficult, actually. I can maintain balance with all of you and your tequila shots game like you played at Christmas, but I don't know about buying it, supplying it." This brought a smartassed comment which caused further conversation during which I gave no ground. She seems to have kind of dug her feet in. I've used no profanity, nor loud tone of voice. I'm surely not going to drink over it. But it's a bitch, you know?

That Summer, the Arm and How One Handles Things

Summer of 1958. I was still 5 when we moved to Salt Lake City. I'd turn 6 in August, just days before starting first grade at Columbus School. My teacher was to be Miss Ross, who was probably about 24 or 25, just a little older than my parents. Miss Ross appeared to like my father very much, and he seemed to like her right back. My mother didn't seem to care for this mutual liking. Mind you, dad and Miss Ross met exactly once, at Back-to-School Night. But my mother was sufficiently put out by that mutual liking to sign on quickly as Room Mother. I think she wanted to keep an eye on that Miss Ross, even though serving as Room Mother would require her to come to our classroom with cookies, cupcakes and the like, sometimes in inclement weather, pushing Gary in his buggy. She had a fine run as Room Mother, never failing to appear when requested, and always having enough treats for all the kids and Miss Ross. This was not the last time my mother's antennae would come out when my father spoke to another female. He is a gregarious man. She must have been wrapped in knots frequently. And there was all that time he spent traveling on the job . . . .

I was recently commenting on the blog of one of my followers. His post and the commentary had started a couple of trains of thought. One was aging, one was about making poor decisions in life, perhaps having addictions, exhibiting troubled behaviors, simply not knowing how to find one's way. I commented that I, too, was a broken person trying to make good and that I was already at least damaged (if not actually broken) by the time we moved to Salt Lake. By the time I was 6, I was in a complete state of confusion about many things. That's a pretty broad statement. By it, I mean that about many, many things, I simply didn't know how to act or react. I didn't know what one was supposed to do in certain situations. I had no siblings to chew on stuff with. I was not spanked, so I didn't learn in that way that I'd behaved unacceptably. I mostly took my cues by studying adult facial or other physical cues. The trouble with that is that some of the adults I studied were a little skewed. I had a tough time balancing my impressions and landing on conclusions that would hold from one event to the next.

I've already written that, yes, I know hearts, heads and psyches practice selective recall. And this incident will have some of that woven through it. I'll ask the reader's indulgence. It was a traumatic event and I'm just telling it the way it feels to me. I see it in short, vivid scenes, an old black-and-white movie that plays and then breaks from the reel, only to take up again a little later.

It is the only time I can recall that my mother played with me. I'm certain she had to have played with me other times, but I can't bring a specific example to mind. Literally. It was late June and dinner was over, dishes cleaned. My dad watched TV indoors. The Christensens, Lorri, my mother and I were in the back yard, the shadows long, the sun dipping into the west. My mother suggested we play a game in which one person lies on the grass (that was she), bringing her knees to her chest, feet up. It is hard for me to imagine her being willing to lie on the grass - she was prissy - but she did. This once. The other person (Limes and Lorri, alternately) sits on the feet of the one lying down who then snaps the legs forward, sending the sitter flying through the air to land as she might. We did this a few times each and, for a small woman, Mother could really put some English on that snap! But, of course, we were small, too - good projectile girls. It happened on my fourth or fifth snap-and-fly. That time, when I rose from the grass, I was crying. One did not have to be an M.D. to know that something was very wrong with my right arm.

Mother Christensen had been varnishing the redwood picnic table and I have a vivid memory of her scurrying to our back door, varnish can and paint brush in hand, calling for my father. Father Christensen scooped me up and dashed for the garage we shared, to place me in the back seat of our car. His good wife told my father, "Go! Get your wife's purse for her and get going. I'll take care of Gary." My mother rode in the back seat with me, her shrieks drowning out my crying. At some point, I pretty much stopped crying and just felt pain. She continued to wail and apologize, oddly, to my father. But, remember, she'd been routinely criticized for her caretaking of me. She was sensitive. Father repeatedly snapped his volleyball head around on his broomstick neck to ask my mother to calm down and "pay attention to Limes". She was having trouble managing that. The windows were all rolled down - it was summer and hot - but I began to shiver, teeth chattering. "I'm cold!" That broke her meltdown, and I got some good facial expression to study. Today I'd express it as "What's the matter with this child? It's hot!" I was probably shock-y and, since it was summer, there wasn't a sweater in the car to put across me, so we rode on and I shivered.

Upon arrival at the hospital, Dad managed to maneuver Mother and me into the emergency room. Mom was in pretty bad shape, so a nurse took her to a room to be examined while Dad went with me. The reader doesn't want a medical report and I couldn't give a perfectly credible one and that's not what this is about. The arm and wrist were badly broken, although not compound fractured, and we spent a long time in that place while the doctors decided whether to send me to surgery or whether to set the limb and allow it to heal. X-rays were taken several times and hours passed. Nurses came in several times to tell my father that my mother was in very poor condition and she was finally medicated. My father never left my side, though I remember he was terribly distressed. Ultimately, a cast was applied and we were sent home, with advice to get some traction on that arm. It was suggested that they put me in Gary's crib, with the mattress dropped to the lowest level, and tie the arm up to the crossbars with a dish towel. OK, we could do that.

My father poured us into the car, the drugged mother, the injured kid. It was late. Maybe near midnight. I remind myself that he was 24 years old, and this had to have been an excruciating experience for him. Kid badly hurt. Wife melted down. As when the uncles had said goodbye a couple of weeks earlier, I could sense my father's concern that his wife could not handle life and her family. Mom's head was lolling in the front seat and Dad talked to me quietly in the dark. An idea struck him. I imagine he simply wanted to do something nice for us all at that moment. "Limes, would you like some A&W Root Beer? There's a stand up ahead that stays open late." Well, sure. Who wouldn't want root beer in the summer? Dad sprung for a full gallon, contained in those huge, heavy glass jugs of the day. Now, my dad's no fool and we'd had a pretty terrible evening already. He knew one didn't stand a gallon jug upright on the floor of the car. It might tip over. He laid the jug carefully on its side on the floor. "Don't let it roll around too much, Limes." I wouldn't. I put one of my feet, in P.F. Flyers, on the round surface of that jug to make sure it didn't go anywhere. The other foot was planted firmly on the floor.

Here the old black and white film goes slow motion and silent. I can only feel confusion, guilt and shame for what happened and for the things I could have done differently, should have done differently. The foot that was planted on the floor got an odd sensation. As we passed under a street light, I bent over to take a look. To my horror, I saw that my beige P.F. Flyer was now brown and wet. A&W Root Beer was slowly and quietly dribbling out of that gallon jug lying on its side and being held so firmly by my other foot. This was not a torrent - no wet swishy noises to be heard. That jug was just silently empyting itself onto carpet, a kid's shoe and sock. Today I think, "OK, the cap wasn't properly tightened and the liquid poured out. No big deal." But I also know that most kids would have let out a whoop over that escaping root beer. "Hey, Dad, stop the car, we've got trouble!" But I cringed in shame - yes, I am using the appropriate word for the feeling that was overwhelming me - and let most of that gallon of sticky stuff silently saturate shoe, sock and carpet. This makes me feel very sad, still today. I don't feel guilt or shame any more. I feel sad that by this time, I was already silent. A secret keeper. One unwilling to deliver any type of bad news, even if I knew it would be discovered anyway, even if it meant no root beer to enjoy, even if further disaster could be averted by my ringing the bell - maybe only a pint of that root beer would have been lost. Arrival at home and the night's activities were not pleasant. Gary was dislodged from his crib and I was put into it, lashed to the bar with a dish towel.

The next morning, I was sick. I know I was sick, because I would not have sat in a child's chair in my bathrobe on the porch you see if I had not been sick. And that is what I did. The parents felt I needed sun and fresh air. I probably did. They felt I needed quiet. Lorri was only allowed to visit long enough to be the first to sign the cast and ask why I was outside in my bathrobe. As I sat on the porch, nauseous, the parental voices droned quietly. The Chevy was parked in the driveway near the porch, both doors open, one parent bending through each door, going after that root beer. My mother worried out loud about Gary having to lie on the floor on a makeshift bed. My father worried out loud about the damage to the car's carpet. I worried silently about all of it.

I'll end this post attempting to be as good and balanced as my friend who said about her trauma,"There were many good things that happened to counter-balance the bad." I remind myself that these young parents had a lot on their plates and had no special attributes that made them better prepared to handle problems than anyone else. I ask myself how I might have handled their troubles differently. I think I know at least some of the answers.

In my ears right now: Sweetheart of the Rodeo. It came out in April, 1968. It was presented to me as a memento of that time shared. I love it. Gram Parsons is on it. Jim/Roger McGuinn [far too into his numerology]. A couple of really poor tunes. And some wonderful ones.

Something that charmed me: It's * * *cold* * * in Las Vegas. I walked in temperatures lower than 30 degrees this morning. Although I had layered up tremendously, my clothes didn't keep me warm enough, so I mixed in a little running. Arriving at home, I turned up the heat, turned on the oven and popped into bed to read awhile. Quite soon, I had two warm cat heaters pressed against varoius parts of my body. They hung around awhile, too!

Photo credit, with gratitude: Kathryn Feigal

You're Invited

. . . to an end of summer / birthday blogger's coffee at Limes' place. Those who would like a shot of Bailey's or Kahlua in it, shall have it. I will not being having shots. Dylan will be on the sofa ready to shed his white fur on those who wear dark clothing. Virginia Woolf will echo-locate those of you wearing pastels. The soundtrack will be the Badger's latest personal mix. Be prepared to enjoy that! I'll burn candles in my stained glass stars and we'll just t-a-l-k . . . .

This has been a most wonderful summer. I discovered blogging and it has done me good. Writing is cathartic and exercises my brain, heart and soul. The Badger has taken some of his most compelling photos ever, and we are excited that each of us has successfully placed some of them for show and sale in bookstores. Mother Badger has repeatedly rung in about our blogs and has a little potential project up her sleeve. I have a new friend I enjoy. A lovely outing is planned next weekend (more on that in a future post), but it will decidedly mark summer's end and the beginning of the year that comes after. I mark years as January to December, but also as birthday to birthday.

I am a teacher magnet, as in: drop me into a room of 100 people and all the teachers find me and I them. Hence, several bloggers I follow are about to end their summer, return to work . . . my birthday looms in a few days and it has always marked "end of summer, start of school . . . " Endings make me pensive and introspective. I'm not all that thrilled this year to have the odomoeter flip again. It's not a milestone birthday. I still have a ways to go until 60. But a broken odometer, my age frozen in time, would be OK enough with me.

So, were we 'tend friends actually in a room together, here are some of the things I would say:

Tree, the Badger and I are having a (100% friendly) disagreement about the existence of a particular photo and its title. I feel so sure of myself. But he's so meticulous about maintaining his portfolio, that I'm a little concerned. I'm transitioning from one computer to another, so I can't currently get to the photo I'm certain exists and with the title I know so well. I'm good in a pinch, however, and have a lovely substitute photo. Your words that caused me to land on a vivid image were " . . the economy of the thorned heart . . ".



OB, I loved what you had to say about Plan Left and Plan Right rather than Plan A or Plan B. It's not hard to choose between a good decision and a bad decision. That's not even decision-making, but simply selecting something comfortable over something painful. We engage more, the stakes are higher, when the choices are a little fuzzy around the edges . . . not so sharply defined. Although I am normally a very decisive person, I can sure dance around making a decision when I'm torn. I wish you good luck. I hope you'll be happy with the decision you land on.

Mother Badger, I hope - sincerely - that you move forward with the project you e-mailed me about. Do it while you've still got the goods! It will be your legacy, just as you mused about blogs being our history in the future. Put down your history! You have some stories to tell. I mean this, truly. If I spent half a day with you, you'd be on the road. And you can do it in comfort and air conditioning. Your sons and grandchildren and all of us who are fond of you are waiting. By the way, I know you won't want coffee. I'll have skim milk or a beer or wine or diet Pepsi for you.

Doozyanner, I keyed in immediately when I started to follow you and you made references to elephants in the room, family elephants, rotting elephant carcasses. More recently you've said "ginormous elephant" and I believe I understand that, as well. I hail from a huge extended family and I think it is fair to say that we put the funk in dysfunctional. The part of that which intrigues me is this: some of us revel in our dysfunction. "Yep, we're a mess and it's OK enough for me." Others of us run screaming. Who handles it better, the complacent or the runners? Who would we ask?

New blogger Dan, I liked what you had to say about asking for help for things we don't even want to learn how to do. I've finally accepted that I don't have to know how to do everything well, I don't want to know how to do everything well, and I don't do everything well. "So ask somebody for assistance, Limes. And offer what you can to others." Although I can grouse about it, I really sort of like my age. I'm comfortable in my skin for the first time in my life. So you're 100% correct - as long as the health holds, it's good from here on out. Thanks for boarding my bus! Looking forward to following you on "The Rest of My Life".

Wheel Dancer, you are most interesting to me. You write lengthy technical pieces about all things cycling. You are beautifully poetic from time to time. But your posts I enjoy the most are those with few words that tell a complex story, colored and shaded. I admire - I envy - the efficient beauty of that economy of words. I don't have that.

TRW, where in the world are you? Woman, if you don't report in soon, I'm sending out an SOS. There's a party going on! Be there. When you ever get home, your mailbox will be filled with girlfriend offerings. I've visited the post office drop box almost every night!



David, Michele and the home dudes, it wouldn't be a party without you. And when the guests spill their coffee with shots, we can pop out the protein spotter and put on a little demonstration. I'm kidding! Please come to my little party.




Badger, you know I'm going to ask you to take good pics of the event. And I'll surely ask you to help me keep enough coffee beans ground and cups filled and conversation going and napkins in everyone's lap, pass the crudite tray and slices of Milky Way cake. Push Dylan off the sofa and absentmindedly stroke VW when she head-butts you for attention . . . It's been a good year, Badger, dating from almost exactly one year ago ~ you remember the event. It's a good time to give an imaginary party and get ready to watch the next year unfold.

Limes, note to self: it has been a good year. Think of all the steps taken forward. Think of all the changes. Think of all the fear a year ago. Think of the words most recently shared with someone special. "I have ____, and I have ____, and I have my marathon training and I have my blog." The next year will start out in the geographical location where the last one started, in the same company, in the same pursuit. And it will be an even better year. More advances made. That marathon will happen in the new year. The continued exercise of healthy new habits . . . . . .

So, 'tend friends, please send me your RSVP!

In my ears right now: Pink - "I'm comin' up, so you'd better get this party started . . . . ."

Something that charmed me: I've been blogging for 77 days when this publishes. There's a whole culture sprung up around it for me. Certain snippets of knowledge about a number of really fine people. This was a good thing to do!

Photo credit - "My Prickly Heart" - J. D. Morehouse
Photo credit - Limes on August 7, 2009 - J. D. Morehouse