I'm all alone out here:

I've been all alone for the longest time. It is dark and cold and lonely. I want to talk to somebody, but they have all gone away. They closed their doors and their windows to keep me out. They turned off their lights to pretend they weren't at home. They turned off the phones or they won't answer.

I sit here and talk to myself sometimes. I try to figure out what it is that they are avoiding. It isn't happening to them. It is happening to me. I once believed the fiction that they loved me. We had a good happy life. We had things and we did things. We laughed and we played, we worked and we talked. But now it is all different. They only want to think about themselves. If I keep trying to talk to them perhaps they will pick up a shovel and dig a hole to bury me in so they won't have to hear me.

Sure, they have had hard times. And I did listen. I listened for hours as they told me all the awful things that happened to them. I loved them. I tried to soothe them, to brush away the hurts, to soften the blows. But now I wonder what good it did because when I needed them they all ran away.

I know what it is. They don't want to believe me. They don't want to believe this could happen. And so they put their fingers in their ears and they shout, "La,la,la, I can't hear you!" and they turn and look away or they look right past me as though I am already gone, a figment of their imagination.

I'm a voiceless voice, a bodyless body. I don't exist. I'm turning black and melting away. My life was nothing. My days were spent on nothing. There was no love. There was no me.

Long Dark Night

(I haven't forgotten my Southwind project, but my Gremlin has absconded with my journal.)

This is just an effort to put words on the page.

The discussion of late has been on Mother Teresa. It seems that many can't comprehend her long Darkness.

I checked out the book from the library. It is lovely. Mother Teresa's words echo out of the past in a way that is very similar the more ancient mystics. She followed the classic faith and her sentiments were those of the classically trained Catholic. It was easy to read, interesting and moved right along.

I can relate well to her "Dark Night of the Soul." It is the controversial aspect of Mother Teresa's life that for forty years she lived in relative spiritual darkness, even claiming to not see Christ in the Holy Sacraments. I have a great deal of compassion for her in her extended Dark Night. I've been sitting still for a year and a half now and it takes a lot of patience. I feel sorry for her, but I also feel that she will be well rewarded for her persistence.

As I read the book I wondered what could have caused it. I realize that to wonder at the cause of a Dark Night is a strange occupation--how could I have the temerity to question God's will? My own Dark Night could have so many different causes that I can't choose one. What weakness is God weeding out? There are so many that I can think of. God might just leave me eternally in the Dark now. (Yes, I am chuckling!) So it is far more interesting to contemplate M.T.'s Dark Night since she was such a shining example of how best to follow Christ.

As for Mother Teresa, I noted that the editor commented on the fact that M.T. tried to hide her suffering from Christ. I can't help it--I keep thinking that there is no hiding anything and when we try to hide something, we end up hiding completely. I did that in the 70s out of fear of the spiritual world.

Another thought I've had is that her mind was so full of what she had to do that she couldn't listen very well and Christ was there with her all along. The reason I suggest that is that her success all those years, her tireless devotion and her inner strength had to come from somewhere. It was superhuman. And then there are all her beautiful quotes. Her insights are inspired. Her love of all people shimmers and reflects the love of God. And so despite her inner darkness, she was receiving the light somewhere all along.

Silly of me, isn't it? Well, Dark Nights can cause a lot of deep dark reflections that can be hard to admit to. That's my way of confessing that in the quiet that I've been sitting in, quiet is my all. Every now and then I still come up with some profound thoughts--gifts--that give me a little hope. But then I end up sitting quietly again. I gather that Mother Teresa had those same small flickers, too. She was better at admitting her pain to her confessor.

More seriously, (since the conversation got away from being serious somehow) Mother Teresa continues to be one of my favorite people. She led an exemplary life. I'm amazed at how brave she must have been when she launched her institute. The power of her faith and her determination to save those souls for Christ during those first few weeks. Such a small young woman seeking out the poor in their dark holes and taking Christ to them, all alone, in the meanest, darkest, most miserable places people live. And to her, at the time, the need must have seemed overwhelming.

The First Day of School:

There is something about this picture that says so much about the children, what they anticipate and how they feel. I told my daughter that it is photojournalist-esque. I didn't know what other way I could describe the moment that she has captured.

One of the writing challenges Carolyn of Skateboard (link on right) provided yesterday was:

1. Spend some time remembering how your family "tells time"--such as
'before the move', or 'after the accident' or 'when the baby was born.' Make
a list.

Yesterday I was completely stumped by this one. The only thing I could think of was that we so often date our lives according to losses, when somebody died. It seems that it is usually, "Before Grandma died . . . " or "When we still had Lindy . . .". Every now and then we might date things to where we lived when they occurred: "When we lived on South Avenue . . ." or "Before we moved here . . .". Because I am in exile, living in my old house where I never thought I would live again, this is a sore spot for me. I'm afraid it will become a part of our measurement of time and the thought makes me unhappy. I think the fear is that it may be a long measurement of time for my life, that it may be more permanent than I want it to be.

I hate to say it, but right now both subjects seemed depressing. But still, school has begun, I do have some time for writing, I do want to get back with the group and participate if possible and I think it would be very good for me. So it was important to me to try to do these challenges.

And that's it! That's the answer! School has begun. I always dated things that happened when I was child by what grade I was in. And when I relate stories about my older children, I remember when it happened the same way, by the grade they had been in when it happened.

In the picture above, I see my grandchildren beginning another eventful year of their lives. Hannah (not her real name) is obviously excited. She likes school, she is eager to get back to her friends and she is still at that age where enthusiasm for it can make her giggle. I can see her wriggling in this picture. She almost can't sit still for the photograph. While her brother isn't quite so excited. He is at that age where he has concerns and maybe some anxiety about what the day may bring. Maybe he is wondering if the class bully that bothered him last year will be in his class again. I don't know. At that age, I had begun to worry about everything. I would worry about the clothes I was wearing, who my homeroom teacher would be, if my lunch would look sufficiently similar to my friends. So, although I am sure he is excited, he isn't eager, either. And, so begins another year of their lives--a memorable one, an eventful one--one that they will remember and, like me, assign and date to it a cache of memories.

Day 1 continued: The Bounder

So, at approximately 9:30, I dragged my duffle to the Southwind caravan. We located the Bounder, the camper that I was told serves as the official home of cook staff, even though it became apparent that I was the only cook staff on it. I'd found my way by talking to strangers here and there, then faceless, busy but kind.

I stowed my suitcase against the back wall of the back room where six bunks had been installed. I noted that for the most part the bunks were empty and unmade, that no other gear cluttered any corner. I had to worry about everything. I'm a very insecure person and I clue in to what I am to do by what others do and this wasn't working that way. It was obvious that although there were six bunks, there were no other bags--nobody's luggage. Evidence suggested that I might be alone. Not only then, but even at other times later in the trip, I wondered if anybody else would be getting on the Bounder and even if the Bounder would be going on.

Then, because the Bounder was excessively hot, I went back out into the fresh air. Around the buses that were parked behind it the activity was frenetic. The quiet alongside the Bounder was disconcerting in comparison. I was feeling like a fish out of my fishbowl and as though the water had gone somewhere else. And wouldn't a fish bowl full of water have been nice at that moment? I wanted a bath so bad!

I meandered through the hyperactivity outside the buses and located Ike. I was the only person meandering. I seemed to be the only person without an agenda, without a task and with empty hands and slow feet. In the brief exchange we had before he ran off to do something, I wondered when we could shower. It was just a question! Disgusted, Ike looked down his nose and, in a nasal tone to add weight to his disgust, "Don't be high maintenance, Mom!"

I backpeddled. "I won't be high maintenance," my voice whined even in my own ears, "I'm just wondering . . ." I was left wondering for quite some time because he never gave me an answer.

We parted company and I returned to the dark, empty side of the Bounder to wait for its occupants. All the other vehicles were loaded, the members installed in their seats--but the Bounder remained dark and empty. Not a soul walked along its side, not a person sat on its couches, not a driver made an appearance. The engines of the buses and trucks hummed and the Bounder sat silent.

I sneaked the opportunity to brush my teeth, using my drinking water to rinse my mouth. Embarrassed, even in the darkness, I squatted low to spit into the underbrush at the edge of the parking lot. A few minutes later, I saw a woman next to the camper ahead of the Bounder brushing her own teeth and I realized for the first time that I had discovered a secret of grabbing the few minutes here or there for care of self.

Suddenly, people converged on the Bounder. I hadn't even see them come! And then it was crowded, every seat filled. I entered and plopped, or fell, into the nearest seat--which turned out to be in the middle of things to my embarrassment. I recognized Mike, the director, and Vento, officially in charge of brass and--maybe officially in charge of a great deal more that I am unaware of, but the rest were all strangers. I think there were eight people and there was only one woman besides myself.

It was just that quick and the lights were on and we were beginning to try to get off but blocked by a camper belonging to Pioneer (another corps). I don't know how they do it, but nothing blocks them for long! There I was, sitting between Mike and Vento and worrying that I had gotten into the wrong vehicle. Surely some mom-volunteer shouldn't be sitting between the big brass! I even suggested that, "Am I in the right place?" Mike assured me that I was, but I remained doubtful. And then the Pioneer camper rolled out of our way as if by psychic transmission of some sort and we were on our way.

Taking in my surroundings should have made me feel right at home! I'm a child of the 60's. I even thought of myself as a hippie at one point. The inside of the Bounder looked lived in. It seemed a bit shabby, cluttered and the couches were covered with bed pillows and sleeping bags. I realized to my horror that I was sitting on somebody's pillow. I tried to minimize the effort it took to wrangle it from beneath me and push it up out of the way. Even the crowdedness, the shortage of seating as Mike sat on an ice chest, added to the effect. The atmosphere, to say the least, was casual. I knew automatically that the Bounder gets little attention--there is so much more to do.

Every moment is an adventure with the corps. And, it seems, as I watched Mike, that every moment is a potential disaster and takes major effort. Not that Mike seems the least bit stressed--but it would for me and it would make me freak, scream, cuss, pull out my hair, and exhibit and suffer every stress related illness from ulcers to heart-attacks. And so I admire Mike and the staff tremendously and I observe them with the kind of wonder that comes from being mystified rather than with any hope that I could emulate them.

It was a narrow little parking lot for those buses. Beyond the Pioneer caravan, the drive narrowed to car lane width and then plunged down a steep driveway. It was too short for the Bounder. We scraped going through. But the buses! Even I could understand that the buses are long and low. So that was our first hurdle--getting out of the parking lot . . . and a bumper crunched behind us.

*I know that I am windy! And I hope I manage to get it written now that I have started this way.*

Reviewing my long week with Southwind Drum and Bugle Corps

Day 1, 7/18
This is the trip in review before I have forgotten. My journal, kept by hand, was spotty and incomplete.

Because I had no clue what I was in for, I'm going to begin here with that same mystery for my readers! What is a drum and bugle corps? Until last November, I didn't even know that they exist. I think it is a shame now that I didn't and that I've missed so many years, so much excitement and so many fine performances. Drum and Bugle Corps ought to be included as an Olympic event!

What I must say about the trip, in total, was that I have rarely come across such a fine group of hard working, self-sacrificing, goal oriented people. I would have to apply a great many superlatives in order to feel that I might have expressed all their qualities. Most especially, and I think this is rare in today’s world, I felt that each and every person involved, staff and kids, have found a sense of purpose for their lives in this strange competitive world that runs parallel to this ordinary world that most of us inhabit. It is so strange to say this, as later on in the trip I actually worried that the importance of items in the drum corps agenda take on a larger than life feel, an importance out of the natural order of things--an insanity caused by being so focused on the head of a pin! But keeping the real world in mind, the drum corps world is a wondrous place. So, I was taken aback, being somewhat of a religious nut, if you will, I had thought that the only place I would find this kind of devotion to an ideal would be in faith.

These kids have a dream! I say they are kids, but they range in age from 16 through 21 (maybe 15 through 22). And they are all exceptional, self-motivated and driven in a way that so few kids are--maybe two kids in a thousand. They are willing to suffer amazing deprivations, long hours on their feet in miserable weather conditions in the hope of winning (I have a story to tell about that later). At the same time, they are loyal to each other and to the corps, loyalty being a rare commodity in this world.

Of course these are generalities and sometimes what I have said above may seem like an overstatement–but when I stood a quarter of a mile from the football field late in the trip watching them practice beneath the broiling sun, which they did all day as the heat waves rose off the field, and I was profoundly touched. That shimmering image of more than a hundred young men and women, instruments glinting in the sun, at temperatures soaring over a hundred degrees came to symbolize all my admiration and to describe if only partly how great they all are. And, this goes too for all the adults who are committed to their success–who have made their own great sacrifice for this ideal they all share and for the love of music, for accomplishment of dreams, for belonging to something greater than the sum of its parts.

That all said, I’m just a mom–and could only observe and try to help what little I could. I felt very much like an outsider, an observer–like a fish in a fishbowl looking out at the greater world warped by my own confines. It seemed that every person I was with were long-term bugle corps devotees and most were alumni to either Southwind or another corps or to both. I was learning a new language, a new way of thinking, a new level of determination and a focus that was entirely on the corps, the kids and their dreams.

What probably didn’t work so well for me was that one thing that does define almost all of these good-hearted people is that they are competitive. I’m not sure that a non-competitive person fits in their filing cabinet. I went solely with the hope that I could be of help and that my health wouldn’t defeat me. The doctor had told me almost a month before that the trip would either kill me or make me stronger. Considering that Day 2 was twenty-one hours long and I felt that a good hard eight hour day would be my upper-limit, I was probably knocked out of the running for my zombie-like stare the first day.

I joined up with them in Fayetteville, Arkansas (that is Arkansaw for you Easterners). My husband drove me, my huge duffle and overstuffed shoulder-bag to the show–the very first Drum and Bugle Corps show that I had ever had the opportunity to see. I was entering a strange new world without having a clue about what was to come.

The day was hot! Sticky hot. The kind of hot day in Oklahoma when not even an air conditioner can make you feel cool. Naturally, we arrived early and parked in the stadium parking. Before the show was ready to begin we left the car and began walking in the vague direction of the parkinglot where the buses had been sighted. We finally located the set of buses and trucks that comprise Southwind's home on the road more than a quarter of a mile walk from where we'd started (it turned out to be the long way ‘round).

I did understand early on that they travel and sleep by night and spend almost every day in a new location. We found the caravan surrounded by a smattering of people as the kids were already mostly dressed and were warming up some way off. The first thing I checked was the cook trailer, by chance, but found it empty. We finally located somebody and I was told to find "James." I had no idea who James was or what he looked like, but the person who sent me in search of him seemed to think I should. And I thought Mike was the director! (He is, but James is the cook! So for cook staff, it would be obvious, wouldn't it?) So off I went hoping that somebody more motivated to get on their feet would help me in my search. Note that now I understand their reticence about putting their weight on their feet. And I also know now that James would not be easily found in his rare moment of freedom.

It took three tries to find somebody who had a clue where he might be before I finely located him. I found him back at the cook trailer standing on the ramp at the back. I'd come full circle. I introduced myself and felt immediately that I was a subscript in the script–a place I am unaccustomed to. Not that I'm complaining, but just describing the feeling. I was told that the corps would be leaving at 10:00 PM and I could bring my things after the show. I never expected the laid-back attitude. Regiments marched through my mind as I felt lost in the vagueness of the instructions!

After that non-plussed moment of introduction, my husband and I stopped for a while before returning to the stadium in order to watch the kids warm-up in a paved spot between two buildings. Initially the brass section was in a semi-circle and playing some part of the show–beautifully. The percussion section warms up separately and were out on a hill to the south, out of sight but, as I later realized, they are never out of hearing. The tattoo of drums is always in the background--even when the kids are supposedly at rest. The kids were wearing their white show shirts (an undergarment) and their jumper-like black trousers. A few other parents had gathered along a wall out-of-the-way to watch and we joined them. We sneaked to a spot and sat down as though we hoped the directors wouldn’t notice that we were sneaking a preview that we ought to pay for.

Ike managed to ignore us, as he should. He calls it "lock down." He keeps his eyes straight ahead and lets nothing distract him. I knew that! But I was thrilled. I secretly hoped that he saw us anyway.

It was the first sight I’d had of him since we’d left him in Kentucky at the end of May. I had heard from his older brother that he had grown, that his acne had cleared, that he was more mature. What I saw was the most beautiful kid in the whole world! Bronzed and blond by hours in the sun, strong from excessive exercise, a slight golden fuzz on his cheeks and glowing green eyes–I just felt so much pride in him. His jawline was more pronounced, his cheeks taught, childhood padding broiled away. And, yes, he had matured as it turned out, both visibly and emotionally a very different person in many ways.

(to be continued!)

Late edition:

You scored as Ginny Weasley, You definitely share your mother's (Molly Weasley) fiery resolve and slowly but surely people are learning to respect you because of it. Ginny Weasley 85% Hermione Granger 80% Severus Snape 70% Remus Lupin 70% Albus Dumbledore 60% Ron Weasley 60% Sirius Black 55% Draco Malfoy 40% Harry Potter 35% Lord Voldemort 30% Your Harry Potter Alter Ego Is...? created with QuizFarm.com

Busy summer!

All I can say is that the drum corps experience ruled my summer for one reason or another. It seems it shouldn't since I am merely a "mom". But I joined them as a volunteer for a week and then I spent a few days chasing them from show to show. When I finally dragged home, thoroughly exhausted, I had a long list of things to do to prepare for my son's return, the beginning of the school year, etc.

Here is a video of the horn-line practicing in a parkinglot during finals week:



I have begun to record a journal of my own experience on the road, albeit a short one, and I intend to post it shortly.

Mold was only half my problem:

I knew that I was suffering two sets of symptoms. What was good for one was bad for the other. For example: Listerine would stop the action of one, but make the other one go wild (sugar and alcohol). Without a helpful doctor--and I cannot understand this for the life of me--I have suffered from the other problem until I figured it out by myself.

We'll keep it broad: Fungus.

The most common fungus that most people do know something about is yeast. And yeast is way underrated! Not even doctors seem to attach sufficient importance to diagnosing and treating it. When the thought of yeast occurred to me and I began to take measures as though yeast was my problem, it helped. I began by eating lots of yogurt and taking acidophiles. It only gave me a modicum of relief but pointed me in the right direction. I checked out the local health food store and I began taking an herbal anti-fungal regimen that helps a whole lot more, but still isn't good enough to give me total comfort.

The symptoms ascribed to yeast, not fitting my own symptoms exactly, indicate possibly that another kind of fungus or an unusual localized infection in the eyes, nose and mouth and sometimes in the lungs has mislead my doctor. Yeast, candida albicans, typically causes digestive problems and I haven't noted any. And I don't have thrush. I have no sores in my mouth and this has been confirmed by my dentist. But on rare occassions my lips have had a sore or two.

There are several kinds of yeast that make people sick and then there are several other kinds of fungus that make people sick. The fact that I had been given a powerful antibiotic at the end of last summer should have been a red flag. So I think the cause should have been reason for the doctor to check into yeast/fungus.

Most healthy people don't become deathly ill from a fungus. And I am healthy otherwise and that might have thrown my doctor off the scent.

Why haven't I said anything before this?

1) It still isn't officially diagnosed. I figure that since my doctor didn't even consider the possibility, there is no use in going to him now and saying, "I've pretty much figured out what the problem is. Now, make me well!" ;) I'm looking for a doctor while my husband catches up on the medical bills.

2) I want the right kind of doctor. I don't want to run into the same ignorance that I did before. From my research so far, I have come to the conclusion that not enough doctors are well enough informed on the subject.

3) I live in an area where there are fewer specialists and I haven't found a way to locate a good doctor in one of the larger cities nearby.

4) I was also focused on the mold in my home, one way or another, until that problem was solved--leaving me with the worst set of symptoms to combat, but helping me figure out the fungus connection.

The more research I do, the more worried I become about our ignorance of the problems caused by fungus. 30% of cases are deadly. Some of the common things that people are diagnosed with may very well be misdiagnosed fungus infections that will eventually lead to more complications and further lists of symptoms and more bottles of medicine for misdiagnosed maladies. It is possible that many cases of dementia are overlooked yeast/fungus infections, for example.

To my horror, as I read the list of symptoms and realize that my own father might have actually died of a fungus infection brought on twelve years previous to his death after his bout with colon cancer--for which he was given antibiotics. He always said that it was the cancer surgery that started all his problems and his decline. I saw the yeast in his mouth in the hospital after he broke his hip. I know it was there. I just didn't know what it could do and I trusted the doctors diagnosis first of dementia and then much later of Parkinson's.

It may have been the cause of his increasing inability to balance and therefore the cause of his broken hip. Ears are commonly infected. And the drooling (I experienced it last fall), the lack of concentration, the memory lapses and even his blindness may all have been caused by yeast or fungus (molds, too). And all those years that he was ailing and I was amazed at the amount of sugar he could eat! I was glad he could eat sugar. And as crazy as this may seem, I talked to his doctor about it and he had no concerns since my father wasn't diabetic. Craving sugar is a symptom and should have been a concern.

******

To carry on here: My closets, or my bedding, or my bath towel, or whatever I have touched or used must harbor the fungus and when humidity rises, the fungus becomes active. When the fungus is active it puts out mycotoxins (I'll check my terminology when I have a chance and correct this if I am wrong) that are virtually indestructible. Some can even be boiled without being destroyed (a mystery solved). At any rate, these are only examples to help relate what the problem is. I breath or eat these mycotoxins and then they overload my system (kidneys, liver and skin) and it can't remove them and this is what causes the symptoms.

The way I see it is that I infect my environment and then it infects me back. It becomes a vicious circle. My body fights it off only to get hit again and again from my environment. Moisture is my greatest enemy. Even the water in the sink drain can be infected and cause problems. Chlorine is my best friend. The fungus gets into everything I use and everything I touch. It is not easy to destroy, a hidden enemy that waits in dark shadows.

So, today I sit here with a dehumidifier next to me. I drink lots of water and eat lots of yogurt and try to avoid sugar along with a whole host of other special paranoid behaviors to protect myself from my almost microscopic enemy! Okay, I'll fess up! I have even used yogurt in my hair! Hopefully, I'll get well and eventually maybe I can even help others who suffer from the mysterious maladies the doctors don't diagnose. I have a lot of reading yet to do.

I have some good links and reading suggestions, but I've been sitting here too long for today. I'll try to share them with you in hopes that you can help somebody suffering from mysterious illnesses like I am.

Diary of a mad woman:

Okay, I'm going to give in and continue to write about this mystery that has thus far remained unsolved. My health is a preoccupation. It isn't a preoccupation because that's what I want to do, it seems that I am forced to. When I become lax, I pay by suffering. I like to be lazy, just for the record.

Now, I am going to write this as though someone is doing it to me. Most of the time I'm completely rational about it and I look for normal causes for my symptoms. But the "saltiness attacks" haven't triggered anybody's memory as to a cause so I haven't found help for them yet. I don't really believe that someone is doing it intentionally to me until something inexplicable happens and I can't dismiss the mystery. In this case it happens to be blood . . .

1) Like a red tide:

It is a long story that has taken up most of my week. Becuase I was stubborn, I ended up in the shower at 5:00 AM. It is the story of my life through the past six months.

We'll have to step back a few weeks, three to be more exact. It was the last time I remember being able to breathe easily if I opened my closet door. I remember that one time when I opened my closet door the scent of my perfume wafted out and I wondered if the clothes I'd worn to Church that Sunday were the cause. But then it seems that by the very next morning, I opened my closet to be met by the "elephant pen at the zoo" odor that is, quite frankly, killing me.

My initial response was to wash all my clothes using clorox. Yes, even my colored clothes. But the closet still reeked. The next step was to take everything out of the closet, but the closet still reeked. Do note that this same scenario has played out in two other closets already--except that the closet itself never reeked and laundering the contents of it solved the problem. This time, it didn't help at all to wash the clothes, bind the shoes into plastic bags and, finally, to remove everything from the closet.

My next step was to wash the entire closet--not once, but twice. And then to clean the carpet despite the fact that this carpet is about four months old and it couldn't possibly have any dirt in it yet. I spent three days this week doing that. Still, the closet reeked.

Along with that, my bed has been infected too. I've laundered all the sheets, I've cleaned the pillows and still, and this is why I was so stubborn last night, it makes me sick.

I will say this: It can't be chemicals because obviously it begins before the chemicals do. That is if you consider my own chemicals. I thought it might be some sort of pesticide, but it won't weather out--that's why there were three weeks before the infection culminated in the waste of so much energy and time on my part and why I ended up showering off at 5:00 AM. Chemicals will wash out, too.

No matter what this is, this stuff hits me like pepper. It takes over a closet or, as now, my bedroom in as single night. It reminds me of the red tide. It is a superbug that multiplies rapidly at random intervals and then does nothing more than bother me for several days until that random deluge, tide, comes in.

When I take a whiff--a single whiff, mind you--my vision gets blurry and I feel dizzy and begin to sweat. My mouth and nose feel as though something is drilling in--I envision little screw shaped bacteria. It hurts and tastes nasty, although the taste, I realized last night, is slight and indescribable. It makes me cough and sneeze. I know that I am not alone in this because my poor old dog is suffering the same way right along with me. Foolish dog! He stays right with me even when I am suffering to clean it up, choking and coughing all the time.

I can't be forwarned and avoid it because by the time I detect the smell of it, it is too late. A whiff is enough. It is very effective against me. And one whiff and it might be several days before the saltiness on my skin and in my nasal discharges and even in my mouth subsides. It also makes my lips feel funny, dry, sticky and somewhat rubbery.

To be continued . . . (if I can muster the courage)

Gosh! It has been nearly a month since I posted!

All is well--or better, at least. Ike is off at drum and bugle corps for the summer and the house is quiet for a change.

No trumpet. No melophone. No guitar. Complete silence. I really must complain.

The house is clean. The carpets are vacuumed. The bathroom isn't sweating from one of his long hot showers. His bed is temporarily disassembled and nobody cares. I dragged all his amps out of the living room and lined them up in his bedroom. *sigh*

We've also adopted another wee kitten. She hasn't got a name yet. Spunky . . . Loopy . . . Tiger . . . Tornado . . . I say that God sends me the difficult cases. She came to me half dead. Two days later people couldn't believe she'd been sick. She can fall asleep in mid-play. I thought about drawing a picture of my hand covered with bandages from all the play punctures she is giving me, but I'm not very handy with a mouse.

Mr. Dickens is depressed. Here he thought life was good, he ruled the roost for once. He is terrified of a six week old kitten! But he'll bark at full grown cats at a distance.

I've been thinking of going back to the daily entries where I dally with the fictionalization of my mysterious illnesses. Health has a tendency to become such a preoccupation, but I do have a great idea, I think.

A new appreciation for mold:

****If you have come here on a search for symptoms or observations I have recorded here, I have learned so much since it was originally published. I can tell when somebody Googles, but I have no idea who Googled. ;) Do leave any questions that you may have and if I know the answers, I'd be delighted to help you. In the last two days one person wanted to know if mold can be crystal like. Yes. Yeasts and possibly histoplasmosis which becomes a true yeast once it is established in the lungs. And yesterday somebody wanted to know about eyes. I have three spots in my left eye. So please do ask because I've had to figure out so much on my own! Wikipedia is also a great help.***

I have arrived at a new level of awareness of the capabilities of our hidden enemy. I realized I must be there when I began contemplating the number of mold spores per square inch in the refrigerator. My refrigerator may never be dirty again. Others opening my refrigerator door may be assaulted by a wave of the odor of chlorine. If it is possible for foods to absorb it, my cooking may take on a characteristic hint of chlorine.

Well, actually, this may be true for my whole house now. Chlorine is the enemy of my enemy and it is now my best friend.

New rules for the fridge: Nothing moist may remain in it for more than one week. Even so, all moist foods should be contained in airtight containers. No more green fuzzies in my fridge!

Seriously, mold spores are always present in air--all air. That means in the accumulated dust that settles on everything, there are a good number of mold spores that are ready to grab at any moisture. Opportunistic little nasties! I realize now that I used to have quite a number of bad housekeeping habits. I thought I knew the truth about my dirt! I had no idea. New rule: No moisture anywhere! No damp towels, no drying wash cloths, no water standing under a soap dispenser, no damp dirty clothes (this was always a rule but now it will be enforced without mercy). The plumber will roll his eyes when he hears I've called again. I'll freak for a leak! Dusting and vacuuming will take on a new intensity around here. Any spec of dust may contain within it one of those dreaded mold spores.

I went to see what my choices are in disinfectants. Time and again, I saw "Kills flu virus!" plastered across the front of the bottle or can. My response? It ought to say, "Kills mold spores!" I guess that a great many people are mistaken and place the priority on getting rid of bacteria. If only they knew that bacteria aren't the real germies. Products that I used to think of as disinfectants will no longer be found under my kitchen sink.

Otherwise, I'm thoroughly occupied these days with helping get Ike ready to go to drum and bugle corps. The list of things to do to prepare for him to be gone for three months is as long as my arm. I'm writing lists and checking them repeatedly.

Pixel Man

The pixel man in the video stands in the shadow by the door. Ghostly images that move between the frames. He seems to jerk, or pull, repeatedly. I wonder if he is trying to open the door. Or if he is trying to close it against the world. Can't he escape? Or is there a threat outside?

Change under pressure:

On my blog rounds this morning, I visited Ron's blog and found this entry: emergence under pressure . . . in your church. Talk about sacred secular! This entry speaks to where I am in every aspect of my life right now.

Yesterday morning I came home from church reeling. It is one of those years--one of those bad years--where nothing in my life is going according to plan. If there is proof that we have very little control over our lives, the situation that I am in now proves it. All I know is that I'm in a pressure cooker that is about to explode. I have no idea where or when, but when it occurs, there is no telling how far the splatter will fly or how much. Or, in other words, I really don't know what is coming 'round the bend, but I'm craning my neck and ready for whatever comes my way.

Yesterday morning, sitting in the pew, a man who couldn't even follow the service handed me a filled out seeker's card to put into the collection plate. Every week there are new faces in our church. Shades of what occurred in Virginia echo here. People from other denominations are taking over the pews. The angry conservatives are going to make a move to steal the church. I've seen the writing on the wall for years now--I'm just waiting for God to open that window I'm always promised. In the meantime, I am sitting almost still, just waiting. Because through faith I do believe that God will show me what her will is and the direction she wants for me to go. Who knows where this will go or how it will play out in the end. Only God knows.

About that open window (if you will pardon cliches): I think God is preparing the furrow. For example, I have been leading a discussion group over a book on St. Benedict's Rule. I've never considered myself any sort of public speaker/teacher. Far from it. But--and very sweetly, as I have so often said that I am where I am because of the people I love--the women have been coming to me and telling me how much they have been enjoying the discussion. I usually tell them that is themselves--they take the ball and play with it, they make it happen. And yesterday morning I was pleasantly surprised by a similar compliment from a woman who had previously found the book daunting--and I was so happy! Her thoughts had been a concern to me.

Which brings me to another thing--love. I feel as though when the turmoil in the church begins to reach boiling, these wonderful women come to distract me, to bolster me, to hold me up, to warm me. There are no politics in it--their point of view doesn't matter. They are apolitical, faithful, spiritual and GREAT! (And maybe I shouldn't leave out the men who show their support, either. Thanks Z!) I don't need to say or do anything--they think of it all by themselves. I wish that I was as good as they are!

At any rate, what I'm saying is that perhaps I have a gift that I had never guessed at. Or, with God's help, I can do things I thought were impossible.

So, here I am at this juncture of forced change in both my secular and sacred life. Isn't it just exactly as Ron has just said in his blog? "There is something about looking ahead to a new horizon, not being able to really see what is ahead that causes fear... so much fear, we'll strain our necks, constantly looking back to the land of familiarity we just left." I'm trying to keep that new horizon in mind. It could be anything and it could be anywhere. I've been driven out of my charted course by winds that I hadn't foreseen. But it is done. Nothing is left but to box my compass straight and chart a new course.

The "New" Neighborhood:

Ike thinks the main road we take to get here is an industrial wasteland. He is small-town. In a big city, this would still be a fairly decent neighborhood even if it is near the tracks, so to speak. The businesses here don't pollute.

The main road near the tracks is really a mix between small businesses, warehouses and private residences. This neighborhood itself would be called working-class, I suppose. The people here are very often young and are upwardly mobile. Two-thirds of the homes are privately owned residences and are well cared for. The other third are rentals that drag real estate values down. My house would sell for the same amount that I bought it for in the 80's before the housing glut drove prices down all over town.

I see this housing edition as an island situated on the right side of the wrong side of the railroad tracks. Or rather there is a siding that creates a private quarter to the north, separating this housing edition from the older homes on the other side. The homes here were built in answer to the need for housing after WWII and this is the only street in the neighborhood where the houses are not identical, or rather, not tract housing.

I took the long route to get to my point. In order to cross the tracks there are about four streets that have railroad crossings we can choose from. On one, that I rarely choose to take, there is a very old, decrepit two-story house. It is oddly built as though it grew organically according to the whim of its owners over the last century. I think it was probably one of the old farm houses that were here even before any other homes were built. It is painted two different colors and all the paint is peeling. The front porch sports a swan on each porch post. I always thought it was rather queer until I took a second look one morning when I wasn't in a hurry. The back door is surrounded by Christmas lights that the owner even lights on April evenings. More importantly than its condition, its odd shape, its swans, is its parklike yard, if you could call it that. Simply, the house is surrounded by trees planted in straight rows and probably four or five city lots of pure green grass.

There is an impressive aspect to it and I pointed this out to Ike one day. I think it is proof that even those who have little money and few assets can still have their own little piece of heaven and this is one that belongs to some small family who likes to enjoy their lives. It's evidenced in the Christmas lights around the back door and in the two chairs that sit facing toward the open tree covered lot between the house and the railroad tracks. A swingset sits in the shade of the trees a stones throw from the chairs. It would be a quiet place except for the trains.

While most of us are chasing our tails and trying to keep up with the Jones', these people have managed to obtain a house that takes their focus off the neighbors and to live life the way they want to live it. So, the point I wanted to make for Ike was to take the time to go sit out back after a hard day's work and enjoy what life has to offer rather than worrying about what you haven't got and what you may never be able to afford to have. And these people may be happier than their counterparts in their expensive houses out on snob hill. Some people just never get it: "Bloom where you are planted."

Off the walking trail!

What with the move and everything, I lost out on the fifty miles in fifty days challenge that I would have participated in. But Carolyn had a more fun idea, perhaps. She found this link called Map My Walk. With it, you can plan your walk and know in advance how far you have walked.

Here is the link to my profile: Annie's walks. This is helpful since I'm not living at home right now and part of my problem with walking is where to walk.

I posted my river walk below my blog entry posts. Don't go much further than that because my links have become so obsolete that I am embarrassed--but not enough to do anything about it today.

Another problem with walking around here is that this neighborhood has more pit bulls per capita than any other neighborhood in the USofA. They have pit bull conventions and planned pit bull meets.

I'm leary of pit bulls. What can I say? Seeing a pit bull makes me do a U-Turn.

Life has been so strange lately!

I need to buy a notebook to record my thoughts these days. Because my life is so topsy-turvey and irregular, I'm noticing things and thinking about things from the wrong side of the railroad tracks now.

It is a very different type of neighborhood than what we are accustomed to. My house--and it is mine--is in the heart of a crowded, noisy neighborhood. I left here sixteen years ago. I can remember the happier days when I lived here before. The more settled days. Strangely, yesterday I needed a fork and without thinking about it, I reached for the drawer that had been my utinsil drawer when I lived here all those years ago. I told Ike that the mind is a miraculous organ than never ceases to amaze me. How could I possibly have so easily slipped back in time like that--to just automatically reach for something where it ought to be. The drawer is out for repair right now and there is just a hole there.

I have very few possessions here and I'm not settling in like a person would normally settle in. I have a few pieces of furniture that we dumped here when my father's house sold--the icky things nobody wanted that were too good to give away. I have this nice new carpet, light blue, that blends so nicely with gray walls, freshly painted, with stark white woodwork and this huge thirty year old yellowed and stained sectional couch. It seems my father's old English cottage style house house hid how aged it had become! And there is an old, old radio, 1940's at least, in a well made wooden cabinet that has seen better days. It makes a small table that is overpowered by a huge lamp that I think came from India. It is the most awkward real antique brass lamp. I can't imagine why. It is fat at the bottom and then tall and thin. And the shade is purely hidious--but nothing ready made is big enough for the lamp. Other than guitar equipment and a computer, that's all that is in my living and dining room.

Yesterday I finally broke down and bought a dish drain tray and a trash can. I was in the process of preparing to paint the kitchen cabinets when I made my unplanned move into the house. So, I adopted some old toy tubs of Ike's to use rather than fill the cabinets with stuff I'd have to take out when I paint. But time has been so restricted that I still haven't managed to begin to paint after nearly three weeks. So basically we are living out of boxes and suitcases as though any day we'll bug back to our own home.

I can't seem to get a decent meal together. For one, as renters never take care of things, the oven was so filthy that when I tried to fire it the first day or so that we were here, it stunk. I turned it off and we went out to eat while the house aired. I am not kidding you when I tell you that I scrubbed and soaked the burners for an entire week. So early on we ate out a lot. Oven cleaner was difficult to find the first week. I noticed that Wal Mart has it now that I finally managed to scrounge some up at an old southside grocery store. I sprayed the oven the other day and I haven't managed to get up the nerve to begin the nasty job of wiping it out. Tonight I tried to make chicken fajitas, but I'd forgotten that we don't have a jar of picante sauce--or any other kind of sauce, for that matter. And no spices! Although the fajitas tasted good, they weren't even remotely Mexican.

Well, a person gets tired of camping out all the time and living temprorily on what appears to be a more and more permanent basis. The time horizon for moving back home doesn't appear to be shrinking. Two suitcases and two tubs of kitchen goods is all I really have in the world now.

I miss my things!

I'm tired of watching the neighbors watch me. I know that my life has interested them immensely these past twenty-three years and they are afraid to ask me what the heck I'm doing back in the neighborhood. So they are both curious and distant. This end of the street is dominated by one family that owns two homes directly across the street. I never got along with the patriarch of the family. He used to stand in his garage and smoke and watch whatever I was doing through his small oval windows. They should be happy. I take good care of my grass. But they think I'm stupid to water it when the droughts come. On a good note, his grandson was visiting the other day and hailed me from the other side of the street. So we hollered back and forth, catching up on the decade or so since I last saw him. He must have been eight or so when I bought this house. If you ask me, he's the best one of the bunch.

Six Weird Things mime:

Not that I am popular enough anymore to actually be tagged! But I will accept Father Jake's general challenge:

Six Weird Things Mime

According to the rules I must:
1. Reveal six weird things about yourself on your blog, and
2. Tag six people to do the same.

The problem isn't coming up with six weird things, it is in admitting to them!

1. We talk for Mr. Dickens (Ike and I) and we have both fallen into a "Dickie talk" habit where we use his "voice" for nearly everything. We are losing our inhibitions and sometimes even talk like him in public. It is amazing how influential one little six-and-one-half-pound dog can be! We also have voices for each of our other animals, especially Ms. Squeaky because she always has a comment and she is so sophisticated. Naturally, for her we employ a squeaky voice.

2. I love open windows and if the weather is anywhere within the comfort zone, give or take twenty degrees, I open all that I can. I love curtains blowing in and out in the breeze.

3. I completely freeze when it comes to writing something on a greeting card or thank you note. I can jot something down on a bit of paper in no time at all. I destroy more cards in the making than ever manage to get into the mail. If I want to send out twenty-five Christmas cards, I must begin with fifty. I am especially bad about making mistakes while addressing envelopes. (That's just an example. I have no idea how many I send out in a good year.)

4. I am a night person, like Jake. I love the wee hours of the morning when all others are resting and it is intensely quiet in the house. It is my best time for pursuing the things I love doing the most, especially reading and writing. I have, however, noticed that the rest of the world likes to be active during the daytime and makes a regular habit of hounding those of us who are night-owls.

5. I am a daydreamer through and through. My mind is rarely on the task at hand or planning my day. It makes me absent-minded about daily duties and responsibilities. I've never successfully created any system that can overcome my tendency to forget what I need to do (work avoidance). A notebook is sitting on the couch next to me with three headings: To-do, needs and honey-do's, but the columns are all empty. For a brief time in my life, I successfully kept a To-Do list, but I've never managed to reinstate that desirable habit. My tendency to daydream is also my bane as a writer because I never have as much time for the writing as I do for story creation--and even revision that I do in my head!--and my story grows and morphs faster than I can get it written, leaving me with a mess I can't rectify.

6. I'm a closet health nut. Nobody would know it if they watched me. I read all food labels and I worry about any ingredient that doesn't have a common name, like salt. The more natural and less processed it is, the more likely I am to consume it. But that includes things like real butter. I only use real sugar. I love physical activity of all kinds, but hate intentional exercise. Give me a game of tennis any day! I'll walk for miles if I don't think of it as exercise--but the sheer maddening intensity with which I do everything makes focusing on exercise a total drag, second by second. I like healthy shoes or, rather, I hate cramped toes. I'm no slave of fashion when clothing binds or constrains.

Six people! Carolyn, Derek, Jim (I've never seen Jim participate in a meme), Norma, David.

A Lenten Meditation on the Passion of our Lord Jesus, Christ

A Lenten Meditation on the Passion of our Lord Jesus, Christ presented by the Diocese of Massachussets

Dogma*

There is considerable contention within Christianity and among its divisions over certain aspects of the faith, very old aspects, such as dogma and doctrine. The legacy of the reformation has created a body of Christians who loathe the very idea and like to point fingers and declare their view to be authoritatively based on scripture alone. It is one of those contentious little details that I perceive as a fallacy, one of those hypocritical acts of finger pointing that people of all makes and models are prone to do.

A lot of that dogma has to do with creating the right atmosphere. By that I mean to include all that is within the scope of the spiritual Christian and faith. There are many ways to do that, perhaps. Some people may find the right atmosphere sitting on a hilltop watching the sun set. In other words, the essentials can be stripped down to their bare essentials but there will be a body of knowledge and of practice that the Christian accepts and understands. Whether it is the Church itself that has determined these essentials or a protestant denomination or a single individual it remains technically dogma to those who follow it.

Atonement is a biggy! There is a confusing array of potential doctrines, but as with so many things of faith we can poke holes in all of them or they all fall short of explaining exactly what happened. My own doctrine, if you will pardon me, is that God perceived that we humans wouldn’t be able to accept forgiveness unless we understood that a price had been paid and so it was arranged. I don’t think God needed to sacrifice his only son. God can do anything. It simply reflects the story of Abraham and builds on the ultimate potential sacrifice for the satisfaction of sin. So, our Lord died to save a bunch of goats. *Said with a smile, of course!* Actually, it is a whole lot more complex and I don’t know how to write it. I don’t like rotten tomatoes, either.

At any rate, when we approach God in prayer, we know that we have been washed clean and we know that it isn’t something that we did. It makes God more approachable and at the same time still instrumental to our well-being. So our knowledge of sin creates a right state where pride has died and humility reigns.

I don't think it is ever in believing any thing about God (Christ). I think it is in believing IN, or having faith in Christ, the person. Faith being complete trust. Contemplation requires emptying ourselves, the "Cloud of Forgetting". It isn’t in knowing the right stuff. It is not thinking the right thoughts. It is rather like not thinking at all. It is an act of opening ourselves up to the one we call on. That's why so many find the foreshortened Jesus prayer so effective. Some of us, however have overactive minds. We are so totally self-absorbed that it takes more to bring us into his presence.

In the Church, the ancients used song (chant) psalmody and prayer, reading and contemplating and praying the scriptures to empty the mind in an active way. Or rather, as a means of losing self-awareness. I say I am a reader and I can read my way into the right state. St. Mary was often depicted with a Bible on her lap as a contemplative early on. That was her as role model.

Rituals tell us when God is active among us so that we are more open to his presence and accepting. It isn't that God isn't present at all times, but that we need help sometimes in opening ourselves up to his presence. People may reject those rituals, but they replace them with other rituals they don't call rituals but they still believe that God meets them in their anti-rituals.

An example of such a ritual would be the requirement of the Fundamentalists that baptism is only done after a person has repented of the sin and accepted Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior. It would be by submersion only and infant baptism is not considered either valid or possible. To claim that this is not a ritual would be ridiculous. To claim that it is not a tradition would be equally ridiculous. It has become both for them in their practice of faith. Thus the hypocrisy! But it serves the same purpose. Almost.

Splitting hairs over a word is ridiculous. The scriptures, especially the Epistles, are full of what we are to do and what we are not to do, of what we are to believe and where we might err. To claim that dogma is an invention of later days is a waste of effort! Official dogma was mankind’s effort to set into concrete something they were afraid somebody else might come along and change. Note that I like rock and concrete for their very concreteness.

Find God wherever you can. I find God in my garden, in the pefection of his creation as in the moist cool earth in spring or the opacity of a flower petal. I find God in the dark of night when I am alone and afraid and he calms me. I find God in an infants face, in the trickle of water from a rock, in a bird's song from a treetop. And one night in Holy Week, I left the Church with an unsatisfied feeling only to find what I was searching for in the midnight blue sky dominated by the full moon.

It is not anything ABOUT God, it is not "right belief" or "right doctrine." God is not in a place such as a church building while not being outside its doors. God is not in a cross and he certainly is not within the covers of a book or at least no more so than he is in a handful of dirt (the very rocks would cry aloud). God is Spirit. It is all about seeking God and where he can be found and listening to God and hearing God--an active, living presence.

The problem, I think, is that if I tell you that the only way that you can seek God is to do it my way. God is so much bigger than that!

It is rather nice, I thought.

I sat in the car and gazed out the window at the broken clouds above. They were still an aggravating dark gray, but blue sky burst brightly through every opening. I can think again. My brain isn't functioning as well as usual yet. In fact, I am not even in the clear as far as my health is concerned, but I am improving. My vision is improving too. The interesting thing about that is that my glasses seem to make my vision worse now.

Day before yesterday I could remember things. I could even regret my lack of forsight in leaving my notebook at home when I left for the two hour trip to Sapulpa to drop Ike off for his drum and bugle corp camp. I had thoughts and memories that were worth jotting down for later contemplation and expansion. Yesterday, on the trip to retrieve Ike, for the first time in a very long time I was contemplating faith in a way that I haven't in close to a year. I bored my husband with my thoughts. I even told him that it was a shame I didn't have my notebook because I knew that the inspiration would be gone before I arrived home.

I had a friend once. He was one of my first Internet friends and he was a writer. He had developed terrible allergies that made life impossible, as it turned out. This had happened overnight, so to speak. Life had been good for himself and his family, he had a good job and they were building a dream vacation home--and then with the first attack everything went down the tubes. He could no longer work. His illness required a change of environment to the dry desert southwest. They had to sell their nice home and they bought a camper rig. From then on they made their meager living as campground hosts. Then one day he had an asthma attack. It galls me to think that what stood between himself and life was the lack of a decent vehicle to get him to the hospital. When he finally got to a medical care facility it was too late.

The Internet is an amazing and wonderful thing. Isn't it? And so I met Colin and I will remember him as long as I live. I enjoyed his writing so much. He had a great sense of humor and I would jump at a chance to purchase his novel. Sadly, I don't think that it was ever finished. He sent chapters to me and shared it as it grew. Even though he was trailer-bound, so to speak, he did get some articles published in a hunting magazine. What an imagination!

Well, I have found out that my makeup is contaminated with whatever this is. It contaminates everything moist. It could well be airborne. I won't know if it is the water for at least another week.

Last Monday I very carefully followed the exact instructions for taking the water sample. I don't mind telling the truth here at all. I took it down to the UPS Store. I explained to them that it was a water sample and had to arrive at the lab within 20 hours. I asked them for their best recommendation for getting it there on time. I had to pay not only for overnight shipping, but a special fee for rush delivery and the total came to $50.00. That was over and above the $20.00 fee for the lab itself. Saturday, when I picked up my mail, the lab had sent another vial and a rejection slip. They had not received the sample until Wednesday. Two days! Two days to get it to a city I could drive to in two hours. So for $70.00 and a week of waiting for an answer, I have nothing. Plus I have this misery of living in less than ideal circumstances at more than normal expense because I don't have a refrigerator and I have no washing facilities.

My time horizon expands. Life is abnormal and uncomfortable. I hate to bore any readers that may find my blog, but it is currently a fixation of mine.