Something Has Ended...

I was sad today. It seemed the only healthy thing to do. I was leaving, something was ending. For all that I am excited to be going somewhere else, the fact of leaving demanded to be acknowledged. So I had lunch with a friend at work and I felt sad.

I outlined my plan to someone from Midstate who, like most, asked if I was excited. I told him all about my emotional scheduling, how I am scheduled to be sad today and excited tomorrow. He said that he had never even considered this concept of emotional scheduling before and, I’ll admit, after I explained it it did sound a little odd. I wonder, though, how much healthier we all would be if we consciously took the time to be sad, to acknowledge and recognize change. Even good change still means something has ended. That hurts.

There was a day several months ago when “Spend time with disappointment” made it onto my to-do list. A possibility had resolved and not how I’d hoped. I was sad, but since it had just been a possibility there wasn’t anything concrete to mourn. I knew, though, that if I didn’t mourn I wouldn’t be able to move on. So I put it on my to-do list, in between “Mop” and “Laundry”, and I sat down with my journal and, by gum, I was sad. I was disappointed up to the hilt for about twenty minutes. Then I closed my journal, dried my tears and went on with my day. On to “Laundry”, I suppose.

So today I am sad. I have left a place that I have worked for the past 15 months. Since I am so ridiculously bad at compartmentalizing my world into neat pockets of existence, this workplace became part of my mission, part of my passion and what I researched and thought about. I worked closely with some lovely souls and, I’m told, was of huge help to them. That part of my world is no more that is something worth mourning.

Something has ended.

And that is sad.

To Be or Not To Be Diabetic

To whomever brought the flu to Winter Jam, may I say, Thanks a lot. Thankfully, work was cancelled yesterday and today due to weather so I could lay around the house and feel miserable guilt-free.

I did get some thinking done on this sick day home. None of it was at all interesting, more little snippets of thoughts on romance, Valentine’s Day, how much I see myself in Veronica Mars and why the cat is so determined to sit on me when I’m running a fever. Some of that is worth pursuing at a more reasonable temperature. The main thought that I kept spiraling around to was how terrible diabetic I felt.

There have been a couple of moments when I realized I am ‘Diabetic’. A group of people were heading out to Washington shortly after the tornado ripped a hole through our community to do whatever they could to help out. I wanted to go with them, I really did, but the conditions were so bad and the travel was so difficult that I knew I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself if I started to get low. So I stayed home and felt incredibly diabetic. It was one of the first moments I hung that idea around my neck as a constant.

Having the stomach flu and all the decisions that come with it have made me feel doubly diabetic. Sipping on ginger ale made my stomach calm but sent me shaking with high blood sugar. I needed to take my medicine but would my stomach tolerate it? I need protein to keep at a good sugar level but the only thing I could hope to keep down was some toast. There were only bad and worse options.

As I lay on the couch, finishing up Season 3 of Veronica Mars and contemplating whether moving to the other side of the couch might possibly be more interesting, the word ‘diabetic’ floated around my head. I am coming to understand something that was but a shadow on that day in July when I came home with a diagnosis. Diabetes is not simply something I was diagnosed with; it is something that I am.

This is the difference between living somewhere and calling it home. It’s the difference between reading a comic book now and again and embracing the word ‘geek’ as a badge of honor. People have many things that they do, but a shorter list of ideas that they *are*. More and more I am realizing that I don’t simple do diabetes as a dietary lifestyle, but that I *am* diabetic.

There is a level of comfort in this idea. I have been many things in my life and while transition to being something else can be difficult there are always blessings to be had and kindnesses to share. Being diabetic can be a boat anchor I struggle with or it could be just another one of my distinctives. I am a wife, a youngest child, an author, a nerd, a diabetic and so on. Already my experience with changing my diet has made my home a place that at least one gluten-free friend can eat without fear and I’m certain that is only one good thing that God will bring about. I wouldn’t have chosen diabetes to have been wrapped up under the tree for me, but it’s all about being creative with what He’s given.

Writing a Second Draft

I am finding writing the second draft of Plain Jane to be quite a different experience from the first draft. My goal used to be one thousand words whenever I sat down to write. I wanted to write it as fast as possible, which wasn’t very fast, to get it all out without thinking about it too hard. It was a process of discovery, huge backhoes excavating the story from where it lay deep underground.

I had similar expectations for my second draft. One thousand words at a pop. But then I sat down to write for the second or third time and watched myself slow way down. Each word is considered because there’s only one or two more passes coming. This word has to build the story, the reader’s understanding of Jane, her supporting cast, their issues and hang ups. It has to connect with the next word in such a way that no detail gets lost in the space in between. Each word is suddenly imbued with tremendous worth.

This morning I got Jane from her car into the house of her first client. Actually, she was already on the doorstep when I showed up today. I got her from waiting for him to make his slow way to the door to inside. And on the way I learned quite a bit about roses.

Rosa ‘Eden’, from the family Rosaceae: climbing roses with intricately woven petals of the fairest pink. They climb 8-16 feet which, I figured, would let them eventually reach the top of two-story pillars, are hardy in zones 5-9, which is perfect because apparently Jane and all her people live in Zone 5A, and bloom in July – September which would leave a couple hardy blooms still clinging to the vine in early October.

Three hundred thirty-nine words. That’s all I wrote today. And I am tremendously okay with this because they all felt like the right words. And since I was going slower, I discovered Mr. Charles Harris has climbing roses on his pillars, planted there years ago by him and his wife who used to say the roses transformed their front door into the second gate of Eden. She’s in a nursing home now after a stroke. She had to leave Eden. It’s quite sad, really.

I’m finding that writing a second draft is still an act of discovery only the tools are different. All the backhoe work has been done. If I try to keep using it I’ll just damage things. Now it’s time for the shovel and perhaps even those little brushes and chisels. I’m still moving forward, but at a walk now, not a run. I don’t mind the speed. If I go rushing by I might miss something, like roses climbing the house, and for this story I would hate to miss anything.

Quitting

It felt like a break-up, me all nerves and sweaty palms. It’s not you, it’s me; I’ve met someone else; we’re just growing apart as people. Then I wrote it in a letter for HR’s files. Two weeks, I said, And then I’m gone. But we can still be friends, right?

It’s amazing how quickly my eyebrow stopped twitching after that. 

Markers

I bought markers yesterday. Bright, colorful, “Preferred by Teachers” Crayola markers. I’d outdistanced Jonathan in the store so I was just pulling my selection off the shelf when he came up. He was, understandably, confused. “Why are you buying markers?”  And I was, still understandably, kind of embarrassed.

I’m buying markers because, while my eyelid has stopped twitching, except for that split second when I was drinking caffeine, I am still stressed. Nothing I’ve done so far has been sufficient so now I’m trying markers.

I’ve got my thousandth cup of tea at my elbow, my soul feels full from this morning spent with God and His people, and when this post is written, posted and linked I am going to color.

I’d like to say I’m going to ‘draw’- it sounds so much more mature, sophisticated, a worthwhile task for a full grown adult.  But I’ve tried ‘drawing’ and I’m terrible at it. My brain looks around blankly and then starts babbling about how much fun words are while my hand meanders around the page like a drunken toddler. All my lines wobble until I want them to and I end up with yet another page full of geometric shapes. So, ‘drawing’, the mature sophisticated activity, is right out.

Coloring on the other hand, I haven’t tried in years.

Color for the sake of color, lines that go nowhere suddenly changing from red to purple to green just for the sake of making the page brighter. There doesn’t have to be a greater purpose when one is coloring. We’ve relegated it to a child’s activity and so, like a child, I’m hoping to enjoy the moment without thinking about it so hard.

It’s part of my flailing, my experiment to find what soothes these frazzled nerves. Maybe it will be successful or maybe I’ll have to try something else. Either way I’m still moving forward which, for now, is enough.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some coloring to see to.

A Place In This... TV Show?

I finished watching Leverage. It was splendid and amazing and the ending was everything I wanted it to be. After a few false starts I picked up Bones which Jonathan thought I would like. He was right, of course, and, because I’m me, I started putting the shows next to each other, sizing them up.

Not  comparing the shows. No, that would be silly. One is a heist show and the other’s about criminal anthropology. Other than the fact that they both feature a crime of the week, have a tacit understanding of the concept of family of choice, are made up of characters who are ridiculously good at what they do and star two actors who were also in Angel, they are two separate genres and deserve to be treated as such. No, what I was determining was where I might fit in the character maps.

I wrote about wanting to fit into Leverage some years ago. I would dig the post up, but that blog is currently down for the foreseeable future (hence the move to here) so I will simply recap. I said I wished I could be a member of the Leverage team and Seth said I wouldn’t fit because they were all too broken and sad. He asserted I am too happy and whole to belong with the likes of Nate Ford and the rest. Believe it or not, I found this upsetting because, really, who wouldn’t want to fit in with the ridiculously skilled family-of-choice who go after bad guys?

I eventually got over my upset and understood the compliment he was trying to pay. And now I’m contemplating Bones and, for all the I enjoyed Leverage so much more, on this particular scale Bones might be winning out because, in the midst of their team of ridiculous smart and capable, there stands Angela Montenegro.

Sure, she’s an artist who can recreate a person’s face from a clean skull, but that’s not the point. The point is that, in the midst of a bunch of nerdy scientists who lack some of the most fundamental people skills, she stands as a compassionate soul who understands her fellow man. She is caring, often less able to distance herself from the victim of the week, a true lover of beauty who is often hurt by the ugliness she sees around her. And the show treats her with respect for it. This caring is not a weakness. No, if anything she becomes the lab’s liaison with the outside world, facilitating some of the more delicate and tender interactions with people who have been hurt, traumatized or are confused.

She sat across a café table from the wife of a serial killer and I thought, “That would be me.” No, I don’t actually want that seat and, like I said, she is a genius with facial reconstruction, but the team had a place for the compassionate quasi-normal.

As someone who often feels aggressively average it’s just nice to know a TV show might have a place for me. 

Diagnosis- Stress

I’m not doing awesome and I can’t figure out why.

There. That’s seems like a good, solid, ‘cry for help’ sort of opening line to what I imagine will be one big whiny post about why my amazing life isn’t everything I want. Let’s start with symptoms, shall we.

1. My right eyelid/eyebrow has been twitching off and on since Friday. That gives us at least three solid days of twitching which are about three solid days too many.
2. I have been sleeping like crazy and I still feel stretched too thin. I wake up happy and then by the time I’m sitting down with my blender of breakfast smoothie I’m already feeling the strain of too many items on my to-do list.
3. My to-do list for today consisted of writing my aunt and relaxing.
4. I gained about ten pounds over Christmas. This seems extreme. I ate anything I wanted and lots of it, but still, ten pounds?
5. I’ve lost six of those pounds and still don’t feel much better.

So, Dr. House, here are the symptoms plus some other random thoughts. Your diagnosis?

I choose B) Stress.

Long term, built up stress that grew so imperceptibly that I didn’t notice until a friend asked if I wanted to get dinner and my chest went so tight I had to tell myself to breathe in, breathe out, and in again. Just remembering how I bolted from my desk and had to walk around the building a couple of times to keep from sobbing for no reason makes my eyelid start up again. I knew I don’t deal with stress very well, but I had no idea it was this bad.

My body is breaking in little ways and my spirit is shrinking and I don’t know what to do about it. I have some big ideas and I’ve given them a shove, but now the next step is out of my hands and I’m left trying to understand how to take care of myself. I’ve never been good at that.

So I sat on the couch and played video games with my man. It was a good start yet not enough. So I went to my special nook and I took Jane another step along the way. It was helpful, but there my eyelid went again, twitching away. So I baked and I read and I napped and I watched a movie and none of it has been enough. I’m at a loss, unskilled labor in the field of stress-release, trying to suture my wounds without a medical degree. Five different areas of my life are clamoring for me to take care of me and I’m at a total loss.

Being honest on this blog might be a good way to start. Putting the words down and out without having to consider the person I’m talking to, whether he might be bored, if she needs another cup of coffee. I’m a neophyte in an ancient art and so I’m trying and I’m flailing and we’ll have to see how I do.

Because I can’t stand still. No, I think my blood sugar and my spasming muscles and my shrunken soul would argue that point for me. I can’t stand still so I guess I should get to flailing.

My Writing Nook

I love my husband. When we got married I don’t feel like I understood how seriously he takes my dreams and creative needs. He asks about my main character as if she’s a person out in the world (“So, what’s Jane up to these days?”) and then listens when I talk about this neurotic person I created out of my tics and fears. He’s even starting to understand that when I start getting especially neurotic it might be time for me to go write something, just to get thoughts out of my head. This is huge because I am the person who needs permission to go be creative when I feel like there’s something else I should be doing. And, really, there’s always something that needs doing so there’s always good reasons I don’t have the time or thought space to be sitting in front of a computer, putting words out into the world.

I thought that maybe if I had a dedicated space I would feel the need to use it. So he helped me create a space.

Over the Christmas break, in the midst of hanging shelves and playing video games, we rearranged our basement. Partly because it wasn’t seeing a lot of use and partly to create a Writing Nook. A round table by a window, full of things that make me feel creative and inspired. I’ve got old notebooks cozied up against empty notebooks and a piece of the trunk of our quirky Christmas tree I want to turn into a set of bookends. My first draft sits next to a book on writing with a candle in a mug and lots of space for cups of coffee and a laptop. And then Jonathan even made sure I had the space heater down by my feet because it gets right cold down there in that basement.

I got up this morning, made myself some breakfast and headed down to my Writing Nook. I lit the candle, shoveled scrambled eggs into my mouth while I read what there is of my second draft, eager to get to the writing. Work goes slow as I stare out the window, sipping coffee, trying to find the exact right word and not its second cousin. And when I had run out of words, and coffee, I found I still had creativity left for this post.

There is something about the space that gives me permission to take this time to be creative. I mean, if this wasn’t a big part of my life, would we have a dedicated space to it? Of course not! Therefore… I know, it’s a mess of rationalizations, but sometimes you just need to psych yourself out to get to the place where you can create something that makes you feel happy and alive. Stephen King says that writing has made the rest of his life so much better because it made him happy and then he takes that happiness back into his marriage and his kids and his life. I understand that perfectly so if it takes a little trickery to get me around my guilt then I am all for it.

And thanks to my man, my feet will stay nice and toasty while I do it.