I had several people tell me that I spoke too fast today. I do not understand what they were talking about? I was just talking...and thinking...and trying to finish all the things that are currently on my plate before my friend and I leave for Italy. But more keeps getting piled on my plate. Each time I glance away, I return my gaze to discover new heights. Five business days is all I have left. Even though my habit would be to work nights and weekends (okay I have been), I cannot work this weekend because there are still several items that I need to find. For example, I do not have a water resistant windbreaker. I have a leather jacket I treated myself to five years ago. Most of the time I wear only layers because I get hot so easily. But we will be in a place where rain and cool temperatures reign. And while I bought some casual clothes a few weeks ago specifically for this trip my focus was continental chic. Now, how does continental chic clothing fit with the outdoorsy activities I hope we find somewhere between Rome or Florence or Venice? What do I do? I have work clothes, sweats, and now continental chic. I have not really have a need for casual clothes because all I do is work and collapse on the weekends. Sweats work fine for me. Well, actually, lately I have worn these great men's pajama pants that I found at Target. My friend has clearly stated that she would not like to see those in my suitcase. So what do I do? I want to be able to do other stuff besides look chic while eating some great Italian food. But how can I think about what I am going to pack, especially worrying about the weight since I cannot bear much weight without having difficulty breathing and I don't want my best friend weighted down with all our luggage and my huffing and puffing behind her...or wincing as I struggle to walk, which is another possibility with being cramped on a plane for half a day, when I have this pile before me and half a dozen tasks that have been put aside over and over and over again and I refuse to have them hanging about once I leave only to face them upon returning. And one of the projects dumped at the last minute is absolutely overwhelming to me even though I am trying to appear as if I have a confident plan for finishing the project. With the basement having flooded, I am also trying to get it dried out before I leave so the person staying with Kashi can stay down there. Although the laminate floor is completely ruined, buckling more and more as each hour passes. Perhaps he would rather stay in my room, but then I wouldn't really feel as comfortable as if he were in the guest space. Kashi would probably prefer he use my bed (his bed) so he will not be torn between his bed and the guest in the basement. I called the credit card company to alert it that I would be making overseas charges, but I keep meaning to call back to confirm that the alert was placed on my account. Because I do not plan to bring a lot of cash. How much cash do I need to bring, though. I have asked several people, but have not gotten a specific amount. And I am a bit worried about Fancy because she is appearing to retaining food in her crop and that would eventually be bad for her. How much more can she do so before it harms her? Will begin gone two weeks be too long to go before seeing the vet again? Kashi had tests on Saturday that I keep forgetting to call about to make sure he is well and will be while I am gone since he is drinking nearly double the water per day that he was a year ago. And speaking of money...between the vet bill and having to replace the shop vac after mine burst into flames, I spent over $400 on Saturday right before I am leaving for the trip of my lifetime and am stretched a bit thin even before I leave but I don't want to forego some great experience there with my friend because of water in my basement and water disappearing from Kashi's bowl. Will Kashi eat while I am gone? I have only left him for a few days before and he didn't eat the whole time. I am worried about leaving him. I will miss him. When I changed out of my work clothes tonight, I discovered that I had been wearing the shell beneath my jacket inside out. What kind of person does that?

Two and a half months have passed since the surgery to remove the growth on my shoulder. In all that time, it really hasn't stopped hurting, though the skin has healed...for the most part. It burns and stings. I have taken to wearing a foam bandaid because it affords some relief, but I fear I am developing an allergy to latex from the reactions I have to the bandaid. When I move my shoulder a certain way, it feels as if something has ripped, again and again. When the strap of my upper undergarment presses upon the incision, it is difficult to control my tongue.

I drove 142 miles for work today. Going was difficult, returning was excruciating. How will I be on a plane for 11 hours for our trip to Italy?

We walked around one of our properties for seemingly hours, though in reality it was under one. Breathing became difficult. I struggled to keep up, though I did managed to snap a few solid pictures for future marketing. I asked for an arm at one point, which a woman gave me, but she dropped it far sooner than was comfortable for me. I whispered to my boss that I was seeing stars. She didn't seem to care.

But, perhaps, if she were standing before me now, she would tell me, in that oh so blunt way, that it was not hers to care. It should have been mine. I should have turned back when I realized we would be walking so much.

In my defense, I could not have retraced my steps had I wished to do so, so confused was I. So I did the only thing I could...put one step in front of another...and kept snapping those pictures.

I wonder, had I keeled over, would anyone have really cared. But then, again, why should I care whether or not they do? I only work with them. We have no ties between us.

I am tired. And the front lingering somewhere around here is making my arthritis well known to me. I am tired. And I cannot find a restful position to give into sleep.

I would give most anything to have one day where I felt physically well...

And yet...and yet...I keep thinking about that man, trapped in the body of a boy for nearly 36 years because his skin repeatedly fell off, oozed with infection, and left him in chronic pain.

The last time I checked, my skin is firmly attached to my body.

Hmm...I am thankful for satiating quench raspberry lemonade Gatorade...for the utter comfort of a fresh pair of contacts...for the love of my best friend...the grace of my savior...the joy of Kashi, Madison, and Fancy...for only seven more business days before we escape to Italy.

Thankfully...it did not rain today.

The basement no longer smells like acrid smoke. The floor is dry, though it is still "floating" on water I cannot see but squishes beneath my feet. I actually took a leap of faith regarding the rainfall this week and packed up the new shop vac and stored it in the utility closet.

I languished today in my fatigue and did not prepare for the meeting tomorrow...so I am up late writing my status report.

Still...I am thankful that it is not raining!

Over twenty-six hours later, the water has stopped flowing into the basement. I just finished my last session with the shop vac. I will say that 6.5 horsepower is quite a bit different from 4.0. I am off to finally sleep.

Here's hoping the weather predictions for tomorrow and the day after and the one after that...well, the whole week, are WRONG.

I will go to sleep thinking DRY thoughts...


PS The basement stinks from the fire. Glade anyone?

Over 20 hours of flooding.

I would reckon that I have removed over 400 gallons of water so far.

My first shop vac rather spectacularly burst into flames a few hours ago. So off I went to Lowe's to get another one, this time with 6.5 horsepower. It also holds 18 gallons, but I could barely lift 12 gallons of water, so I think I will not let it fill up all the way.

I had to leave to take Kashi, Fancy, and Madison to the vet. Once I came back, I had to catch up on the water accumulation. My shopping trip also set me back on progress.

Would you believe that the meteorologists on the weather channel claim that there will be rain through next Friday?

I am not sure I can survive the onslaught.

I suppose my break is over and I ought to get back to work...Did I mention that I am tired, tired, and more tired?

I have been using my shop vac on the water in my basement over six hours. I have been thankful for my friend and her repair of this tool. I have been wondering when this will end.

Approximately every 30 minutes, I have dragged the 12 gallon container over to the tub and dumped the accumulated water. I work on the pools of water coming in from several directions and then set the hose in one corner for a bit of a break. 5 minutes of rest for every 25 minutes of work. I am not sure how much longer I can stay up. My oxygen sats are dropping. My arms and legs are shaking. My ears are ringing.

Back to the water...

Argh! Another late day at the office.

I was so very tired driving home that I zoned out while leaving my best friend a message. I nearly nodded off a few times and called several folks trying to find someone who could talk me home.

I suspect that what fatigues me is the knowledge that the light I thought I was seeing at the end of the tunnel is, in reality, the lights of an on-coming train.

God is good. I write that with joy. I write that with anguish. He gave such a blessed reminder that suffering is grace to me at night. I walked away from my desk when I had planned on finishing my target for the day. I walked away after telling a friend that I could not go to bible study because I had not planned for it. I hung up the phone and returned to that which I was doing. Suddenly, it hit me that this time it was not others keeping me there late. I had somehow chosen to do so. I got up, chivvied my boss about being there late herself, and walked out. Driving home, I first thought that I would get a jump start on resting for the evening. And then I thought of my friend and the opportunity to study God's Word. I called her and thought I could make it in time. I did. Just barely. The pastor was finishing up a rather long study on 1 Peter. I had only been to a few of the lessons, but the end and review was so very timely. Perfectly so. Suffering is evidence of the Holy Spirit, evidence of the gift of salvation. Suffering is fellowship with Christ. Suffering is an opportunity to glorify God. Suffering is not solitary. He is waiting.

I was overwhelmed with so very many thoughts going through my mind. I certainly have much to ponder. But I will say that studying His Word with fellow Christians was such great refreshment to me. I cannot understand why for months I have allowed every other Wednesday to pass by without partaking of this beautiful opportunity.

I am thankful for this day.

I cut on my hair again this evening.

A couple of weeks ago, I cut off a few more inches, bringing the length to just below my chin. I also layered it more. Were I honest, I would admit that I was quite upset when I did so and grabbed the scissors out of pique.

Since then, whenever I look in the mirror it seems a bit crooked. I snip here and there. I hold the mirror this way and that. Still, I cannot seem to even it out.

Perhaps someone should confiscate my scissors.

My yard is dead.

There is no way to avoid that fact.

After the days and weeks and months of back-breaking labor last fall to restore it after the sewage pipe was replaced, there is little to show for my efforts. Only the grading remains.

All of the money on the bags and bags of seed, all of the hours watering by hand...nothing remains. And because the grass is gone, the topsoil I laid is dried out and blowing around the yard.

All of the hours of watering this summer, all of the dollars on my bill...all for naught.

While now would be the ideal time to begin again with seed, the current drought would make that a foolish endeavor.

Is my yard a metaphor for other parts of my life? I am not sure. What I do know is that I find it difficult to walk up the pathway to my door and pass by the dead grass. I find it difficult to stand on my deck and look out upon my yard. I think about the photos I proudly took last spring with Kashi leaping about the green carpet that had grown from barren ground with a bit of sadness for what now remains.

I do not relish the thought of beginning again.

I am too tired for such labor...

You make time for that which is your priority.

It is as simple as that.

I never get it when people say that they would like to read but just don't have the time. They don't have the time because is not a priority with them. It is the same with writing or exercise or learning new things.

It is also the same for relationships, be it lovers or family or friends.

You make time for that which is your priority.

What makes me crazy is those who cannot be honest about what is their priority. White lies really are just lies. Hollow words wound. Truth is always best. To know where you stand is by far a greater gift to receive that to believe that which is not true.

Yet people seem far more content to say whatever fits the moment, whatever is comfortable, whatever appears appropriate...than to speak the truth.

Agreeing to what you do not want. Lying to avoid that which you would rather not face. Taking the easy route.

But priorities are generally never easy. They take work. They take commitment. They take active choice, not passivity. They take truth.

You make time for that which is your priority.

Be honest about what that is. For those around you, it is one of the most loving acts you can do.

Around 3:30, the real estate team asked me to join them in the conference room. Sitting in was the director of real estate. Their request: a comprehensive PowerPoint presentation for Monday afternoon. Monday afternoon when he knows full well we have a senior management meeting that generally ends between 1:00 and 2:00.

No time. Poor planning. Oh, last minute apparently doesn't matter because I have the weekend to work!

Argh! Why is it so incredibly wrong to believe that working at the last minute is exactly what you should NOT be doing? Why are people satisfied with the chaos, the lesser product, mistakes?

I worked for over five hours into this evening just to get it to a place where we could go over it on Monday afternoon. I worked all the time when the people who had requested the presentation were off with their friends and families. I worked because to punish them by saying I just couldn't get it done is to punish the company...but that ends up punishing me. A poor choice all around, I say.

I don't leave work to the last minute. I do plan ahead. I even plan for having to drop my work to deal with the things that keep getting dumped on me. I hate having to be so reactionary and having so little time to be strategic...to get on to the work of communications.

What I have learned at work:

Those who do the following succeed:

• Come to meetings late and unprepared
  
• Are behind in their work
  
• Ignore emails
• Ignore phone messages
• Ignore company guidelines/policies
• Pursue private agendas on company time

Those who don't are blamed for the chaos and inefficiency caused by those who do.

Oh, what all kinds of a fool I have been. Mission doesn't matter. Integrity doesn't matter. Performance doesn't matter.

Looking out for number one does.

Realizing this makes me ill. I can hardly stomach the thought of walking back into the office and working as if what I believe in matters.

A world of difference between last post and this.

I feel as if I am the stupidest person alive.

I realized with agonizing clarity today that the brick wall I thought I had behind me at work was a facade.

All my life, I have been told to never trust anyone in business, to watch my own back. Yet, I feel as if that is fundamentally wrong and tried to walk another path. Looking out for number one did not seem to fit with the good of the company. But truly no one else is going to do it for me. And people who are busy looking out for themselves are the ones who are ultimately catered to, enabled, and rewarded.

What a fool I have been to trust someone who said otherwise...

If this is the case, what purpose is left?

Four days of golf.

Need I say more?

I played the best I ever have...and the worst. The first round nearly every drive was something to smile over. The second round, I spent a par 5 in the rough from tee to green in far more shots than I would care to admit. The first round, I made par for the first time and had quite a few bogeys instead of triples. For me, that's good! The second round is a score not worthy of recording! Such is the lure of this game. The sweet with the sour.

Walking the grounds at the President's Cup was wonderful. Friday's sweltering was made up for in Sunday's cool temperatures. I was literally spitting distance at times from the game's greats. Three of the first four players at 12 on Sunday made eagle, on a day when the wind was blowing and storms threatening. Not the day to go for the green on a water hole. No one told the players that.

Four days of golf.

I am tired. Anyone who knows me would understand that walking about all day for four days in a row would leave me quite tired. Playing two rounds myself was even more exhausting (I think I shall blame the poor second showing on fatigue).

But I suspect that I am more tired because I have come to a conclusion that wearies the soul.

I learned a lesson when I was little. Before I could speak with much understanding, I learned to shut up, be still, and wait until it is over. My uncle taught me that lesson again and again. He was not the only one.

Although it is over 35 years later, when push comes to shove, something within me automatically takes over...and I shut up, remain still, and wait until it is over.

Counseling, prayer, victory, peace. All have come. And yet that lesson remains so deep within me that it is the core of who I am when predators cross my path. I really cannot understand why it would surprise me to find it so again.

Truly, I am tired of digging at the roots of that lesson. They run too deep and have wrapped themselves around my being so completely that there is no defeating them.

What is left then? Embracing that lesson? Can I do so without drowning?

Whatever else I am, I am not a bully. I do not seek my own interests to the detriment of the company for which I work. I do not yell or say cruel things to my co-workers. I do not try to work around the wishes and directives of my boss. I do not undermine her authority.

I watch others, who do not know my lesson, who seemingly walk not as do I, bully, yell, practice deceit, and walk in selfishness. By comparison, the path I am choosing is not so dark.

Truth has been so very precious to me. I cling to it. I find peace in it. To know that Christ died for me. To know the price of the cross was paid because He loves us, loves me. To know that love is nothing of what I learned as a child, but what I learned from those who walk His path. To know that for eternity, nothing that touches me now will remain.

Perhaps it is that I should focus on the lessons He has chosen for me now. Patience and maturity in difficult circumstances. Faith in poor health. Joy in chirping birds and a dog who has never failed to brighten my life. Love in a friend who sees not as the world sees but as God sees. Grace in a boss who, though she is working at her own lessons, walks in quiet beauty in the face of tremendous stress and a seemingly never ending stream of needs and troubles to be addressed and assuaged. The power of Scripture. The solace of song.

Madison is sitting on my head just now.

I put him on my shoulder, he climbs there. I put him back on the cage, he flies back to my head. He doesn't want me to pet him or stroke his crest. He certainly believes in keeping our relationship on his terms.

A rather intractable bird, don't you think?

I whacked on my hair again this weekend. It is a bit short.

My step-father is coming tomorrow here tomorrow for the President's Cup. Two days of the tournament and two days of golfing ourselves. It will be a rather welcome break from work, though I must admit I already have plans for the work I will do after he goes to sleep each night.

Instead of whacking my hair, I will get to whack some golf balls!

I wonder if I could bring my clubs to work...

I have found it difficult to write lately.

I have found it difficult to write because of what the people of the Gulf Coast are facing. I have found it difficult to write because I saw this show about this boy/man who was born with a condition that made his skin literally fall off his entire life. He spent 36 years in constant agony and found himself on a journey of experience rather than sunken in despair. I have found it difficult because of the response I have gotten from my last post.

"I didn't know you were having problems." How could you not know?

"You made it sound so bad." Do you think I am exaggerating?

I spend so very much of my time masking. I mask how much I struggle cognitively. I mask my confusion, my fears, my mistakes, what I have forgotten, who I have become. Until this testing, I did not talk about my breathing much, because three other doctors have just blamed it on my asthma without ever listening to me or seeing how easily I desat (how much my oxygen saturation levels decrease).

I don't like how very much I resemble an old person while climbing stairs or inclines. I don't like feeling as if I am going to suffocate each time I lie down at night, trying not to think about it as I am waiting to adjust to the lower oxygen level. I don't like getting light headed so quickly when singing. I don't like taking quick breaths while talking so I don't loose my ability to speak. I don't like feeling as if I am somehow complaining if I speak about my breathing problems.

I breathe shallow. I breathe short. I pray about it. I try not to think about it.

But deep inside...when I consider how much worse my shortness of breath is now than last year, and worse still since I first noticed it three years ago...I wonder...what it will be like next year. I wonder if all this testing will lead to any relief or if it will simply be that this is just another symptom to chalk up to MS.

I gathered up my cynicism and visited a fourth pulmonologist last week. The three others I have visited did not listen to me; one was insistent that my past bout with TB was back and I was a dangers to others. He prescribed ten medicines before I left. I never went back.

I am an old man of 70, struggling with emphysema. Or at least, that is often how I feel. When I climb stairs. I huff and puff. When I carry things over a few pounds, the pressure grows and I lose my breath. I cannot sing without seeing stars. My oxygen sats plummet.

I know what I can and cannot do. I can paint, but I cannot sweep. I can mow the lawn, but I cannot dig holes. I grow winded if I walk more than a sedate pace. Cleaning bathrooms, doing laundry, vacuuming. Chores that are difficult not for being onerous, but for the strain they cause to my breathing. I must admit that I am a bit lax these days about how very clean my home is when guests are not around. Dust is not the enemy it once was.

I have become used to shallow breathing, to the taking of many breaths as I am talking, to the panic I feel when I lie down at night and it is as if someone is sitting on my chest.

So, when this pulmonologist had me walk a couple of circuits of the building with a pulseoximeter, I knew what I would see on the monitor. The nurse with me grew quite alarmed when I dropped to 82, suggesting I sit before I fall. I smiled and finished the test, huffing and puffing. The doctor was agitated at my distress and I was distressed at her agitation. A half hour appointment lasted five.

I reveled in her adamant assertion that this was not my asthma and certainly not my past brush with TB. I had been right and those other doctors wrong. I felt somewhat justified as she told me that I should have some blood work straight away and that I was to have a few tests, a CAT scan with contrast among them. She muttered that she could not believe none of the other doctors had done so. While none of the tests may give a definitive answer given that I have MS, they are important because living at a reduced oxygen level is apparently dangerous. If there is something that can be done, it should be discovered. She twice mentioned she could not believe they did not.

I was rather disconcerted to hear of the possibilities that may be responsible for my current pulmonary weakness. I refuse to give thought to those possibilities. There is no way, in my mind, that ANYTHING else can be wrong with me! Nothing! I choose, this moment, this day, for it to be simply a symptom of the MS.

I was glad that I gave in to my primary care physician's request that I not leave my lungs to her care only. I was grateful to discover that this doctor had listened to me, had heard me. But I did have moment's anger at the time and money I had spent three times before to no avail.

I know, that at 38, I should not be as if I were 70. I know that last year it was easier to breath than this year. I know that two years ago it was still easier. I know that what I feel is not an asthma attack. I know. Now someone else does, too.

I have, sitting next to me on the table, my passport.

I must admit my utter relief that it was actually mailed on Friday...because...because it came from New Orleans. I knew that it was coming from there. I also knew with the dire warnings abounding that if it was not mailed on Friday, it most likely would not have been mailed for weeks or months. For even if the passport worked on a digital system, the photos and my birth certificate were mailed to that location, were physically located there.

How small I feel that I am utterly thankful for this package that left that devastated city before the storm. I have gained so little compared to what people have lost.

I sat at my desk, in prayerful thankfulness, for the hands that finished my application ahead of the storm. Who knows where those people are. Their homes are most likely destroyed. Their jobs lost or delayed. Their lives profoundly and fundamentally altered.

I am sitting here, logged on to work and watching the news.

What I find unbelievable, above and beyond the images, is the talk of rebuilding New Orleans. Why? Why actually rebuild a city below sea level? How could anyone who is looking at the devastation think of rebuilding there?

What I find incredibly sad is the looters. What place must a person find himself/herself in to blatantly steal at such a time? Not water or food. Not clothing or survival gear. Toys. Electronic equipment. Jewelry.

What a sobering reality of the human race.

My writing student came to work again today. She is so close to finishing the rather large press archive project she started that I have been practically begging her to squeeze in time to volunteer even as she is getting ready for school to begin.

This morning, as we were talking, I referenced a street that I had forgotten to take. I called it by the wrong name. As we were driving home, I saw the sign for that same street and pointed out my mistake. She asked me how in the world I remembered something like that from this morning.

The answer is quite easy: I made a mistake.

I remember my mistakes. I remember the times I misspeak, misspell, misact, misunderstand.

I remember the times I am wrong. I remember the times I am an embarrassment. I remember the times I am a disappointment.

As I grew up, those times were remembered for me by my family. What fun it was to bring up those times in company or around family gatherings over and over and over again. I would be accused of being too sensitive when I became upset, but none of their memories were of good things. No successes. No praises. No celebrations. All times when I was wrong in speech, action, or understanding were what they related about me to others. And to this day, among my family, my wrongs are still pointed out. My mother will find the negative in anything that I share with her. Oh, I hope you didn't... You should have... You know you are...so you have to be careful... Ever helpful advice that is carved on my heart with a clumsy knife.

So it is really no wonder that I remembered.

Although...perhaps I should say that I remember the words and the feelings of those moments. I cannot close my eyes and see a vision of those memories. I do not relive them in sight and smell, but I do in sound and feeling. I can repeat those words, oft verbatim, for examination and recrimination.

Funny, I found the answer to her question so easy, so obvious.

But...perhaps...that the answer is so obvious is key to that which I do not understand about myself, but that which I long to change about who I am. While I fervently hope, and am fairly confident, that I do not remember only the negative about others, I am confronted with the reality that, in so quickly answering her question, I do so about myself. Perhaps if that were not so easy, so automatic, so very ingrained in my being, I would…

Perhaps…

My father came over for breakfast and a visit to the $5.50 DVD bin at Wal-Mart. While we were there, I had planned to purchase another hibachi because mine had rusted through in just a year. However, the grill that he had thought I should get early in the summer, was now half-priced.

I have been keeping my eye on one that was quite a bit more, but was a consumer best buy and fit all my grilling objectives. However, it was a serious depletion of cash. The one my father picked out was more of a hibachi on a stand with a substantial heat distribution cover and a connection to a propane tank (no more of those little propane cylinders). I pointed out the rather small cooking area and that there was no second rack for vegetables, but he asked me if there was someone else in my life since he knew Kashi wouldn't be eating any chicken. He also pointed out that it would mean no more bending over. Even though it was all stainless steel and rather easy on the eyes, I just couldn't see spending the money on such a small grill (even though I have no one else for whom to grill).

However, at half-price, it is essentially just two-and-a-half times the cost of a hibachi and will certainly last much longer. So, we brought it home and put it together (boy was I glad he was with me) and then he rather patiently moved it about the deck as I shifted the fountain, a bush, and several plants to find the best arrangement. The view outside my kitchen door and window is now quite pleasant, but the one outside the dining area sports a view of the back side of the grill. I opted for a pretty kitchen view since most of my "dining" takes place on the couch.

It took me over an hour to break down the packaging for the grill and will have to fight with the lock on the front gate to set out the garbage tomorrow, which is a bit of a drag. But, when I awoke this morning, I did not expect that I would finally have a grill after seven years of window shopping!

Now, I just have to inaugurate it...Chicken anyone?

In reading through yesterday's post, I think I shouldn't write when weather fronts are passing through the area. I confess I become rather grumpy when I am in pain. I should be thankful that I still have Kashi. I should be thankful that I found my bike lock and could secure the back gate. Again, I should be thankful that I have my dog and that he is safe and that no harm came to him when he was gone.

And I should be thankful that the pain I feel when fronts come through is temporary. That though the pain might even be unbearable, it, too, will pass.

I admit, those things are not the first that come to my mind when this happens. While I can say that I do not sit and feel sorry for myself, I have to be honest enough to admit that I become quite short tempered.

Perhaps I should just hide away when weather fronts pass through here.

I am struggling with anger just now.

I have lived here over three years in peace and quiet. When searching for a home, one absolute requirement was a fenced yard for Kashi. I wanted him to be able to run and play after being stuck in an apartment for seven years.

Sunday was terrible. I was terrified at the thought of losing him and fearful for my own well-being while searching for him. My oxygen saturation numbers have been low all week. My boss had me near sprawled on the floor with laughter over a story, yet deep inside I was concerned because of my breathing.

Each time I have taken Kashi out, instead of just opening the door and letting him go, I have carried him down the steps and checked both gates before letting him down. At night I have to get out a flashlight to do so. Small though he is, his weight is enough to trouble my breathing. He is also no longer free to hang out for a while, sniffing the bushes, lounging on the bench, and chasing the squirrels.

I resent this intrusion on my home. I resent no longer feeling safe in my back yard. I resent Kashi's freedom being curtailed.

Today, I am angry. When I left for work, both gates where closed. When I came home, the front gate was wide open and some things on my deck had been moved around. If I had not been carrying Kashi, he would have gotten out again.

Both gates, being old, have issues with being closed, so simply putting a lock through the latch is not an option. I did go to Wal-Mart and Target looking for a bike chain that I could slip through the fence, but all I could find were cheap ones with combination locks tied to them. Last night, I did, however, remember about my own bike lock from back when I did tours and such and set out searching for it. I now have the back gate wrapped with the lock, and I forced another padlock on the front gate.

This will be a bother for me as I work in the yard, extending the time I have to spend in the heat. I do not understand why someone would start opening my gates.

I just do not understand.

Today I wrote a letter to the editor of The Wall Street Journal under the name of the president of the company. This is the third time I've drafted such a letter. One of the other two was published. He does edit them for me, teaching me in the process...the language of real estate, the craftsmanship of OpEd pieces.

I want to learn this language, this genre. Although, I suspect much of this process will be learning to set aside my own literary likes and dislikes, my own diction and cadence. Never has the idea of "less is more" been more applicable.

I was intimidated about even suggesting we respond to an article in this publication. I happen to think getting published there would be a coup, but I know the changes are a long-shot. Perhaps, though, the attempt itself might play a role in getting out the message about affordable housing anyway.

I am satisfied with what I wrote (especially after his edits, his tweaks of my words and slashes of my passionate portions). Though I must admit that I am anxious about the response of my boss. She is such a talented writer. What if she finds it juvenile? Unfocused? A poor attempt?

I also wonder, if I am able to conquer this genre, when I look back at this piece if I, myself, might think it so.

For now, I am satisfied with the work I did today...and I am thankful once more that my job allows me to write, to explore and improve my own literacy skills.

My best friend is on vacation, and I am going through withdrawal. Plain and simple.

I miss her. I am used to talking with her nearly every day, sometimes several times in the same day. I am used to sharing all of my life with her and hearing about her days.

I have been resisting the urge to call, only relenting twice since she left last week.

I am happy that she is getting to spend time with her family...especially so where her husband is concerned. They both deserve a break, a time to savor their daughter and each other.

But...I miss her. This withdrawal stuff is hard!

93 That is my number tonight. One treatment when I came home after walking Kashi. I keep checking the gates.

~ ~ ~

My friend is craving pizza. I share her feelings. She believes that there is never a bad time for pizza. And that variety is key to the eating of much pizza.

The deli across the street makes the most delicious pizza, that is when it is not overcooked. I am not overly fond of browned cheese on my pizza. However, I have not been eating pizza lately. I have been eating wraps. Many, many, many wraps.

I have lost ten pounds, and I am quite glad that I seem to finally be making progress in my battle against the prednisone enhanced figure I sport. I prefer being svelte to being plump. While skipping the medicine could help my waistline, it does not help my breathing. So, being able to breathe and shed some pounds at the same time is fine by me.

But...I miss eating pizza!

Saturday I had a rather wonderful day. I got to spend time with a friend, puttering around her home and sorting and packing some things whilst we chatted. Work done as such is always a pleasure to me. I also enjoyed being able to help someone.

I kept her up WAY past her bedtime talking and looking at photos. Really, it was a lovely time.

And then there was Sunday.

Since I was also up WAY past my bedtime, I slept in until noon. After reading the bible and listening to a sermon, I played with Kashi some. He went out twice in the morning and once in the mid afternoon while I lounged on the couch, each time puttering around the yard a bit. Then I let him out in the late afternoon. When he didn't come back in after about fifteen minutes, I decided to join him outside to play fetch.

He was gone.

Someone had opened both the front and back gate. Doing so takes some work. The front gate sticks and is a bit of a battle to open. The back is just a hair easier since I keep a piece of 2x4 wedged in the opening caused by the tree that is pushing the fence out a bit. Someone deliberately opened both gates... and the more I think about it, I am fairly sure that someone was no child.

Why would anyone do that?

I panicked and ran around the front and back of my house calling for him. I did not have shoes on and tears were streaming down my face. I ran back inside and called two friends and my father, begging for help. No one was coming. I quickly put on my tennis shoes and grabbed my inhaler because I was already struggling to breathe. I also called my best friend and asked her to pray.

I called until I was horse, but I could only walk because my breathing was so labored. I didn't want to get into my car and look because I didn't think it would be safe for me to do so between the tears, my breathing, and my anguish.

My father had begun to lecture me about chaining the gates closed and my mother said I had better punish Kashi when I found him. While I found the criticism hard to bear, it was worse knowing that someone had let him out. Why would anyone want to do that to me? I also knew that time was running out before I would have to do something about my breathing.

Buckets of tears later, I finally found him, but then had to carry him two blocks home because I had not thought to grab his leash.

Once home, I called those whom I had contacted and tried to calm down, but my panic over his disappearance had shifted to my inability to breath.

By the time I got to the hospital, my oxygen sats had fallen to 81. I spent a long, lonely night on oxygen and solumedrol, wanting to be anywhere but intensive care. I talked my way out of the hospital at 7:00 because I really didn't need to be there. I just needed help the afternoon before.

I came home, played with Kashi, got dressed, and went to work. I had no desire to languish at home because I do not want to think about nearly losing my dog. He does not know about cars and the danger of running around the streets. He has been my companion for over ten years. He has been my sanity as well. I do not want to think about the person who would so casually open both gates.

My writing student was going to volunteer again. She is so close to finishing a rather mammoth project, helping to create an archive of all our press since the company was started. I did not want to miss the opportunity to work with her again. I did not want to think about the person who would so casually open both gates.

I rushed around the last hour at work and carried some things I shouldn't have. I followed that by chatting with my writing student on the way home. So, not long after I found myself coughing again. So far, I have had two nebulizer treatments. I supposed I should go back to the hospital, but I would just get stuck in a room for more of the same treatment as I have done here at home and end up thinking about the person who would so casually open both gates.

I just need time.

Before I found Kashi, I knew I had little time left to find him. I knew that I had crossed the danger line some moments before and would soon move from being reckless to risking my life. I am not sure what to think about the fact that I do not know, even with how little time I had left, if I would have stopped searching.

Right now the oximeter reads 90. I am willing it to rise. I want to stay home, where Kashi and Fancy and Madison can help me to forget about the person who would so casually open both gates.

I discovered that my domain had expired, without notice, yesterday. I panicked and renewed for five years, immensely relieved when the transaction went through.

But, while my money was taken, the site was still down. I panicked again. I contacted the registrar company for the domain five minutes before their office was to close. Unfortunately, the person who has hosted this over the years has been out of contact for a very long time. Although I am down as the owner, her contact phone and my contact email was no longer valid. So the registrar of the domain was unable to verify me nor contact her. I panicked more.

I panicked in the midst of a writing lesson. I set the students to writing and begged, cajoled, and pleaded with the registrar for some way around this mess. Some way around this mess when the registrar's office had now closed and would not be open until Monday morning again. PST.

I suspect he heard the desperation in my voice for I was able to offer proof of who I was and all was reset, reconfigured, and redirected. He stayed nearly an hour after work to help me.

I never knew, until this evening, how very important this online journal is to me.

Now...all I can do is wait and see if the redirection worked since nothing with domains is instantaneous.

I am waiting. I am checking. I am waiting. I am checking again. I am being foolish and should go to bed. I am waiting. I am still checking.

Apparently, I was never born.

I applied for a new passport with the copy of my birth certificate that I used the first time around, when I needed a passport as a missionary.

Not only was the passport application denied, but the copy was confiscated.

I have been struggling to get the state of Texas to acknowledge my birth for a week now. It is not going well. I need a birth certificate, with an embossed, raised seal, in color, to prove I am who I claim to be. To prove that I exist.

Perhaps...all I am...is a figment of someone's imagination...

Patience is a virtue, eh?

This day. Such sorrow.

I do not understand how often those who seek the best are punished and those who do not are rewarded.

I do not understand why people can get away with lying, cheating, and stealing. I do not understand why emotions overrule professionalism. Why I have to accept that is a dirty game.

Never mind truth. Never mind fact. It is completely unbelievable to me that those who ignore policy, procedure, deadlines, responsibilities, and ethics are acceptable.

This day. Such heartache.

My best friend is in the bosom of her family and the belly of God's beauty out in Colorado.

While I am truly grateful that she has this journey, this time of love and wonder, I miss her terribly.

Two weeks...is also...too long to go...without playing Scrabble!

There was a rather ugly moment today at work, and I was caught in the middle. I do not know how to steer clear of games. I struggle against the overwhelming desire to defend. I feel battered and bruised, struck down over and over again even though I am trying to honor my job.

I am in sore need of wisdom and discernment...or at least the knowledge of how to duck and cover.

I cannot stop thinking about one of the women I saw yesterday in the nursing home.

You see, she was holding a baby doll, a rather realistic one. I watched her nearly the whole time I was there, glancing again and again at her care of the doll. She soothed it, stroking the arms and legs. She patted its back. She played with the tiny fingers and toes. She held it...with such love.

She was a mother.

She could play the game of bean bag toss. She couldn't answer any of the questions the therapist asked as to the day of the week or time of the year or the weather. She could communicate at all. But she could nurture a baby.

Alzheimer's had robbed her of all else...but not of being a mother.

I journeyed out to Manassas to spend the day with my grandfather, walking in his world. My step-mother, his daughter, was on vacation, and I did not want him to feel alone.

We first went to see his wife, who is living in a nursing care facility. She has Alzheimer's disease. He slipped his hand in mine on the elevator and asked if I were going to be okay being on the ward. I squeezed it and assured him that I was fine. But it was a sobering moment.

My grandmother's room is just off the elevator, and while I didn't know what to expect since I hadn't seen her in a long while, I was not prepared to see her sleeping in a chair. A chair that was a combination of wheelchair and cage.

My grandfather rather delightedly exclaimed, "There's my bride!"

He kissed her gently on the forehead to wake her, and we wheeled her down to the sunroom to visit. As we did so, one patient after another, sitting in the hallway, reached out to touch me. I stopped and shook hands with many of them, trying not to cry.

She was excited to visit, but most of her conversation was set in the past and hard to understand. When she laughed, we laughed. When she fretted, we soothed her. He fetched her some juice, which she drank, but soon there after spit up a bit on the floor. Tears pooled in his eyes, and he became the one who fretted. My grandfather then combed her hair and straightened her closing, touching her with loving hands. Watching him made tears pool in my eyes.

All through her conversation, I asked him about there life together. We had a double conversation of sorts. When I asked how they met, he replied that it was a double date, but with a ghost of a smile on his face. When I asked if my grandmother was his date, he replied, "Nope. But when I saw her get in the back seat, I tossed my friend the car keys and crawled right in after her." He stroked kissed her again in remembrance.

A therapist came in and played a game of beanbag toss with many of the other patients in the sunroom, but my grandmother was unable to participate. When she began to fall back asleep in her chair, my grandfather grabbed my hand and pulled me out of there.

There were no words that were adequate for the moment, so we drove to dinner in silence.

After dinner and some errands, we sat in his living room going through every photo in his possession. Narrating them was difficult for him because he has lost most of his sight in his left eye. He lost his right eye over sixty years ago. Magnifying glass in hand, he told me of this journey and that. Of this day and that. Of this person and that. I learned more of him today than I have known my whole life.

I have missed too much.

Sorting through the photos, I found a love letter, on US Army stationary, from him to his wife. What a privilege it was too read of such love. To witness it at the nursing home. To know that for sixty-one years he has honored that love, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad. I was humbled.

Before I left, he made me red beans and rice with sausage to take home. I watched him struggle to read the measuring cup and wanted to help him cook, but I remained with the photos, occasionally asking questions, trying not to stare. He packaged up my meals with such care as to safely make the journey back to my home. Four meals he gave me to eat, but I tasted a fifth.

I tasted love today.

A phone call came today: Basel Cell Carcinoma

I was talking to someone about how the surgeon had told me that I had to keep the incision covered for the whole time the stitches were in and that I found the prospect of doing so difficult given the awkwardness of trying to reach my shoulder. Her suggestion was to take gauze and put strips of tape over it and then slap it on my shoulder. No problem.

I tried her suggestion. I had a problem. My, uhm, upper undergarment pulled at the tape until it ripped off my shoulder a while ago. The raw skin is now hurting as much as the incision.

Apparently wound care is not one of my talents.

My legs itch. My shoulder aches. It is sweltering.

But...I actually buried myself in Megan's story this evening and cranked out over six pages. I am working up to a scene I know will be difficult, but in doing so, I stumbled upon a passage or two that I really like.

It's strange to me that I have shared what I have written thus far on this novel with a few people whom I thought might get the message I am trying to compose and yet none of them have given me any real response. I have to work hard at hiding my disappointment. I like the story. I believe it is an important message. And there are portions of it that even I think are quite good. [Any reader of this site should know by now what a harsh critic of myself I can be.] Yet I have essentially received silence when querying what those readers thought of my tale. Silence wrapped up in vague responses of "I like it." or "It is good."

Times such as this night, times when I write and read and know immediately that what I have composed is solid writing, that I wonder if I am just plain crazy as to not see the lack in my story or if I am too close to Megan and her tale for any true judgment or if they are all simply blind.

I wonder and I am disappointed, but I am driven all the more to finish...if but for no one else than myself.

I had a biopsy today. For a rather small growth, the surgeon took out a rather large chunk of my shoulder. Ten stiches later, I was dreading the moment when the "drugs" wore off and a bit grateful to hop off the table and make my escape before she feel the need to snip a bit more.

I have to wait three weeks for the results. A time to practice faith, focus, and...well, distraction.

I had a rather strange and disturbing occurrence this evening. I was working from home, making up the time off work for my "slice and dice" session, when someone took over my mouse, my computer, and opened up a Word document to start talking with me. I discovered that he had been watching me work for a while. Though I am fairly sure that he meant the contact in a positive light, I felt a bit exposed and violated. How long had he been watching? Had he done so before? Are there others to whom he has done this? Did he only have access to my work connection or could he access the rest of my personal computer through the connection? Had he ever watched while at work where it would have been easier to do so?

I didn't work as much tonight as I normally would, especially since I would have welcomed the distraction from my throbbing shoulder, because as I typed, I kept wondering if he had gone home as he said he was when he broke the connection...

I heard the call, I answered. The lawn cared for, my "reward" awaited me on the kitchen countertop. My, my every last bit of my "double" portion of that cake was mighty fine, mighty fine.

Need I say more about this day?

Today was a surprising day. A good day. [Of course it was destined to be a good day since the front passed.]

I slept late and then rolled out of bed to visit my family in Manassas. I was not looking forward to the drive, but when I got there, and mentioned a chocolate sheet cake my stepmother had made a few years ago yet still lived strongly on in my memory, she offered to bake one if I fetched the ingredients.

Not long after that, I was zipping my way to the grocery store with my father. Given that I have been eating cereal at night for two weeks since I am generally too tired to go shopping after work, I took the opportunity to load up on supplied. I near horrified my dear father, though, when loading up the cart with four bottles of juice, nine bottles of Gatorade, five twelve-packs of soft drinks, and two gallons of milk. [I was thirsty.]

In addition to drinks, I got a london broil (a big slab of steak that I cut up into four meals), spinach and tomato basil wraps, some rather delicious honey mesquite barbecue turkey breast, provolone cheese, salad fixings, and baby red potatoes. Of course, those who know me know that I got some chicken, some chicken, and some more chicken.

I remembered the sugar that I ran out of just the day before (a memory victory), but when I was putting it away I discovered the half-bag that I had put away before when it would not fit into the sugar jar.

I did get gas and then picked up my grandfather for dinner. The chocolate cake was just lovely. I troublshooted Dad's computer and then made my way home. While it took quite a while to bring all the drinks inside, I was grateful that I had the added fillip of getting my shopping done while visiting the folks.

Yes, my step-mother rather thoughtfully wrapped up a rather large piece of that sumptuous cake!

No, it did not last more than 12 hours in my home...

Last night I worked until 1:00 AM and then...because I could not believe I did it again...I wrote for another two hours on one of my novels.

I am tired.

I worked hard to be cheerful all day, especially with my boss who is tired herself.

Doing so was harder as the day wore on because the pain in my wrists was becoming unbearable. I still cannot believe how I managed to drive home, though I will not say that tears were not a part of doing so. I am trying to be grateful for the pain. Grateful because it must be the arthritis and the arthritis is often triggered by storm fronts rolling through and a storm front would mean relief from the sweltering heat.

Kashi is trembling beneath the dining table, terrified of the lightening. I am trembling on the couch, thinking of dosing myself with the codeine cough syrup upstairs in the cupboard. We are both desirous of the front pass and hope the rain comes soon.

I had hoped to spend some quality time with Megan tonight, but she will have to remain in the story where I left off.

I did have a nice moment this afternoon... I was calling someone at work and fell into a discussion of football. His brother actually plays for the 49ers! Sigh. I cannot wait for the season to start...

I was reflecting upon my words of yesterday and am wondering if I am ignoring how very frustrated and angry I get at having to wait and wait and wait instead of moving ahead and how that is affecting most everything I am doing.

Frustrated and angry sounds rather horrible to me.

How about stymied?

I work late most every evening and on weekends. It seems as if each thing that I am doing is agonizing slow, oft fettered by the very people I am trying to serve. And yet I keep trying. If I am honest, I will have to admit that I am resentful and jealous of the people at work who talk on the phone, work for other businesses, do school work, chat online, sent dozens of personal email back and forth, create flyers and such for their own purposes, and otherwise not work...taking advantage of those who are so busy that they do not, or choose not to, see what is going on beneath their noses. They are skilled at the "quick minimize." I have been praying about that resentment and jealousy, but still I struggle.

Today I came the closest I have ever come to simply losing it at work and screaming my head off. I discovered two cartons of envelopes that I had ordered last year for all the sites shoved in a storage room. A few months ago, I had discovered the accompanying stationary and couldn't believe it had not been sent out to the sites when it came in instead of put in a cabinet in the supply space. I instructed the admin to get it out to the sites right away and it took nearly a week for her to do so. Why? Why not send the stationary order out in the first place? Why hide the other part of the order? If she genuinely did not know what was in the cartons when they were delivered, why didn't she ask? I bet myself at least three slices of pizza that those envelopes will still be sitting on the floor by her desk next week.

I want to at least quit working at nights and on weekends.

I just don't know how. I see the work that needs to be done. I cannot leave the fields fallow...or the chairs pushed back from the table.

I am fair lost without my boss at work.

I think I depend upon her too much. She is the island of sanity in a sea of chaos. A bit melodramatic? I don't think so.

How do you keep finding ways to stay at a job when you are confronted daily with people who have absolutely no concept of time management or strategic planning? In some ways, I believe this company has stumbled to its success. The work is honorable and much needed. The staff is talented and dedicated. But their inability to set or meet deadlines and having to spending probably 90% of my time being reactionary and walking along a disorganized path drives me to near despair. I want so much to be able to do what I can do. I absolutely hate having projects taking four or five times longer than they should.

And I feel like such a failure because what I deliver for my boss is a pale shadow of what I know in my heart I could be doing. I cannot set aside that knowledge.

Am I turning into a flimflam?

I itch.

I just counted 22 more welts on the backs of my thighs. That makes for a total of 119. I am trying hard not to scratch...

Madison is setting on the eggs just now while Fancy is preening herself. Because neither of them have yet learned to build a nest, leaving the eggs exposed on the bottom of the cage, the eggs never mature. 'Tis a pity since both of them work so hard at setting on them.

Recently, I built a "tent" out of a TV guide and a wooden bar in the corner of their cage, which the birds really enjoy. They moved the next set of eggs there and worked hard on keeping them warm, still not understanding the need for a nest.

Once the eggs start to dry up inside, they usually break beneath the weight of the bird sitting on them at the time. Of course, this means the egg usually gets stuck to their chest feathers and I have to soak them in water to loosen the egg. Neither Fancy nor Madison take kindly to my efforts to free them from the egg. Occasionally, when they take off from the cage in flight, the abrupt motion will be enough to loosen the broken egg. Such was the case this morning.

Of course, I didn't have to worry about picking up the cracked egg and throwing it away because Kashi promptly pounced on it and ate it.

Since Madison and Fancy joined my family, I have been less inclined to eat eggs myself. Kashi has no problem with doing so.

I am supposed to be resting, which, for the most part I have done since Thursday afternoon. However, the call of the grass, a call neglected for my jaunt last weekend, was too strong yesterday. So, I arose from my supine position to mow. By the time I was through, I had 97 mosquito bites on my legs. At least, I think they are mosquito bites. Today I discovered that, having been unable to resist the urge to scratch, apparently while sleeping, I now have 97 welts on my legs. I am, to say the least, most uncomfortable and have found resting difficult. Having slathered on the anti-itch gel, I am hoping for a better night's sleep tonight.

I heard the kindest words today...

I was speaking with someone about how much I have changed. The greatest concern I have with the MS is how very much it has affected my mind. The shear amount of cognitive dysfunction that I am faced with oft threatens to overwhelm me. So I ignore the sum and try to deal with small doses.

For example, I have written about my decision to stop worrying about my signature. Writing by hand is difficult, cursive is near impossible. Between remembering how words are spelled and letters are formed, I make a tremendous amount of mistakes. I would get so upset when I misspelled my name or when I couldn't form the letters. Then one day it struck me that most likely few people would ever really care about my signature. I could fret during the refinance, but elsewhere any scrawl would do.

But more important than struggling to write by hand is the realization that I have poor impulse control. My brain is not working well in that department and this issue colors not only my life but my personality, or at least how people can perceive me.

I grow agitated when I am confused and feeling threatened by that confusion. I become short with those who try, to help me to try to lead me to a solution. All I want is out of the situation and can see or understand little beyond my overwhelming desire to leave, to run away, to escape my confusion.

Sometimes I am concentrating so hard on the simplest of things that I literally do not hear questions posed to me. This past weekend, I hurt my best friend's husband's feelings because he asked me the same question three different times and I never answered him. He was asking if I was going to visit his family with them on Sunday. An important question. An answer that meant a lot to him. And there I was, completely unaware that he had asked me a question even once. Time after time after time. I was near horrified when he told me that I had ignored him.

I could go on, but the sum is too much for me to swallow at any one time. I struggle with the loss of who I was, of my rather fine brain that is now filled with holes and pitfalls.

Anyway, I was telling this person that a friend who is a clinical social worker translated much of what I am battling into clinical terms. It was sobering and yet freeing at the same time. But it was also sad. I miss who I was. I sometimes do not like who I am. I struggle with God's sovereignty in this area, in this path He has chosen for me to walk. I trust Him. I do revel in the knowledge that I stand in grace. Yet I sometimes, lately, as I stand by and watch my mind seem to slip away ever so slowly, I find myself engulfed in sorrow for that which I have lost and fearful anger for I feel as if few truly hear me when I try to say how very much I have changed...and still am changing. How very many plans and aids I've gathered around me to compensate...to cover...to hide that which I have lost.

So...I told this person about how I wished she could have know that me. And her rather quick response was that she liked who I am now, that who I was then didn't matter to her.

Would that she could understand how very much her response means to me...

Ask me where I am right now.

"Where are you?"

I am sitting right next to my best friend as we are dueling in on-line Scrabble while her husband is working outside and her daughter is sleeping upstairs...and we will be having pizza tonight!


Yep, I threw way too much stuff for two days into a suitcase and hopped in the car to drive to her home. Three hours later, I was with my friend. Hmm...after getting not the news I expected, instead of picking up the shears, I picked up the keys.

Progress?

Driving is difficult for me, especially long distances. The arthritis in my back and wrists makes for an extremely painful journey. Still, I wanted to come. And it was a bit easier than last time...though I was really agitated when I met up with my friend at the Philles' stadium where we agreed to meet. She and her husband were being welcoming and all I wanted was to drive so the journey could be completed. It should have been so I could have arrived at her house, but it was to get out of that blasted car. Of course, not even knowing that I have to drive back home in just one more day is enough to dampen my joy at being with her.

Not even the fact that I just lost the game of Scrabble...

Not even.

I was quite productive tonight...

I finally put my life on a spreadsheet, at least my financial life. I have all my banking (checking, savings, retirement, and mortgage), credit cards, and utilities accounts into and Excel workbook with the account numbers, phone numbers, and log-in information. Given how spotty my memory is becoming, I resolved to put everything together for me in one place.

I also did my filing. Like my laundry, it tends to pile up since I am working so much. I come home and the last thing that I wish to do is work more. But tonight I took care of three months of paper piles and created my monster electronic file.

I deserve a Dr. Pepper!

My writing student and I spent the evening working on our respective stories. Dueling laptops!

She commented that we rarely write together anymore, rather wistfully so. She gave me pause. You see, I rejoice in the fact that she does not need me to write with her anymore. She is so very talented and I oft marvel at her craftsmanship at such a young age. Now, we write together and take breaks sharing what we've written. We discuss her word choice and plot direction (after I've savored the new bits she's written for a few moments) and return to our own tasks.

But as I think about her remark I realize that I, too, miss those times.

When we first started, she was but twelve. The first time we talked, I asked her to tell me her strengths and weaknesses as a writer and what goals she might like to set. I was surprised to listen to her self assessment and smiled when she said that "someday I'd like to write a novel." For me, that "someday" should always be today.

She started with three stories, dropped to two after a few months because she wisely realized the historical fiction story was beyond her reach if she were to write an authentic piece, and dropped the second once after moving from being homeschooled to public high school put so many demands on her time. While I would have preferred her to stay with the popular fiction piece written in first person, present tense, she chose her Camelot-like piece. I marvel, I am humbled actually, at how easily she falls into the speech patterns and cadence for such a story. Over a hundred pages later (singled spaced no less), her story has such life.

When we started, we would sit at one computer together and write. We started with some of her pieces and began reworking them. I would type until she saw where I was going and then she would take over the keyboard and mouse. In short, most of my instruction was modeling. We would also, of course, talk through her work to cover grammar and literary elements instruction. For the most part, though, we collaborated together in the purest sense.

Perhaps we should take the time to write together now...having moved from teacher and student to equals in composition...of course, all the good bits we'd do would have to go into my story...hers has plenty of them already!

Do you have a friend who will sing you voice mail messages? How about play you hymns on her flute over the phone? If you don't, I wish you one!

Such joy comes from hearing her ring on my phone. I smile, knowing that even if I cannot take the call, the voice mail will be great. Singing, stories, or just time listening to her daughter. If I do get to talk with her, then it is all the better. And...sometimes when I answer the phone, I am greeted with the tones of her logging on to the Scrabble server.

How many people will sing over the phone? Not many, I would venture. They would worry about how they sound. But with my friend it is the joy of song.

Sing a song to a friend. Leave a musical voice mail. Share a smile.

"Can you imagine what is it like to be afraid to go to sleep at night?"

A young man was referring to children growing up in a place where violence is not unfamiliar, or so he supposed. He was speaking to someone he assumed knew naught but loving safety in her childhood as he mostly likely had experienced himself. Never would he have guessed that a family member had repeatedly visited himself upon her and created an atmosphere of terror, not safety.

She did know what it was like to be afraid to sleep at night.

She found his comment insensitive and inappropriate. She was angered and shaken at his comment. I agreed with her. I agreed because I also knew that fear as a child, a young adult. She knew I would understand. And I understood exactly how she felt about his comment. I would have felt the same had I been there.

But he didn't know. How could he?

It makes me wonder...how often have I been equally "insensitive" because I didn't know?

Two Hours! Two hours of teaching a sixteen year old to drive!

What a saint I am, eh? No...not really. I actually find it a bit of an honor to teach her. I mean, her parents are trusting me not only with her current safety, but with that of her future.

I also find it a rather interesting exercise in communications. I have been her writing teacher for over four years. Sometimes, now, as we are working, I do not even have to speak in complete sentences to give her pointers or ask her to consider an idea. I start to speak and she leaps to where I am going in my direction. Right now, she is volunteering a bit at work. I set her to a complex task of formatting, searching and sifting, and organizing press files. When I envisioned her working on the task, I suspected that she would need little direction. I was right. I showed her some examples, opened the folders on the server, and set her to work. She exceeded my expectations and then some. All with so little verbal direction, because of our rapport and tacit communication skills.

But in driving, in teaching driving, there is no tacit language. I have to be direct and clear and literal about each action and reaction. Doing so is not as easy as it may seem...especially, since so much of my own driving takes place without thought. Ever vigilant to the dangers of the road, I nonetheless have the automaticity that comes with driving for over two decades. Now, I must think back to when I began and separate out each individual part of being a cautious and careful driver and find a way to share that with her that is clear and instructive to her.

She normally quite capable, so I was surprised to see her a bit nervous and fearful of learning a new skill. She has been hesitant. She is not fluid. Yet, she trusts me to instruct her now as I have in the past. Her parents trust me. I am working to honor that trust...and to create an atmosphere that is safe enough for her to take risks and learn without bringing harm to her, the vehicle, or anything else.

But the best part is that I get to share in this experience with her. I get to be with her as she takes the first steps toward true independence.

She is a remarkable young woman. Brilliant. A talented writer and musician. A truly analytical thinker. A curious mind.

For over four years, I have been privileged to watch her grow and learn in her literary craftsmanship. I am thankful to be a part of this, too.

Saturday. The mowing guilt has begun.

With the rain this week and that predicted for the coming days, I ought to mow while the sun is shining. No matter that it is sweltering. The grass is calling.

Fortunately, Tiger is playing. He takes precedence over grass.

Madison is singing right now. Fancy is setting on her latest clutch of eggs. Kashi is laying at my feet. I am ensconced in the green chair.

Peace reigns here this day and for that I am grateful to the Lord for all that He has given me.

Truly all...for all is part of His plans and purpose. I do not always understand. I am oft tired and weary. But all is the life I lead...a life Christ saved.

I will enjoy the golf. I will savor the peace. I will relish the time to work on my own writing. I will rest for the week ahead.

I found joy in the number 815 today.

A choice. A plan fulfilled. Hope begins.


That aside, I held my own in a conversation that was troubling in both content and person. Still, I raised an issue, asked for him to help me understand his point of view, and stated my own. His answers were not what I either expected or would have desired...but the conversation itself was the smallest of victories.

Two things to savor this day...


Choice.

I have a long history of being forced to live the choices of others. Today, I chose laughter. I chose my ideas. I chose my voice. For the good or bad, I chose today.

I stood in grace...and not tears...

Is it not amazing what Christ can help us bear...if we choose?

I am working on a document that is the most challenging task I have taken on to date. Harder even than my dissertation.

I have a glimpse. I have an opportunity to prove that I am more than my skills and degrees. My value added is not merely the sum total of my literacy and organizational skills. I can be strategic. I can be...

In doing so, I am coordinating pieces from other people from work. Tonight I read that from my boss. And I was humbled.

What she wrote was beautifully and thoughtfully crafted business prose. Her word selection. Her sentence structure. Everything worked together to communicate her message, her ideas.

Equally important was the substance of what she wrote. Simply put, she gave me pause.

Will I be able to do the same?

At the last, the old man chuckled, though Aryanth was startled to see tears seeping down his cheeks. She chose the laughter. “Where do you find your humor?"

Though I wrote this in the young adult on which I am working some time ago, never before have I understood how very close laughter and tears can be.

I admitted to my boss this morning that my heart was grieving and but for the responsibilities owing, I would not have been at work.

For the first time, I thought of taking medicine at work. I have Zanax for infrequent occasions when my hormones spiral out of control during my cycle and my emotions overwhelm me. Pop one of those pills and discover distance. Distance and time enough for the hormone flux to pass. I've never taken it outside my home before...but I was tempted.

She agreed it might be best if I wanted to stay and that she would keep an eye out for me since it was the first time that I would be taking the pill without crawling under the covers for a nap or for the night.

But before I could leave her office to return to mine and bury myself in my work, she told me the funniest sad story. I laughed until I started coughing and wheezing. An act of kindness on her part.

At that moment, I chose the laughter.

I was filled with such joy and such sorrow that I near marvel at His craftsmanship of this day.

Tonight I stood in the shower, scalding water running down my body, hoping to chase the chills away. Half of me wondered if I would faint in the heat and didn't care. Half of me couldn't help but smile at the blessed gift wrought by a volunteer at work.

I stand in grace. I stand in grace. I stand in grace.

I worked in the yard Saturday, but did so for my own pleasure, not mulch guilt. And it certainly wasn't as grueling as yesterday. All I did was putter around my potted plants and work on Bird Central in my back yard.

For the arduous task of getting my photo taken (it is quite awful) and submitting my passport application, I rewarded myself with a new bird feeder and an iron pole with two curved hooks for hanging feeders. I also bought a third hook and some thistle. And...I bought a squirrel baffle!

I was quite excited at the prospect of feeding only birds and not the local squirrel family.

Getting it set at the right angle so that no squirrel could leap from the tree took quite a bit of persistence, but I believe I prevailed.

I also discovered some seedlings from last summer among my plants, so I repotted them with root stimulator.

Altogether it was a great day...but soon became greater!

You see, I discover the miracle mint.

What is miracle mint you ask? Well, let me tell you. Last summer, I went to spend the weekend with my best friend the week before she her first child was due. We were going to cram in lots of games and such since she would shortly be quite busy with a newborn. But her daughter had other plans. She decided to arrive early.

It was quite a blessing for me to be able to be there as my friend welcomed her daughter...even if it meant that we weren't going to be playing lots and lots of games! The day before, I had been admiring some mint in her yard. It reminded me of my childhood. My friend gifted some to me and I brought it home as a reminder of her new beginning.

Unfortunately, I neglected to bring the mint inside before the first freeze and it died since I had left it in the pot. I was quite sad about losing the mint.

Well, Saturday, after I had puttered and potted and assembled, I fell to watering the plants before going inside and discovered the miracle mint!

My friend's mint was growing in the same pot as one on of the perennials that I had tried wintering inside. Now, you might think that is not quite miraculous, but I do. The mint had been in the corner of the upper deck beneath the water fountain, while this plant had been on the lower deck in the opposite corner. How did it get transplanted? Birds? Those rotten squirrels? Why didn't I see evidence of the mint all winter or even in the spring? One day...seemingly...poof!

I suppose I will never know, but I did rather gently pull the mint out of the pot and put it in another with much fertilizer and moist soil! I cannot wait to make mint tea!

P.S. Many, many, many more birds have come now that they have squirrel free feeding zone... but alas..no golden finches...

1. Mowed
2. Edged
3. Weeded

Rested

4. Bought and loaded into the car 15 bags of mulch
5. Spread 13 bags of mulch
6. Fainted in the back yard
7. Finished 2 other bags of mulch

Collapsed on kitchen floor

8. Played Scrabble with best friend.
9. Ate something
10. Keep thinking about the mulching still undone.
11. Bought and loaded into the car 18 more bags of mulch.
12. Spread 10 bags of mulch.
13. Fainted in the backyard again.
14. Spread 4 more bags of mulch.
15. Stacked other 4 on the side of the yard to wait until the stoop is redone.
16. Called myself all kinds of a fool for being too stubborn to stop (I knew I would not finish if I didn't.

The yard looks lovely...

The basement flooded this morning with the heavy rains. It is so hard not to get discouraged since it happened a little over a month ago during another heavy rain. I do not like this developing trend.

I am so ready for this house NOT to soak up my money!

And...don't any of you remind me that this is the "joys of homeownership." I have repaired and replaced and upgraded this place. It ought to be quite grateful to me since it was in such a state of disrepair!

Some months ago, my mother shipped me hundreds of old family photos she had discovered while cleaning out my grandmother's house. She asked me to sort through them and create six packets to distribute to family members. Some of the photos date back to the mid 1800s.

Once I started going through them, I realized that they should all be scanned so the complete set could be preserved. The only problem is that I did not have a scanner and to do so at work after hours would be too much for me (we have a slow scanner).

I actually have a printer that is 11 years old--an HP that is still chugging along. So while I have wanted a scanner and a fax and have been researching all-in-one printers, I have held off making a purchase because I don't really need a printer. And...of course...I cannot decide between laser (like I have now) and inkjet. Since I would want a scanner that is legal sized, the price range is $400-700. Not a purchase I would make lightly.

I couldn't really justify buying a scanner for the interim...until 2 days ago. I found a new one from HP that is so sweet! It is about an inch high, has a glass top so that you can what you are scanning and can be separated from its base to scan just about anywhere. It is QUITE quick and has OCR software for scanning text. AND...it was only $39.00.

So, I have spent the evening beginning the LONG task of scanning all these photos. I am doing so at 300 dpi for print quality, but even though the file sizes are large I managed to scan over 30 photos in just about an hour.

I chose my mother's pictures first. While I could have done more, I found it difficult to sort through her photos. You see...my grandmother had cut my mother's face out of several of the photos.

I know that she told my mother that she only had children because my grandfather wanted them. He died when my mother was eleven, leaving my grandmother with three small children she did not want.

I always assumed she raised them with ambivalence. But these photos give evidence of antipathy...certainly not love.

For someone who is supposed to be intelligent, I am quite stupid...For someone who is supposed to be a talented writer, I am a poor communicator...What is so clear to me is not to others...my intentions are not obvious...I am perceived not as I am and nearly always worse...or are those perceptions who I really am? I shudder to think so...

Psalm 139 has always been a passage that drew me and held me in a way I cannot quite articulate, but Paul's plea at the end has never been more my cry than at this moment.

"Search me, O God, and know my heart;

Try me and know my anxious thoughts;

And see if there be any hurtful way in me,

And lead me in the everlasting way."

I am mortified! Absolutely and completely mortified.

After a senior management meeting today, I asked my boss how it went and she said okay. When I pressed her, she said that I had looked "adoringly" at the president of the organization!

ARGH. UGH. How could she even use that word in describing how I looked at him? UGH. UGH. ARGH! What a horrible adjective to use in a business meeting!

I am fairly sure that even when I've dated someone, I've never looked adoringly at him. I checked with my best friend and she's fairly sure too. Me? Look adoringly?????????

I keep wracking my brains trying to think about what possibly could have been going through my mind at the time. She said it was while he was talking. While he was talking? We were discussing creating a business plan. Composition talk made me look at him adoringly? ARGH! That word! UGH!

How am I supposed to go into the next meeting? Work one-on-one with him?

Adoringly!

ARGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now...to be honest...there is someone at work whom I wouldn't mind batting my eyelashes at save for the fact that he is twelve years my junior. He's gorgeous and groomed and smiles so beautifully. Working one-on-one with him can be a distraction.

But the president? Ugh! What a thought that I could look adoringly at him!

Does anybody have a grocery sack I can wear over my head tomorrow?

BIG SIGH!!!

Yesterday at church one of the "hymns" was America the Beautiful.

I didn't sing the words.

I didn't sing the words not because I do not want God to bless our country but because I couldn't look past them.

The second verse speaks of the brave pilgrims with the western expansion. Yes, those folks were brave, but much of their actions decimated a people who rightfully owned the land upon which they were settling. Their actions had repercussions that echo across the centuries today, a haunting melody. Native American tribes are dying off and few have ever enjoyed the wealth that America holds. Instead their lives have been of betrayal, poverty, and anguish. Hardly something to praise in a paean to God.

The third verse speaks of "heroes proved in liberating strife." We do have such a bloody history, eh? But the heroes I think of were heroes lead by Lincoln. The reference that comes to mind was the end of slavery. The writer also asked God to bless America's gold, but so much of that wealth was built on the backs of people stolen from their homes, abused, and viewed as sub human. That treatment, the slavery, also echoes down the centuries. It was not that long ago that African Americans were being lynched, dragged behind vehicles, and not allowed a voice in their government. They are still oft profiled by police and government and represent a disproportionate amount of Americans behind bars. As much as we might prefer to not admit this, we as a country still have not shed the darkness of slavery.

Yes, I pray for our country. Yes, I am thankful for those patriots who hundreds of years ago chose self government and fought for freedom. I just couldn't sing words that glossed over our history. I believe that the evils we've committed should never be forgotten and should illuminate the choices we are making today. This song does not do that. I couldn't sing it.

Perhaps I am being too serious about one song, one moment in church. But this Fourth of July, I would prefer to ponder on the words of Lincoln's second inaugural address, particularly the third paragraph:

One-eighth of the whole population were colored slaves, not distributed generally over the Union, but localized in the southern part of it. These slaves constituted a peculiar and powerful interest. All knew that this interest was somehow the cause of the war. To strengthen, perpetuate, and extend this interest was the object for which the insurgents would rend the Union even by war, while the Government claimed no right to do more than to restrict the territorial enlargement of it. Neither party expected for the war the magnitude or the duration which it has already attained. Neither anticipated that the cause of the conflict might cease with or even before the conflict itself should cease. Each looked for an easier triumph, and a result less fundamental and astounding. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God's assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men's faces, but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered. That of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His own purposes. "Woe unto the world because of offenses; for it must needs be that offenses come, but woe to that man by whom the offense cometh." If we shall suppose that American slavery is one of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this terrible war as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes which the believers in a living God always ascribe to Him? Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said "the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether."

I find his closing remarks in the fourth paragraph a charge that we should still seek:

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.

Happy Fourth of July...

"this grace in which we stand"


I have been thinking a lot about that phrase.

I find it nearly incomprehensible how words penned thousands of years ago can speak so clearly to me. I know that God's Word is a living document, that scripture can sustain and teach and comfort and chastise. I know this. Yet, a moment like yesterday, when I turned to the Bible to set aside what I was feeling and seek truth and found a passage that troubles and comforts at the same time, causes me to marvel anew.

I stand in God's grace. As a child of Christ, I have salvation and live beneath His grace.

Yesterday, that was never more evident when I was struggling with hurt from my brother's call and found a reminder of where I really am. Not in Alexandria. Not in a job that causes such anquish at times. Not in a body trapped by disease. I am in God's grace.

What ways does He let me know that His family can cover the hurts of mine?

I had resigned myself to not talking with my best friend again until the Tuesday morning commute. Naturally, the weekends are spent with her family, not on the phone with me or playing Scrabble. Not that we don't ever play on a weekend, but I just don't count on it. Her husband is home, both their families are off work, lots of things to do.

There I was, feeling a bit lonely, comforted by God's Word, but still stinging from hearing my brother hang up on me. And she called for a game or two! She hadn't read my post. She didn't know how my day had gone.

But God did! Even though I really don't like losing, I do so enjoy playing Scrabble and talking with her and hearing about all the things going on in her life. God gave me a family in her who does not mind that I am no longer svelte. Who is willing to walk at my slower pace. Who would never hang up on me. Who truly loves and appreciates me, foibles and all. Who reminds me to walk in truth. That is my comfort. My state of grace.

Why does the passage trouble me?

I stand in grace. This I know.

But... I walk in fear at times. And one of those times is now.

I realized something while talking with my boss during my review on Thursday... I genuinely fear the two vice presidents. One has yelled at me twice and threatened me. The other one I have heard yell at staff. Their anger frightens me. I do not feel completely safe when I am with them and avoid any chance at being caught alone.

I pop into the first one's office when I have a question so I can ask it and leave. I no longer make appointments to discuss something alone with him. I fear what he might say if the door were shut. If he was ready for my presence rather than being caught a bit off guard.

The other is extremely dismissive of me and of my work, my ideas. It is hard to talk with him when he looks at me as if I didn't really matter. When he tells me he is too busy to do the communications task I need. When he bypasses me and talks to the press. His latest tactic is to send my boss an email notifying her of a press contact after the fact. I do not matter. I am dismissed. When I try to get him to work with me, I know I irritate him and sometime anger him. Although he has not yet yelled at me as did the other vice president, I know that he yells at his staff and I do not want to be caught in his anger.

Neither is interested in working with me, so I have accommodated them by working around them as much as possible and limited my contacts with them when I needed to interact with them. The situation is not good for our company as well-managed communications, staffed by myself or someone else, is critical to growth. But how do you work with people who frighten you?

I stand in grace. I stand in grace. I stand in grace.

What does this truth mean for me at work?

And...I wonder...is yelling SOP for the business world?

So far...I have slept late, folded five loads of laundry, washed, dried, and folded two more, changed the sheets on the bed, and ironed 10 shirts/jackets.

A great way to start a holiday weekend, eh?

I do have fourteen mosquito welts on one foot and another eight on the other. I am not sure when I was bitten, but the itchy red lumps say that I was. So, much of my work was done while trying not to scratch (I was not always successful).

My brother called. He was returning my frenetic call from Wednesday night. He asked me what I was doing and I told him that I was working up the energy to iron. He repeated what I had said as if that were crazy or weird. Other people might not have to work energy to iron, but I do. The labor and the heat takes it toll when I do. Then he asked why I had called him. I had wanted him to read what I was considering turning in as my self evaluation. When I told him that I already had to turn it in, he asked me how the review went. When I started to tell him, he cut me off saying that I was giving him too many details. He didn't know those people and never would.

I stopped short. Four people? That's too many to remember? This is my life. Work. Kashi and the birds. The house. My best friend and her husband and her daughter. Any time I try to talk about them both my mother and my brother tend to cut me off saying it was too much information. I find that so very hurtful. My world is not important to them.

When he cut me off, I grew quiet and then responded that my life obviously wasn't very important to him. My brother hung up on me.

My mother does the same.

It is hard not to be hurt, not to feel rejected, not to feel as if I do not matter.

Wiping away a few tears, I hacked on my hair for a while and then turned to the place I should have before picking up the shears. I was reading in Romans and came upon a reminder of where my hope should be...not in a family who is interested in my life...not in a job where I can make a difference...

"Therefore having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom also we have obtained our instruction by faith into this grace in which we stand; and we hope in the glory of God. And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation bring about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us."

~Romans 5:1-5

The cat was away.

The mice played.

No one cared.