Can I tempt you...

Today, I learned that for a mere $10 more than it costs to buy a single one-day adult pass for someone to push me around in the wheelchair at my beloved botanical conservatory, I could get an annual pass to have a free adult guest each and every time I visit!

Today, Wynne indulged me in first, going there, and second, letting me take 183 (I was rushed) photographs.  I miss fooling around with my camera.  My rather shaky hands mean that I oft simply cannot take the photo I wish to do so.  However, I did manage to capture a few bits of God's creation passably well.

Can I tempt you to come push me about the place with any of these favorites?

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Not quite so much data...

The 14-day monitor did not even last twelve hours.  The flashing orange light telling me there was a problem made difficult any sleeping on my part.  Thus, at 8:13 this morning, I was on the phone asking for a replacement.  It is my fear I shall have to pay in full for this monitoring, but I believe it will be of value.  However, if I am paying several thousand dollars from my ever-dwindling, immature retirement account, I would like recordation actually to be taking place.

So, it was back to the cardiologist today.  I am now all wired (adhered) up again and praying that the capture will be primarily successful over the two-week period.

The time factor infringed upon the plan to take Wynne to the botanical gardens, so we went for a tasty meal at Flattop Grill.  In coming home, stuffed and sated, we ended up primarily talking for a while before I offered to cook.

My biggest problem, by far, is Keeping Up With the Jones, when it comes to eating with guests.  I would have been fine with just two small dishes of something, having chowed down on my stir-fry.  However, everyone else in the world cannot make do on either six tiny meals or one big and a few tiny tidbits fore and aft.  We ended up having left over Raspberry Chipotle chicken (the breasts she bought at the store are the largest ones I have EVER seen in my life), one of my bloody fantastic salads (wild leaf lettuce, feta, avocado, cucumber, carrot slivers, and craisons—no, she did not want me to buy her her own tomato even though she eats them), and roasted broccoli.  So, at least I got to introduce her to the latter.

However, I really had no need of all of those things.  Or even one of them.  An apple would have done.  Yogurt later.  KUWJ Syndrome.  SIGH.

Then, more talking, but this time primarily erudite matters relating to the college class she teaches as an adjunct.  Ah, education, make my heart sing!  She actually came with a specific goal of asking me to help her start (and eventually finish) an overhaul of her syllabus assignments and final exam (as well as some instructional changes) to more fully integrate critical instruction into her teaching and outcomes.

Warmed the cockles of my heart!

You see, to her, I am still Dr. So-and-So!  My Ph.D. in literacy studies and background in education has value to her and she wanted to use it!  She wanted/wants help from me!!  Oh, man, how I wish more would let me help in the ways that I still can.

In talking, I did learn language that helped me understand how to talk with another about a subject.  I learned that there are process people and product people.  Someone I know has an employee who is a process person, but who has been begging for a promotion for nearly two years.  The problem is that she is in a product field.  She has deliverables that are integral to her job and the success of her department.  Whilst she sees herself as being a productive and valuable employee ready for promotion, she is, in fact, someone who works on the process day in and day out and rarely ever achieves a final product without direct intervention.

That distinction helped me think of ways I could help her manager work through how to talk about this little bit of reality and, perhaps, either help the employee find value where she is, possibly find ways to better utilize a process person, or ease the employee into another job where deliverables are not vital.

It also helped me to further reflect on how very important the external is.  Many times I have written about the blessing of the external nature of the Gospel, both in its nature and how it is received.  The sweet, sweet Gospel is outside of ourselves, fully and completely.  That it is so brings comfort to the anguished soul mired in the reality of the sin in her life, the consequences of sins committed against him, the inability to achieve holiness or sanctification by one's self.

Having—at least at first—a personal and character development system for small children provides a much needed external, objective, non-personal aspect to behavior evaluation and chores and such.  I very much like, for example, this approach. I like the visual aspect of the child journeying throughout the day along the path toward accomplishing tasks.  I like the visual aspect of the child's behavioral choices leading them to stages in dealing with behavior. And I especially like that the child starts each day anew, each day as someone who's behavior is noted as good and positive.

The best part is that when a child asks (translates that begs) for the reward at the end of the day's chores/personal grooming responsibilities, all a parent needs to do is let the chart do the answering!  No need for wheedling, whining, manipulating, negotiating, or anything else of the ilk.  What does the chart tell you?  Well, then, follow the chart to gain your goal!

What my friend, the oh-so-skilled-counselor, very wisely pointed out, though, that there needs to be a solid and smooth and timely transition from any sort of rewards system to the satisfaction developing self-discipline and contributing to the family (serving others) with no expectation of rewards.  I would like to see some articles/posts about that!

Her observation made me wish, anew, that I could be a fly on the wall whilst she teaches.  How utterly wonderful and fitting it is that, in addition to her professional career, she is helping to develop the careers of others.  Her speciality and, thus, college course is on play therapy for children.

Anyway, as we discussed her goals for the changes she wants to implement, both theoretically and a bit specifically, I just ... well ... my heart sang for the joy of being all academic and actually helpful to another.  We have an initial plan and some steps for her to consider.  And I have some learning to do about her topic so that I might be better equipped to help her.  A text book will be coming my way as my part of the homework.

Working with her made me think—with both guilt and discouragement—how my downloading volunteer project has completely stalled.  The problem is that what I am downloading is named differently (one-year vs. three-year lectionary stuff) from what I need to reference to properly categorize each devotional so that the next-step analysis can be accomplished.  I simply have been unable to look at a title of a devotion with one church year week title and look up the reference under another church year week title.  It grieves me that I can no longer do such a simple task.  But I cannot.  Therefore, how can I finish this project?  Sadly, I suspect this difference will come up again in another season of the church year.  Thus far, I have only managed to download and categorize eight years of Advent devotions.

I am stymied.
I cannot figure out a plan—or a pattern—for how to navigate the shift in references.
I feel the failure.

At the cardiologist, I thought that I had chosen a shell that would work well for the removal, new skip prep, and application of the second monitor, but I was wrong.  After being momentarily dismayed, discouraged, and upset, I hit upon the idea of asking if I could remove my zippered cardigan, remove my shell, and then put my cardigan back on before proceeding.  This way, my arms and shoulders and the majority of my torso were covered.  With a bra on, I felt that I could have the courage to have my chest bare, and my act of comfort would not, in any fashion, hinder the process.

Well, as it turns out, the woman working on the swap is one of the 25% of women in America who have experienced sexual abuse.  She encouraged me in my attempts to both communicate my needs and to find a way to remain calm and feel safe whilst having something done that would otherwise be difficult for me.  She told me, personally, two of the changes she found herself making to deal with her feelings, her shame, and her battles of the mind.

As I wrote before, I am not alone and crazy.
I am normal and in the company of many.
And I am a survivor.

What a blessed, timely gift from my Good Shepherd that moment of fellowship of the darkness and the battle that is facing the effects of sexual abuse in your life.  She shared with me that she just started crafting, making cards.  When she showed me a handful of them, I admired her coping mechanism immensely.  I told her about my new blog, my fears and trepidation over it, and the next entry I am trying to write on how child sexual abuse can affect emotional development and impact your level of emotional intelligence.

In part, what I did was the rehearsal component of the learning process that I discussed with Wynne tonight.  Below are images from a PowerPoint I developed to help teach on The Learning Process:

For the record, my friend Mary has been ever so generous, gentle, and patient when it comes to helping me with the learning process of the sweet, sweet Gospel.  Anyone who reads to me the Living Word—as did my best friend Becky on Thursday morning to help calm me down for the initial cardiology visit—is helping me (via the work of the Holy Spirit as the Word is read) both rehearse and internalize the message of Christ crucified for me.  And, in case you had not followed the point, when I post my Gospel Harmony Joy Nots, I am exercising all aspects of the learning process.  

I would like to tackle the next section ... if I were not so afraid of what the parables, noted as ones about healing, might say.  What twisted Law I still me see in them?  SIGH.

I would very much like to find a way to finish tackling that initial post on emotions.  Perhaps shaking and quivering and puking my way through that entry could be my goal for this weekend....

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Data, Data, Everywhere...

I am on a 14-day heart monitor. If that doesn't provide enough data to figure out what is going on, I don't know what will.  I am, for the record, rather thankful for the cardiologist visit, though I shudder to think of what this expense will ultimately be.

For one, he was gentle and kind and actually kept a physical difference from me when not actually examining me.  For another, he listened. Then, there is the fact that he actually has some knowledge of Dysautonomia.  And, finally, he is taking a totally different approach.  By this I mean, he is wondering if my stress hormones ... all those things I wrote about in the second entry on the blog about trauma and the brain ... are part of the problem.  By this I mean, cortisol or norepinephrine or another hormone could be part of the problem. Or it could be that I am having an exaggerated response to small stimuli, as if the flight or flight reaction of our bodies somehow has become stuck in the on position.  To me, this is something that makes sense.  And, he is rather surprised that the line of testing he wants to do has not yet been done.

Step One is the longer heart monitoring period.  Step Two is a better endocrine work-up.  Step Three is to see what lots of data shows about my heart rate.

He is concerned about the widening pulse pressure (the difference between the systolic and diastolic pressure) I am experiencing.  Would it be weird to say that I was a tad relieved that he got to see that whilst I was in the office?

I will say that I feel like I am in an episode of Star Trek with this newfangled biosensor technology adhered to my chest.  Try not to be jealous!

I would also note another score from Google Doctor.  You see, I decided what was wrong with my foot was plantar fasciitis.  I cannot fathom how it could have just come on like that, but I spent copious amounts of time resting, massaging, and stretching my left foot.  I went from barely being able to walk on it by the end of that first day, to nary a twinge today.  I am ever so thankful that that flare-of-whatever is gone.   

Amos, as I thought, is already well on his way to adoring his new aunt.  He has already helped himself to something from her purse and has put his paws up on her legs hoping she would pick him up.  No doubt he will want to be snoozing with his head draped across her shoulder soon.

Tonight, I cooked for Wynne, making her the Raspberry Chipotle Baked Chicken, the Grilled Corn on the Cob with Lime and Cheese, and some Apple Praline Bread.  Sadly, I messed up on the latter so it is only a B- effort/result.  We actually used crema, instead of the mayonnaise substitute, which I found tasty.  I might possibly have dropped flaming husks on the back of my puppy dog, but I don't really want to revisit that bit of drama and trauma.  He is well.  We were sated.  As a sop to his battle with flaming husks, I let Amos clean two of the corn dishes.  He happens to really like lime and crema and feta.

Wynne and I also drank some wine.  Marie had suggested another wine to try, and I found it on sale.  So, I have now had a moscato.  I really liked it.  But I also enjoyed the whole normalcy of cooking and visiting and having a glass of wine with someone.  I want to make her Basil Burgers and, perhaps, another lime dish that is yet to be found.

May a weekend of tastiness abound!


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Overheard...

After thinking about yesterday, I was thinking about the other two times that I overheard folk speaking about me.  All three were very ... well ... not the things you want to hear.

The first was back in high school.  I was in the gym locker room, changing clothes.  In our locker room were rows and rows of lockers and benches that were more of a stall than what I see on television today.  Far more privacy was afforded the student, save for the fact that none of the walls of the stalls went up to the ceiling.

In high school, back in the dark ages, there was a group for Christians called Young Life.  Being the dewy-eyed, new-to-the-church sort of girl, I was rather excited that there were places I could learn about faith, about the Bible.  Now, looking back, I wish I were involved with Higher Things, only I am not even sure the person who eventually created Higher Things was old enough to be thinking about creating organizations.  Maybe so.  But I had never heard of Lutherans then either.

Being that dewy-eyed person, I actually wrote a research paper comparing the spread of Young Life Campaign to the spread of the early church.  Yes, in public school.  Yes, I got an A+.  Yes, I cringe whenever I come across that research paper in my files in the basement.

Anyway, if you noticed the name change, Young Life actually started out as Young Life Campaign, before ultimately splitting up into Young Life and Campaigners.  The former was for harvesting the fields and the latter was for equipping the saints.  So, think summer camp and seminar.

I was introduced to Young Life at the end of 9th grade (which was actually at the junior high school), by outgoing seniors.  It was wild and crazy and zany and freaky and had Jesus.  I really did not like all the other parts, but I did like hearing about Jesus. After all, Jesus was still new to me, having met Him at 11, but not having started attending church (since my family did not), until I was 15.

Campaigners was the bible study that the "serious" Christians attended.  With "evangelism" all packed up and tied with a bow in Young Life, Campaigners was a chance to delve into the Bible.  I loved it.  And I cannot tell you a thing I learned.

Well, I learned that it was for the popular people, one of which I was decidedly not.  Each week, I would try to hitch rides to Campaigners between Monday and Friday.  Always I received vague answers about whether or not those with cars were going.  So, each Friday, I would walk the 2 miles or so to the Bible Study ... even when it was already dark.  Each week, I would get chastised about not being safe by one of the leaders, who would then ask for volunteers to take me home.  The very people who could not be bothered to bring me fell all over themselves to offer rides and state loudly I could have ridden with them there.  SIGH.

Still, even with the obstacles, I went.  I read the Bible. I did the homework. I reveled in the chance to study.

I went to Young Life because I was supposed to go.  I was really, really, really uncomfortable with all the social interaction and the zaniness.  I wish I had known then what an introvert was.

At our school, Young Life went on a skiing trip each year.  We had a fundraiser that was seeing how many laps you could run around the track in an hour, getting sponsors for each lap.  [Have I ever mentioned that I hate running?]  I ran six miles in an hour and raised enough money for the skiing trip.

When I was changing my clothes, I over heard a Did-you-hear? conversation.  It was about me. About me going on the Young Life ski trip.  The girls were talking about how I was going to ruin the trip with all my Bible questions and with them having to make nice to me 24/7 in front of the leaders.  They were discussing backing out.  I knew that I was not popular.  I didn't realize just how much so.

I skipped gym class.
I forged a note about a dentist appointment.
I left school.

Yes, for all the ways in which I was highly ethical and well-behaved, I spent much of high school forging notes to escape.  I had enough credits from transferring from my former city, having taken advanced courses in junior high, to graduate a year early, but I was not allowed to do so.  My senior year was primarily fluff classes to fill a schedule.  But that is another story.

I sinned even further by lying to my grandmother, in the times before I got a license and a car, to get her to pick me up.  She never suspected that my school allowed study hall students to do their work at home if their hour was at the end of the day.  When she dropped me off at the dentist's office, for when I left school too early for the study hall excuse, I would just wait until she drove off and then walk home.  Need I mention that I have only had one cavity in my life and that was in my twenties?

I was the good child.
I was the perfect student.
No one suspected.

Having never skied before, I went despite what I overheard.  It was a disaster.  Another long and painful story.  Parts of it funny ... I guess ... since I never learned to stop so when I started going too fast on my skis and got scared, I would just sit down and eventually tumble to a stop.  After which, I would collect my poles and skis, put them on again, and ski until I was scared once more.

The other two years of high school, I raised the money for someone else to go on the ski trip, handing it over to the Young Life leaders, not caring no one knew, not caring who went.  I honestly cannot tell you why I did, especially since I hate running, i.e., utterly loath it.

The second time I overheard what folk actually thought of me was when I was working on my doctorate.  I was in the bathroom at church, taking care of business, when some other singles walked in to freshen up their make-up before Sunday School.  A newcomer asked who I was.  The answer:  The Jesus freak/ Bible freak, spoken at the same time.  Then she got chapter and verse on how all I wanted to do was talk about the Bible and ask questions.  They were okay with that in Sunday School, because it meant they could just sit back and let me keep the teacher engaged.  But at Bible Study it was another story.  I kept everyone from fellowship time since I actually read ahead and filled in the answers in our booklets.  Apparently, when I was absent, since no one else had answers at the ready, they would just sit around and about their lives, they would fellowship with each other.

When I was a teenager, I was engrossed in learning all that I was supposed to do in order to grow my faith, to be a better Christian, to be right with God.  A decade later, I was well aware that all my efforts had failed to get me right with God so that I wouldn't struggle with my sins.  I was desperate.  So, I continued to go to that church, hoping to discover how I could be a better Christian.  But I made sure that I never answered more than two questions in Sunday School, no matter how much the leader stared at me, and I stopped coming prepared to Bible Study and then stopped going altogether.

Psalm 18—which I have written before, much to my surprise, is a psalm I've heard people do not care for—is one that has the promises I long to hear, to dare to believe are really for me:

God rescues me.
He rescues me because He delights in me.

He fights great battles to rescue me.

He rewards me because of my righteousness.

He rewards me because of my cleanness.

He lights my lamp.

He illumines my darkness.

He arms me.

He shields me.

He sets me on high places.

He makes my footing sure.

He delivers me from my enemies.

He is my salvation.

He rescues me from the violent man.

God rescues me.

The things I have overheard about who I am make believing these promises given to me in Christ by the Holy Spirit are really for me, for Myrtle.  Each time I make strides in setting aside the voices either in my head or in my ears, I am deafened to the sweet, sweet Gospel by them once more.  A life time of being a disappointment, of not fitting in,  of being labeled by/bound by both my sins and the sins of those committed against me, of being a bother, of not being good enough, of being too much.  That life belies the promises I read.

How?  
How could they possibly be?  
How could God ever delight in me?


"I love Thee, O LORD, my strength."
The LORD is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer,
My God, my rock, in whom I take refuge;
My shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
I call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised,
And I am saved from my enemies.

The cords of death encompassed me,
And the torrents of ungodliness terrified me.
The cords of Sheol surrounded me;
The snares of death confronted me.

In my distress I called upon the LORD,
And cried to my God for help;
He heard my voice out of His temple,
And my cry for help before Him came into His ears.
Then the earth shook and quaked;
And the foundations of the mountains were trembling
And were shaken, because He was angry.
Smoke went up out of His nostrils,
And fire from His mouth devoured;
Coals were kindled by it.
He bowed the heavens also, and came down
With thick darkness under His feet.
He rode upon a cherub and flew;
And He sped upon the wings of the wind.
He made darkness His hiding place, His canopy around Him,
Darkness of waters, thick clouds of the skies.
From the brightness before Him passed His thick clouds,
Hailstones and coals of fire.

The LORD also thundered in the heavens,
And the Most High uttered His voice,
Hailstones and coals of fire.
He sent out His arrows, and scattered them,
And lightning flashes in abundance, and routed them.
Then the channels of water appeared,
And the foundations of the world were laid bare
At Thy rebuke, O LORD,
At the blast of the breath of Thy nostrils.

He sent from on high, He took me;
He drew me out of many waters.
He delivered me from my strong enemy,
And from those who hated me, for they were too mighty for me.
They confronted me in the day of my calamity,
But the LORD was my stay.
He brought me forth also into a broad place;
He rescued me, because He delighted in me.

The LORD has rewarded me according to my righteousness;
According to the cleanness of my hands He has recompensed me.
For I have kept the ways of the LORD,
And have not wickedly departed from my God.
For all His ordinances were before me,
And I did not put away His statutes from me.
I was also blameless with Him,
And I kept myself from my iniquity.
Therefore the LORD has recompensed me according to my righteousness,
According to the cleanness of my hands in His eyes.

With the kind Thou dost show Thyself kind;
With the blameless Thou dost show Thyself blameless;
With the pure Thou dost show Thyself pure,
And with the crooked Thou dost show Thyself astute.
For Thou dost save an afflicted people,
But haughty eyes Thou dost abase.
For Thou dost light my lamp;
The LORD my God illumines my darkness.
For by Thee I can run upon a troop;
And by my God I can leap over a wall.
As for God, His way is blameless;
The word of the LORD is tried;
He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him.

For who is God, but the LORD?
And who is a rock, except our God,
The God who girds me with strength
And makes my way blameless?
He makes my feet like hinds' feet,
And sets me upon my high places.
He trains my hands for battle,
So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
Thou hast also given me the shield of Thy salvation,
And Thy right hand upholds me;
And Thy gentleness makes me great.
Thou dost enlarge my steps under me,
And my feet have not slipped.
I pursued my enemies and overtook them,
And I did not turn back until they were consumed.
I shattered them, so that they were not able to rise;
They fell under my feet.
For Thou hast girded me with strength for battle;
Thou hast subdued under me those who rose up against me.
Thou hast also made my enemies turn their backs to me,
And I destroyed those who hated me.
They cried for help, but there was none to save,
Even to the LORD, but He did not answer them.
Then I beat them fine as the dust before the wind;
I emptied them out as the mire of the streets.

Thou hast delivered me from the contentions of the people;
Thou hast placed me as head of the nations;
A people whom I have not known serve me.
As soon as they hear, they obey me;
Foreigners submit to me.
Foreigners fade away,
And come trembling out of their fortresses.

The LORD lives, and blessed be my rock;
And exalted be the God of my salvation,
The God who executes vengeance for me,
And subdues peoples under me.
He delivers me from my enemies;
Surely Thou dost lift me above those who rise up against me;
Thou dost rescue me from the violent man.

Therefore I will give thanks to Thee among the nations, O LORD,
And I will sing praises to Thy name.
He gives great deliverance to His king,
And shows lovingkindness to His anointed,
To David and his descendants forever. ~Psalm 18 (NASB 1977)


SIGH.  How could anyone not just LOVE Psalm 18?

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Words hurt...

This was one of those days ... and it is not yet over.

It was one of those days that I find challenging, that I find scream at me that life is not worth the bother.  I am better at ignoring those taunts, but both the strain and the hurt remains.

Medicare.  SIGH. Five of my medications are not covered.  One was not even run through.  I am hitting brick walls on getting the money back from the one that was not run through, and, after the first smooth sailing authorization, I have not made any progress on the other four since August 30th.  This despite having a written policy that decisions would be made within 24-hours of receipt of the doctor's explanation.

Because calling the pharmacy and calling the doctor's office has not seemed all that productive, I drove myself over there to bring the doctor the written instructions I received from the insurance company.  I tried, so very hard, not to cry as I explained what I needed.  I want to be clear and concise. I want to present the problem and the solution.  That is who I used to be.  But not anymore.  Instead, I wept.  And I spoke aloud what I was thinking:  What if I just stop fighting, what if I just stop taking all of this medication and let nature take its course much, much more quickly?  

The nurse said the woman who started the process would be back on Thursday, so I would hear from the doctor's office by Friday.  But, really, it is not just the doctor's office.  Coordination has to happen between the doctor, the insurance company, and the pharmacy.  Coordination seems to be near impossible and inordinately time consuming.

I went from there to the post office.

Over the past two years, as I have been seriously downsizing, amidst the organizing, I have kept aside things that are important to me, waiting to find someone who might savor those things as I have, rather than just donate them for tax deductions or try to sell them.  One such beloved item that found a home this week was my GREEN Dooney & Burke cross shoulder purse bought back in the hey-day of my first real job.  It is too small for all the medical things I need in my purse, so I have had it hanging on a hook in my closet for years.  Now, it is hanging on the shoulder of someone who LOVES the color GREEN as much as I do.

Recently, I finally thought of who might enjoy the good (i.e., good-to-me) bits of my teaching supplies that I have hung onto all these years.  In all the time since I left the classroom, I never found someone to pass them on to or a school really interested in them.  Some are dweeby homemade things, such as keys with a story starter on a tag, and some are cool things, such as a system for using Legos in instructions.  Not counting the dweeby things and the time-filler things, the rest is worth rather more than it would cost to ship them, so I waited to find a home for them.

Last week, I went to UPS, thinking that would be the most economical way to ship them, but UPS wanted over $80 PLUS a $20 packing charge.  I gulped, struggled to hold back tears, and lugged everything that had taken me three trips to get inside back out to the car.  A few days later, I went to the post office and brought home several of the medium flat rate boxes (which, to me, seem larger than the large flat rate boxes). I brought them home because I knew I could not stand long enough at the post office to stuff them.  But I also suspected I would need copious amounts of time to figure out how to best stuff them so that I used no more than three of them.  Spacial problem solved, I put my friend's name on the labels and then hand-wrapped the two pocket charts that went with the one box filled with sentence strip paper.  I wrapped them in bubble paper and then plain brown paper (stuffing from packaged I have received) and put another label on them.

At the post office, I was struggling to get the packages all into my arms and still hold my cane to use once I at least got inside.  I did not want to make four trips inside, which is what it would take, to use my cane.  However, I couldn't figure out how to bring the cane, too.  Just as my frustration was about to spill over to waterworks, this very old man walked up to me and asked me to hand him the boxes.  I mean very, very old.  I was justifiably worried the weight of them might cause him harm.  But he insisted and I gingerly lowered them into his surprisingly strong, wiry arms.  He walked me inside and then stayed to scoot them along until he could put them on the counter for me.  As he turned to leave, and I thanked him with free flowing tears, the rest of the people in the post office gave him a hearty round of applause.

The post office is sending my cherished teaching tools (okay ... my cherished teaching memories) to my friend for less than half what UPS wanted and in less than half the time.  I suppose it is probably insensible for me to be spending money to give things away, but there are bits of my life I want to know will not go ... unforgotten ... at least for a while.

With that bit of kindness on my mind, as I headed to Walgreen's for the giddy-inducing-sale-priced milk, I thought to call someone who has been kind to me and might want to hear about the post office angel.

I dialed the number.  The phone rang.  I heard a voice.  I started to spill the good news.  And ... then ... I realized that I was hearing the other person talking about me, not to me.  The person was saying that the call was "Myrtle, someone with issues" and that the person didn't want to face talking with me then.  An explanation for not taking a call that was actually taken.

Someone with issues.

Not someone who loves the Psalter like a loon.
Not someone who reads the Christian Book of Concord like others read novels or magazines or newspapers.
Not someone who prays a lot.
Not someone who tells me how kind I am all the time.
Not someone who sends old-fashioned, hand-written thank you cards.
Not someone who is more besotted with a puppy dog than ever a human was.
Not someone who likes to write.
Not someone who was odd enough to create a rock river in her yard.
Not someone who finds moss wondrous.
Not someone works way to hard on projects in her 1920 home.
Not someone who is a mad organizer/reducer/recycler/donator.
Not someone who's using learning to cook new things as a brain exerciser and a coping mechanism.
Not someone who is chronically ill with several diseases/conditions, one of which is rather devastating.

Someone with issues.

That's how I heard myself described to a stranger.
That's who I am.
That's why I really do want to be a hermit ... a real, bonafide hermit.

I mean, what kind of person would want to inflict herself on others?  To be a bother?  A burden?  A drain?

In a heart beat, I went from excited to share good news with someone to trying to stay in my lane as I stuck my head out the window and vomited down the side of the car.

I wept for a while in the parking lot of Walgreen's, before using quite a bit of the baby wipes that I keep in the car to clean myself up.  I bought my three gallons of $2.49 milk and then drove home.

In the mail were a letter from the radiology center with the wait and see approach being my course of action and three medical bills that were completely unpaid since the insurance information did not go through with the claims.  Two of them had numbers to call, so I spent 45 minutes on hold contacting both with the insurance information.  I wrote it on the third bill and put it out for the mail.

Then, I tried to cook the Grilled Corn on the Cob with Cheese and Lime since Marie was the chef for this bit of tastiness last Saturday.  She made much less of a mess than I did making the ear she left for me in my refrigerator.  But I think it is just as tasty.

I took a photo, because someone asked me about how to eat/serve the Grilled Eggplant with Balsamic Vinegar, Basil, Feta, and Grilled Baguette, so I added a photo to the blog entry ... for reference, not for art.  I thought that maybe I should include photos ... if nothing else than to remind myself that I actually accomplished something.  I want to make the Apple Praline Bread when my teenage-hood friend comes this weekend, so I plan to take a photograph then ... perhaps of a slice on a plate.

I also added a photo to the recipe I posted for how I made up a Sautéd Summer Squash with Ginger, Garlic and White Wine last night.  Since I rarely measuring when I am trying things out in the new-way-to-sauté-a-vegetable-in-a-pan venue, the recipe is really more to help me remember that for anyone else to follow—unless it is a person who has a passing acquaintance with measuring utensils as do I.

Yes, I wondered if I could have used lime with squash somehow.

[In case you are wondering, Amos is thoroughly enjoying "cleaning" all of these lime-juiced dishes.  He is, at the moment, micro-howling-hushed-whimpering over the ear of corn sitting on my napkin since he already licked the corn plate clean.]

Cooking completed, I have been looking for a way to stop hearing those words in my head.  I have yet to find it.

At least I learned one thing ... hopeful ... about myself today.  Apparently, I am not the only one besotted with a puppy dog.  I am not the only one who takes photo after photo after photo.

Actually, I am now thinking that I simply do not take enough Amos photos.  Here he is, eyes never leaving his heart's desire (not me at the moment), mid-micro-howling-hushed-whimper.

As soon as I drag myself off the couch to properly dispose of the cob, clean the dishes (and the porch where the burned husk fell), and crawl into the GREEN chair with an ice pack or two, I know I will become his first love again.  And he will probably wrap his paws around my neck and snore into my ear.

Amos doesn't find me a bother ... except when I wish for him to conduct his major business out of doors.  SIGH.



I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

It's okay...

When I was in the radiology center, the tech gave me a gown in which to change and then told me to open the door when I was ready.  I was so afraid.  So, I texted a few people the same thing:  Open the door when you are read means NEVER open the door, right???

I was so afraid and ashamed of my fear.  I wanted to not be alone with it.  And, to be honest, I really wanted to never open the door.

Becky texted back:  It might take that long.  Your feelings are okay.

One of the gifts Bettina has given me is learning along with me.

Things Myrtle longs to hear:

• You're forgiven.
• You are baptized.
• [Any bit of the Living Word]
• It's okay.

I was thinking about that whilst sheering my sheepgoatcatRatBastardpuppydog.  Amos is such a wiggle wort.  For some reason only known to him, Amos has come to avoid hair cuts at all costs.  I had been giving in to his desire to not have to face that particular battle of the mind, but his curls were just too long.  I love them.  I want them spilling all the way to the ground.  But Amos curls, once grown out, turn into tangles and matts.

Now, to be fair, Amos has usually ended up with a wound or two when I cut his hair—I cannot fathom how they possibly happen—but they are not great or grievous wounds.  Amos, however, seems to have the memory of an elephant.  Perhaps he is a sheepgoatcatelephantRatBastardpuppydog.  In any case, I was determined to get all of the bits of him that I had let go over the past few hair cuts.

Two hours thirty-seven minutes.

Two hours and thirty-seven minutes was how long it took to give Amos a proper shearing.  He tucks his legs beneath his body.  He cleans my hands.  He presses his head against my chest.  He climbs atop my shoulders.  He is, to me, rather adorable in his resistance.

This is how he is when he is resisting tending to his major business in the great outdoors.  Like tonight.  For whatever reason, Amos trembled from head to tail on the steps for a long while before quickly darting off the side of them to "water" the dragon.  The next thing I knew, Amos was in my lap, paw around my neck, head tucked beneath my chin.

Three times I set him on the side walk and encouraged him to tend to business.  Three times he very silently glued himself back to my body, still trembling.  And then I told him, "It's okay."  Hearing those words, Amos scrambled over my shoulder and raced to the back door.  They are some of his favorite words, too.

I have to be firm, at times, when his last venture out onto the grass has been more then about 36 hours or so, because, ultimately, bodily needs cannot be ignored.  Sometimes, though, his bodily need is to hear that it is okay to feel afraid.

For months, I have worked on grass aversion therapy, Myrtle style.  I carry him to the grass, tell him silly stories, and slowly lower him to the grass.  Again.  And again.  Many, many times.  Even encircled by my legs, Amos cannot stand the grass.  He will—to please me I think—stand on it, but he will stand trembling and panting.

Because he loves to play fetch, he will fetch a ball I throw out on to the grass, paws barely touching the ground, and then carry it straight to the back door.  Amos basically prefers the flowerbeds, the brick boarders, the stepping stones, and the sidewalks.  He has become rather adept at navigating his backyard domain in his fashion.

And that is okay.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Whys and wherefores...

Suddenly, inexplicably, between one step and another, I had an explosion of pain in my left foot.  The smashed-toes-and-soft-tissue-damaged foot that still has parts that move and shouldn't.  But in a totally different place.  With each successive step, it hurts more.  What does it say about me that my first thought was fear of whatever this problem will cost?

Earlier, because I thought Firewood Man was coming to tend the yard and take care of securing the wood frame and miter cutting the glass bead for the window, I finished chipping out the crumbling caulk around the window.  But, primarily, I spent the day resting up from all that cooking and having of fun.  And ... well ... rather unsuccessfully resisting the urge to finish off the six Peanut Butter Nutella Cheesecake Bars that were left over.  [I might possibly have eaten two of them.  Or three.]

So, I have no clue what is wrong with my foot or what could possibly have caused the problem.  I am hoping that I shall awake on the morrow with the pain just as suddenly, inexplicably gone.

Tonight, I did write more on Trauma and the Brain.  The part of me that wants ever so deeply for our world to have a solid understanding of the effects of sexual abuse the way we have with with the effects of say, drunk driving, wants to write.  The part of me that finds this so very difficult wants me to delete the entire blog.  And then the part of me who is the writer is rather frustrated with the puzzle of how to talk about something piece meal when all the facets of the subject are intertwined.

For example, I started out wanting to talk about the body and how the struggles with the body can make receiving the Gospel difficult, pointing out the physicality of the Gospel.  Only once I started writing—and not getting anywhere close to what I wanted to say—I realized that I needed to write about trauma and the brain.  Only once I started, I realized that I couldn't just write a gazillion page post.  So, I wrote a first lesson.  Then the second.  And I have thoughts on the third. I start thinking I have made a start and then I think How can I possibly explain something I am still trying to understand myself?  SIGH.

When I was writing about PTSD and thinking about how to write about dissociation, I realized that part of my struggles is the fact that I have a neurological condition—two in fact—that causes and enhances responses within my body.  By this I mean, it is not just that Dysautonomia causes anxiety, but that I have so many sensations and so much pain that I am intimately aware of a body from which I have spent much of my life distancing or numbing myself.  In a way, it feels as if our foe is cursing even my efforts to heal in that area of my life, while struggling to accept that the illnesses I have will not heal, that the decline in my body and mind will continue whether I want it to or not.

I am not thinking, at the moment, of the agony in my left foot.  I am thinking of how I feel so many sensations in my heart alone ... when it slows, it feels as if it is thudding ... when it speeds up, all of me feels like a plucked guitar string ... when my blood pressure drops, I feel as if I am fading away.  At any given time, I can tell you, with a very close margin of error, what my heart rate is.  I do not like being aware of my heart, especially now with the intermittent chest pain.  For when it strikes, I find myself pressing the location and its location is not a place on my body I care to acknowledge.

When the anxiety starts, amongst other things, my lips tingle.  I do not like thinking about my lips or touching them or feeling them.  I mean, I had this hankering for red lipstick, but that was about color and an image.  Sitting at the make-up counter at the department store, it was all I could do not to scream and flee when the clerk took my chin and I had to work very hard not to vomit when she started applying the lip liner.  All the while, I had to pretend because I was in public and with my mother.

So much of my life, I have not understood the rest of the world, felt as if everyone else was a half a step ahead of me.  Now, I have been learning why.  But in the learning everything was still secret, mostly, as the abuse was, mostly.  I cannot explain why, but that secrecy frustrates and hurts me ... and leaves me feeling even more ashamed.

Marie has anxiety.  Being around her, I feel normal.  I feel no pressure to pretend.  And I feel safe.  The strange thing is that I would not have said that or even thought of it last summer when she and her husband were living here.  I would not have allowed myself to acknowledge just how much I struggle with having to battle anxiety, on top of everything else, another battle that is also the very opposite of who I used to be, such as with the cognitive decline.  If I tell Marie that my lips tingle and it very much bothers me, she will understand.  Not about the sensation, but about the fact that knowing lips shouldn't tingle and they are tingling and they are tingling because of the panic attack.

And she understands that panic attacks are not really socially acceptable.  She understands that calm down techniques, which are good and helpful for managing panic attacks, are not always received well by others.  She understands the longing that they were and the longing that they were not needed.  She understands.

Marie even understands the Psalter.  The other day, she pointed me toward Psalm 84:

How lovely are Thy dwelling places,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longed and even yearned for the courts of the Lord;
My heart and flesh sing for joy to the living God.
The bird also has found a house,
And the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young,
Even Thine altars, O Lord of hosts,
My King and my God,
How blessed are those who dwell in Thy house!
They are ever praising Thee.

How blessed is the man whose strength is in Thee;
In whose heart are the highways to Zion!
Passing through the valley of Baca, they make it a spring,
The early rain also covers it with blessings.
They go from strength to strength,
Every one of them appears before God in Zion.

O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
Give ear, O God of Jacob!
Behold our shield, O God,
And look upon the face of Thine anointed.
For a day in Thy courts is better than a thousand outside.
I would rather stand at the threshold of the house of my God,
Than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
The Lord gives grace and glory;
No good thing does He withhold from those who walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts,
How blessed is the man who trusts in Thee!
~Psalm 84 (NASB 1977)

Marie pointed out that the study note stated this is the psalm of someone who has been separated from the sanctuary, where God is rightly worshiped, and who longs to return. Many homebound and shut-in Christians long for worship in God's house, yearning for the days account of Christ.  She added, "See, you're not the first or only one! There's a whole Psalm for homebound Christians!!"

At dinner with her and her husband, we ended up talking about the times I am not at church because I cannot get myself across the threshold.  Sometimes, I drive over and ended up weeping in the parking lot.  Her husband, fresh off his vicarage, observed that he considers me the same as any other homebound and thinks nothing of my never leaving the parking lot.  Of course he would wish for me to go inside, but if it happens that the Gospel needs to come to me, then such is good, right, and salutary.  

I was able to speak so bluntly in front of Paul because last summer I saw him leap up and race across the room to make sure the microwave timer did not go off.  When he looks at Marie and thinks about her triggers, he sees his beloved, not a bother.  Such love and acceptance and encouragement I saw in that single moment.  I was able to speak so bluntly because the more I read The Courage to Heal and pondered the whys and wherefores of my life, the more I thought about meeting Marie and how she so boldly and freely explained about her triggers and asked me to help her with them. 

I think, then, I was jealous of her courage.  Now, I am thankful for the opportunity to meet her and thankful for the bits of courage here and there my Good Shepherd has given me through His body and blood and through His Word, as I continue to ponder and to face my whys and wherefores.

Anyway, Marie thought about that bit of our conversation and then gave me a bit of the Living Word to remind me that I am known by my Creator.  Another gift of mercy from my Good Shepherd through my neighbor.

Do you think that my hiding in the Psalter is my way of standing at the threshold of the house of God?

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

A feast of body and soul...

I am so bloody exhausted that I shall, for once, use an economy of words.  [Go ahead and snicker.]

This afternoon, my friend Marie came over for a visit, a cooking fest, and to spend the night since her husband is out of town at a wedding.  We feasted.  I was fed body and soul.

When she first arrived, we plowed right into making (and then eating) Grilled Eggplant with Balsamic Vinegar, Feta, and Grilled Baguette.  This is my second time making this wicked bit of delight, and while we still did not ultimately grill the bread, we did decide to toast it on broil.  This amazing dish is worlds better with the toasted bread.  Knowing how much Marie like to learn about cooking, I had her do the entire recipe herself.  The result was rather heavenly.

Afterwards, we spent copious amounts of time digesting and talking.

Knowing we were also going to be cooking my Raspberry Chipotle Baked Chicken and her Corn with Cheese and Lime (a recipe she hunted down after learning of my rather unexpected and inexplicable hankering or lime things), I had been rather reluctant to bring up the idea of making a dessert.  Marie, thankfully, already had some things in mind, so I rested in the GREEN chair perusing some recipes in which she was interested.

The bottom line is that her first desire was to try Peanut Butter and Nutella Cheesecake Bars, a recipe she spotted on a favorite cooking blog of hers.  Whilst everything else in the recipe was crying out for me to join her in choosing it for our dessert, I am not partial to Oreo cookies.  Not. At. All.  [UGH]  So, I suggested that were I making it I would automatically change the recipe to a graham cracker crust.  But I went on to look at some of the other recipes on the blog.  The thing is, Marie really wanted to try the bars and was willing to forego her own tastiness (give up the Oreo crust) so that I could have mine. Mid-way through our digesting and talking, I suddenly got the idea to make the dessert as if it were pizza!

You see, mostly, I simply prefer a cheese pizza.  So, over the years, I have become quite free in ordering half a cheese pizza for me and half whatever else my dining guest would like.  I realized that we could make half the crust Oreo and half graham cracker.

After absorbing this Great Culinary Dilemma Epiphany, Marie and I went to the store to fetch the missing ingredients ... and to pick up a few other items.  On the drive over, I asked if she would like to get a bottle of wine.  I rarely drink, but a bottle of wine is just not something a single person would polish off.  Marie was rather open to the idea.

Paul and Marie spent their vicarage in California, so she rather conveniently picked up some knowledge about grape.  This was rather timely because my beloved Fetzer was nowhere to be seen.  After quizzing me about my wine preferences, which are admittedly small, Marie said she thought I would like a savon blanc.  Since her preferred brand was not there, we literally chose the wine by name:  Cupcake.  A GREEN bottle was a close second, but I had picked most whimsical name as my criteria for choosing.  The wine was rather tasty, but it has a smell that is rather off-putting to me.  It made me want to try another brand to see if it was the vineyard or the grape that I found disconcerting.  I, of course, had no real problem drinking 3 glasses (smaller ones).

Whilst cooking the chicken, corn, and dessert, Marie and I danced about the kitchen, going from recipe to recipe, calling out orders to each other to tackle the next bit of instructions.  For the record, I had nothing to do with the corn other than to get out my ceramic corn dishes and then some corn holders ... and wish we had more than just two ears of corn.  Oh, my!  How I enjoyed my first example of grilled corn!

Marie and I talked long hours, cooked four tasty items, and had the most enjoyable, most normal day I have had in years!  One of the things we talked about was my next entry on the blog about sexual abuse, First Lesson on Trauma and the Brain.  In a way, Marie has been a large impetus behind why I wanted to write about this difficult subject for me.

You see, when I met her last summer when they were staying in the basement living space, Marie talked about her autism awareness work.  One of her points was that there are perfectly sound and logical reasons behind a lot of autistic and/or aspergers symptoms.  She want to help others learn—especially those who are teachers and caregivers for autistic children or those with asperger's—the whys and wherefores of those behaviors and symptoms, so that when a teacher or care giver is faced with them, he or she will 1) accept the child and 2) work to imagine what it must be like to walk in the child's shoes.

So many people, friends and family fail to study and learn about loved ones who have been sexually abused. Marie posited that if society would take the time to learn about Autism/Asperber's, then it truly would make for better lives for those who are struggling with these condition.  Their choices and behavior would shift from strange or weird to understandable.

For example, Autism Speaks has a packet for parents with newly diagnosed children: The 100 Day Kit.  I went through it for a friend and noted one particular piece with great interest:  Ten Things Every Child with Autism Wishes You Knew.

Four of them stand out to me.


My senses are out of sync. This means that ordinary sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and touches that you may not even notice can be downright painful for me. My environment often feels hostile. I may appear withdrawn or belligerent or mean to you, but I’m just trying to defend myself. Here’s why a simple trip to the grocery store may be agonizing for me.

My hearing may be hyperacute. Dozens of people jabber at once. The loudspeaker booms today’s special. Music blares from the sound system. Registers beep and cough, a coffee grinder chugs. The meat cutter screeches, babies wail, carts creak, the fluorescent lighting hums. My brain can’t filter all the input and I’m in overload!

My sense of smell may be highly sensitive. The fish at the meat counter isn’t quite fresh, the guy standing next to us hasn’t showered today, the deli is handing out sausage samples, the baby in line ahead of us has a poopy diaper, they’re mopping up pickles on aisle three with ammonia. I feel like throwing up.

And there’s so much hitting my eyes! The fluorescent light is not only too bright, it flickers. The space seems to be moving; the pulsating light bounces off everything and distorts what I am seeing. There are too many items for me to be able to focus (my brain may compensate with tunnel vision), swirling fans on the ceiling, so many bodies in constant motion. All this affects how I feel just standing there, and now I can’t even tell where my body is in space. 

Distinguish between won’t (I choose not to) and can’t (I am not able to).
It isn’t that I don’t listen to instructions. It’s that I can’t understand you. When you call to me from across the room, I hear “*&^%$#@, Jordan. #$%^*&^%amp;*.” Instead, come over to me, get my attention, and speak in plain words: “Jordan, put your book in your desk. It’s time to go to lunch.” This tells me what you want me to do and what is going to happen next. Now it’s much easier for me to comply.

Listen to all the ways I’m trying to communicate.
It’s hard for me to tell you what I need when I don’t have a way to describe my feelings. I may be hungry, frustrated, frightened, or confused but right now I can’t find those words. Be alert for body language, withdrawal, agitation or other signs that tell you something is wrong. They’re there.

Or, you may hear me compensate for not having all the words I need by sounding like a little professor or movie star, rattling off words or whole scripts well beyond my developmental age. I’ve memorized these messages from the world around me because I know I am expected to speak when spoken to. They may come from books, television, or the speech of other people. Grown-ups call it echolalia. I may not understand the context or the terminology I’m using. I just know that it gets me off the hook for coming up with a reply.

Identify what triggers my meltdowns.
Meltdowns and blow-ups are more horrid for me than they are for you. They occur because one or more of my senses has gone into overload, or because I’ve been pushed past the limit of my social abilities. If you can figure out why my meltdowns occur, they can be prevented. Keep a log noting times, settings, people, and activities. A pattern may emerge.

Remember that everything I do is a form of communication. It tells you, when my words cannot, how I’m reacting to what is happening around me. My behavior may have a physical cause. Food allergies and sensitivities sleep problems and gastrointestinal problems can all affect my behavior. Look for signs, because I may not be able to tell you about these things.

These are things that people can learn, just like the steps of CPR or the Stages of Grief.  Understanding the heightened sensitivities, the internal chaos, the communication barriers, and triggers of any autistic person would go a long way toward leaning how to best serve your neighbor.

Think about an overly tired toddler.  When one gets that way, he or she may be too tired to sleep, but yet fractious from lack of rest.  So often have I heard about this.  Knowing it can happen, people are often more tolerant of a toddler having a meltdown because he or she is exhausted.  The toddler is not in charge of his body, nor can she communicate her needs to clearly and accurately.  This is the same with autistic children, yet often they are blamed for poor behavior that is not willfully-based, but rather part and parcel to the disorder.  In a way, the autistic child enmeshed in his behavior is in no more control than the child having a temporary.  And, yet, they are normal.

While we were talking, I explained the passages I chose for my First Lesson on Trauma and the brain. I found it freeing being able to talk about hard things.  I found it freeing to be treated as normal, rather than a walking disease or condition.

Such incredible mercy heaped upon me this day by my Good Shepherd, through His servant Marie!   Such mercy.


I am Yours, Lord. Save me!

Keeping away from my thoughts...

If you are wondering what a rock river is, here is my version of one.  Thanks to the generosity of Sandra, I was able to harvest enough rocks from her old, primarily empty beds to lay out my river.  I still have a few "thin" spots to fill in, but I was rather exhausted by first harvesting, then loading, then unloading, then hauling, and then spreading eight painter's buckets of rocks.  No, I did not do it all at once, but I did, I must admit, create my river in far fewer days than I should have done so.

At first, I was only going to have the river in the empty space before the burning bushes.  However, my mother suggested that I start it at the back steps.  Her interior design skill is exceptional, so even out of doors I am open to her advice.

The river wends its way around the three creeping junipers that are in front of the pink bush (I have no idea what that bush is, but I got it on clearance for a few dollars the first August I was here primarily because it was actually still blooming in August).  So, the river is before the bush, but wrapping around the junipers until it snakes its way through the narrow part of the bed that leads to the burning bushes area.  This area of the river is primarily between 10 and 12 inches.  It was hard to ensure the river bed was properly "filled," since I was working beneath the bush branches.  Since it goes barren in the winter, I am sure I will see spots that needs additional "water."


The river widens as it crosses before the burning bushes, until it is 19 inches at its greatest crossing.  My mother suggested more bends here, but I could not figure out how to do them with the limited amount of left-over landscaping cloth I was using to ensure the rocks remain on top of the mulch.  Using other left-over materials, created a "river bed" for my "water" by lining the edges of the cloth with paver base and sprinkled playground sand (which I use to level stepping stones) over the rest of the cloth.

I wanted to leave space for a ground or at least low-height bird bath.  Right now, I took the bowl off of the bird bath that is in my day lily bed, since the birds never go there.  I am hoping they will come to like this location as much as they do the one in the bulb bed.

You will see that I was able to get a few companions for the rock river.  There are two turtles, three frogs, and a toad.  The toad is nestled by the pink bush, so I can see him whilst I sit on the back steps waiting on Amos to conquer his fear of grass long enough to do his major business. While I wish I had one or two more turtles (rock animals are not economical, even at the 30% off-end-of-summer-clearance-price), I would consider my rock river complete if ... somehow ... I could get some moss growing around it.  That is what I miss most about living in Alexandria.  I had over a dozen moss gardens (moss growing in bonsai pots).

Why a rock river?  Well, for one, I am embracing my hermitude or hermitness.  Hermits do odd things.  Have odd things.  I now have a rock river.  Second, I wanted to fill the space with something that had no need of weeding, fertilizing, or pruning.  Third, I love God's creation.  I seriously do.  It awes me to utter stillness and humility to ponder all the things He created for us in this world.  Of course, turtles, frogs, and toads are chief amongst those bits of creation.  My friend Caryl has them where she lives.  I have to make do with rock versions.

Still, isn't it amazing, for example, that some of the most beautiful fish in all creation are located in the depths of the ocean, where few will ever see them?  One of my favorite authors is Gene Stratton Porter, who wrote Freckles (published in 1904, this sold millions of copies) and Girl of the Limberlost, amongst other novels.  Despite her success as an author, Stratton Porter's  passion was showing the world the beauty of the swamp where she lived.  So, she struck a deal with then Dell Publishing.  She would write fiction for them if they published her non-fiction books on nature.  I have a first edition copy (sadly slightly chewed by my first puppy) of her book on moths.  She taught herself photography, in the early part of the 1900s, at spend hours on end in the muck and mire of the swamp to capture its beauty on glass plates.  Simply astonishing what she accomplished, yet that pales in comparison to the thought of all that God created.

[I now live within driving distance of the Limberlost, but I have no way of navigating the swamp tours. I would love to somehow be carted about there.]

Yes, I am a girl who gets struck dumb by a great clump of moss or a turtle peeking out of its shell.  And ... well ... a fluffy white puppy dog who gives an enormous amount of affection and snuggling to his puppy momma.  Who knew a dog could be such a balm to a wounded soul?

I worked on the garage door some yesterday and a lot today.  Too much.  Far, far too much work.  SIGH.  Will I ever learn?  Or will I be falling out of my hospital bed trying to accomplish something as I am dying?  I am, however, becoming adept at being productive whilst sitting in some fashion or another, since standing for significant amounts of time is too difficult.

I had planned on replacing the two vertical outside pieces, but as I was working today, I finally noticed that the laundry line (one of the four anchors for the two lines) is attached to the outside frame on the right.  Since I would never be able to restring such a taut line, I decided to just focus on replacing the inside wood of the frame because it was in the worst shape.

If you look in the first picture, up on the top right, you will see a gap.  Yes, the "skilled" contractor moved that piece of the frame to install the deadbolt.  But, instead of putting it back in place with regard to the top, he cut out a slot from the threshold to wedge the old board back in and left a gap in the upper right corner.  SIGH.

One change I made, which I hope is okay, is that the top piece is now from edge to edge, instead of being set inside the two side pieces. Even though it will all be painted, I thought it made more sense to be that way.

We will not discuss how I cracked the window in two places, working on removing more of the crumbling grout in preparation for having glass bead wood put back in (as it is on the other side of the door).  We will not discuss how, after studying the problem of the new lock being hard to turn, I ended up using my drill as a faux Dremel to hollow out the rest of the space that the deadbolt needed to move freely.  And we will not discuss just how many times I had to use the circular saw to get the properly fitted pieces ... yes, more than the three cuts it should have taken ... many more.

I could not get the screws all the way in, so the boards are temporarily in place until Firewood Man can finish the job for me.  The right, vertical board also needs to be cut at an angle to accommodate the crookedness of the door and yet still be set plumb (??) at the front.

However, the old wood was removed (another too-much-work-for-Myrtle-to-be-doing task), the new wood was cut and set in place, the door and the outside wood is scrapped (I ended up with THREE Target shopping bags full of scrapped off paint) and sanded as best as can be by someone who swore projects were behind her, and the door is now ready for hole filling (especially the rather large ones from the old latch that are above the dead bolt).

Whilst I long for an end to this project—especially since it means spending far, far too much time near the garage walls that also need scraping before the next painting—I am rather hoping that Firewood Man does not have time any time soon to do the glass bead miter cuts and set the frame pieces properly.  That way, I don't have to think about painting.

It is not that the painting (after properly priming) will be hard at all, but I have had all these wild thoughts about color ... crimson like the trim on the house or GREEN (since I love that color) or boring old white.  For one who is good about making decisions such as this, I am rather undecided.

What does one do after all that garage door restoration work?  Why cook!  After all, I am rather frustrated at having to "fix" yet more problems of the contractor's work.  So, tonight, I tried Ritz Summer Squash Casserole.  Yes, I did make some changes.  But, seriously, I wouldn't have to do so if folk were not so free with adding onions to things.  I would rate it a B+.  And, yes, I am considering trying it again with cream instead of milk.

Amos spent all that garage-door-work time safely perched on the back steps, so he is currently ensconced in my lap (translate that: glued to my person).  That makes typing difficult, but I do want to try Take Two on "bodies," since I barely found any good words when I tried my first post about bodies and sexual abuse.

I know that all this physical labor—despite its steep toll on my ever weakening body—is taking place because I am upset by what I am trying to write, what I want to write.  It is a good upset, but hard to experience nonetheless.  I know it is a topic few want to read or take the time to learn about, but I have found that few understand just how much spiritual damage sexual abuse can do, much less physical and mental and emotional damage.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!