Christmas Tree Lights

Yesterday I finally started to take down my tree. I'd planned to start on January 5 and be done by the twelfth night, but a post Christmas illness being spread around my family laid me low for two weeks, and being chronically ill, I've been recovering since. At any rate, in attempting to disentangle some ornament hooks so they can fit back in their box, and weighing the environmental cost of trashing the jumble versus the cost to my sanity, as I calmly sat disentangling hooks I was reminded of an article I read before Christmas.

In writing about relationships, the writer mentioned that you can tell a lot about a person by how she responds to putting up Christmas tree lights. And I was reminded of how wise we are in our ignorance.

Save The Day, Savor Your Family

Thanksgiving 2012.

When I was growing up, I imagine my family celebrated Thanksgiving like most families throughout the U.S.

The Big Day started with Mom getting up early and getting the turkey on. And as soon as we could get breakfast in us, my brother and I would settle ourselves down in front of our black and white in-a-maple-wood-console television set (and later than most families a stand-alone color TV), where we'd watch Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, with mom popping in between preparing courses to marvel at the spectacle. It wouldn't be long before I'd be put in charge of at least half of the prep work because, really, and I know this is sacrilege, I didn't care for Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Election Day 2012

I once worked in Welfare, and I think I have a clue why people can be swayed by anti-welfare references and engage in identity politics (that is, vote for the party that disparages welfare and the people on welfare) even if they've been on welfare at one time or another themselves.

Happy New Year (May the Road Rise Up to Meet You)

It's New Year's Eve and when I got up this morning, I decided to start the new year off right by collecting my trash can from the curb. (It had been there for four nights because every time I remembered it, I was too exhausted to make the trek down the driveway.) It's unseasonably warm at the moment--actually it was quite balmy as I made my way down the drive with my hair a fright and in my green fuzzy robe, looking very much like Maxine sans the bunny slippers. From the evidence at hand, it was apparent that it rained in the night. I know this because the asphalt was two-toned, and my municipality-approved garbage can had about an inch of rainwater in it. Thank goodness for the unseasonable warmth otherwise I might have awoke to a foot of snow.

Be Ye Gracious

Tomorrow, Christmas day, marks the 30th anniversary of when my family and I got the opportunity to experience something that most people I've known get to experience nearly every Christmas: Christmas morning with a relative. We lived on the East Coast of the US, and my father's half brother and half sister and their children lived in Kansas, and my mother's family were in Northern Ireland and Scotland. Then, when I was 26, my Aunt Belle, who had no children of her own and whose husband Joe had died more than five years before, travelled from Scotland to spend the Christmas holiday with us.

Except for the predictable bump created by my mother's tussle with Christmas tree lights and her stressing over the holiday meal, the Christmas season at our house was a truly joyous time. My friends liked gathering there for that reason. My parents were more often than not gracious toward my friends, treating them as real people, deserving of the sort of attention many of my friends parents only reserved for other adults. They also seemed to understand the balance between engagement and leaving us to ourselves where so many parents made me and my other friends feel like we were underfoot, or as tweens or teens, not worthy of consideration.

Actually, my parents delighted in other people who entered our home. (You see, my Dad worked nights most of my life, and so for many years, my parents did not have much of a social life together outside of our home. And so having anyone in was treated as an occasion to be celebratory.) And my parents were often paid back in kind for their delight in others. For many years, after I'd left home and my home state, Diane Clarke, a high school chum of mine, delivered a Christmas carrot cake to my father. Making someone feel wanted and appreciated is apparently a secret recipe for causing some (those of us who know what it means to be grateful) to start a tradition that takes on a life of its own.

Having my Aunt Belle with us for the Christmas of '81 made for additional joy.

M.I.C.K.E.Y. M.O.U.S.E.

Holiday shopping brings back memories, though this particular memory springs from a summer time shopping trip to Marlowe Heights, Hecht's specifically. (Rest assured this story makes its way back around to this holiday season.) As far as I was concerned, as a kid, Hecht's was better than the Sears Roebuck Dream Book. Three stories high, Hecht's had several gift shops, a card section, clothing for various budgets and tastes on multiple levels, kids coats, adult coats, a baby section, a jewelry section, a toy shop, furniture, and even a small lunch counter. Hecht's was our local Macy's.

My mother didn't drive when I was a kid, raised as she was in Belfast, Northern Ireland where transportation was a a step away onto a bus or tram. And when my father, a sailor, was sent off to sea on the U.S.S. Independence to document a long mission, Joyce Donaldson--a neighbor and a good friend of my mother's--gave mom driving lessons. Money was tight and mom needed a job to help make ends meet--that is to say, put food on the table--, and given where we lived (Suitland, Maryland just outside of D.C.), the lack of public transportation, and the unused family car (a beautiful, turquoise-colored 1961 Plymouth of some sort) sitting outside our apartment building, Joyce was a godsend. Heck, Joyce was a godsend in many ways in our lives back then.

The Sleep I'm Not Getting

Sleep disruption is a common symptom for many illnesses. Lately, my sleep patterns had been improving only to cycle back into a pattern that is leaving me tired on top of ME/CFS fatigued. Take last night, I had approximately 2.5 hours of interrupted sleep, and when I finally felt ready to pass out again at 11 am, I settled into this delicious feeling of soon to be sleep and then, I fell awake. I am now dreadfully sleepy and unable to sleep.

I write this so you know why I have not been publishing a weekly essay. My brain is too tired to settle on a topic to write about or a story to tell. Summer stories keep popping into my head and I keep batting them back with the promise of "next summer." If something of value floats to the top--that is, if something manages to survive the haze and I have the energy to write about it--, you'll be the first to know.

Sweet dreams, Claire

Kindness--Its Own Reward

Today, November 13, is World Kindness Day as decreed by the World Kindness Movement, which had it's first conference in 1998. News must travel slowly or I obviously out of the news loop, but I did not hear of World Kindness Day until last week. According to the World Kindness Movement website, "[t]he purpose of World Kindness Day is to look beyond ourselves, beyond the boundaries of our country, beyond our culture, our race, our religion; and realize we are citizens of the world. As world citizens we have a commonality, and must realize that if progress is to be made in human relations and endeavors, if we are to achieve the goal of peaceful coexistence, we must focus on what we have in common...."

However, World Kindness Day is not just about being open to understanding other cultures while being kind. It's also about everyday kindness... making a habit of kindness and ending the warring we do with others in all aspects of our lives. Today's essay on the World Kindness Movement's website poses the question: "Is what I am involved in at this moment promoting joining or separation?"

I have posed a similar question to myself in close relationships for years: "Is my behavior helping bring us closer together or further apart?" And I continually asked this about my behavior because of my commitment to understanding and closeness in relationship. I'd like to think that none of us enters into relationship hoping for its destruction; one of the things I've learned, however, is that people do what they do sometimes despite our efforts for reasons that we can hardly fathom. All we can do is give our best effort and let the chips fall where they may.

As someone with ME/CFS I've also learned that our best effort is affected by our health. Sometimes that's understood and taken into consideration by the people in our lives. Sometimes. And when it is not, sometimes the kindest thing we can do is move on, leaving people to their warring, their projections and delusions or perhaps seemingly brilliant insights into ours.

I'm Dreaming of a White...

Halloween.

This time last week, two days before Halloween, my housemate and I were out in the front yard with a ladder and broom knocking four inches of snow off of my small 30 foot sugar maple, which was still in full fall-colored leaf, before another two inches of the heavy white stuff could land. The whole eastern coast of the US, from the mid-Atlantic north, was covered in wet snow. When I opened the front door last Saturday morning, the maple's branches were trailing the ground and the snow showed no signs of letting up. My gut told me that the tree was big enough to sustain damage, and so I hastily threw a pair of sweats on under my night gown, yanked on my Uggs, tugged on my wool cap, zipped into my heavy winter coat, and slipped on my gloves. Unable to reach the top branches, we crossed our fingers that they were small enough and resilient enough to survive the snowfall yet to come. (Maple pictured right after our excursion, limbs still in partial droop.) It's likely our efforts were rewarded because all around town, maples of a similar size were later seen with one or more limbs helplessly dangling from their trunks.

Men in Tights

"He's someone you could imagine capturing a bear with a butterfly net while having a refrigerator strapped to his back." THAT was a description a good male friend of mine once gave of my ex-husband, which is a vague way of saying that my ex was very powerfully built, and it serves as an introduction to what I'm about to say next. My ex-Y was a catcher in baseball. (That, and both a center and linebacker in football.) He played little league and high school ball. If not for bursitis in his right elbow, something that hit in his last year of high school, I'm certain he had enough talent for the major leagues. That is to say, I never saw another catcher like him except in the majors.

Tabatha's Cat-O'lantern

What does this have to do with Halloween? Well, I'm getting there.

The Only Way Out Is Through

Yesterday on Facebook one of my Facebook friends--a fellow ME/CFS sufferer--announced that she is no longer going to have hope that a cure for what ails us will be found. Tired of dashed hopes she was committing from that day forward to live in the present moment while appreciating every minute that she is able. I concurred with her sentiment. After a lifetime of illness, it is difficult to put faith in hope. For me at least, it is better to be happy in the moment and be open to what life brings.

Homecoming

One night last week, here where I live in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, the nighttime temperature dropped quickly, dipping to 37 degrees overnight. Although barely fall, I could feel winter in the air. I happen to love the winter months--that is, when I am not totally homebound as a result of a heavy snow. (I am unable to shovel the snow from my driveway because I am disabled with ME/CFS.)  I know it's a little early to be talking about snow, but I blame the quick change in weather.

I love snow. I miss making snow angels, snow sculptures, and walking at night while watching the snow falling by moon or streetlight. My orientation toward playing in the snow did not change as I aged, although my willingness to spend hours on end in the snow did. As I dragged my trashcan up my steep driveway in the cold, thoughts of snow reminded me of a time when I could spend hours on end sledding with friends. Next thing I knew, I was traveling down memory lane.

T.H.I.N.K.

::NOTE about this week's extra essay:: Today marks the day when some are responding to the call of M.E./CFS Blogger Nation to blog about M.E. Specifically, the theme for today is "What is ME/CFS doing to you, How are you affected day to day, and What are your hopes for the future?" This essay is a response to that call. If you're not in the mood for serious or don't want to hear the answer to the questions posed, please skip this essay.

Many of us in the ME community experience friend and family flight when we become disabled with M.E. Let’s face it: ME is difficult to understand. We struggle to comprehend what is going on with our bodies and to cope with the cognitive losses. Even the people who live with us and see its impact on a daily basis have a difficult time understanding the often-varying nature of the illness. And so perhaps it is unreasonable of us to expect people who do not live with us to take the time to learn about our diagnosis. (Heck, our partners themselves may not care enough to take the time to learn about our illness of possible treatment options.)

It would be nice, however, if people we care about had the common courtesy to ask us how having M.E. affects us before making pronouncements about why we are sick or whether we are truly as sick as we say we are. I’ve asked around and so far only one person with M.E. that I've spoken with has had anyone ask her about the impact of M.E. We’ve been reassured, however, many times over by people who, having learned of our illness, say, “Oh, I get tired too.” (Right, and you recover, but not because you are morally superior and we are morally inferior or psychologically crippled.) We have also received all sorts of unsolicited advice, most of which probably stems from a cursory glance at an article about some piece of crap research on M.E. (Meaning, research with serious flaws in sample selection and/or experimental design.) 

What Am I Practicing?

Sometimes when I am going through a difficult time, I find the need to write down what I know about whatever to stay clear about my intentions. When my ex and I were going through our break up, "What am I practicing?" was written as a guide for my behavior through that difficult time. I posted the guide in my bedroom, on my bathroom mirror, and on my refrigerator. I may have also carried a copy around with me in my purse (um, I'm pretty sure I did).

I can't say I always practiced what I preached to myself. Indeed, there are things that I would undo if I could even if what I did, I did out of my highest truth. Our breakup was traumatic for me because I was very ill with ME/CFS--very much in need of my partner's love and support. Suffice it to say, it became painfully evident over a short period of time that I was wrong in believing that I was as deeply loved by my partner as she was by me. I can say, however, that despite feeling traumatized, I gave my best given, what was for me, head-spinning circumstances.

Lamb-Faced Women

The smell of a coal fire or a diesel engine in the rain along with a nip in the air will transport me to somewhere in Northern Ireland or Scotland where my extended family has lived quicker than just about any other trigger. In fact, I chose to live in the Shenandoah Valley (western Virginia) because its topography reminds me of Scotland. The Shenandoah Valley feels like home to me--that is, to the extent that any place other than Northern Ireland and Scotland can feel like home.

There's No Place Like Home

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the kings horses and all the kings men couldn't put Humpty together again."

Danger Will Robinson

The Christmas after I turned seventeen, my ex-Y began courting me. He showed up at my house unexpectedly with his best friend. While we had become friendly in school and he was a good friend of my closest high school friend Denise, I found his showing up at my house on Christmas day odd, particularly with his best friend in tow. Eventually we started hanging out like the friends we were becoming; mostly because he had this uncanny knack of showing up wherever I was. And I think Denise had something to do with that. Long before we ever held hands, Y and I were already considered an item to others in our social circle.

Months after we started holding hands I was invited to his home for dinner. His was a family that sat down together every evening for a full course meal followed by a homemade dessert. They epitomized normal to me. And I needed normal. My father worked nights most of my life and we sat down to eat as a family one night a week, and I missed that family time the rest of the week. Before long, I became a weekly fixture at my boyfriend's dinner table. Mostly I felt welcome, and that was a good thing because I was drawn to that dining table like bees to honey because my ex-MIL is a fine southern cook.

Though it was 10 years after the last show aired, as far as I was concerned, I'd entered the land of Leave it to Beaver (a warm-hearted television sitcom that ran from 1957 to 1963), where a stable Mom and Pop, the big brother Wally (my boyfriend) and a younger brother, nicknamed The Beaver, lived in almost perfect harmony. The Beave, who was 12, took an instant liking to me. The liking was mutual.

What Women Want

::NOTE:: Aspergian is term used to describe someone who's brain is not wired like a neurotypical (NT) person. Neurotypical is a term used to describe people not on the autism spectrum. Sometimes Aspergians refer to themselves as Aspies and others say they have Asperger's Syndrome (AS). Personally, I don't have Asperger's; Asperger's has me. It is a part of who I am.  

As Aspergian who is also a lesbian, I think I am uniquely qualified to speak to straight men about what women want. Ahem, do I have your attention?

My Narrow Escape

::Blog Notice:: There's a Japanese saying, "Fall down seven times, get up eight." I have fallen down and I've decided to get back up. Given the state of my health, I've come to realize that publishing two essays a week is TOO MUCH for me at this time even though I have plenty of essay ideas. So I am switching to a once a week schedule beginning today. Starting next week, I plan to publish on every Thursday when I am able. 

This essay is about rock climbing and a few vocabulary words might be needed to understand the essay.  (All of the following definitions were lifted off of Wikipedia a few years back. See pictures of rock climbing equipment.)

Top-rope climbing "(or Top-roping) is a style in [rock] climbing in which a rope, used for the climber's safety, runs from a belayer at the foot of a route through one or more carabiners connected to an anchor system at the top of the route and back down to the climber, usually attaching to the climber by means of a harness." 
 


Lead climbing "involves a lead climber attaching themselves to a length of dynamic (stretchy) climbing rope and ascending a route whilst periodically attaching protection to the face of the route and "clipping in" to it. The lead climber must have another person acting as a belayer." 

Free climbing involves climbing without a rope and harness.

Belay/Belayer:  "The belayer has multiple roles: holding the rope in the event of a fall, and paying out or taking up rope as the climber moves." 

Rappeling “is the controlled descent down a rock face using a rope.” 

One summer morning before beginning a climb at Seneca Rocks in West Virginia, my climbing partner (my ex-Y) and I selected a lead climbing route (a mapped out route on the rock face) that we thought was well suited to our skill level. Meaning, it was a climbing route that we would feel comfortable doing without a top rope. (Ropes in top-rope climbing are often tied off--that is, secured--to a tree or around a rock; something that will be able to bear the climbers weight if they fall.) In top-rope climbing you can take many more chances on the rock to improve your skill level and increase your confidence because you can more easily afford to fall off the rock face when tied off from above. Whereas in lead climbing, the lead climber places nuts into cracks and it is those nuts strategically wedged into cracks in the rock that hopefully hold the climber, and his or her belayer, if the climber falls. I suppose climbers take just as many chances in lead climbing once they develop a certain amount of confidence in their equipment, their knowledge about the type of rock they are climbing, and their ability. But for this novice lead climber, I had a ways to go before developing that level of confidence. 

Of course my ex-Y and I chose to climb a rock face that juts 900 feet above the ground our first time out lead climbing. The actual "climb" up the rock face, after a rigorous hike up the steep Seneca Rocks outcropping, is only about 300 feet. That's right, prior to lead climbing Seneca Rocks, we had only done top-rope climbing together at places like Raven's Roost, which is located on the Blue Ridge Parkway and has cliffs that are 50 to 80 feet tall. You may recall from reading Knowing How to Fall and Knowing How to Fall - Part 2 that I have had this tendency to quickly escalate the difficulty level of anything I've just learned.

The point is, in retrospect, we had no business being up on that rock together lead climbing for my first time. Well, perhaps I should speak for myself because my ex-Y was a little more experienced than I was in that he had completed other climbs, including ice climbs in New Hampshire. While he was ice climbing, I was skiing and pretending that he wasn't risking his life on the ice. I had no business being up on that rock in a lead climb, as I had only been top-rope climbing a couple of times. Granted, I had been free climbing the sides of small waterfalls and the like for years and some of them would have probably been rated in the 5.0 to 5.5+ range for stretches, and while they were relatively small in comparison, a fall could have easily led to my death. (Please do not climb without climbing gear unless you are willing to accept the possible consequences. Note that there are many waterfall-related deaths because of yahoos like me who enjoyed scrambling up rocks.) 

They're Back

Charlottesville, August 1982.  The month two friends and I plotted and carried out a crime against the City of Charlottesville.  I suppose with the passage of time, it's safe to reveal this episode from my past.  Though if pressed, I will refuse to reveal my partners in crime unless they choose to identify themselves in the comment section below.  (Well, I refuse to reveal their last names, and I doubt given their positions they'll reveal themselves.)