Vulnerability

My little joke amused me greatly until it backfired. An astonishing number of people actually seemed to believe that I could and would do this in order to get myself to Market. I even got lectures. It stung.

As a single person whose child has recently flown, I enjoyed a year of wonderful, enriching solitude in which I could relax and refine my personal style and choices, and not have to endure the judgment and scrutiny of anyone...though of course that was an illusion, a sweet one.

I felt very powerful in my ability to do for myself: to haul my quarter-ton of goods down to the Market on my bike and trailer, to endure the 12-hour day, to pay my bills and improve my life in so many ways. I expanded my writing and art adventures on my own terms, did less for money and more for passion, stepped up to volunteer for OCF and SM and worked on my house and yard and life in the most satisfying ways.

Then in one misstep I pretty much lost it all. I now have to ask people to drive me everywhere I need to go. For a month I couldn't do my dishes or feed my cat or prepare my food or even get myself bathed and to bed without some kind of assistance and preparation. My door had to be constantly open to both arranged helpers and drop-in visitors, and I had pretty much zero control of my life, and zero privacy. I fought for it, of course, offending people and worrying them and doing a fair amount of reassurance as I gradually reclaimed my power.

I'm nowhere near there. I won't be putting my foot on the ground until June. No driving, no biking, no walking, no independence. I grew so quickly tired of having my laundry done I resumed hanging my raggedy underpants and sheets on the upper cabinet doors to air dry in my over-heated house. I can't hobble out to the lines in the backyard but when the weather gets more reliable you know I will find a way to do that. (I got rid of my electric dryer years ago.) I can do pretty much every domestic task now, figuring out how to sweep and mop and reach the cobwebs and carry things around, thanks to the long-handled grabber lent to me and the scooter I rented. I accepted a lot of help and I am very, very grateful for it.

I won't be planting my garden as usual, but I did such a good job of weeding and fertilizing and mulching this winter that the ornamentals will all be fine and the fallow beds won't suffer. All of the trees got pruned except the few branches of the heritage Gravenstein that I was attempting to finish when I fell. Squirrels will have the fruit this year; nothing I can do about that. When the produce season picks up I will arrange with a farmer or two to trade or deliver some fresh veggies to me so I can at least eat in my usual style, if I can afford it.

I have no financial security, as a self-employed crafter who can barely, with a full-time assistant, manage to still do her craft. I'm a screenprinter: I do it standing up, for hours, and it is strenuous. Try doing that balanced on one foot without the ability to walk the shirts back and forth to the dryer. Try making screens without the full use of your arms and hands since you have to manage crutches. Remember that you can't fall down. I also paint silk scarves, big long ones that need perfect control of the process. I had to just set that aside indefinitely. Making Jell-O art has almost lost its charm as the stuff never did sell well enough to really make a profit, plus the wackiness of it just increases my vulnerability.

I try hard not to complain. I just realized after the reaction to my joke that people really don't understand how things are, and all my positive reassurances that *everything will be fine* don't help. I'm gotten past the painkiller seduction, with the attendant sense of well-being and painless drift, but developed a toothache and have a very uncomfortable cast. I still have to keep my foot elevated and pay for every activity with a few hours of discomfort and annoyance.

I'm one month in; I have two more months of this: April with the start of my beloved Saturday Market, and May with my 62nd birthday and the beginning of Tuesday Market. All that wonderful spring weather, all those wildflowers and birds, all of the burgeoning life that is my favorite season, all of the promise and hope and joy, all are compromised by my situation.

All of which I get to watch from my windows or my short ventures onto the porch or yard. All of which are usually filled with work getting ready for all of the retail, the Fair, the custom work that is usually substantial this time of year. I even scored a 1500 shirt job that I really, really want to do well. I had plans. I still have plans. I just don't have the ability to easily carry them out.

The reaction of people to my joke reminded me that I make things look too easy. My vitality and positive attitude make it look like a simple thing to bike my load to Market, when in reality every time I do it I feel Herculean. Every time I make it through the 12-hour day I feel triumph. I make it seem that I am happy to live my voluntary simplicity and relative poverty, don't care about the inability to purchase things, eat in restaurants, travel, take vacations. I even convince myself. I push myself over into the realm of self-sacrifice, trying to shore up what shores me up, the Market issues, the Tuesday Market difficulties, the OCF political struggles, the continuing child-raising that offspring in their twenties still need. I navigate the aging process with charm, even though the fragility of my 86-year-old mother, 3000 miles from here, terrifies me.

I put on a hell of a good front, and I give myself a lot of credit for that. But the front itself, while it protects and separates me and provides me with an illusion of security and safety, is easily cracked. When I cracked my calcaneus (heel bone) I really crashed through my polished window of well-being. No longer do I have the resources to help others; I can barely think of anyone else's needs, though I do try. I don't see how I will manage the April and May markets, especially Tuesdays. People say they will help, but the level of help I need is way too much for me to ask.

I feel opened up and raw. I usually feel some level of ridiculousness wearing my Jell-O, biking that prodigious load, selling my humor and thoughtfulness to a sometimes dull public who don't even know my vocabulary words. I know some people look at me and shake their heads from the safety of their affluence, their partnerships, their new cars and their affordable health care. They think I am a silly old woman, and some people looked at the photo of me and the cart and just shook their heads in the same way.

They were right in a way: if there was any possibility that I could hook that 500 pound load to that scooter and haul it downtown, I would! I am not afraid of the absurd. But folks, really, think about it. See that bungie, one of the most dangerous tools of the crafter on the move? See those little wheels on that lovely and fortunately built sidewalk? See that glaring white plaster that encases the remains of my glorious independence?

When you look at the big world, at the Trayvon Martin story, at the Occupy efforts, so dedicated and noble, at the difficulties of gaining respect of the organizations I'm in from the powers-that-be, that 40+ year struggle for legitimacy of our alternative culture's finest achievements, my little situation is trivial. I'm having a little tiff with my self-respect.

But I think the lesson here is the notion of how true compassion is formed. All these people wearing hoodies all over, in the courtrooms over their suits, in the streets, everywhere, are a poignant symbol of how we don't see each other deeply. We see the hoodie, and whether or not it is covering the face, keeping the head warm or hiding the criminal. We have a split second to make our judgements, to categorize and dismiss. We don't feel that we have the luxury to really look, to really care, to really help, because all of us are raw and too open and putting up a brave front.

That's the human condition. We like to hide it, with our alcohol and our nights watching cop shows, where justice can prevail in an hour. We keep it to ourselves, our diagnoses of diabetes and cancer, our dying relatives and our shame and our fear. We try to protect ourselves and each other whenever we can, from the intensity of our fragile existence.

There's a very fine line between bravery and foolishness. Heroes often die, diving into a river after a child, jumping into traffic to help an old woman with a walker, or a drunk, cross the street.
Ordinary heroes are everywhere among us, suspending judgements and doing the right thing again and again. They give haircuts for free. They take all of their political books, hard cover, down to the Occupy library for the next generation of activists. They do people's mending at the GA's. They carefully palm Womenspace literature to crying women in parking lots. They go to meetings to achieve consensus to work for the greater good. They think of others whether or not they have the resources. Then they disappear into the crowd.

They do not want approval or recognition. They just want life to be easier, sweeter. They just want to make a little bit of difference, to push things a bit to the positive side, to safety and care, to happiness and love. They want us to be able to laugh when things are rough.

I am no hero, just a sometimes brave/foolish old lady. So many people have stepped up to help me that I have been humbled out of my hermitage even as I am longing to climb back into it. I posed the picture to get a laugh, to embrace the absurdity of my position. I think my secret wish was that about 20 people would message me to offer me rides to the Market, support while there, strong backs and arms to arrange my shelves, hang my hats, to take me home when my two hours of endurance were up, to sell my goods and make my money because I can't do it.

That's the raw truth. Despite my best efforts, I can't resume my life until the cast is off, and my poor deflated right leg builds back up some muscle mass, and my poor traumatized body gets its strength back. All the brave fronting in the world isn't going to change the reality that I will be, at best, uncomfortable for the next long while. My challenge is to live without being buried in the mountain of debt that is coming because I live with the $5000 deductible insurance, the minimal care, the screeching halt of the income of the self-employed with a disability. I am one of dozens in our community, of hundreds, of thousands and probably millions who suffer fear and dread on a daily basis.

All we want is your compassion, your ability to see, to take a long look and not make a quick judgement. Believe me, I am as much a master of judgment and dismissal as anyone. I dismiss the uneducated, the crass, the disadvantaged, the addicted, the foolish, even sometimes the brave. I have very little idea of what people are really going through, even when it is as plain as the pain of their gait, the frown on their forehead, their measured words, their furtive shuffle to hide. I'm just as afraid of them as you are, afraid of their need, their unpredictability, their bad decisions.

Fear and love. I can always make it that simple. Fear less, love more. That's the daily struggle. That's the one challenge, the big lesson. Open your eyes, and open your heart. Just a little, just as much as you can. That's the best way you can help: seeing, and hearing. Look. Listen.

Then go ahead and be foolish and brave. You can always get a good laugh, or a good cry out of it.

The Limited View

Day 11 post-surgery, and my view is still limited to one window with brief glimpses of the rest of my life-on-hold. I shuffle from chair to bed with short detours to the bathroom or freezer. I'm still icing and elevating 24 hours a day, with the reward of no real pain, just discomfort now and then.

I can do one big thing each day and the big things are smaller than they used to be. Today I'm overscheduled because I'm running out of time for Jell-O. The show on the 31st needs me to at least make t-shirts and a display. I really want to do both, and do them well. More about those in the other blog, Gelatinaceae@blogspot.com

Might make a decision today about the knee walker. It seems that I could get along without it, but why restrict my options? I'll see what I can get out of the insurance company. Because I have received no bills, I have a vague idea that I will spend the $5000 deductible but if I'm not careful it could be a lot more. They work so weirdly with their UCRs and denials. Knee walkers are hot properties and I want to buy one for the probable occurrence of the removal of the big screw Dr. McCourt put in my heel. Then I could lend it out to the probable several people in my big network who will suffer my same injury as we age. They're promoted because you get better exercise of your compromised limb and for me that is a big concern as I need to get back on my bike as soon as possible. June is so far away as a date to be mended...whatever I can do to be ready will have untold benefits.


So I'll get on the phone but I hope that doesn't become my one thing today. I'm so hot on my narrative nonfiction track that my house book is writing itself in my mind and it would be so nice to get some of that down in readable words before it fades. The book Story Craft is filling in the gaps in my education that have developed from not ever getting any formal training in writing. It's mostly a disadvantage in my confidence level since I do much of what he is teaching instinctively from reading a lot and from the feedback of my writing groups over the years, but working through the book and taking notes on one page while outlining my book on the facing page is thrilling. That's what I want to be doing nonstop. Unfortunately it's just one of the several projects I'm doing simultaneously. But I have time.

I'm pressuring myself to get out in the shop while pressuring myself to stay out of it. My regular inventory building came to a screeching halt and I just hope I have the hats I need to get some retail in if the weather is good and I can work out the logistics of getting to Market. It's going to be painful to miss Opening Day and April and May markets but it would be literally painful to try to go down there for little monetary reward. I doubt I can pay anyone to sell for me, but most of the people who would do it for free will be down there trying to sell their own stuff. I haven't worked on the possibilities of enlisting helpers. That's a really big thing and I want to get some other things out of the way first so I can be realistic and practical about it. No sense trying to get people lined up if I'm not committed. My self-sacrificing ways regarding rainy Markets are not going to be easy to justify this season. It has to be worth it for me and whomever is helping me, and that is something I just can not guarantee. I'm trying on the idea of staying home on Saturdays but it's painful to imagine it. I know exactly how it feels, actually, having done it for years while I was building the house. If I go down to the Park Blocks without my wares, I feel so stupid, with all that wasted potential. And if I go with them, sometimes I feel just as stupid.

It makes a little more sense to enlist those folks in helping me print. The shop is tight but with one person moving the shirts around I think I'll be able to pull the squeegee. That is more like guaranteed income: even if I am not as efficient, I will still get that per-shirt pay. And that can be done during the week so my Market people can help.

Domestically I'm doing well, and even did some dishes yesterday. I'm going to try the vacuum today, just on the high spots. The spiderwebs and dust will wait. There are no rugs to shake anymore, since my caretakers made me eliminate all the throw rugs, which was of course necessary and wise. Every day I take on a bit more of my own care, which buys me a little more of my treasured solitude and work time.

I love being a hermit but this has forced me to modify, and I am enjoying the benefits of more human company. I love my people. I have guiltily for some time heard myself valuing my work over my people and my work really is essential to me, and important in my small world, but in the big scheme of life I have been a slacker in my friendships and I can't let myself be that way. The generosity and caring of my friends and neighbors is deep and wide and inspires me to be a lot better person to match it. I couldn't even hope to catch up with some of them, who have been practicing compassion and generosity much more diligently than I. But each day is a new opportunity for that.

The healing sessions I've had have blown my mind completely and I will grow spiritually in some unexpected but long-simmering ways. I want to use my skills and talents such as writing and printing to advance humans in my sphere in whatever ways I can. That might just be chronicling the work of people like Jan or Beth or Pamela by writing about them so that their work can be recognized and appreciated, or maybe just learning the language of appreciation so that other people can feel the depth too. For a start I will be less shy about articulating it when I get the opportunity.

I see people's eyes glaze over when I mention past lives or high soul committees but I don't know why their discomfort ought to be important to me. In a way I place them above me, and let my fear of judgement limit me and my own healing progress. Each time I have told the story of my three-hour euphoric episode the other day, I've found the listener to be much more accepting than I imagined they would be. I haven't had anyone dismiss it yet. So what if they do? Ive spent years dismissing it on the one hand while exploring it with the other, and that seems like some wasted time at this point. I often say "Your cynicism will not protect you."

Reserving your enthusiasm for the woo-woo and trying to seem reasonable and non-religious in the face of fascinating and impressive spiritual results has just hobbled me in my own progress toward enlightened advancement. I'm holding up the evolution of the spirit. If I could fully embrace it I might get out of this cast and into print and accomplishment so much more quickly. I have nothing to lose if a few people dismiss me.

Being raised Catholic and then rejecting it so thoroughly because of the cruelty that comes with it have caused me to write off the power of prayer and anything that can be interpreted as religious belief, but I have to admit that I never lost the attraction to and belief in magic. Nature is magical and I fully embrace nature. Maybe as a first step I can allow all religious and spiritual belief to be acceptable. I certainly don't have to accept the actions of those practitioners who hide their base impulses behind the facade of it while perverting it for their own gain. Let those be the ones I dismiss and ignore. Let me focus on all those who are doing good in the world, and give credit for what sustains them. Whatever they name it, it is the same power that is greater than our own small selves, the same ability to see the bigger picture, the greater good.

Let me get past the naming and into the essence, fully and in great beauty and grace. Let me pray. So what if that makes me irrational. Last time I looked I was full of the irrational and that was part of what made me alive and glowing. Let me expand my awareness without limits. Let me expand my acceptance of all that glows and sparkles. Last night I heard myself repeating the nightly prayers of my youth, the ones I said so fervently on my knees every night. What a lovely habit, really: listing the ones you love as you go to rest. "God bless Mommy, and Daddy, and Karen and Laura and Paula and John and Big Ears and Susie Fries and..." now I would add dozens of others and expansions of those who deserve regular blessings. I can skip all the parts where I berate myself for my many "sins" and "trespasses" and just gently encourage myself to move forward in that grace that may be granted, usually whether it is earned or just bestowed.

And let me capture the passion that used to consume me so thoroughly this time of year and dive deep into my Jell-O Art. I used to turn everything else, and everyone, aside for weeks in advance of the show and fully immerse in the intensity and creativity of that focus. I rode on that all year long in 2011, and here we are so close to the show we can taste it, and I'm resisting. The house book will still be here, but the Jell-O Show will be over in the blink of an eye. Let me make that my passion for the next two weeks.

Forgive me if I set you aside temporarily while I do this essential thing. Jell-O is my most important metaphor, my vehicle, my most pure self-expression. It's way more important than the little things I put in the way of it to make myself feel less scared. Passion and intensity are scary. The fear of failure always lurks and slows and stops us. One of the greatest aspects of the Jell-O Art is that there is no failure. There is no evaluation. It is pure art and pure, brilliant, sensual life.

Okay, don't bother me too much today. I'm making Jell-O. I love you though. Make sure to plan for the evening of March 31 from 5-8. You have nothing more important to do, take my word for it. And while you're waiting, make some Jell-O art. You won't be sorry.

The not-fictional Matrix

Two words: Matrix Energetics. All of my years of well-seasoned cynicism could not protect me from the unbounded joy and healing I have experienced.

Thank you.

May all beings be well.

The Next Step

Painkillers make me type badly (sort of a dsylexia) and repeat myself repeatedly. Clearly I need to keep typing, however badly.

The obvious follow-up to yesterday is that soon after congratulating myself for doing everything right the little bell rang *everything?* I've gotten good at the after-the-fact, but what about the prevention? I am sure it is possible to not only diminish the effects but to rid myself of them. They're only brain patterns and pathways, which we know we can change. [Side note: doctors told my Mom she has a remarkably "tight brain," meaning for an 86-year old lady she does not have a shriveled, dried out thinking apparatus. Crosswords, music, walking, going to old-people university, etc. Go Mom!]

When I was actively co-counseling, I had a network for processing distress both before and after the occurrences, and the opportunity to go right back to the beginning and work at the roots. I more-or-less squandered that when my group disbanded and I didn't maintain the relationships. I watched another in the group prepare for her surgery, setting up schedules and insisting that she have access to her people even in the operating room. I'm not as diligent as she is, but she took care of her anticipated and real needs and I admired that. That's the thing I need to keep in place, and maintain. It takes the pressure off friendships.

I'm an avoider, I can admit that. I rarely fix things that aren't broken, and I have my excuses all lined up. I'm not going to trash myself for it, but why did it not occur to me that I might be feeling some distress? Why don't I work there: Try to take better care of myself. Better still, actually start doing it. On the list.

I'm so grateful that I did so much cleaning and yardwork this winter. My houses are in pretty good shape. I'll miss some of the spring gardening opportunities but that's okay for a year. If I take the time to heal well I can be back in time to harvest strawberries and plant tomatoes. I will definitely make more tomato juice this summer. That stuff is marvelous and I don't even know Aunt Lud's secrets yet.

My lovely writing group is coming today and I'm going to ask them to organize my reading pile zone so I'll have a little work space. I'm going to design the Jell-O shirts first, and see if I can print them the last week of March. I'll sit there at the table in the back room at Maude Kerns with my foot on a pillow of Jell-O and snag all the pity sales. Maybe the book will come out in time and I can hawk that too. You know what they say about crisis and opportunity.

Thank you, nine times nine times nine.

Processing Trauma

From my chair I'm reaching out to try to organize everything in my reach, and I came across some notes I made when reading the books Waking the Tiger by Peter Levine and The Body Remembers by Babette Rothschild.

Goals of Trauma Therapy:

1. Unite implicit and explicit memories into a comprehensive narrative of the events and aftermath of the traumatic incident. This includes making sense of body sensations and behaviors within that context.

2. Eliminate symptoms of ANS hyperarousal in connection with those memories.

3. To relegate the traumatic event to the past: "It is over. That was a long time ago. I survived."

The key to moving through trauma: uncouple the fear from the immobility (frozen terror) [discharge it in RC terms]; immobility ends and fight/flight energy returns. Use the energy as escape and anger; don't go into helplessness.

Re-enactment serves to find new solutions. The key to transforming is to move slowly in the direction of flexibility and spontaneity.

I'm a survivor of childhood and young-adulthood trauma which wasn't processed and resulted in somewhat of a messy life as I took decades to find the tools to treat myself. There are so many more resources now, thank goodness. Finding a creative life and an all-inclusive spirituality in the hippie culture allowed me to explore what did and didn't work. Having a baby forced the issues and I got years of therapy and the framework of PTSD to make sense of the ways my body had learned to protect me. My son says he was never traumatized as a child (except maybe that time he fell out of the tree, which fortunately happened when a first responder was standing there with me and took charge.) Anyway creating safety was the driving force of my child-rearing years and that persists. I tend to keep myself safe. Except for once in awhile when I forget I am on a roof, etc.

People forget that the fight/flight impulse also includes a period of freezing. This provides prey like rabbits the response of surrender and going helpless, which sometimes serves to disarm their predator and make a space for them to escape. As a culture we have forgotten this because we don't respect helplessness, but it is sometimes the key to survival and children choose it instinctively since their power is small and their anger not very effective. It shows in humans as a shut-down, emotionally if not physically, and in me I just appear confident and in control, masking my fear and usually even forgetting myself that I am likely to have a trauma reaction to certain stimuli. Inside I freeze and it can take weeks to thaw, and apparently I thawed out in the corridor between the surgery and post-op. I started flailing and jabbering.

I have rarely hurt myself, but the occasions disturb me on so many levels I have studied them deeply. Often I go for long periods of being triggered without knowing I am in it; not so much these days, but still I didn't prepare myself emotionally for the surgery. I just concentrated on the physical details of my environment. I called silently for Lola Broomberg in post-op. She's not even my therapist, but I've wanted to go to her for some time. She shares an office with the therapist that led me through most of this in the past, and Lola offered her help on FB which is one reason I was thinking of her. That clued me in to the fact that my extreme distress was not physical but emotional. Unfortunately doctors and nurses are trained to treat the physical with physical means. I should have gotten the counselling before the surgery, but I "forgot."

Anyway, the hyperawareness of me inhabiting all of the corners of a room twice the size of my house was a clue to dissociation, though I have never sensed myself out of my body in a conventional sense. I need more skills to ground into my body. I just couldn't relax it. It was rigid with tension. A valium or something would have helped, or just someone to tell me what they were observing. The nurse did an excellent job but had other things to do, the usual physical things they are trained to do.

But as it turns out I am a brilliant, sensitive, educated and insightful woman, and I did a perfect job in processing my trauma despite my lack of preparation. I said and did all the right things. I'm very proud of myself. I'm very grateful to co-counselling and my former co-counsellors who helped me learn the language of distress and the ways of discharging it, subtle things like having to pee a lot even when you're a little dehydrated, laughing and joking when you are supposed to be serious, and gesturing and using your body to get rid of it.

In Re-evaluation counselling, or co-counselling, there is big encouragement to get close physically, to hold hands, cover up and get warm, feel safe however you need to do that. The warm blankets got piled on me. Nancy held my hands and got close to me. I got to cry and talk and tell the details over and over.

I talked a lot about Jell-O art to the nurses and doctors, to everyone, because that to me is the greatest physical representation of the deep joy and restoration of the soul through beauty and art, that I have found. It is vital to me and I was in a place where only what was vital was operating. Deep trauma and deep joy. Beauty and grief. Brilliant color and dark unconsciousness. The divine tension. That is where we dwell.

Beginning to Feel Normal

I'm gradually setting my new normal. It's inconvenient to have your foot in the air, but the elevation and ice and managing the pain are key to maintaining an attitude that I can bear this while I have to. Everything is a chore so I'm not real tempted to do too much.

I have had the most wonderful outpouring of support. It's very humbling. I will know better how to respond in the future to other people's hardships. We mostly try to be stoic and private because so many have it so much worse, but sometimes it is our turn to help and then to be helped. I'm experiencing full gratitude for all the little things and big things friends and neighbors are doing.

Surgery is traumatic, and everyone reacts differently. I tend to pretend things will be fine and then they aren't, but it seems better than dissolving into fear and terror. Most of my trouble with the surgery was emotional, but actually I am getting pretty good at handling that after 62 years of life. I was far too chatty and almost manic at first but a friend reminded me that the prescription for trauma is repeating the story over and over until it gets less powerful, and I instinctively did that instead of the way I used to keep everything secret. I scared some people with my loosened boundaries. As a writer I have always tended to overshare and that just makes people uncomfortable who don't like that much information about weaknesses and emotions.

So I guess I helped some people tighten up their own boundaries in regard to me but except for being sorry, those are not my problems. They do what they have to do. There's a difference between creating drama and articulating experience. I had the need to name and identify all of my insights and realizations, and I will have to continue to do that but I'll just choose whom I share things with and remember to let other people do what is best for them. It's my blog and I'll whine if I want to. Actually I don't really want to whine. Healing is what it is in front of me right now and I have the image of just surfing the material instead of drowning in it.

I had a lot of beach and ocean images in my process. During surgery I had a lucid dream of being on a beach. In post-op I was trying to take care of everyone in the giant room and had an extremely hard time taking care of me. I later remembered a psychic reading I had decades ago where Olga Maria told me I was a healer in the South Seas and I'm going to find that and look it over, because even though my skeptical self dismisses that stuff, the associations give me insight. There could have been suggestions in my subconscious because of the year anniversary of not only the tsunami but our more personal Market family loss.

General anesthesia is powerful and your body is taken to the edge of what it perceives as death. Having a tube down your throat for three hours, being on your stomach with people opening up your foot and moving your bones around, well, that sends terrifying messages through your nervous system. It wasn't an easy experience for my body and I hardly cried or got scared at all in the two weeks between the accident and the surgery. I wouldn't let myself. I was in control and I knew I could depend on myself to get through it.

Probably being helpless coming out of the dream into the reality was similar to being caught in a personal tsunami. My rational mind knows it is just a foot and I will be fine after some weeks of inconvenience. My psyche struggles. My body is wounded. Healing has to involve all of it.

I love that I'm more insistent on writing my own story about it, moving through it the way I need to. I've learned a lot about that over the years and in post-op I just went with talking out loud to myself and every other wacky way I acted. I tried hard not to comfort the comfortable and concentrate on my needs. Eventually I was able to do that piece by piece but I was still worrying about the convenience of the nurses and on down the line. Part of that is just the way women are taught to take care of others. I am definitely a woman.

I'm settling into putting my foot first and allowing myself to rely on help. People are so very kind and reliable. I feel like whatever help I ask for will be given, at least in some form. I have even received a lot of help I didn't know I needed.

This is where I will put some of my learning and processing and if you don't want to read it, feel free to not read it. I want to get back to my house research and other projects but I can only do a little each day and the nights are long and boring. It seems like there will be plenty of time for all of it as I improve. Just go make some Jell-O while you wait. Don't eat it...play with it. It's pretty and smells good and it will make you laugh.

Thanks again to everyone. Really. Painkillers make me repeat myself and then repeat myself again but I am just going to keep saying thank you in pretty much every conversation. I've always been lucky, and I'm still lucky to be in this wonderful strong body and mind. Everything will just get better and better, with a few low spots in there for contrast. Eventually this will all be a memory and a good story.

Home improvement

I don't look very alert or happy. Maybe resigned. Colleen wanted to record this DIY arrangement that I dreamed up. Willy tied it together for me and it worked okay but the La-Z-Boy chair lent by Tom and Pamela works much much better and is way more comfortable. I don't have a picture but take it from me, I am so much more alert and happy now.

Probably still look pitiful. I'm gradually coming out of denial over this pickle I am in. I looked at pictures on the internet of people who don't follow the doctor's instructions and I will not be one of those people. It seems stoic and noble to push oneself to resume working asap but in this case it would be foolish if I start putting weight on the bones before they are fully healed. I'm sure I will be making enough stupid mistakes to convince myself to avoid making any informed ones. No putting the foot on the ground. Until like June.

People are helping me and I truly appreciate each and every one. I am getting lessons in gratitude and openness and positive framing. Nancy caught several of my self-deprecating statements and that is a habit I have to lose. I can't limit myself with that stuff right now. I have to be the best I can be.

I am scheming on ways I can work with assistance, though, and I think I will be able to meet commitments in April (most of them anyway) by asking people to give me an hour or two helping me print and manage the orders and maybe I can even manage the Market with some type of booth-sharing arrangement. It's ironic that I was just beginning to work on ideas for making things easier for aging vendors. The Market is actually stellar at making things easier for those who are temporarily or permanently disabled. They have wheelchairs and other types of chairs for people to use at HM and in the office. Members can always appeal to the Board for special arrangements for whatever they need. The Kareng Fund gives grants and also is putting together a resource packet for those who need to access already existing resources like Senior and Disabled Services, etc. I need that kind of a packet, actually. Maybe in the next few weeks while I try to access services I will be able to help put that together as I go.

I don't want to miss any meetings but I will. I always trust that good decisions will be made in my absence as they have for years while I was not doing Saturdays or involving myself other than selling at HM. I know that I am just a small piece of the big group that makes things happen, and I know it will all happen without me just fine. That's a little hard on my ego but I get a laugh out of that. I admit the hardest part is just feeling out of the loop. Everybody likes to feel important.

Apparently the issues I need to work the most on are judgment (of myself and others) and worthiness...I need to allow myself to feel worthy of other people's efforts. I don't want to be any trouble to anyone. Even my Mom lectured me on that; let people help me and show their love. It is mean to deny them that. It's selfish to isolate and turn people away.

So: immediate needs? None really. I could probably use some advice about ways to protect myself regarding the surgery...emotionally and physically. It's so invasive and traumatic and the painkillers have a masking effect on that. The bit of counselling I got from Jan helped a lot, just to cry and let go of my guilt and shame around it. I'm going to contact River about tinctures of whatever. I'm kind of uninformed about that stuff. With the lap desk I can do a lot more without getting up but I see the heat from my laptop is making the covering come loose. It looks like wood but is contact paper I guess. Might just be a temporary solution. Maybe I'm not supposed to work. I could entertain that notion.

I have lots of food and things I can throw in the microwave but if someone wanted to donate me some Genesis juice, I'd drink it. I'm having a hard time asking people to buy me things; it's just not my style. I like to pay my own way, which is impossible. I was already broke and am going to mount up some impressive debt thanks to my $5000 deductible. I'm dreaming of a $10,000 advance on my book about the house. Maybe we can all envision that.

I still want to pull my weight. I still want to be dependable and productive and share my creativity and joy. I think that will greatly help keep me from getting despondent or depressed. I simply have too much to do to indulge in that.

So I'm working on not yet saying I can't until I think of ways I might be able to. Right now I have to stay out of the shop completely lest I be tempted to do one thing or another. It's in pretty good shape for work when I do get out there. I'm going to continue to refuse to get out there for two solid weeks post-surgery, which means March 22. Then, if I can, I may be able to do a couple of things with help. I'll make a priority list.

Being adaptable is an art. I'm an artist. I will adapt. I have everything I need to do it well.