It is 4:26 am and my brain is jumping with information about the muscles and connective tissues of the knee and thigh. I've been up since 2:00 am. Pain in my back and legs refused me sleep. It's still taunting me. The pain meds I have are too strong. I would go through the day in a fog, and probably shouldn't even drive if I took them. Tylenol doesn't help. So I guess I will practice some meditation and breathe through it. That usually eases it to some degree.
The biceps femoris' proximal attachment is to the ischial tuberosity. (The spell check doesn't approve of these Latin terms.) But where is the distal attachment? I know you probably don't care, unless you're another kinesiology student, or you have injured your biceps femoris. I think it attaches to the head of the fibula. And it is the muscle that helps you rotate your hip laterally. It also flexes the knee and tilts the pelvis posteriorly. Isn't ischial tuberosity a great name? The three hamstring muscles attach there.
If one listens, there is a peeper who has been singing most of the night. It's on and off, and not a strong sound. But then it is early spring yet. Just now the haunting sound of coyotes howling nearby pierce the night and send a shiver up my spine. I go out to the deck to listen for more, but the deep darkness of this time, just before dawn, is now silent.
Guess I'll go check out the poetry site. Have you ever been there? It's called AllPoetry.com. I recently discovered it, and have been enjoying myself immensely. Other poets!!! Some are seasoned, their words rich and expansive, filling me up to saturation. Others are learning, and I enjoy offering feedback here and there, which encourages but deepens. Anyway, my handle is cturtle there.
Hope your day has a more reasonable start to it than mine has had! Peace.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Back at the Pond
The dusk is gently painting it's muted colors on the waters of the pond here outside the cabin where I make myself at home on the weekends. A kingfisher has moved to a spot on the pond as well. His blue and black form can be seen diving for baby fish during the day.
T. tells me that the peepers were out last night. Oh the peepers! How wonderful to hear them start to sing in the spring. I always feel sorry for the first batch however. They sing their little hearts out prematurely, then it freezes and the first ones die out. Soon enough the warmth will be here to stay and so will the peepers...until of course they get too old for peeping.
Sherman, my name for one of the little dogs who lives here, has apparently missed me. I dropped my suitcase by this afternoon and then headed off for an appointment. The story is that he lay in the wet grass staring at the parking lot all afternoon. The loyalty of little furry creatures is touching. And I was off being disloyal, walking with a friend and her dogs. We visited the wonderful waterfall, and then went to the lake and walked. We talked, solved a few of the world's problems (if the world would just listen to us!), and ate our lunches.
Have a peaceful evening friends.
T. tells me that the peepers were out last night. Oh the peepers! How wonderful to hear them start to sing in the spring. I always feel sorry for the first batch however. They sing their little hearts out prematurely, then it freezes and the first ones die out. Soon enough the warmth will be here to stay and so will the peepers...until of course they get too old for peeping.
Sherman, my name for one of the little dogs who lives here, has apparently missed me. I dropped my suitcase by this afternoon and then headed off for an appointment. The story is that he lay in the wet grass staring at the parking lot all afternoon. The loyalty of little furry creatures is touching. And I was off being disloyal, walking with a friend and her dogs. We visited the wonderful waterfall, and then went to the lake and walked. We talked, solved a few of the world's problems (if the world would just listen to us!), and ate our lunches.
Have a peaceful evening friends.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Chaos and Order
Does this cause a bit of puzzlement? Well, my creativity has been put largely on hold this past year. Oh there have been little pockets of it, but not the large amounts that are usually around. Chaos means that I'm working at the things I love once again. When I am managing grief, the thing that I do is to try and keep order in my environment. It's interesting stuff. I'm not obsessive about it, but cleaning out drawers and closets and keeping things manageable feels good when grief has come along and thrown such unutterable chaos into my emotional life. I think the fact that things feel a little out of control again is a sign that I'm coming back to myself. Because this is the way I usually exist, in a constant tension between chaos and order.
Chaos Theory has always been fascinating to me because I see it played out so clearly in my own personal life and the lives of people around me. It isn't just an idea that sits out in the universe someplace where stuff is thrown and tossed around and then patterns form out of the chaos. It is lived out every single day in our lives. We experience chaos at different levels, it comes to us in the form of loss and changes of every kind. Sometimes it feels as though it will just keep spinning us and tossing us like so much sand on the ocean's shore. But patterns emerge. Again and again. So, this year of grieving comes to an end, and my creativity is returning. At the same time, the chaos of pain enters more deeply in my life, and the ways I will learn to cope with that will emerge in time. Chaos and Order. One of the laws of the universe.
Go visit this beautiful site, full of fractals...the patterns that emerge from the chaos! http://www.abstractdigitalartgallery.com/index.htm
Also, thank you to Jozef Kosoru whose images are displayed above. They are given to the public domain.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Walk: Part III
That last walk across the bog before, stretched for eons. Each step I sank a bit deeper. I was up to my knees when I was a quarter of the way across. I kept thinking that I was going to step off the rock shelf that was beneath me, and be forever lost in that stinking, slimy goo. It stunk to high heaven! If you think cow manure is smelly, bogs are double that. All that rotting vegetation. You see, the bog really looked like a meadow with lots of vegetation. NOT. This was the ultimate in April Fools jokes. And yet I wasn't laughing. Each step I took, my heart was in my throat. I was absolutely terrified...and yet the only way to the other side was through that awful, stinking, icy cold muck. I could no longer feel my toes or my legs. They were absolutely numb. And by now the bog was well above my knees. I was halfway across. I thought about lying down so my weight would be spread out over the top and perhaps if I did go down it would take more time. But then the foolishness of that idea came to mind. I pictured my whole self sinking all at once...being swallowed alive by this terrible woman eating muck. And all this imagination was remembering all the terrible movies about swamp creatures and the such.
At long last I was just a few steps from a very large stone that sat next to the fence...that was all that was between me and the space next to the road. Yes, the stone shelf beneath me remained. The bog reached only to mid thigh. Gratefully I scrambled up onto that stone and lay on my back looking up at the gray sky which was still spitting rain. I slipped one sock on a very numb foot, and then the other. My sneakers were next. About then I looked up to see a man on a tractor coming down the road from someplace nearby. I feebly waved at him. He waved back, turned the tractor around and left me sitting there in the bog muck which was dripping slowly off my lower body. The smell was spectacular. Rotting vegetation and cow poop assailed my nostrils with their stench.
One last jump across a bit of bog and I was clinging to the barbed wire fence. I slid along it for a ways until I could find an opening to crawl through. AT LAST! I was through! I was on solid earth. I was now on the road. I was crying in relief and left over terror.
A black car came driving along and I waved it down. Might have been the end of the story right there, but the driver took one look at me, the monster from the bog, and screeched away. I only wanted to ask for help! Barely lifting one frozen leg at a time, I shuffled up a driveway and knocked at a door. Did I see a flicker at the curtains? No answer. I tried three different houses, with the same result. They were probably there behind the curtains whispering about the sight on their front porch.
Finally I knocked on a door and a woman opened it to me. "Hello, may I help you?" Her eyes didn't meet mine. She told me she had arthritis and was legally blind. That explained it! Her name was Dot. She was very kind. Brought me something washable that I could sit on while she called my friend Sue to come and get me. She gave me hot tea and some biscuits as I sat on a wooden stool in the front entryway. She was too polite to mention the smell!
Sue came shortly and I changed into dry clothing. She drove me home after a profuse thank you to Ms. Dot. Sue didn't say much on the drive back to the house. She helped me inside. They had been worried about me, my friends. Had even stayed home from work to look for me.
I went and ran a hot bath in the big clawfoot tub. She took my dirty clothes, everything I had on, and put them directly into the washer. She brought me a robe from my closet.
Lavender tea was brought to me, and I soaked for a long time in the bubbles. April in New York. Sounds like a lovely romance, my welcome to New York.
Sue, Peter and Steve enjoyed telling that story about me.
And of course, if you remember from the beginning of my story, those red sweat pants were never to come clean. The bog had left its mark.
At long last I was just a few steps from a very large stone that sat next to the fence...that was all that was between me and the space next to the road. Yes, the stone shelf beneath me remained. The bog reached only to mid thigh. Gratefully I scrambled up onto that stone and lay on my back looking up at the gray sky which was still spitting rain. I slipped one sock on a very numb foot, and then the other. My sneakers were next. About then I looked up to see a man on a tractor coming down the road from someplace nearby. I feebly waved at him. He waved back, turned the tractor around and left me sitting there in the bog muck which was dripping slowly off my lower body. The smell was spectacular. Rotting vegetation and cow poop assailed my nostrils with their stench.
One last jump across a bit of bog and I was clinging to the barbed wire fence. I slid along it for a ways until I could find an opening to crawl through. AT LAST! I was through! I was on solid earth. I was now on the road. I was crying in relief and left over terror.
A black car came driving along and I waved it down. Might have been the end of the story right there, but the driver took one look at me, the monster from the bog, and screeched away. I only wanted to ask for help! Barely lifting one frozen leg at a time, I shuffled up a driveway and knocked at a door. Did I see a flicker at the curtains? No answer. I tried three different houses, with the same result. They were probably there behind the curtains whispering about the sight on their front porch.
Finally I knocked on a door and a woman opened it to me. "Hello, may I help you?" Her eyes didn't meet mine. She told me she had arthritis and was legally blind. That explained it! Her name was Dot. She was very kind. Brought me something washable that I could sit on while she called my friend Sue to come and get me. She gave me hot tea and some biscuits as I sat on a wooden stool in the front entryway. She was too polite to mention the smell!
Sue came shortly and I changed into dry clothing. She drove me home after a profuse thank you to Ms. Dot. Sue didn't say much on the drive back to the house. She helped me inside. They had been worried about me, my friends. Had even stayed home from work to look for me. I went and ran a hot bath in the big clawfoot tub. She took my dirty clothes, everything I had on, and put them directly into the washer. She brought me a robe from my closet.
Lavender tea was brought to me, and I soaked for a long time in the bubbles. April in New York. Sounds like a lovely romance, my welcome to New York.
Sue, Peter and Steve enjoyed telling that story about me.
And of course, if you remember from the beginning of my story, those red sweat pants were never to come clean. The bog had left its mark.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Walk: Part II
Good Morning. It is 5:29 at the moment, and I've been awake for about an hour. I finally gave in and pulled myself out of bed, as those to do lists are still waiting. Pitty Pat the cat who so often insists on sitting on my lap when I'm on the computer, is actually curled up next to me taking a morning nap after an extra early breakfast. (Guess who woke me up because she was hungry at 4:30 am?) A few minutes later Madeline was barking at the car which was coming down the road to deliver the paper. She starts when they get to the neighbor's house, and continues this morning drama until the car drives away.
So...back to the story. I believe I had been wandering about the forest for about two hours when we left off.
There I was, panicky, my heart in my throat, my legs feeling a bit like lead, and the forest seemed to be full of taunting trees. Usually I'm a tree hugger, but when one is lost amongst them, trees become quite sinister. This increases the panic. Even the most experenced hunters have lost their way at times, and have felt the panic of the forest. I think that's why the god of the forest is named Pan. Panic derives from the name.
Finally I took some deep breaths and tried to calm myself down enough to think about what to do. I suddenly remembered what Steve had said about the area: If you ever get lost in the woods around here, just head downhill and soon enough you'll come to a road. I could breath again. And that's just what I did. I climbed over a wooden fence and headed down hill. Soon enough I was in a pasture on a very big hillside. And off in the distance there was indeed a road. Glory be. I started to weep in relief, and headed down the muddy hill. It wasn't long before I was falling on my patooty. This happened several times. One of those times I landed in a cow pie. Lovely...now I smelled to high heaven. I didn't care, I just kept getting up and sliding in slow motion righjt back down on my butt. The smell from the cow pie was bringing back memories from my childhood in Nebraska. I spent a lot of time out on the farm of my brother in law who always warned me to stay out of the pasture where he kept the bull. That bull was dangerous as all get out. Panic was returning as I looked around for the absent bovine. The pasture was empty creatures, except the one sliding down the hillside, mostly on her backside.
At long last I reached the bottom of the hill, and realized I was going to have to cross a stream. But there, on the otherside of the stream, and what looked like a meadow and of course a fence, was that blessed road. Surely there would be someone who would stop and help me. I gazed at the cold water that was moving along as happy as can be, impervious to my plight. I usually loved mountain streams, but the beauty of this one was lost on me. I hope the reader can forgive the fact that I wasn't quite present to that part of the scene before me.
Reaching down, I removed my shoes and and socks. I figured I would want their warmth after the cold reality of that water. The stream wasn't all that wide, and it was shallow enough. It didn't take long to cross it. Happily I set my foot on what I thought was solid ground. Not so. It was mud. I took a step. Surely this situation was going to change in a moment, and I would feel the strong earth beneath my feet. Instead I sank up to my ankle. It was a bog. I didn't know much about bogs at the time. I'd grown up in Nebraska where there was occasional quicksand. But what in the world was this? I took another step and sank up to my calf. I twisted uncomfortably to look back at the hillside on the otherside of the stream. The scene was fairly dramatic looking. Adding to the sheer size of that mountainous, muddy hill, my imprints from slipping and sliding down it looked for all the world like the fingerprints of someone trying to find a last hold before falling over the edge. It was not a hill I would normally attempt to climb, and that would be when I was feeling energetic. At the moment I was so exhausted I didn't know how I was going to go on, much less go back. There was no way in the world I was going to get back up that hill. I gave it one last glance before turning around and facing what could very well be my last moments of life. There was no one in sight...a farmhouse in the distance. A road with no cars. And me...at the edge of a bog that extended before me. (I learned later that the little stream I had just crossed was the headwaters of the Delaware River.)
Hope you're enjoying the suspense. Of course I'm still here, so you know the story ends well. But there's still more to tell!
So...back to the story. I believe I had been wandering about the forest for about two hours when we left off.
There I was, panicky, my heart in my throat, my legs feeling a bit like lead, and the forest seemed to be full of taunting trees. Usually I'm a tree hugger, but when one is lost amongst them, trees become quite sinister. This increases the panic. Even the most experenced hunters have lost their way at times, and have felt the panic of the forest. I think that's why the god of the forest is named Pan. Panic derives from the name.
Finally I took some deep breaths and tried to calm myself down enough to think about what to do. I suddenly remembered what Steve had said about the area: If you ever get lost in the woods around here, just head downhill and soon enough you'll come to a road. I could breath again. And that's just what I did. I climbed over a wooden fence and headed down hill. Soon enough I was in a pasture on a very big hillside. And off in the distance there was indeed a road. Glory be. I started to weep in relief, and headed down the muddy hill. It wasn't long before I was falling on my patooty. This happened several times. One of those times I landed in a cow pie. Lovely...now I smelled to high heaven. I didn't care, I just kept getting up and sliding in slow motion righjt back down on my butt. The smell from the cow pie was bringing back memories from my childhood in Nebraska. I spent a lot of time out on the farm of my brother in law who always warned me to stay out of the pasture where he kept the bull. That bull was dangerous as all get out. Panic was returning as I looked around for the absent bovine. The pasture was empty creatures, except the one sliding down the hillside, mostly on her backside.
At long last I reached the bottom of the hill, and realized I was going to have to cross a stream. But there, on the otherside of the stream, and what looked like a meadow and of course a fence, was that blessed road. Surely there would be someone who would stop and help me. I gazed at the cold water that was moving along as happy as can be, impervious to my plight. I usually loved mountain streams, but the beauty of this one was lost on me. I hope the reader can forgive the fact that I wasn't quite present to that part of the scene before me.
Reaching down, I removed my shoes and and socks. I figured I would want their warmth after the cold reality of that water. The stream wasn't all that wide, and it was shallow enough. It didn't take long to cross it. Happily I set my foot on what I thought was solid ground. Not so. It was mud. I took a step. Surely this situation was going to change in a moment, and I would feel the strong earth beneath my feet. Instead I sank up to my ankle. It was a bog. I didn't know much about bogs at the time. I'd grown up in Nebraska where there was occasional quicksand. But what in the world was this? I took another step and sank up to my calf. I twisted uncomfortably to look back at the hillside on the otherside of the stream. The scene was fairly dramatic looking. Adding to the sheer size of that mountainous, muddy hill, my imprints from slipping and sliding down it looked for all the world like the fingerprints of someone trying to find a last hold before falling over the edge. It was not a hill I would normally attempt to climb, and that would be when I was feeling energetic. At the moment I was so exhausted I didn't know how I was going to go on, much less go back. There was no way in the world I was going to get back up that hill. I gave it one last glance before turning around and facing what could very well be my last moments of life. There was no one in sight...a farmhouse in the distance. A road with no cars. And me...at the edge of a bog that extended before me. (I learned later that the little stream I had just crossed was the headwaters of the Delaware River.)
Hope you're enjoying the suspense. Of course I'm still here, so you know the story ends well. But there's still more to tell!
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Walk: Part I
The day was shaping up to be much as this one is as I slid out of bed and slipped into my sweat pants. I remember those comfy red sweats. I don't particularly remember the shirt I wore that day, but then that was salvageable at the end of the day. Unlike the sweats. I headed downstairs and out the door after a brief "good morning" to Sue, one of my oldest and dearest friends. She was drinking coffee and making breakfast for the guys. Steve, her husband and Peter, her 10 year old son. Since my arrival a few days before, there had been much story telling and gales of laughter around the kitchen table. It was good to be with friends during this transition.
Pulling up my hood and zipping my coat, I was ready for a walk down the road. It had been my habit to walk 2 or 3 miles every day for as long as I could remember. Walking was something that moving wouldn't change. The scenery however had. I missed the Oregon landscape, but upstate New York has it's own beauty. So after walking the mile down the road and starting back, I noticed a path across a little meadow and into the woods. I decided to take a shortcut back to the house. The Catskill mountains which surrounded me in a breathtaking vista are part of the oldest mountain range on earth. Steve had filled me in on the local geography of the place, and I loved the fact that my feet were walking this ancient landscape. As these things passed through my thoughts, I was passing a lovely pond and then entering the woods.
The path was clear at first and I thought it headed in the right direction, but it wasn't long before the path disappeared. I felt somewhat confident. After all, this was all within a half mile of the house. Of course two hours later, that was no longer the case! Passing the same old ramshackle building for the fourth or fifth time, I finally accepted the reality that I was lost and scared to death, not to mention exhausted and hungry for breakfast.
It is definite progress after 13 years that I can tell this story without hyperventilating. More tomorrow!
Walk Safely!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
From the sublime to...well, take a read and see.
Sundays are always a nice day to make brunch, and if I do say so myself, I make pretty good pancakes. Of course they're from a box, but I've discovered the "right" box mix to use. The other day I bought a bag of beautiful little apples. So I cut up some apples to cook on the pancakes. A trick my mother used to do. You put the batter in the pan and then arrange apple slices on top of the batter. When you flip them, the apples cook up just right. Put a little cinnamon in the batter and it's even better! They came out perfectly. Of course I had forgotten to check to see if I had any maple syrup. Unfortunately I didn't. (Did you know that maple syrup can be made in only two places in the world? The northeast US, and a certain province in Canada. My Canadian friends will be offended that I don't know which one off the top of my head. Is it Quebec perhaps? ) Well, no maple syrup, so I took out a bag of frozen raspberries and whipped up some raspberry syrup. Finally I scrambled some eggs, and I made myself a cup of Oregon Chai, with just the right amount of milk in it. I even made it frothy. Ahhhh...good food, a sunny day, the laundry all finished last night! What more could one ask for? Maybe not having to do my income taxes. Procrastination...procrastination...will she get them finished or won't she?
One always knows when it's spring around here. Baseballs begin showing up in the back yard. Little League starts up. All kinds of kids in their uniforms start playing ball. Parents calling out their support. And eventually on the weekends especially, one gets to hear the Star Spangled Banner sung about 4 or 5 times a day over a rather annoying loudspeaker.
Now, this is really weird, but the other day I was walking with the dog in the field (not the little league field). This field is full of land mines...of course here in the quiet foothills of the Catskills, they aren't real land mines. Just piles of poop. Is that allowed to be written? I hope so, I don't know what else to call it...manure perhaps? Feces is the more technical term. There is a lot of deer droppings in the big field. But there is dog leavings as well. I usually pick up after mine, but not everyone is so conscientious. The only ones who usually walk in that field are the deer, the dogs and the owners of the dog. So I guess it's to be expected. But the other day there was a particularly large pile of dog doo. And right in the middle on top sat a golf ball. Now I'm betting there is an interesting story behind that. I'm not sure I want to know it in detail however. Better to leave some things alone. Needless to say, I did not take photos to share. Aren't you glad?
Wow...started this blog with a lovely description of Sunday brunch here, and ended up in the outhouse. Well, it is the cycle of life!
Happy Sunday.
Caris
One always knows when it's spring around here. Baseballs begin showing up in the back yard. Little League starts up. All kinds of kids in their uniforms start playing ball. Parents calling out their support. And eventually on the weekends especially, one gets to hear the Star Spangled Banner sung about 4 or 5 times a day over a rather annoying loudspeaker.
Now, this is really weird, but the other day I was walking with the dog in the field (not the little league field). This field is full of land mines...of course here in the quiet foothills of the Catskills, they aren't real land mines. Just piles of poop. Is that allowed to be written? I hope so, I don't know what else to call it...manure perhaps? Feces is the more technical term. There is a lot of deer droppings in the big field. But there is dog leavings as well. I usually pick up after mine, but not everyone is so conscientious. The only ones who usually walk in that field are the deer, the dogs and the owners of the dog. So I guess it's to be expected. But the other day there was a particularly large pile of dog doo. And right in the middle on top sat a golf ball. Now I'm betting there is an interesting story behind that. I'm not sure I want to know it in detail however. Better to leave some things alone. Needless to say, I did not take photos to share. Aren't you glad?
Wow...started this blog with a lovely description of Sunday brunch here, and ended up in the outhouse. Well, it is the cycle of life!
Happy Sunday.
Caris
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)