Minimalist Panic episode 2: That really small space I'm always yacking about

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Gypsy caravan.

I could live in one of those. Easy. If I didn't have all these other people to think about, that is. I don't want to go for the whole gypsy/traveler stereotype thing.  And the minivan already looks like a clown car when we all pile out, so my dream of caravan and piebald pony are probably not the most realistic.

So, I settle. Before, it was the entry-way/walled porch of our old house. Now it's a too-large walk-in closet. No joke. In my efforts to clarify our spaces and minimize the damage to organization that only children can demonstrate, I found myself staring into an artery so clogged it was impassable. Too late for daily aspirin, too late for Lipitor- what this space needed was an angiogram in the form of a total repurposing. And a couple very large trash bags. Five trashbags. It was five.

Look at it. Just look at it.

Notice that most of that looks like it might belong to me. What was I saying about children before? Well, the old trampoline is theirs. They rolled that in there. There was the pile of one child's missing clothing. Right in the foot of the doorway- I literally was standing on it when I took this photo. I didn't do that. Broken bench. Check. Box of homeless game pieces. Yep. That broken window thing, that was there too- and I DIDN'T DO THAT EITHER! I threw my yarn in there. In old ugly boxes. How inspiring. I hung up all the clothes I could wear except that I am usually in a uniform. So I don't wear them. So why do I have them??

This brings me to an awful realization. I am a terrible minimalist. Unless being a minimalist has something to do with keeping a lot of junk that you might use some day. When you catch up on all the requirements of daily living. Then you'll get to it.

I suspect that is not the definition.

But all of that aside, I have always had a tiny space. As a child, it was a basket underneath the table beside my mother's display at an art show. It was the lilac jungle behind our garage. It was the teddy bear room at Play&Learn. It was underneath the branches of the blue spruce that bordered our yard. In the interiors of my mind, it was the wheel of the year. The colors of the seasons, the months, the days of the week. It was knowing that if I was standing on February 16, if I stepped slightly down and to the right, I would be standing on tomorrow, and getting a bit closer to the sun. It was in favorite books and television shows- oh, those were a biggie for me. The Mayberry Jail, the yorkshire fells, the stairway on Leave It To Beaver, The Ricardo's apartment, Mr. Roger's house, the front stoop of Reuven Malter's brownstone, Calpurnia's swept yard, the garden behind Ella Bembridge's cottage. All of these places constituted home, place, nest- comfort- to me. And that's what this is really about.

Comfort, contentment- being the person I wish to be, and not the insane, hyperactive squirrel I tend towards.

Minimalism is a tool, an ideal- a good one. It is a bit austere at times, which is what I tend to run away from. I think I'm looking at a balance between minimalism and boring old organization. When I get rid of things I don't need- I feel good. When I organize the things I really love- I feel even better. I feel so great I actually get things done that I need to get done. Not a usual occurrence.

So the closet was repurposed.

Everything is organized, I know where it all is. Weird. It's my own strange little caravan. Maureen the Closet Monster stands guard, and in place of the piebald pony. 

I just need a new tea kettle.

Minimalist Panic, episode one

Today's mood music-

For the last several years- well, for the last 17 years, roughly- I've been throwing things away as a winter practice. I think this might have something mildly to do with my synesthesia, but also because I don't think that hanging out in the basement going through things is a warm-weather activity. Short of basement flood of severe magnitude, I haven't had a good sort-out any time other than the colder months.

Except for last year. There was no sort-out last year. Last year I think I might have been suffering from SAD or possibly just short on Vitamin D and money. Or just short on money. When I am depressed, I stop functioning, except at the most basic levels. Work, I'll show up for that. Choir? You betcha. Lunch with a friend? I'll be right there. That part of the month when the bills get paid? Yeah, I'll avoid that, because it's depressing paying for two houses, particularly when one is empty awaiting sale. It's also depressing paying for an extra, empty house when you're trying to be a minimalist.

I started looking with a particular longing at all the tiny house blogs out there. I read stories about mortgage-less couples who had killed their student loans in three years living in their (very cool) tiny houses with their three cats. I read of people being able to work in areas they really enjoyed- for less money- because they had no mortgage, no debt, just their little house and freedom. I read of families traveling in an old school bus- totally refitted as a living area- and unschooling themselves across the country. I became a radicalized minimalist in my mind- while I tripped over eight million legos and swished my finger across my phone and kindle in a hypnotic trance, hoping for something to change.

The house sold. I got a full-time job. Things are changing- but I still, mostly, feel powerless. Because I'm meant to. This powerlessness- this waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop- is what we're raised to feel as normal. This is it, our lot in life, and learning to deal with that is, apparently "the dream" or something. Like in school- those who follow the rules and accept the expectations usually do better on this particular path.  The contrarians, those afflicted with any sort of defiance embedded in their character usually suck at it. That last category is where I have always found myself.

At work the other day- New Year's Day, actually- a thought crossed my mind watching people bound in for the third, fourth time for meaningless, silly things they just couldn't live without for one day. Potato chips, usually. With more and more businesses staying open on holidays, people are being trained into entitlement, and trained out of the ability to plan, to share, to sacrifice, to weigh the importance of their purchases. Why? Because our economy is driven with just these values.

Industrialization has had it's positives- but our complacency is not one of them. So many factors are built into these discussions- the religious influence and ultimate acceptance and defense of the business ethic, the reality of "better" technologies requiring a step-away from self-sufficiency in the home to obtain cash to pay for these technologies, the loss of skill through the generations, as children were raised with outside work as the norm. In her book Radical Homemakers; Reclaiming Domesticity From A Consumer Culture, Shannon Hayes writes,

The industrial economy altered nearly every aspect of home life. The rearing  and education of children was reoriented with the assumption that they would become employees, rather than owners of their own homesteads or enterprises. To hold a good job was the aspirational force behind their childhood training. The family's eating patters changed as well; traditionally, dinner was served midday, enabling the cook the benefit of working during daylight hours, and supper was a light repast, taken just prior to sundown, before the family would head off to bed. But once men were gone to factories all day and children were off to school, this pattern changed, and dinner became the principal meal, pushing the daily work of house-wives later into the evening. Most importantly, families came to think of "work" and "home" as separate places, with "work" most typically being the realm of the man, and "home" the domain of the woman. Before long, "work" also came to mean the "real world," where one's labors had value, leaving the home a site for thankless toil. 

And a place for powerlessness and pathetic meandering through an unplanned and yet, entitled, existence.

I don't get it.

I don't like it much, either. And I'm really good at feeling powerless, pathetic meandering and failing to plan, and yeah, entitlement, too. I just recognize that this status-quo doesn't make me happy.

Living in the world requires a lot of compromise for some people. I'm a changer in my core, but I get tired and I lack motivation. And of course, I know that change isn't easy, and sometimes what you begin, you don't see the results of. So- I get rid of things. I give them away, I throw away, I recycle- and I try hard to be thankful for what I have- because that's the real key.

We live in a place where having too much stuff is our burden. Imagine what that looks like to the outsider without enough food to eat, or clothes for her children? (Reconciling the protestant defense of capitalism during the Industrial Revolution and knowing a particular passage in Matthew 25 nearly by heart is an impossibility for me- and a frustration, because it does drag on.)

So, I plan to keep thinking about having too many things and working through that. I plan to keep my focus on ever-smaller- and yeah, I've seen the looks I get from some of you. Mom- talking to you here. The world is in need of balance. I have too much stuff, I know that it isn't sustainable, so I get rid of it and shift the balance toward an equilibrium I can feel decent about.

#%@**#!!

He who angers you conquers you.- Elizabeth Kenny. 

Oh, bull pucky. 

He who angers you is going to get his ass kicked, that's what. 

I've been thinking a lot about anger over the last few weeks, because it's been the dominant emotion I've been displaying- if not outwardly, certainly within my very rich and, apparently caustic, inner life. 

There are plenty of reasons- PLENTY- for this. I'm just not going to tell you, because then this will become one of those tiresome complaining things that I have no time for. 

I prefer passive aggressive hinting.  So here goes- 

I'm angry at people who don't now which cashier they were talking to before, because they DIDN'T FREAKING LOOK AT THEM. But that cashier. They know what they did. I'm not a cashier (right now, anyway, but I'm still angry about this).

I'm angry that the new guy got a brand new desk and the last two women in that office used a beat-up piece of plywood over two non-matching file cabinets, so it was always a little slanty. 

I'm angry at the bastardization of the word family. The way some people make it this thing to be practically worshipped if it meets some impossible standard is bad enough. What really gets me is when cliques of people use it as a way to badger you about being late, or whatever. And never miss a rehearsal, because we're a "family". Riighttt… And GAAGGG- for good measure, anyway. 

I'm also angry at Vesicoureteral Reflux and the way doctors don't care about it unless you're almost dead. Reading the comments and posts in that particular support group is an exercise in righteous indignation. Get it together, medical community! You should be doing better here. My child doesn't deserve the current standard of "care"- and neither do any of the others. 

To make it less tedious at this point, I'll just make a list of everything I'm angry about/at. I'll even throw you a bone and be a little more specific (complainy and fingerpointy).

Loans. And grants, for that matter - which just make the loans look more palatable- somehow. 

Cars. 

Musak and especially that woman who sang that 'I don't wanna wait, for our lives to be o-ho-veh-her' song. Yeah, I don't wanna wait, either. 

That dark muddy purple color. 

The WTO. The FDA. The USDA. The World Bank and the IMF. For that matter, WF, BoA, and the DMV. 

Chris Christie pandering to Iowa's pork producers (weird, yes?).

Pork Producers (of a certain variety). 

Pork consumers (of a certain variety). 

People who only buy donuts and red bull with their EBT card. 

People who stereotype EVERYONE with an EBT card as being the type of person to only buy donuts and redbull with it. 

Whoever it was that stole my Teddy Bear when I was 8. 

Cancer. 

Really large parts of my education. 

Depression/Anxiety.

Damage to the environment. 

People who put pictures of dead starlings they've shot up on Instagram.  

Absence of enough time. 

Misogyny. 

Rape culture. 

People who mess with my kids. 

People who mess with other people's kids. 

Animal abusers.

Oh.. I could go on and on and on. 

Except that I'm tired and it's been a long day and now I'm angry for sitting down to make a list of things to complain about out in the open, which is what I didn't want to do. 

Of course, alongside my anger, I have been quietly lecturing myself. Telling myself that this is all a season- it isn't the whole story. There is beauty here, even in the anger. All the things I deeply believe, but like all fragile people, have such trouble remembering in the thick of feeling. 

But you know, anger is okay. Anger is necessary. Father Bede Jerrett, the greatest preacher in Catholic England during his lifetime (a very limited biography of the man tells me) said, "The world needs anger. The world often continues to allow evil because it isn't angry enough." 

Precisely. 

I've made some of the above seem less serious than they really are, which is how I handle telling people about my anger. Some of them are very difficult. People have been hurt and for no good reason. Justice hasn't appeared in these situations, and I can't provide it- another reason for me to be angry. 

Colin Powell said "Get mad, then get over it." Which is what I'm working toward. 

What I won't do once past is to totally forget. I'm the elephant of angry memories- not a good thing to be unless those memories are used as a catalyst to make sure those things don't happen to other people. Which is part of my plan. You can't just get over it if you haven't done something about it, Colin, you should know that. Speaking of which, I'm still mad at you for that ridiculous WMD talk you gave to get us into another war. Remember that?? Huh? HUH??

Demographic Discomfort, or Get Over Yourselves Mi Amigos

mood music-

One of my favorite moments of a work day is when the Mexican Restaurant across the highway runs out of something and sends one or two of the kitchen guys down to restock- usually tomatoes, jalapenos, onions, cilantro, avocado- and I get to practice my iffy Spanish greetings on someone. They've only laughed at me once, but they persist in their instruction. They haven't lost hope in me.

The younger of the two came in today and was obviously entertained by my coworker's hat, which is something of a tradition here. For the entire month of October, she wears her witch hat- and people actually come in to see it. He smiled, he said something none of us understood, and he paid- cash- for his purchase. He shouted a "como estas?" at me, and I answered, "bien!"

I got a big smile in return.

At the time I was checking- taking my turn with the awful lotto machine and cigarette shelves. An older couple came into my line with their purchases. Dapper and charming and normal, a cart full of organic milk, bananas, bologna, cereal. I went through my auto-speil- Hi there, did you find everything okay? Do you have our rewards card?

This is approximately when it fell apart.

"Rewards card, huh? How will I be rewarded? I mean, with Obama the illegals coming over the border get plenty of rewards." He motioned towards the door that my friend had just exited through.

I couldn't stand it. So, I said-

"Actually, if you work in a grocery store for awhile, you'll see who get's most of the rewards- and it isn't our neighbors to the south. It's mostly white Americans, like you and me. And that guy that just left works hard everyday- legitimately. He isn't on any assistance."

The memory of earlier in the day and a conversation I had with another customer jumped to mind. White, like me. She often comes into the store and shops for her family with foodstamps and WIC, none of which I have a problem with- until she follows up her foodstamp purchase with $75 of alcohol- in cash. Today, she was upset because the rewards system kicks the WIC purchases off-line. In other words- you don't get points for WIC purchases and you won't get free milk/bread/eggs without points.

Oh, there was going to be hell to pay if I didn't fix that! She was convinced I had masterminded the entire problem, and that I was an anti-government-aid-conservative. Like her. Because she isn't one of "those people" who abuse the system. She needs all the help she can get!

Har. Yeah.

Back to the older couple- the man told me that I should probably learn to speak Spanish, since that's what we'd be required to speak, soon.

I ignored his prophetic psychosis and answered in the affirmative- "Yes! I really do want to learn to speak Spanish!" Smile, smile, happy smiles.

And then he signed up for the rewards card. Because, of course he did.

Over the years I've noticed- and handled- a number of these kinds of conversations, and the fears expressed within them are always pretty evident- and as most fears go- faulty.

The brown people are taking over. The brown people are coming. The brown people will take your jobs. The brown people will disrupt *our* Way Of Life™.

My way of life has always included a certain amount of ethnic diversity. By the time I was an early- teen, I was the only white kid of my age in my neighborhood. And it was fine. No one bothered me. There was one incident in eighth grade that I handled pretty well- and here I am. Alive and well.

In fact, my predominantly white, private, Christian school was more difficult, on average, than a walk through my neighborhood ever was.

Our Way Of Life™ on 5th Street in Greeley, Colorado went something like this. People woke up and went to work. The kids went to school. Buses streamed through, cars drove by, neighbors worked on their lawns and cars. We had garage sales and played our music too loud. Dogs sometimes went on long walks and cats were sometimes hit by cars. The couple on the corner had fights that brought out the cops. The old man down the street hoarded Fingerhut boxes in his windows until they faded to white in too many years of the afternoon sun. Jerry's Market started stocking more "ethnic" foods alongside the Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and Red Delicious Apples. The Bait Shop painted itself purple and started selling candy to pull in the after-school-kid demographic, rather than relying solely on the local fisherman. (Really? Where did these people fish? The mystery persists.) People moved in and moved out, moved on and moved up and did the things that all Americans do- bought too much crap, and went into too much debt.

And none of that was dependent on skin color or ethnic origin, for pity's sake.

In the last several years- particularly the years since 2008- I've been surprised by the things that older people are comfortable telling me to my face. Me. Me with the mixed- race family. Me with the children who aren't considered "white" by any domestic standard.

You must have adopted your kids, right? They don't look anything like you.

Answer: Actually, they do. You just don't see it, because your eyes only see color and stop there. I'm sorry you have this affliction.

I don't think a black man should be in the white house- this isn't their country.

Answer: Oh please. This wasn't "our country", either. I don't remember asking to be born here.

I don't think it's right that blacks marry whites.

Answer: Okay. So feel free to abstain, idiot.

English is our language, people shuld lern (sic) it!

Answer: It's our language insofar as it's what we most commonly use, but the United States has no official language. Deal with it, and learn something new. Better yet, learn English!

The thing is, immigration has always been an issue here. And probably everywhere. It's what people do- they tribe-up and fend off the advancing hordes. The advancing hordes win, and then it's their turn to fend off whoever the new threat is.

Are we over that, yet? I think it's time to accept that we are becoming more diverse- and this can be a strength if we pull it together and stop labeling each other as simply "other".

Read this.

And for a little reality-

Add to the Beauty

I have always liked the song Add to the Beauty by Christian artist Sara Groves, because it seemed to say practically everything I believed about how life was and how it should be viewed, lived, practiced.

Which is to say, it doesn't have anything to do with ease or comfort, but everything to do with hard work, personal vision and a burning desire to do whatever your story demands. The problem here, of course, is finding the time.

This last week has been overly hectic in the places of my mind. Plural, yes. My mind exists on several planes at once, and usually not in one sector of reality. I am- to put it lightly- all over the place in my head, at all times. An educational psychologist given the job of figuring out why I was such a mess at one point in my life said that, while I was bright and well organized in my responses, I seemed overly visual. And I had dyscalculia. And synaesthesia. But he didn't think I had ADD, because I wasn't bouncing off the walls. In fact- I was pretty laid back. This evaluation helped exactly not at all when it came to my academics, but it did make me more interesting in my own eyes, itself a positive, I suppose. And only I could find a "disability" interesting- another quirk.

But where was I? Oh yes- all over the place and hectic.

The kids have returned to school which means I get to make lunches. Why this freaks me out every year, I have no idea. It might be because my current kitchen situation bites. Or maybe it might be because I feel uninspired by the usual lunch options- Egg salad gets a bit samey. Baby carrots do as well. Most of the peanut butter has palm oil in it (it doesn't here!). Early in the week I bought a bag of cotton candy grapes for the kid's lunches. One day that lasted. Don't even get me started on packaged crackers/cookies/biscuits/pastries and bread. Gah. But I had a drop of inspiration hit earlier today- make their lunches what you're always yakking about concerning restaurants you would like to run one day. Duh. Oh yeah- do the thing I really like doing, instead of relying on the status quo for lunch. Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces- even lunch. Add to the beauty.

I'm in the last week of a job I particularly liked, with people I love, to go to a new one. I need the hours, and it isn't all about the money. Mostly it has to do with getting me out of the house so I don't plant myself A: in bed with my cell phone, forgetting to shower, B: In front of the computer for hours, wasting time, C: Manically cleaning out the house, room by room by myself, only to have certain people wreck my hard work in 10 seconds flat. While I definitely am not great at structuring myself in the house, I do a lot better when someone gives me structure in the form of a job. Therefore- I work. What will I be doing? Some baking. Some taking-of-money. I'll be able to talk to people- interact and be social- and not stand around monitoring my phone in my house and waiting for inspiration to sparkle itself into a corner of my brain. I'll be doing something I'm pretty good at, anyway. Add to the beauty.

I turned 40 over the weekend- I'm pretty sure this should mean something, and in an odd way it does. Example: I felt the reigns of some expectations and dreams loosen a little. This is important, if only for matters of purpose and reality- I'm not going to get it all done, and that's okay. Stories need editing and not every chapter is necessary. I need to shorten the list to what is really important to me. That said- what is important was most of the list, so the sorting and deciding will be fun. Not. This is where grace arrives, inviting the beauty to arrive on it's own, regardless.

Today's story is still playing out. I think it might involve something called Apple Blackberry Cake in the next little while.

The Gosling

A little less than two weeks ago, Elijah and I were out for a walk, and when we came around the bend toward our house, we saw the goose family of Ink Pond walking slowly up the hill- all but one. On closer inspection, one of the babies seemed to be thinking about taking a nap on the street. As we approached, she started to get up and fell onto her back, wings flopping, feet struggling in the air.

We ran toward her, and watched as she righted herself, struggled up the hill and laid down once more at the top. Her family seemed satisfied that she was with them and started foraging. Elijah and I stayed to watch.

She seemed wrong on one side- when she had gone up the hill, one foot wasn't working properly, and she was relying heavily on her wings- pushing herself along.

For a few minutes she rested, and then, as her family walked toward the pond and began getting in, she got up and followed them- still limping. But as she got in the water, she seemed much better- to the point that we couldn't tell which one she was as they swam away.

The next morning, Elijah and Matt walked up to the pond to check and found her upside down in the lake, struggling to keep her head above the water. Elijah jumped in and swam to her- and then he brought her home.

What followed was a fruitless attempt on my part to contact a wildlife rehabber in the area. There were several numbers listed on the DNR website- but no one called me back, except one woman over an hour away, and she wasn't keen, apparently. After the first call, and the promise to be my backup person- she stopped returning my calls as well.

I've never taken care of a goose before. I researched possible injuries, poisonings, diseases- and nothing seemed to fit. But she got better- slowly. She stopped flopping onto her side in the box. She sat upright. She started eagerly awaiting her food each day. She even honked softly at the dog when he got too close, followed by a hiss for good measure.

As her appetite returned and her sense of balance- her legs stopped working. She stopped pushing against the floor, stopped paddling when we'd put her in the rubbermaid box, filled with water in the garden. She just balanced, or pushed herself with her wings. Sometimes she would try her wings out. She fussed with her pin feathers and acted stronger every day. Until yesterday.

Yesterday, she was still hungry, but her voice was softer. I noticed a change in her breathing. It took me back to 1998 when my little Fiona cat died after a traumatic surgery- she'd been kept under anesthesia far too long, and her heart enlarged and eventually failed. I worried that this was happening to our little gosling.

Such is the life of a wildlife rehabber, albeit a reluctant one. I breathed and said a prayer for her every night, knowing that she might not be around in the morning.  But there she was. Wanting her breakfast.

This morning began like any other. I brought her box into the laundry room and cleaned it and her up. I gave her water and a new supply of food- and she ate right away. Because of the flies outside, I have kept her in the back bathroom, where it is generally quiet during the day, and this morning, I returned her there to enjoy her food. I checked on her around ten, and she had finished about half of her water and breakfast, and was fussing with a pin feather on her wing. I pet her and noted her breathing hadn't improved. She was a little gaspy. She looked at me and nuzzled the palm of my hand with her bill as she had begun to do this week.

And at eleven she was gone. There was no sign of struggle- she had gone to sleep, tucked her head behind her wing, and died.

The boys and I dug a grave near the flowers in the garden. I don't even know if this is legal or not- and frankly, I don't care at the moment. The powers that be aren't so interested in doing their job, anyway.

After years of dealing with animal-friend death, I have become pretty good at dealing with it. I prepare myself in advance. I know that most animals aren't going to outlive us, and some of them are going to die in our care. But Elijah. Elijah is still working on balancing his sense of compassion with a knowledge that things don't always work out- no matter how hard we try. Life isn't fair, and it isn't guaranteed, and sometimes we don't get the help we need.

But we do our best- and I think, I always think that animals know when we're trying to help them. For our gosling, better she die peacefully than struggling upside down in a pond all alone.

I watched my 13 year old son today, digging a grave, burying a little friend he had jumped in a pond to rescue, and placing flowers above her to honor her life-and I realized that this burden had been a blessing. These are life's teaching moments, and they define who we are and who we become.

Prayer for the Animals by Albert Schweitzer

Hear our humble prayer, O God, for our friends, the animals. Especially for animals who are suffering; for any that are hunted or lost or deserted or frightened or hungry; for all that must be put to death. We entreat for them all Thy mercy and pity, and for those who deal with them, we ask a a heart of compassion and gentle hands and kindly words. Make us, ourselves, to be true friends to animals, and so to share the blessings of the merciful.

Complications

I seem to have this weird problem of breaking bones just prior to big life changes. Way back in 2005, at nine months pregnant, I had gone downstairs to check how much water had seeped into the basement- this was a regular occurrence in the spring and summer months in Southeastern Nebraska- the combination of totally saturated soil and ancient basement made it inevitable.

Walking down the stairs, I made the classic mistake that so many people who can't see their feet make- I thought the second to last step was the step closest to the floor, stepped down as if going to the flat, cement surface, tripped on the last step and landed my foot on my toes going down. Thankfully all I did was make a really pretty crack right through the cuboid of my right foot- but it looked awful. I have faint memories of my then four and two year olds yelling "Emergency! Emergency!" at my mother who had literally just arrived from Colorado. I remember being glad that I'd cleaned the house.

Four days later, I had Ben.

This time, I'd gone into town to visit a friend who was driving through with some of her school friends. We had planned to have lunch together- but on the way there I was rear-ended hard which shoved my car forward into the car in front of me, and then the lady behind me hit me again. Which made me hit the girl in front of me again. I had the idea that I'd maybe sprained my toe. I have one of those weird second toes that sticks way out in front of the big toe. I climbed out of my car and hobbled around back to survey the damage. It wasn't good. I hobbled around to the front to check on the girl in front of me who was already freaking out into her cell phone to her dad and rubbing her neck. They took her away to the emergency room, but she was fine. Her car sustained a small-ish scratch on the bumper. About 1.5 inches long. She was fine. She went on vacation the following week (in her car), resulting in a small amount of nail-biting stress concerning what she'd tell the insurance people when she finally came back.

I got home by driving with my heel. My foot was complaining. I still thought I'd just sprained a toe, or possibly now the upper part of my foot. Toward evening, I realized that I could no longer walk, and so this seemed like just the time to go to the  Emergency Room. My husband was in Iowa. I didn't think to ask anyone to take me. Nope- just me and the kids in the mini-van relying heavily on cruise control and going very, very slowly down Highway 103 toward Crete with the hazard lights on.

Broken foot. Again. One week from a move to another state. Awesome.

My mom flew in. My brother-in-law helped out with the loading. My neighbor came by and assisted with the hefty stuff- and his lovely wife cooked meals for us. We made it. But I don't recommend this particular method of getting-out-of-doing-everything. It's tedious, boring, and useless-feeling.

Then my cast got wet. No idea how, but the very last day I could have gotten in to have anything done about it, I called and they took it off and put me in the Darth Vader boot. Which I've been wearing ever since.

We've been here for one week. I'm feeling better, and I've powered through most of the unpacking. We've had meals and gone grocery shopping and gone to the library and met neighbors (one does a politics show on PBS- I am insanely excited about this). Last night we watched the Heritage Days Fireworks Display. Things are calming down and organizing themselves- as complications often do.

My mind views most challenges as a hill I have to climb. When complications happen, it's as if the hill no longer has any discernible path. There's a boulder at the top, just waiting to fall on anyone who looks at it funny. And there are a large number of cougars up there who live around the boulder, completely surrounded by no prey animals, resulting in a collection of very, very hungry cougars and all it takes is one wrong move and you're done. Finished.

But somehow, you usually make it. I think it has a little to do with acceptance and the way you approach problems. If you try to control everything- if you try to become the problem to your problem- you give it power over you. Sometimes just breathing and ignoring are the best paths to take. It's what we tell children to do with bullies, and I believe that a bully can manifest itself in the form of a human being, or a bill collector (those aren't human beings) or a doctor's office policy that won't take third party insurance and which requires injured people to bear even more of a burden of an accident they didn't cause. Problems are usually caused by people, but once they become a policy, they are somehow out of the hands of every human being in charge of enforcing them. It's out of their hands as servants to The Policy. The Policy rules all.

So, breathe and ignore. And enjoy the beautiful things- which are always there.