Post. Script.

Then again, maybe we have all the things we want here already. Maybe all we have to do is open our eyes to them.

Shivering at the Feet of Letting Go

The notion of "culture shock" has never made sense to me. I'm beginning to think though, that it's just misnamed. It's not the culture that you feel doesn't fit, it's you. And I don't think it only applies to travel. We are always changing, having new experiences that transform us in ways we can't fathom, only we feel the effects of the changes, hear their echoes and see their shadows.

Something tugs on the corner of our shirt, just out of eyesight. When we look down and slightly backwards, and we realize that we are changed. A wet tissue with a drop of dye in the corner, we realize that our color is utterly transformed, flushed with a color we hardly recognize but intuitively understand or identify with. Only the very farthest corner bears any trace of the color that was before.

I'm exhausted. Maybe it's jetlag. If it is, then I'm still the person I've been for the past 5 months. If it isn't, if I'm just tired, then who am I? Just another person, a person with no physical connection to close to half a year in India, with only photos and stories which seem less real with every day. Who is it real for if it's not real for me?

++++++

I remember my mom telling me about Buddhism when I was very young. She told me that one of the main ideas is that you accept everything as it is, without wishing it were something or some way else. It gave me pause- how could that be? And what would be the point, to anything, if we just accepted what is as what is? What if I wanted a toy? Did that mean that I just wouldn't want the toy? That I would give up that wanting? But I didn't want to give up the wanting! I liked it- no, maybe not liked it, but...I didn't want to stop wanting.

But maybe there was something to this acceptance. Wanting wasn't exactly fun, didn't exactly make me happy. But ooh! Look at the two pages in this catalogue where everything is white and pink and has frills and lace on it- I'm going to go show it to my parents!

And it's still hard to process, the thought of not wanting...

Lament

I'm up early, still sewn with some combination of jetlag, anxiety, and exhaustion. I expect that eventually it will fade into other things, or maybe the buzz will be redirected, focused on something else; another task, hurdle, irrelevant issue.

It's raining outside, not inside, for which I'm thankful. I am reminded of a conversation which took place in Mussoorie, one to which I was privy only in the retelling. It took place between my friend and the manager of our temporary home.

There's rain pouring down my wall in my room.
Oh, is it coming down over here?
No, on the other side.
Are you sure?
Yes. Wait...does it sometimes come down on that side?
Um...well, yes. It does. But don't worry. I'll help you move all your things to this side of the room.
...

In my room here in Oakland, the rain stays, for the most part, outside. But the sound comes through, just about the softest thing you can imagine. It's almost like the sound of typing, mixed up with heaps of aloe vera lotion and a mug of steaming peppermint tea with honey. That's kind of what it sounds like.

I've got a doctor's appointment today, one with a doctor who diagnosed me with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome just before I left for Ecuador, right after my breakup. Extraordinarily bad timing. I remember being heart-broken, feeling lonely and pissed off and utterly isolated in a sea of calm, no land in sight. How could the waves lap so softly, with such deliberate mindfulness and contentedness, while I screamed with everything that was just the opposite?

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome is very common. It means that you have a higher risk of developing diabetes. It also means that you will have trouble having children. It won't be impossible, you'll just need help when you're ready. Plenty of women with PCOS have children.

I went to get an ultrasound to confirm the diagnosis. I had never gotten an ultrasound before, and it was incredible. I saw myself, on the inside. It was calming, inspiring; I had so much inside that I had never seen, never imagined, didn't even recognize.

That is me.

The ultrasound technician told me everything looked normal, and I left seeing the sun for the first time in a week. I was fine. I got a letter from my doctor a few days later saying that the ultrasound had confirmed her diagnosis of PCOS, and that we should meet again when I returned from India. It was strange though- I didn't feel myself crumble into sand. I didn't feel fazed at all. It was all OK, but I couldn't tell you why, exactly.

I dreamt last night that I went to my doctor's appointment and my PCOS had miraculously disappeared. I was really happy. So was my doctor. Now I'm awake, and I couldn't tell you how I feel about it all.

++++++

Just now, I'm wondering what exactly it is that we lament. Is it change? If so, is it the change itself, or what we've lost? Would we love a flower as much as we do if we knew that it would last forever? It's hard to say; I don't think it's ever happened before. A flower lasting forever, I mean.

I'm a little sick of the whole "I'm back!" business. I am, and every time I say "India was great!" I feel like I'm losing a little piece of what it really was to me, what it still is. I'm somewhat tired of considering loss and gain and moving on and being here. It all sounds so melodramatic, trite. Enough already with the angst! And that's how I feel, about what I say, when these words come out of my mouth and present themselves as what-it-should-be or what-it-was. My experience in India wasn't any what-it-should-be, and I realize that I don't have anybody to convince but myself. Even that is taking some doing...

I guess it's the same as how I feel about calling myself a feminist. On some level, I think I am. I've got a problem with the label though. (Among readers can be heard a sharp and simultaneous intake of breath. If she's not a feminist, then what the *&%# does she think she is?) Speaking of trite, let's lay it out; let's acknowledge that I'm not the first person to consider the meaning of the word "feminist." I, however, have an allegedly new angle. Just listen. When you call someone a "feminist", or say something was "great," it is flattened out into a poorly-taken photograph. The photo displays just enough so that you can draw in the rest with your imagination. You guess at the distance between the trees, the heat of the day, the moisture in the air, the glare of the sun. Or better, you don't consider any of these things. You look at the photo and think, 'Oh, trees.'

Suddenly, the photo is a picture of trees, rather than all those things that the photographer sought to capture that day on the trail, the things that made the photo worth taking. The feeling that there must be magic in these woods, the smell and softness of decaying leaves on the trail, those things are lost in memory. And when memory gets too bleached by the sun of life and living, overwritten by new experiences or the shadow of something bigger, then these things are simply lost.I guess that's how it's supposed to be, though. Experiences, memories, things, never stay with us forever. And if they do, they don't stay the same for us, there's no way they could. We change to much.

And here I didn't want to talk about being here and leaving there.

Once again, I'm inspired by Kate. Inspired to create, express, explore.

On Pirates, Book Reviews, and Intimate Irony

OOH! Kate is publishing her book about PIRATES! I'll get it for Graham who, at 12 years of age is about one skipped brushing away from transforming his hair into one large, seaworthy dread...

My heart stopped, and I looked away before I was spotted, before my attention brought any sort of self-consciousness to the scene upon which I had stumbled. I had gotten this book for Graham. He had said, upon receiving it 'Oh, cool,' and redirected what small part of his attention he had used to respond to me back to whatever he was doing- much more interesting. Obviously. But here he was, sitting at the kitchen table with his usual shades-of-tan dinner and...wait, what's that in his hand? OH NO! It's the DREAD CREW! There he sat, happily smacking his lips, eating his pizza with ketchup or chicken nuggets or similarly kid-approved meal item, patently unaware of anything but the grubby, swarthy, gnarly, brazen adventures unfolding on the projector-screen just behind his eyes.

Look Mom, he's reading the pirate book!

I know, he hasn't put it down. He loves it.

(Beams with victory and delight)

++++++

Hey Alex!

Hey Graham.

Do you know what my favorite part of "The Pirates of the Backwoods" was?

(Oh no, he's already finished it, and I'm not even half way done! He's going to spoil it! Make him STOP!!) Errr...what? (holds breath)

The "honey lessons." Like, "the undiscovered joys of occasional bathing." Huh huh huh.

(Whew! Already read that part. The irony, however, is not lost on me. Maybe you could take a lesson or two from Joe yourself; Eh, Mr My-Hair-Only-Looks-Cool-If-It-Hasn't-Been-Washed-For-A-Week? Undiscovered joys of bathing indeed!)

Blown out of the water with a SKREEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I turned on my computer with the intention of writing something very different. But these things happen, life get's in the way. My blogger dashboard (oh yes, that is blog-lingo, and yes, I am that cool. You knew it, I knew it, let's not pretend any longer...) opened and Gal had made a post just 19 minutes ago. Guess what? Dahlia is 6 today! I hardly need give any background, as anybody whose talked to me for 5 minutes knows who Dahlia is.

It was so funny, the other day, my friend Dahlia and I went to the park...
You went to the park?
Yeah, with my friend Dahlia.
(look of confusion, searching, reevaluating friendship with conversation partner)
She's 5.
5 years old?
Yeah.
What do you mean, she's your friend.
Uh...well...she's...my friend.

Gal, Dave, and Dahlia recently moved to Ohio. Away. We here on Mather Street have missed them all desperately, and today is no exception. Because look what they're doing! Look what Dahlia's becoming! How did that happen? At what point do the family members and acquaintances you see only sporadically stop saying "Look how tall you are!" and do you start noticing all the little people around you transforming into butterflies? Really tall butterflies...

I'm back home, whatever that means, and having an acute sensation of having wasted time. In India, in Iceland, time that's gone by leaving my hands just a little more weather-worn. Seeing Dahlia, thinking of her as a SIX-YEAR-OLD, gives me pause.

We met when she was 1 1/2, when I was...18? And nobody who knows Dahlia will be surprised to know that, after a few months of babysitting her part time, it occured to me for the first time in my life that I might not want to have kids. A fading violet Dahlia is not. She's a real princess, the kind that says 'No thanks I'd rather go play with my friends, and by the way, 100 years is too long to wait in a magical sleep. Step up your game sir, or you're going to be passing on your crown to your royal hound and her regal puppies. Who are SO cute, by the way. Can I name them?'

So, here's to the regal, splendid, effervescent, and indomitably vivacious Dahlia. Happy birthday Love!

December´s Endless Summer, Part 2

It´s going to be legen...wait for it...DARY!

On the cusp of returning home, leaving Iceland, feeling slightly wind-tossed and worn-down, looking forward to coming home and concerned that the glow of homecoming will wear off leaving behind, just, you know...normal life. What if that happens? What if I have to go back to real life? That would be...well...normal?

It´s funny traveling with sister-like creatures because, well, they´re sisters. And that means a lot of things. Infinite comfort and ease. Safety in the assurance that you´ll get wrapped in a soft down-comforter and cozied up with those warm bodies no matter how much of a dragon you´ve been all day.

And we all have our days.

And then there are those days. The days when you are your most wretched self because you´re exhausted with yourself, exhausted with the destructive rhythms which reappear over and over again between people you´ve known and loved and fought with over and over again. Those days though, don´t end with tears. And if they do, night pours ambrosia in your ear which mixes with your dreams, of memories of marco polo in California and buttered toast with jam and cheese in Iceland. You wake up, and it´s ok. It´s her, after all.

H: So, are you guys going back tomorrow?
S: Wait, what?!
H: Back to the pool...
S: Oh! I thought you meant back to California.
A: Yeah, jeeze, it wasn´t that bad of a day...

So I´ll be sad to leave. And glad to return, home and back to Iceland. No question.