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.