More Fit in 6 Minutes or FISM

We've begun.  Yesterday at the gym we started the Fit in 6 Minutes (FISM).  Unfortunately I can't remember what my heart rate went to:  was it 150? 146?  as I was paying more attention to how Richard was going.  He was trying but not hard.  His HR got to 81, not nearly high enough.  Trying to tread that fine line between encouragement and nagging, I did convince him to up his game enough that he actually became a little breathless for the final attempt.  We have to do four sessions of 30 seconds, 3 times a week. 

So.  Today I showed him the charts regarding age appropriate heart rates.  Fifty percent capacity for a 70 year old is 110.  Took his resting HR last night, 62 BPM, which is good (mine 72, above average).  Suggested that someone he doesn't like, who will remain nameless as this is a public space, was chasing him to 'have a chat'.  Brought up the transcript from the Catalyst program and read him appropriate parts.  Why wouldn't the FISM program be helpful for Parkinsons as it is also a disorder of the nervous system?  The segment on the mice who have been genetically engineered to age faster (how cruel is that?  that's a whole 'nother post) and who, with a tailored exercise program (running on a treadmill) didn't age at the same speed as the non-exercising control group, is very telling. 

Richard has never been sporty since I've known him.  He walks with me and is going to the gym, which is so outside his comfort zone and something he would never do under normal circumstances, and I'm very proud of him for that but he needs to be keen enough to experience real discomfort.  For instance, on one of the arm press machines, where the bar is pushed up, he was still on the lightest weight.  In all the months he'd been going it never occurred to him to push the weight up a little and he's been going for a few months longer than I!  So I encouraged him to increase the weight.  Ditto the bike.  Suggested that he could go higher than level 2.  Yesterday he was on level 7.  Yay!

He is also an old hand on the quadricep machine, the treadmill and the cross trainer, machines he avoided because they were too hard.  Therefore I am confident that with practice and getting used to the fact that working out hard for 30 seconds hurts, he will master FISM. 

In April, after four months of FISM, it will be interesting to take our resting heart rates again.   I trust that both will be improved, that we'll have less abdominal fat and more muscle.  And that maybe I'll notice that Parkinsons (and/or Alzheimers) will have less of a grip on Richard.

I am excited by the prospect.  This might be the answer.  No cure for old age and death but if we can feel good, stay active and mentally capable until we keel over, terrific.  Can't ask for more than that (except by the time we die all the animals are or will be looked after and loved and if I go first, that Richard is also looked after and loved).  Happy New Year!

Physically Fit in 6 minutes per Week

When information is presented to you which is the information you need right now, it can be nothing but proof that the Universe is connected to you in a personal and unique way.  Yesterday, a Sunday, a day for not doing too much, the telly was on while I attempted Technique #2 Wet on Wet with water soluble coloured pencils.  The ABC's Catalyst was on.  And the information it had was a showstopper.  Richard was doing the after lunch dishes.  I called him in to watch it. 

You can find the transcript or video here :  http://www.abc.net.au/catalyst/stories/4319131.htm 

The program was about the benefits of doing six minutes of flat chat cardio a week.  Not six minutes all at once but twelve 30 second sprints.  Sprints on the bike or running up hill or whatever.  It all has to do with improving mitochondrial function in the cells.

Narration
"In fact, in all of us, mitochondrial function gradually declines as time wears on."

Professor Mark Tarnopolsky
"Although they're very efficient at repairing themselves, eventually we can't keep up and the cells start to drop off in energy. When they drop off in energy, they lose their resilience and the cells end up dying and we can't replace our cells."


Professor Mark Tarnopolsky
"More recently, we've discovered that there can be acquired mitochondrial dysfunction that can occur in the presence of more common diseases such as Alzheimer's, obesity, type 2 diabetes and, in fact, human ageing has even been linked to mitochondrial dysfunction."

But, happily, research has shown that going flat out, to quote one of the researchers, as though you are running for your life, can reduce or reverse many of the effects of aging. 

This is huge.  Enormous.  Literally life changing.  And Richard watched it with me.  We are going to the gym 3 times a week so the basis is already there.  Now to convince him that he needs to start going hard at it.

He just came in and I outlined a plan.  If he tries to go flat chat for 30 seconds four times tomorrow he won't.  It will be too hard and the experiment will be over before we've started.  We've worked out that he will try to go 5 seconds as hard as he can four times.  Then on Friday, he'll try for 7 seconds (or 10 if the 5 second attempt wasn't that hard).  At any rate, build up to the 30 second interval. 

This is so exciting.  Kept giving thanks for the information, that we were there at the right time to catch this episode of Catalyst.

There was another bit of information which was interesting.  I've wondered why I have this spare tyre around my middle that I can't shake.  I'm pretty active, my weight is ok (55kg for 5'4") yet this ring of fat sits around my waist.  Catalyst explained that it is because of menopause.  It's common in menopausal women to have 'visceral fat', bad fat because it coats my internal organs.  And it doesn't look good either and makes fitting clothes that bit more difficult.  This explains much for it seemed to appear out of nowhere and my basic shape, that I've lived with all my adult life, had significantly changed without  the changes in my eating/exercise habits to account for it.

I'd already started, not knowing what I was doing, 15 second 'sprints' on the cross trainer, first legs, then next 15 seconds, arms, with 15 seconds of light exercise in between.  Yesterday, before watching the program, I upped it to 20 second sprints with 20 second rest in between.  Tomorrow I may go for 30 seconds - although I'm not sure I'm fit enough to go as hard as I can for a full 30 seconds.  Maybe, like Richard, I'll build up to it and try for 25 seconds.  At any rate I'll try.

I am so excited about this as I suspect this will really help allay the effects of Parkinsons in Richard and if I'm correct in thinking he has the beginning of Alzheimers, it will help that too.  There is hope for us after all.  Our future is looking much brighter.  Thank you Universe.

Another Christmas

Another Christmas.  How they whirl past, one after another.  We have, save for a quick gift delivery to neighbours, spent it at home.  We had planned to drive to either Picnic Point or the  Range Lookout this morning, while the roads were still quiet, to have a coffee and enjoy the view.  Rain, however, put an end to that.  The promised rain has not eventuated, this morning's drizzle not counting for much so it's been quite a pleasant day - although I would've preferred a cozy rain confined day at home.  The grass has recovered but still we are in drought.  The soil is bone dry beneath a very narrow band at the surface.

The last vestige of small talk and small writing; the weather.  I have these thoughts I want to explore when I am no where near the computer (or a notebook) and have no chance of pursuing them.  

One of them is the nature of guilt and punishment.  Again.  I'm not Catholic but repeatedly I return to this train of thought.  If I don't get what I want or something bad happens, is it punishment, is it karma?  Am I not holding my mouth just right?   This house still hasn't sold and there's a part of me that believes it's my fault, that I don't deserve to live in a place more suited to me than here which is, although beautiful, killing me slowly as I watch the .... have to say it, environmental vandals/philistines/rednecks destroy it by degrees.  For years I've watched as the bush is chipped away through burning and now, tree clearing, which seems to be the new tool of the cognoscenti farmer.

I cry when I see, almost daily, the results of the latest attack.  Or at least my eyes well up with tears.  Perhaps I now qualify as a silly old woman for crying about the loss of the bush.  And maybe it's selfish to not want to feel bad when I see the new piles of freshly bulldozed trees waiting to be burnt.  But I do.  So I feel guilty because I'm still here, the house hasn't sold and I must be doing something wrong. 

Or am I being selfish to influence Richard this way?  He'd stay if I said I'd stay.  He doesn't ride through the bush so he doesn't feel as strongly as I do about its demise.  If I talk about the creatures who die when they burn it hurts him so I don't talk about it.  So I suppose I am being selfish in pushing for this but in the end, I have to.  Being old here is out of the question (or should I say older).  Is it sinful to want more (or something different) when I already have so much and billions of people have next to nothing?  There is much guilt attached to that.

The other side of me says, I am already blessed in being well fed, clothed and housed.  I just want to change locations, spend Christmas in the Tweed Valley rather than the Lockyer Valley.  So get over it, stop feeling guilty and just get on with it!

watercolour and graphite and ink

One way to overcome my art paralysis, which occurs because of wanting things to be perfect and not make mistakes, is to teach myself watercolour.  Have always been terrified of watercolour.  The ultimate anal retentive bugaboo; uncontrollable watercolour.  Watercolour that dribbles and drips, runs and leaks, smears and smudges.  Watercolour that works from dark to light so you'd better decide where your highlights are because once painted you can't change your mind.


Happily with my book collecting tendencies I have instruction.  Actually thought I'd start with water soluble coloured pencils.  The resulting disaster shown on the previous post.  Figured if I did an exercise a day from Painting with Water-Soluble Coloured Pencils by Gary Greene I'd have to improve.  Plus, it doesn't hurt to form good working habits.  As it is I'm a bit haphazard in my approach to art.


And time is running out.  I'm 60 and if I want to learn how to draw/paint I'd better get at it.  (A sad comment on getting older.  Went to the local reject shop looking for cheap watercolour brushes.  At the checkout the young man said that if I had a Seniors Card I'd get a discount.  That was sad enough.  What was sadder was that I did indeed have a Seniors Card to produce!  There is no escape.  Old age and death awaits and the clock is ticking.


Anyway, I have finished a drawing. It's mostly graphite with some ink.  The photo has cut off parts of it.  One day I'll learn to take good photos with a good camera.  It's called Metamorphosis.

A Gasp from the Past

Kathy, a childhood friend, sent a link to the Sentinel Leader, the newspaper for Sparta.  I have spent most of today doing searches for references to Mom and Dad and Sparta Aviation. 

A couple of things of note.  When Tam was 9 months old, Mom and a woman called Irene Heft rented a house in Ft. Myers Florida for a few months.  Why?  I know Mom and Irene were friends and then had a falling out.  Over what I don't know.  Perhaps Tam does.  I did meet her, have a vague memory of going to her house when I was young.  Met her again in later years and have a somewhat dim recollection of her being a bit overbearing or gush-prone.  She is mentioned another time in the paper with Mom, a social visit to another woman. 

Mom had obviously come to know a columnist on this small paper, Carol Holmes Kurtz.  Perhaps because Mom for a time wrote a small column called Hangar Talk.  Anyway, Mike, Mom's last cat came from Mrs. Kurtz.  She writes about it here :  http://spartahistory.org/newspaper_splits/The%20Sentinel%20Leader/1958/The%20Sentinel%20Leader%20-%2007_1958%20-%20Page%2015%20.pdf

Another issue:  http://spartahistory.org/newspaper_splits/The%20Sentinel%20Leader/1945/The%20Sentinel%20Leader%20-%2012_1945%20-%20Page%2018%20.pdf has a photo of Dad and his grandmother Mrs. Combs after he had taken her for a flight on her 84th birthday.

Found too that Dad had been a Captain in the RAF.  If he mentioned that during my childhood, I missed it.  Dad was many things but he wasn't one to skyte about his achievements.  He loved his time in the Transport Command, said it was the happiest time of his life, but he didn't brag about it.  He flew bombers to England and to Africa.  Would've been a pretty thrilling time, to say the least, especially flying the North Atlantic, notorious for its storms.

I was mentioned once,when I was 2 and known as Cupcake.

A Few Brief Moments of Losing My Mind

Something quite creepy and impossible to explain has happened.  And I did it.

Yesterday I had a play with water soluble coloured pencils and a new water brush (Koi).  I don't do watercolour so the result was pretty awful.  The pencil sketch of Natalia wasn't too bad but the painting is hideous.   That isn't the creepy bit though.  On the left hand side, in ink I wrote 'first attempt water soluble pencils, no highlights!'  Now the creepy bit.  I also wrote 'Rather lots of spinach. Fat horse on DGR not truly seen by O."  This is written on the same slant in the same messy cramming-it-in-on-the-side handwriting, which means it looks as though it was a natural continuation of the comment on the painting.

But I don't remember writing it.

And I don't know what it means.

Why would I write about spinach?  We eat spinach, a fair amount actually but we didn't have any last night (we had Thai Peanut Fried Rice).  As for the fat horse on Dry Gully Road not truly seen by O, I assume that O means owner.  I do have a fat horse, Dakota, who is confined to the Peach, aka Jenny Craig, Paddock because he has grass foundered again.  So that makes a bit of sense, as though I wrote about myself not truly seeing he was getting into difficulty by getting too fat (even my farrier is surprised that he founders so easily as he isn't cresty nor does he have that typical cellulite dimpled hindquarter).  In any case, that sentence could make sense but why write in the third person and why don't I remember writing it?

I clearly remember writing about the painting, shown here: 

It is a mystery.  Unless I am going senile.  There are some other possibilities; that I fell asleep or into some kind of daydream and that allowed physical expression, ie writing, at the same time as I dreamed.  Or I entered into some kind of fugue state (Britannica.com...psychogenic fugue, or fugue state) presents as sudden, unexpected travel away from one's home).  Home in this case being a normal, ie conscious, state of mind.  

Guess I'll never know.  I do know that despite the frisson of fear (what if I am losing my marbles?) having a mystery is rather nice.  A good dollop of the unexplained to liven things up.

    

The Power of Cranky Prayer

Raining. 

I give thanks a lot.  It is not so much a thought but more a sort of visceral breath which emanates gratitude.  I say this to contrast it with the exasperated prayer of yesterday.  My prayer was, 'Just make it effing rain, right?' 

 For days, nay weeks, I have watched the radar as  storms brew up to the west, march toward us in a wall of blue and yellow and orange only to split and pass to the north and south, reform on the other side and carry on to the coast.  I try, I really do try, to remain composed and indifferent to the vagaries of the weather, I try to remain aloof and non-judgmental when neighbours burn the living crap out of their land year after weary smoke filled year.  I try to welcome all that is as It Is What It Is and I'm damn grateful to be here experiencing another 'ordinary day'.  But sometimes, just sometimes, I get fed up, shake my fist at the sky and in bad grace invoke grace.

And it worked.  Despite a totally different forecast, I woke to the sound of rain and although at 2:30pm, it is just about finished, it has drizzled all day. 

Wonder if I can invoke, 'just let us win the damn lotto,' would have the same outcome.  Or 'sell the damn house!' 

Sometimes I coast along quite happily here (especially after it's rained) and don't mind that we are not on the coast but other times it's a hunger.

Coincidentally, a program on the community TV about an eco-village in Currumbin Valley.  Wouldn't suit us as we've all the animals but I could feel the coastal vibe.

Bring it on!  Right?

Richard, as I write, is in the Princess Alexandra hospital in Brisbane.  He fainted again.  Like he did a year or more ago.  We'd gone to Anthony's 50th birthday party.  He was standing at the kitchen bench talking to someone when he fainted.  I was around the corner, heard the crash and was, I was going to say instantly by his side but as there were two paramedics, a nurse and a doctor surrounding him, the closest I could get was at one remove.  But he was conscious and talking, a bit vague, as to expected but at least conscious.  The previous faint he was out unconscious for half a minute?  Time seems to expand during something like that, when the nature of reality tears ever so slightly and the fragility of existence is exposed through the rent.

He'd only had one beer and had had a little bit to eat, not much as it was a catered party with hors d'oeuvres and finger food, but something.  He'd had a good lunch.  Everything was normal except for the nature of the party itself.  The physicality of a cocktail party is illustrated by standing, small steps and maybe sitting with a small plate balanced on your knee.  Richard hadn't taken a seat in the hour and a half we were there.  He'd moved all of six or eight feet between the deck and the kitchen.  Suspect the blood pooled in his legs and wasn't getting pumped around his body, much less to his brain.

Spoke to him this morning and he sounds okay.  I've got his hearing aid and he hasn't had his Parky medication so a bit muzzy.

Just got off the phone from Anthony.  He's going to the hospital to sit with him and hopefully bring him home to his house.  I'm going to head off about 10 and pick Richard up - all being well.  Should be no reason why they need to keep him in another night.

At least we can guard against this happening in the future.  Trips to the hospital and tests and all that muck is not going to be our new reality.  Except for the parky meds and panadol for his back, Richard is on no medication which is pretty good for his age.  He walks 3km 7 days a week, goes to the gym 3 days a week and eats extremely well, a mostly vegetarian diet save for a daily serving of fish.  His attitude is good, he loves and is loved, oh how he is loved.

So, although I am thankful we live in a world where he can be taken to the hospital and examined by competent and caring staff, it's a perk I would rather not have to enjoy.

What Misogynists Fear

Have been inspired and horrified by a storm taking place on another blog Fight Like a Girl by Clementine Ford ( http://clementinefordwriter.blogspot.com.au ).  She a feminist and a writer which seems to be license for men (I use the noun reservedly) to come out from under rocks and abuse her.  Abuse her with the most vile and vulgar language, sometimes with vile and vulgar photos attached, one can imagine.  I had no idea there was so much hatred of women by men who often appear in their facebook photos with wives/girlfriends and most bewilderingly, avec leur famille.

The second thing that strikes me is how normal they look.  They look like the guy in line with me at the grocery store, the guy at the gym, the guy that lives up the road with his family.  It seems almost all of them are in their twenties and thirties and they all seem to have this sense of entitlement, that  the right to verbally abuse, even threaten women, is theirs by divine decree.

Which brings me to the third thing.  We generally hate what we fear.  These macho men who describe in excruciating detail what they will do to Clementine if they meet her in the street, are AFRAID of women.  Sure, they might be married, have girlfriends, love their mother and their sister, but beyond that they are terrified.  Why are they so frightened of us?

Clementine was attacked because she wielded a pen.  In a physical contest, she's no match.  I remember my mother warning me (she knew, as all women knew) that the weakest man is stronger than a strong woman.  Perhaps now, in this day of strength training and gyms that might not be universally true anymore, but 50 years ago, when this advice was given, it certainly was.  Stay safe, don't put yourself in danger, stay small and quiet and acquiescent because a weak man is stronger than a strong woman.

Unless she parries and thrusts with a pen, then by god, she's any man's equal.  To a man who marches through life on muscles and testosterone, that's anathema.

The other reason these types of men are afraid is because we SEE them.  We are not blinded by physical appearances, we see the frightened little boys who are afraid they will be caught out as little men.  Any woman who has had an intimate relationship with a man knows he isn't always manly.  Manliness implies courage, respecting oneself and others, being comfortable in ones own skin.  The lightning quick ferocity with which these men struck out at Clementine illustrates how emasculated they feel when approached on a level playing field.

They remind me of  dogs made aggressive by fear.  Fear aggression was scary to deal with at the vet clinic.  The dogs were in a heightened state of arousal; eyes bulging in an attempt to see everything at once, lips curled back showing teeth, hackles raised, tail either straight or curled between their legs.  They attacked with an abandon fueled by terror.  To them it was a matter of life or death.  They didn't know we just wanted to give them an injection or trim their toenails.  Their reaction was out of all proportion.

Just like these trolls on social media.  If they weren't so dangerous they'd be pitiable.

'Our' dream house has sold.  Last week, the stunning Burringbar house was sold to some lucky family.  Felt quite sad for a bit.  However, if we haven't got it than it's not meant to be.  Have found another property (6 acres) near Cobaki for $730,000.  Beautiful old refurbished place with a view, much better grazing for the horses (one of the few drawbacks of the Burringbar house), much closer to the kids, the coast, the amenities.  Not that it will last long.  It's such a nice little place in a prime location that someone will soon buy it.

But I am not dismayed!  Have decided not to look at any properties until we have a contract on this one.  Have also decided that we will drop the price in the New Year, perhaps hitting the psychologically significant below $400,000 mark, like $399,999 or some such silliness. 

At the moment we are enduring heat waves.  Was 40 on Saturday.  Will be 38 for the next two days.  Doesn't make the idea of showing the house very attractive.  And it's been so miserable that we've done little outside.  I need to do the whole sweep rake cobweb thing again.  The geckos, bless them, are prolific poopers so every sill is peppered with two tone poo, rather like bird poo, which is just another clue to indicate birds descended from reptiles. 

Still working on the same drawing.  Slowly slowly pulling it into shape.  Sometimes, looking at the stunning work on Pinterest, I wonder why I persevere.  But then, whether my work is good or not, I cannot NOT draw. 

My sister has started following me on Pinterest.  At least we are in touch, by one remove but better than nothing.  Was so satisfying when we were emailing nearly every day when she was in Charlevoix.  I'm my own worst enemy because I'm not social and social occasions are difficult for me, yet it is sometimes lonely.  Richard is my darling but the relationship has changed because of his illness and mentally we aren't covering the same ground anymore. 

But I'm not going to slide into complaining and sadness.  We are healthy, have everything (can almost feel the solid tug on my bootstraps) so shut up and get on with it. 

Will go do yoga, with all fans blazing.  That always helps. 

Paris and the Terrorist Toddler Tantrums

Feel the need to write about the tragedy unfolding in Paris but am somewhat lost for words.  Back to the same conundrum - the nature of evil, black because we have white, light and darkness, on and off?  Having to accept these opposites to know the existence of, well, existence? 

But I can't excuse it that easily.  The mind of someone who, despite being indoctrinated, brainwashed, trained and promised glory in the afterlife, can indiscriminately kill and then, without hesitation, blow themselves up, is beyond me.  It's like trying to understand the thought processes of a dung beetle.  And I like dung beetles.  They do a great job and they're fascinating to watch but still, they're dung beetles. 

It's an alien intelligence.  I suppose if you think the world is coming to an end, which isis apparently does, than anything goes.  But they aren't mercy killings.  Drowning men in cages, setting them alight, beheading, all acts in the Theatre of the Cruel - acts which proclaim the pure evil of isis' allah.   Killing the infidels, the *apostates*, seems an exercise in futility when the end of the world is nigh.  Why bother?  Why establish a caliphate?  Why do anything? 

I suspect these terrorists, hate filled as they are, are really frightened.  Becoming a jihadist  - isn't it really about belonging?  about being recognized?  If you die killing others in the name of allah, then you will be one of the beloved of the prophet, surrounded by your admiring (dead) family and friends.  You are part of the group.  You're not alone.  You have a purpose (of sorts) and the scared little boy (or girl) has a support system for eternity.  The extreme cowardice and selfishness of the needy baby. 

Nevertheless, they must be stopped.  I have no sympathy.  They have chosen their reality and it is one of death and destruction.  People should have the right to choose their destiny and when they've chosen to have a nice meal at a good Cambodian restaurant on a Friday night in Paris, they should do so without toddlers having tantrums with AK-47s.

A Small Tribute to a Small Black Insect

Rushing past the kitchen sink this morning, I glanced down and saw a small black insect, about the size of a tomato seed, drifting drowned and dead through the wash water caught in a plate.  I stopped, and bending, peered closer to see what kind of insect it was.  It had short legs and antennae, a round body and seemed uniformly black.  It might have been a baby cockroach.  I don't know.  But it stopped me, at least momentarily, in my tracks. 

Just a tiny death in a world of death and destruction.  Hardly worth a second look, much less a second thought.  Yet it looked so forlorn, this tiny black insect wafting through the tiny current of splashed water.  It had existed, now it did not.  A chord was struck.

How valuable is life?  I am almost vegan yet I vacuum daddy long legs and stable flies while tenderly removing baby praying mantis, moths and wasps outside.  In playing God, I feel a slight, very slight, shadow of guilt when an insect is condemned to the swirling death of the vacuum. 

But it doesn't keep me awake at night.

Isn't that fly or spider as worthy of life as the praying mantis?  A thumbs up or thumbs down is determined purely on how I perceive the insect.  Flies are pests,  black and hairy, connoisseurs of dung and carrion and therefore doomed.  Praying mantis, with their humanlike folded arms, and despite eating flies alive starting at the head, are *cute* and therefore allowed to live.

But all creatures are different.  In flocks of galahs, all the birds look exactly the same,  yet I know from experience they are not.  Why should it be any different for smaller creatures? 

Loren Eiseley, the author, if I recall correctly, once wrote about stumbling on a curb, falling and bloodying his nose.  Rather than lamenting the accident and the pain he endured, he lamented the red blood cells, spilling on the pavement, to die in the sun. Thousands, perhaps millions of red blood cells, all alike yet all individual.  All dead.

When I sometimes cut myself and bleed I remember that.  We are not what we think we are.  We are a community of creatures, working more or less harmoniously, so that we may have the illusion that we have an identity, the identity of a smallish singular god, absolute and independent and complete. 

But we are not.  Whether we like it or not.  We are connected to everything and everything is connected to us.  Even to a small drowned insect in a not too special sink in a not too special house on a not too special Saturday morning in the country. 

The Gym and Parkinsons Disease

Richard has been going to gym about twice a week for over a month.  It has made a difference but I noticed he was stuck on 3 machines, two machines which work the arms and the bike.  Stopped in one day with him, not dressed in gym gear, but had a go on lots of machines and got hi to try a machine which would really open up his chest.  (One of the effects of Parkinsons is the closing in, the physical curling up, rounding over of the body.  The other day while walking, his arm kept lifting until his fist was in his sternum.  That's the position he takes with both arms when at rest.  Parkinsons is a disease which requires vigilance and mindfulness - the very things it erodes). 

Discussed at length whether I should join or not as I didn't want to cramp his style or intrude in a place that was his own but he was pretty clear.  It would be nice if I joined.  So I did.  

The second time I went with him I got him to try the cross trainer.  What a perfect machine for Parkinsons!  The first time I realized something was wrong with Richard is when I heard him shuffling on the way to the loo one night.  Parkinsons causes shuffling.  On the cross trainer one must lift the weight and press down to make it go, even though the foot doesn't actually come off the plate.  Took Richard a bit of effort to get it going (there is also the benefit of having both sides of the body/brain exercised).

The follow on effect was noticeable.  Our afternoon walk was almost brisk and he walked with more authority in his stride. 

I think we're on the right track and it's all due to Wilma who told me about a woman with Parkinsons at her local gym (Wilma is in her 70's) who has been transformed with the help of exercise.

Richard is also getting some muscle tone back.   And it won't hurt me either.  I don't get any cardio with yoga and walking so getting on the bike or cross trainer and going like the clackers gets my heart rate up without hurting my joints.

I won't make the same mistake as before when I went to the gym by lifting too much and hurting my neck.  It's really quite exciting as it will benefit us both while giving us something we can do together.   Instead of twice a week I'll try for three times. 

The Dentist and a Lesson in Spirit

Went back to the dentist because of pain.  What a pain!  Knew being scared before the visit was in fact enduring it twice but the mind has a mind of its own (so back to meditating with a vengeance to try and tame it!).  Then, Oh Joy Oh Happiness, the dentist, after reading the write-up of previous visit, thought it might be better to try non-invasive techniques first.  Swelling has gone, as if in answer to reprieve and I can live with the nerve pinging with hot or cold (have had that in other teeth for a long time but this one is somewhat acute). 

Part of me stood back and was amazed at the transformation experienced physically, emotionally and mentally with that news.  Like someone flicked a switch.   Where before I was small and sad and frightened, I was large and light and bright with joy.

When I am frightened the world becomes very small because it is all centered on me and my fear.  A pinprick of fear, a pinprick of awareness.  What an illustration.  What a testament to trying to live big, like an ever expanding balloon of gaiety.       

Many years ago I fainted in a theatre during the movie, The Other Side of Midnight, some trashy soap opera whose memorable scene, the attempted (successful?  I don't know I was unconscious)  abortion in a bathtub with a wire hanger.  When I came to I had the profound sensation of being squeezed back into my body.  The I that had temporarily vacated the physical was limitless and bore as much relation to my person as a seed is to a sequoia.

Despite returning to this episode repeatedly I forget the significance of it.  We are more than our bodies, more than our minds, more than our sensations, more than our pedestrian awareness.  I don't know how much more.  Not even sure I am equipped to grasp it, nevertheless it should never be forgotten.

Sometimes it takes a trip to the dentist to be reminded.                  

Needle Phobia - It's Real and It's Not My Fault!

Last week I bit down on a date seed and part of a molar sheared off.  I, who go to great lengths to avoid doctors of any kind, had to go to the dentist to get it repaired.  The nerve was pinging. 

A very nice Indian? woman called coincidentally, Keziah, was my dentist.  I felt I was doing okay but did warn her that I had a 'thing with needles'.  Bear in mind that I haven't had an injection of any sort for at least 15, maybe 20 years. 

It didn't hurt much.  She had to inject several sites around the tooth.  Nevertheless, I was gutted by my reaction.  Tears continuously seeped from my eyes, I felt dizzy and if the chair hadn't been tilted so far back that my head was below my hips, I may have fainted.  I couldn't speak.  When it was over and the technician indicated that I could rinse out my mouth, my hand shook so much I could hardly pick up the cup

I was ashamed and embarrassed.  I will be 60 next month.  Why do I have such an infantile reaction to needles?  And why is it worse now than ever?  (The same reaction goes for gynecological exams.  The last one, over 20 years ago, traumatized me so much that I have not had another).

Thank god, Thank God! for Google!  Just typed in needle injection phobia (http://www.needlephobia.com/)  and found I am not an immature freak.  I haven't finished reading it yet because I am crying, partly in recognition, partly in relief, and partly because I can forgive myself.  

It seems I have two types of needle phobias. 
The first type is..." the vasovagal reflex reaction.  In ordinary language, they faint (or nearly faint) and occasionally go into convulsions before, during or after a needle procedure.  It is a part of what is known as blood-injury-injection phobia.  This is a purely biological reaction, probably genetic, and is completely distinct from all other kinds of phobia.  It is usually triggered, initially at least, by the sensation (which is not necessarily painful) of a needle entering the body. (That's what I told the dentist, when I could speak again.  It wasn't the pain, it was being punctured).

2. The second type of needle phobia is the classic phobia.  This results from a early traumatic experience during a medical needle procedure.  In the case of needle phobia, it is usually a medical event that occurs between the ages of roughly 3 and 6 years.  Due to the carelessness and general thoughtlessness of medical professionals toward young children, this type of needle phobic has recently been rising at an astronomical rate.  It has overtaken the first type in number of cases, and it now far exceeds vasovagal needle phobia.  The recent explosion in the percentage of the population with this type of needle phobia, as documented in a number of medical studies, is an indication that the medical profession is doing something very wrong in the way that it deals with young children, and that this situation has gotten considerably worse in recent years.

3. There is a sub-type of the "classic phobia" that some people have separated out as a separate type.  That is the combative/resistive type of needle phobia.   Some otherwise tranquil people can become quite combative with medical personnel when facing a needle procedure.   This probably results from the all-too-common practice of one or more large adults holding down a small child, often using great force, during needle procedures in childhood."

I don't have the third sub-type of the classic phobia as I don't become violent but I remember clearly, on more than one occasion, trying to outrun teachers and nurses, being cornered and forcibly given an injection when I was a child, the last instance was when I was in 5th grade.  My reputation was such that I was always left until last and all the other children were out of the room.  

I think I ran and fought because I always fainted and losing consciousness and the sensations experienced prior to losing consciousness were so frightening.  That poor little girl.  And I was always made to feel ashamed and BAD because of hating injections so much.  

Interestingly, "Vasovagal needle phobia is a genetic trait that had survival value for humans prior to the 20th century.   Before modern medicine, an individual with an inordinate fear of being stuck with a fang, a thorn or a knife was less likely to die in accidents or in encounters with hostile animals or men.   Prior to the 20th century, even an otherwise non-fatal puncture wound had a reasonable chance of causing a fatal infection.   This trait that had positive survival value prior to the 20th century now has a negative survival value since it shuts its victims off from many of the benefits of 21st-century medicine."

Hence, my choice of words, 'being punctured'.  Having the protective layer, my skin, breached.  It is such a strong image, keeping my skin inviolate and now I begin to understand why. So I could ask for:  topical anesthesia... to totally eliminate the sensation of being stuck by a needle.   It is necessary to temporarily block the site of the needle procedure from sending the needle puncture signals to the brain."

One strategy I employed when I had to have a needle before I could travel to PNG was to pay for the injection first, get all the paperwork out of the way, and warn the staff that after the injection I would be sprinting out of the building.  I got the shot in the fat pad above my hip, pulled my shorts over the site and bolted.  This was in Cairns.  I power walked until I knew I would not faint.  It took a while.  

Part of the shame of fainting is wetting myself while unconscious and when I wake up having to go to the toilet NOW.  For a number two.  It seems part and parcel of the same thing I notice when my horse Balthazar is upset.  When he's anxious he poops and keeps pooping until there's nothing left to poop.  Does he do this so he can run?  Is it the same reason for me?  I may have a veneer of civilization sitting atop this mammalian/reptilian brain but I'm still just a critter in the hostile jungle at heart. 

I also have a phobia about gynecological examinations, hearing or reading about detailed women 'stuff' so much so that when i googled the site - and there is one, I couldn't read it.
Another day, another blog. 

How does one exist in the moment while simultaneously thinking/planning/dreaming of the future?  Mindfulness is all very good.  Getting oneself back to the living breathing infinity of now to counteract the centrifugal pressures of information overload. 

Sometimes I think it would be better not to keep up with current affairs.  After all, it's always and again, 'wars and rumours of war'.  Humanity hasn't changed, we just wage our wars on a bigger scale and with better news coverage (with instantaneous real time video).  With the continuous onslaught of how horrible we are to each other, to the earth and to all living things, I need to bring myself back to here and now.

There's no better way to do that, for me anyway, than to be in nature.  I'm a lousy meditator and have pretty much given up trying to meditate.  Later on I'm sure, I'll drag out my pillow and set the clock and focus on my breath but after round after round after round of practice with little change I have had enough.

(as an aside:  One is instructed to just be aware of the coming and going of thoughts, like puffs of air on the surface of water, while not getting involved with them.  Even that is beyond me.  When I'm thinking a thought, I'm the thought.   I can't stand outside the thought to observe the thought wafting about on the surface on my mind   It may occur to me later that I'm thinking and I'll let that particular thought go, so I can sense the dichotomy of the thought and me as the thought.  Nevertheless, that little bit of meditation wisdom is beyond my ability).

But in Nature.  That is another thing entirely.  I become like a sponge.  I can almost feel the buzz of life; trees growing, grasses growing, insects munching, walking, flying, eating and being eaten, the continuous hum of life.  The very air seems alive.  My ears seem to expand until they are the size of dinner plates.  I look up and there is the sky.  The Sky!  A continuous look through infinity if we'll just raise our gaze.  And the clouds, like white schooners, solid yet amorphous, drifting over me, me looking up and making them real by seeing them.  How little we take in.  It is much easier for me to BE when in nature.  It is easy not to be defined by thought for all my thought is defined by the boundless Self in Nature. 

Sometimes when I've been inside for a long time and I step out under the sky, I can feel my spirit expand to match the limitlessness of it.  Until that moment I didn't realize I was constrained, constricted and made little by four walls and a ceiling.  It is those moments when planning or dreaming of a future is just a game to amuse the human element.  The spirit is always infinite.

For weeks I worked on a large drawing, used up a couple of coloured pencils, kept trying to find a way to make it work but it was just throwing good time after bad.  There comes a point when I just had to say it's crap and it's always going to be crap.  So I burned it.

What a relief!  As soon as the paper charred and smoke curled up the chimney a weight lifted.  Sometimes I think the credo to reduce reuse and recycle weighs too heavily so that any art work attempted has to be worthy.  Sometimes frankly, it is not.  Just have to let it go and let go of the demands on myself for *perfection*. 

Art is an exploration, my exploration of my world and myself.  It isn't good or bad, it just is.  I'm not making it for some art buying public, it's not going to a gallery, or even a show (although I have shown).  Of course I'd be lying if I said I didn't care about it not pleasing others.  It's wonderful when someone likes my work.  One highlight of that horrible night when R fainted and the ambulance was called was the enthusiasm of one of the paramedics for  my work.  Such a strange sensation to be chuffed on the one hand and worried on the other.

So I burned that last work and have started on another, shown below.  This photo, taken from our new phone, is a practice run.  Trying to learn how to take photos with the phone and also how to save them onto the computer.  So it's not a great photo but it gets the idea across.  The drawing is coming along.  Hope to upload a finished version - made more difficult because we don't have phone reception here so must take the photo then go elsewhere to send it to myself. 

 

But I do like this drawing.  Unlike the previous one.  If I don't muck it up.

Life in *Bits*

Must be the new(ish) ways to communicate; Instagram and Twitter and such things for the blogs I follow are no longer active, or only show signs of life every month or so.

Seems we think in bits now.  We consume our news in bits, we talk in bits, we message in bits, we show pictures (at least they're worth a 1000 words) of ourselves.  These selfie bits others taste on this Moving Digital Feast where no one gets a full meal. 

Kind of sad really.

Suspect that as time goes on we will lose the capacity to think anything through.  If we can't grasp it in 140 characters or less we'll just toss it in the too hard basket and move on.  I notice that in myself.  I'll read some editorial on Huff Post, get half or 3/4 of the way through, find my attention wandering to the picture on the side bar of the cobra and python battle and click on that. 

Kind of sad really.

Even books.  I don't read nearly as much as I used to.  I read in bits.  Always getting up to check the computer, or just getting up to do something else.  Years ago I'd stake out a claim on one end of the couch and read for hours.   Or, with a really good book, stay up all night.  Now I grab 10 minutes there, half an hour there.

Kind of sad really.

But what isn't sad is - Richard has joined the gym!  He'd stopped doing yoga, hadn't done any physio prescribed exercises for months and was just curling further and further into himself.  This is a hard thing to see for he had such terrific posture.  Damn Parkinsons!  Anyway, besides the afternoon walk (or walk/shuffle) and any chores he undertook, he wasn't doing anything.  And I had a hissy fit.  Had to stop nagging him as it was making us both miserable and wasn't really doing any good.  So hard to see him scrunched over and not say anything but had to bite my tongue.  I will copy his posture sometimes to show how extremely bad it is; a sort of visual nag, but I don't say anything.  Never nagged about doing yoga, just hoped he would, that he would be motivated to want to fight the symptoms of parky but he didn't.

Hence the hissy fit.  Said not to be so damn selfish and to think of me and the kind of companion I was going to have in the future because he wasn't doing anything today, that he wasn't a self-starter and how did he ever run a successful drug squad without being a self-starter. etc etc.  Then I told him of Wilma's gym buddy, a woman with parkinsons who has experienced a major turnaround because of working out.

So he joined.  Went yesterday and today he is really really sore.

Not sad really.  Not at all.

Hyper Senstivie about Hyper Sensitivity

I've put off writing here for various reasons, none of them very compelling.  Tonight, sans dinner, I have the time and energy (ever notice how digestion robs one of energy?) to tread around an idea purling around my brain of late.

The idea?  That I am an HSP, a HyperSensitivePerson.  Proof?  I cannot recite, with attention, the stanza from The Ancient Mariner:  The spirit who bideth by himself, In the land of mist and snow, Who loved the bird that loved the man, Who shot him with his bow.

Tears spring to my eyes and if I dwell upon it I would cry, not only cry but boohoo.  Or, last night watching an Irishman canoe the River Shannon, talking about a male corn crake calling uselessly for a female who will not come, I bawled.  Filled a hanky with snot and tears.

I cannot watch certain tv shows or movies (have not watched The War Horse or Avatar despite them being given as gifts on DVDs because I know I would cry and I'm sick of crying at the behest of others).

Much of my adult online media digital life is spent avoiding things which will reduce me to snotandtears.  Ditto people.  I like people but spend an inordinate amount of time avoiding them, avoiding social obligations, avoiding minutes - which seem like hours - of seemingly scripted small talk.  I know, KNOW, it's harmless, it is the oil of social connectivity, what we use as a substitute to smelling each other's bums.  Nevertheless, these things exhaust me.  Why I am not a party goer, a ladies who lunch lady, why I have few friends, something I regret but which comes with the territory of being me.

I am my mother's daughter after all.


Don't know whether I still have the poem but when going through Mom's things after she died I found a poem she'd written in defence of being a watcher rather than a doer, that the world was full of doers but the world needed watchers to appreciate the doers.   I do do.  But I do privately rather than publicly. 

I do wish I was otherwise.  Life, in many respects, would be easier.  But would it be better?  To fit into the mold of what a 'good' person should be?  That those with a strong sense of community live longer, happier more satisfying lives?  How lovely for them.  But if my nature is one that is exhausted by social interactions, who finds what others take in their stride abhorrent and excruciatingly sad, is that so awful?

I think observing the Creation takes all types and if some of us are too much affected by the seemingly mundane, so be it. 

Bernie Sanders, Need I Say More?

USA politics are not my usual subject matter.  Despite having dual citizenship, I no longer live there and no longer have the right to vote.  Nevertheless, what is happening on the road to the presidency is the alpha and omega.  On the omega side, every GOP candidate, with special mention being made of Donald Trump.  If American elects him to the Presidency it has vanquished itself from the world stage.  No one would ever take America seriously again.  America is no longer a leader, not since we traded ideology for the corporate bottom line (and the tragedy that is Guantanamo Bay) but its demise will be hastened by the leadership of The Donald (fitting that he is referred to as a brand).  Mark Shields (or was it David Brooks?) on PBS said everything with Trump is transactional and that he is a cynic without ideology.  Shields (or Brooks) nailed it.

The entire GOP line-up seem to be misogynistic hawks, hell bent on a war on women and war period (no pun intended).

 Loved the tweet from Justina Ireland commenting on the recent top tier all male GOP debate:  @tehawesomersace

WOW THAT'S A LOT OF MEN I LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING THEIR OPINIONS ON HOW I SHOULD USE MY UTERUS. 

On the alpha side is Bernie Sanders.   What a breath of fresh air.  Just when I think the candidates will be a lineup of Ken and Barbie dolls molded by the Koch Brothers and media adviser halfwits, here comes 72 year old Sanders with a new-old take on the state of the union.  Yes, the emperor isn't wearing any clothes and Bernie seems to be the only one brave enough to say so.  

At first he barely rated a mention in the media.  He was viewed more as a curiosity than a serious contender.  Watching the reluctance of the media coverage and how it has changed is amusing.  They don't know how to peg him.  He isn't Washington Establishment.   But Bernie won't go away and now the media is being forced to take note.  Especially as he is garnering larger crowds than any of the candidates, on either side of the political fence.   

Go Bernie!

French Dreams

Dreamed  a dream with French overtones last night.  My high school Cuban born Spanish teacher said she knew she'd mastered English when she dreamt in English.  I'm not there yet but perhaps I can dimly see the the very tip of the Eiffel Tower peaking through the fog.

We'd watched a terrific French film, The Intouchables, last night.  Richard, who rarely stays up past 9:30, stayed up until 11 to watch.  This film is part of the reason French Films have a place in our iconography.  No one says, with the same meaning, German or Italian or Japanese films.  At any rate, it was one of those films which stays with you long after the credits have rolled. 

So much so that it rolled right on into my dreams. 

Richard and I were looking for a place to have a glass of wine and tapas.  We traipsed from one red brick lightless den to another.  The tapas were awful, the ambiance non-existent until finally we came to a smoke-filled people populated taverne with appetizing tapas.  In the dream, in French, I asked for a glass of red wine. 

That's it.  That's my mastering French dream.  I got it right in the dream save that I didn't know the word for mellow (moelleux).  Small hiccup.  Still, I'm very proud.

A Claytons Philosophy or What Should I be Doing Now

I've written about six sentences and cannot get a grip, spinning my writing wheels without a thought to hang on to.  I'm trying to elaborate on a thought about how each day is the same yet different.  An obvious truth.  But the difference depends on the colour window looked through.  Some days I spend being disappointed with myself.  Is that a common struggle with other people?  I know, know, not everyone is going to be an Einstein or Livingstone, a Mother Theresa or Mahatma Ghandi, I know that but much of my existence is coloured by the grey pane (pain?) of mild disappointment.  Is it really enough to be thankful?  Is that all that is required?  Or should I be stretching every ligament in my body to make every second of my existence mean something in the short time I am here?

How will I be at my death, if I have time to review this life?  Cranky that I wasted so much time, ashamed that I didn't use the talents given me?  I read the articles on the Rebelle website (http://www.rebellesociety.com) and even when the authors are bemoaning their faults or are struggling through difficult times, dangerous head spaces, toxic relationships, they still seem, somehow, to have it together.  They write from the Big Perspective, finding the juxtaposition of their unwellness with the cheer-squad wellness of their readers.  Their failings are their strengths.  Together, readers and writers, they are whole.  The mere act of writing their failings obliterates them.  They are complete because they can see the Big Picture.

Me?  I just seem to spend time moaning that I don't know what or how I'm supposed to be.  Or just moaning.  Maybe it's tied up with feeling trapped.  Wrote about that previously so won't go there again.  Maybe all that I do is all I'm supposed to do.  Being, wondering, doing, questioning, making bread and making beds, petting cats and spending time on the yoga mat, riding the hills and cleaning toilets, caring for R and wearing perfume every day because I can.  Maybe that's all that's required.  Without all the goddamn worrying about it!

So, now with that off my chest, I'll head outside and rake leaves beneath a vivid blue sky. 

I Come First, don't I?

A few free hours while R is in town.  I find it odd that I don't sink into solitude with the same ease I used to.  It isn't that I have trouble being alone.  Au contrare!   I value time spent alone, mistress of my thought and action.  The difficulty is lack of practice. 

Just spent an hour reading a book (The Barbed Coil by J. V. Jones).  I used to read for hours at a time.  Now I'm either making busy or I'm on the computer.  At the end of the day, after I've made dinner and my time is my own, I try and read but the tv is on and concentration is off.  Find I have to go back and reread bits to familiarize myself with characters or situations I should already know.  Even now, the call of the computer is strong.  What a blessing and a curse the digital age is.  I'd miss the computer if I didn't have one at the same time as I know how much time I waste clicking away on it.

(Oh no, there's a hare come out in broad daylight - 2pm - to nibble on the flake of lucerne I've put out for the horses.  Jamaica is lazing in the sun, it's another cold and windy day although sunny.  I hope he doesn't see him.  Jamaica's not asleep.  I can see the glint of bright brown eyes.   If he looked 45 degrees NE he'd see the hare.)

In a much better stronger frame of mind than yesterday.  A good nights sleep helps.  Yesterday was the day following the second night of little sleep.  Because I function and get through the day I act as though insomnia doesn't have an affect but of course it does.  I don't think as clearly, I'm more emotional and I mask tiredness with activity. 

(Ah, the hare has had enough and hops away on long strong legs unscathed.  Jamaica dozes on).


Reading on the Rebelle page about the only productive tip a creative sort will ever need.  Do the most important thing first every day.  I'd modify that statement to read:  Find the time to do the most important thing every day. 

I've got up in the dark to take the dogs and myself for a 40 minute walk while the stars shine overhead just to be alone and exercise at the same time.  I've got up an hour earlier, again in the dark, to write 3 pages longhand  while following the Artists Way.  I've got up an hour earlier to do yoga in the dark in front of the fire before work.  Now I get up just before dawn to feed the cats and horses and birds.  Creative acts come later.

One thing I never had to contend with before was responsibility for anyone other than myself.  Yes, I looked after animals, usually a single cat, but with Self as my Motto and Creed, and a cat being a self-sufficient creature it wasn't much of a stretch.  Now, at this late stage of my life, I am having to learn responsibility of and for others.  While still retaining my I Come First credo.  My I Come First credo now has riders; subsections and provisos so it isn't as awful as it sounds. 

But I no longer do the most important thing first thing every day.  It's usually toward the end of the day when I balance the art board on my knees while sitting on the couch with a cat or two and R at the other end. 

A Murder of Crows and Fight Club Magpies

Another day, another cleaning frenzy.  Prospective clients due out this Thursday...hopefully...there have been three cancellations, well two cancels and one mixed communication.  Taking a break from mopping/dusty/tidying.  Richard dances to the rhythmic sweep of the broom as he cleans all the walkways.

Know I get a bit (a bit!) anal about the cleaning thing, cleaning areas that will never been seen by anyone but me but it helps to dispense with nervous energy.

Not sure what I saw yesterday while riding.  Do magpies have Fight Clubs or Boxing Tournaments?  Always see magpies in family groups, usually three birds; mom, dad and juvenile.  Don't see them flock like PeeWees or even occasionally willie wagtails.  Yesterday however, was riding up  Zig Zag Hill prior to crossing the Muffin Top.  In a cleared area, only cleared because the grass hadn't grown  high, were a dozen or more maggies surrounding two fighting birds.    Naturally they all erupted and flew away, all dozen or more of them, when Balthazar and I crashed through the long grass.

So why were they congregated to watch the fighting?  How many family groups? Were they all males or mixed.   Mysterious.  Like so many things.

Like the gathering of crows.  A hundred or more crows will gather in one spot, squawking and squarking seemingly without rhyme or reason.  Periodically they will all lift into the sky as one entity, rising on a crescendo of screaming only to descend again, still shouting at the top of their lungs.

What do they talk about?  How do they know there is to be a gathering?  How far do they come?  Who decides the meeting has ended?  Just one more mystery in a universe of mysteries.

The Honesty of Imperfection

So restless.  Feel like a rubberband, stretching and condensing.  House not sold.  Hot buyers have bought elsewhere so back to square one.  Panic thinking.  Contact previous prospective buyers, say we'll accept your offer?  No, they've bought elsewhere.  So we sit and wait again.  Hence my restlessness.  In my imagination we were already moved.  Difficult to remain centered and here.  I want to be exploring and there.  

Why is it so difficult to trust in the rightness of the Universe?  Rather, why is it so difficult for me to trust in the rightness of my Universe?  Feel like I'm battering at the bars of a cage.  Let me out!  Feel trapped by this house, by my marriage (how dare I admit it, when any kernel of goodness I possess compels me to stay here and be true to this loving man who needs me in the hours of his illness - how guilty I feel admitting this.  And he knows, compels me with his words of love and devotion not to leave him when he needs me now and will need me more as time passes and his illness progresses.  Trapped trapped trapped.  Self-pitying shit that I am when most of the world is glad just to have shelter and food). 

It comes down to - How dare I want more than I have?  How dare I be unhappy?  How dare I be anything but overjoyed and thankful?

Then there are days when I just breathe thank you thank you thank you for the pure joy of breathing beauty that is there for the taking.

But those days are not this day.  Maybe there is something in just being honest with myself.  That it is okay not to be perfect, to be resentful sometimes and frightened.  To admit that I do not have the strength of character to change my mood at whim, to turn fear into gratitude, like bread into toast.  I'm doughy and yeasty and easily flattened.  Today I am flat.  Tomorrow toast!

No news on either house.  Ours remains unsold and thankfully so does the Burringbar house.

When we found this place, I knew it was ours.  I knew we belonged here and so we have, for 25 years.  When we walked through the Burringbar house, I knew (and don't want to doubt that I knew) that it was our next new home.  It felt as though it welcomed us, wanted us there as surely as this house did.  Feel this house is on to its next phase, that someone will take it further; insulate it, install a/c, perhaps pave the driveway or enclose the garage.  I don't know but we've done our dash, saved it from a slow decline into dereliction.  It was loved, is loved, and it shows.

Nevertheless, I can leave it and move on.

Again and again I wonder how I have the temerity to want something else, something more when I already have so much.  Oh, the guilt!  The guilt inherent in simply wanting something other than what already is mine by virtue of being alive.  I have no easy answer nor do I have the ability, apparently, to shed the guilt as easily as I would shed a stained shirt.  So I'll move on because this was not the reason I opened blogger today.

I opened it because I was writing a scene in my head while asleep last night, one of the times I was asleep in what is turning into a regular pattern of irregular sleep.

I could just cry right now.  Ran an online 6 card Tarot spread ( http://www.free-tarot-reading.net ) with the burning question.  Will we get that house?  This is the result.

Card 1:  How you feel about yourself »

Strength

You feel that despite the challenges you have been faced with in the past, present or future, you will find the strength and courage to succeed.
Whether you are recovering from ill health, a broken marriage or relationship, or challenges at work, you will find the will power to come out on top.
If you are looking to give up any bad habits, such as smoking or drinking for example, this is a good time to do it.
 (I worry whether I'll have the strength to cope with the move, Richard and his particular health challenges and my own failings - but despite fear have always felt that I'll never be faced with more than I can handle - so yes, I do have the strength).

Card 2:  What you want most right now »

The Hanged Man

The cards suggest that what you most want at this time is to have it all! Why should you have to give something or someone up?
Perhaps you feel a victim and that events are not going as planned. Trust that this is a passage from one phase of your life to another.
If you are not sure what or who you need to give up, trust that things will resolve themselves over time and whatever the outcome it will ultimately be to your benefit.
(This sums is up perfectly.  The Hanged Man also means stasis which beautifully describes this limbo we find ourselves in)

Card 3:   Your fears »

Death

You are afraid of experiencing turbulent and catastrophic change, as we all are, yet such challenging transformation in our lives helps create the space for something new.
If you are experiencing or have just experienced losing a job, a bereavement, divorce or the end of a relationship, these changes will allow new experiences and opportunities to enter your life.
(Of course this is the Death of one phase of our life and the start of another.  There are always challenges in change.  It is not only the Death of living here, it is the Death of our relationship based on equal health.  Nevertheless, Bring it on!  )

Card 4:   What is going for you »

The World

Success, fulfillment and conclusion are near at hand - the successful outcome to a venture, satisfaction in a relationship and efforts rewarded. It is a culmination of events and indicates material wealth and greater spiritual awareness. You may choose to buy that dream house or a wonderfully fulfilling relationship is on offer, enjoy!

(What can I say?  'You may choose to buy that dream house', well, yay!)

Card 5:   What is going against you »

The Chariot

Watch out for being too arrogant or letting that ego of yours get over inflated, nobody likes a know it all. Watch that temper too, aggressive bullying behaviour will only set you back. If this doesn't sound like you, beware of someone like this that could set you back. This is a time of movement and change, and conflicts ending in victory, so don't give up.

(Notice a tendency to be impatient with R when he doesn't understand what I'm saying.  It is not him, it is not his fault - so I must watch myself and always ALWAYS treat with love and patience.  A big learning curve for this impatient and knowitall Sagittarian.  Had to stop and backtrack when I found myself making decisions without consulting him.  Have to include him, have to take the time to explain things fully so that he understands and is comfortable with the decisions being made.  So a timely reminder to keep in mind).

Card 6:  The likely outcome »

Justice

Justice will be done. Decisions will go in your favour, particularly regarding partnerships or legal matters. A time for some good luck and reward for your good deeds in the past.

(What can I say but Yes!  and Thank You!)

I wrote no more of the previous post as I was still at Helen's, everyone woke up and the day began.

The Burringbar house.  High and gloriously adorned with views in three directions.  Not dramatic views as at the Nobbys Creek house but striking views nevertheless of the Border Ranges, and that sweeping arc of palm studded jungle to the north.  A wide wooden deck inviting elbow-leaning on the rail with a glass of something red at hand. 

Wood floors everywhere but bedrooms.  A pantry in the kitchen corner with good light and good access.  Gas stove.  Huge master bedroom with ensuite and access to deck.  Private office, also with view.  The house just opens its arms wide and embraces.  I see us living there. 

We made an offer and it was accepted contingent upon our house selling.  Loved that.  Rather than the dismaying back and forth faffing about with offers and counter offers, I (we) made an offer  which was less than their asking price but still a meaty amount.  It was accepted by the next email.  Everybody happy.

So now the mad cleaning for the hopeful second visit of the people interested in our house.  They were supposed to come last Monday but a death in the family postponed it until tomorrow.  No confirmation as yet but I've mopped and dusted and today will be devoted to raking and windows and more raking. 

Many people thinking good thoughts for us.  I am excited but also a fatalistic part of me, who better sees the big picture, knows that if is falls through it is for a reason that is ultimately to our advantage.  So we wait and hope.

WRITTEN JULY 4, AT CURRUMBIN BEACH.  2:30pm

Sitting outside, across the street from the beach (mickey bird just landed, looked me right in the eye and plucked a crumb  from the table).  Within seconds of sitting down I saw the telltale plume of a humpback whale heading south followed by the arcing black curve of its back.

The beach.  How I want to live near the beach.  Tomorrow Helen and I go to Nobbys Creek, 35 minutes from the beach, to view a property.   At 3pm we view another, 15 minutes from the beach.  At this point there is no contest.

The sea is calm, not quite glassy but a frustration for surfers.  It is a series of blue and green striations.  The horizon draws my soul out and away and free.

Flocks of seagulls riding the upwelling of sea air hitting the beach.  Warm sun on my neck after 2 degrees at home this morning.  Mellow and beautiful.  Happy.

A guilty pleasure for R is home minding the animals.  And, as much as I love him, I am relieved to be on my own, anonymous and empress of my time for at least a few hours.  Meet Helen's brother at 4:30.  Helen returning from Melbourne 9:30 this evening.

The last time I really had this solitude was in Charlevoix, how many years ago?  Spent the night alone in the house.  What fun.  Beholden to nothing and no one.

July 5, Sunday.

Found the house we're going to buy:  at Burringbar, NSW.

At first we went to the Nobbys Creek house.  Drove through dark green tunnels on a roller coaster road.  (Used the sat nav on my new smart phone.  I am old enough to be continuously astounded by modern technology).  Met a very fine realtor, Wally, at the house.  The outside was just as it looked in the photos; neat, tidy, conservatively landscaped.  The views, the magnificent vista - to die for, steep rocky escarpmets, a vertical wall of rock at athe face of a solid wall of mountains.

Grounds steep, difficult for aviary placement. Lush.  No shelters or sheds near the paddocks.  But doable.  Dog fenced, carport, magnificent shed for R.

Then we went inside the house.  My heart sank.   I wanted to love the house for R's sake.  Nothing obviously wrong with it; bedrooms a good size, neat and tidy and new, bathroom, laundry, all the normal stuff - but it had no soul.  It was cold and barren and although I politely took the tour with Wally, I couldn't wait to get outside.

Is this what it's going to be like, I asked myself.  Is there something wrong with me that I felt such an aversion to a perfectly normal house?  But you can't force a feeling that isn't there.

Fortunately, oh fortunately! Helen hated it too.  She also felt it was cold and barren.

After thanking Wally we left and had lunch at Mavis' kitchen, an old high set Queenslander converted into a popular restaurant, where I had the strongest coffee I've ever had.

Then it was time to find the Burringbar house.  We drove past and then drove to the sea to time it.  Fifteen minutes.  Parked the car, walked out onto an estuary where people were fishing and followed a path to the widest brightest beach and the white wave fringed sea.

By that time we had to drive straight back to make our appointment with the owner. 

Steep driveway after hard right turn inside the gate.  Flat area on top for aviaries although they will have to be a bit scattered, not enough flat land to put them all in one area (NB no near neighbours to be bothered by screaming birds).

J came out with a toddler and a talkative 4 year old and gave the tour.

Won't try and describe each room.  Oh!  First thing I noticed when getting out of the car, which was noticeably absent at Nobbys Creek, was bird song.  A sold wall of jungle rises behind the house - it rang with music.

Inside, a house of toddlers and a man whose wife is on the road; cluttered and dusty and in some places having a slight gamey smell - but what a house!

We could have sold the property, but we refused at the price offered.  I've learned much in the first skirmish.  Not to be so nice for one thing.  Not to be mean but not to try so hard.  When they made their very first ridiculously low offer, in an effort to help them achieve their dream and, of course, to sell the property, we 'met them halfway'. 

That was a mistake.  Our definition of halfway and their definition of halfway were very different.  They wanted half of a half of a half.  Which is why we refused.

Then I lay awake last night thinking that the contract we had signed (and which they refused) would be held in reserve to hold us to it even if we refused their newest offer.  Over a barrel, as it were so that we wouldn't be free to negotiate with anyone else.  I almost snatched the contract out of the realtor's hand to see what had been done to the price.  Happy Day!  They'd crossed out the $402,000 and written $379,500.  It was the original contract.  There was no new contract.  We were free!

When I said this to the realtor he looked at me like I was nuts.  This is normal he said.  And there I was thinking we'd have all kinds of trouble with these people if we did sell to them.  Dealing with them felt like trying to run through treacle.

I don't have the temperament to be a realtor or deal in the property market.  I work very hard on 'letting go' and living in the moment.  Very hard.  Am not very successful.

So now there's another possible buyer waiting in the wings, one who already has an unconditional contract on their home, who has two horse mad teenage daughters (currently attending a dressage school, lucky sods), and who thinks our house at first look was 'everything they were looking for'. 

The father is coming back Thursday, sans daughters, for another look.  The daughters will probably come later, for final approval.  A point in our favour is that the parents know the daughters are poised on the edge of leaving the nest so there is no point in getting a large house. 

I am going to the Tweed on Friday to look at two properties.  The Nobby Creek property, which has the most stunning views one could wish for but is 35 minutes away from the sea, and the Burringbar property, which is close to the sea but may need a bit of tweaking (dog fences, horse shelters, etc.).  The Nobby Creek property has everything even including a bunny pen (one can keep rabbits in NSW, not that we'll get any).  Richard is very much in favour of the NC property.  It IS very neat and tidy and any trees on the 6 acres are well away from the house.  I dislike the huge cavernous living room with kitchen in one corner.  Butt ugly.  And the green paint job is icky too but it does have all wood floors.

Oh, I could go on and describe the two properties for what good it will do.  Must see them.  I'm just glad to have a break away, maybe get a good nights sleep.  Can't remember when I've slept well.  Partly due to Richard, partly due to worry.  And, if I'm honest, partly due to a particularly large and heavy Siamese sleeping on my legs. 

Fingers Crossed

Ongoing saga of the house sale.  The realtor rang yesterday.  The potential buyers asked the realtor to make a contract for us to sign.  Unfortunately the contract had the previous price.  Told D that we're not selling for that and not to waste their time, or ours, by putting it together.  But he was adamant.  They are serious sellers.  They are selling their house and have a buyer.  It's only $7000 less (so why don't we take the money and run?).

Richard thinks they won't accept our counter, original proposal.  I think they will.  Who blinks first?

We sign the contract tomorrow and then pass it to the realtor to pass to them.  Then we wait.

Such a small thing on the scale of the really big things in the world.  But in our world it is a big thing.  Moving.  Moving close to the sea.  Going for a coffee on the beach.  Taking the dogs for a walk on the beach.  Humidity.  Mangoes and bananas.  Yoga classes.  Art.  Tree hugging environmentalists.  Dreadlocks and surfing.  Sunglasses and sarongs.   Views across the treetops.  Views.  Mount Warning and the sea.  Breathing.   Taking deep breaths and letting go the past.

I walk the dogs in the afternoon and see the cows and horses that in a few months will be thin and rough-coated.  A few months after that they'll be RSPCA ready.  And the phone call to say what the cows and horses can't say for themselves and then the watching to see if anything is done. Oh, they visit, the RSPCA, but how much good does it do?  I think they are so short-staffed that follow up visits are only a pipe dream.  Not sure about that but haven't heard anything to the contrary

And then, following the skeletal animals comes the fires.  Every spring the fires.  And the birds and skinks and snakes and lizards and anything that can't get out of the way.  They die.  Burnt to death.  Adult birds fly.  Babies sizzle.

So I hope, oh how I hope we sell the house, that the people sign the contract and that we can begin the shift to a new locale and a new outlook - one where fires are the outrageous rarity and not the norm.  And the animals are better looked after.  And where we can drive a few minutes to the beach to have that coffee and watch the sun come up.

Here's hoping.              

Another boring non-productive chapter in how not to sell a house

Answer?  Stick to your guns and don't listen to wheedling realtors or prospective clients who hope you're going to cave just to make a sale.

Sitting with my muzzle buried in the warm fur of Siamese cat Matisse who's on the desk just at the right height while my fingers move over the keyboard.  Yes, it's bloody cold.  2 degrees this morning, and this house is like a fridge.   It takes forever to warm up.  But at least my nose is warm, thanks Matisse.

Another couple coming to look at.... nope.

Next day.  Realtor rang Sunday morning. Clients cancelled.  Spoke to him today.  They looked at other properties in, lets say, the more boring side of town.  Yes, the land/houses are cheaper but the soil is poor, the land is flat and your neighbour is likely to have multiple car carcasses.  Not to be mean but that's the truth.

So then we had an email from earlier prospective buyers.  They wanted to meet with us to 'discuss the property',   Pseudo speak for 'let's cut out the realtor and make a deal between ourselves'.  Shot them back an email saying no way but very happy to answer bonafide question about house particulars.  Heard from the realtor, they made another poor offer which we promptly refused.  They are getting tiresome.

When they made their first somewhat insulting offer we made a counter offer.  Split the difference, you come up half and we'll come down half.  Instead, they keep making ridiculous offers, hoping to wear us down I suspect.  Even the realtor said today, it's only $7000.  Yes, $7000 on top of the huge reduction we already made.

They are starting to annoy me.

So we'll wait.  Surely there is someone out there who will see the very reasonable price as reasonable, see the beauty - hills and valleys and quiet, see the excellent soil, see the many improvements we have made - and not piss us about with pis-ant offers.

Can you tell I've had enough?  

Just now had a call from the realtor.  The prospective buyers want to have another look at the property before accepting our counter offer.  (They made an offer, $34,000 cheaper than we were asking.  We countered with the 'meet 'em halfway' offer).  So it could be a goer.  Gives me flutters in the stomach just thinking about it. 

And makes me restless.  Just got up and wandered around the house.  There's not much more we can do to make it presentable.  It is what it is. 

After a year and 3 months, is it possible?  Perhaps they will decide against it.  That is a distinct possibility too.

I can't sit here though.  Have to do something.  Guess I'll dust.  Raked leaves this morning, so that's good.  Can clean the shower and toilet this evening.  Doesn't need mopping again, just dusting.

Gosh, it could be actually starting to happen!

Not bad for an old chick

Conquering fear.  I am not afraid of heights but I am afraid of clambering over steep roofs, especially slippery iron roofs coated with dust that even rubber soled tennis shoes don't stick to.

We've been having problems with the fire, more smoke in the house than going up the chimney.  Last year, because of the possums exploring the chimney as a new hidey hole, sliding down into the fire box (unlit of course!) and being unable to get out again, we placed a wire mesh over the top.  Rather we had a strong young man experienced in roof walking, install it for us.  Over winter the mesh became encrusted with creosote.  Had to come off.

Rang a fellow that's done odd jobs for us before (like lifting huge rocks from the bottom of the goldfish pond - he'll have us to thank for his hemorrhoids in later life) but he couldn't come until next week.  What to do. 

Well, there's me.

So yesterday I got on the roof and realised I couldn't just climb straight up to the chimney and chisel the mesh free.  I got to the chimney but every pore of my body had turned into a suction cup and even then I was sliding down the roof.  Not a good feeling.  Had to use exposed roofing nail heads to catch (and rip) my tennis shoes on.

Thought about it overnight.  If I climbed up the ridge line and then slid down to the chimney I could brace myself either by wrapping my legs around it or propping myself with my feet, to free both hands to work the chisel.  Which is exactly what I did.

And I'm very grateful to yoga for my strength and suppleness for of course I had to climb back to the ridge line to get down again.  Hooked my hands over the rounded top, hauled myself up, swung a leg over and voila!

Not bad for an old chick.

The Email Bitch

I like to think I'm so mature, so wise, so adult but standing outside and observing my mind obsessing about trivia, about how others may or may not treat me, I realise I am just as immature as I ever was.  How disappointing.

Read somewhere, wish I could remember where, about being an 'email bitch'.  An email bitch is someone who writes well thought out emails and gets drivel in reply.  The article didn't say that email bitches also reply promptly and carefully answer any queries in emails received.  It didn't say but it goes without saying.  Sad to say, I'm an email bitch.  I address an email received, comment on all aspects, answer any questions and add some news (but not too much, don't want to be boring!) of my own - all with a less than 24 hour turnaround.  What I get in reply may be days or weeks later, short, relating little or not at all to my email and written without care or enthusiasm.

Enough.

I have had enough.  Know it's immature to care what or how other people think but just can't be bothered chasing them anymore.  Had the delight of receiving an email today referring to the poorness of our communication !?!  If people don't want to put an effort into maintaining a friendship, so be it.  Because I live with the almost saintly R who puts a huge effort into maintaining contact with people I felt I was not a 'good' person for not doing the same.  But it isn't me.  I've always been selfish and remain so.  If there is no effort and 'maintenance' going on the other side then let it go, I say.  True friends, like W, remain friends because there is interest and warmth and love on both sides.  Not just on one side, the one who paddles madly just to keep the 'friendship' afloat. 

It's being used, when they are in the mood and 'need' me for validation on how important and wonderful they are, a service I was happy to provide, but with little or no emotional renumeration in return.

And I know, I KNOW! how futile this is.  How puerile.    Someone wrote a self help book years ago, again I don't remember who.  They spoke about the futility of expecting to be 'stroked' in return for the strokes given.  Or, on a more metaphysical level, why is my happiness dependent upon the opinion or actions of others? 

Indeed.

But because I am not wise, nor transcendent or even particularly mature I have stopped being an email bitch.  I'm just being a pure and simple bitch.  I write them still but I'm in no hurry and I write pretty much how I feel.  Which, for them, is not much.

'Alone, alone, all all alone', so says the Ancient Mariner and so says me.  At least for today.  R has gone to Toowoomba to catch up with a friend.  Don't often have a chance to be on my own so am
enjoying the freedom of time squandered just as I please.  I have pleased with a ride, reading (The Good German by Joseph Kanon, a whodunnit set in postwar Berlin), yoga, lunch (leftover vegan caesar salad followed by five! homemade - by moi - almond meal cookies), while listening to the Swoon Countdown of the Top 100 on ABC. 

Coleridge's quotation from the Ancient Mariner.  Am more than a third of the way through memorizing it.  And it's true, the brain is a muscle.  Still difficult to learn each new stanza but not nearly as hard as before.  Every day or so I recite it from the beginning.  Do omit the occasional quatrain or put them in the wrong order but generally not too bad.

Began this as an exercise in memory but it has had unlooked for benefits in that I am daily transported to the horror and beauty of the Ancient Mariner.  Because I have to buckle down and really think about it I am getting much more from the poem than I did from the first casual reading. 

American education, at least the education I had in public schools in Michigan and Florida, is not heavy on the classics.  Remember being envious of a boy in my homeroom class who was taking Latin.  Girls weren't allowed.   Now I very much doubt Latin is taught at all in public.  Am Australian friend of mine  said each semester they studied a different Shakespeare play.  I never studied Shakespeare.  We learned about the man, touched upon some sonnets and moved on.   Never ever cracked a book on Coleridge.  Or Wordsworth or Byron or Shelley or Donne.  Guess it's never too late.

Just danced (because I can) to the Flower Song from Lakme.  It amazes me that we are capable of such beauty, beauty bordering on the divine, at the same time as we seem to prefer and seek out the ugly and profane (and by profane, not being Christian or religious I don't mean it in a religious sense, but as an affront to Life and the Living Force which animates us).  Wonder what the Cults of Hatred would do if they thought about their Breath, and the cessation of such.  Anyway.  Not going to dwell on that here.  Was just nice to let the music fill me with Life and Love and dance like no one was watching.  And no one was, except for Matisse and he didn't care one way or another.

Had two lots of people view the house in less than a week.  First couple totally unsuited.  The less said about them the better.  The second couple, very suitable.  Best of all they are interested.  The usual thing however, their house has to sell before they are in a position to buy ours - somewhat similar to the position we're in! 

Happily however, I've stopped stressing so much about it.  Went through a period (or several periods) of wanting the house to sell too much.  Was even going to write a post about it; is it better to just Let Go knowing all will work out as it should be, or should one utilize quantum mechanics and think (knowing thoughts are things) one's future into being.  A question for another time.