State of the State of Margaritaville

Evening walk last week.

I'm alive and I live in paradise.

For more than a year I've been wrestling.
Swollen joints.(They went away; yesterday the swollen knees and ankles came back) A hoarse voice.
Grief.
Musing over  Dan's central tenet. You're doing the best that you can. Really, you did the best that you could at the time. Really really, you did the best that you could at the time with what you knew at the time.
Really?

I am alive and I live in paradise.

My voice is unreliable. Is that the same as an unreliable narrator?

Why am I not working on a writing project right now?

Some days I can barely make myself understood. In places that I go regularly, people know to lean closer. Other days I clear my throat a million times. The phlegm lady.

Yes, I've been to doctors.
Hooray, I'll be on Medicare in November.

The lungs are the seat of grief, the acupuncturist says. Okay.

The Integrated Medicine doc says no dairy and gluten. Sometimes I cheat on the dairy.

What do you do with grief when you're grieving over a dead person while taking care of a dying person?
Wow, wasn't that like, a long time ago?

No.
I am alive and I live in paradise.

Paradise itself is struggling.

Starting in the lower right foreground, notice the white bumps, and follow them into the distance. These are the breasts of western grebes, poisoned by domoic acid. The Pacific loons, cormorants, and pelicans are darker and cannot be distinguished in the photograph.

The beach, early morning, after the winds have subsided.

Thursday Beach Report

Today's green sea and blue sky

The ocean is all chop and churn today, and a cool wind is blowing sand into the neighboring streets,  once again threatening to obliterate the little parking lot and barricade the bathrooms behind a sand dune.

There's a paperwork version of this tumult in my kitchen. And as we say these days, I. Can't. Even. 

 
I mean it. I can't.

I spent last evening Googling "spiritual reasons for swollen knees" instead of moving one sheet of paper. The swollen knees began maybe two weeks ago. Swollen fingers too. Stiffness. A bad attitude. I tried everything. Arnica, essential oil, rest, movement, yoga, no yoga, T'ai Chi Chih, no T'ai Chi Chih, ice, heat. Sunday night I could not move my arms and spent the evening imitating a tyrannosaurus rex. The chiropractor said he was not the guy, and suggested blood tests ASAP. As of last night all terrible immune diseases have been ruled out. (Whew.) But the stiffness and the swelling persists, perhaps a bit better, but not markedly.

Last night a friend asked if I'd given myself a chance to grieve. Yes, I told her, not quite believing it. I remember making an effort to grieve Dan's death out of sight of my mom. I'd sit in my closet in front of his Dia de Los Muertos altar and sob--but it was hard to give into it completely with one ear open for what might be going on downstairs. And it felt like there was too much to do to sob for my mother--too much time in the public eye. Memorial, shuttle bus, airplane.

As I sat on the couch last night, I began to picture my knees filled with unshed tears. The Google fest yielded many interesting tidbits: Fear of being ambushed from behind, "cut off at the knees"; rigidity, trying to maintain control, losing control, trying to take charge of everything; pretending to be flexible, but not really being flexible. And there was something about the left knee (the worst one) being an anchor to the past. Visualize running water, one of the sites said. It's lack of humility, said another. Genuflect.

I walked in the surf, asking for all the stiffness to be washed away. There were very few people on the beach, but I saw two young women in shorts working out. They were doing that walking/squatting exercise. It looked like genuflecting to me. I watched them, putting myself into their shoes, hoping for some relief, but probably I'll have to do my own genuflecting and shed my own tears whether I want to or not.