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.

Stand-off with an Evil Traffic Elf

You can't make this shit up.

Remember Santa on the tractor the day I brought my mother home from the hospital? How shall we top that?

 Like this.

Perhaps it was bad planning on my part yesterday morning to go to the Farmer's Market for the fresh fish and fresh veggies that I'd planned for dinner, but the signs only warned of delays, not quarantine. The Christmas Jog-a-thoners in Santa Hats and reindeer ears? Well, they weren't exactly moving like Donder and Blitzen. Stragglers, I thought. This will all be over my the time I mull over the carrots and cauliflowers, decide on Fuji or Pink Ladies.

Over the course of the hour that I was cordoned off from my home (and my ancient and frail mother) I felt more and more like the Grinch. After my fourth attempt, by a fourth route, to get back into my neighborhood when I was once again waved off into the opposite direction by an adamant and irate traffic cop who yelled at me when I rolled down my window and asked for help, I drove my cheery Christmas red Prius over the sidewalk and onto a vacant lot and got out.

"M'am," he said, as I walked toward him, "I have a job to do. You cannot approach me." I stepped back while telling him that I needed to get home. That my mother had just gotten out of the hospital and was home alone, and that I couldn't figure out how to get there. "M'am, I can't talk to you, I am directing traffic," snarled the evil traffic elf with the heart as cold the North Pole. I repeated that I needed to get home and he yelled at me to step onto the sidewalk. A Christmas Jog-a-Thon stand off.

There was no way to get to my house that I hadn't already attempted, so I just let it happen. I burst into tears. As I stood on the corner crying, a couple came up to me immediately and asked if I was all right. I explained the situation to them, and they took me by the arms and we approached Mr. Evil Traffic Elf again. He was pissy, but he listened as they explained and I cried. He told me to get into my car, turn it around, and he would let me turn right.

And then ten minutes after I got home, would you believe I had to go out again to pick the man who loves me up from the train station? Thankfully, by the time we returned to my neighborhood, all of the power drunk traffic elves had gotten into their sleighs and gone away.

It's been awhile since I've spontaneously exploded into tears. Back when I was mired in Divoreville, it happened frequently. My attorney's office, courtrooms, airplanes, restaurants. It was like I had a deck of cards (or maybe half a deck) with all of the cards the same--crazy divorced lady.

Well, I don't live in Divorceville any more.
And now, having spent most of the morning in Pillville with dispensing of antibiotics, INR testing, calls to the doctor, and my mother's financial matters, I'm now off to a suburb of Margaritaville--The City of Naps. I may end up in Oz, however, due to the winds. Plastic owls and patio cushions are sailing through the air. And earlier this morning, the guardian of the marina, a.k.a. my mom, noticed that one of the neighborhood boats had lost one of its mooring lines and was rapidly on its way to taking an unplanned sail. I called harbor patrol and they came and tied it up again. Maybe I should have called them yesterday. They could have delivered me back home by boat.

My bed is strung with Christmas lights all year long.