Thursday October 09, 2003: incendiary vices
A few weeks ago, I bought an electric mattress pad.
And a new comforter, and a comforter cover to replace the one that was shredding, and new pillows.
And oh, my friends, bed is a wonderful place to be right now.
I turn on the mattress pad about a half an hour before I go to bed. I undress, slide my naked self between the sheets which are warm, wiggle my feet around so they absorb all the warmth from the foot of my bed. In the winter, my feet are always cold; this fixes that problem.
The electric pad means that I don't have to use my body heat to warm the sheets; it means I fall asleep without ever dipping into hypothermia.
Bring on winter! I'm ready. I've got my bed all ready to go, and I will hibernate away.
PMS this week has been a real stinker. I have been all over the map, usually in the "cranky" quadrant, with occasional forays into the small city of Seething Rage. My runs have been terrible; I've been pushing myself into the two-mile range and the lower half of my body is letting me know that this is a most unwelcome development. This morning, I ran on the trail near my house (I had to go in late to work) and I barely finished a mile and I walked probably half of the second mile.
Discouragement and doubt are the orders of the day, it seems. As are cranky feet. Very, very cranky feet.
I know I can do this, if I keep pushing; I know that the first couple of weeks I'm doing something I make little to no headway. I know that if I keep of throwing myself against the wall, it'll come falling down eventually and I'll be past it for good.
And the cranky feet may well be on their way to being healed. I had a podiatrist appointment last week, and I have another this coming week. I get to see x-rays of my feet! I am deliriously excited about this. I like my bones, and want to see pictures of them. I'd *really* like to get copies of the x-rays, but I'm not sure if I can.
Um. I just revealed that I have a few odd passions, didn't I? (I am the girl who has a replica of a cougar skull on her bookcase and a wish list of things she wants at Bone Clones and Skulls Unlimited. I am weird.)
Anyway, next week I go look at pretty pictures of my foot bones and get casts made for custom orthotics, since losing a bunch of weight hasn't made my plantar fascitis any better. I also, evidently, have Reynaud's disease; though I'm less sure it's Reynaud's than I think it's just poor circulation from being hypothyroid most of my life.
So, soon, my feet should be less cranky. I hope, anyway.
I've rediscovered the journal of a friend recently and have been reading it fervently.
I love reading about others' spiritual wonderings and struggles. I always want to run up to them and say, how did you know? Or, were you chosen, too?
Iphy struggles with and against her faith. There is something very real in that to me. She, too, wants the wild part of the Divine, the part beyond human comprehension, the part that says I AM and has that statement writ large upon the universe.
I am trying to read her story with an open mind; she is teaching me that there are people who don't swallow Christianity whole, who don't just skim on the surface of the religion, but who instead dive into the deepest part of it, the parts filled with blood and passion and darkness, from whence all life springs forth, with that same shout against the universe: I am!
I wish I'd known Christians like her when I was growing up. If the people around me truly struggled with their faith, I never saw it; all I saw was the mouthing of words and the songs that turn ugly if you pay attention to the words. The people around me wanted their God to be pretty and safe and distant; they wanted help when they needed it and unconditional love otherwise.
My young brain rejected that absolutely. Partially because the idea of a bloodless religion doesn't appeal to me, and partially because I was hearing a silent call in the back of my head. And it happened to be a female voice.
At the age of twelve, I dedicated myself in a private ceremony; committed myself entirely to following that call wherever it would lead me. And it has, oh, it has.
It's led me into some strange places. I've spent some very moonless nights looking into what could probably pass for the abyss at first glance. I've had times when she's deserted me; I've had times when she was really altogether too much with me. She comes and goes.
I have an interesting relationship with her; we talk, we argue, I occasionally tell her she's full of shit. Sometimes, she *is* full of shit. Usually, that's on purpose, to provoke me into a fine fury that gets me moving when nothing else will. She isn't omnipotent and doesn't pretend to be. But she is ancient and knowing, taking shape from how humans have through of her and seen her over the millennia. And she is both more and less than how humans have seen her. She is marvelous, and completely unknowable.
And she is passionate. Oh, she is passionate.
She's rather like family; I didn't choose her, but I love her hopelessly anyway.
Knowing she's there contributes to my unshakeable sense that I'll be all right, no matter what happens. It's not like I expect her to rescue me if I happen to do something stupid; but I know she'll always be there to yell at afterwards. I wish I could my sense of faith away to people, that sense of being solidly grounded I've slowly developed over the past few years. I am a very small creature, but I am a very small creature with a sense of purpose and direction.
That, most of the time, is enough.
And a new comforter, and a comforter cover to replace the one that was shredding, and new pillows.
And oh, my friends, bed is a wonderful place to be right now.
I turn on the mattress pad about a half an hour before I go to bed. I undress, slide my naked self between the sheets which are warm, wiggle my feet around so they absorb all the warmth from the foot of my bed. In the winter, my feet are always cold; this fixes that problem.
The electric pad means that I don't have to use my body heat to warm the sheets; it means I fall asleep without ever dipping into hypothermia.
Bring on winter! I'm ready. I've got my bed all ready to go, and I will hibernate away.
PMS this week has been a real stinker. I have been all over the map, usually in the "cranky" quadrant, with occasional forays into the small city of Seething Rage. My runs have been terrible; I've been pushing myself into the two-mile range and the lower half of my body is letting me know that this is a most unwelcome development. This morning, I ran on the trail near my house (I had to go in late to work) and I barely finished a mile and I walked probably half of the second mile.
Discouragement and doubt are the orders of the day, it seems. As are cranky feet. Very, very cranky feet.
I know I can do this, if I keep pushing; I know that the first couple of weeks I'm doing something I make little to no headway. I know that if I keep of throwing myself against the wall, it'll come falling down eventually and I'll be past it for good.
And the cranky feet may well be on their way to being healed. I had a podiatrist appointment last week, and I have another this coming week. I get to see x-rays of my feet! I am deliriously excited about this. I like my bones, and want to see pictures of them. I'd *really* like to get copies of the x-rays, but I'm not sure if I can.
Um. I just revealed that I have a few odd passions, didn't I? (I am the girl who has a replica of a cougar skull on her bookcase and a wish list of things she wants at Bone Clones and Skulls Unlimited. I am weird.)
Anyway, next week I go look at pretty pictures of my foot bones and get casts made for custom orthotics, since losing a bunch of weight hasn't made my plantar fascitis any better. I also, evidently, have Reynaud's disease; though I'm less sure it's Reynaud's than I think it's just poor circulation from being hypothyroid most of my life.
So, soon, my feet should be less cranky. I hope, anyway.
I've rediscovered the journal of a friend recently and have been reading it fervently.
I love reading about others' spiritual wonderings and struggles. I always want to run up to them and say, how did you know? Or, were you chosen, too?
Iphy struggles with and against her faith. There is something very real in that to me. She, too, wants the wild part of the Divine, the part beyond human comprehension, the part that says I AM and has that statement writ large upon the universe.
I am trying to read her story with an open mind; she is teaching me that there are people who don't swallow Christianity whole, who don't just skim on the surface of the religion, but who instead dive into the deepest part of it, the parts filled with blood and passion and darkness, from whence all life springs forth, with that same shout against the universe: I am!
I wish I'd known Christians like her when I was growing up. If the people around me truly struggled with their faith, I never saw it; all I saw was the mouthing of words and the songs that turn ugly if you pay attention to the words. The people around me wanted their God to be pretty and safe and distant; they wanted help when they needed it and unconditional love otherwise.
My young brain rejected that absolutely. Partially because the idea of a bloodless religion doesn't appeal to me, and partially because I was hearing a silent call in the back of my head. And it happened to be a female voice.
At the age of twelve, I dedicated myself in a private ceremony; committed myself entirely to following that call wherever it would lead me. And it has, oh, it has.
It's led me into some strange places. I've spent some very moonless nights looking into what could probably pass for the abyss at first glance. I've had times when she's deserted me; I've had times when she was really altogether too much with me. She comes and goes.
I have an interesting relationship with her; we talk, we argue, I occasionally tell her she's full of shit. Sometimes, she *is* full of shit. Usually, that's on purpose, to provoke me into a fine fury that gets me moving when nothing else will. She isn't omnipotent and doesn't pretend to be. But she is ancient and knowing, taking shape from how humans have through of her and seen her over the millennia. And she is both more and less than how humans have seen her. She is marvelous, and completely unknowable.
And she is passionate. Oh, she is passionate.
She's rather like family; I didn't choose her, but I love her hopelessly anyway.
Knowing she's there contributes to my unshakeable sense that I'll be all right, no matter what happens. It's not like I expect her to rescue me if I happen to do something stupid; but I know she'll always be there to yell at afterwards. I wish I could my sense of faith away to people, that sense of being solidly grounded I've slowly developed over the past few years. I am a very small creature, but I am a very small creature with a sense of purpose and direction.
That, most of the time, is enough.
