The Well-Traveled Vacuum

            If there were frequent flyer points available for round trips between house and shop, our old Dirt Devil could take a free trip to the junkyard.

            Yesterday, only a month since my brother purchased a Hoover Wind Tunnel, I decided to move the slick new model from the hallway into the cleaning closet.  That meant moving the old Devil out.

            I put the Devil right next to the front door so Mom could haul it in her golf cart down the driveway to the shop.  It seemed like a winning proposition since Mom loves hauling stuff.

            Twenty-four hours later, the Dirt Devil has made several trips out of the house.  It travels in the passenger seat of Mom’s cart but always ends up in the same place next to the front door. 

            I’m wondering if I should dust it off and wind the cord more neatly so it isn’t such an eyesore.  Or maybe we could use it as an extra coat rack.  The best solution, though, is to tape a note to it:  “Goes to shop office.”  From there the old Devil could collect its frequent flyer points to earn a coveted spot in John’s big truck for a one-way trip to the junkyard.

           

Ready to Post

            Fortified by the knowledge that someone out there actually looks forward to my blog (yes, that’s you, Sally), I am ready to post again. 

            The only problem is coming up with a subject.  No, actually, I have a subject in mind but I am totally at her mercy.  And, for the moment, she is silent.

            But I guess I can fill up some blank space while I wait for her to speak.

            Sally reminded me in our phone conversation about one of my favorite writing subjects:  slugs.  I missed the Whole Foods April Fool’s Day website, but Sally let me know about one of the delicious items mentioned:  banana slug sundaes.  Or at least that’s what I think she said.  We have those banana slugs here in the great state of Washington—they are the gross yellowish-greenish ones.  The only slugs I have seen so far this spring are the little brown ones. 

            The frogs are out in full song, though. 

            “I’ll take that over to John’s tomorrow,” Mom says as she walks by the basket of laundry she folded earlier today.  “I forgot to tonight.”

            Let’s see . . . back to the frogs.  John tells me that when the pond dries up, there are usually lots of leftover dehydrated tadpoles.  I never wade in the pond, unlike our dogs who enjoy standing in and drinking from the tadpole-fortified and algae-flavored water. 

            Speaking of nature, and thinking of Mom who is at this minute in the kitchen digging out some ice cream (our freezer is exceptionally cold, which makes for rock-hard Tillamook), I agree with her that the blossoming trees have been lovely this spring. 

And speaking of Mom, she is foiling my writing plans by her uncharacteristic silence.  I was going to record our ever-repeating conversations in order to try to capture the flavor of short-term memory loss, but I guess she is too caught up in the flavor of Tillamook Sweet Centennial ice cream, which, admittedly, sounds a lot better than banana slug sundaes.

No Foolin'

            No Foolin’:  It’s a great title.  Earlier this week I saw it used as an advertising slogan.  But I guess a clever title won’t compensate for an oxygen-starved brain.

            At least that is one theory about fibro fog:  that the haze is caused by poor oxygen uptake or delivery or whatever. 

            This morning I did manage a great flute practice.  It seems, though, with my hour-long concentrated effort (which I thoroughly enjoyed, metronome and all) I used up today’s supply of energy.  Or maybe it was oxygen.

            Since last night I have had scattered pre-migraine spells:  a funny tingling on my scalp and skin, a flash of light, a bitter taste, a head buzzing sensation.  I alternate between feeling fine and feeling lousy.  With any luck no migraine will materialize.

            So I guess it was a good move to reschedule Mom’s eye appointment in Burlington to another day.  I felt guilty about it at first because I’m not actually sick, just feeling like I’ve reached my physical and emotional limits.  A nice nap after lunch sounds good.  Then I really need to clean the bathroom.  Or at least walk down the driveway to get the mail.  And plan supper.

            Right now, though, I’m going to take a deep breath and throw together some lunch.

            No foolin’ . . . well, except for the bathroom.  It needs cleaning, but I’m not gonna do it today. 

Off Again

            Walking up the driveway, I hear the crunch of tires behind me.  It’s the electric golf cart.

            Mom quickly overtakes me.  It’s a good thing I’m out of mud puddle splash range.  She zips around at the end of the driveway, making a U-turn to pick up the empty garbage can.  I catch up and grab the mail from the mailbox.

            She speeds off back down the driveway, and I admire the gold-colored hubcaps.  Her cart is a vintage Mercedes or Lexus of the golf cart world, but it desperately needs a hosing down.  Her blue nameplate, “Priscilla,” adorns the back.  On the front is a classy eagle ornament.  On top is the fringed roof covering.

            At the driveway “Y,” she stops.  It takes a while for me to catch up. She leans out and asks which way takes her closest to our house.  “Straight ahead!” I say cheerily while I mourn this most recent loss of memory.

            She accelerates, continuing her trip down the hill.  Just before she reaches the shop, she stops suddenly.  I see her peering into the woods.  And then, I am grateful that I have stayed on the side of the drive (as opposed to walking down the middle) as she abruptly backs up--full throttle--to get a better view.   She doesn’t seem to notice me as she flies past. 

            A few minutes later, she comes into the house, asking what she had planned to do.  “Well,” I say, “you just brought the trash can in from the road.  I don’t know if you unloaded it, though.”

            “Did I?” she asks.  Then she is off again.

Ambush

            Just before lunch, fatigue ambushed me.

            I wasn’t watching out when it hit without warning.  Between the high tree pollen count of spring and my brother’s cold germs inhabiting our shared air space (the kitchen), I should not be surprised.

            An hour-long nap did not dispel this weariness.  My afternoon trip down the driveway to get the mail was a stroll rather than a power walk.  I’m camped out on my memory foam bed, supported in a semi-upright position by my memory foam wedge pillows, with my new laptop perched on my lap.  My goal is to laze around this afternoon in order to store energy for tonight’s flute choir practice.  And, hopefully, ward off any enemy viruses.

           

Meditation on Suffering

If you suffer for doing good and you endure it, this is commendable before God. To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you. –1 Peter 2:20-21, NIV

It’s better to suffer for good than to suffer for bad. However, any suffering has the potential to draw us closer to Christ.

I’ve suffered because of my own sins and because of the sins of others. I’ve suffered for no apparent reason. I’ve suffered because of chronic illness. I’ve suffered for doing the right thing. Sometimes I have endured, and sometimes I have not. But no matter the suffering, it is the flip side of joy.

Suffering builds character if we face it. Most of us spend our lives running away from suffering. We don’t want to feel the dreadful pain or have discomfort nag away at our souls. So we run, and there are many ways to run: alcohol, drugs, food, anger, workaholism, codependency, sex are just a few. There are many ways to avoid ourselves. There are many ways to mute our suffering. We are experts at avoidance.

Suffering builds character when we embrace it, when we face hard lessons and work through pain. Sometimes as Christians we mistakenly believe that having negative emotions is a sign of moral weakness. We forget that we are human and that our emotions can uncover our pain. We think we should always have the “right” emotional response to every situation and bully ourselves over what we really feel.

It’s when I am truthful with myself and God that healing comes: not always quickly but always eventually. I might as well live in whatever honesty I am capable of instead of actively trying to deceive myself into ever-sunny feelings. God helps me become real so he can really work with me.

When we’ve known suffering, we appreciate joy at new levels. We don’t take joy for granted anymore. It is a fresh surprise.

However, we don’t want to suffer with a martyr complex: “Look at how noble I am in the midst of my terrible suffering.” That attitude often indicates fear. We are afraid to change ourselves or change our circumstances. We are afraid to admit the part we play in our own suffering. We get comfortable in having people feel sorry for us. We may even want to set ourselves up as a role model for Christ-like endurance. Pretentious piety like that makes nonbelievers want to puke, and rightly so.

We like to think we understand reasons for suffering. We like to explain the inexplicable away. We lay blame on the sufferer, or we say trite sayings that make us feel good. We pretend to know God’s purpose and have an explanation for everything.

It is better simply to enter into others’ suffering: cry tears with them; admit we don’t know why; listen; love. Empathy is risky. Suffering hurts. But God has promised joy in the morning. And he can even give us joy in our mourning.