Tag Archives: joy

A Tick-Borne Summer

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As I listen to my surroundings, I hear the song of many birds, the hum of summer traffic on the road, and the wind moving through the thousands, millions, of trees on our land here in Maine. Every year, later than I would like, the leaves come back to the trees after months of absence. One day, they are tiny speckles of lime green, and the next, there are millions, billions of lime green leaves dancing in the air. Just before that, the birdsong comes back with the birds, and the silence of a wind-whipped winter is over. I love sitting outside in the wind, in the sun, in nature, in this tiny sliver of peace and paradise: a small house, green, with a nice porch, and plants all around.

I started feeling really crummy two Tuesdays ago, but couldn’t place the feelings; was it bad hummus? Had I drunk pond water on my Monday swim when it was so hot and clear the only thing to do was to swim? Or perhaps I had done that on my Tuesday swim, when conditions were similar only cloudy? On Tuesday evening I started to feel like there was a rock in my belly, or a beach ball, or something that was taking up all the space that I usually fill with tasty things like roast chicken or tacos or muffins in the mornings. My belly also became swollen out like a little kid’s. Usually my tummy is fairly flat with its fair share of mid-forties curves and wrinkles. I have been exercising alot on my elliptical and feeling proud of being stronger and my tummy flatter. But no longer. On Tuesday evening I tried to eat dinner as normal but barely ate half of it, saying I didn’t feel super well. I thought: tomorrow will be better.

Wednesday came and went and the stomach trouble became worse: it hurt very much and was very uncomfortable, and with it came this weird back pain across the whole top half of my torso. I had a hard time standing or sitting for long periods of time. If I could lean back, I was ok. If I could lie down, that was better. I was annoyed.

On Thursday I thought I caught the chill of a cool day that followed a few hot ones, but as I drove home from the gallery I recognized the familiar feelings of a fever. By the time I made it home, I was shaking, cold, and feeling rotten. So began my days of spiking 101 degree fevers (high for me as my normal temperature is about 97 degrees), breaking fevers into crazy sweaty messes, and the realization that something was wrong with me.

On Friday I managed to get in with a random doctor who told me that she thought I had a stomach bug that was roaming around. I asked her if she would run a tick panel just in case, and she said yes, so we did. I took the rest of the day to chill out, thinking I might be feeling better til the fever started again.

On Monday, I went to my regular doctor and told her I was worried I had a kidney infection and she said she was worried I had Lyme disease. Luckily, the tick panel was already being processed, and on Tuesday, she called and gave me the gross and terrible news that I have anaplasmosis and Lyme disease, together.

Blech.

She also told me I have to take antibiotics for at least 30 days and they are these fun ones that cause you to sunburn so easily you can’t really be out in it. She apologized for ruining my summer (I blame the tick, personally). And since Monday I have been taking two types of antibiotics, twice a day, and probiotics 1 or 2 hours later. I felt better on Thursday, and then yesterday I felt bad again. Today is Saturday, and I am very tired. I wonder if I am now feeling tired from not eating enough, because one of the things with that stomachache from Hell is that my appetite has gone on vacation. Somewhere good, I hope.

One of the strange emotional responses to these illnesses is that I am determined to not sweat the small stuff. That feels good, like I am doing something right in a situation that I cannot control at all. Anaplasmosis is super scary and can kill you in various ways (spooky!) if not treated early, so I am proud of myself for going to the doctor. So in the vein of not sweating the small stuff, I am trying to be a nicer version of myself, more understanding, and quieter. I am trying to spend time thinking about what I think about the state of the country, but not react to it as much as maybe I have been. I am thinking about the importance of creating art in times of dread and sadness, and trying to be participatory in that process.

The energy level is the challenge. Fatigue is real with Lyme and anaplasmosis. I haven’t felt this fatigue in a long time, but I am not unfamiliar with it; legs made of lead or concrete, not strong, dragging through space. I would like to go swimming or maybe just sit in a lake. Today is hot and I hope to fill up our cowboy pool with the cold, cold well water that comes from deep within the earth. I plan to put it on the leechfield, on top of the septic field; I think it’s mostly harmless to that process going on below. Last year when I filled up a giant pot to dip in on the hottest days, the water was so cold it was shocking! (There are photos to prove it!) This year, I will fill up the stock tank and let it sit for a day or two to warm up before I dunk myself in. Over by the leechfield I have planted lots of medicinal herbs and witchy plants, as MOFGA told me I could plant shallow-rooted perennials. Over there we have hops, madder, weld, motherwort, marshmallow, thyme, yarrow, blue vervain.

Ho hum. One of the good things about having peaceful, slow hobbies is that when you are slow yourself, you can still do them. Today I want to work on jewelry, so I am about to head to the studio to do just that. I am working on a series of rings, and I need to order some materials for a custom project I am working on. One of my recovery plans is to wake up early and write in the mornings, as I have much more energy when I wake up than when the afternoons roll around. By then, I feel quite ploddy, like I am going through mud, mentally and physically. These illnesses don’t make me sad, exactly, just tired and a bit disappointed. I like having lots of energy, high vibrations, and excitement. I am sure those will all come back; I just have to let this ride out.

Current projects are:

1.Working on the second edit of the book and finding all the photos that go into it

2. Power rings of various interesting stones and two pendants for a show in August

3. Finishing the third quilt in a series, photographing the three, and sending them to their destinations. The third one has no home, so I wonder who will claim it?

I am drinking coffee now, still listening to those same sounds but the wind is stronger, the sun higher in the sky, the air is warm and dry. My living room is orange and bright with sunlight. We are on new journeys in this life, new career paths, so much exploration! We asked for an adventure and we got one! Who knows what the future holds, but we have managed to pay for everything so far, and I can only hope the blessings continue and continue to grow. Every night I look at the vast spiderweb of stars and ask them to keep helping us, protecting us, guiding us. The Big Dipper right now is just above the driveway and, every night, reminds me that “my cup runneth over” and ain’t that the truth.

I hope you are well, wherever you are, and if you are not, that you can figure out some ways to make it work while you are sick.

xxP

Viva La Vida

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Frida Kahlo and Pet Hawk

I have been in radio silence now for quite a while; there are various reason for this, but mostly life just keeps getting in the way of delivering my musings to you here. I have a slew of stories to tell about sailing the Caribbean in Panama, as well as reflections on the ending of my second winter in Maine, as well as new developments in the art-sphere, namely a new studio in a magical place that has been a stomping ground of mine since I was a little girl.

But, for today, for all we have is today….some musings and ideas from two of my favorite artists, that will propel us all forth this second week in April, in the year 2014, my thirtieth year of spending time on this small island that I know call home.

fridabrush.19

The Portrait of Alicia Galant (1927) was the first painting of Frida Kahlo’s that made me pause. I was a very young girl of maybe 10 when my best friend’s mom dragged she and I to the Houston Museum of Fine Arts to see the exhibit of a painter who, before that moment, was unknown to me. I remember spending many minutes gazing at this painting because it felt, to me, as if it was alive and glimmering: velvety and viscous, dark and deep set in the night.

tengo alas

“Feet, for what do I need you, for I have wings to fly?” has been a motto of mine, especially during the metamorphosis of the last two years. I find that holding on to dreams, and trusting that when you  leap, you will land somewhere far better than where you started, and of course, just keeping going, one foot in front of the other, is what will propel you forward to a happier life that is full of intentional actions versus reactions to simple circumstance.

Today, I read this quote from another of my inspirations, Anais Nin, and thought to include it here as a musing on the doubtful part of the creative life: those dark corners of the psyche or even your apartment, when the doubts or fears or seeming impossibilities of what you are doing seem overwhelming. It seems to me that anyone embarking on the creative path will discover these dark corners of themselves; the trick, I think, is to channel those into more making, more artwork, more writing, more pause to understand the temporary nature of each passing moment, so that the creativity can continue, rather than be stifled by the “shoulds” and “should nots” of our cultural world.

“You must not fear, hold back, count or be a miser with your thoughts and feelings. It is also true that creation comes from an overflow, so you have to learn to intake, to imbibe, to nourish yourself and not be afraid of fullness. The fullness is like a tidal wave which then carries you, sweeps you into experience and into writing. Permit yourself to flow and overflow, allow for the rise in temperature, all the expansions and intensifications. Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terrors, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them. If it seems to you that I move in a world of certitudes, you, par contre, must benefit from the great privilege of youth, which is that you move in a world of mysteries. But both must be ruled by faith.”

Lastly this morning, as I wrap up this scattershot of musings on a Wednesday, gazing outside the window at an early spring day, daydreaming of this afternoon’s visit to the new studio, and thinking about planting pear and black walnut trees on a 5 acre swathe of land on the Breakneck Road, my feelings keep coming back to the idea, that without the sense of love for yourself and others, that no dreams or beauty or art or peace or sense of tranquility is truly possible. May we all be lucky enough to have people that encourage us to find this feeling each day, in those temporary, fleeting moments. They are, after all, what ties us to our earth-bound experiences, and to each other.

frida quote

 

Spring Fever

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“I respect kindness in human beings first of all, and kindness to animals. I don’t respect the law; I have a total irreverence for anything connected with society except that which makes the roads safer, the beer stronger, the food cheaper and the old men and old women warmer in the winter and happier in the summer.”

Brendan Behan

Feeling the seasons change in your bones, and in the bones of others, is a rather mystifying experience. All day today, in my travels over and across this island, people said the same thing to me: “are you enjoying the weather?” because, of course, we all are. It is amazing to feel the sun and warmth return after such a long time: my journal reflects our first snowfall from November 9th, and here we are April 4th, and although we may get another snowstorm or two, I think it is safe to say that winter is resolutely over, and spring is here. This season of spring is so short here in Maine: a mere two months, mid-April to mid-June, and then of course the shortness of summer, too, mid-June to beginning of September, then fall and winter find us, again.

But enough about that.

Spring fever is in the air: birds are singing about it, plants are bursting forth communicating their connection to our Earth and our position in space relative to the Sun, beautiful people near and far are catching each other’s eyes, gardeners are sweeping back the layers of leaves left on the ground after so many months. Ice is melting to reveal moss, no ferns or leaves just yet, but we all know they are lurking under there somewhere.

march 2013 7The Tarn, still frozen, two weeks ago!

Driving home from Bar Harbor today, I took the scenic route and noticed the sunshine on the top of Dorr Mountain, and followed the light all the way down the cliffs edges and onto the surface of The Tarn. When I was a little girl, we used to fish in The Tarn, but I don’t remember catching much. Today, the sunlight seemed to burnish the golden-colored reeds leaning out of the dark blue water. A mere few weeks ago, those same reeds were held up and in place by white ice, the same ice that spread across the surfaces of all the ponds and lakes, and up mountainsides and dripped off ledges in suspended animation.

This afternoon, the glow of spring seemed to beam off the surface of The Tarn, clearly communicating that warmth is back, the sun has returned. During the sunset, as I drove the long way home through Otter Creek, and then took Cooksey Drive onto the Hill of Seal Harbor, over and through the wooded, mossy roadway, lined with the granite walls of the fancy peoples’ houses, the light remained a bronze-y, brass-y, gold, a colour that left us for so long. The last time I remember it was in the fall, one bronze morning.

Transitions, even joyful ones like this one, are difficult because your rhythm and routine is disrupted; it takes a while to regain the swing of things when the environment is fundamentally changing. I have said it before, but this place connects you so strongly to itself. You are quite literally a part of the landscape and you feel its shifts within your body and mind. For the last few days, the only way that I can channel this shifting energy, this cacophony of nature expanding and exhaling and returning to us after sleeping for six months, is to handle stones and place them in a path, to feel their rough texture, their weight in my arms.