Monthly Archives: August 2022

Coronavirus, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Friends, Hawai'i, Health, Hermitage, Judaism, Memories, Shadow Mountain, The Move

Fatigued

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Lughnasa and the Harvest Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Luke. Alice. Kep. Kate, always Kate. Hawai’i. Meds. Covid. Sleep. Dreams. Taking action. Agency. Owning my desire to move on. Finding a realtor. The Windward side of Oahu. Ocean. Reefs. Tide Pools. Sea Turtles. Animals of the Water. Volcanic Islands. Tradewinds. Reconstructionist Judaism. Potlatch.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Potlatch

 

Contacted LG about my Watery experience with their washer. Under warranty. Will get taken care of sometime in the near future. Still a hassle because. No washer.

Laundromat. Always an experience filled with memories of other points in my life. The smell of soap powder, sudsy Water, the warm breath of dryers opening. Those hard plastic chairs. Change machines and soap dispensers. Also, and my favorite part, the bulletin board offering house cleaning services, massage, junk removal, homes for sale, photography, lawn care. Fun to see what people post.

On a similar theme I called Boiler Medic to see if my lifetime warranty payment had been approved for my new hot Water heater. Did I mention I’m tired of dealing with this stuff? No call back yet. I suspect it wasn’t approved and they feel bad about telling me. Hard Water. A possible reason for denial.

 

Had Luke, the Executive Director of CBE, over for dinner last night. A fine conversation. He’s a thoughtful, multi-talented guy who’s making the shift from a life of science to working for non-profits and to Judaism. A convert. Have not had many people over. Luke dropped out of a materials science Ph.D. program at the School of Mines.

 

Took myself out for breakfast yesterday. Chicken fried steak, eggs over easy, and fried potatoes. Since Covid I’ve had this need for protein. May do the same today.

 

Had a subtle but powerful moment yesterday. I walked out to the mailbox to collect my mail. And a memory of a walk Seoah and I took out to the end of the driveway flashed over my thoughts. The last day of shiva. A ritual. The members of the minyan form two lines and the mourner walks through them to the end of the driveway. Shiva is over and the world outside of intense grieving at home awaits.

Grief returned for a moment. Then, I had this wonderful feeling. That Kate was blessing my move to Hawai’i. Part of the wider world beyond our former home together. Unexpected. A mixture of sadness, yearning, and joy.

 

Alice has come and gone. She seems very competent, too. The comps she offered were lower than I hoped, but she’s at work finding more. This is a tough time period as it’s the slowest and lowest part of the market. Of course, those things can change. Once I have everybody’s net sheets, I’ll have a better idea of where I am.

No matter what I’m committed to moving off of Shadow Mountain. If I end up without enough money to make Hawai’i work, I’ll find somewhere else.

 

Fatigued today after a good night’s sleep. Must be lingering Covid. A little jangly, too. Hope this doesn’t continue. Gut issues seem to have resolved. A gift that keeps on giving.

 

 

 

 

 

Faith and Spirituality, Myth and Story, Poetry, Reimagine. Reconstruct. Reenchant.

Paradise, bad. Tempter, good.

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Lughnasa and the Harvest Moon

Monday gratefuls: Feeling almost whole. Paradise. Rental agents. Kep’s legs. The trash. Cooking for myself. That chicken from Rich. French toast. Whipped cream. Ruby. My ride. Kailua. Looking better and better. Or, Kaneohe. Though, windward, tsunami side. Robert Martin. Express mail to Vanguard. Depositing my TABOR check. Healing. The wonder of the body.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Agency

 

Paradise. A walled Garden in the original Persian, perhaps a hunting preserve. Paradise, a walled Garden for Creation, guarded by an angel with a flaming sword. Been thinking about walled gardens we humans create for ourselves. Gated communities. The Garden of Eden, the first gated community.

Our versions of paradise: Religions and their variants. Political ideologies. Ethnic purity. Even our own homes. That castle of our own. Skin color.

Inside these walled gardens we follow the same version of truth. The supremacy of white skinned humans. Submission to Allah. The Presbyterian version of the Christian story. Or, the Episcopal one. Or, the Pentecostal one. Or, the Roman Catholic one. I’m French. Swiss. American. Malawi. Aboriginal. I fly the Gadsen flag on my pickup. I’m a liberal. A libertarian. A Trumpist. A Nazi. An anarchist.

We mold and shape our perceptions of reality to conform to the presuppositions and biases of our walled Garden. This is confirmation bias. Selective perception.

Each of our walled Gardens also has its own Serpent, its own tempter, who hisses, “Eat of this Tree and you will know all.” This tempter might be biblical scholars who created the documentary hypothesis. Or, that little voice that whispers, “Other people with different skin colors don’t seem so bad.” Or, “What about traditions and heritages that give our lives richness?” Or…

There are so many walled Gardens. So many. Each with their gatekeepers, each with their own tempter. Each with their own Tree and its Fruit. What purpose do they serve? Tamping down ambiguity. Making the inevitable choices of our lives simpler. Creating a matrix against which we can lay our life and determine its worth.

I’m white. A superior race. I deserve my place above the mud people. I’m a liberal. The best political perspective. Why can’t those conservatives understand that? I’m Swiss. Sorry, but you’re not.

Easier to decide who to marry. What job to take. Where to live. Who to listen to. What flag to salute.

Here’s the thing though. Paradise was always an illusion. Those walled Gardens keep you in, narrow your world, define it in ways that often are harmful both to you and to others. Those gatekeepers. That angel with the flaming sword? Keeping you in.

That tempter. May be your guide out of Paradise. That Fruit. That Tree. Eat from it. Right now. It will taste good. Your eyes will open to the complicated, messy, never right or wrong world. Your life will become harder. You’ll have to choose without guard rails. There will be cliffs and sinkholes.

Help enough friends to do the same and you can take out the gatekeeper, walk out of the garden, and into the world as it is. As you were meant to know it. Neither bad nor good. Neither right nor wrong. Filled with the riches of people with different skin colors, of other heritages and traditions, of other nationalities, of other political perspectives.

This is the Field Rumi speaks of, the one beyond good and bad. Go out there, past the gatekeeper of your walled Garden, and I’ll meet you there.

General

rental agent draft

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rin, I’m looking to move to Oahu within the next 6-8 months. No later than March, 2023. I’m single, widowed, 75. I have an Akita, 85 pounds. Apartment or Condo. Quiet is important. 2 bedrooms. High speed internet. Probably AC. If not in Honolulu, parking. Between $3000 and $4000 or so a month.

Asia, Coronavirus, Feelings, Fourth Phase, Hawai'i, Health, Shadow Mountain, The Move

An Island and Ocean Guy

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Lughnasa and the Durango Moon

Friday gratefuls: Cool Morning. Kep, the quiet dog. Senior move managers. Hawai’i. Shadow Mountain. Black Mountain. Lodgepole Pine. Aspen. Trees and their communities. Tom and Paul on Overstory. CBE. Dreams. Taking care of that injured dog in my dream. Planning the move. So many moving parts. Another drug run. Pruning. Right sizing. Healing. Covid. Paxlovid. Royal Hawai’ian Moving Company.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Early morning exercise in Hawai’i

 

Finally back upstairs. Feeling pretty normal. Some gut issues. Some fatigue. Otherwise. So. Much. Better. This was a blank couple of weeks for the most part. Some work done on the move. Some cancer matters kept cooking. Otherwise tired and in bed or tired and sitting in a chair reading or watching TV. Or, clueless and not sure where I was.

I recommend against it. Find that next vaccine. Stay away from crowded indoor places. Be kind to yourself and others. Keep that streak alive if you haven’t had it. It’s a bastard.

Illness does have that when you stop beating your head against the wall moment when it lifts. Oh, yeah! I remember this feeling. Me. All here and functioning. Have it now.

Gonna continue to rest and recuperate until Monday, then it’s back to the grind. Hiking, exercising. Pruning. Right-sizing. Getting this move underway.

 

Called senior move managers yesterday. No joy yet. Apparently out of state, especially to Hawai’i, makes them skittish. Not totally sure why since what they would do here remains the same. I’ll know more as I keep contacting them.

Really need help organizing the steps required for liftoff. So many. Key steps: deciding what to move. Deciding how to eliminate what I don’t want to move. Getting house cleared out, painted and patched. Choose a realtor. Put house on market. Move stuff to Hawai’i. Figure out what to do with Kep until I have a place for us both. Decide when all this should happen. Health insurance. Sell car. Not sure how to make it all work smoothly.

So excited though. Want to become an Island and Ocean guy. Been a Mountain Man for eight years. New elements. Go boldly where I’ve not gone before.

 

Going to get some breakfast. Find myself craving meat. Protein. Must have depleted my stores. Had sushi last night. Not enough. I’ll get back to my Mediterranean diet. Gotta get the body right first.

 

House cleaners coming today. Glad. Place needs it. Has that sick person feel.    Ta.

 

 

 

Coronavirus, Hawai'i, Health, The Move

Short one

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Lughnasa and the Durango Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: Covid receding. Tired less. Dr. Simpson. Gabe and a girl. Ruth and a new guy. Jon coming up to mow. Diane. Mary. Mark. A sunny day. Getting ready to get on the move tomorrow. Look for senior move managers. Start pruning books, one shelving unit at a time. Make list of furniture, appliances, kitchen tools, dishes and pots and pans to take. Start cooking through my pantry. Make the move real. Small steps. Realtors.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Recovery

Yesterday was a slow day. More sleeping. TV. Reading. Feeling more and more normal. Gradually.

Not much to report. Realtors will all have been  here at least once after next Wednesday. A new retirement projection looks good though I’m gonna need a little help to understand it. Diane suggested the gradual pruning of my library.  Take books downstairs that I want to keep and put them in the garage. A good idea. I’m starting tomorrow. She also suggested using the area behind the knee wall in the sewing room as a place to sequester furniture, appliances, dishes, pots and pans, other things I want to take. Making it real.

 

Still fussing over results from the last set of scans. Might be mets, might now. Maybe an MRI. Maybe not. Adds a little flavor to the soup.

 

 

Coronavirus, Great Wheel, Hawai'i, Health, Hermitage, Memories, Minnesota

Buttery

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Lughnasa and the Durango Moon (oops. Lughnasa. Not Imbolc. My bad.)

Tuesday gratefuls: Not on a ventilator. Vaccines. Boosters. Omicron. Living in pandemic times. Caring friends. Who’ve kept touch. My body. Its immune system. A blue Colorado Sky. Hawai’i. Minnesota. The Soil. Here. In Minnesota. In Indiana, the best of the Hoosier State. The Volcanic Soil of the Hawai’ian Islands. Pele. Kiluaea. Mauna Loa. The great mystery of the World Ocean. the Kep. Dreams. Doubling down on moving. Back to it tomorrow. Ode’s hippy days. And, nights. Life after a harsh Covid slap. Sweeter, more precious.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Immune response

 

Today I feel only tired. Brain fog lifted. No residual symptoms except for a slight cough. Amazing. Tomorrow will be a full week since I got so hammered by the virus that I could barely drag myself around. Memory of that Wednesday, wiped. Now, less than a week later, I’m on the up ramp toward feeling good. Virologists. Immunologists. Pharmaceutical workers. Pharmacies. Pharmacists. It takes a metropolis and lotsa labs to beat a virus. I’m thankful for all of them.

This is a misery through which millions and millions have passed. And many succumbed. What better evidence do we need for our essential sameness? The virus doesn’t recognize skin color. Nationality. Ethnic origin. Religious preference or sexual preference. It recognizes the human body. The one we all share. Perhaps our mutual suffering can teach us what reason seems unable to.

Suffering is as much a human common denominator as love. When our body sinks into pain, to illness, to fragility caused by a microscopic organism, we experience what others of our species experience. The agony of existence, its rough edges, its limits. When we feel love, we experience what others of our species experience. Its sublimity. its comfort, its infinite possibility.

Find the wisdom about our common life in these most basic, universal and real shared moments. We all get sick. Suffer. We all fall in love. Rejoice. Let’s reach out to each other in both.

On the last day of quarantine my doctor said to me, “Wear your mask if you go out. Stay away from crowds and crowded places. After next Monday, you’re good.” Gonna stay in for the next week anyhow. Nap. Gradually start exercising again. Eat more. She also said, get a flu shot as soon as you feel better. I will.

 

Not said much about Lughnasa this year. But. Just read an NYT article about Princess Kay of the Milky Way. Got me going. Unless you live in Minnesota or are particularly attuned to its state fair traditions, you’ll not have heard of Princess Kay. Or butter sculpting. Let me explain.

Each year (asterisk for the pandemic years) before the Minnesota State Fair begins its August through Labor Day run, a young woman leader of the state’s dairy industry is chosen. She becomes Princess Kay of the Milky Way. Since 1965 a full-sized bust of Princess Kay and the other four finalists has been sculpted in the butter booth of the Dairy building. Yes, that’s right. 900 pounds of butter, salted, gets shaped into the likeness of all five young women.

You wouldn’t believe the ice-fishing on Lake Mille Lacs either. Minnesota has some strange traditions. That Winter Festival, too.

The relationship to the Celtic holiday of Lughnasa (not Imbolc, that starts in February) is this: On August 1st the Celts began a market holiday for the first fruits from the field. Corn dollies. (wheat=corn) A parade with the first shock of wheat. Loaves of bread from the first harvested wheat. Thus, btw, the Catholic feast day of Lammas, or loaves.

This agriculture celebration with feasting and games and display of farming’s first fruits of the year kicks off the three season harvest holiday that includes Fall on the autumnal equinox and Samain, or Summer’s End, on October 31st. It’s resonance continues in county fairs and state fairs in Great Britain and the U.S.

On a personal note. In 1971 while an intern in Ada, Minnesota I participated in the wedding of the just chosen Princess Kay of the Milky Way. It was considered quite a privilege.

 

Coronavirus, Health

Covid. Last Day of Quarantine

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Imbolc and the Durango Moon

Max

Sunday gratefuls: Alive and at home. Kep. Good sleep. Covid. Paxlovid. Pharmacies. Ann Brown. Very cool Mountain Morning. Lodgepoles. Their red Bark. Aspens. Their gray Bark. And quivering Leaves. That Rabbit that likes to hide under the raised fire pit. Serious hide and go seek. Feeling more and more human. Maybe 50-60%. Still fatigued. Mind much clearer. O2 sats good when up and about. CJ Pickett. The internet.

Monday gratefuls: Rich. The Pizza. Less fatigue. 4 days, then gradually getting better. Another rest day. Final day of quarantine. Full masking, no close contact until Sunday. More Rain. Drought weakening. Green Forests and Grasses. Colors deepened by moisture.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: The Super Max at 1

 

Some improvement each day now. Still pretty weak, taking a three hour nap midday, but my body seems to have gathered itself with the aid of Paxlovid and the boosters to push this virus back. Reassuring.

Still would not recommend it. Thoughts turning now to after effects. Hoping none. Obvi. By next weekend I expect I’ll be back to my normal, rip-roaring, go-gettem self.

It’s interesting, after all the masking, vaccinations, boosters, trying to stay away from enclosed spaces, to finally have had it. I made it to August 17th, 2022, the day before Kate’s birthday. Wednesday was so miserable I don’t remember it except for the extreme weakness. Thursday was bad, too. Friday less so. Saturday better. Today, better, too.

Given how I felt on Wednesday I would not call my symptoms mild, but the very bad ones were short-lived. Grateful for that. Also grateful for no respiratory involvement. That’s what I feared up here at 8,800 feet with my compromised diaphragm.

Now I know what it’s like. At least my version. It sounds like each person’s covid journey is unique though sharing certain over all characteristics.

Written on Monday: I got sick, real sick, then began improving after the fourth day. Which seems common among folks I’ve talked to. I think I’m recovering a little more slowly. Hard to suss out though. Hypothyroid. 8,800 feet. Covid. All mushed together I think. What remains is fatigue. A common complaint for me for some months now.

I had hoped to ride it out until September when the new vaccines for variants were available. Didn’t make it.

 

Giving myself the rest of the week as a quiet time, a healing retreat. Try to get the house picked up today. Other details sorted. Still not crisp, but I’ll get back. I can tell.

 

 

Coronavirus, Health

Wrasslin’ Match

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Imbolc and the Durango Moon

Friday gratefuls: O2 sats still good with concentrators. Conifer Med. Calling me each evening to see how I’m doing. Marilyn who brought chicken soup. Kep. Snuggling. Sick time. Out of the flow of time. Waiting. A sunny Colorado morning. Tara. Susan. Tom.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Oxygen concentrators

 

Day 4 with the other big C. My head is clear. No fever. Weak though. Moving around to feed Kep wears me out. No appetite. I am able to keep my O2 sats in the safe range with my oxygen concentrators. I find it hard to stay focused for long. House is getting messy as my usual pick up and clean up patterns have seemed too hard. I feel like I’m getting incrementally better. Head ache. Really wanted to give this whole experience a miss.

I work hard at not being defined by my illnesses. Right now, for this week or so, I am defined by Covid. It’s basically shut me down. I get up, feed Kep, come downstairs to sit in my chair. If it’s a particular active day, I might get back up and go fix some food.

Quarantine is easy. Like my life most days anyhow. As I wish it.

So far, and may it stay this way, this is far easier than the flu I had back in 2018. That was harsh illness. Knocked me down and almost out. Lost 15 pounds.

 

Not feeling like saying much else. Oh, maybe this. My spirits are good. I hope to see the end point of this wrasslin’ match in the next few days.

 

 

 

Coronavirus, Health, Politics

Settling in with Covid

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Imbolc and the Durango Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Oxygen concentrators. Conifer med. Ann Brown. Paxlovid. Covid. My bed. My schedule. Flexible. Illness. These strange and twisted times. The Aspen out the basement window. Lodgepoles behind it. Kep quiet for now. Liz Cheney. The GOP. Trump, the clown car President.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Paxlovid.

 

Wanted to get a Paxlovid script. Called my doc. Positive Covid test. OK, they said, we can see you tomorrow at 3:30. I’m 75, have prostate cancer and a compromised diaphragm. Let me see. OK. Come to the Conifer office at 11:30. Two kind persons came out, a med tech, and Ann Brown, a P.A.

The med tech got my vitals. Ann talked to me about the illness. She reminded me of Paxlovid rebound possibility. Biden. Due to low oxygen saturation numbers she wanted me to drive into the emergency room at Swedish for a chest x-ray. I was not eager to go further than back home.

She agreed to my going home since I have three oxygen concentrators left over from Kate’s long use. She ordered the Paxlovid and coached me:

If you can’t keep your o2 above 90 on the concentrator, go to the emergency room. If you get a fever of over a 102 go to the emergency room. If you get chest pains or shortness of breath, go the emergency room. The big concern is pneumonia, not the covid itself. Pay attention, Covid can turn.

At King Soopers, I got out in my Acorn slippers. Didn’t think I’d have to get out of the car. Walk up pharmacy. Got my drugs and went home. I couldn’t have made it down the hill to an emergency room. When I got home, myo2 sat was 78. The oxygen concentrator brought it back up. And continues to hold it at 90-94. May that continue.

In the times I’ve talked with docs and their staff about Covid something has stood out: respect. This virus has challenged them, met their efforts to ameliorate, and often has given them the slip. One doc said, Covid is weird.

In essence. Respect the disease because it can go down pathways we don’t expect and sometimes very quickly. So. I’ve got my oximeter, my oxygen concentrators, and my Paxvolid. Thermometer, too. Keeping tabs on myself.

 

The spreading stain of Trumpism and Trumpists. Makes me cry for our republic. Breaking something while claiming to defend it. A curious and tragic strategy.

 

Tired. Now. Tomorrow.

 

Coronavirus

Ah. Damn.

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Imbolc and the Durango Moon

Wednesday gratefuls: In home Covid tests. Feeling crummy. Kep. Sleep. Linda. A sweetheart. And, a Norwegian! Diane. A blue Colorado Sky. Lodgepoles lookin’ green. My body. Still at it. Dr. Simpson. A good guy. RJ. Positive meeting.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: Hawai’i

 

Oh, joy. A positive Covid test. Well, I’m no longer in that number. Of those who’ve not had it. Calling doc as soon as they open. Self-quarantine. Not sure how long. Right now at least not more than a bad cold. Knew something was off.

Not guilty. More angry. I’ve done what I could. Still got it. Damn. As it is. Do what I can now.

 

Am feeling unfocused, less than clear. Did get a good night’s sleep last night. That helped.

 

That’s all for today.