Addiction Recovery Program

Lots of Words.  Not Enough Pictures.

Male woodpecker watching out over Pelican Lake, Juno Beach, FL.

I have been attending a weekly meeting for recovering addicts with a friend of mine.  I thought that I would just be sitting in the back and doodling or doing homework while they did the stuff that they do there--but then I saw and read the materials that described the program.

This was something I needed.

It was a slap upside the back of my heart.  There were habits I had gotten into over the last decade that I did not like and wanted to change, but was too comfortable or too afraid to change.  I made a list of things that I liked about me--and wanted; another about the things I didn't like--and wanted to get rid of.  First:  UNWANTED HABITS
                         
1. I have a hard time keeping sudden promises--someone asks for me to come and help them, I usually fiddled away some time making excuses and crawling back into my own project.  It is as if I wanted to stay in my own little world--even if the person asking my help and time was someone I dearly loved.

2.  I lie.  I'm much better at telling the truth than I used to be--but I still exaggerate because that is what I am used to doing.  We always moved so often when I was growing up that I wanted to fit in--for others to WANT to be my friend.  Stories just kind of started--and I have been telling them ever since.
    Garrison Keillor tells a story about one hot summer when he hit his sister in the backside with an over-ripe tomato.  Years later, a young listener asked if the story was true.  Not wanting to disappoint the boy, Keillor relates that he assured him the story was, indeed, true.  He tells the audience listening on tape that it did happen--but it happened backwards:  His sister got him with a rotten tomato.  He says
that he got the best job of ever--he is paid to lie, to change the past and the truth in order to entertain people.
     Brent has always known when I was lying--but I did not know this until about a year ago--after 29 years of marriage.  He didn't want to hurt my feelings, he told me.

3.  I get nasty when I know that I am going to get the run-around on the phone with a "customer service
representative."  I have found that if I go in on the offensive, then, instead of meeting my wrath with
stern defense, the person on the other line crumbles and I am quickly transferred to the person's boss's boss and get what I need done.
     I have gotten my credit card company to lower my credit rate from an intended 8.5% (a raise in over 3% over the current rate) to 7.5%.
     Another credit card story:
     When the credit card I used to cover [and keep track of] college expenses for my children was denied (because I was traveling in Utah and needed to buy my daughter a new laptop), I was transferred from person to person to person--until I was informed that the offices were now closed for the day.  At this point, I went into over-drive .  I do not mean that I yelled [I do not yell when I am angry--I get very quiet.]  [I do yell when I am about to give birth, which, I have been told, scares other mothers nearby who are also in labor. . . at which point I invite the nurses to shut the door.  I am paying for this room and I can make noise if I want to.  Even then, though, I do not use profanity--just lots of
volume.]
     Back to the credit card.  At this moment I put on my "you are going to die," low, quiet voice.  I told the person I had worked in huge corporations before and that I knew there was someone in the company that had the power to do what I needed done.  I was transferred one last time:  to "Customer Retention."

At the beach of a Saturday early evening.  Jupiter, FL

     "What can I do for you today?" came a cheerful, male voice.  "I understand you are having some
problems with your credit card account.."
     We spend about 2 minutes talking.  This person approved my credit and the purchase was made.
     My final question:  "Why did it take so long for me to be transferred to talk to you?"  I got an answer about how he was the person of last resort.
     I resolved to use my  "you are going to die," low, quiet voice more often.
     I did so for quite awhile--avoiding much trouble and waiting when I needed help with a product or problem.
     This changed me, though.  I did not see it, but Brent did.  He told me that I was becoming an insensitive, mean, demanding person--the kind that made his workplace a really uncomfortable place
to be.  Just as Brent can see when my manic depression meds are starting to go awry and I cannot, he can see though and around me to understand when he needs to get help for me . . . and I need to change myself.

4.  I am quick to judge people and situations without having the perspective to understand what is really happening . . . unless someone does something stupid on the highway.  I have no problem with road rage.  I have had too many near-accidents that were my own fault to do other than try to drive defensively and keep those around me safe.

5.  I expect others to see things that are wrong or dirty or out-of-place and do what I would do--make them right or clean them or put them back where they go.  Again, perspective--no one sees the world as I do or wants it to exist in the same state that I want.

6.  I am lazy.  I need to exercise every day, but I am usually only active when I am working with my physical therapy person at 7am on Monday, Wednesday and Friday every week.  Three hours a week.  Pretty sad.  I don't like to clean my house--it just gets dirty again.

Ibis -- find one bit of food, come all.  Pelican Lake, Juno Beach, FL.

7.  I am selfish.  I don't want anyone touching any of my stuff.  I used to tell my kids that I didn't want them to "re-arrange" me.  For years, the only brush that stayed in my bathroom was one I used fire engine red nail polish to write "MOM" on the back of.  Apparently, though, there were some touchy moments even with that brush--I overheard my 7 and 8 year old girls talking in my bathroom one afternoon:
     Here's a brush we can use.
     We can't use that one.  It's mom's.
     But we need a brush.
     Not that one we don't.  Mom said not to touch it and I am not going to touch it.
So sad that I couldn't even allow my children to use a brush because I wanted to keep it right where I knew I could always find it.
     I also am selfish with my time.  I don't get many opportunities to be with Brent when he has any energy.  My body has undergone massive repair to recover from massive injuries I have inflicted on myself.  Suffice it to say that there are many years when, if I had not needed major medical stuff, Brent could have boughten a new car and paid cash.  Time to heal, though, I count, though, as wasted time--and I do not want others setting goals for me about how I am to spend my "free time."

8.  I am proud, too.  I want others to know how smart, how talented, how virtuous, how dedicated, how creative I am.  I talk incessantly about what I have done in the past and activities that take lots of money when I know my companion does not have the resources to enjoy or even understand what I speak of.  I need to keep my mouth shut and open my ears:  especially to Heavenly Father.

That is a start.  I also need to read and pray about the scriptures every day.  I need to help us have meaningful Family Home Evenings again.  I need to get in bed before 10pm so I don't need to take naps in order to keep my eyes open during the day.  I need to spend my evenings with people--not pasted to the TV screen.  I need to do my Visiting Teaching in person--not just by sending notes every month.

Getting Things in Focus

This week has been about getting things in focus.  

Three weeks ago, I underwent cataract surgery on my left eye.  I'd been having constant headaches and my left eye wasn't able to focus.  The ophthalmologist told me that I could get glasses--several pair.  I could get one for close up reading, one for computer, one for seeing the music when I played the piano, one for seeing far for when I drove the car.  

Never one to go the simplest route, I asked if there was something that could be done.  He explained that one possibility was to have the cataracts removed from both eyes and new lenses put in place.  

The chance to see again without glasses made me feel light headed with relief.  Brent battles with two pair of glasses--one for reading, one for computer work.  I don't know how he does it.  About three years ago I had two pair of glasses made up--one that would allow both eyes to see close up and one that would give both eyes far sight.  

I know that I used them--especially the ones for reading--but I have no idea of where they are now.  

But back to my subject:  focus.  

I was rather disappointed that I didn't have perfect sight in my left eye a few days after the operation.  When I had LASIK correction about 9 years ago, I was able to see clearly the next day.  Of course it was a little different then.

Because of my astigmatism, the doctor gave me mono-vision:  left eye for reading, right eye for seeing distance.  That meant that the muscles in both eyes didn't need to move in order for me to see.  In essence, by the time that the cataract was removed, my eyes didn't know how to work any more.

When I complained to my doctor--he told me that I needed to exercise them--do "pencil pushups."  Since that visit, I have been purposefully trying to practice focusing on things distant, then close up . . . again and again.  I was in the car on the way to Lowe's (or Home Depot), Brent was driving.  I put my index finger up as if I were pointing to the sky.  I held it at arm's length and then brought it up close to my nose.  Back and forth, back and forth . . . until Brent glanced over and asked me what I was doing.  

I then explained everything that I just went through in the last few paragraphs.  He remarked that his eye muscles must also be atrophied since he'd had LASIK done on both eyes about a year before I had mine done.  

So now the both of us periodically stop and use our index finger to make our eye muscles become stronger.  

For the last 7 years, I have been receiving shots in my lower back for a lot of reasons.  Surgery, as it is now, is not an option to relieve the constant pain.  After a shot I got about a year ago, I asked my pain management doctor if I could have a script for physical therapy--in the hope that strengthening my core muscles would lengthen the time between shots.  

I began therapy with a full time physical therapist, who was accustomed to working with patients 25 to 30 years older than me. By his standards, I ready to graduate from his care in about 6 weeks.  But instead of releasing me completely, he introduced me to a Pilates instructor who had worked with patients of his before.  

She began a year long process of strengthening my lower and mid-back muscles as well as my stomach and oblique muscles.  I cannot remember my last pain shot.  I am stronger and fitter than I have been . . .  ever.  Bonnie (my instructor) had the experience and skill to begin slowly and then to emphasize larger and larger groups of muscles.  

I do have pain still--mostly after a long airplane ride.  My core muscle group is resilient enough, though, to allow me faster recovery and release from pain.

I look at my eye exercises in the same way.  With my goal to see clearly both close up and far away with the same eye, working my eyes, it may take time, but I will be able to focus as I want.

Focusing on the ability to focus . . . working to be able to see what is around me without impairment . . . involves effort I have never made before.  It is a constant, enduring kind of thing--kind of like what I need to be doing to live the Gospel principles that I know to be true.  

I am trying to focus on people around me, too:  stretch the boundaries that have gradually built up around me to look at people and what they are, who they are.  

The Church sponsors a kind of AA program, Addiction Recovery Program.  We meet once a week for an hour.  I am there to work on my own addiction to safety and reclusion.  I never know when my body is going to begin to deteriorate, to hurt in new and terrible places.  I do not have control over a my manic depression will spiral out of the reach of my med's effective range. I have been in situations where I have become involved in social and school and Church activities--and then crashed.  I pull myself into my shell and wait to begin to heal.

I have learned patience.  

When Relief Society Sunday lessons focused on becoming more patient, my reaction was always to pray that each day would require no more patience than I already had.

As with my back and core muscles, it has taken a very long time for me to attain a level of patience that is able to meed the needs of each day.  Without focusing on it, patience has snuck up on me and claimed my heart.

I am working on stretching that ability to face things that were impossible before--to turn my focus from myself and my needs to those around me, without worrying and holding back in case my body or mind surrender their strength.  

The photos above were taken after a Botany lab class last Tuesday.   One shows that collection of ideas and things that lay about me as I finished class.  The other shows the composition I was able to refine after looking closely and focusing my attention on what was most enchanting, most piquant about what we had done and seen that class.

A choice to focus--choosing what I focus on--both inside and outside of myself.

Continuing to focus on what is important--I still go to Pilates Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 7 to 8 in the morning.

I still take my meds for manic depression and narcolepsy, hypothyroidism, (and now cholesterol).  I still read the scriptures and make a conscious effort to pray more meaningfully.  I still look for something I can do every day to make the world better--even if it is just picking up a few pieces of discarded plastic off the ground and putting it into the trash or recycling bin--thanking the grocery clerk for working so late when I shop after 9 pm--watching for Brent and Nathan and Lauren and Megan to do things that I can thank or praise them for.  I am trying to make friends with the other students in my classes.  My calling as a Cub Scout (Webelos) is now constantly at the back of my mind--what to focus on--how to encourage them to stretch their physical and mental and spiritual muscles.

Focus.

See more clearly.

Focus.

Chance of a Lifetime

Since moving to Florida, I have felt myself in a wonderland (without any Queen of Hearts or beheadings).  Flowers that died every winter in the North grew to huge masses and had to be cut back once or twice a year.  There were areas where the scrub was drab olive with very sharp edges, sharp enough to slice skin through jeans and venomous enough to send a fellow student to the hospital after being impaled by an end spine.  

The most incredible gift that I discovered were the birds.  There are tiny finches--the size of hummingbirds--that flutter about in an ephemeral cloud--reminding me of honeybees massing to follow a queen to form a new hive.  There are also raptors--lady hawks, falcons and even, by the rivers, golden eagles--which account for the dearth of squirrels and scarcity of marsh rabbits in our neighborhood.

Anhingas cut through through the dark canal waters like seals and then waddle up along the edges to a high spot where they point their faces into the sun and spread sparse wings to catch the breeze and dry.  Also in the deep canals you see tall, elegant, snowy white egrets, wading up past their knees, heads cocked and frozen until I the split second when they punch the water and suddenly appear tossing a fish down their long, thin throats.  

The biggest surprise was the sandhill cranes.  Almost able to look me straight in the eye, we have come to an agreement--they do not help me dig up the gardens, I supply daily amounts of cracked corn, milo and other assorted seeds from a scoop made out of a plastic milk jug. Many of these cranes have visited year after year and when their chicks are the same size (sometimes bigger) and mobile enough to keep up with them, these new birds arrive with their parents to glean from the offered food.  

Twice I have seen parents with chicks . . . It's has been the only chance I've had to record in photographs a family so recently cormpleted.

Magic.

Heard at Church this morning:

"You can't bless yourself with the  priesthood but you can bless others."

                                                                                     John Smarinsky--Stuart Florida Stake Presidency

Inspiration and a Push

This Wednesday and the Wednesday before that, I took lessons from John Lopinot--professional photographer--and dad of the young woman who makes my one acre look like  million bucks.  The reality of his coming--like a deadline in a college class--made me dig back through the boat-load of photographs I've taken over the last seven years. I was pleasantly surprised by what I found.

Nathan spotted these ducklings near the edge of the lake.  I love the spikes of green, the ripples coming away from them as they move--and the focus of light on the lead duckling.

This was one of my first photos of the barn my sister managed in Minnesota.  If I were a painter, I would have painted a sky like this, the diagonals of grass cut lines with the road, and the red square above the round steel bin.

I was visiting my daughter and her family near D.C. and we went to the Smithsonian.  I caught her as she walked from the window and across the hall through the frame of a modern sculpture.  This is such a good portrait of her--she is an artist herself, utterly unconcerned with fashion trends. When we were planning her wedding, she wanted to wear white overalls . . .

Were I to prep this for a print, I would crop off the left, emptier side where the scissors are.  I like the movement of the burnished kitchen faucet handle, meeting the line of the leaves at a 90 degree angle--leading the eye from the top rose to spiral around under the two red roses--and then back to the center rose, tipped with red from the low lighting and long exposure.

This is technically not a good photograph.  I am shooting from dark to dark, lit behind by bright sunlight.  The details of the cranes' eyes, beaks and feathers are difficult to make out.  I do like the story of the picture, though--male watches over the pregnant female while she rests during the heat of the day.

I know that many people do not like squirrels.  My own husband has a violent dislike for them ever since they tried to eat the wood shingle roof of our Kansas City, MO home.  Unfortunately for him, I quite like them--they are quick and curious and will come close to me if they trust . . . and I have raw peanuts to offer.  For this shot, I laid down on the sidewalk in front of the subject.  It was late afternoon and the shadows in the photograph make it one of my favorites.

For some reason I cannot fathom, this wild marsh rabbit (native to Florida) came to live in our yard one summer and would sit still and watch me as I sat still and photographed him.  I have miniature rabbits in the house as pets--they are sweet, but not the same as this wild gift of tolerance.

Mushrooms pop up all over our yard--it is wet here and the wind blows in some pretty amazing fungi.  This group reminded me of standing in line--everyone crushing forward to find out what they were standing in line to see.

Excellent Ixora: The Humble Umbel

Ixora casei--in bloom now all over Southern Florida

As I was driving into the parking lot of one of my doctor's, I came around the long driveway--and was ushered towards the office entrance by this expansive line of Ixora bushes.  Even though I've lived here for the last 8 years, the sight took my breath away.

 

These are like a handful of firecrackers to my eyes.

I love the almost waxy look of the flowers and the leaves.  In a hot humidity that makes most flowers wilt just a few minutes after they are picked--these flower-lets are the same pristine shape for days after I pull them off the stem.  

Years ago, before I knew the name of the Ixora, (I love that name!) I pulled handfuls of the four-petaled florets and slipped them inside a book.  A month later I found the book (having forgotten the flowers I'd pressed between the pages), and opened it.  A shower of salmon-red, "four leaf clovers" rained down into my lap.

The flower is part of the Rubiaceae family.  I was reading another blog and discovered that they are one of the plants known as "umbelifers."  Each individual flower is held together with others on a single stem.

The individual florets before they bloom.

Side view of a full-blown umbel.

I got this from the notes of an on-line Botany 115 class. The next photo refers to the flower stalk--the pedicel. 

Individual floret:  in my clumsy way, I've knocked one of the stamens loose to sit below the ring on my hand.

Sometimes when I try to pull just one of the florets away from the bunch, I can feel the pistil slip out of the pedicel so all that's left is a long, hollow tube.

Closed flowers spike above open ones--almost like a tiara atop the head of a prom queen.

One of my professors once commented that when I take pictures of plants, I do so showing all the parts that I can.  Usually my aim in photographing plants "in the field" is to find an image that will help me to identify it even when there are no flowers or fruits showing.  Most plants bloom only during one season of the year.  When I am waundering about with a horticulture class, the purpose is to be able to ID the plants we see.  Most often, we're looking when blooms have already fallen or haven't yet come out.  Leaves are all there is to see . . . and ornamental (or "landscape") bushes or shrubs are kept so closely trimmed that they don't get a chance to produce blooms.

Leaves!  Look at the leaves!  Take what you can get . . . still got to figure out what plant's in front of me.

For me, this would be a great ID photo to have:  leaves, undeveloped and full-blown umbels. 

I leave you with this last image:  a handful of Ixora casei:  soft, effulgent pink-red florets.

DELICIOUS!

   

  

Golden Beetle and a Story

Iridescent Gold. A phrase that comes from the Greek and tells a story in just two words.

  

In the Grecian language, "iris" means "rainbow"; which is linked to the goddess Iris--the embodiment of the sky-bound colour spectrum that the Judeo-Christian tradition remembers as a sign of the message from God promising never to flood the world again. 

Like the Biblical rainbow, Isis was also a message-bringer:  messenger of the gods.  As such, Isis traveled at the speed of the wind, heedless of time or element.  Back and forth she flew between worlds, linking the gods to mortal men. 

(I say "men" since I rather think that women are meant to be smarter, and able to stand on their own two feet--without depending upon the prognostications of reclusive, forest hermits.  Also, women get the short shrift in just about every mythology. Take Arkhe for example . . .) She could reach into the deepest seas and furtherest reaches of the underworld.

  

Isis had golden wings.  Her twin sister, Arkhe, was winged with iridescent ones.  She did not keep them, though.  They were torn from her by Zeus and given as a wedding gift to Nereid Thetis on the day of her marriage.  The gift passed to Nereid's son, Achilles.  He wore them on his heals, becoming the FTD icon (also called by the Greeks "Podarkhes"--which meant "wing-footed with Arkhe's wings.")and a personage on one the tests in my 6th grade English class.

Kudos for the source of information: WikiAnswers' Word and Phrase Origins Supervisor (There is a photo portrait of her on the site, but whose real name remains a mystery to me.).  Who knew there could be such an intriguing job? 

In Front of the Light

I'm still remembering last night's swim.  Nathan took this of me in front of the in-pool light.  It mirrors the way I feel when I'm in the water--no noise, no gravity, no clear vision.  It is a dream that I can jump into whenever I choose.  

Just knowing that makes everything else much easier to take.  

Sometimes I don't even change into my swim suit--which grosses Nathan out . . . all that dirt from my clothes.

When we first got here, my favorite thing to do was to put on a pair of my most-worn long shorts and a too-big shirt.  I'd go out on the acre of land that surrounded our house and pull weeds, plant flowers, fertilize the tomato plant that hadn't died yet, thin the ferns and cut out the weed trees.  Since it was always hot and humid (no matter what time of year it was), when I got really overheated I would jump into the pool.  When I wasn't sweating anymore, I would hop back out of the pool and go back to work.

Magic.  Water.  Pool.  Perfect.