spring weeding

Change is afoot. What change, exactly, remains to be seen.

I find these waiting times difficult. Waiting to see, do, or understand. Waiting when I can't see the outcome, which I feel powerless to control. Waiting without knowing what I'm waiting for, having only a feeling that what is now present must surely pass.

Attention dog

Wow, that was possibly the worst batch of mush I've ever written. My apologies.

It reminds me of a certain college philosophy class I once took which left me closer to taking a hostage than enlightened.

"I think, therefore I am"––Really? I'm pretty sure I had the same breakthrough when I stayed up too late one night with friends drinking Mountain Dew.

So, to keep myself from thinking too much, I'm weeding. And it's a good thing, too. Ever notice how weeds just appear one day, and by the next, they are five foot monsters. Last year, I literally watched the farm where I work nearly succumb to an invading jungle.

This year I am determined to uproot this green army before it's too late and I have to rent a backhoe just to see out my windows. But I like weeding. It keeps my mind off more complicated things, such as life in general. And it makes me feel good. I can live on the high from one good morning of weeding for a week.

I think I might have a green thumb addiction.

Yesterday, fueled by Spring Break and Starbucks, Mountain Guy's three girls and I went out to the farm to battle some back arena invaders. And I am pleased to announce our offensive was wildly successful, nearly demolishing their entire squadron with minimal sisterly bickering. It did require a short ceasefire to procure various energizing beverages from the country convenience store.

But by early afternoon, I was sun-soaked and exhausted. In addition to garden work, hanging with three adolescent girls leaves little space in my head for thought.

After lunch at the park and a stop at Baskin-Robbins, I let Netflix babysit and retired to my bed for a three-hour nap, interrupted only by MG appearing in my doorway to say that he was taking the girls, and leaving a shovel.

Later that evening I used the shovel for weeding out the patch of dirt in front of our apartment. I discovered underground root networks that clearly had no intention of leaving. I pulled and dug and turned over earth until dusk had come and gone. And alas, with the oncoming night, I had to put the shovel away and wash up for dinner.

It's becoming an addiction, this weed-pulling. The dirt under my fingernails makes me disconcertingly happy. It draws my attention to the present, minimizing the current ambiguity of my direction.

In fact, given the choice to ride a roller coaster or garden, I'd rather get my kicks running my hand through upturned earth than flying high above the ground.

I don't know what's next, but at least the ground is ready.

OneArmGirl      

pandora's easter basket

As weeks go, this one was a blogger's dream.

The weekend alone included the following: manure shoveling at the farm, a Passover Seder at the Sheraton Hotel with Mountain Guy and his Jewish daughters, the arrival of our friend Asif from Los Angeles, an Easter sunrise service at the university football stadium, an afternoon Easter egg hunt, and lastly....bowling, of course.

On Monday, I found myself asking, "What didn't we do this weekend?"

Watching three little Jewish girls celebrating the resurrection of Christ explain to a curious Muslim the strange tradition of dipping eggs in food coloring, I felt like I was living in a bad joke. We pretty much boxed up three major world religions, tied with multicolored Pagan bow, in our kitchen. Who knew the key to peace in the Middle East is a bunch of brightly-colored eggs? At least it should keep the coexist bumper sticker people quiet for a while... 

After coloring, the eggs were hidden around our apartment complex. The hunt began amidst our fellow Christian neighbor's barbeque (of pork, no doubt), and whiskey shots were had by all--except the egg-hunters, that is.

"This is the best Easter ever!" I exclaimed several hours into the festivities. Alcohol was not a part of holidays when I was growing up. Turns out, it does make things a bit more fun...or, at least appear that way.

But things were just getting started. We finished up the day with several hours of bowling. Why did we feel the need to go bowling on Easter Sunday? Because that is what Asif loves to do, not having many handy bowling alleys in India where he lives. Perhaps it will become an Islamic Easter tradition.

I don't know if it was the multi-faith extravaganza or simply an overwhelming number of events, but I find that I am still unpacking, evaluating, and suffering from a touch of writer's block. Feast and famine, I suppose. Maybe I'll go eat an egg.

And next year, I think I'm gonna celebrate by cutting back on my observance...and whiskey.


OneArmGirl

cowboy weak

I bought another book. My seeming total lack of self-control disappoints me. 

But this collection of short stories was irresistible: Cowboys Have Always Been My Weakness. Sigh. I hear ya, sister.

OneArmGirl and Lil Sis

When I was a girl, I could imagine no more romantic life than by the side of a charming, muscled wrangler. In my fantasy, his hat and our porch wrapped around.

I can't say that I've actually known any real cowboys. Except maybe Grandpa Switzer who, though he may have been a cowboy, was definitely not my grandpa.

Mr. Switzer was really a good family friend. When my dad was a boy, he would visit the Switzers and their horses in the mountains. When I was a kid, Grandpa Switzer put me in front of him on a horse, who promptly saw a white paper in the grass and started rearing up. But Grandpa Switzer held me in place and collected the horse before I had a chance to get scared.

One summer, Grandpa Switzer came to help my dad remodel the house; actually put a second story on the ranch style. Read: ranch style, not ranch. He had a thick Oklahoma accent and worked nearly non-stop all day without a bathroom break. One day he accidentally put his cowboy boot through the roof into the room below, to the great surprise of Little Gen, who's handle was then literal.

In many ways like the American cowboy, Grandpa Switzer seems timeless. I'm almost certain he hadn't changed a bit from my father's childhood to mine.

Entering adulthood, I put cowboy love aside. Raising cattle really takes a lot of work, I figured. Plus I had college and world wide fame to daydream about.

But now college is a distant memory; world wide fame a mirage. And I'm getting back to my roots. I put a lot of thought into which pair of jeans I put on each morning; I've developed a healthy appreciation for Bluegrass; and on any given day, I can be found shoveling manure. I'm becoming a wannabe cowgirl.

Car seat cowboy

So I couldn't help but note an abundance of cowboy references in my life this week. On Friday, I picked up The Onion horoscopes and read the forecast for Gemini: "You'll be roundly condemned by members of the Academy of Country Music when, despite their specific instructions, you let your babies grow up to be cowboys."

Two nights ago, I found myself out on the mesa, in a small white pickup, making out with my ex-boyfriend. What, like that never happens.

Between kisses, I tell him about the book. In the title story, this girl dreams about cowboys her whole life, then she goes to live on a ranch and a cowboy shows up that couldn't be closer to cliché. He has impeccable character, and muscles. They go dancing. They gaze at the stars. She's finally found her cowboy. On the day that she leaves, he rides after her car on his horse across the prairie to ask her to come back soon. But as she watches him ride away, she realizes that saying cowboys are her weakness is more about her identity than the cowboys; it's a story she's created to define herself.

"So, I'm your cowboy?" Mountain Guy says.

"You're not a cowboy!" I say.

"I could be a cowboy." He seems offended.

Then I had to pee, but there was nowhere to go, so I had to squat in front of his truck. Talk about a romantic cliché kill.

But I don't think I'm that into cowboys after all. Maybe I'm just weak for a boy, and my self-control has obviously gone on vacation. Or maybe I just like being that girl, the...

OneArmWannabeCowGirl  

post delay

Due to it being National Poetry Month and some related but unforeseen circumstances, today's post will be delayed. In the meantime, please enjoy this poem from a blog I stumbled on this week...

 

We Are All Born Lacking

This is a test of the OneArmGirl posting system....

...this is only a test. Had this been an actual post, you would have been entertained, then directed to proceed gleefully with your day.

wined, dined, and pooped

True to form, I got sick, sucked down into the Bermuda Triangle of activity clusters that comprised my weekend. Actually, I didn't even make it to Monday, but woke up Sunday morning and thought "uh-oh, this isn't good."

Strangely enough, not one bit of my packed weekend had scheduling conflicts. It just so happened that a vaulting conference started Friday morning, followed by the Friday night service at my church, then my fellow fabric dancing friend's birthday party in the mountains, where entertainment included a live blue grass band, aerial fabrics, and suspension--you know, where people hang from hooks in their skin.

Pretty much how I felt all weekend.

I only made it halfway through the band because I had to get up early to go back to the conference for a therapeutic vaulting clinic. I joined an MD and a PT to show other physical therapists how moving around on the back of a horse can be great for people with disabilities. This really boiled down to watching a group of middle-aged women jump onto a horse-sized barrel with iron handles. But they were game.

I did manage to squeeze a nap in Saturday afternoon before meeting my friend Heidi, who also happens to be Stubby's mom, for dinner and a performance by AXIS, a dance company based in Oakland that integrates disabled and able-bodied dancers. I was particularly moved by a piece called Color Me Different. According to the program, it explores the effect we, as individuals, have on each other when we make contact. It was actually uncomfortable to watch. But I liked it.

The whole thing made me wish, not for the first time, that I lived in a bigger city where I could get involved in projects like this. Though I found myself wondering why showcasing disability in dance so often has to be uncomfortable and harsh. Are they trying to make the audience see how intense we disabled folk are? Because sometimes I just eat ice cream bars and watch old episodes of How I Met Your Mother. Would it kill them to have one feel good piece, say, to the tune of "I Could Have Danced All Night." Just sayin'.

After the show, I went home and to bed. And that's as far as I got. I would have gone back to the vaulting conference on Sunday, but my body had other plans. Plans that involved bed, and tissues, and Robitussin.

My perfect vaulting horse

I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again, this getting sick from over-exertion is the toughest handicap I have. The weekend was filled with my kind of stuff, aside from the suspension, but it pushed me into the red zone. Somewhat ironically, disability-related activities did me in.

It kinda hurts because these are things I really care about. But I know I've asked too much of myself...again. And curled up under my covers on Sunday, I feel like I'll be lucky if I ever feel well enough to make toast.

Disconcerting thoughts bounce around my serene bedroom. Who do I think I am? Most normal people don't aspire to hanging around on silk ribbons. A lot of women my age are two or three kids in, knee-deep in  diapers. They don't have time to think about joining the circus.

I envy those women. Yet, somehow I'm not cut out for that mold. Sometimes I feel like I am constantly, almost obsessively, breaking it.

Then again, my bed is soft and the blinds are turned up so the light shoots toward the ceiling just the way I like it. I enjoy one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard: silence. I'm relieved to be home.

"This above all: to thine own self be true..." said Polonius to his son Laertes.

I guess it's all we can really be.

OneArmGirl  

setting the record straight

I've taken the week off, more or less. My aerial fabrics session ended last week and my vaulting class was cancelled this week. This, and the fact that this weekend is shaping up to be the Bermuda Triangle of activity, I took to be a sign that I need to lay low for a while.

And my body really needed a rest. Sometimes I forget how much I am actually asking of it on a weekly, or even daily, basis. The last four or five weeks, I've been struggling just to get by without ending up in a clump by Friday afternoon. To be fair, I've been under a heightened level of emotional stress lately and for whatever reason, one tends not to plan naps to forestall mental exhaustion. But I really should.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful. I readily admit that I enjoy most of what I do, and more than that, I find a greater sense of purpose in my current occupations, which is more than a lot of people can say. But still, good things can get the best of you.

And for me, they usually do. It's not hard to remember a time when being the best was more obligation than suggestion for me. Growing up with one arm, over-achievement was the norm. It seemed the only way to prove my value. The army's "Be All That You Can Be" motto might as well have been mine.

But these days, I love myself a little more, and I have less and less to prove. So, when a siesta comes knocking, I gladly open the door. Relaxation has proved a greater friend than achievement ever was. Rest accepts me just as I am.

But I've been irked out of my peaceful resting, and by the most unlikely of reasons. While perusing the blogs that I've forgotten that I follow, I came across a disability post on a young woman born with no legs and only one arm with three fingers. The headline read: "13 year-old Kayla Wheeler skis, swims, bowls and that's not all."

And that was all I read. It was all I had to read. I already knew the whole story. But it was still bothering me today, so I clicked on the video...

The friendly local news anchor introduced us to Kayla's story thusly: "If you're feeling lazy or tired tonight, perk up and pay attention; there are no more excuses."

Enter Miss Wheeler, a true poster child of disability, who, in addition to the above mentioned sports, plays the piano, coaches swimming, and played baseball and took ballet before hitting puberty. She is currently the U.S. record holder of her class in the 50 meter butterfly, and hopes to compete in this year's Paralympic Games in London. A mass of metals hangs on her bedroom wall.

So much for my restful week off.

Kayla is certainly a very talented and driven individual. Undoubtedly inspirational. There was a time when she might have been my hero, but I'm having a different reaction this week.

I'm frustrated. Kayla's story reminds me of a growing resentment I've been feeling toward disability publicity. If you only knew disability through media, you might come to believe that all people with handicaps are excessively active over-achievers, climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro on all-fours like Kyle Maynard (if he had all fours, that is).

More than overcoming the odds, these handicapped celebs are leaving the odds in their dust. No wonder, as a child, I believed I needed to go above and beyond to be even noticed. Only the exceptional get press. Considering how many people with disabilities are over-achievers, clearly I'm in good company.

But my journey took an unexpected turn in early adulthood. I had to face my limits, accept them, and more than that, learn to love them. And a funny thing happened--I stopped needing to summit mountains.

Don't get me wrong, I think Kayla and Kyle, and even my Limbless Nemesis, are noteworthy individuals. But do you have to be outstanding to be worthy? And why do I still find myself sometimes believing I do?

Just last week I was stewing over all the things I want to be doing while I am still young--write, ride, teach, join the circus--and realizing that it would take more than one lifetime to appease my ambition. It quickly becomes the perfect storm for disappointment.

In praising those with handicaps for outsmarting disability, are we not actually reinforcing the old exaltation of physical or mental prowess.

These ponderings have actually caused me to question my own desire to attend the Paralympic Games this year as a spectator. Have I bought into the belief that the handicapped are only admirable when running fast on steel legs? What ever happened to walking?

I took a walk this evening with my friend Opie. We joked about planning our stroll like an old married couple. But it was lovely, making our way down sidewalks of pink-blossomed trees in the momentary light of dusk.

"This has been a great day," Opie remarked.

"Mmm," I agreed, though I'd actually spent most of the day fretting over what was not being accomplished.

"The most important thing we accomplished today was enjoying it," he concluded. And he was probably right.

Sometimes when I want to do everything, the best thing to do is nothing at all. Maybe I'll be the first handicapped person to go on achievement strike.

Do you think there's a record for that?

OneArmGirl