“Nondisplaced distal radius fracture.” I never knew what that meant. Now I can tell you. It means

• one-handed typing
• asking someone to open the peanut butter jar for me
• difficulty folding laundry
• trouble putting my hair up
• making multiple trips to carry a few things
• setting things down to open a door

It also means feeling grateful for all the fully functioning body parts that I do have.

I have the best family and friends on the planet.

Just saying.

Photo: Grandma Sawyer’s apple tree, which likes to produce three-apple clusters. Photographed by me with an iPhone and the Hipstamtic app
on August 7, 2010 in Palos Verdes, CA

I was driving around today, running a bunch of errands, enjoying the sunshine, and randomly taking in the messages on the big billboards along the way.

It seemed like a lot of the billboards carried advertisements for beer of some kind or another, and this intrigued me. I mean, I don’t know why it would surprise me to see so many big ads for beer, maybe I haven’t been paying attention or something. Beer is not something I pay much attention to (no offense anyone).

And then I got to thinking about the Sobriety Campout and PowWow that I am going to next week, and of course then I got to thinking about how AA really does save lives.

And in the course of my errands I saw two police cars, which got me to reflecting on an article I read yesterday about the high incidence of law enforcement officers who when stopped at the side of the road are accidentally struck by an intoxicated driver. Some officers call it the “moth effect”—drivers drawn to the stopped patrol car, like a moth to a flame. In motorcycle racing we always called this, target fixation—how the vehicle we are steering seems to be drawn in the direction we are looking.

Anyway, I was thinking about law enforcement and intoxicated drivers, and how much less stress I have in my life now while I am not drinking—I never have to weigh whether or not I am “impaired”. I never have to navigate the poor judgment and physical incompetence that comes with intoxication. And really, it’s a wonderful freedom to not have to do that kind of policing of my state of mind and being.

And then there’s the pure monetary benefit that comes with not drinking. I haven’t added it up, but let’s just pretend real quick that I had been drinking a $10.00 bottle of wine every week plus two cocktails while out on the town … that would be about $1,200.00 that I have not spent since I quit drinking last summer. $1,200.00 savings—about what it costs for everything to keep my zippy yellow car on the road for a year!

More talk today about preservation. This time Suesanne and I were comparing notes about how each of our great grandfathers would cut and save ice in the winter for use in the summer. It must have been early 1900s when they were doing this, her great grandfather in North Dakota and mine in western Montana.

I wish I had all the stories my dad used to tell of those times. He was there, and took part, and knew about the tools and techniques. Simply genius really, what could be done without electricity.

Great grandpa also cut wood in the summer, and it was a symbiotic industry–the shavings from wood cutting were used to  insulate and preserve the winter ice.

I just finished reading “Three Cups of Tea”. In a (unjust) nutshell, this is a true story of a man who builds relationships and then schools in the remote and poor villages of Pakistan and Afghanistan. And if any images will remind me of the abundances of my life, the stories of how little these peoples have will shine an immense spotlight on my good fortune.

I have two prominent vices. One is my propensity to make things from “nothing”–I love creating “art” from random and “insignificant” ingredients. Ribbon. Buttons. Rusted bottle caps. Pages from children’s arithmetic lessons. Of course my inclination to use such ingredients means that I must gather and store them. Honestly, I’m not a hoarder, but I do see beauty and potential in humble things, and am often loathe to part with them; they do stack up.

My second vice is an appreciation of the labor and love that goes into making some things–early American furniture, hand-thrown pottery, Chinese jade carvings, mouth-blown crystal goblets. My appreciation for the human effort of creating things makes it difficult for me to part with things, if I don’t feel they are “going to a good home”. And unfortunately, I inherited from my parents an enormous quantity of lovingly crafted items. Because I had already accumulated my own household of beautiful things, my inheritance overwhelmed my “wealth”.

Combine vice one and vice two, and I am weighted with an undeniable over-abundance.

And contrast this abundance with the simpler lives of my fore-fathers, and I am confused–how did my life get to this, and what do I do about it.

Have I “saved” too much stuff, and it’s time to find another way for my life? I believe it is.

I had begun to miss the spontaneous dinner parties of my friend, Tiberio.

Tiberio makes magic food–his secret ingredients are passion and love. His dinner party guests are from the jumble of his collection of friends and acquaintances–always an eclectic array of other passionate and loving people.

But Tiberio has been busy traveling, and seeking himself; his parties have been sparse (if at all). So I was happy to hear his voicemail yesterday, inviting me to join him and his friends for an impromptu gathering.

I was less happy when I arrived at 6:30 and saw a room full of unfamiliar faces.

In general I haven’t been too swift lately, my social and emotional energies still being expended to adjust to my new marital status, so a room of unknown people initially presents itself as a chore. But this was Tiberio’s home and I have a history there which assures me that even “strangers” will be kind, sweet, and good company. So, I joined the fray.

The evening unfolded. There was good food and an array of conversations. As dinner was winding up someone mentioned that it was a nice way to spend Mark’s birthday.

Oh dear. Tiberio had not known there was a birthday in the house, and he had not created a cake. Now, Tiberio is a master with cakes–an official James Beard Award-winning pastry chef and everything. Spectacular cakes is something he loves to create and bestow on his friends. What, no cake? Oh dear.

And in a wink, he hoists a cantaloupe from the pantry shelf and converts it into a melon worthy of celebration.

A simple and majestic gesture, unleashing a flow of gratitude in my heart for the abundance of such beautiful people in my life.

You did not not get a valentine from me this year.

No one got a valentine from me this year. It wasn’t just you.

I know. I know. I ALWAYS send valentines.

But this year I did not. And I am probably more saddened by that than you are. Not to keep the focus on me or anything.

It’s really not because I wasn’t feeling it. In spite of all the reasons I have to be anti-Valentine’s this year, I did want and intend to mail my annual, hand-made valentines. Especially because I feel so grateful for all the love and support that has been focused on me these past few months.

Nope. I am not feeling particularly anti-Valentine’s. I even convinced one naysayer to switch to pro-Valentine’s.

But it is true that I am broken-hearted, and it’s true that that has me moving a little slow sometimes, especially in the expression-of-love department. And I just didn’t get my valentines designed and made in time to get them mailed to you.

So, it’s not that I don’t love you, and it’s not that I didn’t mail you a beautiful paper message of affection, it’s just that I didn’t create valentines at all this year.

But I promise I love you. And I suspect I will make it up to you somehow in the year to come.

Photo: Broken Heart by John Koetsier and used with Creative Commons license.

It is 2:38 a.m. and I have been awake now for about an hour, after not quite three hours of sleep. Pretty much normal for me anymore, to sleep a few hours, wake, rustle around, sleep, wake, rustle rustle.

It’s wearing on me.

And I am feeling sad.

There’s this thing that has been happening for awhile. Two things actually. I will wake, and feel a twisting ache in my chest, and a little voice in me says, “My heart is killing me.” And then, my brain clicks ON and starts recounting the reasons I hate my husband.

I do hate him.

I am sure I will get over it (I hope to god I get over it), but this wrenching pain in my heart fuels the hate, and the mid-night recap of the reasons for my feelings tends to spin me all around, and keep me awake.

I am very sad that this is my state of being as this year comes to a close. I am deeply and mournfully sad.

I am also puzzled at what the little voice says to me: My heart is killing me. I argue with the voice, trying to explain the possible ramifications of repeating a message like this … my heart. killing me.

But for four months the voice has said the same thing.

So I close out the year 2009 in a state of grief and sorrow and hate. Indeed I have a good measure of gratitude, and some shining slivers of love. And the care and love that my friends and family have bestowed upon and bedazzled me with have without a doubt sustained me–literally keeping me alive.

But the core of my being–right now, as we speak–is a burning hole of loss.

Over the last few months I have been doing a lot of what I call “spewing”–essentially verbally vomiting my feelings and thoughts, with minimal regard for “what will people think.” I mean, I have been conscientious of the possibility of causing undue harm, and I have tried to avoid that. But otherwise, I have been publicly venting and displaying my angst, as well as my thoughts and feelings about the origins of my current unhappy state. And honestly, this has been therapeutic for me.

An interesting consequence has been the extent to which people have thanked me for my writing. Some of my friends are, of course, just curious to see how I am doing (and making sure I am okay). But many people have said they are appreciative of things I have said, along the lines of how we sometimes appreciate knowing we are “not the only ones” in a circumstance or state of being.

So I guess that in the process of taking care of myself, and I am also serving others. Why does this reciprocity always surprise me?

Photo: the eyes of truth r always watching u by Gisela Giardino and used under Creative Commons license

Recently I have walked right on by several pan-handlers, without making a monetary gift to them. I make eye contact and smile, but I move along without handing over any cash.

I have had a few arguments in my head: “Oh, all I have is a five” or “All my money is buried in the bottom of my bag.”

As if either of those is a valid excuse.

See, my rabbi taught me that it is not for me to determine if someone who is asking for a handout is deserving of it or not. I ought to just make the gift, and not judge if the recipient is worthy.

Once Rabbi gave me that advice, I started carrying a spare dollar or two in my pocket, to always have at the ready when I encountered a request. I found that I actually had a much easier time of things; no more energy invested in assessing another human, and much less angst about their need versus my blessings.

Somewhere along the way I slipped out of the habit. I don’t remember now when that was. But I am getting up from the computer now and putting a stack of dollar bills on the shelf beside my car keys. This way I can be sure and stash some “spare change” in my coat pockets whenever I head out the door.

Photo: Spare Change by Sean Gannan and used under Creative Commons license