March was odd.

Kaylah was cleared to start her therapy leash walks, which was great. Then I pulled in a muscle in my back and was flat out for nearly two weeks, which was not great.

Kristina was home for the second of those weeks, which was great. But I wasn’t able to do all the fun things with her, or to coddle her the way I planned, which was not great.

After several visits with an orthopedic surgeon about my knee, he says he doesn’t want to do surgery right now, and prefers I do eight weeks of intensive PT first/instead, which was great. I wasn’t able to start that right away, because of the back thing, which was not great.

I gave myself time to rest and heal, which was great. But I also hibernated and hid away from things and people, licking my wounds in private and isolation, which was not great.

The above is from a note I wrote to a friend, after she asked how March was. At the end of that, I said it sounded like a silly blog post. Or perhaps like the children’s book Fortunately, by Remy Charlip.

The fact is I have been in this place that feels precariously balanced between rest and isolation. The winter was rough and demanding. But we are through that now. We are all much recovered, in fact. There is plenty of room for me to return to my writing, to my creative endeavours, to my work at the school, to my photography.

But is there room for me to return to ALL of them? Probably not. So I might have to choose – not choose one over the other forever, but choose what gets my attention first.

I’ve been letting my inner critic shut me up, shutting me down, shutting myself away from people, from writing here, from writing anywhere, really.

It’s time to come back into the open.

I am inspired by Brené Brown on a regular basis. Before her TED talk this year, she was interviewed for the TED blog. This quote struck me.

If you’re failing, at least that means you’re trying — not remaining on the outside of the arena, looking in. And we need to learn to deal with our inner critics, who are so adept at shutting us down when we dare to try.

That in turn reminded me of Garth Brooks’ song, Standing Outside the Fire.

I’m done with standing outside, looking in. I’m ready again, ready to work, to create, to play, to advocate, to write, to tell stories, to celebrate, to be vulnerable, to connect, to heal. I am ready.

The official video for this song is awesome, telling the story of a young man with Downs Syndrome who wants to compete on the high school track team. I can’t find that video anywhere now. This link is a tribute video to firefighters – it’s still a great song, with a more literal video interpretation.

Parking Buddha did not start out as Parking Buddha.

He started out as a gift for Kristina from a childhood friend.

When Kristina was little, we did not have typical, mainstream, regular, suburban friends. (Or at least, not very many.) So it would follow that when we had birthday parties, picnics, baby showers, or trips to the zoo, these would not be typical, mainstream, or regular suburban events either.

We did not emphasize pink, plastic, or expected. We sought out creative, surprising, and heart-felt. Costumes happened often and were usually cobbled together from the dress-up box, craft supplies, and kids/parents at hand. Birthday presents were the same. (More on that, later.)

Kristina and her friend Twyla were especially known for this.  I’m not sure we ever set out to the store specifically to buy a present for Twyla. Kristina usually had a basket or scarf wrapped around things she had set aside to save for her buddy, ready to bring with on our next visit.

Kristina and Twyla met before Kristina was born, when Twyla was 12 days old.

A mutual friend had suggested Twyla’s mum and I should meet “sometime” because she was sure we would hit it off. We three pregnant ladies shared the same midwives, even. On our last planned midwife visit before Kristina’s birth, we waited for our appointment while an infant wailed in one of the appointment rooms.

After a bit, the family emerged with Dad carrying the babe, a flushed and teary Mum following. Dad greeted us with great enthusiasm (his natural way), and asked if I’d like to hold their little one – Twyla.

And then there she was, planted on my basketball-of-a-belly, staring up at me with her enormous blue eyes, one forgotten tear tracing down her cheek. Kristina kicked up to say, “Hello!” to the pressure, and Twyla grinned. (No, you will not convince me that was gas.)

We didn’t make the friend connection that day, and didn’t see them again until the girls were nearly two, when we happened on the same playground in the woods. We laughed, recalling how we first met; the girls – and their mamas – were fast friends from then on.

One year, to celebrate I-don’t-remember-what, Twyla wrapped and gave to Kristina an Indian deity statue. The girls were maybe six or seven. Kristina was delighted, and bundled up her Buddha to take home. Except that when we arrived home, the statue did not quite make it into the house. And then it rolled under a seat.

And was forgotten.

It thunked and rolled occasionally, when I hit a turn just right, reminding me it was there; I would make a mental note to retrieve it when we returned home, but that note would be over-written by the time we got there.

One afternoon, in a grumpy mood, I cleaned out the car, collecting fruit leather wrappers, empty drink boxes, bits of toys, cereal, books, and puppets into bags. I pulled the statue out from under a seat – to find that it was now a headless statue.

Panicking a little – this was a gift after all – I rooted around in the dark recesses until I found the missing head.

Oh dear.

Kristina was not an overly sentimental kid about such things, but still. I felt badly and I was concerned about her reaction. So I did what any self-respecting, values-demonstrating mama would do: I shoved both pieces right back where I found them.

I’m not at all sure when we noticed that our parking karma had changed, but it most certainly did. Whenever we went to a show (these were the days of regular SCT and PSC attendance, where there’s no parking), or downtown Seattle, the spot we needed was right there waiting for us.

It happened over and over. It would not be denied.

When a time came for Kristina to clean out the car mess, she found (two pieces of) the statue and made the connection to our vastly improved parking luck.

She placed the body back under the seat, and put the head into the centre console – I’m not sure why, she might have had a reason (the head would have a better view from there? it was more respectful? cleaner?), or it could have been random.

Later, we traded that car to buy the one I have now. The biggest question was what to do with what we had for years been calling Parking Buddha. Was it real? Was it made up?

Did we dare take the chance? Apparently not.

The body was moved from the trade-in to its new home – under the front passenger seat of my Toyota. The head took its place of honour in the centre console. There they remain.

And I still have awesome parking karma.

Note:  I pulled the statue pieces out to photograph for this story. And I was deeply chagrined to discover that we do not have a parking Buddha at all. Oops. I guess we didn’t look very closely at the statue to begin with. Any ideas as to who this is?

Update: Kristina thinks the statue might be Kwan Yin, the goddess of compassion. Kwan Yin has shown up often in my life. Maybe it is an exercise in compassion to provide a good parking spot for someone like me.

Kristina inspires me all the time with her quirky style and her confidence.

As promised, a quote for my one little word.

As we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
~Marianne Williamson

I wrote two cards today. I know the folks on the other end will be delighted to receive them.

A few years ago, I had an issue with my shoulder. I had some vague problems with pain, inflammation, and range of motion, that progressed (regressed?) into adhesive capsulitis. Otherwise known as frozen shoulder.

Sounds fancy. It meant I couldn’t move my arm much. I couldn’t do up a bra behind me. I couldn’t raise my left arm over my head. I couldn’t put my arm around my husband. (I am reminded of this whenever I see that arm cradled in front of me in our wedding photos.)

Nana had similar symptoms after a bad fall. But she was in her 80s. I didn’t think my shoulder should be acting this way when I had only just turned 40. And I hadn’t had a bad fall.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I was having symptoms already. Then Ed and I went cross-country skiing at Snoqualmie. I took a spill in the turn at the bottom of a wee hill, right before the rail-less bridge over the creek.

I landed hard, plunging my left pole into the snow, feeling the shock travel up my arm into my shoulder. What had been annoying before became a bigger problem.

Without a clear solution. If you followed the links above, you learned that with treatment, frozen shoulder resolves in about a year. Without treatment, it resolves in about two years.

I know, right?

And it’s tricky to diagnose.

I went through the physical therapy, I ate naproxen like it was candy, I did the home exercises. I was still in a lot of pain.

My doctor ordered an MRI.

For me.

The claustrophobic one. The one who doesn’t even like to wear a belt. Or a short necklace. (They call them “chokers” for a reason.)

I was terrified.

Ed came into the room with me. He talked to me. He kept his hand on my leg. When the radiology tech started wrapping me in constricting layers – belts, straps, earmuffs, eye cover – he saw the panic rising in my face.

We worked out a way to simplify things. I wore ear plugs. I skipped the cloth over my face. (A compassionate radiology tech is a treasure.)

I was still terrified. I panicked the first time in the tube. The tech pulled me out. We talked. We tried again.

Later, I had a steroid injection under fluoroscopy. A few months later, another.

In between, a new physical therapist, one who specialized in shoulders. We basically ripped open scar tissue (that’s the adhesive part of adhesive capsulitis) every week, and I did an hour of exercises every day to keep it from re-attaching, to maintain my range of motion.

I got better.

Now my knees are a problem. They have been for years. Especially the right one – the one I injured and spent six months on crutches rehabilitating when I was in college.

When I climb stairs, the sounds coming from my right knee are just not natural.

I’ve put off seeing anyone about it. Because I have this tendency to head to the worst-case scenario.

Yes, this grateful girl, the one who can always see the upside… is afraid, especially of anything like surgery. So I figured if I went to an orthopedic surgeon, they would want to do total joint replacement on the knee. Which didn’t scare me nearly as much as the idea of going under for the procedure.

After Kaylah’s injury and our decision to do her knee surgery, Ed and Kristina put their respective feet down: I had to go see someone and learn about what could be done for my ageing knees.

I did it.

The good news is that I am nowhere near needing joint replacement. It turns out, medical technology has come a long way.

Who knew? *ducks*

There are many things that can be done, in between nothing and joint replacement. I am scheduled for an MRI to get a more detailed look.

Ed asked me if I’d like him to be there for it.

There was a quiet moment, while I thought about it. And realised that I’ll be fine. For one thing, my head isn’t likely to be in the tube for a knee image, so the claustrophobia part feels less scary. For another, I’ve done this before, so I know what I’m getting into.

And I am braver now.

I am brave now.

What a wonderful thing to learn about myself.

***

*Wondering why there are photos of Ed catching snowflakes to accompany this post? I figured photos of my shoulder or knee would be boring. And I want to play in the snow with him again. We have some snowshoes to use.

Tulips and daffodils are in the stores again. These aren’t yet the field tulips, but I’m not picky. The bright spots of colour are so very welcome.

This year, we plan to get up to Skagit Valley to see the tulips. It’s been years since I’ve been, although I took Kristina many times when she was little.

A picnic, a bag of camera toys, and either an umbrella or sunglasses, depending on this, and we’ll be good to go.

As promised, a quote for my one little word.

A candle loses nothing by lighting another candle.
~James Keller

Ed says I am the most hopeful person he knows, that I can turn anything around. I can – and do – see the good everywhere.

Kristina says I am a glass is 90% full person. She’s right. I see the best in people. I live in hope.

But I am no saint. I hope they would tell you that, too.

I can be cranky. Irritable. Defensive. But not for long. Ed says my cranky is more cheerful than most people’s good day.

Not so. I can be bitchy. But not very often.

The fact is, I am terrified of wasting my time on cranky and bitchy.

One day, two towers came down. Four planes crashed. Many people died.

And of course, people die every day. Every way, sometimes, in awful ways – illness, accident, intentional harm.

This is not to minimise that.

But that day when the towers fell and the planes crashed?

Something changed in me.

• I want to never be the person who regrets always remember fondly the way I left a loved one. (Thank you, Kristina.)
• I want my last words, my last memories to hold or to leave behind, to be ones of hope, of love, of joy.
• I want to celebrate life, to savour every last sweaty drop, to breathe in colour and light, to exhale compassion.

We have right now in front of us.

Do we really have time to give it any less than our whole hearts?

If you don’t live in Seattle, that last may seem an exaggeration. If you do – or have – you know exactly what I mean.

We shed our coats and boots, we turn our faces to the light, we grin with our neighbours.

It was during a week just like this that I visited Vancouver after living in Toronto for two years – and two winters. I’m sure that had more than a little to do with my moving back to Vancouver by the first of April that year.

I knew this day was coming. I could feel it. I saw it in the light.

I’ve spent a lot more time outside the last five weeks than I would in a typical winter. Kaylah’s post-surgical routine requires me to take her out on a leash to the yard, slinging her in a towel on the stairs, before we hustle back inside. Or at least, as much hustle as flying buttresses allow.

This has meant a trip outside every 2-4 hours, all day every day. Sometimes I grumbled (see also: snow and ice and wind storms).

For the most part though, it is a lovely gentle reminder to stop and take a literal breath of fresh air, to notice the weather and the state of the day; it is a way to feel lighter than the roof and walls allow on our grey winter days.

Our trips out are roughly the same time each day, especially first, last, and the evening meal trips. I notice how the days have lengthened and the mornings brightened; I witness the changing shape of the moon each evening.

I knew this week of softer temps and golden light was coming. The rosy dawn was its herald, the birdsong its chorus.

And I am grateful. So grateful.

(That week is over now, and we have returned to our regular programming: grey, damp, misty shadows. Still, this morning, when I took Kaylah out, I saw a small v of geese heading north, something I’d have missed without that dog-induced trip outside.)

Spring is coming.

Okay, so these first two are somewhat tongue-in-cheek.

The sh*t says meme has come to photography. (Now, one for writers, please?)

This morning’s xkcd comic was spot on. (Especially with the hover comment – just move your mouse to anywhere over the image.)

When we think of the depression, the dust bowl years, and early WWII, those impressions are all in black & white. The pictures looks timeless, but somehow not of our time.

There is a collection of colour positive (slide) photos in the Library of Congress that give an entirely different view. The Denver Post has 70 of them on their website, and the pictures are gorgeous.

Definitely worth a look. I’m especially drawn to the close portraits. And the trains series in the middle. There’s also an awesome “Rosie the Riveter” toward the end.