We Are Cyborgs

I have written at least a half dozen unpublished blog posts since I last blogged. I am so disenchanted with talking in first person, sharing my guts, and keeping up this one-sided, abstract relationship that is me vs the Internet.

Originally, I had thoughts to share. I hoped to put minds at ease as to how I was doing, inspire and help people to smile, and share myself in a way that didn't involve stacking chairs or visiting the needy (can't fill others' buckets if yours is empty, donchaknow).

It's eerie to put myself into the universe without mutual human interaction coming back. It is weird. It is unfulfilling. The Internet is impersonal. These electronic interactions are unprecedented in the history of planet Earth, and I am unsatisfied with them.

If chronic illness wasn't so morbidly isolating to me, I would have done away with these interactions years ago and just gone out to be social with actual humans. But this is how I have often had to see the world from my sickbed--through the Internet. It's also how I've let people know I'm still around.

I am not a good friend because I can't be a good friend. I don't have emotional capacity to help or physical capacity to reciprocate. It's sad. I think about this every single day. So the Internet gives the allusion of "friends," but often they are made of zeroes and ones.

I forget about the the *CHRONIC* in my chronic illnesses sometimes. When I remember, I am disappointed that I can't be normal human who exists to people outside of the Internet.

It would be grand to not validate my life's experience by electronically letting other humans know I'm living. It would be grand to be actually living, instead.

I'm this close to breaking up with the Internet, and to live that reserved, introverted life that my grandmothers lived.

Because there aren't many humans left; we are cyborgs with touchscreens for hands, living in an abstract, cyber world.

Inches

When I lived in Texas, there was this cool kid who proudly went by Inches on account of his size. He was smart: he knew he wanted to be around the ladies from an early age, so he decided to take up the flute. He and I were in marching band together, and he was adored by all of us. We loved Inches. 

That story has nothing to do with this post. 

Really, what I wanted to talk about is growth. We mark a door jamb with our children's heights on their birthdays. Aside from running out of lap and having to rotate their clothes to bigger sizes, their growth is undetectable to me. Yet, when we measure them, they have sprouted inches every year! It's amazing. 

A few weeks ago, my doctor did an inventory with me. She zoomed way out, and we talked about my progress. I thought I hadn't made any since I am still so devastatingly fatigued most of the time. But as we reviewed my supplements, activity level, mood, diet, labs, and overall outlook, I was positively astonished. I have (figuratively) grown inches this year! I was so very, very ill a year ago, and I am clearly healthier than I used to be!

I feel very grateful for this revelation. I am happy that I can care for my children and put dinner on the table sometimes. I am amazed that my organs are doing so much better and that I am tolerating a greater variety of foods. I am thrilled that we do things as a family sometimes, and that I can date my husband. It's fantastic that I don't have to give my only functional hours every week to church, because I often have good hours daily. I have the concentration to read and the endurance to do projects once in awhile. Guys! Do you feel the changes like I do? What a swell deal.  

Someone kindly suggested that I have progressed and am on my way to getting back to my old self, but I stopped holding my breath ages ago. Maybe I don't want to be my old self. I like who I am becoming because of my difficulties. 

Whatever growth I am experiencing, the changes are imperceptible day to day. And that's kind of exciting, am I right? To not know who I'll be in a year? I think it's simply riveting. 

Fire Alarm

Today we had a dress rehearsal for my daughter's upcoming dance concert. This is her seventh event like this; it is old hat for our entire family. Even my son, who tags along for dress rehearsal and performances, knows exactly what to expect. 

The routine may be old hat, but my daughter's group got their own tent backstage for costume changes. All this time, she has had to change with her groups in adjacent rooms, but now she is backstage with all the big girls. Everyone was excited. 

I made sure my son had his school backpack full of books so he would be entertained during dress rehearsal. Because we were in a new place, he had a hard time figuring out where to settle down and read, especially since the tent was rather small for all the moms and dancers to be in at once...and a stray little boy. 

The dancers lined up in front of the tent to go onstage, and we were even more displaced. My son was pushed all the way to the door on the cinder block wall. 

I looked towards my daughter, who was warming up in line, and glanced down just as I saw little five-year-old fingers perfectly follow the instructions on the fire alarm pull. Push in, pull down. 

Too late. The alarm blared.

He didn't realize it was him. "Buddy, that was you!" I said. "I didn't know! I didn't know," he cried. I didn't believe him at first. And then I remembered that my little boy doesn't lie. 

We had to evacuate. I told a stage person that my son tripped he alarm. Dancers shivered in the January outdoors. My son and I went around the corner and sat on a curb, away from the anxious crowd. I felt sick, but my son was simply devastated and bawling. 

"Did you know that was a fire alarm?" 

"No! I didn't know!"

"Remember when we were in church once, and the same thing happened when a kid pulled the alarm, and everyone had to go outside?"

"Yeah."

"That's what you just did. It called the firemen. They have to make sure everything is safe before anyone can go back in."

He broke down with a new wave of understanding. Though interested in the real firemen who came to check out the building, he wasn't happy. 

I wasn't either, but I didn't say so. 

But then I heard a group of moms talking just around the corner. 

"Is this for real?"

"I hope not!"

"This is ridiculous. They're going to get so far behind."

"I hear a little boy pulled the alarm."

"What was he thinking? I hope this blew his ears out!"

I was shocked. I was mad. I wished I could see who said that so I could stomp on her foot. 

We apologized to the owner via email. I offered to pay for the firemen or whatever I could do to fix it. But I couldn't look at the other moms, not with my boy in tow. 

A girl of about nine or ten came up to us, a conspicuous mom-boy couple on the curb. "Do you know who pulled the fire alarm?" she jeered between an awkward mix of permanent and baby teeth. 

"What?" I blinked. 

"Do you know who it was?" she repeated, eying my boy. 

I stared meaningfully at her with widened eyes. "Do you need to know?" I asked. 

This time she blinked. "No," she said, and walked away. I didn't see her again. 

Amidst the jabber and jumping jacks, someone finally made an announcement that I couldn't hear. There was general murmuring. A man near us said, "Ha! They're going to want to have that kid's fingerprints after this." Again, if I'd know who it was, he might have gotten an elbow to the solar plexus. 

It was either a good thing or a bad thing that I kept my eyes down. I don't think my son heard anything.

We fetched my son's backpack and went to the car to wait. My daughter tried to suppress tears so her makeup wouldn't run since I am always there to help her set up a costume change routine. 

She went on stage only nine minutes late, and miraculously they made up the entire delay by the time she was done. She did well setting up her own routine. Thank goodness this is all old hat. 

Meanwhile, my son and I snuggled in the front seat of the car. We texted my husband for awhile. My favorite thing my son texted was the title of a children's book we own: "It's okay to make mistakes."

Then I praise his little broken heart into confidence. 

"You know what I think is cool, buddy? You followed the directions on that fire alarm EXACTLY. Now if there is ever a real fire in a building, you will have already practiced! You'll start seeing them everywhere you go--at church, school, stores--every building except houses. And I noticed they put it right on your eye level, and you could read every single big word on it. The only words you didn't see were the little ones at the top: 'in case or fire.' That's pretty awesome that you can read words so well. If there's ever a fire, I hope you're with me so you can pull the fire alarm, because you're one of the only people I know who has ever done it before!" I went on and on. The tears dried up, leaving salty stains beneath his eyes. The pink blotches that characterize his sad face faded away. He was still shaken up, but I think he felt a little better. 

The person I appreciated the most was this mom with purple hair who stopped me as we evacuated the building. She must have stolen a glance when my son reacted to the initial blare. "Hey, just so you know," she said with a toss of purple over her shoulder, "my son did the same thing a few years ago." Then leaning towards my son, she said, "It makes for a great story later!"

It wasn't reassuring at the time. But I thought of how kind her relatable confession had been as my son and I walked toward our curbside seclusion. 

I vow that if the fire alarm is ever accidentally pulled somewhere and we are evacuated, I will dull the blades of sharp words before they can leave me. I will be the woman who stomps on insensitive jeers. I will elbow petty jokes. I will confess my own experience being the mortified mom of the bawling boy. I will look the mom in the eye and smile. 

And I will never be ashamed with my son. I will keep my eyes up and stay in plain sight, even if my outwardness belies how sick I feel. I'll deal out metaphorical stomps and elbows if I have to, even widening my eyes at rude glances, because my boy doesn't like trouble. He wants to be good and avoid reprimand. He didn't know. 

And I believe him. 

Book Reviews 2016: 1-5

This year, I have a goal to read 52 books (one per week). I am ahead of schedule, but I'm sure it will make up for a dry spell later on. The following are my brief reviews of the first five books I have read this year. 

1) Me Before You 

By Jojo Moyes

This was my first time reading a book by Jojo Moyes. Her wit is so fun. I wanted to put some beautifully-crafted sentences in my pocket for safekeeping. The first-person protagonist was hilarious and sarcastic. This story took place in an English village, and I am OBSESSED with England, so that worked well for me. 

This book deals with a high-power (single) financial prodigy in his mid-thirties who tries to adjust to life with quadriplegia after being struck by a vehicle in the street. A disenchanted underachiever of a young woman takes a job of being his companion during the daytime and, at the request of his mother, keeping the man's spirits up after his accident. Several moral questions follow, such as whether village life is good enough for a young person with massive potential; whether the safety of an unfulfilling, but predictable, relationship is more valuable than confident celibacy; and (SPOILER) the ethics of assisted suicide. Therein lies the struggle. 

Struggle isn't bad; it helped me evaluate my opinion. I feel more confident knowing my views, having read this book. 

I gave this book 3.5 stars, knocking off an entire star for the ten-ish f-bombs I scratched out of my copy of the book, and another half star just because. It's subjective, naturally. There was a lot of swearing and taking of the Lord's name in vain, which made me squirm (leave my Savior alone, please!). 

I'll wait for a glowing review of one of Moyes' books from a trusted friend before reading more of her works, unless I am in the mood for some controversial soul searching and have a scratching pen at the ready. Overall, I am glad I read this book. 

2) The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are 

By Brené Brown

This is my first Brené Brown book. Is it self help? Is it spiritual? I don't know. But I highlighted a lot of great one-liners in it. 

I learned a lot from this book. It's a playbook for lay psychology nerds like me, who like to know how we build our stories and process emotions and stuff. I'm making it sound technical, but it's not. There are plenty of anecdotes from the author, admissions of her own folly, and conversations she has had with her own therapist. In this way, I felt like the author, a researcher, did not always seem authoritative on her own subject. But I appreciate her candor in expressing her continuing work toward loving herself as she was made. 

There are ten "guideposts" for embracing one's imperfection. I found these interesting and wanted to study them more. Overall, I feel like the book gave me an extra nudge to heed the inner wisdom I was already sensing, but was afraid to act upon. 

Read other reviews to get a sense for this book because I am doing a rather poor job. But I decided that if I ever take a trip somewhere, this is the kind of book to take with me on the plane. I think I could make it a serious study for a few weeks, no problem. 

I gave this book four stars because I wanted to love it, but things like foul language and select juvenile diction and lack of authority kept it from wowing me. I would still recommend it. 

3) Out of My Mind by Sharon M. Draper

This novel is about a ten-year-old girl whose body prevents her from expressing her inner genius as she is unable to talk or walk. (It is later revealed that she has cerebral palsy, which is what I was sensing.) This girl expresses her frustration at being labeled and being unable to speak for herself. Her intelligence is later discovered, and we get to see what she is able to accomplish with her able-bodied peers. The adjustment is fraught with frustrating difficulties, which I feel is reflective of disabilities in general.  

I really appreciated this book as a look into a perfectly functioning brain within a handicapped body. It made me happy that I have worked with people using the same tone of voice, no matter how old or how intelligent. The girl in this book wanted to be included. Is that so hard to do with people we meet?

The author, a mother of a handicapped child, recommends that when we see someone who isn't, say, usual, that we should say hi and introduce ourselves instead of pretending not to see. This book drilled that thought into me. I hope to look at everyone with more love from now on. 

I gave this book four stars. I really liked it. 

4) The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis

This book is legend, right? This was my first read-through. It was fine.

This book is a collection of letters by Screwtape, a master demon, written to his nephew Wormwood, a newer demon engaged in trying to persuade a certain male, mortal "patient" to get on the road to hell through numerous, oldie-but-goodie-type demon tactics. Screwtape sometimes praises, sometimes chastises, but always closely appraises the patient's status and tells Wormwood how to use Christian strengths to turn the patient from "the Enemy" (Christ) and toward "Our Father Below" (Satan). 

It really was a fascinating two-hour read. If it had been my own copy of the book, it would have been dog-eared by the time I finished. You see easily that Satan, though tricky, is not very interesting with his tactics, though they are successful if one isn't careful. 

I was invested in the well-being of the patient, as war had just broken out after he become a Christian. Would it be too much? Was it all "a phase?" Would Wormwood succeed? I couldn't wait to find out. 

Truly, I had a hard time listening to a demon talk for nearly 200 pages. Maybe it was a negative energy I assumed. Maybe it was a sudden vulnerability I felt. Maybe I was hormonal and tense. But I was relieved when I finished. I gave this book four stars. If I hadn't felt that shift in energy so acutely, perhaps it would have gotten a perfect score and gone in my private collection. 

5) The Dollmage by Martine Leavitt

I only discovered Martine Leavitt's works last fall, and I am forever altered. Every book I have ever read from her just rocks my world, and The Dollmage is no different. It got a perfect five stars and is going into my exclusive private collection of favorites. 

The Dollmage is the village's wise woman and storymaker. She creates people and things before they happen, using carefully selected materials and adding them carefully to her secret miniature model of the village. As she has now aged and childless and her powers wane, it is time to find a successor. On the day appointed for the successor to be born, two very different girls arrive, both with Dollmage power. But the village can only have one Dollmage. Who will it be? Through years of training, the question remains. 

Told by the aged Dollmage as a legal testimony to her people before a village member's execution, this story is told by a deeply flawed character in fascinating prose. I was sitting around the fire with everyone else. 

Leavitt is a gifted wordsmith, and her nuggets of timeless wisdom are poetry. She looks where others will not look and damning insecurities become merciful gifts in her carefully-crafted offering. She somehow turns weaknesses into strengths within her characters. It's really beautiful. 

As is The Dollmage. I don't think it is in print anymore; I had to buy a used copy from Amazon...but the one penny I spent almost represents how priceless this work really is. Highly recommend. 

Wanted: Birthday ATP

"Mommy, do you think you are going to feel good on my birthday?"

It's a hard question to answer. It teeters unreliably, on a pointy rock, in the wind. 

It is impossible to definitively plan for the future. I have to be honest about that. 

"I don't know, darling. But I'll probably be feeling a lot like how I've felt the last few weeks. Have you seen how slow I am until late afternoon comes?" I sheepishly ask. 

I apologize. I see her little chin fall a few degrees and the corners of her delicate doll lips dip. But that upper lip stays strong. 

She knows. 

She knows I can't be relied upon. My health is predictably unpredictable. Like on Saturday, when I finally had the get-up-and-go to hit the shower and get dressed in real clothes (the pants weren't even stretchy) so we could go to a museum. But then we didn't go because the shower made me crash and my husband came home late from work. I hated that I was wearing a belt while dozing off while I should be museum-ing with my kids, with or without my husband, because I committed to it. 

Disappointing Mom Award. 

For me, birthdays changed a few years ago, two days before my own birthday. I accidentally ate a salad dressed with vegetable oil (made of soybeans, if you didn't know). My intestines spasmed and cramped so badly that they felt as hard and big around as collarbones beneath my abs, zig zagging and imploding like nothing I have ever felt before. It was horrible. I'm allergic, but I didn't know how badly until then. I saw a GI doctor and had an emergency colonoscopy on my birthday. I admit it was a terrific nap (please pass the propofol?), but I was tired and under the influence the rest of the day. The indignity of bowel prep had kept me up the night before. Happy birthday, dork. 

As each of our birthdays circulated the following year, I noticed I lay through them, just getting up to serve cake in the evening. I was sick. It was so sad for me. I felt like the worst wife and mother ever. 

With subsequent years, the birthdays have lulled by at the speed of a snail, devoid of ATP energy because the matriarchal author of birthday celebrations around here has a deficient Krebs cycle and thus nothing to give on a mitochondrial level. 

When my babies were little, it didn't take much to make them feel like they owned the day from my pathetic prone-ness on the couch. Now, this little girl cares and has an impressionable memory. My worst fear is that she won't feel important, and that this feeling will stick with her. 

I keep trying to talk myself out of it. "You're doing your best," I say. "She knows you love her." "Snuggles fix everything." "Her presents will blow her mind." 

I find that hopeful voice being chastised my a more logical, injured complaint. "Listen, Self, the new bed set she's been asking for is not going to distract her from wanting to go to the indoor trampoline place. It's not going to change her mind about the seven-layer chocolate cake she wants (never mind that you've never seen one of these). You're deluded. Everyone needs to be at a party for her, or she won't feel important."

There, there Self. Wipe your tears. That's the way. 

(So mean.)

I remember the first form of discipline for babies: distraction. Maybe if I put shiny objects in noticeable places, they'll be more interesting than trampolines and a tower of cake. 

Like...a tower of crepes with Nutella between the as a cake, for example? Or a store-bought ice cream cake? (Note to self: price ice cream cakes tomorrow.)

Or...an afternoon outing to somewhere fun we've never been before?

It could be awesome. I just have to get creative. From the couch. And maybe ingest some "pep" (my code word for Dr. Pepper, which I keep on hand for dire emergencies like near-birthday-fails). 

Hopefully the rare, circumstantial joys she craves don't matter as much as the novelty of surprise and delight. Hopefully being spoiled with love feels more satisfying than being spoiled with stuff. Children are tough, resilient, and want to learn. Hopefully, even though I'm not good at birthdays, our daughter will get the birthday that holds the highest good for her. 

Wish me luck and plenty of natural ATP energy pep.

I Reek

Most of the time, I think I'm a well-adjusted sick person...but sometimes, it really gets to me. 

I just need to say that it is disappointing to be a sick mom. Usually, I tell myself that I'm doing my utmost, so it is enough, and I am happy. But sometimes it tugs at my heartstrings, like almost every night when my husband tucks our children in bed without me, and I feel sad that I am not more involved. Like when he is massively overworked as the mom and the dad, then he uses the time when he's not working or taking care of our little people to do laundry or dishes. 

I joked with him that I would love the kitchen floor to be mopped for Christmas...but that's like asking someone who babysits for you every day to babysit for you one night so you can go on a date. I can't ask. So I have to be happy with a dirty floor. Our dog walked muddy feet through the dining part of the kitchen a couple months ago, and it is still smudged with streaked mud from when I feebly tried to clean it up. Someone keeps dripping something on the floor next to the barstools. If I have energy, I use it on our family, not on the floor; that's why it's dirty. I read books or snuggle or watch the kids play outside. The floor is just a symbol of lots of things I don't do as a mom and homemaker and how those "I'm failing" feelings get to me. 

Then there is the world. I am impassioned about the refugee situation in Europe, but do I do anything concrete? No. Money donations. I almost went to humanitarian Wednesday at a nearby church building, but did I get out of bed? No. I was grounded to my bed. My only consolation is that we gave an SUV full of clothing and stuff to DI in the summer, and hopefully some of those articles have made it to the people in crisis. We also gave modest clothing to Brazilian missionaries who can't afford or find anything suitable to wear in Brazil. I search for things to do. I feel so selfish for having it so good here. 

Then there is the self-loving piece. It's Tuesday night, and I am wearing the same thing I went to bed in on Sunday. I am a gross, disgusting mess. There is vertigo and nausea and absolutely no energy. I lay in the dark until 3 this morning trying to fall asleep, tortured with my disappointed brain chatter. I felt guilty that I didn't help more the day before with our son who was sick, that I barely saw our daughter, that I hadn't the energy during the day to crack open a book or even watch a movie. I wasn't safe to drive the kids around. 

So when I get the whim to do something for myself, like maybe it will lift my spirits and therefore help my family, or maybe it will help me be more productive so I can start cooking or helping in the house again, and then it falls flat, I'm consumed in scolding brain chatter until the wee hours. 

I'm just having a hard week. I can hardly move. I am stressing over my book and Christmas and some big decisions, yet I feel incapacitated to act. It's dumb. 

We met Brad Wilcox a couple weekends ago, and I whined to him. "I want to the the girl who is putting up chairs right now. I want to be powerful enough to be who I used to be." Brad said, "But you're doing everything you can. God isn't concerned so much about how much your offering is. He doesn't shake the tithing envelope by His ear. He is more concerned with what your offering does to change you." Brad told me I'm doing just fine. I don't feel powerful or proactive, but He said God thinks I'm good enough. "Remember that," he said, then pointing at my husband, said, "When she forgets, tell her that Brad told you to." He gave me two hugs and held my hands and made me feel like maybe I'm okay...even on weeks like this, when I reek and think I have nothing to offer and that I'm a miserable, selfish, lazy person. I have to believe that Heavenly Father views me more compassionately than that. I know it, even if I can't always bring myself to believe it. 

I Wrote a Book

I always thought I would have to be either extremely imaginative or several decades older in order to write a book. Yet during the month of November, I challenged myself to write a complete novel…and I did it. I did it! Heavenly Father showed me what to write.

Several years ago, I went out of my way to take a holistic nursing class. The practice I still use daily is called “dreamwork,” in which one learns to understand the meanings of one’s dreams, maybe even others’ too. It says right in the Bible Dictionary that dreams are another way Heavenly Father communicates with His children, and some dreams are even described in the scriptures. When I learned about dreams, I was thrilled to notice the messages Heavenly Father had been giving me in my dreams during my life. I began to pray that Heavenly Father would teach me in my sleep. Because I pay better attention now, He often does.

During a dream, the subconscious mind bubbles up into our consciousness. If we pay attention, we can be given answers to our problems and guidance for our lives. We find out how wise we are and how connected we are to Heavenly Father, deep, deep, deep down.

While I wrote this book, I felt like I was daydreaming—like I was literally accessing the subconscious parts of my brain while awake. It was wild, and awesome. My characters fleshed out easily, and I loved them immediately. There is no going back once you wake up like that.

Early in the month, I was exhausted with the metaphorical bag of rocks I carry in my waking life. We all have one—just look at that heavy thing slung over your shoulder.

I had an appointment with my doctor and shared my concerns, and also related, as an aside, that I had started writing a novel. She is a published author many times over, so I told her the premise of my book. I mentioned a character who was having second thoughts about a big decision, and how I didn’t know what he was going to do. It seemed to be my own version of “writer’s block.”

In that moment, I realized how much his issue symbolically matched the quandary of my waking life. “It will be interesting to see what he decides to do,” I conceded with a shrug. My doctor expressed interest in his outcome; I bet she realized that his fate would somehow help me realize my own.

Through the coming weeks, that character and I really struggled together. I had compassion for him, and by extension, I learned, for myself. I loved myself for struggling and trying and having growing pains. And my character sure hurt too, but I knew he would be okay. I knew he was strong enough to heft his bag of rocks.

This is my first novel, but it can’t be my last. It is too therapeutic to stop. Heavenly Father helped me access my inner wisdom and get through my pile of rocks.

The greatest accomplishment of writing my novel is not that it is written, though I feel joyful about this. The greatest accomplishment is that, now, I love my Lyme. I love it. I love the gifts it has given to me. Gee whiz, it’s all mine—my struggle, my grief. I see myself as a character that I believe in, who I know will be okay, even if I have writer’s block figuring myself out.

I love my Lyme. The critter that has taken over the function of some of my cells acts out of a loving concern for me. It gifts me with struggles that prove who I am in this epic of life. Fifty thousand words could never contain all this; I must be pretty awesome.

Now, my Lyme is as precious to me as my characters. They were born out of love from my subconscious mind, and I think my Lyme was born out of love too, whenever it infected me. My characters keep slapping me on the back, letting me know I’m as okay as they are. I am safe and remembered, and I am trusted by Heavenly Father to do the right thing in my story.

There is purpose to every rock in my sack, and maybe, in the end, it is a joy to be added upon with more rocks when I need more stretching. I’m a plucky, resilient character who doesn’t know how to quit.

My husband has read my manuscript and likes it. I printed it and spiral bound it into a 175-page book so I can edit easier. I love its heft in my hands, like a piece of my heart and deepest mind has literally materialized. When I read the manuscript last week, I knew which parts in the arc of the story needed to be expanded like an accordion. It is an exciting work.

Writing my novel has been an immensely private, selfish, vulnerable, therapeutic work. I updated my doctor just yesterday as we sat like girlfriends, talking about fiction. She didn’t even charge me for an office visit; it was crazy. Maybe it was therapeutic for her to sit back in her chair and talk about the love invested in story-writing. She thinks my book could help people, like it has helped me.

Someday it may be read by others, but I did not initially write to be published. I wrote to write. My characters and I hang out and heckle each other as I continue to daydream about them and other stories that need to be told.

Maybe it is selfish to hang onto my characters for only myself. Maybe I need to learn eventually end this “book honeymoon” and set them free.

I am grateful for the safety of stories. Stories matter. Families stick together with family legends and stories, everything from ancestor narratives to recent embarrassing moments. Prophets comfort the afflicted and lovingly prick heart with stories. Jesus told masterful stories, each with a thousand levels of understanding. They can be studied for millennia, I feel, and never be fully digested.

I did not know I had a story. But because of Lyme, I do. I can talk about my rocks, look at the rocks of my characters, relate my rocks to other people’s rocks. It is really beautiful.

I am really grateful.