Coyote hills

There were city lights spread out at their feet like stolen stars, lights they owned and named and watched under a backlit night sky. They sat high, these two, careless of time, sharing words, stealing moments. She watched his calloused hands tracing fine lines on her palm and wondered how she had ever not been right there, right then. He watched the curve of her fingers over his knuckles and wondered if she would disappear with the sun. And it was easy, there on the edge of so many things, and they wondered why.

When the coyotes began their weird yelping song in the empty hills just behind, she twisted in his arms to look over their shoulders. It shouldn't have been exciting--she should have been afraid of the shadows and the night and the unknown, like she usually was--but with him there, everything changed. Her heart lifted, and she rested her chin on his shoulder, staring into the dark hills, and she was content.

jump and skip

So far, all of my med school professors have agreed on one thing--that the heart is regulated by the autonomic nervous system. Specifically, that your heart rate and rhythm are not under voluntary control. No questions asked.

Except, that they're wrong.

Or, maybe my dad and I are mutants.

See, there's this thing we can do. We can create a heart arrhythmia just by thinking.

Freaky, huh? Dad tells me that in his later years of medical school, the professors used to use him to demonstrate this particular talent to the first year students. I can imagine them all crowding around this blackhaired boy with their stethoscopes, listening to his heart skip and jump erratically as his face frowned in concentration. He shouldn't have been able to do that.

I don't remember what happened first, for me. It might have been that I asked him, one day, why my heart fluttered sometimes. Maybe I tried it after I heard what he could do. At any rate, as a young kid, the first time I sat and thought about how my heart was beating, and tried to feel the rhythm, and then tried to think it differently...it worked.

But I hated the feeling. I hate the instant moment of bodily panic where your entire system is suddenly and loudly screaming that something is very, very wrong. It twitches me, somehow. I don't know how dad could stand to do it for sustained periods of time. I can't stand it when mine acts up on its own, if I'm stressed or hungry, or afraid. It just feels dangerous.

I do know that I won't be volunteering to the professors anytime soon. I just like to sit back, and listen to them discuss what the heart can and cannot do, and I smile.

Because they're wrong.

Craaaaa what?

There is something wrong in our raising of men when the word "cramps" sends them into a shocked state of paralysis.

I don't know how I went from being the most shy person ever, in high school, to someone with a significant disregard for political correctness and a love of the joys of shock and awe. Can't account for it at all. But, there it is.

I suppose the boys are funny about it. I place them in two categories, neither better or worse, just different.

I walked into class late this morning, shaking from the overload of caffeine and lack of food in my system, and feeling like I'd been trampled by an overweight fleet of water buffalo. I'm pretty sure I look like death warmed over, too. Anyway, I had three different boys ask if I was sick.

In a past life, I would have nodded and said my stomach hurt, or that I was ill. They would have nodded and thought they were empathizing, as if they had the faintest idea how much life sucked at that very moment. But I, I am a whiner. When I feel awful, I want sympathy, and lots of it.

This is where I get a little sadistic. I know that, most of the time, I am not going to get empathy from a guy. How can I? So, I take my enjoyment where I can get it. I tell the truth matter-of-factly ("Cramps, you know") and watch their reactions.

The first category of boys will literally freeze. Most of the time, they'll turn about 15 degrees away, lifting the shoulder nearest to you. There may be some clearing of the throat. Some will say something utterly incomprehensible. I think it's funny, but also sad. Our society is so repressed and uneducated. There are significant brownie points to be earned in the guy response to feminine issues, and yet this part of their learning is neglected.

The second category do much better. There is no loss of eye contact, no deer-in-the-headlights, what-do-I-possibly-say-to-this fear. Most of these people have had sisters before. Not all. So they nod, and say they're sorry, and some ask if there's anything they can do. Usually, there isn't, but girls appreciate the offer.

These categories are somewhat vague, and there's no reflection of worth in how boys react to statements of honesty. It's interesting to me, that's all. And when one feels like they have been trampled by water buffalo, you have to take all the enjoyment of life that you can get.

On another random note (because being moody and hormonal makes me significantly ADHD), I really don't like the fact that blogger lets followers hide behind their anonymity. I've got this raging curiosity, see, and those two shadow people are killing me. Absolutely killing me.

Who are you?

Star rambles

I thought they were leading us out into the desert to die.

I was right.

Except that I'm obviously still alive and well, which means that you should probably ignore those first two lines. In fact, I highly recommend making good use of that red X in the corner of your screen, and saving yourself a very confusing five minutes. Because I am so far out of the range of reality and into the hyperbole part of my mind, at this moment, that it could get pretty incomprehensible very quickly.

The desert, by the way, was incredible. It was so cold that I got to wear my heinous massive fluffy green sweatshirt, courtesy of Camp Mohaven and the poor color choices of the staffers. I look like a giant seasick marshmallow in that sucker, and I love it. The thing is like a hug that never lets you go, and I was so happy to be in the cold, and marshmallowed up, that I might have danced a little bit in the dark, hoping nobody would notice. Because let's face it, white girl got no moves. No real moves. Oh, I'm a lot of fun on a dance floor, with some swing music kickin' in the background, but freestyle? So white.

But anyway, I was talking about the desert, before I sidetracked myself with my hoodie that I love so very very much (this is really turning out to be a random post), but seriously--the stars were so bright. I've only seen them that way once before, that road trip my freshman year where we camped in the desert on the coldest night I've ever known, when I realized that yes, the stars actually twinkle. It was a revelation, it was--I'd always thought the twinkle was an artistic exaggeration. But anyway, Friday night, the stars were so present. The Milky Way, the trail of the gods, was so bright, and I laid on my back, wishing I could follow it forever.

I love moments like that, ones where I realize all over again just how big the universe it, and how small I am. That all the things I take so seriously, like my grades, my future, my choices, are really so insignificant. But once, a human just like me made a choice that affected every single one of those bright points of light. There's that connect between myself and all the rest of the galaxies out there, and I love the moments where I can feel it.

I could feel the granite under my fingertips, lying there. I love touch--I'll be walking along, and run my hand over a tree trunk, or rap my knuckles against a post, wall, or door--I stop and actually smell the roses. Life is so full when you use every single sense. This is perfect, Abi, I whispered. Thank you. He might or might not have sent a wink into my heart, but I rather think he did.

I missed all of you. I can stumble through a desert at night, and fend off ferocious maurading bats, and listen to awesome guitar music, and watch the sky forever alone--but I wish you were all here. That seems like a pretty good way to end this post that has made me seem more ADHD than I should ever feel.

Mine.

Annalisa came to see me this weekend. Not exclusively, of course, although that would have been lovely--but I kept my eyes cracked open long enough to pick her up from the airport last night and get her back to my apartment in one piece. I got to keep her until church was over. It was lovely.

Then, of course, I had to give her up. It was not so lovely. I might have smeared my makeup somewhat.

This morning, as we're crowding in my little bathroom and doing hair and makeup, she said, "It's so hard not having you around to talk to. I mean, it's not like I can just call you up and say, 'Hi. I just saw a turtle.'"

Except, in all actuality, I would LOVE to hear that she just saw a turtle. I would want a full description of said turtle. I would encourage her to touch the turtle, salmonella and all. So we decided that, next time she sees a turtle, she will call me. I may send her texts of turtles as a reminder.

I can't tell you how good she was for my soul. Having one of my people around is always like a drug in my veins, and she's especially fabulous. Especially her hair. I mean, if I had hair like that, I wouldn't even worry about going to college, or graduate school. I would just walk around with that hair and say, Yes, this is my life. And the world would worship me.

For those of you who don't know her, she's spontaneous and bubbly. She says the most outrageous things, and she has this purr to her voice. If she tells you that there's a carton of milk in the fridge, suddenly it sounds like the sexiest carton of milk in the world. In the universe. You would totally date that carton of milk. And you should hear her when we're talking about men. Rrrrrrr.

So, thinking about her visit, and missing her even though I know she's still about 10 miles away, I started thinking about ALL of you. My people. The ones I let inside my shell, the ones that love me, the ones I would do anything for, anytime, anywhere. Including kill. I don't know how many bodies I've seriously offered to dispose of for Becca alone. Yes, you know who I'm talking about.

We aren't afraid to get close. We're on a free-space recycling mission to save the world, one heap of people at a time. I haven't found that here, yet. It always sounds too much like an ulterior motive. "Hi. Hug me, please? Love me?" My courage isn't quite that high. I'm not good at reaching out to people.  

But, I love people. My people. This thing we have. I need to remember how I broke out of my bubble and let them in when we all first met. It was so worth it. I'm still working on that.

We all look so young, here. That was such a hard night, for me. But look at them. They're not all here, of course, but this was the start of a circle that literally saved me. It was also the first night I stood on that balcony overlooking the river. Now, we're all danced there countless times--amazingly good memories to be had.

Oh, and they taught me to climb. Which is even better.

Some of the best Sabbaths I've ever spent were at Foster, with them. Especially when the boys brought dried Ramen. And we tried to start a campfire but all of the lighters mysteriously ran out of fluid, and we nearly froze to death. Or like the time we were camping, and...you get the picture.

Of course, we morphed a little over the years. Schreven was already gone for this part of college. I miss that boy. Some lucky girl someday...oh, that boy.

And gradually, our group shrank until it was only Gardner and the girls...*laughs* just kidding! I love this picture. You can tell he's thrilled that we're all so close to him. :-D

Some of my girls. We're outrageous. And nobody can make facial expressions like 'Riah.

And this is the most astoundingly beautiful, witty, scandalous sister who ever made the boys sit up and say, "Wow. There goes the most amazing thing I've ever laid eyes on." But while the boys may come and boys may go, she's stuck with me forever.

And of course Frank, who's been my friend ever since those turbulent academy days. This was at his baptism a few years ago. He got both sisters at once. :-D 

My family, back in the days of the matching pajama bottoms (which I made out of Alex's old curtains, and he wore to make me happy). This was one of our last days in the old house. I miss them terribly.

Sometimes it's not about the picture. Sometimes it's just about having your arms around the most incredible people in the world, and having them hold back so hard.

I hope you guys didn't mind indulging me in a little bit of remembering. It was theraputic for me.

Nightwalk

Last night was time take the chance--
(Avoiding the glance of any passerby)
To wait in shadows that the moon cast deep
While the waiting world considered sleep,
And the bats traced paths through the darkened sky.

Not finding the elusive thing I sought--
(Although the thought did cross my mind)
It's true, I guess, in retrospect,
That I may never, I suspect,
Come across what I wished to find.

The thing I dislike most about medical school is that I have no time to write anything and make it good. Or long. Test week starts in four days, one hours, and forty-one minutes.

Currents

It didn't look like this. I wish.

She inhaled. The breath was sharp and deep, salt-laced, tingling in her lungs. She barely noticed the sting.

The sun burned, sulking in the sky and pulling the skin of her cheekbones tight, but she ignored it. Her attention was caught in the pull of the rip against her legs and the wall of water rising in front of her. She reveled in the hiss of the foam, the smell of the land that embraces the sea, the dull roar of the surf on the beach behind--but it was just background. Every active scrap of attention focused on the building wave, calculating height and pushing back the tinge of fear as it built and began to break, so far above her head.

She dove deep, slicing the base of the falling wave as tiny particles of sand laced her outstretched arms, gritting under her nails as she sank her finger in and stretched out on the bottom, clinging. The sea crashed down with the low-liquid growl of a waking mountain.

But this wave was different. Usually, they roared overhead, grasping currents lifting her feet gently before moving on. This one, however, forced liquid fingers between her and the sand, yanking her upside down and sending her careening into the rip.

Gravity didn't exist in this tumbling, seething world. She only struggled briefly before relaxing, letting the water drag her where it would as she waited, counting her heartbeats. It felt strange, oddly peaceful in the midst of chaos. Time may as well have stopped, except for the dull thud against her ribs that marked the passing seconds.

The surge gave her one last spin before it slowed, the angry tugging turning curious, ruffling her hair and playing with the edges of her skin. It released her at the edge of the breakers.

She opened her eyes, searching for the surface through strands of floating hair. She wasn't desperate. There was still air in her lungs, driving her thoughts as she drifted, suspended, quiet. The waves grumbled dully at her back. In front of her, when she opened her eyes, the dark expanse of open sea stretched on forever.

Her lungs should have been burning. She wondered at it, briefly, but mentally shrugged--why question a good thing? The surface above her head began to fall away from her as it rose and built, and on impulse she kicked up into the body of the wave. It pulled her up and into the surge, and she broke up and out of it just as it crested and fell. The currents dragged her under again, this time spitting her out and sending her tumbling into a friend. They came up laughing.

It was a beautiful day.

borrowed from frost

I don't have time to write tonight. But this was my favorite Frost piece of the day. I wish I'd written it myself.

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

a weapon in the hand of God

I've complained about the religion class here at Loma Linda. The testimonies are too long, the discussions too short, and what I have to say is usually different enough from everyone else to cause a small ripple of discord. I've grumbled to myself about the group mediators and their questions. Once they have a specific answer in mind, it doesn't matter what you have to say--right or wrong, they are hellbent on taking the train to a certain, predrawn conclusion. (Is predrawn even a word? It feels like a word. I may be the only person on earth who uses certain phrases because "They just feel right." Except for Becca. :))

Anyway, we were talking about prayer this week, and I knew exactly where the conversation was headed. I used to think about prayer in much the same way. But it was such a shallow point of view--such a beginning sentiment. I was irked enough that I thought I should try and make the conversation a little deeper, maybe open something up that most people didn't usually consider when talking about prayer. (In retrospect, I should have remembered that perhaps not everyone there is Christian, and that's why everything seems so basic. Sometimes I just don't think. Sorry, mama.)

So, I briefly reiterated some of the ideas I'd discussed in my paper. It was, in part, identical to something I'd said the week before (which I forgot until I was halfway through it), but it was true--and yet, the mediator immediately veered the conversation back to the "predestined conclusion."

I'm starting to realize that I sound egotistical. That's not where this was supposed to be going, but I'm about to back up the impression and sound really narcissistic. Anyway, one of the things I said really stuck in my head all week. I don't even know where it came from--I'd never heard it before. It's funny how things come out of your mouth with no rhyme or reason. But it was this--that prayer is a weapon in the hand of God.

Simple idea. Maybe. Not anything I've grown up hearing.

Still, so many implications. I can't go through them here, but I just keep finding them, piled up behind physio facts and anatomy lectures. It is an idea that has no base until you can actually see God--even if just through that glass, darkly--and suddenly that's becoming so important. I think that's why I was so irked with the mediator. Because nothing you say about what prayer is, and how it is to be used, matters at all until you understand some very basic things that, frankly, I don't think many people do, starting with what God is really like. I didn't see it before, and I was raised Adventist.

But the phrase keeps sticking with me. A weapon in the hand of God. Prayer, a weapon in God's hand. Me, a weapon in God's hand. Safe in the hand of God. 

Suddenly, it doesn't make the relationship seem so one-sided.

Jon, I wrote this with you in mind. Not because you agree with me, although you probably do, but because this stuff is what you write about, and for today, I'm joining the club. Tell me what you think and we should continue this conversation somewhere else, because I really miss Friday nights and bible studies and just talking things out.

the demon in the pipes

Showers are deceptive.

In a perfect world, there would be no showers. When the urge struck, I would frolic under picturesque cascades of clear water, in a pristine and private pool surrounded by a friendly jungle. The monkeys would be my friends and drop fruit down to me, and the birds would sing like birds do--or something of the sort. And there would be no nasty crawling things under the rocks. (Actually, on second thought, this precise scenario would freak me out. Monkeys are scary little gits.)

In a slightly-less-utopian-but-still-wonderful world where showers are normal, they would adjust to my every whim. Hot would actually mean hot, and cold water would be more than wistful thinking. Some of my friends claim that we're now living in the armpit of hell, here in socal. I don't know about that, but it is not a perfect world or even a semi-perfect world, and therefore, my shower is a deceitful evil deity out to kill me.

There is an approximately 1 inch area on the full circle of adjustment in my shower that qualifies as hot. Everything else ranges from Scalding to These Temperatures May Rival Your Average Volcanic Lava. Want cold water? Sorry. California doesn't know what that is.

I try and keep it adjusted to that particular safe zone, but it's elusive--it wanders like a drunk Gypsy. One morning I may get lukewarm water at a particular place--the next, I'll turn the water on, not having adjusted the temperature from the previous day, and the water sizzles acid-hot as it leaves the pipes.

This morning was a prime example. I'd managed to find the perfect position for optimum "cool" water delivery, and it had worked for several days, lulling me into a false sense of security. The shower brooded in the corner as I stumbled in, still trying to convince myself that I should be vertical so early in the morning. I didn't notice. (Reference the false sense of security above).

I should have known. The water made a weird sound as it kicked on. At the time I ascribed it to air in the pipes, but in retrospect it sounded like a tiny demon wheezing with laughter. But I didn't pay attention until it hit my face.

One moment, I'm standing in a relatively quiet house, dark and sleeping. The next, I'm shrieking like a little girl and dancing around the end of the shower, alternating feet as I try and escape the hellaciously hot deluge that is melting small holes in the plastic matting.

I tried reaching through the water to turn it off. No use. My nervous system kicked in, and my hand jerked back so fast that I hit my chest and nearly broke my collarbone. Injured, I cowered in the corner, cut off from both the exit and the controls as the water finished melting the matting and began to steam its way through the foundations and back to the center of the earth, to join the eternal fires that had spawned it in the first place.

There was no way around it, unless I wanted to end my life at the cruel whim of a sadistic shower...

...

This is the point where I stop typing and look back at what I've written. I'm trying to decide where this story ended off being real, and where the hyperbole started. Unless it's escaped your attention so far, I began making up wild stuff about the time the hypothetical demon entered the picture. My bath matting is very much intact, and there are no bruises or burns on my arms. There might have been some screaming, but it was brief, and while I still think there might be a demon living in the water system, he may or may not be laughing.

I'd continue on with the wild conjecture, but my study break is almost up--so suffice to say, I did actually have to go around the other side of the doors to cut the water off, and the new place I found to adjust it to was 130 degrees from the last one. So the basic premise is still the same.

My shower is evil.

"No" means "yes," and "get lost" means "take me, I'm yours!"

This just made my day.

It also made me think of the quote from Hercules, when Meg is trying to explain to Hercules her world view of men.

Other than that, I'm tired and I'm afraid, because this teacher just said that he's going to make the exam questions as hard as he possibly can. I know he's being serious, and I want to do well so bad. But I don't know if what I'm doing is enough.

Maybe it is. Maybe not.

one meal too many

Why is it so...hard?
Keeping on track
On rhythm...usually
Isn't this difficult
Steady does the trick
Not...skipping
Not like this
Hearts aren't meant...
To do this.

The many-faceted moor

I met Death on the lonely moor
That circles the restless sea
I met Death, and he paused apace,
And bowing with old-fashioned grace,
He tipped his hat to me.

I spoke to Death on the darkened moor
And asked if he'd come for me
He shook his head with a merry glance,
And asked if I would take the chance
To look away from him to the sea.

I turned from Death on the highland moor
Looked out from the cliffs to the sea
As he bent to speak in my ear and show
Where the crippled ship sailed listing and slow
To the rocks that boomed below me.

I argued with Death on the shivering moor
As he shook his head at me
And my brother's ship sailed in closer still
To the rocks below, which wreck and kill,
And I begged Death for mercy.

I bargained with Death on the desperate moor
A life for a life, you see--
At last prevailed, won over Death
And watched the ship with baited breath,
Until it sailed to a quiet lee.

I parted with Death on the silver moor
At he left for the western sea
I raised my hand as I watched him go,
Knowing someday I'll follow him there,
Glad of his company.

It's been a long day. I had something else entirely in mind for a post tonight. I was halfway through it before I stopped and said, holy shnikes, what the heck am I writing? I mean, Death? Really? It's generic and predictable; I'm tired, my head aches, and I'm too lazy to fix the last verse.

Pray for me, guys. Pray real hard. I mean it. Don't just nod to yourself and then forget. I know human nature, and I'm telling you, this med school thing is impossible for me to do by myself. I can't. I simply can't. I'm not even two weeks in, and I know that.

Any confidence I have is based entirely on the fact that I know I'm not alone in this. And I know that our decisions change things. But I also know that when you pray, you enable God to help you change things. I need that. So pray.