Numbers: the Victory Edition

And let's take our victories where we can. Every single one of them feels hard won.

I just finished drafting installment eleven (11) of my saga. I fell hard for a character who--spoiler alert--will not make it through to the end (or will they?). This installment clocked in at 69,593 words, which brings my total word count up to 291,637. That is very close to three hundred thousand. This is the longest installment of all, and I may have to make some changes, but I need to wait until the end to deliver the punch. It's not perfect--it's a draft--but it's pretty good.

Five more to do. One of them will be on the longer side, but not nearly as long as this.

Deb in the City

But what does it all mean?

I've found myself wanting to post something here many times over the last week and a half, but I didn't because there's so much going on, and I don't know how to tie it up in a nice bow. Because at the end of the day I'm a story teller, and stories have, on at least one level, meaning. Perhaps this does, too, but I don't know what it is yet. Or maybe I do, but then my options are limited. That's not a story I want to keep telling.

Well, here at least is what happened. 

I am no longer a garden coordinator at the garden I've been in for fifteen years. I agonized for a long time, but when I finally made my decision I was done. All of the different stakeholder groups are dysfunctional, even if among them there are some wonderful people trying their best to do their jobs. This has been the case for a long time, but when people couldn't rise to the challenge of dealing with a rat issue--and, not incidentally, fulfill their contract obligations--that crossed a line for me. I could say so much more, but out of respect for friends still there, I won't. 

That was last Saturday, and the stress of it was enough that on Sunday morning I developed a neck spasm that didn't ease up until the evening. I thought I would be done with physical therapy on Monday, but the spasm earned me not only two more sessions, but also a gentle lecture on stress management. Indeed. 

The therapist also gave my thoracic spine an adjustment. I've never has one of those before, and it was disorienting. It also let loose a lot of blocked emotions, and a weird rash. Dramatic, but not something I would chase.

In the meantime, I felt pulled to mind body workouts as I thought about my eczema, and after a week of experimentation, I settled on qigong with Lee Holden. I still love Lucy Wyndham-Read, but I feel the detox effects with qigong in a different way. Fortunately, there is no one saying I can't do both.

I can say all of that was helping me manage my stress better, because when I found my sister's caretaker sleeping in the early evening (while my sister was awake), I knew I needed to make a change but I did so with a minimum of drama (thanks in large part to one of my other sisters). I've been at the house in the suburbs since Friday morning, and while I would rather my husband and I be home with our young adult son, I am much calmer and even content than I was in a similar situation last year. 

The situation is in flux, though, so I was extremely fortunate that I was so close to my goal of 1000 calls at the beginning of the week. Happy to report that by Wednesday I had completed them, because I'm not sure when I'll be able to get on a call again. My husband and I need to celebrate, but not sure how yet. 

On Thursday, my last hurrah in the city, my husband and I went to a social with some other activists. I was as awkward as I ever am, and powered through as I usually do. It was fine; I met some nice people, but as usual I'm sensitive to power dynamics and calibrate accordingly. If I'm ever exhausted by social interactions, it's because of that. 

So that's my story, such as it is. 

Deb in the City

Hitting the Wall

Part of why I increasingly sneer at productivity is that I am a productive person, and it is not the be all end all. If knowledge is the beginning of wisdom, Getting Things Done is maybe only the beginning of figuring out what's actually important. 

I'm making calls for democracy. I'm coordinating at a community garden. I'm my sister's caretaker on the weekends. I'm still plugging away at my writing project (I have nothing negative to say about tenacity). I'm trying to shepherd one son through his first year at a four year college. And I'm trying to keep all of the things together, even if it's down to dishes and folding laundry.

This weekend the weekly caretaker needed to come a day late. I missed my son, but it was only an extra night. Except that I had caught a little something that weekend. It passed by Monday, but then my husband ended with what seemed like a more extreme version, to the point that we went straight to the ER instead of home. It turned out that this was a good call--and that's not something you can say about every ER visit--but it took all day. 

That was a lost day of work for the both of us, but there was still just as much to be done. (Okay, I didn't end up cleaning up as much as I usually like to, but that was more than made up for by the amount of time I spent searching for dishwashing gloves with my husband.) Thank the universe for my workouts, which gave me life; I reached for things like Qigong, Yoga, and Dance--things I haven't touched for a year--and it was just what I needed.

I felt good last night--until my son woke me up at 3AM. I got a little bit more sleep, but this was also a day that saw me with two meetings as well as a phone bank. I got on my mat for some Yin Yoga after the last meeting, and I realized how utterly burnt out I am. Let me tell you, there is no glory in smelling like smoke.

I met a friend yesterday--always good to see her, even if it was this week--and we came up with something of an exit strategy for one of my commitments. Yes, good. And another will be over--hopefully--on November 5. Better. I think I can make it...?

There was a time when I would have white knuckled my way through and told myself stories about my strength and fortitude. Ugh. If anyone said anything like that to me now, I would show them the door. 

I can get through this, but I don't have to like it. Martyrdom is for losers (literally). 

Deb in the City