And the Centipede Saga Continued...

And the centipede saga continued: We (Rainbows and I) got to the ER, saw the crowded waiting room, and resigned ourselves to the probable reality of a long night ahead. Upon checking in at the front window, I was presented with a Samson-sized stack of medical forms to fill out—mostly asking me to describe my presenting symptoms, my insurance, * OH! Or lack thereof! * and my medical history * what HAVEN’T I broken, bruised, or sprained….sheesh *~

I sat down to record all the details of my me-centric melodrama that had been taking center stage in recent days. My symptoms were nothing to shirk about…first of which being the centipede bite on my right temple * that’s right folks…an angry little scorpion-like bug bit me on the friggin’ face! * This bite was not only inconveniently located, but it also rudely decided * without consulting me, mind you! * to become infected—oozing all kinds of future scab-age and crustiness * ☹ Oh, and yes, did I mention that this bite, once becoming infected, had now apparently birthed little bacteria babies who appear to have a particular affinity for yours truly’s face?… * it must be the cheeks *~ Not to be mistaken for a lazy or unindustrious infection, this spawn of Satan had “shared the love” all over my entire body—hands, legs, shoulder, chin, etc …* the bawdy slut *~

I continued on recounting the pain and torture that was mine to bear… *angst, torment…NEOSPORIN. * After I felt that I had sufficiently soaked up every bit of sympathy that anyone reading later would have to muster, * or maybe when it was really just when I ran out of room/ lines on the paper for whining * I placed the pen down * cue hand to forehead in a grand sweeping motion of passion-filled, “poor me” proportions. * As I moved to return my own forms for registration, I surveyed the rest of the room, thinking of how each individual case/ client would fill in their charts specifically.

Directly adjacent to my line of sight, I saw a child clinging to his mother—wailing from the unknown, nameless pain. The mother occupied herself by looking around frantically for something ….anything—to ease her son’s suffering. A helpless frustration painted across her person. As she is called to the window, the young boy (well upwards of 10 or 11 years of age) clings to her. She carried his feeble frame across the room, as to not leave him alone in his misery. They are called into the inner sanctum of swaths, gauze and delicious drugs—while I resume my scanning.

A young Asian girl, only about three or four years old, is lying stretched out across the stiff, plastic seats. Her cheeks are flushed, and her legs and arms are splayed limply about her body. Her mother quietly strokes her face and hair, then closes her eyes. I imagine this mortal Madonna lifting up a silent prayer for deliverance and relief~

There were a few other couples that I couldn’t quite tangibly see what the issues of concern were in particular. However, the worry on the significant others’ faces were enough to let me know that each yet to be diagnosed duo was, indeed, serious~

Without a doubt, my favorite fellow sufferer was a tall, thin fellow who looked to be about my age…maybe a few years younger. As he strolled in with his two friends, he was upbeat and positive. I was so sidetracked by the smile on his face, that I, at first, did not notice the inflamed, red bites and scarlet sores that laced their way up his entire body. The infection’s sores licked their way up his leg like flames on fire—you could practically feel the searing heat from where I was sitting. I groaned with every step he took, placing myself in his shoes. I must have been staring, because I caught his eye, and what a smile * I think he showed me every single tooth that he possessed!* greeted me!~ The young man turned to the woman at the check in window and answered her question of “Checking in?” with a light-hearted quip along the lines of: “Yes, I have requested an oceanfront room with a Jacuzzi tub…reservations under ‘MosquitoMan.’“ …..he catches her eye as he shrugs his shoulders in self-deprecating, humble humor. *he even gets a slight twinge of mirth from Nurse Wratchet herself …I swear I DID see the corners of her mouth curl upwards ever so slightly…*
I find this interaction to be…

FANTASTIC. AMAZING. SOBERING~

Giggling to myself, I thought back to my recently filled forms—those detailed descriptions of my dramatic health crisis….all the sores, the pain, the frustration, the humility—in a few small moments—firmly placed in their proper position(s). Thank you….again and again—perspective~

Life is Like a Breath (of Wind?)~

Lately I have been blessed to have a little more time to really take advantage of all that my Hawaiian island home has to offer as far as outdoor adventures go. Whether it be hiking, swimming, biking, tennis, kayaking, or “surfing,” * and yes, I DID place surfing in quotation marks on purpose! * …one would be hard-pressed to find me anywhere other than enjoying one of these pono-producing pastimes.

As I have a slightly * ahem * low tolerance for the routinely mundane, monotonous things of this life …you know…like laundry, going to the grocery store, changing the oil in my car, taking out the trash, etc…it is probably not surprising that I like to “mix it up” in regards to the specific exercise that I choose to incorporate into my daily routine. For example, a ridge-roaming hike will be followed the next day by a blissful bike ride to my favorite seaside spot. The successive days three and four will include some sort of hand-eye coordination sport such as tennis, “surfing,” * yep! Still got ‘em folks! *… or volleyball (I just so happen to know of a particular fire station that has a rousing game every Sunday that I tend to barge in upon on a regular basis J ). This variety of options is one of the main reasons I chose to make Hawaii my home in the first place. It suits this restless, adventure-seeking, rambling rose quite well.

This past week in particular, when going about my daily excursions, I have noticed one main recurring theme/ idea that has been marinating in my mind. The concept of wind—specifically of how dramatically different I perceive this natural phenomenon as becoming, when placed within the context of each separate category of leisure that I happen to be participating in at that specific time.

When I think about it, it really is amazing the dramatic metamorphosis wind undergoes * in my mind at least * when merely transferred between sports. For instance, when I am biking, and the wind is at my back…I feel alive—bada**!—like nothing in the world can stop me!—propelled forward—Superman bullet-esque! HOWEVER, when the wind is against me…I sense the whole world is against me. I feel dead—simply “like” A**!—defeated, beaten down, bullied backwards—like I have been SHOT by the speeding bullet. Quite a difference to say the least~

While hiking, as I ascend rocky ledges, I feel, not resistance, but rather refreshment being offered to me by the rustling wind. Along my way, it stirs a breathy breeze—one that alights upon my brow, bringing me comfort and beckoning me forward—upward on my path. The summit supplies great gusts, swirling and whipping my hair…reminding me of how small I am, and how big the beautiful sky and earth dancing around me, are in comparison. I am engulfed by the wind on my hikes—they trap me in time—awaken to me how very little of it I have left—remind me how very much of it I have already wasted—and serve to open my heart to the priceless value given to that which remains~

Tennis belongs to the “anti-wind camp” as well. As one tries to manipulate the bouncy yellow ball—relegating it to the confines of the small white boxes * boxes, I might add, which appear more miniscule in proportion to the skill of each particular player, it seems, most days *…the wind can only serve to frustrate, tamper with and tyrannize all the Andre Agassis of the world~

Swimming seems to be one of the only wind-neutral sports in which I participate. When I am swimming, I am surrounded by silence. This impenetrable peace and quiet of my nautical bubble represents pure bliss to me. Ensconced within the ocean—the wind is dead to me…the world is dead to me…but I, I am alive—more alive than I have ever been—or at least this is how it feels. The wind has no jurisdiction here in my harmonious haven. No sound…no interference…nothingness…embraced—enveloped—inside a world all my own—I swim in my isolation tank—alone in my thoughts—unaffected by all outside forces, sights, sounds, or even beings. No wind can touch me here. I am encapsulated in isolation, surrounded by safety~

The list could go on and on….but ponopeople, you get the idea…wind is a powerful “force to be reckoned with”…. OR IS IT? I have begun today to ask myself the question, “What if it is just a force…*period*?”~

Whether it be coming directly towards me, blowing benignly upon my back, accompanying me up the face of a mountain, shifting and surging as I am sent scrambling on a clay court, or even if it is not present at all…wind is simply that— WIND. Not hostile by nature, wind is no respecter of persons. It has no agenda or plot for vengeance to reek upon any particular individual as far as I am aware. When the wind howls and crosses my path, causing me to exert more effort, or when it is helping me along my way with ease, or even as it is forcing me to realize that my stratagem on the court is not enough of a match for it to “save my game”—I have to remind myself that * no matter how it FEELS, * this appearance/ presence of wind is not a personal affront. It is not vexed by some grievance unbeknown to me. I have not committed some sin to bring about its fury. * It’s Just Wind *…a natural occurrence coming in cycles, and stages, and not necessarily with warning.

Wind and Life do not seem to be that different to me. This idea is what has filled my heart and mind most today. Life—coming in seasons—seasons of sadness or pain, when we feel hostility—is also nothing personal—no punishment for indiscretion here—simply a season. In seasons of happiness—when we feel overwhelmed by joy—not particularly arriving in our midst due to some divine or deserving act—simply a season. Seasons of numbness, when we feel nothing—not because we have done something (or even nothing?)—is, still…simply a season.

There are deaths, there are births, there are moments of overwhelming joy…only to be followed by what seem like hours of such sadness that the weight of them are crushing.

LIFE if like this~

Wind is like this~

Life is like Wind~