I started researching for this book back in 2018, right after I finished Beauty Destroys the Beast. Writing started in 2019. It’s a departure from my usual fare. What’s it about? It’s about equipping us to be more human. We all live in this digital world, and it’s not real. It’s NOT working for us. It’s NOT working for our society.
But Westerners are rich enough to make different choices with our lives (by and large). So, this book is about the choices we make, the lives we build for ourselves, and for the people around us. We can make different choices, we can take a new path.
I’d appreciate you picking up a copy. If you like it, tell a friend. If you don’t, tell me 🙂
This is what I want to do with my life – write and think and inspire and call out… but I can’t do that if I don’t sell any books. Right now, I’ve written three books and I’m well in the red for them (thank God for supportive husbands). If you think you want me to keep doing this, buy a book. (It really does not matter what type). I will probably write anyway, because I seem to be compelled to write. (Twenty years+ of blogs + 3 books, cough, cough) but it would be nice if I could really WORK on the craft.
But don’t buy a book unless you want a book, because I’m not that chick. If it brings you no value – skip it!!! Please. I hate false advertising, and I hate “if you loved me”. Nah. I’m just telling it like it is. If this door isn’t my door, I’ll have a good pout and go on. Anyway. Below is the cover and the various links.
Laodicea is a worldview that values the rat-race over connection. It’s a physical location that makes it hard to participate in community even if we want to.
Laodicea has its hooks in all of us. We know that what we’re doing isn’t working. We read the statistics about loneliness being more deadly than cigarettes, we struggle to deal with aging parents and caring for our kids, we see the dysfunction. But what else is there? We’re stuck.
Leaving Laodicea is a book that explores the concept of regenerative community. Just as we have begun to learn how to regenerate our soil through regenerative agriculture and permaculture, so too can we regenerate our communities and see them thrive. The future won’t look like the past – and we wouldn’t want it to. But if you’re dissatisfied with the way you’re living and the world you’re living in, isn’t it worth making a change?
My husband and I had our 25th anniversary in … 2020. Summer of 2020, to be precise. Guess who didn’t go on a silver-anniversary trip? That’s right! We finally got out this weekend. This is a total photo spam post from Monterey, Point Lobos, and Pacific Grove. I might find California infuriating, but there is no question that it is beautiful, and these are some of the prettiest places.
You’re welcome. (PS the pic of the eucalyptus tree is a picture of a cluster of monarchs in one of their winter hibernation spots, I know they look very much like leaves).
Most of the readers of this blog have been familiar with my online persona for years, if not decades. So you may wonder – is California as bad as they say?
-drinks- *
Yep. Probably worse.
I have cameras, security doors, and a giant dog. I love my dog to pieces, but you know, I get darn tired of floodlights and locks and having to watch everything all the time. If YOUR next-door neighbor hasn’t called you at 7am of a Saturday morning to freak out about a homeless dude sitting in your front yard eating your lemons… I don’t want to hear about “you don’t have to do that”. Yes. I actually do. I mean, if you’re hard up enough that lemons constitute breakfast, go right ahead. But … still. I mean. Eek? You know? Maybe you don’t.
Maybe you live somewhere that it’s not a question, “will someone run the red light?” but “how many people will run the red light, and how long will I sit here after it’s green because the intersection isn’t clear”? Oh. Yeah. No, we don’t actually enforce those laws much.
We really don’t enforce a lot of laws much. Oh. Well. I mean *I* can’t walk into a store and walk out with stuff. You, dear reader, can’t either. But other folks can. And no one will stop them. They just watch. Sometimes they call the cops. Sometimes not. Nothing happens. “That’s just in metro areas and on TV”. Nooope. I’ve seen it. I mean, I walked right past the guy with the white powder lines and into the clothes store… oh. Wait, did I say that part about the guy sitting out with his lines of white powder in broad daylight near a store? Yeah. How much drug abuse do you see on a daily basis? How many people screaming at the sky? Is that a part of your “normal”? Do you keep an eye out for needles so your dog doesn’t step on them? No? I do….
They don’t do anything about that. Homeless encampment behind my work called 911 about an overdose. Work said, “can’t you get rid of them, we don’t feel safe”. Nooope. Can’t do anything about that. Sorry. Guess my (female) boss won’t be staying late to do the books anymore.
The laws coming out of Sacto are so stupid I want to sit under my desk and use it as a fort. Today’s new stupid is “it’s now illegal to suspend a kid for truancy or mouthing off to their teacher”. *Illegal*. Illegal to take books out of school (or refuse them) for content. They decided that they couldn’t enforce the anti-prostitution law for … reasons?… and now they have neighborhoods taken over. No, really? What did you think would happen?
Dude. They finally took the guy who used to wave his knife and scream away. He liked to scream at women and children. In World-of-Sanity, that takes 15 minutes. In Cali? It took months. Then he got out, then it took another month.
Is it a surprise to say I do not feel safe? Is it a shock to find your neighborhoods filling up with Californians? Guys – do NOT worry about how we will vote. We are voting properly NOW, it’s just that it doesn’t matter. (Hand-vote counting, except in very specific emergency, is also now illegal).
And every.single.day. they come up with more shockingly dumb stuff. Who thinks this is going to work out? -shakes head- Look, I know we aren’t supposed to say this out loud, but “demonic” isn’t a stretch. At.All.
Why do I live in a third-world country? Why are there holes in the holes in the road, why are there tents under the bushes? Why do I have to be this cynical? I thought this was America. Have you ever been glad that your beloved elders were gone because they don’t have to see the mess? I am. Everyday I’m grateful that my beloved ones are in Heaven and not here.
I don’t feel safe. I am so tired of not feeling safe, I am so tired of the sensible things I do to stay safe. I am so tired of seeing destruction where once was health. I’m tired of reading the news and I’m addicted to it. What fresh hades is upon us?
So yes, it’s as bad as they say it is. And the weather is still perfect. It’s all true. I took this picture Saturday. It’s all true. It’s beautiful, and it is dangerous, and justice has taken a siesta.
In September of ’21, I agreed to a very necessary surgery on my right ankle. There were tantrums beforehand as I wrestled with the knowledge that I’d be “less than normal” for a year after surgery, but I accepted that this season of my life was a necessary pause. I decided to embrace it, to enter the chrysalis and emerge renewed.
So while I was paused, down for the count, I decided to tidy up a few other health to-dos. What started out an normalish mid-life appointment ended up in surgery. Then that run-of-the-mill surgery took a sharp right turn, and I had testing and yet more surgery… what I planned has changed and changed and changed once again. And those changes aren’t linear either.
According to my plans, with the excellent progress I am making on the ankle-healing front, this should have been the time when my body was recovering enough to do more things (I can walk up to a mile or so now, with rest breaks). Emotionally, I perk up and gear up with every Spring – I can rely on my emotions to drive me to new horizons, push me to greater discipline, express hope with each heartbeat.
This Spring is different. The last surgery was five days ago. My body hurts and I don’t feel right. Probably par for the course. I want to be hopeful, I want to be out on the hill pulling weeds (sooo off the table right now), I want to be cleaning the house, I want to be walking the dog for miles… but what I’m really going to do is nap. And in a week or so, when I’m over this surgery, I’ll be back to a few slow walks a week, PT and sensible goals.
I thought of this time as a chrysalis, a time of rest between seasons of excitement. I thought of my life as a line, and even with the pause, the line would continue exactly where I wanted it to. I’d use my downtime as an opportunity for growth. For change! I’d become the person I wanted to be!! But I didn’t ask God what He had planned for me… or for this time.
The change that God wanted to make in me was to take my dependence off of “me” and put it on HIM. I didn’t know that included my emotions. My “normal” hope and exuberance and belief in good things around the corner has been tested. My emotions aren’t where they usually are, and I can’t rely on them. That’s hard. I have to choose – will I have faith in His good plan, or will I not?
And it’s weird, because my faith is stronger than ever. You see, that second surgery, that I never expected to get? That revealed that I had cancer. Stage 1A, couldn’t be smaller, less enthusiastic, less invasive. Caught at the first moment that it was detectable.
A new doctor agreed to attend to a problem I’d been having for 15 years. He found a rare, small, barely-active cancer on my fallopian tube. Apparently that counts as ovarian cancer. So I elected to remove my ovaries so the “had” in “I had cancer” stays past-tense. Ovarian cancer has almost no symptoms until it’s well established. I am greatly blessed. Because of that surgery, my life (in the future) was saved. I have faith that God is watching me – how not? I have faith that God has a plan for my future – how not?
But these last months have had me unable to walk, walking in a cast, going to (usually) painful physical therapy twice a week, my 50th birthday (family drama FTW!), surgery, “Merry Christmas you might have cancer”, waiting to heal well enough for tests, tests, oncologist visits, an all-clear, a return to work (more drama!) and finally yet more surgery (and pain). I don’t do much with opioids (they make me sick) and oh yeah, I found another one that makes me REALLY sick. Add some medically induced panic attacks to this list. Dude. It’s a lot.
I can’t rely on my natural Spring cheer to hold me up. I think that’s the point. What are my New Year’s Resolutions? I didn’t make any at the new year, because I was thinking, “not dying” and that seemed like enough that week. Do I want to lose weight and get in shape? Yeah, I’ve been sitting immobile for six months and people keep sticking knives into me. I am not living in a body that I find comfortable or aesthetically pleasing. Is that a “goal with timelines”? No. So much no. That is a journey of joy, and a privilege I have been denied for a time.
What I have is a decision. Will I – the person inside – change? Will I choose to rest in God’s will for my life, or will I struggle and press toward my own goals? Can I be strong enough to surrender, counter-cultural enough to rest with hope? Can I say, “I don’t know – and that’s okay”?
Will I take this miracle and rest in the provision, and stop trying to plan my life? Will I learn to fly like a butterfly – surrendering to the breeze – or will I continue to crawl, just so that I can stay in control?
I do have a choice.
I have data, I have miracles, I have the Word. I just don’t have the “me” I’m used to having.
Is this what it takes, to get to surrender?
Yes.
I’ve tasted surrender in other flavors. This is what it takes.
I don’t have the faintest idea how to flutter my wings with choice-to-hope and let the Wind take me where He wills. I’ve always hoped in the destination. Worked for it. This change is intense, down to the bone. I don’t know how to do this. Our culture can’t teach me. There is only surrender – or not. Daily surrender. Or not.
I know what I will choose, but I will not say that I am not terrified. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom”. Do I fear what He will do with me? Yes. I haven’t enjoyed stress, pain, tears, or setbacks. Has He the right? Yes. The Potter owns the clay. Do I trust that it will be well, in the end. Yes. “For all things work together for good…” All I can do is pray that I be given a bit of time to learn this dance-of-hope-in-action before the wind blows me somewhere else I never dreamt of going, doing something I never dreamt I would do.
My hope is in the Lord, for I have come to the end of myself. Life is not linear, and I cannot plan what I do not see.
Scoff as you will, dear reader, at the dreams I had that persuaded me to undergo the knife. Once upon a time, I’d have said the same. What I expected and what I have gotten thus far are miles apart. For those of you disinclined to hit the link, at two months post-surgery, I should just be getting out of a pointed-toe cast and into a walking boot. Where am I? Oh, you know… chilling in shoes and going to physical therapy. Walking. I went to Target last Wednesday. By myself, even. (It was kind of a lot, and I had to sit down, but hello – walking!)
It’s not like I *just* asked Dr. Google. Oh no, my research included talking to a physical therapist, a pedorthist, and my two initial visits with my orthopedic surgeon. And yes, Dr. Google. Knock yourself out – “achilles tendon surgery” is what you’re looking for. Until my pre-op appointment, all information pointed due 4-6 months of containment. At pre-op, the doc told me that time would be much less… maybe. (This even though he did a bit more cutting – I had some seriously destroyed ligaments so they moved the anchor points around so the one that’s left is working overtime. I’m working the 360 scar surround effect).
And so here I am. Gobsmacked. Godsmacked? Yes. An exercise in faith-increase. Absolutely nothing that I had planned has gone as planned. *I screwed up my pillow purchasing for propping up my foot*. At that point, all hope of me being in control was incinerated. But I haven’t needed to be. Everything is going along as God wants it to go. (Aka well – but not according to Hearthie’s list of preferences).
I’m just over here, wandering around. God’s got this. I don’t. He’s going somewhere good… and I’m along for the ride. It’s very confusing!!
ETA: So, after I wrote this I got over excited and cleaned up the kitchen and made breakfast and was on my feet for about 90 minutes and forgot *I should be in a boot* and that was very naughty of me. I’m now on “up for 15 minutes at a time and then sitting for hours” but that’s still AMAZING because no boot. See picture below… you can see my new scars and some of the bruising that’s still hanging around. Bruising is GOOD because it reminds me to sit, which will help heal. Again, not my idea of fun, but I am very much farther along because of it.
And with that update, I leave you, dear reader… for now. Come see me at Hearthrose.com or HistoricalFemininity.Locals.com 🙂
Women need respect because women are humans. Humans need respect because, as communal creatures, the opinions of the people around us determine our incomes, our positions in society, how much we are given (leeway, grace, casseroles), how much is expected of us (excellence, time, amusement), how we marry, and how our children move through the world – just as a start. It has been said that women value love over respect, which may be true – but it doesn’t mean that the absence of one or the other is an acceptable way to live. If women are not given respect for what they do, they will do something else until they find that respect… or a facsimile thereof.
I’ve pondered the respect issue for quite some time. If you look back on history, you won’t exactly find that women are considered the equal of men, especially in public life. However, what you will find is that women were respected for being good at women-things. A good wife is worth more than rubies… can she bake a cherry pie, Billy boy… is that girl you’re staring at going to make your life run well? It’s not like you can write off the contributions of half the human race and get anywhere. That’s ridiculous.
A Progression of Disrespect
Can we pinpoint, exactly, when respect dissolved? No. However, a pattern emerges – a progression of disrespect, if you will. In the base state of things, everyperson’s competence at doing life is assumed. Individual differences of course – Bob is better at building houses than Larry, and Mary is a much better cook than Diane. But we assume at this base state that Larry can build and Diane can cook, even if they’re not the best in the world. They’re competent. I don’t wander in and tell Diane how to sift flour just off the street. When we assume competence, the position of advisor must be earned.
The first stage of disrespect is “experting”. This feels helpful. I have a library of books on “how to” do things. But experting goes beyond just a “how to” book, and sets “should” standards. Consider child-rearing manuals throughout the 20th century (and shudder). The experts know more than you do, and their way of doing things is the Only Right Way. Now, as an “expert”, I can order Diane to sift her flour three times before even considering baking a cake. Instead of summarily throwing this stranger out of her house, as I am an expert she’ll bow and scrape – and do exactly what I tell her to. Relationship? I don’t need one. I’m an “expert”.
The second stage of disrespect is out-sourcing, which comes with a set of sub-stages. In out-sourcing, as an expert, I start by telling dear Diane that the only way to bake a really lovely cake is to buy my cake-flour. It’s too much trouble for her to sift it, and she’s never going to do so properly. But I, and my flour, are here to save her. In subsequent stages of outsourcing, I gradually take over other parts of the process until Diane, knowing her own innate incompetence, gives up and buys cake from my bakery.
The third stage of disrespect is denigration. Baking is for losers. It’s a waste of your time and effort. Now that the entire process is out of sight, now that Diane (or more probably, her granddaughter) is utterly unfamiliar with the ingredients and wouldn’t recognize the difference between a Twinkie and a homemade sponge cake, now she’s going to start looking at cake as just another commodity. Cheapest, quickest, most convenient. Because she’s buying like that, fewer and fewer quality options become available. Because what she’s buying is very low quality, it is only natural that Diane Jr. thinks of baking as a waste of time. She does more important things, like filing papers and answering phones.* Baking is out of sight, out of mind – and so is the baker.
Clothing as Example
Originally, women were in charge of the entire process of making clothing, from growing flax (or keeping sheep) through making cloth and sewing it up. This very valuable commodity, cloth, was so ubiquitously in the hands of women that “distaff” (which is a term for the stick you hold your fiber-to-be-spun on) is a synonym for “pertaining to women”. The cloth trade is recorded as far back as 1900 BC, there are notes about this in Cuneiform (from a woman to her husband – so much for treating women’s contributions with disrespect).
Gradually, clothing became “experted”. Books and articles were written to teach women how to sew “properly” – with details that extended to stitch length and direction. Magazines circulated with the latest fashions, and women were expected to dress like other ladies of their social class. Colors, hemlines, even modesty was determined by experts – not the women themselves.
The first stage of outsourcing was a dependence on dressmakers and tailors, at least for certain articles of clothing. These professionals had the tools, materials, and skills that a woman at home would be unlikely to have at her disposal – if she had the time to create more than basics. (From experience, I can tell you that sewing a wardrobe, even with modern appliances, takes a lot of time. It takes me a full day of work to sew a shirt for my husband, for example).
The second stage of outsourcing was the introduction of ready-made clothing. This occurred not more than 150 years ago – it hasn’t been long! While women retained their skill at sewing, they could recognize well-made garments. I can recall being shown the difference between a well-sewn and poorly sewn seam (in the era before sergers) and taught how to check the quality of fabric. I also remember buying fabric with my mother, as she had it made by a dressmaker (the expert) instead of being dependent on the department stores. At this point, although most of the work was done by experts, good work was valued and understood because of a basic understanding of the task at hand.
Eventually, almost all of us bought most of our clothing ready made, and fewer and fewer could so much as sew on a button. The sewing trade disappeared behind closed doors, and then those doors moved overseas. Creating clothing is out of sight – out of mind… and horrors ensue. Clothing is worth nothing. Creating clothing has been reduced to a hobby. The respect for the process of making the sort of clothes we wear on a daily basis has completely eroded. The progression of disrespect completes with vast heaps of discarded clothing crowding our landfills and filling our water with microplastics.
Out of Sight, Out of Mind
Where you spend your time is where you give attention. Attention begets respect. As “real life” moved out of the home and into the office, our attention moved to how to win respect in that venue. All humans require respect – and women gradually had respect withdrawn from their lives. Where once we were needed and relied upon for our skill, wisdom, and productivity, we became mere ornaments – “Angels of the Household”. The less time spent at home, the less respect was given to homemakers – and soon, housewives were considered a luxury good, a waste of a good mind.
Is it any wonder that women, given no respect for what they’d been doing for thousands of years, stopped doing this work and clamored for work that would bring them respect? Occupation that would bring them into association with others, connection. Humans need community. Year after year, homemakers became progressively more isolated. They complain of never having adult conversations and suffer from loneliness and self-doubt. The progression of disrespect has reaped a fine harvest.
So we must ask ourselves, is the work of homemaking worth doing? If, upon careful examination, we decide that we do need someone to concentrate on raising children, to foster social connection within community and extended family, to keep a close eye on the food we nourish ourselves with and be conscious to minimize waste and maximize resources, we will need to return respect to the position. We require nourishment to the spirit as well as to the body.
If we decide that none of these things are important, we can go on as we have. Soon enough we will own nothing and care not – because our homes will be irrelevant. Totally dependent on what we find in the marketplace for our food, the coverings for our body, totally dependent on experts to raise our children, we will take what is on offer because we will have no capacity to do anything else. And where will the progression of disrespect take all of humanity, when that is complete?
Choose you this day… personally, I think developing respect is a wiser plan.
*I have spent plenty of my professional life answering phones and filing papers. Work done well is honorable. But do you really think filing paper is more important than the food you put in your mouth? If so, we need to talk.
NOTE: I brought over this piece because 1) I know the audience here is more varied than my other online spaces. I’d like your input. 2) I feel like this is important and of interest to this audience.
If this interests you, come chat with us over at Locals. I put up regular locals-only content as well as the articles I share elsewhere, and Locals is the place to discuss, to post your own ideas, or even to argue (courteously).
Locals is a members-only platform, so you do have to register. However, I have a trial code, so that you don’t need to pay for your first month. HISTFEMTRIAL16 goes through 12/9/22. I hope to see you there. https://historicalfemininity.locals.com/
Fair Warning: This is a piece I’m writing so I can process my emotions… that’s the whole point. So I’m going to let the Drama Llama have a good run – need to get it out of my system.
January, 2008… my husband and I have a marriage patched up with bubble gum. I drop my kids off at Sunday School, and as I turn to wave goodbye to my daughter, my foot twists on the babygate, and I fall flat on my back on the sidewalk outside. When I am helped to a sitting position, I see (for a fleeting second) that my toes don’t point the way they had just a second ago. My foot swells up quickly, and I can’t see much. All I want is the church folks to call my husband (who was at home) and my mom (to pick up my kids). My hubs comes, and drives me to the ER. I remember saying, “I’m going to cry” and then choking out just a couple of sobs before I lock everything back down. By the time I get to the ER, my foot is so swollen, no one knows what’s wrong – and Sunday at my local ER is very busy. We wait for four hours before I get so much as pain meds. Six hours later I leave with instructions to call the orthopedist, crutches, and a splint. I was in enough pain in the waiting room that I had to sing the whole time (How Great is Thy Faithfulness) to keep from crying. If I stopped singing, the tears would start flowing…
…cut to Monday. The doc tells me what I’ve done, and what that means. He is a kind man, a family friend. No more hiking, which I love. My life is changed forever, starting now. I’ve broken the first two bones (displaced fractures, one with a bone chip) and dislocated the other three at my mid-foot joint. It’s called a Lis Franc break/dislocation, and it’s very rare. The severity of my injury is common in fighter plane accidents, car accidents, but not at all in baby gate accidents. It will require surgery to fix my foot, including three 2″ long pins.
…cut to Wednesday. I wake up from surgery for a microsecond, and start crying. I don’t even remember the pain, I couldn’t have been aware for more than 30 seconds all told. I opened my eyes, saw my doctor, the tears started, he waved to someone, and I went back under. When I woke back up, he was gone. They explained to me that I had dilaudid in a pump – every time I needed more pain meds, all I had to do was hit a button. Pretty heavy stuff – I had to have oxygen to help me breathe. I went home Thursday – and yes, dilaudid is great stuff. My dad picked me up and took me to the store to pick up my pain meds, and I remember thinking, “Oh I’m fine! I’m sure I won’t need them…” Ha.
I spent the next month on my couch, with my foot elevated over my heart and a bag of ice on my cast. I’d wake up just long enough to count down the minutes until my next dose of Percocet, eat something to keep it company and go back to sleep. My mom had to come (after eye surgery – the blind leading the lame) to care for my children, 3 & 7. After a month or so, I got so I could fold laundry and interact a bit.
I was in a cast for two months, a walking boot for a month? after that, and in PT three times a week through the end of the year. In July, they went in and took the pins back out, which made me feel much better. The recovery from the second surgery was pretty nominal. That surgeon fixed my scars so they were less horrifying and repaired some of the nerve damage while he was in there for the pins.
Slowly I got my life back – to a reduced extent. I walked slowly and painfully, wore ugly shoes, but I went back to being a mom and a wife. I learned to take lots of sitting breaks. My marriage was not just restored, but made completely new. I had to tell my pastor (who felt horrible) twice that for what I gained in my marriage, I’d have cut my foot off. This remains true. But I was crippled – and I felt it.
In 2014, I took my son down to Crossfit to see about a PE credit for high school. When I heard that I could start exercising without having to walk first, I joined too. I used to walk down there… with my walking stick (1/2 mile). The first time my coach had me do walking lunges, I was so out of shape that I nearly blacked out. But crossfit led to lifting, and lifting strengthened my legs radically – without the repetitive impact of walking. Within a few years, I was able to walk farther than I had since the break – no walking stick required. My foot was always swollen, and usually uncomfortable, but I had gained so much.
I grew extra bone – on the back of my foot, and on the top. In 2020 I went back to the ortho ( a new ortho – our dear doc had retired) and asked about fixing things. He told me what the recovery would be to get the bit on the back taken off, and since it wasn’t bothering me, we decided to chop off the stuff on top. He told me he was going to try fixing the swelling, since no doctor has been able to explain why it’s still like that. He promised me I’d be up and running in 8 weeks. The swelling thought that was cute, and I wore compression socks for six months… and in a year, the bone on the back that hadn’t bothered me started to do so. The little mermaid and I, we both walked on knives… but I knew what fixing the problem would cost me.
In 2021, I started shockwave therapy. I had read articles saying that it could remove spurs. That turns out to not be true… but it did take care of the pain (after causing a good bit along the way).
It’s 2022. My husband looked at me a couple of months ago and said, “you need to do this”. I cried. I raged. I said I couldn’t possibly consider it. God sent me dreams, telling me that it would be a blip – something that looks horrible but will be a minor inconvenience on the way to freedom. And so I bent my neck and agreed.
Yesterday I went to the doctor. There’s only one fix for this problem. We’re aiming for surgery in September. He’s going to cut my Achilles tendon off, then remove the bone spur, fix whatever damage it’s done, tidy up anything else in there, sew me back up, and on I go to another epic journey of healing.
It means a month (ish) in a pointed-toe cast, and post-surgical pain. Then I will move to a walking boot with a wedge heel that will gradually lower as I do PT for 4-5 months. One is very careful with a healing Achilles tendon! I will not be able to drive for that entire time, as this is my right foot. You are considered “healed” after six months, and can be expected to be back to a gentle version of normal in about a year.
I have a lot of trauma memories of the pain and disability time on the couch. My body is reacting to those – not all the surgeries since that haven’t been too bad. I am hurting from the things I’m going to have to give up… my life is about to change again.
I wanted to pull back from everything and slam up my walls. It’s how I deal. My husband wouldn’t permit it. So now I have to learn to do this grieving, this hurting, without the walls up. I don’t know how to do that. I’m writing because I hear that it helps – and I need the help. I know this will be okay, but my heart is crying and my body is terrified. I am, literally, sorry for myself – as if I were outside myself. I don’t like that, I’d much rather be stoic. But I can only do that with my walls up. I’m sad. I think it’s okay – from outside – but I don’t want to be the weak one, I don’t want these emotions. If I know it has to be done, why do I have to feel this way?
I should count my lucky stars. I could be walking with a cane by now. I would have been, without lifting.
Anyway. I’m going to post some pix below, don’t scroll down if you don’t want to see them.
Best angle for bone spurSide view, yep still swollen!top view, a lovely selection of scars
I’ve been sitting and thinking about my “new goals” for 2022 and being completely bogged down because, quite frankly, the last couple of years have sucked insofar as making the changes I’d like to see made. Here’s a metaphor that actually happened. We’ve been trying to gradually beautify and stabilize the hillside in our backyard. There’s your goal. To that end, we planted some herbs that get on well with our climate and soil. Fed them. Sprayed their bugs. Put water on them. And…. then our uphill neighbor poured poison on one of her trees (or possibly our passionfruit vine) and there’s a stripe of death down the hill instead of a stripe of flowers. Even managed to kill off a mature rosemary. That takes work, people. Did we have a goal? Yes. Did we do the work? Yes. Did we get the outcome? No. And that’s how it’s been. I know it’s not just been for my fam, because hello 2021 – but there she be.
So, I asked God for my word for the year, and He said, ‘transformation’. I eyed that up and down and sideways and said, “was that You, Lord?” and then I sucked it up and looked at my calendar and said, ” He wasn’t even joking”. If *nothing* on my 2022 goals list happens, if I do *nothing* of my own, I won’t be in the same place in a year as I am now.
This year, my younger child graduates HS and turns 18. My older child is picking schools to apply to for his last two years of school, he’ll get his AA in the Spring. I’ve changed my job radically in 2021, and in 2022 I’ll see a lot more change (and a lot more to do) at work. Oh the irony – I failed to launch my last book properly or get my image consulting business rolling because I hate self-marketing. Guess who’s doing the marketing for people who pay me? I’ve learned a lot and continue to do so – and I’m wildly outside of my comfort zone. With my kids as grown humans now, everything changes professionally and personally. My husband has some goals for the two of us that are dependent on being parents of adults… so there are those too. I’m closing up a 21+ year season of my life. At the end of next year, I’ll turn 50.
Of course I have goals, I have assignments. I’ve got another book about half written, and I plan to finish that and get it to a real publisher. I need people to read this one more than I need to get the money from it, I need it to go into the world and make ripples. I have the post-foot-surgery and 2021 stress weight to take off. I have to get the kid through HS and survive all the nonsense around graduation – two graduations! – this Spring. I have clothes I want to sew – and I have a lot at my jobbyjob that I want to make happen. New things to be done, old things to be done over properly. (I really *like* the people I work for and I want their products to do well – plus I believe in the products. It’s a weird feeling, really wanting your bosses to win, totally outside of one’s own ambitions). So much to do…
So, “Transformation”. I’m tired, I’m scared, 2021 sucked. I’m NOT ready. But that really doesn’t matter at all. I can get on the surfboard or I can get pounded by the wave – but either way, I’m not going to be where I am today when you read this blog 12 months from now.
I don’t write here that much anymore, so subscribe at hearthrose.com, that’s where I’m putting up the interesting writing. And we (Els and I) have a chatboard over on locals. Come visit there. https://historicalfemininity.locals.com/ It’s free, I keep putting up a coupon code to get conversation going and it will stay free until it’s busy enough that I need to be paid to keep it moving.
To Transformation – the butterfly is out of the chrysalis and drying her wings, soon she will fly.
I would like to say that my self-control is perfect. It is not.
I do NOT want my various blogs and public personae to be about the insanity that has taken over everything. It’s been done.
I think I am more helpful pointing out useful things to do and say, things that are beautiful and positive, than ranting. Philippians 4:8
Likewise, I can read perfectly well, and see that “self-control” is a gift of the Spirit, and so is “long suffering”. Wrath and anger are flesh, NOT Spirit.
Thus, if I wish to walk in the Spirit and not in the flesh, I need to exert self-control.
I do scream and stomp my feet and rant – I just (mostly) don’t do it on social media. See #2 and #3.
I have to *actively* take each thought captive, and it’s hard sometimes. Today is a hard day.
It’s – I think – okay to be frustrated and feel the emotion that’s real. Okay. Feel it. Let it go through.
And… now what?
I have a contribution to make, something I can do to make things better. So, after I get my daily things done, I’m going to be about THAT thing.
You have a thing to do to make things better too. So, go be about your work. Be in the Spirit, not the flesh. Let God work through you and change you. Be a light, which means getting yourself out of the way and letting Him shine through.
Today is not an easy day. I think we’re likely to see fewer easy days. I accept this without approving of it. So, there must be less of me and more of Him. Because the “me” is not very happy right now, and “me” would get in the way of others seeing Him and feeing Him in their lives.
That, I will not accept.
And this, this is going on the various profiles, because this is a true thing. Share if you like.
Hands, Heart, Hearth 