Adagio for Strings

There is a piece by Barber called Adagio for Strings.
It is a heart-wrenching, simply gorgeous piece of music.
I heard it many times as a child, played on the record player by my mom.
The music crackling with the noise only a record makes as it turns under the needle.
I heard it along with Vivaldi, Verdi, the Pachelbel Canon, the Moonlight Sonata, Gymnopedi.
My mom loved classical music, along with Judy Collins and Joan Baez and Joni Mitchell.
My dad loved the Beatles, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen.

I grew up to some beautiful music, music I am still deeply connected to.
One of these songs can bring me right back to our living room, lying on the beige shag carpet with my eyes closed, taking it in.
Sometimes holding my mom's hand or lying with my head on my dad's lap.
Fire burning in the fireplace if it was cold outside.
Or the sliding glass door open to let in the warm summer air.

Christie says that when something shows up on your skin, it means you are doing the deepest layer of healing.
Perhaps there is some really old grief I am letting out right now, and it is taking its time because a lot wants out of my body.
Maybe there is some longing for some of those sweet old times of my childhood, before any of the drama hit.
I've been listening to a lot of classical music, and it has been comforting rather than sad.
Maybe it's a good reminder that within some of the pain there is also a great deal of beauty and comfort.

Only one side of my body is covered in blisters that are healing and still raw and red from where the scabs have come off.
The other side is intact, the skin clear, the arm strong and free of nerve pain.
I don't really experience myself as half intact and half broken, but sometimes I feel like the broken and whole are mixed together in a more random way within me.
Sometimes I feel more whole than others, sometimes I feel more broken.
I know that in one way or another we are all broken and whole together.

I've had shingles for over three weeks.
Just over two weeks ago I was in the ER at 3 am.
Dave describes the look of fear and horror on my face as I wondered what was going on in my body to cause such vile and violent looking blisters and pain.
As I cried in agony, I actually asked him, "Why me?"
I try not to approach life with a why me attitude, because I am quickly reminded to ask also, "Why am I so deeply blessed?"
I know that God is watching over me closely, holding me, challenging me, believing that I have something to learn, to gain, to grow from.
Believing that I am capable of it all, even if sometimes I want to say, "Enough. I don't want to be so capable anymore. Leave me alone to just relax."

I'm tired of being in pain, of not sleeping more than an hour or two before waking in pain, of being so cramped and my skin burning in the morning that I have to take a bath to calm it all down and start my day of lying on the couch.
I'm ready to get off the couch.
I am venturing out more, but not much, primarily because my skin is still so raw that putting on clothing is excruciating.
At home I stay in a tank top with the heat on, so nothing can rub against the red hot skin.

This morning I slept until 10:15, I was so deeply tired.
I had a ton of dreams.
Healing from illness, being in pain most of the day, and growing a baby at the same time is a lot of work.
My body is tired and ready to be well.
As soon as I can wear clothes without pain, I am going to start walking every morning for an hour, before doing anything else.
My body needs exercise - regularly, for the rest of my life.
For movement, for health, for release and for tranquility in my busy mind.

My appetite is big right now, and I am eating a lot.
Baby is growing, and I am nurturing both of us.
It's a good sign that I have an appetite, because usually physical and emotional pain and struggle will cause me to totally lose my appetite.
I'm eating a lot of cheese - cheese is hitting the spot right now.
I ate a lot of dairy with Dahlia, too.
I sure would love a big glass of raw milk right now...
Oh, and that Breyer's Black Cherry Avalanche ice cream... mmm.

We're almost halfway through our time here in Israel.
Dave and I are still in such different places about it all, and that is what it is.
No right or wrong.
He's worked so hard to get here, wanted to be here for so long, and he is learning so much and thriving in his studies.
I'm super proud of him, I love that he is rocking it.
All the while doing so much for me and for Dahlia, working training fellow students 4-6 hours a week at the same time.
This year is a lot of work for all of us.
Yet I can't help but feel like the one who is having the least fun.
That, too, is what it is.

Dave says a lot of it has to do with my attitude going in, but that doesn't feel right either.
Because for about 1-2 of the 5 months we've been here, after the initial adjustment which was hard, I was really doing fine.
I wasn't overjoyed about it all, but I wasn't miserable.
I felt open and began connecting with friends here.
I was in a nice rhythm, I had started my class, I was busier.
Dahlia had adjusted and that put me at ease.
For at least a month before I got shingles, I really was fine.
But I think the shingles put me over the edge.
Just when I was in a decent flow that I could see getting me through the rest of the year, I was knocked down.
Challenged yet again to deal with something hard, and make the best of it.
Sometimes, folks, I just get sick of making the best of a difficult situation.
Sometimes I just want to get on a plane to Mexico and go sit on a beach for about three months.
Free of challenges, away from jackhammers, with only the repetitive soothing sound of waves surrounding me.
A quiet beach is definitely my happy place.

I really don't like to complain too much, but lately I just have felt like complaining.
Or at least being honest about how I'm feeling, because if I can't do that, then it's hopeless.
How I'm feeling is that I look forward to getting on that plane back to the US at the end of June.
How I'm feeling is that I am ready to get through this year, move on to the next experience.
How I'm feeling is very alone, even if I know that I am not, I still feel very much alone in this experience.
How I'm feeling is far away from my network of support - my family, my Jewish community, my mom community, my homebirthing community, my freaky funky Bay Area community, even my familiar little caregiving world at Kaiser and in the alternative health world.

I know Jerusalem has a lot to offer - Jewishly, culturally, spiritually, historically, politically - but I just don't have the desire to extend myself in order to tap into it for this short time.
And frankly right now, I also just don't have the energy.
Though I am open to connections that happen - like the other night when I met a lesbian couple from San Francisco who live here, and one of them is a doula and her partner knows an Israeli woman who had 4 homebirths and wrote her dissertation on the homebirth situation in Israel.
That was a sweet gift, and I hope to connect with her.
It was also delightful to connect with people who felt so familiar... people from home.

I don't think I have a bad attitude.
I think I am just feeling a little tired of trying so hard to have a good attitude, to stay positive no matter what.
I'm just feeling less positive right now than I was a month ago.
I want to give myself space to honestly acknowledge that this whole experience is really really HARD.
I think it's fair to admit that I am going to be really glad when it is over and I can move on to the next one.
I don't know that I would've gotten shingles if my body and spirit hadn't been through so much stress in the last year of my life.
I don't blame it on Israel, and I certainly don't blame it on Dave.
I'm just acknowledging my limits, my sensitivity, and that even my strong resilient spirit has boundaries.

I am craving calm.
The kind of calm I felt lying on our living room floor listening to Barber or Vivaldi or Verdi.
The calm that existed in my life before I ever knew there could be storms.
The calm that comes from complete security and trust in life.
Trust in myself, trust in my body's complete health.
My work has to do with regaining that trust, and in turn reconnecting with that calm.