Gratitude in the Time of Covid

I am grateful.  Not for Covid.  How could I be grateful for a virus that has contributed or directly caused nearly 1.5 million deaths world wide and over 265,000 in the U.S.?  That doesn't even count the economic losses and hardships, the deaths of despair: fatal overdoses or deaths by suicide that have increased dramatically in this time.  A close friend has lost both a brother and a sister to Covid, and a clergy friend has contracted the virus two separate times - both with significant symptoms.  There are also all the long haulers who may or may not return to the health they once experienced.  I am still experiencing long-Covid symptoms.  How I hope I'm not able to contract this thing again.  

So I'm not grateful for Covid.  I wish it hadn't come and invaded our lives and taken so many from us.  I wish it hadn't altered my life and my health.  

That being said, since Covid is here, and it has changed the world, I can choose to be grateful in the midst of it.  

I'm grateful that if I walk every day, my heart rate stops spiking so high and my blood pressure stays lower.  As much as I've always loved walking, I'm even more grateful for the ability to do so after having lost that ability for a chunk of this year.  I'm grateful for the lifts in mood that walking gives me, for the rich fall colors, for the time spent with God's creation.

I'm grateful that the poison ivy I had is gone and I'm no longer taking prednisone.  While on it numerous aches and pains were gone, including the arthritis in my right hand, but withdrawing set me way back - couldn't get out of bed one day.  I will be grateful if I never need prednisone again! 

I'm grateful for breath, for learning to listen to my body better, for learning to rest when my body tells me so.  A slower paced schedule has been a blessing.

I'm grateful for Kasee the miracle kitten who I truly believe is a gift from God.  She has brought so much joy to Jan and me and her followers on the Internet.  Her soft fur and sweet face and lively antics and photogenic personality bring smiles whenever she's around.  I would be even more grateful if she liked to cuddle, but I try to accept that biting is one of her love languages.

I'm grateful for my new home and beautiful neighborhood, 

I'm grateful for my Bruton ministry and the SpiritWorks community and their patience with my up and down recovery.  I'm grateful for meaningful work and the privilege of being with people in their joys and sorrows. 

I'm grateful for our Juneteenth service and Sacred Ground group and for being awakened further to the need for action against racism.  

I'm grateful for my corona buddies - you know who you are!  I wish we hadn't had it, but I'm grateful we could support each other.  Grateful, too, for all who have cared for us, sent cards, brought food, emailed, prayed, and asked how we are doing.

I'm grateful for the red maple tree in the back woods whose leaves are lingering.  The chickadees and tufted titmouses (titmice?) and finches and other birds who provide endless entertainment for Kasee.

I'm grateful for friends far and near and family, biological and chosen.  

I'm grateful that I continue to heal.  I'm grateful that Advent starts tomorrow and Christmas is coming.

And I'm grateful that you continue to read what I write.  :) 

Happy Advent Eve, y'all.  I'm grateful for you!  

Quarantine #3 - Re-exposed

Quarantine #1 for me started on March 13.  I hadn't been feeling great the day before but was scheduled to do an Interment.  I stayed far from the family and left quickly.  Though I was supposed to head on to SpiritWorks, I called in and said I needed to go home and rest.  For the next 17 days I didn't leave my house except to go to the mailbox a couple of times and once to feed the birds.  People have asked me if that was hard.  No.  I felt so ill that staying in for 17 days was a relief.  Though I knew I had COVID because others close to me tested positive, I didn't even have the energy to go get tested.  I laid on the couch and endured.  

Quarantine #2 started on April 20.  After two weeks back at work and trying to resume a relatively normal (though mostly from home) work schedule, I had relapsed with extreme fatigue and shortness of breath.  My bishop put me on medical leave, and I finally got tested.  From the moment I returned home from the Urgent Care, I remained quarantined for 14 more days.  I had fewer symptoms, but the fatigue continued to be debilitating, and again I was grateful for the respite.  Who knew just driving ten minutes to the church could be so exhausting?  Talking on the phone was a chore.  I attended Zoom meetings by lying on my couch with my computer on my belly.

As I saw all the posts of frustrated friends who had cleaned every closet, put together multiple puzzles, redone parts of their homes, or volunteered to help frontline workers or neighbors in need, I felt envious of their energy and activity.  I wanted to clean something, but just taking a shower wiped me out.  

Now I'm on day 3 of Quarantine #3 due to re-exposure. Fortunately, it seems unlikely that I have re-contracted the virus, and my fatigue a couple of days ago is the familiar long-Covid version, not some new symptom.  Although I've had to cancel some things that were important this week, none were urgent, and I'm well enough now that I've been able to use the time.  I am finally able to walk a mile - the exact length of the loop my new home is on, and some days, my heart rate doesn't spike!  I've been doing some writing and have had multiple lengthy Zoom meetings ranging from vestry to Mission and Outreach to our Sacred Ground Dialogue Circle on Race and Faith.  I've read grants on my front porch, eaten lunch on my front porch, and done reading for work on the front porch.  

Every time I facilitate a group, we open with highs and lows.  I had thought my low this week was being re-exposed and having to quarantine again.  It turns out, though, that I've gotten more done and still been able to rest when needed, and of course the dogs and cats are delighted!  Most importantly I'm so glad I voted early.

I certainly hope that we will soon create a safe vaccine that works.  And that we are able to eliminate this virus and stop it from causing death and destruction.  In the meantime, I'm grateful beyond words to have some beautiful fall days where I can work from my porch, take walks, and continue to heal.  Maybe this time, I'll get Quarantine right, and I won't be sent back to do it again!

Your Comments - Oh no!

 

Dear Readers,

My hearty apologies - when I, on a whim, decided to change the blog template, I didn't understand that Blogger would no longer email when I had new comments.  And some of you have commented!!!

Thank you, thank you.  I have fixed the problem and will be able to see and respond to them now.  I'm so excited to discover all your comments!!!

I'm so grateful to all my readers, and I love comments.

Love and light,

Lauren

6 1/2 Months in the Coronaverse: Update

September 12 marked the 6 month mark since my first COVID symptoms.  I've had some good weeks, and I've even moved this summer - just across town, but still.  What I've been so grateful for are the weeks I've had the energy to do as much as I have.  One day during the move, I think I even had 14,000 steps.  I was feeling pretty close to normal, and then, the week before Labor Day, fatigue returned.  And some shortness of breath, which I thought had resolved in July.  And the achey place between my shoulders.  But most of all, my arch nemesis in this battle - fatigue.

Eating crab - and then a 2 hour nap!

I was particularly frustrated with this "relapse" because I was planning a Labor Day Weekend trip to GA to see my parents and celebrate their birthdays with my brother.  My dad turns 80 in October, and I thought a visit would be the best present I could provide - actually the steamed Chesapeake Bay blue crabs I brought with me were the best present, but my visit was also welcome.  We had a great time cracking crabs and catching up, and I even went on a very slow walk around the neighborhood with them.  Best of all was celebrating Communion with my family and going to pray with a dear friend of the family.  However, it appears I was too ambitious.  Two 10 hour drives in a weekend was too much.  While I was there I had to take long naps and even had to watch the Kentucky Derby lying down.  Fortunately on the driving days, I had the energy to get where I was going, but upon my return, I've had a set back lasting for weeks, feeling worse than I have since earlier in the summer.  

Mid-September I had a visit with my nurse practitioner.  Turns out I now have high blood pressure - high enough that starting medicine was a requirement.   Pre-Covid I didn't have an issue with high blood pressure.  So I'm monitoring it and taking medicine.  In my long-Covid group, a number of people have mentioned high or extreme fluctuating blood pressure.  I've been hoping that's the cause of my malaise because it's treatable, but I haven't been able to find a correlation.  

I've also learned that my fatigue is not about sleep.  It's really an inability to maintain an upright posture.  When I'm having a "wave," standing is hard, and even sitting upright drains me.  As soon as I'm horizontal, I'm better.  I can have an animated conversation, work on the computer, even lead a Zoom group, but I can't do it if I have to be upright.  I don't necessarily need to sleep - just lie down.  This isn't constant; I have days where I can stand and walk and even mow the lawn, vacuum or carry boxes up and down stairs.  But when the "wave" comes, I have to lie down. 

What surprised me on my trip to GA was walking into a gas station in South Carolina, and though a "Masks Required" sign was on the door, I could count on three fingers the number of people wearing masks besides me.  And they weren't employees!  I've also been surprised by how few people know about us long haulers.  There are 21,000 of us just in one FB group.  People don't realize that you don't have to be an elder or have underlying conditions to contract this virus.  They don't understand how many people have ongoing debilitating effects from it.  They don't know how many athletes have been affected and can't even exercise any more.  I find myself doing a lot of educating.  

Taking a spin in Dad's '65 Buick Skylark.  Chris and I both learned to drive in that car!

The long term effects of COVID-19 are still unknown.  We've passed 200,000 deaths in this country, and we're just entering fall.  For the first time in my life, I got a flu shot.  Can't risk getting anything else on top of this!  I worry, though, for our country and our health care system and for all the people on the front lines.  How many more will die?  How many more have long-term debilitating effects?  How long before we can stop social distancing?  How much will we have lost?  How much will we lose?

I do believe I will recover fully, but until then, I have to keep pacing, keep resting, and keep to the sidelines much more than I'm used to doing, hoping that it won't take 6 more months to return to full strength.  In the meantime, I'm so grateful for cooler weather, for the joy of a new home, and for all the support and love I've received in this time.

Labyrinth Balm

On a Wednesday evening a couple of weeks ago, I walked out of SpiritWorks and didn't immediately feel like I needed a shower.  There was a slight breeze, and it wasn't quite as hot or humid.  Instantly I knew what I wanted to do - go to the labyrinth.  I hadn't walked it in months.  Every time I'd thought about it, I felt overwhelmed by the effort.  My heart and soul were willing, but my body just couldn't do it.  So over I drove.

I spent a bit of time gazing at the overgrown flower boxes that I have tended for the past few years.  Weeds and flowers battle for control of the soil.  I pulled at a few clumps of nut grass and attempted to dislodge some of the clover choking out the lavender, but I knew I needed gloves, clippers, and a trowel to do any serious work.  And energy.  

Next I walked over to the entrance of the labyrinth.  After taking a deep breath and closing my eyes, I reached out with my spiritual senses to connect with God.  Moving slowly along the path, I felt overwhelmed with the sweetness of once again treading the way that has brought me close to God so many times.  Mixed with that gratitude was a flood of loss.  Normally I would have been walking the labyrinth 3-4 times a week during the summer, watching the magnolias and crape myrtles as they started to bloom, watching my hawk, making friends with the sparrows, listening to the mockingbirds sing a medley of all the bird tunes.  This summer I haven't walked the labyrinth at all, and I've missed so much.   The magnolia blooms are gone.  I missed daffodils and the new growth of other plants.  I missed the breezes and bird song and communing with the deer.  All of it was there, but I was not.

On that night there were many blessings.  The crape myrtles were still blooming as they will until fall, and I saw not one, but two hawks and listened to them screeching out their greetings while I walked.  Mockingbirds and insects and swifts darted and whirred. Cloud formations showed storms in the distance and the beginning glow of the sun sinking down. A few deer grazed down the hill.

I hadn't realized how my soul had been longing for the labyrinth. A breeze brushed gently against my face, and I shuddered with the layers of emotions.  Slowly, I tread the path, savoring each step, each breath, each sound and sight and smell.  

In the center I saw that someone had placed a red rock with "hope" painted on it on one of the pavers at the entrance.  In other labyrinths I've seen gifts and offerings of stones, beads, pinecones, jewelry, and other items left along the labyrinth or in the center, but never at this labyrinth.  As I stood in the very center over the crack in the concrete that causes an echo when you stand over it and make sound, I sang, "There is a balm in Gilead."  The words and tune settled over me, a balm of their own.  

Sometimes we don't know how much we've missed something until we get it back.  In a conversation with a seminary friend recently, he mentioned that I always downplayed any illness I had while in seminary, saying things like, "Maybe I'm just making this up."  It's good to have long term friends who remind us of who we are.  All this time I've thought that I wasn't really that sick.  Compared to others, I'm so very lucky with the symptoms I've had.  Oh, the odiousness of those comparisons.  For me not to have walked the labyrinth in months...  I've been sick, not making it up.  Only when I returned could I feel the difference.  At last, I am returning to the things I love.  I am healing.  I have hope.  Things will not always be this way.  Change is coming...

The Gift of Recovery

  

A little over nine years ago I began attending mutual support meetings for what turned out to be a pretty severe case of codependence.  People pleasing, denying my feelings, trying to control outcomes, obsessive worry, "saving the day," conflict avoidance, and I could go on and on about the patterns of behavior that made my gut wrench and my life unmanageable. Then I discovered recovery.  Life in recovery is good.  I'm more authentic, I sleep better, and though I still have plenty of codependent slips, I'm much more in touch with my own values and live them as fully as I can, even if other people are angry or upset.  Unlike being in recovery from substance use, it can be difficult to tell when I've "relapsed," but all in all, my life is amazing now, and I'm so grateful for the gifts I've received throughout my journey.  Now more than ever I'm glad to be in recovery.  Not only do I apply it to my codependent behaviors, but I also apply it to all aspects of my life.  Including this damnable coronavirus.  

It's been over 17 weeks since I started experiencing COVID-19 symptoms.  17 weeks.  Instead of writing a post about being recovered or cured or well, I am writing about being in recovery.  I am a person in recovery from COIVD-19.  A couple of weeks ago I learned that I have antibodies.  So technically, I should be over the virus, and I should be immune, at least for a time.  But we don't really know about immunity with a novel virus, so it's possible I could get it again.  So much is still unknown.  I've joined a Facebook support group for those of us with #LongCovid.  There are SO MANY PEOPLE experiencing this extended play version, many of them with far worse symptoms than I have.

What I'm experiencing now seems to be post-viral symptoms.  I continue to have fatigue and some shortness of breath, which is, unfortunately, exacerbated by wearing a mask (I am completely committed to wearing one even so.)  I still can't concentrate or remember as well as before (though it's hard to tell where C19 and aging diverge!)  I've had as many as two full weeks when I felt almost normal, but then the setback comes.  Fortunately it's never as bad as before, and the general trend is toward improvement.  But I still haven't been able to increase my walking beyond a 16 minute slow walk.  Fatigue means that I can be in the middle of a meeting and need to lie down.  Or get out of the shower and be exhausted and breathing hard.  It means it's hard for me to sit upright at a computer for very long or to cope with much stress.  I make mistakes in my work and can even get a little off balance moving around.  

Sometimes I push to get through things that I really want/need to do.  Sometimes I feel good enough to do them without pushing.  Sometimes I use my vitamin energy drinks or caffeine to help.  I still don't know if pushing causes relapses or if I need to make the most of my "good" time when I have energy, so I fall somewhere in the middle, trying to get things done if I'm up to it and resting when I'm not.  The advice I hear most about post-viral fatigue is rest, rest, rest, and you will get better.  So, I do.  It's amazing how much I can do lying down with my computer in my lap.

In some ways it's comforting to be in recovery - it's familiar.  I don't expect that I'll ever be cured of codependence, but living in recovery makes life quite good.  I don't yet know whether I will be permanently changed in some way by the virus, but even if I am, I know how to live in recovery.  One day at a time.

This is what recovery looks like for me:

Learning to live WITH something.

Doing my best each day to make healthy choices.  Forgiving myself when I don't.

Some days/weeks there may be relapses.

Celebrating the good days while not getting seduced into thinking that all days will be good days.

Setting boundaries - and this one is very hard for me, especially when it comes to work.

Attending mutual support groups, educating myself about the disease, and working with a support team.

Listening to my body.

Being gentle with myself and others.

Turning everything over to God.

Living in recovery does not mean that I get it right all the time.  When I don't, I say I'm sorry.  I look at my part, and I make needed amends, and I work to do things differently.  

Life is changed, I am changed, and I have choices about how I continue my journey.  

I continue to choose recovery.

12 Weeks In: SurvivING

I can't tell you how much I want to write the post titled, Survived!  Or Survivor!  Instead I'm writing today about what it's like to continue survivING.  I am.  Surviving.  And so very grateful.

 

Sunday I was able to go to church for our livestream for the first time since Easter.  What a joy it was to be able to return for Pentecost and to be in that sacred space.  What a privilege it was to read the Pentecost reading from Acts and to pray the Prayers of the People.  What a gift it was to worship with a few other people and listen to our bishop's sermon live in person and not on a screen.  It renewed my compassion for all the people who are not yet able to return to church and renewed my grief that even when we return, it will not be the same as before, not for a long time.  

 

Last week I had a number of good days.  Memorial Day especially was great.  I was even able to record a video to tell my congregation about my slow return to work:  watch here.  Sometimes on a good day, I go ahead and get some things done because I don't know how long the energy will last.  Jan thinks that my achey back may be eased by drinking more water, and so I have upped my (already large) amount of water intake, and that does seem to be diminishing the back pain most of the time.  Boy do I notice now if I'm not staying hydrated!  

 

After a week of mostly good days, on Friday of last week, I had to rest a lot more.  The post-viral symptoms ebb and flow, and most days I'm able to practice acceptance.  Perhaps this is something I'm going to have to live with for a long, long time.  Earlier this week, some shortness of breath returned off and on for a couple of days.  It's one of the strangest symptoms - it's like I have to think about breathing.  It's not scary, mostly just annoying.  Forces me to really slow down and concentrate on taking deep breaths.  This week energy has come and gone each day, no purely good or purely fatigued days.  I'm able to work easily by computer lying on my couch.  But staying upright all day is still a challenge on many days.  I continue my walks when I'm up to it and have been able to get up to about 18 minutes comfortably.

 

Last week I read some sobering articles about post-viral fatigue and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  A friend shared a post that a friend of his with CFS had written advising COVID-19 survivors to REST.  In her post she referenced this article about C19 and Post-Viral Syndrome.  Reading all of this has helped me take the need for rest even more seriously.  Although I have returned to my Bruton Parish work in limited capacity, when my body tells me to rest, I rest.  Tonight a friend posted an article from the Atlantic that calls those of us with this extended play version, Long Haulers.  That's me, a long hauler.

 

Even as I lament my ongoing struggles with this beast of a virus, I recognize that it is only because of my privilege that I'm able to do as well as I am.  What privilege means for me is that I have had the support of my bishop and workplaces to take the time I need to rest.  I have had the privilege of holding on to my jobs and income.  I have had the privilege of resting in a comfortable home with no worry about food or shelter or support.  I have had the privilege of being able to afford health insurance that has covered my medical expenses related to the virus.  I have had the privilege of an enormous amount of support from people who care for me.  This virus disproportionately affects and kills People of Color, and has been especially devastating to the people of the Navajo Nation among others.

 

Breathing has been a bit harder for me in this time because of a virus I could not control.  Black people cannot breathe because the knee of racism is on their necks.  This is something that white people can control, if only we have the will to do the work.  Four hundred years of oppression and trauma.  Four hundred years of injustice.  "No one is free until we all are free," said the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  I am not free until all Black People, Indigenous People, and People of Color are free.  

Over the years, I have participated in Anti-racism training, read books, hosted and watched movie screenings, studied liberation theology, and worked to treat all people I encounter equally.  But it's not enough.  Clearly it's not enough, while the injustice rages on.  So I've joined a book group and am reading Ibram X. Kendi's How to be an Antiracist.  His assertion is you can't be non-racist.  You're either racist or antiracist.  I would like to be antiracist, but I have more work to do.  Jan and I are discerning putting together a dialogue circle as part of the Episcopal Church's Sacred Ground curriculum as well as planning a Juneteenth Commemoration.  

My energy may be limited right now, but that doesn't mean I don't have a role to play.

 

This morning I read a prayer from "A Service of Prayer for Justice and Peace" from the Iona Abbey Worship Book:

God, lead us, that we may stand firm in faith for justice.

Teach us love.  Teach us compassion.

Above all, out of love and compassion,

                        teach us to act. 

 

White friends, many of our sisters and brothers of color are not surviving racism, and even those who are surviving still can't say "survived" because of the ongoing injustice and inequities.     

Black Friends, Indigenous Friends, Friends of Color, I am sorry for my part and will work to do better.  

I hope you will forgive me.

 

Introducing Kasee Ellison: Guardian Angel

For those of you interested in the story of Kasee the Kitten:

A week ago today, I awoke to a phone call.  "Did you see Becky's text about the kitten?" Jan asked.  I had vaguely heard the vibration of my phone receiving texts but hadn't picked it up as I was still sleepy.  Jan told me that one of our friends, who is also a SpiritWorks parents, Becky, had found a kitten.  She wanted me to look at the picture.

I reached over the side of the bed to grab my phone and saw the picture of a tiny white kitten peering around the side of a planter.  Along with the picture was a text:  This little kitten was thrown over my fence late last night.  She looks just like Katie's cat.  I can't keep her because I'm allergic but I was wondering if maybe she came here for Lauren.

At 11:00 the night before, Becky had convinced her husband, Eric, to sit outside for awhile.  As they sat by the pool, breathing in the sweet, honeysuckle air, a bright light streaked across the darkness.  "What was that?" Becky asked.  Eric answered, "A meteor."  They sat talking for awhile longer until they heard a loud rustling under the trees near the fence.  At first they thought it was a large bird.  Since it was past midnight, Eric suggested they turn in, but when they heard a crying sound, Becky became convinced it was a kitten.  "That's not a bird.  I'm going to check it out."  She started making meowing sounds and heard an answering cry.  When she got to the fence, she found a little white kitten stranded in the brush.  She tried to pick her up gently, but the kitten was too scared and ran away.

Becky kept meowing and talking to the kitten until she ventured almost to the pool deck.  At that point, Eric decided to head inside, and Becky told him she'd be right in.  Instead she laid down on the ground and talked to her new tiny buddy.  She told her about Katie and then told her about me, sure that the kitten had come to comfort me and help me get well.  Becky fell asleep talking to her and woke around 2:30.  Time to go to bed and see what the morning would bring. 

Early the next morning, Becky and Eric headed to the yard to see if the kitten was still there.  Eric strode quickly to the pool, fearing that the tiny cat might have stumbled into it and drowned.  He didn't want Becky to find the furry being in the skimmer.  Becky made meowing sounds and heard a responding cry.  She fed the kitten some tuna.

Then she texted Jan and me, sending the picture of the little white ball of fluff.  She's going to need someone kind.

I'm kind.  I texted back.

Will you take her?

Yes, Lauren will take her Jan offered.  "I love her," she told me on the phone.  

Katie's kitten, Ouija

We made arrangements to meet Becky and Eric at SpiritWorks.  "Her name can be K.C., Katie's Cat." Jan suggested.  I instantly liked it.

Katie was Becky and Eric's vibrant, fierce, theatre-loving, singing, acting, dancing, twenty-four year old daughter.  The daughter I had gotten to meet only days before she died of a fatal overdose.  Some years ago, Katie had found a kitten named her Ouija who looked nearly identical to this new kitten. Becky knew that Katie had sent her to us.  "Katie always thought I could save any animal that was hurt."

When we arrived at SpiritWorks, all wearing masks, Becky was holding the little cutie all wrapped up in a big white towel.  She transferred her to me, and the bond was instant.  She was adorable, and I knew I'd do what I could to keep her safe and give her a chance at life.

Over the course of the morning, as we drove to PetSmart to pick up kitten supplies and then to the emergency vet to get her checked out since she appeared to have a significant wound on her face, we wondered how this kitten had found her way to Becky.  Was she dumped over the fence by a cruel human?  Was she thrown into Becky's yard because one of Katie's friends knew she would take care of her?  Did a predator hawk or owl steal her away from her mama and then drop her as she fought for her life?  We'll never know, but we're guessing Katie had a hand in it.  This kitten is so like her, fierce, fun-loving, and full of life. 

As we waited at the animal hospital, Jan and I discussed other names - Henrietta, 'Rona, Midnight, Rosa, biblical names, names with special meanings.  We called her Midnight for the vet's record; I couldn't let them put "No Name" on the chart, and she had been discovered at midnight.  We weren't yet sure if she was female. The vet called us as we waited in the car and said the kitten was a she, about 5-6 weeks old, that she had had a rough start and that she was a bit of a fixer-upper.  He had glued together a laceration on her hind leg, and treated her for worms.  She needed surgery to fix her wounded lip because it was hanging into her mouth.  She might have intestinal parasites - don't introduce her to other pets yet. Mostly she needed food, antibiotics, and lots of TLC to stabilize her.

When they brought her out to us, we were so relieved.  "Her name is K.C.," Jan said, and I agreed.  Katie's Cat but with her own spelling of the name - Kasee.  And Ellison after the first African American deaconess, Anna Ellison Butler Alexander.  

Kasee Ellison.  Guardian Angel.  Gift from Katie.  And God.

We looked up Kasee and found a definition in the Urban Dictionary:  Super smart girl... and fun to be with.  Can make anyone laugh, is always smiling.  Can't stand not knowing the answer to anything.  Always wears the crown in a situation.  People wish they were as cool as Kasee, and want to be her every day of their lives.  Seemed we'd chosen the right name.  Becky approved.

Kasee adjusted quickly to her new home.  She's a sweet, loving, curious, purring, cuddly, joyful kitten with an extraordinary will to live.  She was born in this corona virus time and has overcome the odds.  She sailed through her surgery just fine and has been unstoppable - except when she keels over for a nap.  

Coronatide has not stolen my joy, but it had diminished it.  Kasee has restored it, reminding me to stay in the present, to laugh at myself, to take things less seriously, to nap often, and to focus on those who need my love, even if they leave poo-ey foot prints on my clothes and floor.  She fills me with delight.  I do not yet have the energy to keep up with her, and she seems to forgive me for that, but she also fills me with hope that I can be as resilient as she is.  

I don't know why I am so lucky to have this precious little being entrusted to my care, but I am so grateful to Katie, to Becky and Eric, to Jan, her other mama, who fell in love with her first, and especially to God who always blesses me more than I can ask for or imagine.

Belongs to both SpiritWorks and the church!

8 Weeks In - Plateau

Me with my warmies.

Today marks the end of 8 weeks since I first began experiencing symptoms of Covid-19.
I haven't checked in here for a couple of weeks because there hasn't been anything new to say.  It seems that on my journey from mostly recovered to fully recovered, I have come to a plateau.  Each day feels the same.  I get up, thinking that this'll be the day/week I'm going to get better.  I make my bed, take my shower, feed the cat, and then I lie down and rest before I muster the energy to make my bowl of cereal.  Or I eat the cereal and then lie down and rest.  Sometimes I'm able to sit in a chair on my front stoop and drink my cup of tea in the sun.  Each day I decide on things I'm going to do, and rarely do I get to any of them because there is. no. energy.

I was so excited the day that my doctor's office said I could start building strength by taking five minute walks and then adding five minutes each day.  I took the first one on a Thursday.  On Friday I didn't have enough energy for a walk, and on Saturday I had to lie down all day to rest.  It wasn't causal - one 5 minute walk didn't wipe me out for two days; it's just the progress of this virus.  About a week after that first walk, I was ready to take another 5 minute walk.  Since then I've been able to build gradually, carefully listening to my body.  Instead of jumping from 5 to 10 minutes, I went to 7 and then 8.  Now I'm up to a 12 minute walk and grateful for it.  (I read a great article today from MedPage Today that helped me feel not so alone in this and taught me a new word:  sequelae - a condition which is the consequence of a previous injury or disease.  You can read the article HERE.)

This is the stage where I've run out of wisdom and patience.  I'm frustrated and irritable and restless - usually signs of returning health, but still no energy.  When my bishop wisely directed me again this week not to return to work, I was ready to rebel.  Even as I grumbled, I recognized that she was right.  The spirit is willing, but the flesh is still very weak.  I long to return to helping with the Sunday live-stream and making liturgical videos and facilitating groups and making pastoral calls, but I can feel that I don't have the energy to sustain the work.  I'm mad and sad and so sick of being weak and  tired.

The only puzzle I had - but it was fun!

All over again, I have to surrender. I am powerless over my disease, and my job right now is taking care of my health.  And that means accepting that time takes time and full recovery is going to take the time it's going to take.  So I've finished a puzzle, watched many episodes of Little House on the Prairie, attended Facebook Live Indigo Girls Concerts, participated in a Giving Day for SpiritWorks, received some lovely flowers and cards and emails, and thought about doing many things.  Until today I haven't even had energy for another blog post!

Tonight I listened to the Indigo Girls play their Album Rites of Passage live.  One of the songs toward the end, one I haven't listened to in a long time, was "Let It Be Me." The lyric, "When the world is night, shine my life like a light," really sank in.  That's my prayer tonight.  That God will shine my life like a light, even though I'm unable to do very much right now.

But friends, and I hesitate to say this too loudly, yesterday afternoon a little energy returned.  And today, I only needed to lie down for one period of time.  So no rejoicing yet, because I've been here before and a new fatigue wave always comes, but I am left with hope as I head to sleep.  Perhaps, perhaps in week 9, I will kick COVID's butt!  Stay tuned...

7 Weeks In: Surrender

Last Sunday I went back and watched my Easter Vigil sermon.  (Video below.)  Usually I don't watch recordings of my sermons.  It's uncomfortable.   But I did it for two reasons. One was that I've had trouble remembering we are still in the Easter season.  Coronatide feels more like Lent.  But I knew I'd felt Easter joy on the night we recorded the Vigil service, and I wanted to reconnect to that.  And the second reason I wanted to watch was to check my memory.  I remember having energy that night - could it be I was mistaken? When I rewatch the video, I do see a healthy looking person with lots of energy.  It doesn't look like a person who would resume living life on a couch a mere two days later.

Turned out there was a third reason - I needed to hear my own sermon.  I've often said that preachers are usually preaching to themselves and then hoping others need to hear the same message.  That was definitely true for me.

This week marks my seventh since beginning to experience symptoms of COVID-19.  I can still feel the virus in me - not in my chest anymore.  I think it's in the lymphatic system.  I feel it in my back below each shoulder.  This past week I thought it had gone because the ache left for a few days, but Friday it returned along with a new wave of fatigue.  I really hadn't been pushing - my doctor's office said I could start taking 5 minute walks, and I only did that once.  But clearly my immune system still needs me to rest so it can boot this virus out once and for all.

The message I needed to hear from my sermon is surrender.  And what I mean by that is recognizing my utter dependence on God.  Surrendering my will to God's will.  God is God, and I am not.  I am powerless over other people.  I am powerless over this virus.  Each time I try to assert my control, the virus smacks me back down.  God isn't smacking me down - each time I pray, I hear God encouraging me to rest, telling me it's okay to surrender and let God be in charge.  God knows what I need.  But it sure is hard for me to let go.

Surrender is a term I'd never really thought about until I got into recovery from codependence.  At the time someone recommended I try an Al Anon meeting.  When I went to the Al Anon webpage, I got mad.  There were other people in my life who needed to work a 12-step program, not me!  I didn't have a problem.  I couldn't believe that I needed to go to some meeting or work some program.  After all, I was already doing all of the work. I was saving the day.  I was exhausted from everything I was doing.  Why did I have to add something else to my schedule?  And why on earth would I be part of a program that insisted I acknowledge my powerlessness - I needed a program to empower me!

The truth was that I needed recovery.  When I try to rescue other people or save the day so that others don't experience their consequences, when I hide how I truly feel in order to please other people, when I try to control everything so that nothing falls apart, I'm doing things that don't help but rather hinder growth and health.  When I try to force the solutions to fit the outcomes I want, then I don't leave space for God.  When I'm able to recognize my powerlessness, then I open up space for God to work.  God will meet me where I am and redeem whatever is going on, if only I will stop fighting for control.  

I can be pretty hardheaded when it comes to surrender - I can do it all on my own, I think. This virus is teaching me that I can't.  And apparently it will keep teaching me until I learn. Thankfully I do believe that God can do infinitely more than I can ask for or imagine, and I trust that will be the case now too.  God is meeting me where I am in my illness and doing for me what I cannot do for myself.  God will bring me out of this time into new life.

Hopefully I'm not the only one learning this lesson in coronatide.  It's a lesson the whole world needs to hear if we're going to survive and thrive.  God is the one who brings light out of the darkness and breathes new life into the whole creation. Will we surrender and let God?

Sermon at 46:27.  Sermon text is here.

Five Weeks In: The Tricksy Virus

On March 12, I started having symptoms of the novel coronavirus.  On April 8, I posted on Facebook that I was finally feeling like myself, and I was.  But this virus is tricksy, as Gollum would say.  The image above is from Gandalf's fight with the Balrog in the first Lord of the Rings movie.  Towards the end of the battle, Gandalf drives his staff into the ground and declares "You shall not pass!" The stone bridge on which the Balrog approaches cracks and sends the gargantuan monster falling to the depths of the Mines of Moria.  As Gandalf starts to rejoin his companions, the Balrog's fiery whip snaps up and wraps around Gandalf, pulling him down, too.  Just when you think Gandalf has won, he slips over the edge.

That is the image that keeps coming to mind with this virus.  For a couple of weeks in the middle, I actually thought I was in the final stages of recovery. Perhaps I didn't quite have normal energy levels, but they were high enough.  Two steps forward, one step back - work and rest.  All through Holy Week, I had the stamina to work during the day for Bruton and SpiritWorks and then do services in the evening.  Until Easter.  Once again it was like the Balrog whip wrapped itself around me and yanked me down.  During Easter week I had more tightness of chest and shallow breathing than I did when I was much sicker.  And the fatigue. Taking a shower in the morning and coming downstairs is enough to put me back on the couch for a time until I can regain strength to get breakfast.

From what I've read, the tricksy return of symptoms is normal for some people. Fortunately I haven't had the version where two weeks in you take a sharp downward turn and land in the hospital.  But I'm now entering the 6th week of this virus, and I'm weary of it.

On Saturday, my bishop directed me to stop working until I've fully recovered.  Since I'm a classic workaholic and codependent, I am grateful for her wisdom.  On Monday, I called the doctor's office and explained how long I'd had symptoms.  The doctor said, "It's time for you to know for sure what this is."  So I trundled off to Urgent Care to be tested.  The test is a battle in and of itself, but that is a story for another post.  Suffice it to say it's not fun.  I nearly passed out.  Yesterday I got the results - positive for COVID-19.  The monster still has a grip on me, though not the death grip that many have experienced.

The health department is confused by my case because the symptoms have lasted much longer than those of most people.  But they also know that it is tricksy, and so they have encouraged rest and fluids and a new seven day quarantine.  No argument here. My cough and shortness of breath have pretty much disappeared, but the fatigue remains.

Spoiler alert:  we do learn in the 2nd Lord of the Rings movie that Gandalf and the Balrog have quite the battle as they continue to fall through Moria, and eventually Gandalf kills the Balrog, though things go dark for a time while he is transformed into a new version of himself.  My fight with Covid-19 does not require superior magical powers or force or a wizard's staff.  Apparently my battle with the virus requires one thing - rest.

In his fight with the Balrog, Gandalf the Grey is transformed into Gandalf the White.  I can't help but wonder what transformation I'm undergoing as I wait for the virus to let go of me.  What transformation is the world undergoing?  What are we meant to learn from this virus?  Will we learn it?

I don't have any answers.  But I have surrendered at last. The virus can't be beat through force; I must completely rest for my body to heal.  How grateful I am that I have the means and support to do so.  Thank you for all the prayers and positive thoughts - truly they have sustained me.  I'll keep you posted on how the transformation is going.

The Triumph of Love

Yesterday morning, I woke up sad.  Now that may seem backwards.  But so has everything this Lent and Holy Week.  On Palm Sunday I learned that we had lost a young man in the SpiritWorks community to a fatal overdose.  On Monday of Holy Week, I let my sweet, loving cat, Spirit, return to the care of her Creator.  I grieved that day, and then I plunged into the work of preparing for Holy Week liturgies.  Proofing bulletins and creating Noonday Prayer and Compline videos.  Learning to use the new camera so we could livestream all our Bruton services.  Attending daily Zoom meetings and answering emails.  When you're busy, you don't have to feel much.

Maundy Thursday service went well, and then it was Good Friday.  Talk about backwards.  I spent the day practicing the Exsultet and writing my Easter Vigil sermon.  I was in Easter before I had reached Good Friday, but we were recording the Vigil right after the livestream of Good Friday.  Liturgical whiplash!  All day it felt wrong to be singing Alleluia, but I decided that I'd already experienced Good Friday this Lent with the pandemic and the deaths.  It was okay.

Holy Saturday, I got to walk the labyrinth.  And rest.  And Easter morning, I woke up sad.  I had to remind myself that it was Easter, but even the reminder didn't bring the usual smile of joy.  Tears lurked behind my eyes, threatening to slip down my cheeks.  As I glanced through my email, I saw  that a message had come in from Christ and St. Luke's, the church that sponsored me for ordination.  It was the link to their Easter service. (View here.)  I decided to "attend" the video while I ate my breakfast.

Like a child returning to the comfort of her mother, I returned the church that had been the spiritual home of my young adulthood.  And I was nurtured yesterday as surely as I had been nurtured 25 years ago.  The sound of brass playing Easter hymns lifted my spirits, and video footage of that beautiful church reminded me of other happy Easters, long before I knew the joy of Easter as a  priest.  And then came Win Lewis' sermon.  Win is the first person I ever wrote a fan letter to, and it was because of his sermons.  He was the Associate Rector when I attended in the 90s, and his sermons always spoke to me.  He preached about Easter as the triumph of love, telling stories of how love overcomes grief, bitterness, trauma, hatred, and death, preventing those things from having the final word.   He quoted Corrie Ten Boom - "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still."

He also quoted his New Testament professor who said, "Resurrection is not resuscitation."  It's not resuscitation of the old; resurrection is the transformation into something new.

In my own Easter Vigil sermon, I had preached that saying "Alleluia" in this time doesn't mean we have to pretend to feel happy when we're not.  Yesterday morning, I heard my own words.  It didn't matter that I didn't feel joyous on Easter morning.  It was okay to be sad.  It was okay to be where I was.  Resurrection is not up to me.  It's up to God.  If I do not insist on being resuscitated into myself before the pandemic, God will transform me into something new.  Love triumphs over everything.  Death, grief, pandemics, isolation, despair do not have the final word.   Love has the final word.

In that moment as I sat curled up on my couch, I heard God speaking to me through Win Lewis, and I knew it was okay to be where I was, to feel what I was feeling.  Being sad on Easter doesn't mean that Christ isn't risen.  Christ is risen indeed.  Alleluia.  A bit later, walking through the churchyard before the Bruton service, I took the picture above.  Standing amid graves and viewing the Easter lilies, I heard the words of our burial office, "In the midst of life, we are in the midst of death.  Yet even at the grave we make our song, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia."

On Good Friday, my rector, Chris Epperson preached that two things can be true at the same time. I can say, "Alleluia" while feeling sad.  I may be sad for awhile, but that doesn't mean that Easter didn't come.  Easter comes whenever love triumphs. Even my grief is a triumph of love, for if I had not loved, I would not grieve.

Happy Easter, everyone.

How Will We Be Changed?

I know this may sound strange, but I can feel the virus inside me.  When I take a deep breath, it's there, lurking in my lungs.  Fortunately it is not winning, not with me, not so far.  But because I feel it, I keep resting.  I fear that if I push too hard, I will give it room to grow and spread.  And so I continue to rest.  I believe that I will know when it is gone, and I hope that I will have been changed for the better.

Halfway through the first week of this virus, Jan shared this video with me.  A colleague of hers from Romania got it from a colleague in Jerusalem.  I keep watching it because I find it to be so powerful.  The idea that the virus has shaken us, has stopped us, has undermined everything, and is giving us the opportunity to reimagine how we want the world to be challenges me with each viewing.  

If we could create the world anew, what we we change?  

How would we like to live differently?  

How would we want to use our time, our money, our gifts?  

One of the things I'm valuing in this time is reconnecting with so many people via Zoom and Facebook live and other virtual channels.  If we weren't stuck in our houses, we wouldn't be making these connections.  We'd think about it, sure, but there wouldn't be time.  How can we do that differently going forward?

In the video the narrator says, "This virus is part of us.  It's between us, in us."  This virus is now in me; I can feel it.  It's in us, between us, connecting us in ways we didn't expect.  We are not alone.  We belong to something greater than us.  We belong to each other.  My dear friends, maybe we're getting a do-over.  With the earth, our fragile home.  With each other.  Someone asked me if I thought God was testing us.  Of course it's possible, as I do not know the mind of God.  But I don't believe that's what's happening.  I believe God is with us in this, as God is always with God's people.  I believe God redeems everything.  I don't know how, but I already see so many signs of it.

Shelter in grace is a phrase I picked up from a reflection that came in my email.  Shelter in grace, my friends.  Listen to your bodies.  Listen to the earth.  Listen to each other.  Listen deep inside.  We may just have history's biggest do-over.  We may have the chance to offer grace to this new world that's being birthed.  When the virus leaves us, what will we choose to do?

Coronavirus: Ten Days In

Every night I tell myself I'm going to do better the next day.  Every morning, I get up, make my bed, take a shower, dress in actual clothes, not pajamas (I'm afraid I'll never get out of them), and then I'm wiped out.  To the couch I go, with a bowl of Kashi cereal and a cup of hot tea.  Another day of rest.

On March 12, I started to feel off.  Chills, achey back, and that feverish fatigue-y feeling that makes me not feel quite present in a room.  After my last meeting, I went home.  Temperature was 99.5.  High for me, but not as high as they'd been suggesting would indicate having the coronavirus.  The next day I felt well enough to do an outdoor burial, staying far from the handful of participants, after which I went immediately back home.

I've been in my house ever since.  I've been tracking my symptoms.  Temperature has remained largely at 98.8 or lower with a couple of bumps to 99.2.  Back ache remained for a few days.  All day one day I had a headache.  Diarrhea has come and gone.  A cough developed after the first few days.  It's been productive and not nearly as bad as some coughs I've had.  The fatigue, though.  Climbing stairs leaves me short of breath.  Participating in Zoom meetings and phone calls insures I'll need a nap.  I've had little to no appetite and have had to force myself to eat to keep up strength.  Every night I tell myself I'm going to get things done the next day - start cleaning the house, working on my taxes, answering emails, checking on people who are shut in or sicker than I am.  And I do a few things, but there is no energy.  On Tuesday night we had a Mission and Outreach meeting via Zoom.  So good to see everyone's face.  Every day we do a SpiritWorks noon meeting by Zoom and offer support to our volunteers.  At the end of each day, I am exhausted.  Fortunately I've been able to sleep.

On Wednesday I started to experience some shortness of breath and tightness in my chest.  That was probably the scariest moment.  I laid down on the couch, watched the Harry Potter movie I was on, (my internet isn't working properly either, so I'm watching DVDs) and went to sleep.  Fortunately by Thursday, the shortness of breath had disappeared, and that afternoon I had my first beginnings of energy since this had started.  The Indigo Girls played a Facebook live concert that lifted my spirits.

On Friday I learned that some people I've been exposed to are positive for COVID-19.  I called the health department.  They recommended testing, but said if I didn't feel up to it, I should stay home.  Every time I've looked at the instructions for testing, I haven't met the criteria.  And the thought of the effort it would take to leave my house sends me back to napping.  As I've heard about more cases in Williamsburg, I thought staying home was the best plan.  Since the first day I have assumed I have it and have quarantined myself.  People much sicker than I am need tests and the attention of our hard working health care workers.  Confirming I have it would not change my course of treatment or the fact that I will stay quarantined past the last vestige of a symptom.

Though I had started to feel much better, the great fatigue returned Saturday afternoon and lingered through Sunday.  More couch time, less talking on the phone.  I have finished all Harry Potter movies and am headed into Downton Abbey.  If you get this thing, don't be surprised that it packs more than one punch.  Listen to your body.  Rest.  Rest.  Rest.

On Friday night kind parishioners left a vase of daffodils on my front porch.  It made my weekend - spring came inside the house.  On Saturday I ordered dinner from Sal's.  They had it on my porch in less than half an hour.  Countless people have volunteered to bring groceries when I need them. I cannot express my gratitude for the goodness and kindness I have seen in people.  Ten days in, I am counting my many, many blessings.  And also praying for those who have it so much worse than I do.

Looking for Hope

Sunday's sermon is up.  The text is here.  

Over the past year my process for writing a sermon has been changing.  When I first started, I wrote my sermons way in advance and practiced them over and over to get them perfectly polished for the day.  Once I was ordained and in full time ministry, that ceased to be practical, but I always went to bed on Saturday night with a sermon written.  I couldn't sleep otherwise.  However late, I would finish it.  I might tweak a line or two on Sunday morning or during delivery, but basically what I had on Saturday night was what was what it was going to be.  

My process has been evolving into a more stressful process that involves less sleep.  Now on Saturday night, I frequently have something written, but it's not quite right.  And then on Sunday morning at 5:30 am, usually in the shower, I get the inspiration for fixing it.  Then I scramble to edit it in time for church.

This past Saturday I went to bed without a sermon.  Not because I hadn't been working on it for most of the day or thinking about it for most of the week.  It just wouldn't come.  I had too much to say.  I'd seen the movie, Just Mercy, that afternoon and wanted to include it along with so many things going on in the world.  Trying to figure out how the scriptures were connected and could provide guidance, comfort, challenge, or insight into these events.  Tossing around big abstract words like hope, justice, mercy, and peace, and struggling to make them concrete without being partisan or suggesting there's one right way to achieve them.  I hear my brother and sister preachers suggesting we have to address things going on in the world specifically and directly, but I have to be careful that I'm not just preaching the Gospel according to Lauren.  And I want people to be able to hear the Good News, whether they agree with me on certain issues or not.  It's a real wrestling match.

So on Saturday night at 11pm, I realized I was getting nowhere.  What I had was boring.  I didn't know what my point was, and I knew I wasn't going to get it finished.  I needed sleep.  I went to bed, set my alarm even earlier, and actually slept.  When I woke up I said, "Okay, God, we've gotta get something written."  And, as usual, in the shower, it started to become clear.  I rushed downstairs to start writing.  But there wasn't enough time, and I really needed to be dressed to go to church.  I hit print, and took what I had, but there wasn't an ending, and I hadn't had time to read over it.  I had a selection of different paragraphs at the end, not sure where they would go.

When I preached at 7:30am, it felt like a mess to me.  The order was all wrong.  I did my best to tie it all together, but then I hurried to my office before the next service to fix it.  Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time, so I was running down the sidewalk at 9:14 to get to the 9:15 service.  Somehow God must have played a little with time, because I was walking in the door at 9:14 and by 9:16 I had put the sermon in the pulpit, gone to the sacristy and vested, come out to thank the rector for waiting for me, and was standing in the back ready to process.  "This is too stressful, God," I prayed several times over the course of the process.  

But this is what I've learned.  Even though sometimes I worry that I'm just satisfying my ego with all this last minute polishing, trying to make the "perfect" sermon, the truth is that the rewritten versions are SO MUCH BETTER than what I have before I go to sleep.  Sadly, it sometimes takes me the whole morning to get to a coherent message with a solid point.  And no, preaching extemporaneously is not the solution.  I'm not a straightforward thinker, and though I can kind of wing it on mid-week services, I ramble and repeat myself over and over and over when I try to preach without a manuscript.

My point this week is about hope and placing it in God.  Apparently, from the feedback I've received, it was a message people needed to hear.  If I hadn't been willing to keep working on it, I wouldn't have gotten there.  I'm grateful that I'm learning to hear the Holy Spirit on Sunday morning, even though I sure wish she would show up a little earlier in the week.  But I'll take it and give thanks for the opportunity to let God speak through me.

Slow Thinker: Blessing or Curse

You've heard of slow cookers?  Well, my brain is a slow thinker.  If you're looking to me for Instant Pot answers or explanations or ideas, you've come to the wrong place.  Things have to simmer quite a while before I figure out what I think.  Now before y'all start fussing and telling me that I think just fine and I don't need to be so hard on myself, this isn't a criticism of my brain; it's an observation.  I've observed that I think slowly.  Sometimes it's a blessing, and sometimes it's a curse.  Sometimes it simply is.

I've always been careful about decisions large or small in my personal life.  Christmas shopping takes me forever because I have to go around to all the stores and see what the possibilities are before committing to purchasing something.  When I was younger, back when all shopping happened at the mall, I had to visit every store to see what they had.  Once the circuit was complete, I would double back, finally certain of what I wanted to buy.  Christmas shopping with me is a lengthy process.  Online doesn't help much - items lay stranded in my cart for months before I'm ready to hit "purchase." Sometimes the purchases never get made because I simply can't decide.  That's when the slow thinking is not helpful.

With big decisions I'm also slow.  I don't know until I know.  All the possibilities have to marinate before I'm ready to put the meat on the grill.  Whether I'm buying a car, deciding which seminary to attend, choosing my health insurance, or discerning call, I need time.  This can be frustrating to those around me, and even to me, but I can't decide until I've weighed the variables, considered the options, consulted with wise advisors, listened for God, and then waited until I know.  How do I know?  I can't tell you.  But when I know, I know, and when I finally do know, I can act pretty quickly, sometimes to the surprise of others.  Until then it's waiting for the slow cooker to finish.

Slow thinking can be a real challenge in ministry.  I don't enjoy teaching much, because people always have questions, and I rarely have quick answers.  Newsletter article writing, sermon writing, program planning, announcement creating all need to be done at a faster pace than I easily move.  And being Acting Rector at Bruton this year highlighted how slow my brain is.  Each day issues and questions came flying at me faster than I could process them.  Unlike Katniss in The Hunger Games, my reaction time is slow - I wouldn't have made it far in those contests. I learned to step it up a bit, but to the end, I continually felt like I was moving through Jello when I needed to be a Nascar driver.

Our world is fast moving, and technology has made it so much faster.  You snooze, you lose, as they say.  There's nothing wrong with slow cookers or crock pots - they perform very valuable services.  We need more slow thinkers - or perhaps more slow responders.  Impulsively saying or posting every thought that comes in our minds doesn't seem to be enhancing the global conversation.  But in a world of Instant Pot, the slow thinkers are often too far behind to contribute.  I love to listen to witty banter, and sometimes I really wish I could make strong points in a debate, but by the time I've thought of what I want to say, the moment has passed. Seems best to observe from the sidelines though that can mean my voice isn't heard.

Most of the time I don't mind being a slow thinker.  I like that I take time to consider decisions and I don't jump into things hastily and then have to back out with regret.  Giving food time to marinate is a good thing - brings a lot of flavor to what you're cooking.  While the cook is out getting things done, the pot simmers along, ready at the end of the day.  I admit that sometimes, I wish I could just dump the options in the Instant Pot and have the decision made quickly!  Better yet, how bout the Microwave?

When I'm the person in charge, being a slow thinker often feels like a curse, but overall, I consider it to be a blessing.  In 2020 I sense that some of the things that have been simmering on the back burner of my brain may be just about done.  I'm eager to see how they'll taste!