a canvas tent in the rain

Ever sleep in a canvas tent in the rain? It holds up and stays perfectly dry -- until you touch it from the inside. If you put your fingertip against the canvas, the rain wicks its way toward your finger and then drips incessantly until the rain stops. As a kid, I thought this was pretty cool, and couldn't resist testing it on several occasions. Huh, it works over here above Ellen's sleeping bag, too! Cool.

In one of those quirky karmic twists, I am a canvas tent in the rain these days. I seem fine, feel fine, keeping out the rain almost perfectly. But on two recent occasions, someone put their finger to the fabric of my being and, to my alarm and fascination, I began to cry. Both of these episodes happened out in Colorado, where I teach each August at a week-long counseling institute. The first time it happened, I was in the middle of a sentence at the lunch table, and a participant said, "paula, you are so beautiful." I stopped mid-consonant and felt my face scrunch, my lips quiver, and my eye gutters pool. I still don't know what I was feeling. Fragility comes to mind, so that even the kindest touch inadvertently bruised.

The next time was a night or two later, our night out on the town. Woohoo! I was with the four other institute faculty, whom I have come to love very much. I had ordered trout. I have begun to order trout, tuna, and, sometimes, with a stoic sigh, salmon. The omega-3s, of course. Janet asked me how my dinner was. "It's good," I say, with mouth full. Then a pause before, "I am trying to learn to like fish more." Janet, who seems to have mastered the "let's do it because it sounds like fun" type of Zen existence, said, "Why the heck would you do that? Why don't you just get what you like?" Scrunch, quiver, pool. "I'm just trying to take care of myself," I said feebly.

So there it is. I seem to have my own micro-post-traumatic-stress-weirdness going on.
I pulled myself together as quickly as I could on both occasions, which I don't really approve of or like doing. But both times I feared that I would sob (WAAAH is what came to mind), and I didn't want to be the center of worried attention. I am deeply glad to be held in the light by people who care about me, but I don't want that light on me at the dinner table as I show evidence of my PTSW.

I come from a long line of criers, and like it that way. My mom called tears-when-feeling-moved "recognition tears;" those that come when one recognizes the beauty or intensity of a true moment. Crying at graduations, crying at the Big Dipper, crying at music, crying at being told one is beautiful. The intensity fills you up and it bloats you unless you let it out. Both my folks cried easily when moved in this way, and now my children do as well. "Curse you, mom!" they've each called out between wet sniffs at some point in their emotive lives.

I'll be blogging more in the next few weeks. I am trying to figure out a lot. Why so fragile? How do I balance the directive (from a variety of trusted sources) to follow my bliss with the equally convincing directive to eat trout? And do I rest today or do I run? Can I surrender under controlled conditions? These are big questions for me now, and I am having a hard time trusting the answers that come to me.

On a brighter note, the trip to Colorado gave me the chance to wear compression garments, chic sleeves that I have to wear when I fly for the rest of my life (let it be long, this thing called life, and I will agree to wear one over my entire body) to prevent lymphedema. The prescription came from the surgeon, so I figured (as with the delusions I had about the prosthetic bra that turned out to cost $660), that such sleeves would be Reasonably Priced. I went to get a fitting at a medical supply store, one of those places where you look at all the merchandise with your head cocked and think, "what's that for?" while giving thanks that these items are, simply by Grace, unfamiliar to you.

Boy, was I excited when the order arrived. I mean, look at the woman on this box! She is really, really happy to be wearing compression sleeves. Anyway, you too may pick up such sleeves for a mere $170, and be as tickled as she and I are.

Just don't touch the tent.