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Have you heard of the White Coat syndrome? The kind of coat medical doctors wear? And the kind of fear and anxiety that patients sometimes feel and exhibit in the presence of the White Coat wearers? Well I can’t say that I have exactly that kind of fear and anxiety. But my levels of fear and anxiety come close to qualifying as a syndrome.

I am scheduled for an initial visit with a White Coated One later today. A specialist in dizziness and balance.

I am actually scheduled to see him tomorrow as I am writing this post tonight, the night before the scheduled initial visit but am scheduling this post to appear on my little blog tomorrow.

I do this kind of thing of late. Writing my posts ahead of time and scheduling them to post themselves another day. Just in case I am unable to make it to my computer due to my vertigo condition. The condition that is precipitating my dreaded scheduled initial visit with the White Coated One.

Posting regularly on my little blog helps me feel like I am doing well. Like I am capable of keeping my commitments made, if only to myself ~ the commitment still means a lot; to me.

So here’s to the White Coated One being able to help me move forward toward full health.

This weekend I spent some time perusing a number of new-to-me blog sites. Some of my visits were short but sweet while others tarried over and savored. As you may imagine, by the time I closed my laptop I was saturated, stunned and inspired by the folks who are sharing their lives online. Folks similar to you and me simply sharing their likes and dislikes ~ things that make them sing with delight and things that make them roar with indignant rage ~ their life challenges and their life’s rewards ~ their muses and their demons.

Wow.

One of these bloggers wrote a simple paragraph about the three things she would save if she could take only three, from a burning home. What she chose made me ponder and then ask, really? Humans. An interesting bunch we are.

This blogger’s short paragraph got me to asking myself the same question. Hypothetical questions can keep me going for days if not weeks and months and the really juicy what if’s can entertain me for years, on end. In made-up situations we get to leave the burning building with three companinons or items or things or possessions or a combination of the aforementioned but are afforded the luxury of dropping them all on the sidewalk and running back for three more. Hypotheticals are like that. Ever expanding to accommodate anxieties, forgetfulness (oh I forgot my goldfish), and even mere changes of minds. The hypothesizer knows going into or out of the make believe burning home that they and their belongings are not in danger, at least from the pretend fire that is happening only in their heads at that moment.

In real life or a facsimile of one’s real life, who knows what we or in my case, I would snatch up or drag out with the flames licking at my heels.

But a small bit of reality has never done much to slow me down from living my life and entertaining myself so back to the original musing ~ what three things would I rescue from their smoke-filled fate.

Here’s what I’ve come up with, for today at least: 1) any living creature known to me (excluding insects and/or rodents ~ I know ~ I am cold hearted anthropomorphizing woman); 2) my important papers file (this is my hypothetical and if I say I have an important papers file already in existence, then I do, damnit); and, 3) paper money (enough said, I won’t go into detail about amount of said imagined money).

I think my three things prove to me all over again that I am not a romantic at heart. I think I already knew that part but these things require sussing out every now and then. Just to make sure. I am sure, however, that I am a blogger. I am also sure that being a blogger places me in great company with many many other folks who are sharing their lives one interesting post at a time.

Learning how to live with a chronic illness or condition is an exercise in patience and rewards. Patience, as one carefully and slowly navigates a day full of personal land mines. Personal land mines that do not necessarily take one’s life away entirely, but can un-do a whole day’s worth of plans. Rewards, come when the stars align and a shower can be taken, including the hair shampoo’ed or another ‘every day’ accomplishment achieved.

Life is stripped down to basics, very easily and in short order.

So I am learning how to let go of plans and go with the flow of my ability at any given moment. A plan to unload the dishwasher gives way to ‘well, maybe not now,’ as the vertigo takes a swipe at my head.

Okay.

I will sit down and see if updating my blog is in the plan. Ahhh. Another sweet reward of my go with the flow day ~ my eyes can tolerate the laptop’s light ~ yay ~ they can focus on the screen ~ double yay ~ my brain is unfogged enough to conjure up a word or two ~ yay, yay ~ and those few words tell a story ~ miracle yay.

So just like that saying when one door closes another door opens, ‘Not now’ can be that window that opened when subsequent doors remained locked. After all, clean dishes can wait to be put away, while stories need to be told when they are ready.

I started blogging a few years ago, initially using another server or platform or home base. This first foray into the world of a public blogger began slowly and in a small fashion; to be read by only a select few. The readers were known to me but I came to realize over time that I was not necessarily known to them. And that unearthing mutually shared topics of interest was no small feat.

So eventually I changed servers and somehow learned how to set up and then launch this blog. I say that I somehow learned, to highlight the fact that I am still, some years later and having forgotten the how-to’s of the start-up, totally in awe that I learned how to establish this home base.

I do think of this little blog as a home base of sorts. A home base that lives in the electronic cloud or the electric blue of the electronic world. A home base that easily follows me around this little planet of ours as I change my home base more often than I care to have to recant in this moment. Yes. This blog is a touch stone for me. A touch stone and a sounding board. A sounding board, touch stone and a connecting rod to others. Yes, indeed, this blog is all of that last sentence.

Mostly though, this blog is mine. Made entirely of my words, thought streams, ideas, fears, worries, triumphs, successes, good-byes, angst, new beginnings, good health, poor health, goodness, judgments, and dreams. None of which arrive in my brain or on the tip of my tongue or at the touch of the keyboard without input from others. I am not an island. All of my ideas, thoughts, and dreams owe their very beginnings to someone(s) or something(s) outside of my insides.

Osmosis. Influence. Subconcious. Peripheral learning.

All combined to create the seemingling instantaneous lightbulb of ah-ha moments in my psyche. Each thought a culmination of many ~ like dandelion seeds are scattered by weightless white fluff, so are our collective imaginings, ideals, and scenarios.

Each individual’s ideas are, indeed, unique to themselves because the collective nuanced idea from the outside is then funneled, sifted and mixed with the insides of that thinker, developer, dreamer. The grand total being from and belonging to the human being who springs from their soft warm paisley sofa, exclaiming “Eureka! pop open the bubbly and warm up the band, I have come upon this brand new, previously thought by no one else, idea!”

All of this is to say that years later, I am still trying to figure out how to truly make the best use of all of the bells and whistles that WordPress has to offer me. Take the Like button. This bell and whistle is a mystery to me. I understand the rudimentary basics, or at least I think I do. What I do not understand is how I can easily see who Like’s my posts so that I can connect with them. Do I need to go to each comment section of my post and check to see who has Like’d any particular post? Or is there a section like the Comments part that shows me that someone has Commented so that I can then respond?

Simple. So simple.
I am sure. The answer is right in front of my eyes.
Perhaps this blogging navigator needs a new compass to find her way.
Nevertheless, I am having myself a dandy time as I return to my home base today while I sit in the sun on that aforementioned paisley-covered sofa.

That’s what I’m doin’.
Rollin’ Rollin’ on the river.
The river of change that is. Facebook facelift. WordPress switching teams. Or at least switching sides of the screen for accessing stats.
Yes. The river of change.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a hatin’ on the change. Just noticing. And trying to keep up. You know what I mean?

A veritable job.
Keeping current. Staying relevant.

Not ready to take the backseat. Yet.

I find myself homesick for Berkeley. The feeling is followed quickly by doubt and judgment. Doubt that I would actually miss living far from loved ones and in a place where so much stress and anxiety took place. Judgment that I didn’t/don’t appreciate what I have until I don’t anymore.

In my own defense, it is not entirely true that I failed to appreciate and enjoy Berkeley while I lived within its’ city limits. I loved and appreciated the mild and wonderful weather, sun, warmth, the year-round greenery and blooming plants and trees. I enjoyed and appreciated the diversity of race and culture that were plentiful in the East Bay and outlying areas. All of this appreciation while I lived there.

What is true, however, is that I never felt at home during my Berkeley stint. The same is true in my current life. I feel as if I am waiting. Waiting to discover, to wake up to, to unearth what will come next. Where I will live, where I will work, where I will be whole. And I am not sure, am never sure that this is it ~ right here, right now ~ where I am at any given moment, month or year. I lived in the Berkeley Attic for five years; longer than I have lived anywhere in my adulthood. And yet the Attic felt like a transient abode. Never truly a home.

In fact, I wrote on my public blog and in my private journal of my life long active search for a home, where all the while I was living in my temporary home. See. Even here I label the Attic as temporary. I knew I would move and since the move was a given, I could somehow never accept it as my home.

I am now living in or occupying a 1970’s ranch style duplex rental while sometimes pining away for my former abode. While still yearning for my home that I will recognize as my home. Is this particular longing connected to my adoptee status? An attachment malfunction in babyhood? I do not know. Not today at least.

Today, I am simply sitting at my birch long table desk at the end of a long work day. Happy to be in the little place I will call home for the night.

The ritual of creating a home base is what I am right smack dab in the middle of this holiday weekend. Serendipitous it seems that the day the nation is observing is named Labor Day. As luck would have it, my current project is a labor of love.

Part of the dictionary’s definiton of home base talks about a five-sided chunk of material representing safety for the baseball player. Homes represent the center of safety for the occupants ~ a place of their very own wherein they can truly be themselves without fear of reprisal. The latter part of my home definition doesn’t always play out for members of a family as sometimes we experience the most judgment and/or negative feedback for being our authentic selves from our own tribe. That, however, is a thought journey onto itself for another day…

Today it is enough for me to create with love and labor a home base where I can enjoy the feelings of safety and belonging. Once the need for safety is attained this blogger can re-awaken and dance with my inner artist muse.

I am a lucky lucky woman.
I am an artist and a writer.

I have a Home Base ~

This morning I am sittin’ pretty. Pretty proud and pleased and happy with my newly hooked up wireless internet connection, that is.

Since my last posting, I am now ensconsed in my new-to-me but built in the 1970’s duplex rental. As part of the ensconsing, getting re-connected to the cyberworld was well up there on the list of must have’s and must do’s.

The month of July raced by with what appears to be the remaining bulk of our Getting Ready to Return to the Natural Almost Always Frozen state of affairs here in the Land of Frozen Faces. Today is a sunny blue skied day accompanied with the crisp air and smells of autumn.

Raspberries and blueberries are ripe for the picking. Fireweed blooms are almost to the tippy top of the stalk and some are even beginning their second beautiful phase of fireweed cotton. And, I have my internet connection back up and running.

For the moment, all is right in my little corner of the world.

It is has been a while since I posted on my favorita little blog. There has been a good reason for my absence, a valid excuse if you will. You see, I have been without the use of my laptop Toshi (human name for an electronic device) due to my being veritably homeless, meaning without a home of my own. The places where I have been housesitting have not been internet friendly.

Even now, I am not writing this on my familiar Toshi but on my host home’s computer. Makes no never mind really as I am simply happy to be able to say, I have missed you little blog of mine.

Howdy Hey and glad to see that you are still here.

My housesitting ways and stays will come to an end early next month and meanwhile, your junemoon is looking, very diligently I might add, for a new to me place to call home. Wish me luck. Lots of it. Good wishes too. Okay?

I just gotta write a post today. Today is the first day of another month. One of the “J” months. The “J” month that only has one syllable. Yup that month. That makes this the first day of the June month, which also happens to be my appointed birth day month.

As a Korean adoptee adopted many a yesteryear ago, I do not know my real birth date. I have been told that one of the orphanages that I lived in assigned my birth date by guesstimation based on my physical size and/or the day I was brought in and/or found. Like other adoptees whom I have talked to and/or read about, not knowing my actual real birth date has caused me some angst. Even now, in my advanced years or as I like to think of them, in my age of wisdom, I would gladly welcome and rejoice in knowing my for real birth date.

There’s something special about our life story. Each and every one of us has one, both a life and a life’s narrative. Not knowing the beginning part seems to throw the story off kilter. Not enough to ruin the whole tale. Just enough to keep my story mysterious I suppose.

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