Portrait in Linen

(Photo: Chicago Daily News negatives collection; Chicago Historical Society)

Camping trip on hold for 24 hours. Girls picked up a nasty bug over the weekend, and symptoms began to manifest night before last. Been battling fever and dehydration in between perpetual loads of laundry and mass disinfection. Nothing like little kids’ illnesses to drive one to rubber gloves and hot, bleachy water.

So far, adults and biggest kid go unscathed, but with an incubation period of three days or so, I expect the bug will gain control of us tonight or tomorrow, if it swings that way.

Crazy for planning to camp in 90-plus-degree weather anyway, but “Arrowhead Shoals” is situated just next to a little river and some tiny rapids. The water is always cool, and with a new tarp shelter and “spritzers” (boy, did they make fun of me about that…but they’ll be glad I got them when we’re all sweltering and they find little spray bottles offer some relief), I’m confident we could maintain a decent level of comfort.

Plan A had us leaving this morning, but fevers are still hovering between 101 and 103. No one’s been able to keep anything down, and all are sleeping the sickness away–or lethargic at best when conscious.

Plan B has departure time for tomorrow morning, crack of dawn. Could we all be symptom-free by then? Maybe. Miner’s optimistic, but I formulated Plan C, just in case.

Plan C: Since Rocky leaves for Florida next week, this will be his last chance to camp with us this summer. We arranged for Steampunk to go, too, so that’s two disappointed teenagers if it doesn’t work out. I suggested Miner take at least the guys for a couple days’ camping and leave the infirm here with me.

He said, “We’ll discuss it. I’m not ready to let go of the Master Plan just yet.” Had to smile about that. I know Brute Determination, and I am of the general opinion it’s a good thing.

So, I won’t mention Plan C again unless it comes to that.

In the meantime, though, packing for Plan B, administering timely doses of fever reducer, distributing an abundance of water, and taking temperatures every three hours or so.

Maybe it only seems like hula haunts my every endeavor. When one loves something so passionately, she sees it everywhere and in everything. My study of Shotokan is no exception.

Striking similarities I’ve uncovered so far:

• The Japanese writing system referred to as “Revised Hepburn Romanization” (established c. 1887 by James Curtis Hepburn) frequently utilizes a macron to indicate long vowels: Tōkyō.

  In the Hawaiian language, the macron kahakō (appeared c. 1821 in transcriptions by missionary Hiram Bingham) is used to indicate a lengthened vowel sound: Lāna’i.

• As Westernization began to impose on the Okinawan culture in the late 1800s, the people were pressured to abandon the traditional “topknot” hairstyle in favor of short, Western haircuts.

  In Hawai’i, after missionaries influenced the ali’i to adopt Western ideas and mannerisms, the people were led to European styles of dress, instead of the native pā’ū and kīhei.

• As The Meiji Restoration tightened its hold on the Okinawan people, the traditional arts of karate-dō and kendō (fencing) (among other arts) were banned. Practitioners were forced to train in secret, and never spoke of their training.

  In Hawai’i, as Western philosophy continued to dominate, the traditional art of hula was banned. Dancers and chanters and their kumus went underground and never spoke of their hālaus.

—

I was a bit disturbed by something I read in Genshin Hironishi’s foreword to Karate-Dō: My Way of Life (Gichin Funakoshi). He writes:

A Japanese actively seeking self-enlightenment will say that he is “training his stomach” (hara wo neru). Although the expression has wide implications, its origin lies in the obvious necessity to harden the muscles of the stomach, a prerequisite for the practice of karate, which is, after all, a combat technique. By bringing the stomach muscles to a state of perfection, a karateka is able to control not only the movements of his hands and feet but also his breathing.

Okay. I’m not “a Japanese actively seeking self-enlightenment.” But hardening the stomach as “obvious necessity” and “prerequisite for the practice of karate” all but eliminates me from ever reaching an ideal level of skill–at least as it seems to be above described by Mr. Hironishi.

I’m not whining and complaining. “It is what it is,” and my mommy-tummy definitely “is,” and I can’t whine or complain about that, because it could be a lot worse. I mean, really. It really could be.

But it’s just like with hula. And Tahitian. I will never, ever, ever–no matter how hard I study, no matter how hard I practice, no matter how much I learn–ever, ever reach a level of considerable skill, because my body just isn’t capable of the range of motion that’s required. Sure, I can “sway” and “swish” to a point of appearing to sway and swish, but these just ain’t competitive hips. The centrifugal limit is quite…narrow. Like trying to bend a steel rod. Literally.

I accept this. It is just a little heartbreaking, because my brain thinks I can do it. But just because a person wills herself to fly doesn’t mean she can.

So what of the “trained stomach”? There’s only so much training my stomach can do. Alas, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.

Am I being a defeatist? No. A realist. Just because I acknowledge my limitations doesn’t mean I intend to put a cap on my efforts. I’ll continue to aim high, but not so high that I begin to envision myself far beyond my means, and not so high that I place myself in harm’s way (which–in martial arts–is relative).

—

Sensei Sage told us, “When it’s time to test, Mr. Master is not going to judge you alongside your peers, or compare you to any other martial artist but yourself. He’s going to look at you–take into consideration your health, your age–and decide what you’re capable of doing.”

This may be a comforting thought. Except I wonder…do I look like I’m capable of more than I actually am? I’d have to answer “yes.”

In hula, no one had any idea my spine’s fused together. There was a time or two when Kumu urged me to “make bigger motions with your hips…Swish…Swish…Swish!” Under my pā’ū, I was pushing my hip into the joint, consciously over-extending, even though I knew it wasn’t proper form. I reasoned, if it looked correct and exaggerated to his liking, then that was okay, since the technique was happening “under wraps.”

I don’t think I’ll be able to get away with anything like that in karate. But even if I could, I wouldn’t want to. There’s more than aesthetics at stake, and I know enough to admit shortcuts like that are a big mistake–on so many levels.

So much for the doctor’s appointment.  Wrong clinic.  The one I need is Neurology. The word “neurology” sounds so ominous.

I know what I need to do, but I’m terrified of flat-lining.  Not in a physical sort of way, but inspirationally.  It’s already monumentally difficult to harness what creative auroras I do have.  Typically, they’re lashing about so wildly beyond reach, I have to still myself and focus everything into grasping the very tail-end of it all between my fingertips, and then set about the tedious task of gathering the little strands and weaving them into something beautiful.

What a torturous thing it is to love the tempest, but find oneself completely incapable of enduring it.  Blown apart by my own little sparks and flames.

But going to see the nurse practitioner is the responsible thing to do.  If I don’t, I bring suffering to everyone around me, and confusion to the people who would otherwise endear me.

Which raises another question: Would I buy affection?

It might feel a lot like bartering for love, to trade in my head (with all its quirks and mechanical flaws) for stability of disposition.  The acceptance I get in return would be given on condition (pun: good condition).  That doesn’t seem genuine at all.

But all of that seems like accessory worry.  The main thing is, I’m drowning and I know it.  Survival instinct is to reach out.

In any case, it’ll probably be a good week or more before they can fit me in.  No problem.  I’ll just go back to what I was doing before the ship began breaking apart, and maybe there will come some warmth that is deep and unseasonal.

My Four Humors must be out of whack. Or at least my sense of humor. I’ve been so Hor(rible)monal the last few days. It’s ridiculous. Totally ill-proportionate to what it should be, or what I think it should be.

I tried to offer an explanation, but it sounded a lot like an excuse. “Blah blah blah…irritable…blah blah blah…over-stimulation…blah blah noise questions traffic blah blah blah.”

I don’t know if it was something I instilled in him over the years, or if it’s his natural agreeable disposition, but Rocky nodded his head and acknowledged me like he understood what I was talking about. He even went so far to say, “Well, I’m glad you told me that, Mom. I was beginning to wonder….”

Yeah, I’m wondering, too, kiddo.

Doctor’s appointment on Monday. Everything revolves around that single meeting. The thing I need most in the world right now is an answer to what in the world is going on with my body. Strange, strange things happening to me, and I have no clue why. I just know I’m miserable, and I’m pledging my compliance to whatever plan for care they throw at me.

I barely made it today. Skipped Squeak’s ballet class, here in the final weeks before the recital. But I couldn’t handle rushing to make the couple required stops during rush hour traffic. Usually, I grin and bear it. But today, I just threw in the towel and said, “Forget it.”

The night routine was shot to the ground, too, because I couldn’t find the energy to straighten up, clean the kitchen, get the lesson plans in order for the morning. Good thing I thought ahead and prepared most of it at the beginning of the week, but if we’re missing anything, I doubt I’ll feel up to fixing it.

I almost passed on that last cup of coffee, but I didn’t, because I haven’t had one all day, and my nerves were knotted and twisted up like a ball of wire. Touch of a migraine threatening to sink its teeth into my head, but the caffeine held it at bay. And I needed just a tiny bit more time to decompress before I try to sleep.

Sleep is tough enough. Another red flag something is awry. Consistently waking up in the middle of the night from grossly disturbing dreams, life-realistic, sticky and shivering in damp pjs. Ick. And Drat. Hard to go back to sleep like that.

Counting down the days till the clinic visit, and I think I’m prepared for whatever they tell me. Suffering from a known cause is a whole lot better than suffering blind.

I don’t know how we survived the day. I could barely stay awake at the stop lights through town. I had to rest my eyes and told Rocky to let me know when the light changes. I put the seat back and grabbed ten-minute naps behind the wheel outside the music building, the gym, the dollar store. And it wasn’t dozing either–total, unconscious power naps.

I did what I had to do. Stayed in my pjs, clipped my hair up out of my face so I could see where I was driving, took the meds and the hanky. Rocky called Bennigan’s ahead of time and ordered me a bowl of potato soup to go. I honestly didn’t have an appetite, but I needed the hot nourishment. Swung by Starbuck’s and got a steamed apple juice, because I needed the fluids. That put me to sleep like a shot of whiskey.

Somehow, we made it everywhere we needed to be, on time, despite the traffic, and I didn’t get us into a wreck.

Josie introduced me to the concept of a Hot Toddy. Apparently, it’s good for sick folks.

Hot Toddy

• 1 oz. Brandy
• 1 Tablespoon Honey
• 1/4 Lemon
• 1 cup Boiling Water
• 1 Tea Bag

Coat the bottom of a mug with the honey. Add brandy and juice of lemon quarter. On the side, boil water and add tea bag to make hot tea. Pour steaming tea into honey/brandy/lemon combination. (DrinkoftheWeek.com)

I didn’t have brandy, so I used vodka. The recipe she really likes includes mint or cloves, which would really open up the sinuses, but I had neither so I omitted. It was a comfy drink, but it went from hot to warm pretty fast, and I found it a little bland. Maybe it needed a little more honey and definitely the mint.

I decided I’ll try another drink tomorrow:

Hot Buttered Rum

Combine in a footed coffee mug:

• 1 1/2 oz. Dark Rum
• 1 tsp. Brown Sugar
• 1 tsp. Butter

Fill with hot water or milk. Stir well and top with Nutmeg.

Of course, I’ll have to wait until I get home from traversing the city from corp. limit to corp. limit, and then I can swoon and collapse into