Sometimes I have prophetic dreams. I discovered this years ago when I dreamed that my mother was being carried down our steps on a stretcher. Less than twelve hours later, I watched that exact scene played out in real life after Mom had a stroke. It was startling to say the least.

But usually, my little bouts of ESP have no significance whatsoever, and are certainly of no use. Like the other morning when the phone rang as I was dreaming about a pile of pumpkins in a supermarket.

“Did I wake you?” asked my friend Barb.

“Yeah, I was dreaming about pumpkins.”

“Really?” said Barb. “I’m at the market looking at a bunch of pumpkins right now!”

Things like that. Totally useless, but fun nevertheless.

So last night when I dreamed about raindrops splattering the ashes from the wildfires on my balcony [yeah, I really need to sweep up around here], I paid no attention. No way was it going to rain in drought-stricken San Diego today — all the forecasts were very clear about that. It was just another dream.

Later, I headed out to deliver some yoga tapes to my poor daughter-in-law Karen, who is suffering from near-crippling sciatica, pinched nerves, and other painful things I can’t remember. Poor thing. I opened my front door and laughed. There were raindrops in the ashes. How cool is that?

Near Karen and Chris’s place, more drops splashed my windshield and I laughed again, remembering my dream. Yep, I thought, I’m psychic. How fun. Not as good as Alison Dubois, but it’s a start. Maybe I could read up on how to get better at it. I might even find a use for this, um, talent.

Ruminating on these things, I made a left turn. Right into the path of an oncoming SUV. I hadn’t even noticed it coming toward me.

HONNNNKKKKK!!!! blared the SUV’s indignant driver.

“FUCK!” I yelled.

EEEEKKKK! went my brakes.

The SUV continued on its way, leaving me in the intersection, gasping for breath and holding onto my heart, as other drivers stared at Stupid Me. At last I lurched from their baleful gaze and moved, chastened, toward Chris and Karen’s place, thinking, “Now, why couldn’t I have dreamed about THAT?”

Useless, I tell you.

I graduated from physical therapy yesterday. Not that my back pain is all gone but it’s better, and I can do most of the exercises at home to keep it that way. I was sad to say goodbye to Andrea and Shannon, my therapists, and just as much to Alvarado Hospital’s rehabilitation wing. Several years ago, I took my former sister-in-law to Alvarado three times a week after her brain injury. Andrea and Shannon were Rhonda’s therapists too. When I showed up for my first appointment, they remembered me and were thrilled to hear how well Rhonda is doing now–she doesn’t even use a cane any more.

Alvarado just feels like home to me. Part of the reason for that is that it’s so close to home, no more than a mile when you take the shortcut down the hill. I went to their emergency room when I had that nasty staph infection in my knee several months ago [and I still hear from them every month in sweet little collection notices--so kind!]

Now, the trolley has finally been built all the way to Grossmont Center and Alvarado Hospital has its very own stop. How convenient! I’d been taking the trolley lately instead of driving because I loaned my car to some friends so the husband can work while they sort out their transportation problems. It’s a short, pleasant ride. In yesterday’s cool, misty weather, I even enjoyed sitting on the bench you see here, reading a magazine, waiting for the #1 bus to take me the rest of the way home.

[Photo by Nathan Gibbs, a wonderful photographer from La Mesa, not far from where I live.]

I looked up for the bus and saw a woman walking my way. She looked to be about 35 and was neatly dressed in black pants and a black sweater with a white shirt underneath. Her hair was attractively cut in a short bob. I noticed she wasn’t carrying a purse. Maybe she was out for a walk.

“Do you mind if I sit here,” she asked, indicating the space next to me.

“No,” I said. “Go ahead.” I went back to my magazine.

After a few moments, she mentioned the weather. “It’s nice and cool today.”

“Yes, thank God,” I replied. “The heat was really getting to me.” I went back to the article about the new, healthy soul food.

“The trolley’s coming,” said the woman said after a minute or two.

“Oh, I’m waiting for the bus,” I said, looking up. “I’m just sitting here under the canopy because the bus bench over there is wet from the mist.”

The trolley stopped, but the woman made no move toward it. I tried to find my place again in the article. There was a picture of mashed sweet potatoes and lentil cakes that looked delicious.

“I’m trying to decide if I like my haircut,” she said. It was clear that she wanted to make conversation, so I gave up reading.

“I think it’s very nice,” I said.

“Do you? I just had it all cut off.”

“Yes, I like it very much.” That was the truth.

“It used to be down to here.” She motioned below her shoulders.

“Where did you get it cut?” I asked.

My bus rolled into the station. The woman started to tell me the exact location of the salon, far from here, and I interrupted her as I got up to go.

“Well, I won’t be going that far, but thanks.”

“Bye,” she said. “It was nice talking to you.”

“Yes, you too.”

“See you later,” she called after me as though we were friends.

I waited for an older black woman in nurse’s scrubs to debark the bus, and got on. As I chose my seat, I looked out the window and saw that my benchmate was no longer there. She must have sat next to me just to talk, I thought. Then I saw her sitting on another bench with the black woman. As my bus pulled away, I wondered if she goes to the trolley station often, just for the company.

I dreamed last night that I got arrested. I can’t remember what I did wrong, but it was for some minor offense, probably traffic-related. Robby was with me but he was a little kid again, five or six years old–and he looked like his older brother, Chris, when he was that age, so cute and little-boy-tough with his long, strawberry hair and jeans jacket.

It was after midnight, and Robby/Chris was nodding off every few seconds, poor kid, as we waited in some kind of holding cell with many other offenders. Someone unlocked the gates and told the men to walk down a dark, descending corridor for arraignment, and the women to go down another corridor. Never having been arrested or arraigned before, I have no idea what these things are like, but it seemed quite normal in my dream.

I turned to take Robby/Chris’s hand, but he was bravely walking down the men’s ramp, too tired to notice that I wasn’t next to him. In the chaos, I called to him but he didn’t seem to hear me, and I couldn’t get through the crowd of criminals to catch up to him.

“Robby!” I screamed as he got farther away, but I could see that he was stumbling along half-asleep. I began to panic, imagining what some of these men might do to him in the dark. Two drunken young men accosted me, laughing to see a woman in this place.

“Hey, baby,” one of them said, reaching for me, “you’re in the wrong line.”

Now I could no longer see Robby. I started to cry.

“I’ve lost my little boy. Please help me,” I begged.

He stopped laughing and looked at me seriously. He started to say something, like he might help, but I don’t know what he would have said because suddenly I was staring at a picture on a wall. It took me a few seconds to recognize the picture and the wall next to my bed, and then to realize that it had all been a very, very bad dream.

I have never been so happy to wake up in my life.

[Update: Today is my birthday--the big six-oh. How could I forget? My son Chris, all grown up now, and his wife Karen took me out to Forever Fondue--OMG, you must go. It was a lovely evening, full of good talk, laughter and memories. I'm so glad they decided to move to San Diego.]

I think I’ve figured out my blogger’s block, which has been going on for like, ages–years, really.

The truth is that I didn’t want to bore anyone with incessant whining about my health, which was all I could think about at the time, a sure giveaway to my true age, which I was convinced would turn every last reader away, because I was absolutely certain that everyone who reads blogs is under forty [or at least under fifty] and therefore allergic to anyone over fifty–like me. I thought I was all adjusted to the idea of getting old but apparently not. So let me set the record straight: in a little over two weeks, I will be sixty. Sixty!

There, I said it. I feel much better now.

The other part of this blogger’s block equation is that I got caught up in the whole Adsense thing. I wanted to make money blogging, so I thought I had to write about subjects that would attract more traffic. But the more obsessed I became about blogging for dollars, the less I wanted to blog, because I didn’t feel that I could be me any more.

All the fun went out of it.

And that’s what blogging used to be all about: fun–no, JOY. Posting my “Morning Pages” entry every morning, visiting and commenting on my favorite blogs, the surprise of getting comments from some of them in return, finding friends thousands of miles–sometimes half a globe–away. It was a joyful experience, and I miss it.

Not that it’s not going on right now, all over the blogosphere. Thousands of bloggers are creating and finding communities and friendships all the time. [Like Dr. Frankenstein said: "It's alive! It's alive!"] I’m just not a part of it any more. In what has become known as the natural lifecycle of blogging, I have let this place go–and I want to try again.

So. I may bore you with endless details about my aches and pains. More likely, I will bore you TO DEATH talking about chemicals and what the corporate devils are doing to us in the name of profits. But that’s okay, because I don’t need traffic any more. I got rid of all those pesky Adsense ads.

Not that I don’t like traffic, good heavens! Feel free to visit any time. As for me, I expect to get back to my Morning Pages in the morning.

See you then.

So I’m blogging again. I told you it wouldn’t last.

I drove up to Santa Cruz last week to dog-sit for my good friend [and alternative everything mentor], Nakedjen, while she and her husband made their annual pilgrimage to the Oregon Country Fair.

It was sooo nice. Santa Cruz is gorgeous, Jen’s house is lovely, and she and Dave were unbelievably kind. When I mentioned that I was having trouble with their scented candles, Dave gathered all of them up in a box and put them away in another room. Then he fixed up a futon, with featherbed on top, for me on the deck so I wouldn’t have to worry about any lingering traces of scent causing headaches. When I was a little creaky the next morning, he dragged the mattress out of their sofabed and sandwiched it between futon and featherbed, making a bed more comfortable than my own. Now that I’m home, I miss sleeping under the stars.

The bad news is that I turned out to be allergic to Stella and Buddha, Jen’s adorable matched set of nearly-year-old Lab pups who happen to share my birthday. I tried to stick it out and lasted three days. But Jen had it covered. Her dog walker, Robin, an amazing woman who was already boarding at least half a dozen big dogs in her home, just took Stella and Buddha home with her. And I drove home, saddened but wiser.

The trip turned out to be an eye-opener for me. I didn’t realize that my energy level was so low until I tried to keep up with Jen and her dogs. And looking in the brightly-sunlit bathroom mirror several times a day was sobering. Aside from my obvious weight problem, I was shocked at how just-plain unhealthy I looked. At home, I’d been able to avoid really seeing myself for years.

I was thoroughly depressed by the time I got home, but after a few days of rest and reflection, the trip has really motivated me to work hard at regaining as much of my health as I can, through diet, yoga and whatever else works. It sounds so simple, but I know from many failed attempts exactly how hard it is. I can’t afford to fail any more. Each time I do, I slide a little further down the slippery slope toward infirmity–and I’m not even 60 yet. Frankly, I feel like I’m 80.

It’s like Bette Davis said: “Old age ain’t for sissies.”

My life has a habit of turning upside down periodically. I feel like I’ve led several different lives in these almost-sixty years, and I’m about to enter another one. It’s scary-exciting, but mostly exciting.

One son is moving here with his wife from two thousand miles away. The other son is moving two thousand miles away. And today, I decided to move too–not far, just fifty miles, but it’s a world away in terms of lifestyle: clean air, nature, quiet, solitude, and time–time to focus on healing. It’s a life that I’ve dreamed of for many years, but didn’t allow myself to believe was possible. Now it’s possible.

Everything is about to change.

As molesting scenes go, it was fairly innocuous.

I was eleven, with barely budding bosoms, swimming at Crystal Lake with some girls I had found there, while Mom napped in the car not far away. This had gotten to be an almost-daily routine for us in the summer, a way for me to get out of the house and away from Gramma (who probably enjoyed having her house to herself for a couple of hours) while Mom caught up on her sleep. It was win/win–until that day.

Mom always went to work early in the morning–first as a cook, then as a small restaurant owner–and came home in mid-afternoon, so she was always tired. The beach seemed a perfect solution to her single-mom, “quality time” dilemma with me. What she didn’t know–never knew, in fact, since I never told her–was that traumatic events were happening while she slept only yards away.

That day, as I played some made-up game with my new friends, I didn’t notice a stranger approaching behind me until the other girls stopped and stood silent in the water. I turned and saw a tan, grey-haired man smiling at us. Even with his bare chest, he looked like a businessman. I’ll never forget his distinguished, smiling face, his white teeth.

“Anybody want to learn to swim?” he asked.

The other girls muttered, “No, thanks,” and drifted away, leaving me there alone, looking up at him. I felt pinned, like a bug on display. I couldn’t move.

“How about you?” he said. “Want me to teach you to swim?”

I already knew how to swim, but I had an inexplicable fear of hurting the man’s feelings.

“Okay,” I murmured. Thus began a very strange few minutes that still replay in my mind like a perfectly preserved movie nearly fifty years later.

“Great,” said the man, holding out his arms in the water. “Lay across my arms like this.”

I followed his instructions, wishing I could just go back to my friends, who had by now resumed playing their game without me. Why were they so far away?

“Now, kick your legs,” he said.

I kicked half-heartedly.

“Harder,” he said. “Really make them splash.”

I kicked harder.

“Excellent.”

After a while, the beach lifeguard rowed up to us in a dinghy. He looked like a young hero in sunglasses and baseball cap.

“Is this man bothering you?” he asked.

Yes, I wanted to say. Yes! Please tell him to go away! But I didn’t.

“No,” I said, reluctant.

The man spoke up.

“I’m teaching her to swim,” he said, and the lifeguard rowed away.

Wait! Don’t go! I thought but didn’t say. I didn’t know what this man wanted with me, but I didn’t like him and I wanted to play with my friends. Pretending to learn how to swim from him, just to be polite, was awkward and more important in my mind, unbelievably boring. He was treating me like a five-year-old.

“Okay,” he said. “Now try doing a dog paddle.”

So I dog-paddled, stuck on the man’s held-out arms, unable to actually swim away from him.

Then I noticed that his hands had slipped inside my swimsuit. The fingers of his left hand were exactly on my right nipple, while I felt his left hand sliding toward my vagina.

Suddenly, even in 1957, I understood why this man was behaving so oddly, and what he really wanted. I jerked away from him, standing in the water.

“My mom’s calling me,” I said, and waded away as fast as I could, back to the safety of the beach and the car and my mother. I grabbed my towel off the sand and walked to car, heart pounding in my ears.

Mom was fast asleep. I wasn’t angry with her for not seeing him, not protecting me, but I felt different about her, about everything. I plopped sullenly in the front seat. She woke with a start.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Mom didn’t seem to notice that something was wrong. Why couldn’t she tell? She started the engine and backed out of her parking space. I didn’t look up to see if the man was watching us.

I could have told her then, and he would have been arrested. Who knows how many kids he molested after that? Maybe if I’d told my mother, he would have been stopped, maybe not. I wish I’d told her then, but I didn’t.

After that, I didn’t want to go swimming any more. That was the year that I began to gain weight, after discovering that molesters were suddenly everywhere I went. Flashers, fondlers, public masturbators–grown men who seemed to be fixated on young girls. Why had no one warned me? Why did no one else seem to notice these people?

If he’s still alive, my molester would be in his mid-90′s now. I wonder how many others he taught to swim.

In the interest of providing you with SOMETHING to read despite my massive writer’s block, I give you an old journal entry…

Monday, Oct. 11, 2004 — afternoon of housesitting at Nicole’s

I’ve spent most of the day out here on the porch, eating, reading and napping. It’s a glorious fall day, sunny and warm, dry and quiet. A hummingbird occasionally visits, his wings thrumming a deep cello tone, as he (or she) looks for sweets. He finds none and flits away, tsk-ing in annoyance. A dog barks in the distance while another howls. A rooster inexplicably crows, forgetting the time. A breeze rustles through what’s left of the dying sycamore leaves, teasing a few more to the ground. The air smells medicinally clean and fresh, of eucalyptus and pine.

I wish I could stay here forever.

But it’s not my house and I have no money to buy one, nor enough to pay this kind of rent. Oh well, just another case of attachment, the Buddhists would say. Instead of enjoying the wonderful moment, I am bemoaning its end. So just stop it.

I love the slowness of life here. Now I understand how country folks of old could sit on their porches for hours, watching the world go by. It’s better than TV. I wish I could think of something more to write, but the sun is putting me back to sleep.

This would be so good for Robby, if only he’d give it a chance. I hope he does someday — maybe when we go hiking. Will I ever have the energy to drag him and E on an expedition? Is it lack of energy or, as Gramma used to say, laziness pure and simple? Inertia, that’s clear. Lethargy.

I should go do yoga and then take a drive with the camera. Go take the shots I missed on the road to Julian last week when the batteries died: the looming black hulks of burned trees from last year’s huge fire, the picturesque streets of Julian, the sign that reads, “Ass-Kicking Beef Jerky”.

I should, but there’s this inertia thing…

Day Five

At least half of the battle, when you stop stuffing your face with carbs, sugar–and in my case, gluten–is figuring out what to do with all the time that suddenly looms before you. People who don’t have this problem will not understand, but it feels like waking up from a lovely dream to realize that you have to go to work now. Yes, that’s exactly it–plus a distinct sensation of alarm, like: “Wait a minute. I wasn’t expecting this. Hunger, yes. Withdrawal pains, sure. But not–gah!–Waking Up.”

My normal inclination is to do more of what I’ve been doing–sit here at my desk and obsessively surf the web for some mysterious “answer” to my problems, crochet, watch TV, and make a stab at writing more blog entries–but that’s a recipe for failure, I just know it.

If you always do what you always did, you’ll always get what you always got.

Yep. Gotta change more than just my eating habits. Why is that so scary? Because it’s the unknown, I guess. I know what it feels like to be sedated by food: comfortable. Except for the awful aches and pains of simultaneously being obese, not moving and getting old.

But even that pain is familiar territory for me. What is on the other side of losing the weight and getting active? I’ve lost the pounds before–several times–but I never really committed to the completely new lifestyle that maintaining my ideal weight would require. That’s the unknown that scares me.

And now this new thought that never occurred to me: I have to wake up now. I have to be alert instead of groggy. Which means I’m becoming aware of all the time that stretches before me each day, and I have to do something productive with it or I will inevitably fall back into old, anesthetizing habits. This is what the experts mean when they tell you to Feel the Feelings. These are the feelings that come up–and I’m feeling ‘em, all right. Boy, am I feeling them.

Like a kid who doesn’t want to go to sleep at night, I can hear myself whine, “But I don’t want to wake up!”

[WARNING: BORING MEDICAL DETAILS AHEAD]

I finally called the doctor and made an appointment a couple of weeks ago, after scaring myself at the post office. Nothing big, I just had a sudden, raging thirst and absolutely KNEW that I had to get home for a drink of water IMMEDIATELY.

I suppose I could have stopped and bought a bottle somewhere, but it was the intensity that frightened me. Constant, urgent thirst is one of the symptoms of diabetes, which runs through my family like the Mississippi–long, wide and deep. My grandfather went blind from it. My parents both died of it. My sister had to have a triple bypass because of it. And they weren’t the only ones–my turn has to be next.

I’ve dodged the bullet all these years in spite of my addiction to carbohydrates, aversion to exercise and resulting balloon body–make that LEAD balloon body. But I knew my luck was running out. For one thing, I am thirsty ALL THE TIME. A lot of my overeating is a misplaced attempt to quench thirst, because water just doesn’t do it most of the time. [I finally gave up a lifelong addiction to cola a year-and-a-half ago--talk about WITHDRAWAL: if Diet Coke is that hard to quit, I am blown away by folks who kick, and stay off harder stuff.]

Someone once told me that mistaking thirst for hunger is a common theme among us compulsive overeaters, so I’m not alone–but at what point does thirst constitute a symptom of something else? I didn’t know. I just had to get home and guzzle half a gallon of water. Then I dialed the phone.

Since then, I’ve seen Dr. Carr twice and have to schedule appointments for a mammographer, a urologist, a gynecologist and a gastroenterologist, but I do not have diabetes. Not yet. So that’s good. But there are definitely some things wrong in here that need taking care of. Can’t put it off any longer.

Did I mention that I hate going to doctors?

First, there’s the bill. I belong to the school of liberal thought that believes quality medical care should be available to everyone for free–especially me, since I am chronically poor. I have insurance but the co-pay can be daunting, so I tend to procrastinate until whatever’s bothering me hurts like hell.

Then there’s my upbringing. My mother was a Christian Scientist. I never saw a physician until I was 19 and five months pregnant. I lived through colds, flu, measles and a couple of dangerous sunburns with nothing more than cold compresses and prayers. I gave up the prayers a long time ago, but cold compresses, hot poultices and a few herbal remedies usually keep me going without medical intervention.

Except I’m not going anymore. I’m just sitting here, calcifying in my desk chair. And it hurts. Oh yes–and I’m thirsty.

So I went to see Dr. Carr. She was warm and relaxed, reassuring but firm, reminding me of the other reason I avoid doctors: they’re usually male. Nothing wrong with that but I have this problem with male authority figures. They piss me off. I get all rebellious when a man-doc tells me what to do, and I don’t do it. Or I never go back to him for followups. Not good. But Dr. Carr? I’m sure it has more to do with her personality than her gender, but I think I would roll over and bark if she asked me to. Or purr.

I won’t give you the gory details, but let’s just say that my health problems tend to focus on the digestive system–no surprise, considering how I’ve abused it over the years. Dr. Carr ordered me to start detoxing by drinking a lemon/water/milk thistle mixture first thing every morning, and taking a daily saltwater bath [and work up to 25 POUNDS of salt in each bath! I'm up to about 15 at this point!] She also suggested colonics. Not sure I’m ready for that.

More important to me was that she prescribed weekly visits to the nutritionist–covered by my insurance, thank heavens. Sharon, who used to work for the famous Dr. Gerson, wants me to do coffee enemas. Um, maybe later. I’ve seen Sharon twice now, and I’m finally getting a handle on my diet with her help–I’m even doing yoga and meditating again. I actually feel myself believing I might lose all this weight, look good again–oh yes, and get my health back.

That would be sooo nice.