all posts, community, miscellaneous, nature/the environment

the man who tamed the birds

There are moments when we see something amazing, something that is out of the ordinary or just generally impressive. In these moments, it’s often the case that what we are seeing is Time.

As a new mom, with the privilege of choice to stay at home (which in itself is a misnomer of a phrase because the babe and I often venture out of the home ), I have an unprecedented view of Time. That isn’t to say that I have more time than anyone else, but that I am in a unique position to view it.

Often I must wait it out with Time as my babe sleeps. Time waits for no man, or so they say, but it does cozy down with a parent waiting on a sleeping child. Time and I, we sit and drink tea, and read books, and very often daydream in the quiet stolen moments of when the baby slumbers.

When the baby is awake we sometimes accompany Time on his off moments, the pockets of space where others are ensconced in their own busyness, to head out as a mother-daughter dyad and explore the world. We meander along aimlessly, especially if the weather is fair.

On one such occasion, walking down what I consider a confused highway (Mass Ave), the baby and I encountered Time as he followed along beside an older Asian man. This man caught my eye as I walked by because he too, clearly had noticed Time and abruptly but unalarmingly, stopped not too long after passing me and the baby by.

But what really kept my attention were the birds. They, these pigeons of the city, noticed the man’s approach and quickly behaved like their feral-er cousins and flocked, in rolling bumbling waves, towards the man until they were crowded opposite to him, separated by the chains of an open air lot.

The man, clearly practiced, produced a black pouch from his person, opened it deftly, and began methodically tossing measured handfuls of some sort of seeds to the bird crowd. The pigeons continued their rolling bumble over one another as they entropically scattered to maximize their collection rates.

All through this, I had slowed down myself, intrigued by this fellow Time companion, and smiled as I thought about how after this gentleman must have routinely stopped with Time to have these birds now recognize his approach in earnest.

If you ask me, I can generically say where I was (though I never know what road it was save for off Mass Ave, but I have no recollection of the hour or day. I have seen him once again since that first encounter. This second sighting, in which I paused my husband to witness as well, all I can recall are he man and his black pouch full of seeds. Other than that, Time has rubbed away any other specifics from my mind, because indeed those specifics don’t matter.


Hey, if what you read seemed dated or familiar, I’ve been combining all my other blogs’ content to this site. Please bear with me as I post older content.  🙂

all posts, eczema, miscellaneous

healing skin, hormones, and hot nights

It’s currently 3am and I’m awake despite the little one actually having been asleep since 830ish.

“Why on earth are you awake?”, you may be asking yourself, and rightly so.

Well let me tell you, internet reader. I am hot.

Now though the ambient temperature in the room feels cool, I know I set my thermostat a bit high (in my defense, with the skin disorder I’m usually always freezing, and the baby likes it warm too). However, I am not sweating. I’m just really warm. Warm enough to sleep in just a t-shirt and underwear, which I haven’t done since before my skin declared mutiny on my body (circa 20013?).

So as I’m over here pondering my existence in a semi-lucid state at 3 in the morning, the question that keeps popping up on the forefront of my mind is: this heat, what does this mean?

What does this mean? I’ve got a few theories.

  1. My skin has shown an unprecedented amount of healing lately. I have soft skin on my face, stomach, back, and thighs. Perhaps I have done the majority of my topical steroid withdrawal pemance and am finally seeing the results, aka having skin of normal thickness and elasticity and with the ability to retain heat and moisture.  Maybe. Or, maybe,
  2. I have finally hit the point where, despite still breastfeeding (which can delay this), my hormones are kicking back in, and I am soon to rejoin the ranks of menstruating-aged women. In which case, hormones could be the culprit for my heated sleep body. Or, perhaps,
  3. My circadian rhythm is so butchered from having to wake up at all manner of times during the night shift for the last 7 months (more if you count pregnancy months too) that my body doesn’t know what to do with un-externally regulated sleep interruptions, and so in a desperate attempt to keep its new status quo, it’s driving me awake via continued thermoregulation fluctuations. Maybe that’s it.

Or maybe it’s some culmination of the three of those things because as is often the case with complex systems like humans, we don’t always have a simple solution.

At any rate, I’m enjoying the fact that my little one is getting so much sleep, and that I’m getting some silky smooth patches of skin. I’m not stressed and as I am awake I am making sure to hydrate, so I’m sure in time I’ll learn to sleep again. So c’est la vie et bonne nuit (that’s life and good night).

all posts, miscellaneous

memory blast from the past (the “invincible” days)

When you’re young you fly on this invisible tether, unaware of the fleeting nature of your adventure, how you will not always be there, balanced confidently but precariously.

I often think back on my journey living with severe eczema and immediately I remember the onset of the first cascade of knocked-me-off-my-feet-and-never-found-solid-ground-again topical steroid withdrawal symptoms and think that was where it all began. But it’s just not true. Even when I was young (under 14), active and energetic, there were moments when eczema was already blossoming under the surface.

I remember hiking the presidential range with my uncle, his girlfriend (now wife), his cousin, an uncle-esque family friend, and my sister. When we reached the last cabin closest to Mount Washington, I recall the cold as a storm rolled in and remembered vividly when I washed my face in a cold bathroom in the morning with chilly water, I felt the creep of a growing itch under my skin.

Nowadays I know that there can be many triggers for eczema including temperature changes, but then, eczema was a weird seasonal rash that showed up only on the insides of my elbows, not on my face. I think my thoughts at the time were something along the lines of “oh, I must have eaten something that was contaminated lightly with peanut fragments”, because in my head, face itching had to be a sign of an allergic reaction.

It’s also non-humorously funny to look back and realize I was already becoming paranoid of food allergies (and sensitivities) as the culprit to my skin woes.

I also recall having (and to some extent still have) the belief that because I possessed any abdominal fat, therein lied the reason I had eczema. It wasn’t yet possible to accept that I wasn’t infinitely healthy and majestic, that my body wasn’t perfect, that I had my own personal dis-ease I would have to reckon with that would change my whole game plan. It was easier to think that I was just eating too much and therefore making myself less than perfect.

It’s interesting because I can still so easily transport back into that mindset and remember how vital I felt, how alive, how healthy. I didn’t feel disappointment that my body had betrayed me yet.

Now don’t get me wrong, I can still get optimistic about my skin’s healing progress and feel I have come a huge way along the path of recovery. But my confidence of almost immortality that I had once before, is not there.

Part of that makes perfect sense. I have grown up and matured, and since realized essential concepts like that my body is no longer growing up, that I have to maintain health by eating right and moving and controlling stress or I will grow outwards in a horizontal direction. I get that. But there is also this, I think what I used to call “the Peter Pan effect” that I recognize is gone. It was akin to the moment I turned 12 and had to firmly accept the idea that I was never getting into Hogwarts, not because it was fictional, but because I had aged out of my chance. I adjusted to change of aging in asymmetry, non-smooth block jumps.

I think that’s the hard part of it all. You have to accept that time moves forward and one day you are on the other end of the growth curve, in what I now like to call the maturation phase, giving in to the adage of us ripening well like rare vintage wines. But it is hard to accept that where you were once full of epiphyseal (growth) plates, you now have the potential for osteoporosis; where hyaline cartilage once ran amok, we now see arthritis. I don’t know, I think sometimes the reality of aging, even if it is done amazingly, is still a bitter reminder that our lives are meaningful because they end, and so it’s important to accept the ride and always strive for better and better days, even if there are road bumps, like severe eczema in my 20s; here’s looking to flawless skin in my 30s!

all posts, eczema, miscellaneous

hello 2019!

Hello hello and welcome to a new year!

I promptly abandoned my blog for a few weeks because things got crazy. We found an apartment in the city (the city proper! I’ve never lived in a city city before), got all the background checks done, hosted my parents and Jake’s parents and my sister for Christmas, packed up the house and moved out (more or less), moved into our new place, and have been rearranging and unpacking and cleaning it since. It’s a bit of a downsize from our house (but that’s not saying much as our house was huge for us) so we’ve had to get rid of lots of stuff. It’s shocking how much extra junk you accumulate just because you have the space. We are taking measures to not repeat that behavior in the apartment, and its smaller size should help.

How have you all been? How is your skin fairing?

For me personally I had a few waves of flares but now I am officially in another flake out phase. I got some idiopathic hives the other day, which according to this study, are signs of healing, along with excessive sweating. I am finding myself to be sweatier at night and sometimes randomly during the day so hopefully that bodes well. Also my skin is getting more soft and skin-like again. Even Jake has noticed. This feels quite exciting!!

I’ve been thinking a lot of about healthcare and treatments for eczema, and medicine as a field in general when I came across this article from 2014 done by the National Eczema Association that embodied some of my thoughts about the care around topical steroid withdrawal (or topical steroid addiction, TSA). The discussion section of the paper brought up a lot of interesting points, including:

Some patients believe their eczema will heal only if they never use TCS. In fact, this healing may happen because atopic dermatitis has a tendency of self-healing, and possibly TCS use may disturb this self-healing process… Did the number of patients with adulthood atopic dermatitis increase after dermatologists began to prescribe TCS several decades ago?

This is so important to think about because it does make you wonder if topical steroids are necessary to treat eczema early on (when it’s acute and not severe). Or have we as a species been warped into this idea of needing flawless-looking skin, causing us to apply whatever to our skin to make it look good, regardless of the consequences? If you think about it, we are the same species that has invented spray-on tans, skin whitening creams, chemical blemish removers, etc to use even when our skin is functionally perfect but does not meet the notions set in our head of what we believe we are dermally supposed to look like.

And the question of whether or not the number of people with AD has increased since the advent of TCS prescriptions is dead on with what I have been obsessed with trying to figure out. Now, I admit that I straddle a weird line in my head between being totally into medicine and its innovations for human health, and being a completely off-the-charts ‘let’s return to nature, cuz nature knows best’, roll -around-in-the-mud-to-build-up-your-immunity type person. Yes, it’s a confusing place in my mind, but in reality it just makes me question anytime anyone on either end of the medicinal spectrum (allopathic to holistic) tells me “this is the right thing to do”.

As such, I still wonder if our species’ conquest to protect ourselves from the baddest of bad germs, and our inventions of things like pasteurization and homogenization, have unintentionally messed us up because we are now too sterile and our bodies don’t spend the necessary time attacking pathogens, and instead have all this time to turn on us, and find fault in things they shouldn’t find fault with, with each successive generation feeling it worse and worse.

But how do I reconcile these kinds of thoughts in my own head? Do I only drink raw cow’s milk, and refuse to drink anything commercially produced FDA-approved milks? No. Does it mean I try to create a balance of bacteria by including less commercial and sterile food and drinks in my diet (e.g. kombucha, kefir, sauerkraut, yogurt)? Yes.

With the skin stuff, a similar attitude prevails. Lots of sources say you shouldn’t take hot or long showers/baths, and that you shouldn’t even bathe daily especially if you are trying to let your skin heal (since bathing is innately drying to the skin). This goes against the common cultural attitude that we as humans should be bathing everyday and it’s gross if you don’t. Does this mean I question when people tell me I need to shower daily, even after I’ve done nothing but sit on a couch for a day and haven’t sweat at all? Yes. Does it mean I refuse to shower for days at a time, even when I know I smell bad or have exerted myself and sweated? No.

I personally do shower daily these days, mostly to help rid myself of dry skin that’s flaking off. However, I rarely use soaps (too harsh on my skin), and instead I bathe in various things a few times a week (apple cider vinegar, really diluted bleach, epsom salt, etc). Actually, I’ll tell you a secret. Neither me nor my husband uses shampoo or conditioner anymore. I’m mixed race, so my hair is dry anyway and shampoo has always been a cultural no-no, but my husband is white and at first his hair was greasy when he discontinued shampoo. But now, it’s not. Over time his hair adjusted as his scalp stopped producing so much oil since he wasn’t constantly washing it away. Neat huh?

Also, though I won’t flesh out the details unless it happens, I also have something new in mind for the Feral Scribbler. Call it a New Year’s resolution… though it’s not tied to this year and isn’t a new idea, and I don’t really do new year resolutions… but besides all that, it is definitely something exciting. So cross your fingers for the surprise to be realized and stay tuned. My only hint is it would potentially address an idea from within today’s post.

And with that mystery instated, I bid you adieu and wish you well into our new year.

 

REFERENCES

Fukaya M, Sato K, Sato S, Kimata H, Fujisawa S, Dozono H, Yoshizawa J, Minaguchi S. Topical steroid addiction in atopic dermatitis. Drug Healthc Patient Saf. 2014; 6: 131-138.

Sheary B. Topical corticosteroid addiction and withdrawal – An overview for GPs. Australian Family Physician. 2016 Jun; 45(6): 386-388.

all posts, miscellaneous

winds of insomnia

Tonight the wind is whipping itself into a frenzy. Maybe there’s a storm, or maybe the tail end remnants of someone else’s storm are wagging on by.

I could get out of bed to peer into the darkness. But who knows what I’ll see there.

Sometimes familiar sounds assault my ears, out of place because I think them to be impersonations of their true selves. The undertone of the vibrations of a passing train, the shudder of corrugated metal, the warble of large plastic garbage bins fending for their own in the facsimile storm.

Sometimes the wind redirects and smacks right into my bedroom window, like waves of air splashing against up their own beach. And sometimes it sounds like the light drumming of someone tapping to be invited inside. Either way, I check it not.

The ever present low roar of the wild wind makes me think I am on a boat, lost at sea, but a sea ofair, like some kind of fantastical adventure that just waits outside my window.

The broiling wind continues to rush as though gushing from an undetermined source after a few well-aimed pickaxe swings into the stony ground. Only this flow is not stopping. There is no felled dam that will eventually be emptied.

Much like it started, the wind will dry up without a clear end, and I will forget it happened at all as the memory corrugates with other past memories of late night un-stormy storms.

all posts, community, miscellaneous

a community is like a spider web

Jake and I had been talking when he said something that made my brain go “OH!” and basically re-wired years of misguided searching. What he said to me was, “I think you are confusing community with suburbia. You grew up in a suburb, but you had a community… most of the time suburbia is not synonymous with community.”

Now that may seem obvious to you readers, but for me it was an eye opening moment. For years I have waxed poetic about how and where I grew up, equating the two in my mind and constantly yearning to find that again as an adult, in a new place. We actually currently live in a suburb (though a weird one because it acts like a seceded city from a larger nearby one. It also gets terrible amounts of run-off traffic that only a coastal town abutted by a huge city can get).

When Jake said that to me it hit me that that was what is missing from here versus where I grew up. I lived in the same place from ages 11-23ish and got to re-invent my life in my community over and over again. I had friends in the area sure, but even after many of them came and went I had their parents, my neighbors, new co-workers with whom often shared people in common who we knew, random encounters with townsfolk, etc. The life felt interwoven and connected despite me spreading my wings in multiple literal towns.

So while I was taking a bath today I was thinking about my community and what it takes to have one and why I don’t have one here. Some of it is definitely a product of time. I have only lived in this town for 10 months now, most of which I was pregnant for or had just given birth, and for all of it I was sleep deprived and battling topical steroid withdrawal. So yes, I haven’t been spreading my roots as aggressively as I could have. I started out strong: when I moved here, I baked cookies and delivered them to neighbors’ houses with hand-sketched phoenixes as a weird get-to-know-you thing; and then I also made it a point to meet all the librarians during multiple library visits, and also explored the farmers market on occasion. But then between my physical condition and my pre-to-post baby phase, I grew tired.

That and was hard to establish a deep connection when one is in different stages of life. Our neighbors are mostly all parents with kids who are between 9-19 years old, and the parents themselves are probably all in their 40s (I’m guessing). Many of the parents include one of the couple who is a state native, and if not born-and-bred in this town, they were probably born in one within a 15 mile radius, and thus lots of them have family around. Many of them are working, or randomly gone a lot of the time so it’s always a chance encounter when I do see them.

It’s also just a different type of town than what I grew up in. This is car community. I’ve tried to make it walkable to the extent that I love, but the sidewalks end randomly and the roads are hilly and windy, and people tend to speed aggressively. It was fine when it was just me on foot, but with Fiona in her stroller I just don’t feel as comfortable.

But how does this relate to a spider web? And why am I thinking about spiders when I have such a phobia of them? Well, I’ve been reading a lot of southern-set books lately (first ‘Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil’ by John Berendt and most recently ‘The Prince of Tides’ by Pat Convoy), and the one thing they have in common is a deep-seeded love for their environment. They talk about the flora and the fauna and the smells and the colors as an important part of the experience around the stories they weave.

In The Prince of Tides (which is fiction), there is a background story within the story that talks about how black widow spiders helped save the family from a murderous intruder (because the children released the spiders all over said intruder) and how afterwards the family never killed another spider again, and it made me think about spiders and my own fear of them. Then when Jake and I were discussing community, I thought to myself, “hey, a community is kind of like a web” and that led to this post.

A community is like a web. And by this I mean that the ideas behind a web almost fully apply (if taken with creative liberties).

A web is built slowly over time,
One thin gossamer strand at a time
With the determination of knowing what it should look like
But innately, without blueprint,
With knowledge of its fragility
And understanding of the need for constant adjustment
As bugs and debris and miscellaneous items rend it broken.
It is made over an existing space
Be it flora, or the existing corners of a barn
Or something in-between
The web does not exist without some sort of baseline structure
But it can be recreated over and over again in new places
As need demands, thread by thread
Again and again as it suits the needs of its creators

Anyway, that’s where my mind was roaming today. I think it’s also why I yearn to move back to my parents’ area. I found a community I liked and now I just want to return to it so Fiona can experience it too. Maybe that’s lazy, but I make no excuses for it.