this little tree survives

< Outside my window just before 7 in the morning, with neighbourhood cyclists getting their workout at this time every single day, and the cafe about to open. It will be another hour or so before the sun breaks and the refreshing smell of dew and mist evaporate.

It's now 7am as I type, the beautiful Tanita Tikaram's Cathedral Song is playing (most perfect to start the day with, mellow yet rather awakening), the dewy smell of a southern California morning mingling with the sharp aroma of Japanese sandalwood incense I lit a little earlier.

I've been awake since about 5 but stayed in bed til the desire for breakfast prompted me. These past few months since I was laid off from my job at the museum shop have been both lazy and unproductive and carefree, but at the same time intensely frustrating both physically and mentally because of the acute stomach infection and my losing a great deal of weight as consequence.

I originally wanted to keep an active summer. I wanted to take yoga class. I wanted to do day trips to Santa Monica and Venice and Long Beach at least once a week, stroll along the ocean views, plant myself at a cafe and write for a few hours while sipping iced coffees or Italian sodas. I wanted to rush downtown to Union Station in the morning to catch train rides to the mountains, to the little northern California towns, to see Santa Barbara, or south to San Diego and still make it back home to South Pasadena in time for dinner.

Didn't happen. Or at least, the plans were postponed for now. I did make it to Santa Monica last week but couldn't stay more than a few hours because I tired very quickly. Some small accomplishment.

Doctor still doesn't know exactly what's wrong with me because the test results take about 6 weeks and we're still waiting. Meanwhile all I can do is constantly eat (my appetite has never been more greedy) and go to the bathroom a lot. I hope whatever it is is very treatable. I miss all the weight I've lost. I miss being able to do many things with energy.

I'm optimistic. I keep my sense of humour through this, even though most of my family don't seem to understand. I feel as if they'd rather avoid thinking about me being ill. I know they know I'm ill and yet I haven't really heard anything from them about it, with the exception, of course, of N., K., and to some extent D.

I'm pretty much on my own, then, emotionally and mentally. I've survived before, quietly and unobtrusively, on my own and that's why I'm optimistic. I look forward to a trip I have yet to plan, to stroll through the misty forest of the Sequoia National Park, where I just know it feels primeval and comfortingly haunted somehow.

Those massive, ancient trees, I know, can understand me. They've quietly survived, too.